Gangster (16 page)

    Then all you have to do is kill him, Francis said.

     *     *     *

THE LITTLE BOY'S face was a frozen and frightened blank as he watched the spilled vanilla ice cream soda drip down the side of the table. He watched as the man sitting across from him pulled his chair back and stared at the splattered stains on his creased pants. You stupid little bastard! the man snarled. Look at what the hell you went and did.

    I'm sorry, the boy said in a quivering voice. It was an accident.

    It's always an accident with you, the man said, his angry words catching the attention of the other patrons sitting in the crowded diner. No matter where the hell we are or where the hell we go.

    I didn't mean it, Mr. Tyler, the boy said, fighting back the urge to cry. It won't ever happen again. I swear it.

    An elderly counterman ambled toward the table, carrying a wet dish towel bundled in his hand and a weak smile. It's just a spill, he said. In this place, they're about as regular as the rent.

    Just leave the rag, Tyler said. The boy made the mess and the boy will clean it up.

    It's not his job, the counterman said, still smiling. It's mine. And besides, I don't think his mamma will be all too happy with either one of you if he walks through the door with his clothes all a mess.

    Andrew Tyler stood against the edge of the wet table, anger clouding his eyes and rushing the blood to his face. He was a tall man, in his mid-thirties, with thick dark hair and a quick as lightning temper. He had been a boxer in the army and had gone undefeated in the four years he wore stripes on his arms. He owned an uptown lumber supply company and had been dating the boy's mother for six weeks. He liked everything about her except for the fact that she had a son.

    I said the boy will clean it up, Tyler said in harsher tones. Now hand him the rag and get the hell back to making milkshakes.

    The counterman caught the edge in Tyler's gaze, nodded over at the boy and rested the dish towel on the tabletop. Just leave it when you're done, he said, turning away. I'll deal with it later.

    Tyler jabbed the boy in the shoulder and smirked when he saw him grimace. All right, Edward, he said, start cleaning. And make sure you don't spill any more of it.

    Edward, one week past his sixth birthday, reached for the dishrag, leaned over and started to wipe at the milky white flood. He kept his head down and spread the rag out as far as it would go in an attempt to catch all the spillage. The large puddle around his feet matched the one on the table by his elbow. He wanted very much to cry.

    You're doing it wrong, Tyler said, raising his voice. If you're always going to make a mess, then you better damn well learn how to clean one up.

    I've never done this before, Mr. Tyler, the boy stammered. I'm doing the best I can.

    Without a word of warning, Tyler reached down and yanked Edward off his chair, lifted him into the air, then sent him crashing to the floor. The boy landed with a squishy thud into the center of the puddle, milk covering his blue slacks and black shoes, his face dotted with spots of vanilla ice cream. Start from there and work your way up, Tyler said, his rage at full vent. And we're not going to leave here until every damn drop is cleaned up.

    Edward looked around at all the faces staring at him, some in horror, others just curious, and he felt the warm tears rush down his cheeks. He lowered his head and began to sob. Please don't do this, Mr. Tyler, the boy whispered.

    If you're going to cry, there should be a goddamn good reason, Tyler said. He leaned over and landed two hard slaps across the back of the boy's head. The sounds echoed through the hushed diner. He lifted his hand a third time, his fingers now balled into a fist and swung it down toward the boy's face. A hand caught the fist in midflight and held it there.

    I'll give you a better fight than the boy, Pudge Nichols said calmly. And I'll try not to spill any ice cream on you while I do.

    Tyler stared at Pudge, more than eager to swing his anger toward the intruder. You have no idea the kind of beating you're in for, he hissed.

    Sammy, Pudge said to the counterman who was now standing directly behind him. Any damage that's done, send the tab to the Cafe. I'll see that it's covered.

    It's my treat, the old counterman said. Just make sure when you're through with him, he isn't in any shape to walk back into my shop.

    A free bust-up, Pudge said, smiling at the much taller Tyler. Sammy must really like you.

    Tyler landed the first punch, a glancing blow off the side of Pudge's head. Pudge stumbled backwards, knocking over two chairs. He felt his lower lip and tasted the warmth of his own blood. Hey, kid, Pudge shouted over to the boy. This guy mean anything to you?

    The shivering boy shook his head no.

    That's good to hear, Pudge said.

    Pudge immediately jumped into Tyler, hitting him at chest level, sending him to the ground. Tyler's feet gave way under the melted ice cream and the back of his head hit the hard cement floor. Pudge dragged the dazed bully into a corner booth, pushed him down and held him in place with his knees. His attack was relentless, a steady assault of fists, bites, slaps and elbows. Pudge felt Tyler weaken under him from the rain of blows, heard his breathing choked back by bile and shattered bone, but he wouldn't let up. A number of the patrons had left the diner before the fight began. Those few who remained behind held their collective breath, mesmerized by the power and viciousness that was taking place before their eyes. This was the Pudge Nichols they had heard so much about, a few had even read about, but none had ever witnessed up close.

    Pudge, breathing hard and drenched with sweat eased himself off the battered Tyler. He picked up a lantern from the center of a wood table. He stared down at what he had done, nodded and smashed the light on top of the prone body, glass shattering against the center of the slow-heaving chest. Pudge looked up and caught his image in an overhead mirror. He was soaked through with another man's blood, his blond hair matted down with sweat, his new jacket torn at the sleeve. Pudge Nichols, victorious once again, smiled.

    He walked over to the boy, who had remained frozen in place under the table, reached a bloody hand down and lifted him to his feet. Pudge grabbed a napkin off the table and wiped the tears from the boy's face.

    You never did get to finish that ice cream soda, Pudge said. You in the mood for another?

    The boy nodded.

    You up to making two fresh ones? Pudge asked Sammy.

    You'll be drinking them before you know it, Sammy told him.

    Pudge put an arm around the boy and walked him over to a clean table. Don't worry about spilling any, he said, casting a glance over at Tyler. I don't think anybody's gonna mind if that happens.

     *     *     *

PUDGE HAD A passion for violence. He had a taste for fight and a thirst for battle that were matched by few in his profession. His fists and his guns had been the engines that propelled him to succeed in the only life he fully understood. Few people knew him well; most feared him and were willing to pay any price to keep him clear of their lives.

    But I knew him and I loved him.

    Where others saw a sociopath eager to pistol whip a reluctant victim, I saw a man who was quick to smile and offer a young boy a place at his table. I knew he was a man cold enough to kill, but I also knew him to be warm and sensitive to those he cared about. He had no tolerance for acts of betrayal or cruelty and lacked Angelo's taste for the minute details of a business deal. He was a man totally in the moment, who knew only to respond to an action with an action. He was pure gangster.

    Pudge cared whether people liked him or not, Angelo once told me, years ago. It never entered his mind that what we did left little for people to like. It's always better to like a gangster from a distance anyway. Like a tiger cub in a cage. They always look soft and cute and warm behind those iron bars. Everybody's happy, smiling, waving, taking pictures. But you take away those bars and all that goes away. All that's left then is the fear. That's Pudge. That's every gangster.

     *     *     *

THE BLACK FOUR-DOOR sedan was parked on a dirt embankment, half a mile from the Cloisters, headlights shining down on the dark currents of the Hudson River. Angus McQueen stepped out of the car's left rear door. He had a bowler hat clenched in one hand and an unlit cigar in the other. He took a few steps forward and turned back toward the tall man sitting behind the wheel.

    You bring something to read? he asked.

    No, Spider MacKenzie said. Just smokes and a pint.

    You don't need lights for any one of those, Angus said. Am I right?

    Spider smiled and clicked off the headlights. He watched McQueen walk toward the rocky edges of the embankment and disappear behind a clump of thick trees. Spider tipped a row of tar-black tobacco onto a thin strip of paper, rolled it carefully between two fingers of his right hand and put it to his mouth. He tipped a match with a sharp flick of his thumb and lit it. He rested his head against the back of the car seat and closed his eyes. Spider held the cigarette in his mouth and kept the flask cradled between his legs.

    The voice crept up on McQueen. It came from out of the trees, whisked along by a mild breeze. He knew it would be there, was expecting it from the moment Spider pulled the sedan off the road and out to the directed spot. It is a voice every gangster expects to hear at some point in his life. A voice that often brings with it a dire warning or a fatal bullet.

    Glad you found the time to make it up here, Angus, the voice said.

    The way I heard it, it didn't sound like I had much say in the matter. McQueen had his hands in his pockets, the hat back on his head and the cigar in his mouth, still unlit. He leaned over the edge, peering down at the dark river several hundred feet below.

    Could be all a bluff, the voice said. The man behind it was now a few steps closer, just outside the range of the tree coverage.

    A bluff can take you a long way in a poker game, McQueen said. It can get you killed if you try it in life.

    Don't worry, Angus, the voice said. It's all for real. There's a call out for you to die. Put out by Jack Wells himself.

    If you know that much, then you know who he handed the job to, McQueen said. Am I right on that?

    Yes, the voice said.

    I pay a lot less if I have to guess the answer, McQueen said. He turned in the direction of the voice and saw a figure standing off to the left, shrouded by the hanging branches of an old tree.

    It's my job, Angus, the voice said, stepping in closer to McQueen. You're supposed to be my hit.

    I have to give you credit, McQueen said, nodding his head with approval. You picked the perfect spot. By the time my boy Spider hears the shot, you'll be long past gone.

    He would have heard the shots by now, the voice said. I'm not here to kill you. I came to hear you make me an offer.

    Just out of curiosity, McQueen said. What does Jack Wells say my life is worth?

    Ten thousand, the voice said. Five's already in my pocket. I get another five when he reads in the paper that you're dead.

    Sounds about right, McQueen said with a shrug. There's no sense in paying more than street value.

    A hit on Wells would be worth at least twice that, the voice said.

    Not to me, McQueen said.

    He always said you were a cheap bastard, the voice said.

    You got a name? McQueen said. Or you expect me to hire you on a hunch?

    The voice stepped up closer to McQueen and lit a cigarette. He was a young man with a pale, pockmarked face and a black mustache that looked penciled on. His lips were thin and his teeth were crooked.

    Jerry Ballister, the voice said.

    You're the one they call Kid Blast, am I right?

    Never to my face, Ballister said, his dark eyes turning killer hard.

    Life's filled with firsts, McQueen said, a wry smile spread evenly across his aging face.

    McQueen came to the meeting expecting a gunfight, not a recruitment plea. His body was relaxed and at ease. He gave a quick look around and was surprised only in that a voyage that began in the slums of England could have ended on such a dark and silent bluff. In the currents of the river below, he knew there floated many of the men whose deaths he had ordered.

    Why do you want to come over to my side? McQueen asked.

    I figure you to be out of the rackets in a few years, maybe less. You've stashed away enough to make an easy old age for yourself. Wells is in this for the long haul. Let's just say I don't have the patience to wait him out.

    Angus stared at the young killer and saw the look of a man who took pleasure from the pain he brought others. Okay with you if I think about it? Angus asked. Get back to you with an answer in a week or two?

    Take all the time you need, Ballister said. Wells didn't put any time limit on the hit, though I expect he wants to see it happen sooner than later.

    Hello, Kid Pudge Nichols said, standing in Ballister's shadow, one gun in each hand.

    What the hell are you doing up here? McQueen said, as shocked as he was pleased.

    Angelo's never seen the Cloisters, Pudge said, keeping both eyes on Ballister. Hope we're not breaking up anything too important.

    Me and the Kid were just standing around, shooting the shit, McQueen said. Getting to know one another better.

    Let me guess, Angelo said, stepping out from the shade of an oak tree. He wants to come over and work with us.

    I don't blame you, Pudge said. I met your boss.

    Ballister turned from McQueen and shifted his gaze to Angelo. How'd you know I'd be here?

    They call you Kid Blast, not Kid Genius, Pudge said. It wasn't that hard to figure out.

    What happens now? Ballister asked, shrugging his shoulders.