Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set (44 page)

The walk downtown took longer than he expected. When he entered the deli, Sid gave him the once-over. Vincent's suit was rumpled, the knees dirty from being rolled by the mugger. He hadn't shaved, either.

“How the mighty have fallen,” Sid said, as Vincent slid into the booth opposite him.

“I haven't fallen yet,” Vincent said.

Sid was eating a Reuben, and though Vincent hadn't eaten all day, the smell of the sauerkraut curdled his stomach. Vincent checked the door. Sid wasn't known as a double-crosser. He couldn't afford to be, in his line of work. But, with Scattione in the mix, everything was subject to change.

Sid brought out a large envelope, put it beside his plate. “Hello, Mister Raymond Highwater,” he said.

“Highwater? What sort of name is that? It's so phony, I won't make it to Jersey.”

“I stole it out of the phone book. That's what you get when you ask for a rush job.” A piece of corned beef was stuck between Sid's teeth.

“Listen, I got to ask you for a favor.”

Sid patted the table. “Pay for the last one, then we can talk.”

Vincent leaned over the table. A group of Hassidic Jews were across the room, two women were chatting over coffee, a college-aged kid, probably a film student from Columbia, was reading a magazine at the counter. None of them looked like Scattione's people. But in this city, the walls had ears, eyes, and sometimes a .45 automatic.

“I'm short at the moment,” Vincent said. In the ensuing silence, he heard a bus honk outside, and somebody in the kitchen dropped a pan.

Sid stopped in mid-bite, took a slow chew, and then began working his jaws like a ferret. “Short,” he said, spraying rye crumbs across the table.

“Listen, I can make it good.” Vincent's words came fast, like bullets from a clip. “You know me. I can have it for you tomorrow. And—what say we make it ten big ones? All I need is a little time as this Highwater guy.”

Sid wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin. Then he put one hand on the envelope, and in a smooth motion, slid it back inside his jacket.

“Come on, Sid,” Vincent said, checking the door again. “We've done business for years.”

“Always cash on delivery.”

Vincent tugged at his collar, sweat ringing his forehead. He knew the window of opportunity was small. Even though Scattione thought “Robert Wells” was dead, at least one person knew that Vincent was still breathing. Sid.

With a fake credit card, Vincent might still be able to get out of the city. All he needed was a name. He'd already died once today, he'd killed off a dozen other identities in his time, but he'd always been the one to deep-six himself. By choice. “I can deliver, Sid. I know you got skills, but it only takes you an hour to crank out a set of documents.”

Sid shook his head. “It's not about the money. It's about pride and reputation.”

Same with Scattione. What sort of rep could a Mafiaso have if the man who'd fingered him was walking around as free as sin?

“Nobody will know, Sid. I promise. I'll deliver, then you'll never see my ugly mug again. I'm thinking Cozumel, maybe Rio.”

Sid sat back and pushed his plate away. The group of Hassidic Jews continued chattering. The college kid set down his magazine and ordered something. Vincent looked at the clock.

“Please, Sid.”

Sid pursed his lips. Then he stood, dropped some bills on the table to cover the cost of the sandwich, and brought out the envelope. Except this one had come from a different pocket. He dropped the package in front of Vincent and shrugged. “Joey pays twenty, and this is who he wants you to be.”

The bell rang as Sid went out the door. Vincent stooped, picked up the envelope, and tore it open. Who was he this time? Not that it mattered. He'd even be a damned McGinnity if he had to.

He stared at the driver's license.

It didn't make sense. It was his face, all right. But this license was gone, floating somewhere in the East River. He read the name slowly, his lips shaping the syllables.

Robert Daniel Wells.

He moved fast, got to the street, but Sid was gone.

Vincent glanced at the crowd, among the eyes that seemed to shine like search beacons. Which ones belonged to Joey's people?

He broke into a run. A laugh tore itself from his lungs, a spasm borne of fear and hysteria. He should have known that Joey's reach, even from a prison cell, was longer than the longest arm of the law. Vincent had been around long enough to know that Joey liked to play.

Like a cat with a cornered mouse, like a spider with a stuck fly.

Vincent ran on. He thought that maybe if he ran fast enough, someday he'd catch up to himself. But somedays never come, and Robert Wells had a debt to pay.

Under any name.

THE END

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GOOD FENCES

By Scott Nicholson

That fence post was leaning again.

Herman could tell just by looking out the window, though the neighbor’s yard was over two hundred feet away. You’d think people would have a little pride. Back in Herman’s day, you kept your split rails pointing straight up to God, even here in the Blue Ridge mountains where level ground was as scarce as hen’s teeth. Of course, you were supposed to keep your grass mowed down close, too.

A hippie lived in that house. The new neighbor drove by every morning, hunched over the wheel of a Japanese junkaroo with a ski rack on top. The hippie had waved the first week after moving in, but each time Herman had given him a no-nonsense, get-a-haircut stare. Nowadays the hippie didn’t even look over, just rattled up the road to whatever job Communists held while plotting the revolution.

Too bad. The hippie could learn something about American pride from Herman. You keep your house painted and your windows clean. Your mailbox flap doesn’t sag open. The flag comes down when it rains, even if a stoned-out longhair would rather burn one than fly one. But most of all, by God, you set your fences straight.

Fences were the first impression, the first line of defense against those who thought the world belonged to everybody. Herman would bet his John Wayne video collection that the hippie at 107 Oakdale had a peace sign poster on his bedroom wall. The peace sign was nothing but the footprint of the American chicken. Herman didn’t mind a peaceful neighbor on general principle, but the lessons of history were clear. Peace started with strong borders, strong fences.

Herman was a picket man himself. There was something trustworthy about the sharp picket tips, a row of threatening teeth that promised to nip at unwelcome guests. Best of all, you could paint them church-white. Not that split rails couldn’t look proper if you took a little pride in them.

The door to 107 opened. Herman dropped the curtain in disgust and sat again at his bowl of oatmeal. Doctor said oats would clean out his pipes, and if a healthy diet didn’t do the job, then a pervert with a medical degree and a hospital hose would. The fear of a stranger meddling up his backside was about the only thing that could make Herman eat oatmeal. The stuff was barely fit for livestock.

As he spooned a butter-heavy dose into his mouth, he looked out the window. The hippie’s front door swung open wide, and a shaggy little dog raced out and squatted in the weeds. Hippie didn’t even have enough self-respect to get a boxer or a hound, something territorial that would chew the leg off a trespassing little brat. No, he had an overgrown lap dog, one that would probably be plopping piles of dookie all over Herman’s yard if the picket fence weren’t there.

The dog finished its business and ran to the hippie, who patted it on the head. Herman scowled into his oatmeal. Public displays of affection were the mark of a sissy who couldn’t be trusted. He waited until the hippie’s car passed, then he went into the garage. Tools neatly lined the rear wall, hanging on pegboard and shining under the glow of a single fluorescent tube.

He selected a claw hammer, then gritted his teeth and swung it viciously, imagining the hammer head sinking into the hippie’s skull. He swung again and again, his breath rapid and shallow, his heartbeat like the salvos of an anti-aircraft gun. His arm soon grew tired and he let the hammer rest against his thigh.

The August morning sun was bright on the dew when he went outside. Mrs. Breedlove from 103 had her television turned up too loud. That was okay, because Mrs. Breedlove kept her flower gardens in military formation, heads up and rumps tucked in tight. She had her flaws, but maintaining appearances wasn’t one of them.

Herman gathered a spare picket from the woodpile and tucked it under his arm. He stepped through the gate and walked down Oakdale, frowning at the dead leaves that clustered along the curb. He’d be needing the rake before long. One of the neighbor kids from 108 squealed in the distance. Brats. The budding delinquents would wear a path in your grass and not think twice.

A kid on a bicycle came out from the trees near the end of the block. It was a girl, one of the ugly redheads from 104. You’d think she’d be in school, since this was Friday. Ever since they’d made a big fuss over teachers’ rights, the brats did most of their learning from each other. And the lesson they learned best was how to mess on other people’s property.

Herman tucked his hammer behind his back. The redhead pedaled up, then stopped. She wore a New York Jets jersey, and the only thing worse would have been Yankee pinstripes. The early settlers of Aldridge Falls should have barred the dirt roads and burned all the bridges, because outsiders had the run of the place now. Rich folks with their Florida tans and fast New England accents and property law attorneys.

“Morning, Mr. Weeks,” the girl said. “What you doing with that stick?”

“Fixing things,” he said, smiling and holding up the picket. Maybe it wasn’t too late to pass along the concept of respect.

“A fence?” she asked.

He nodded. “I like good fences.”

“My daddy said fences are for greedy people.”

“You should always listen to your father.” Herman kept smiling, his face like warm wax in the sun.

The kid smiled back, confused, then pedaled on past. Herman walked to the hippie’s leaning fence post. It was cedar, a little more manageable than locust though it would rot a lot faster. He knelt and examined the base of the post.

He’d repaired the same post twice already this week. Usually he fixed things right the first time, but once in a while you got hold of a stubborn piece of wood. He leaned the post until it was ninety degrees, then eyeballed the angle against the corner of the hippie’s house. Satisfied, he wedged the picket into the ground, driving it with the hammer until the dirt was packed.

He reached for the top of the post to test it for sturdiness. He touched wood, and a sharp pain lanced along his finger. At first he figured he’d drawn a splinter, but the wound was clean. Herman bent for a closer look.