The short list, p.18
The Short List, page 18
Carefully, we opened the window and stretched the ladder out toward the opposite ledge.
It didn’t reach.
“Shit,” I muttered.
We pulled it back and Cam adjusted the length to its full eight feet. Then he glanced at me. “I hope it’s enough.”
“Only one way to know.”
We extended the ladder out again. At first, it was light, but every foot away from us made it heavier and heavier. Sweat popped up on my forehead and my forearms started to ache. When the top of the ladder bumped up against the ledge across the way, I almost let out a small victory yell.
It took a little more jostling, but we managed to get the ladder solidly butted up against the opposite window while leaving a couple of inches of the ladder foot on the near side ledge. It certainly wasn’t going to pass any OSHA standards, but it might work.
I slid my gun into my belt and started to climb onto the ledge. Cam stopped me.
“I’ll go first,” he said.
“I’m lighter.”
“Maybe, but not by much. Besides, this is my thing. We’re here because of me. I’ll go first.”
I shrugged and moved aside.
Tentatively, Cam climbed up on the ledge. He hesitated, as if steeling his resolve, but once he started, he scurried across our little bridge in one continuous, smooth motion. I watched the ladder shift a little with his movements, and bow noticeably downward when he was in the middle of his trip, but it held up.
As soon as he reached the window, he peered in cautiously, then pushed up on the bottom pane.
It slid open easily.
Cam shot me a grin before he clambered inside of Fazzio’s house.
“Son of a bitch,” I breathed.
I steadied myself on the ledge, took a deep breath, and began crawling across the ladder. It seemed to move and shift more than it did for Cam. A brisk wind blew upward, biting into all the areas I was sweating. I shivered, but kept shimmying across.
When I felt the center give slightly, bowing downward, I made the mistake of looking down. While my brain told me I was only one story up, my eyes argued that it was about a mile down to the ground. The unpleasant image of a watermelon splatting on the asphalt below flitted through my mind.
I looked away, and kept crawling.
Cam stood in the window, his hands extended toward me. Excitement shone in his eyes. The kid was in his element now.
As I neared the edge of the Fazzio’s window, my knee missed a rung and slipped into the space in between. That caused me to lurch to the right, and my body weight pulled the ladder with me. I heard the foot end, now disproportionately lightened with me at the other end, skip across the window ledge, then fall silent. I knew what was coming.
The goddamn watermelon, that’s what.
I lashed out with both hands, grabbing for Fazzio’s ledge. Instead, I caught both of Cam’s hands at the wrists.
The ladder spun sideways and fell without a sound until it clattered to the asphalt below. I was surprised at how little noise it made, but given how much adrenaline was shooting through my bloodstream, maybe my hearing was off.
Cam gripped my wrists tightly, but I was sweaty and knew that grip would start to slip. I held on for all I was worth and tried to pull myself up.
“Your legs,” Cam grunted. “Use your legs.”
How the fuck...?
Then I got it.
I planted my feet against the side of the building and used the resistance to pull against. Cam pulled at the same time, and I came up a good six or eight inches. I took a step along the wall and we heaved upward another six or so.
On the next step, I could feel the slipperiness of my hands start to slide.
Cam must have felt it, too. “One last big one,” he said.
I pushed off with my feet and pulled with my aching arms. Thank God he made his move at the same time or I might have simply yanked him right out of the window and we’d both have fallen down on top of that fucking ladder. That’d make for a nice couple of column inches on the police blotter of the Boston Herald under the headline about idiot criminals.
But he did pull at the same time, heaving backward with all his might and actually falling over onto his ass.
I landed with my gut on the center of the ledge, getting a little of the wind knocked out of me in the process.
Believe me, it was worth it.
I slid the rest of the way into the room, and we sat there for a few moments, catching our breath.
“Je-zus,” Cam muttered.
“Thanks,” I whispered back.
He nodded. “You still got your gun?”
I felt for my .45 and found the reassuring weight of it in the small of my back. “Still there.”
Cam stood. “You ready?”
I dried my palms on my pant legs, then joined him. “Fuck, yeah.”
The room was obviously Fazzio’s home office. The drapes may have been open now, but they were dark red and thick, so it would have been easy for him to get one hundred percent privacy if he ever needed it. I don’t know how much dirty work a guy like that chooses to do in his own home, but I admired the fact he was prepared either way. That’d probably turn out to be the only thing I admired about the guy.
Cam opened the door slowly, and we scouted the hallway. It was empty, but in the distance, I could hear human activity. It sounded like the light drone of a vacuum cleaner or electric sweeper, probably coming from downstairs.
We moved as quietly as we could, searching the upstairs room by room. There were two bathrooms, a spare bedroom, and Fazzio’s opulent master suite. All were empty. We regrouped near his office. Heading downstairs was the only option at this point, but it was going to be tricky. We knew there were people there, but hopefully we could pick them off one at a time. As soon as things got noisy, we’d be facing the entire cavalry.
“Maybe we should split up,” Cam whispered.
I shook my head. “No, we need to stick together.”
“What if—”
The clacking sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted him. I jerked my head to Fazzio’s office and we slipped inside. The steps grew nearer, so we took up positions on opposite sides of the door. When the door swung open, a bull of a man stepped through. He wore a nice suit and moved with the easy grace of an athlete. He stiffened when he saw the open window.
I pressed the barrel of my .45 against the back of his skull before he could react further. “Easy now,” I said in a low voice. “Or I’ll spatter your brains all over that expensive suit.”
He slowly raised his hands to shoulder level.
“Take two steps forward,” I ordered.
He did, not looking over his shoulder at me. I moved with him, keeping my .45 leveled at his head.
Cam closed the door quietly, then checked the guy for weapons. He found a pistol under his left shoulder. Cam pushed it into his own belt, then turned to the windows and drew the drapes on all but the open one.
“Knees, big guy,” I said.
The bodyguard slowly lowered himself to one knee, then the other.
Cam took a seat on the edge of Fazzio’s desk. He peered into the man’s face with an intensity I hadn’t seen very often. He was in full Slaughterhouse mode. “Where is Fazzio? Watching TV downstairs? Plowing the housekeeper? Huh? Where is he?”
“He’s not home,” the man grunted. He had a slight accent, but I couldn’t place it.
Cam’s eyes narrowed. “Where is he, then?”
“Business,” was all the man said.
“Business where, smartass?”
“He doesn’t tell me these things.”
I placed the accent now, and I had to smile. It was German. Fazzio had some musclebound Aryan guarding his home.
“When will he be back?” Cam pressed.
“When he is finished.”
Cam looked like he was considering pistol-whipping the guy, but he held back. Instead, he looked at me and shrugged. “Then I guess we’ll wait, huh?”
I belted the Terminator behind the ear with the butt end of my gun. He grunted and fell in a heap. I glanced around, looking for something to tie him up with. A lamp cord presented itself as a possibility.
When I glanced back at Cam, he was smiling.
33
CAMERON
We took care of business in silence. The big bodyguard woke up midway through Bricks tying his hands behind him and I had to show him my gun and give him a warning. He sat still after that. A good soldier is used to following orders and whoever is holding the gun is the man in charge.
We left him sitting and went out in the hall where we could still see him through the open door to make sure he didn’t slip his bindings, but he couldn’t hear us talk.
“So after this, what is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know. We can return the rental car at the airport,” Bricks said hopefully.
“And ditch our guns?”
“For now.”
I thought about it, but wasn’t sure how I felt. I paced the hall a bit. The longer it took for Fazzio to get home, the more stressed I got. I dragged the barrel of my .44 along the wall, cutting a long gash in the wallpaper.
“I sure like this a hell of a lot more when we’re getting paid for it,” I said.
“I know what you mean.”
“I guess maybe I’m due for a break. Whatever we decide to do.”
“That extra five grand would have been nice to have...”
She looked like she’d let that one slip out without thinking, like it was something meant between her to herself. She didn’t apologize though and I knew she was right. But fuck it—what’s done is done.
“He’s gotta have some cash around here, right?”
“He seems old school. They’re more likely to keep paper money than the newer generation.”
“Let’s see if Hans knows anything.”
We went back into the office and I stepped up in front of the German.
“Fazzio keep a safe around here?”
He looked at me deadpan, or maybe just dead. “I’m not sure.”
“Want to take a guess?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
My gun still dangled from my hand. It was heavy now, but I wanted it at the ready. I tilted it so it aimed at his kneecap. “You sure?”
The slightest crack in his granite veneer. “I don’t deal with the money.”
“But you might know where he keeps it?” I drew back the hammer on the Magnum. It was a deeply satisfying sound. A sphincter clenching noise like the cracking of the devil’s knuckles.
He swallowed, shifted in his seat.
“Got it.”
I turned and Bricks was standing against the far wall with a painting in her hand, a Boston harbor scene at sunset. On the wall in the space where the painting used to hang was a safe. The German breathed a sigh of relief.
I left him and went to Bricks. “Can you get inside?”
“Do you have a blowtorch in your pocket?”
So okay, neither one of us were a box man and there might have been a letter opener on Fazzio’s desk, but we needed a crowbar and maybe a jackhammer. The safe was small, maybe twelve by twelve. And a wall mounted number can’t be too deep or too heavy, but it may as well have been Fort Knox to us.
“What do we do?” I asked. “Spin the tumblers until we get lucky?”
Bricks looked at my .44. “Do you feel lucky, punk?”
I brushed off her joke but now that I was close to it, the idea of a little traveling money sounded good to me. I was regretting my choice to hand over my envelope to Tag. Perspective, I guess.
“How about you, Hans?” I turned and lifted the gun toward our German friend, marching the distance between us like a man on a mission. “You know the combo?”
He twisted his face away from the imposing barrel of my gun. “I don’t know it.”
Bricks went to Fazzio’s desk and starting rooting around. I wished I’d asked Junior his birthday before I shot him. Or the jersey numbers of his favorite Red Sox players. I lowered my gun and joined the search. I checked the back of the painting, under the blotter on his desk, inside the humidor sitting on the side table. Nothing.
“What we need is Fazzio,” I said.
Now, I’ve never been a praying man, but right then the door downstairs opened. It sure as hell seemed like God answered our prayers, and that he was a fan of larceny and assassinations.
Bricks closed the drawer she was searching and padded silently across the rug with her gun at the ready. I retreated to the opposite side of the door and pushed it nearly closed so he wouldn’t see the German the moment he passed by the door. I looked back at Hans and held a finger to my lips, shhhhh.
It took another five minutes for Fazzio to start up the steps and in that time we heard two voices—his and a young girl. I knew she was young by the way she laughed at every stupid thing he said. She had that sorority girl giggle and it had the speed of someone on coke, which I guessed was the only way a young girl like that could take a night out with an aging don like Fazzio. What girls wouldn’t do for a diamond bracelet or hell, these days, for a new iPhone.
He pushed open the door with one hand, the other around his neck loosening a tie. He froze when he saw—in rapid succession—the tied-up German, Bricks with a gun on him and me with my gun and a smile.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” I answered.
“Call her up here,” Bricks said. Always on task.
Without taking his eyes off me, Fazzio turned his head to the open door. “Gina! Come here, honey.”
We all stood still as Gina padded up the steps in her bare feet, the evening’s heels already kicked off.
“What is it—?”
Bricks grabbed her by the hair and put the gun to her temple. To Gina’s credit, she didn’t scream. She whimpered and tried to swallow sobs, but she stayed as calm as anyone could expect. Fazzio kept his cool too. He lifted his hands in a token gesture to surrender. The wound I’d given him on his cheek had healed but still had a nasty look to it. He eyed me with an expression equal parts tired and enraged.
“You killed my son.”
I held his eye: steady, strong. “I did.”
“It’s a funny business,” he said, then added a sigh like he knew this day would come. “You kill one of ours so we figure we gotta kill you. Now you’ve killed my son and by rights I should have your head, but here we are, with you about to go one up on me. This game is about to end with an uneven score.”
“If not, the game goes on forever.”
“Doesn’t it anyway?” he said.
I really didn’t want philosophy right then and I hated how right he was. I also didn’t want another goddamn bloodbath. The German and the girl could walk away from this unharmed if they’d let it play out and realize they weren’t the targets.
“Hey, asshole,” Bricks said. “Shut up already.”
On task. Always on task.
“You must be Bricks,” he said.
“Yeah, and I’m even harder to kill than he is.” She pointed at me with her gun. Gina let out a small whimper.
“Why not let the girl go?” Fazzio said.
“We will. When it’s done.”
Fazzio looked at Bricks, then me. “Well, then...what are we waiting for?”
I stuffed the revolver in my back pocket and grabbed Fazzio by the lapels. I pushed him toward the window. The German started struggling against his restraints. Gina let loose with the tears she’d been holding in.
Fazzio had a gut on him, he wasn’t a small man. Pushing him backward knocked him off balance and I ended up carrying him the last few steps before I slammed him into the window frame. The window was still open from when me and Bricks came in and I returned the favor to Fazzio for the way he’d hung me out a window when we first met.
The German got a hand or a foot loose, something I could only see as movement out of my peripheral vision. Bricks stepped up to him, Gina in tow by the hair, and shot the man through the foot. He yelled out, but stayed in his seat.
I pushed Fazzio out through the window, holding tight to his jacket front.
“How do you like it?”
I saw the first real fear in his face. He held on to my wrists and stole glances below him to the alley where the ladder lay like broken bones. This wasn’t as high up as the window he held me out of, but it was enough to put the scare into him.
Gina’s wailing got louder and I heard Bricks yell, “You want me to shoot you too? Is that what you want? Then shut the fuck up.”
“I want you to know,” I said to him. “You started this.”
I tried to summon all my anger. The anger at being lured up to Boston, at being held in a room and made to think I was going to die at any minute. For being cut and beaten and shot at. For having my Aunt Ruby killed and cousin thrown in jail and another cousin broken.
Funny thing was, it wasn’t enough. Even all that added up didn’t make me want to end Fazzio’s life in as much pain as I could think of. I thought that’s what I’d come here for, but I was wrong. All the satisfaction I wanted could have been achieved with a sniper rifle from a half mile away. I wanted him gone so he couldn’t follow us. I wanted to be left alone, that’s all.
“Cam, let’s hurry up,” Bricks said. She was right. I was dragging this out on the verge of another Slaughterhouse special. Not this time.
I pulled him back in the room, let him slump to the floor.
“Open the safe,” I said.
Fazzio looked up at me, heavy breathing and with a twitchy eye. “The safe?”
I pointed to the wall. “The safe. Open it.”
The German tried to defend his honor. “I didn’t tell them anything.”
I drew the .44 and pointed the way with the barrel. “Now,” I said.
Fazzio first got on all fours and crawled a few feet, then slowly got to his feet, showing every long week of his age.
“If he gives you money, you’ll let us go?” Gina asked.
“I’ll let you go if you don’t say another fucking word,” Bricks said. She flung Gina by her hair over to the German. Gina fell on top of him, re-aggravating his foot injury. He screamed and she started crying again, the two of them in a pile.
