Night Work (27 page)

    Frank lit a cigarette and tried to sort his thoughts. "Not Gus, Vin. He'd never do that."

    "Come on, for Christ's sake, he's the - "

    "I know Gus a hell of a lot better than you do," Frank reminded him. "Say whatever you want about the guy, but he's loyal."

    Vincent popped a square of bubble gum into his mouth. The pink wrapper jumped from his hand, levitated as if by magic, then rode the breeze until it gracefully spiraled downward into a puddle at Frank's feet. "Not anymore."

    "He didn't do it," Frank said, his breath forming clouds of mist as it hit the cold air.

    "You're right," Vincent smiled. "The tooth fairy done it."

    "You're making jokes?" Frank snapped. "There were just two guys in my parking lot who probably wanted to kill me and my wife and you're making jokes? What are you, a fucking moron?"

    Vincent stared at him, the smile gone. "Nobody else knew about it, Frank. Gus is the one."

    "Goddamn it," he sighed. "Have you spoken to him?"

    "I can't find him. I've been trying to get a hold of him for hours. His old man answered his home phone - that's a treat, like talking to a fucking chair, and I've called his beeper twice."

    "He's probably shacked up somewhere with that tramp he's been running around with."

    "Probably. They're most likely counting money. How much you figure it took for him to fuck us like this? A couple grand maybe?"

    Frank flicked his cigarette into the darkness. "Gus knew what would happen if Turano found out. Why would he do it?"

    "Because he's a piece of shit."

    "You're telling me he'd let us get whacked for a lousy few grand?"

    "He thinks he got fucked over when I came into the picture," Vincent said, shuffling his feet in an attempt to stay warm. "Ever since then he's been bugging both of us to make him a partner. We've been blowing him off so long he's probably figured out that it ain't ever gonna happen. So he goes to Turano, and God only knows what that sonofabitch offered him."

    "I don't buy it."

    "Well I'm sure as hell not gonna spend all night freezing my balls off trying to convince you."

    Frank looked out at the highway. "Find him."

    "I'm trying."

    "Try harder. I want to talk to him face to face," Frank said. "If he lies to my face, I'll know it."

    Vincent nodded. "And when you're sure, then what?"

    "If we find out that he screwed us then we'll… we'll deal with it then. Otherwise we cut him loose."

    "I'll take care of it, you won't have to - "

    "Only if it comes to that, Vin. Only then." Frank rubbed his tired eyes. "What the hell's happening to us, man? What the fuck have we done to our lives?"

    "We rolled the dice, that's all. It ain't over yet, don't go laying down on me. First thing we do is find motherfucking Gus. Piece of fucking dog shit."

    Frank faced him. "I meant what I said before. Don't fucking touch him, Vin. Don't so much as put one fucking hand on him; you got me? I don't want any goddamn accidents between now and then, you hear me?"

    "Don't I have some say in this?" Vincent asked evenly.

    "You have say," Frank told him. "I have final say."

    Vincent watched him for a moment. "Fine. I'll bring him to you in whatever shape I find him."

    "And if we find he didn't do this but he's still a risk, when I cut him loose you'll leave him that way."

    "All right, for Christ's sake."

    "Gimme your word."

    "I just did."

    Frank lit another cigarette. "What do we do from here?"

    "Don't go home."

    "I've got Sandy out of the way. What about my mother?"

    "She should be all right." Vincent shrugged. "Just lay low until you hear from me. You're wearing your beeper?" Frank gave a quick nod. "Go somewhere nobody'd look for you and I'll call you as soon as I hear anything."

    Frank started back to his car. "Be careful."

    "Hey, Frank?"

    He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Vincent was still standing next to his car watching him. "Yeah?"

    "You too."

    

    

    A little over an hour later, Frank found himself in Boston. He followed Arlington Street to Boylston, and continued on into Chinatown. The neighborhoods grew progressively worse as he ventured beyond the theater district and into what was left of the Combat Zone.

    Several years had passed since the Zone's heyday. Bright lights and gaudy signage had once unabashedly showcased sleaze with a level of glitz capable of turning even the most seasoned urbanite's head, but nearly all the legitimate clubs had been systematically shut down, leaving this small corner of the city in shambles. What had once been the Times Square of Boston had been reduced to something that more closely resembled the set of some post-apocalyptic horror movie. Any adult fun associated with the area was gone, replaced instead by mostly abandoned, boarded-up buildings; an ever-increasing homeless population; occasional porn shops or strip joints, and dark, garbage-strewn streets.

    At the very fringe of the Combat Zone, Frank pulled over and parked. Across the street was a dilapidated old building known as the Wellington Hotel. If there was ever a place he wouldn't be, this was it.

    Frank locked the car, hoping it would still be there in the morning. He stopped at the curb just long enough to light a cigarette and take a quick look around.

    A neon sign buzzed over the entrance to the hotel, casting a pair of men huddled near the base of the steps in an eerie blue haze. They shared a bottle wrapped in brown paper, and appeared disinterested in Frank's presence.

    To the right of the hotel was an X-rated book and video store with a faded sign promising: Hot Peep Shows - Inside!

    A scurvy-looking individual in a soiled tank top and polyester slacks stood out front, urging the occasional passerby to go inside. Separated from the hotel by a dark, litter-strewn alley was a strip club that seemed to be the neighborhood's main draw. Beyond that was a liquor store with steel bars covering the windows. The remainder of the block consisted of condemned buildings in various stages of disrepair.

    Before Frank had reached the hotel entrance, a young woman in a tight pink dress stepped from the shadows of the adjacent alley. She looked like she was freezing. "You want a date, Daddy?" she asked in a tiny voice. "Hey, need a date?"

    Frank moved on without slowing his pace.

    "Fucking queer," she growled.

    As he crossed the street, a black man with a shiny gold tooth and a handful of flyers intercepted him. "That's all right, that's all right. Don't even worry about that. I'm with you, blood, I don't go for none of that skunk pussy neither. Got shit going around now make your dick look like a garden rake, am I right? What you need to do is check this out. Only three dollars a minute, all major credit cards accepted. Totally safe, blood, totally discreet. Satisfaction guaranteed."

    He stuffed a flyer advertising a 1-900 sex line into Frank's hand and was gone as quickly as he'd appeared. Frank crumpled it, tossed it into a large trashcan on the corner, then climbed the steps of the Wellington Hotel.

    The lobby somehow managed to look worse than Frank had imagined. A battered reception desk filled the back wall, a wide and winding staircase that looked as if it had at one time been rather ornate was to his immediate left, and a matching set of threadbare couch and chairs sat clustered to his right. With the exception of a plump hooker using a pay phone near the door and a pale bald man behind the desk, the lobby was empty.

    The clerk wore jeans and a T-shirt that featured a picture of two pigs copulating on it with the caption: Makin' Bacon in bold letters beneath it. The man studied Frank the way a criminal watches a cop. "Help ya?"

    "I need a room."

    "Fifteen an hour. Cash, in advance."

    "How much for a night?"

    "How many nights we talkin' about?"

    "One."

    "Thirty. Cash, in advance. No refunds. Any problems, I don't wanna hear about them. Don't own the place and I got no idea who does. There's no phone in the room, no TV. The hot water usually works but I ain't promising nothin'."

    While still concealing his wallet behind his coat, Frank peeled off thirty dollars and handed it to the clerk.

    He slid an old register across the counter. "Sign in."

    "You can't be serious."

    "House rules. Sign in." Frank signed a phony name, watched the clerk pull a key from a pegboard behind him then slap it on the counter. "Go up the stairs and bang a right. It's all the way down on the right. Number 110."

    Most of the overhead lights in the second floor hallway were either broken or missing entirely. The wallpaper was peeled and cracked, and the stench of vomit and urine hung stubbornly in the air.

    Frank stepped over the prone figure of a man who was drunk, unconscious or dead, and continued on until he'd found his room. The lock stuck but he eventually forced it open. Smells worse than those permeating the hallway immediately assaulted him, and he hesitated before entering in the hope that the odor might dissipate.

    A switch just inside the door turned on a grimy overhead fixture that bathed the room in a dull yellow light. The furnishings consisted of a bed, a nightstand, and a cheap veneer table and chair. The adjoining bathroom had no door, a small sink and toilet, and a nauseating stink all its own. The lone window overlooked an alley where a small group of people had gathered to consummate a drug deal. He pulled shut the tattered shade and cautiously sat on the edge of the bed, unsure if it could hold his full weight.

    A fornicating couple began moaning and groaning in the room next door.

    Frank lay back on the bed, still fully dressed, and his thoughts focused on Sandy. For the first time in years he realized he'd begun to pray, only asking that she might be spared whatever punishment fate had in store for him.

    A siren wailed somewhere down the block, an argument broke out in the alley, and a boom box blared rap music a few doors down.

    Despite his exhaustion, sleep refused to come.

    

    

    Gus tried his best to brush the lint and debris from his shirt and slacks, then straightened his glasses and studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He held up two ties, selected the one with the fewer stains, and clipped it into place under his shirt collar. Squeezing a gob of toothpaste into his hand, he dabbed at it then brushed his teeth with his index finger.

    His father was sitting at the kitchen table staring into one of his crossword puzzle books. He coughed, scratched his chest, and looked up at his son as he entered the room.

    "Why are you wearing that robe?" Gus asked.

    "This isn't your robe."

    "I bought you a heavy one for winter," Gus reminded him. "Where'd you put it? Remember the blue one I got you?"

    "Gus," he said, looking down at his book. "What's a - "

    "Hold on. How do I look?"

    " - six-letter word for trip?"

    "Never mind," Gus said, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair. "Can't even answer a simple goddamn question."

    His father shook his head. "That's a tough one."

    "Do you think you can listen to me for a second?" Gus crouched down next to the chair. "I gotta go pick up Kathy. You remember Kathy, right?"

    "I don't know no Kathy."

    Gus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Anyway, I gotta go pick her up and bring her back here, okay? I'll only be gone a couple minutes."

    "Let's have soup."

    "Soup? Dad, it's seven o'clock in the fucking morning, what's wrong with you?"

    He smiled. "I especially like vegetable soup."

    Gus stood up and lit a cigarette. "I'll get you a can on the way back. Don't turn on the stove, you hear me?"

    "Can't make soup without turning on the stove," he said. "What's a six-letter word for trip, Gus?"

    "Voyage."

    His father counted the boxes with his finger, his lips moving silently. "Yeah. Voyage."

    "I'll be right back." Gus leaned over and kissed his father on the top of his head. "Stay away from the stove. I mean it, ya crazy bastard."

    The old man moaned and waved his book at him. "Piss up a rope."

    

    

    Gus raced across the city, parked out in front of Kathleen's apartment and hit the horn. She appeared a few minutes later and groggily climbed in next to him.

    "This is the last time we meet before ten," she said through a sigh. "You don't seem to understand how late I get in at night."

    "I know, I know." Gus smiled. "But this is a special day and I couldn't wait all morning."

    Kathleen rubbed her eyes. "What's so special about today?"

    "You're about to find out." He winked at her playfully. "I'll bet you've probably already guessed."

    "Nope." She yawned. "But do you have to tell me here? I really need some coffee."

    "In a minute." Gus removed something from his jacket pocket but kept it hidden in his hand. "Kathy, you know how I feel about you, right?"

    "Sure."

    Gus cleared his throat nervously. "I've given this a lot of thought, and anyway, I figure I'm not getting any younger." He thrust a small box at her and blurted, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you." She stared at him blankly and he smiled. "Go ahead, open it."