Shotgun Lullaby (A Conway Sax Mystery) (15 page)

So stall. Keep the clock running and try to get lucky.

I said, “Did he like it here? Did he skateboard a lot?”

“He loved it. He made friends, cut down on the video games, even dropped a few pounds.” Pause. “For four months. Then a twelve-year-old called him a fat whale, and Teddy bashed all the kid's teeth out on the cast-iron railing they were doing tricks on, and the kid's dad had some juice here in town, and before I knew it Teddy was enjoined from coming within two hundred feet of the motherfucking skate park I bought him.”

Pundo never raised his voice while he told it.

While we said nothing again, Boxer approached the bottom of the half-pipe with a plastic bag from Home Depot. He pulled items from it one by one, arranging them at the edge of the ramp.

A stout eighteen-inch screwdriver.

Duct tape.

Zip ties, huge ones.

Finally, an eyebolt with a shaft two inches long. The type of thing you'd screw into a tree branch to make a tire swing.

With the gear laid out, Boxer looked up at me and made that smile that revealed the missing tooth. He raised his eyebrows once, then again, like a silent-movie bad guy.

Then he picked up the eyebolt and the screwdriver. He used the screwdriver's handle like a hammerhead, pounding the eyebolt into a half-pipe support to get it started. Then he screwed in the eyebolt. When it was too deep to turn by hand, he shoved the screwdriver blade through the hole and used it for leverage.

“The place went to hell after that,” Pundo said, ignoring Boxer below. “Lay fallow a long while. Last year I thought about rehabbing and reopening, but I'll be damned if my people could find three skate parks outside California that turn a profit. So up in smoke it goes, a nice write-down. I shouldn't be here, of course. Christ, I should be in another state, with a half-dozen witnesses to boot. But when I heard about this”—he tapped the police report—“I needed to speak with you.”

“Before you set me on fire.”

“Yeah. Before that.”

Below, Boxer was finishing up. He'd run the eyebolt in deep enough to work up a sweat—wanted to make sure once they zip-tied me to it and torched the warehouse, I stayed put.

“You've got a son,” Pundo said. “You told me so when we met.”

“Haven't seen him for a while now,” I said.

“They disappoint you.”

“Or you disappoint them.”

“Is that the way it played out for you?”

“Yes.”

He nodded, tapping the report. “For the most part, though,
they
disappoint
you
. You stand by them. You'd do anything for them. And they let you down.”

Boxer and his two guys came together near the bottom of the ramp, and I recognized the third guy as the bartender from the Hi Hat. Shaved head, crisp white shirt. The three of them must be finished setting up, because nobody held a gas can. Boxer looked at Pundo and tapped an imaginary wristwatch.

“Well,” Pundo said, rolling the report and tucking it away.

“One question,” I said. It was a stall: off in that corner, light had shifted again. Something was going on. I hoped.

Pundo raised eyebrows.

“Why kill me?” I said, thinking fast and talking slow. “I don't count for shit. Your kid's no worse off than he was. I got my hands on a year-old police report. So what? But if you take me out, you take a big risk and a step backward. So why?”

It seemed to surprise him. “For family. Of course.”

Then Charlie Pundo pushed off and slid down the half-pipe on the ass of his fine suit. He rose and walked out of sight dusting the seat of his pants. He never looked back.

The three guys formed an arc in the bottom of the half-pipe. Holding a fistful of zip ties, Boxer finger-crooked. “Drop in, friend.” Again,
frind
. What the hell was that accent? Australian? No, but almost.

Boxer was trying for easy confidence, like I had no alternative but to slide down, get myself zip-tied to an eyebolt, and then burn to death.

But I was looking at shoes.

And the shoes damn near made me smile.

I put weight on my hands like I was getting set to slide.

I wasn't.

All three of them wore dress shoes. No way were they climbing the half-pipe with leather soles. That must have occurred to Boxer—he'd been trying to bluff me down.

I leaned forward even more until I felt him relax just a hair.

Then I threw myself backward and flattened out on the deck.

A handgun fired three fast rounds.

Boxer said, “Knock it off! Knock it off! You've got no angle!” Then, quietly: “Fuck
me
.”

As long as I stayed flat, they couldn't see me from where they stood. And they couldn't shoot what they couldn't see.

So I could stay right here, prone atop a half-pipe in a rat-turd warehouse, for the rest of my life.

It didn't sound so great. Until you compared it to burning alive.

I looked around, spotted a length of two-by-four hanging where there used to be a railing, wrenched it loose. Two big-ass deck screws protruded from one end.

Something new. I sniffed. Smoke?

Sound: dress-shoe footsteps. I watched the edge of the half-pipe, cocked my two-by-four. Heard a slip, a heavy thump, a howl. “Take your shoes off and try again,” Boxer said. Then: “Socks too, for Christ's bloody sake.”

No question about it now: I smelled smoke. It was gathering near the ceiling. Maybe Boxer's boys had lit their matches early.

The now-barefoot guy tried again. I couldn't see him, but I heard his back-and-forth footsteps build height, as I had a few minutes earlier. The footsteps neared. I regripped my club and eye-scanned the top of the ramp.

I saw a hand. Then another.

I uncoiled with my club.

I rammed an honest inch of galvanized deck screw into a knuckle.

The hand released. The man screamed, fell, hit like a sack of doorknobs.

When the guys below spotted my arm and club, they cut loose with what had to be semiautomatics. They were good, but they weren't lucky: bullets chewed the lip of the half-pipe in front of my face, but all that hit me were splinters.

Then a bunch of things happened. They happened fast, but my brain processed them slow. That was a good sign—it used to work the same way in a race car.

The smoke grew heavy enough to sting my eyes. Since I was near the ceiling, it was harder on me than it was on Boxer and his boys. I'd have to jump soon, like it or not.

I flipped onto my belly to pick a landing spot. Stayed as flat as I could, but Boxer saw movement and snapped off a couple rounds. They whistled past the ass of my jeans.

Boxer knew what I was getting set to do. He said, “Go around back!” I heard the second guy move. The third was rolling around in the half-pipe, moaning and useless.

I looked down. Shit. Sixteen feet straight to polished concrete, a guaranteed busted ankle. But I had no choice: the smoke now had me coughing, squinting. I got ready to drop.

Motion. There, that damn far corner again. What the hell was going on?

I blinked against smoke, then blinked again as I tried to understand what I was looking at.

A couch. A raggedy-ass cushionless sofa the color of blood.

The couch was sliding my way.

I got it: someone was pushing the couch, doubled over, using it for cover. He was coming
fast
.

Boxer's guy—it was Redbeard, which meant Barkeep was the one whose hand I'd wrecked—cleared the corner of the half-pipe and caught me exposed. He had an angle on me, a shot.

But the motion caught his eye the way it'd caught mine. He stared. His jaw dropped. I guess he'd never seen a raggedy red couch move so fast. “Hey,” he said, frozen, as the couch came at him.

The couch rammed Redbeard, rammed him
hard,
knocked him on his ass.

Then Randall Swale straightened.

I may be mistaken—like I said, things were moving along at a good clip—but I'm pretty sure I smiled.

Randall came around the couch, took one step, and kicked Redbeard in the head. He kicked with his good foot, like an old-fashioned straight-on football kicker. He kicked with power and form.

Redbeard did not move.

Boxer, who'd stayed put in case I backtracked into the half-pipe, couldn't see any of this. But he sensed things were going badly. “You got him?” he said, hollering it, his voice losing its cool for the first time. “What in fuck-all's going on over there?”

Randall grabbed Redbeard's semiautomatic and tucked it in his pants. Then he shoved the couch in my direction. It was still one hell of a drop, but at least it wasn't to concrete. Without letting myself think, I rolled off the edge, held my breath, and crash-landed on my feet. Felt it in my spine and hips, lost balance, splayed out, rose.

Randall pointed at the corner he'd come from.

We took off.

We ran hard.

Boxer must have figured out it was time to ditch his post, because he came around the corner of the half-pipe and tossed shots at our backs.

We ran harder.

Randall crash-barred a set of double doors like they weren't even there.

I followed.

Right about then I would've followed Randall Swale any-damn-where.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“That was an intriguing way to answer a question,” Randall said two hours later, pushing away his plate.

“What do you mean?” I said. “What question?”

I smiled at Sophie as she cleared the table. When Randall and I had stiff-legged our way into Charlene's place a half hour ago, Sophie'd taken one look at us and announced she would make omelets. I had no idea how hungry I was until she said it.

Damn, she was a good kid. Bustling around, cleaning up in a yellow apron, acting like she was thirty-five. All she asked in return was that we ignore her, pretend she wasn't listening to every word as we talked things through.

From Sophie's point of view, the invisibility act had another benefit: by the time I realized we shouldn't be discussing things in front of her, we'd said so much already that I could only shrug.

She was the only female in the house taking an interest, that was for sure: neither Charlene nor Jessie had bothered to come downstairs.

“The question was,” Randall said, “whether Boxer was Charlie's guy. Or whether he and Teddy were planning a mutiny.”

“Looks like he's Charlie's guy all the way.”

“'Twould certainly appear.”

I thought. “That might do us some good,” I said after a while, “if we could turn Boxer against Fat Teddy.”

“I don't see it, though. Boxer looks like a loyal soldier. Keeps his opinions to himself, including his opinion of Teddy.”

“
Especially
his opinion of Teddy.”

Randall nodded. “And does as the boss man says.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Sophie frown. And could tell she
wanted
me to see that.

“What is it?” I said, gesturing. “Spill.”

“Did you come any closer to figuring out who killed Gus?”

The kitchen went quiet.

“If Teddy did it,” Randall said after a while, “Charlie's warehouse move was to protect his dipshit son. Which would make sense.”

“Or,” I said, thinking it through as I spoke, “
Charlie
shot Gus—or had Boxer do it, same thing—to clean up after the mess Teddy made when he was dealing drugs without his father's okay.”

“This would also make sense,” Randall said.

“Meaning my banzai run to Springfield netted us jack shit,” I said.

Randall and Sophie agreed by saying nothing.

We sat.

“Either way,” I said, “we did learn
something
. Charlie Pundo was willing to take one hell of a risk.”

“Killing you, or trying to.”

“And torching a dump he owned, and being there while it all happened.”

“A man with his history,” Randall said, nodding, “might as well tattoo
PRIME SUSPECT
on his forearm when pulling a move like that.”

“Well,” Sophie said. Standing at the sink, she didn't bother to turn as she spoke. “He must have had one hell of a strong reason.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Randall said.

“Oh please,” Sophie said.

“You're right, kid,” I said. “But there's a disconnect. He said he was doing it for family, but he could barely mention Fat Teddy without spitting.”

“Huh,” Randall said.

“Huh,” Sophie said.

Charlene came in. Evening wear: fluffy slippers, cotton pajama pants, an old
POWERED BY YATES
T-shirt of mine that nearly reached her knees.

“Hey baby,” Randall said.

“Hey,” she said without looking at either of us. She started to microwave a cup of tea, then circled the room pulling shades—it was dark now.

“Care to hear a tale of derring-do and manly skill?” Randall said.

“No.”

Randall, Sophie, and I froze until Charlene pulled her tea from the microwave and headed upstairs.

“What's that about?” he said, mouthing it, barely audible.

“I hired a tech,” I said.

“Oh?”

“With a busted elbow.”

“Oh.”

“Conway busted it,” Sophie said.

“Thanks, punk,” I said.

“
That
guy?” Randall said.

“Render a man useless, then hire him out of guilt,” Sophie said. “It's the Conway Sax way.”

“A one-armed grease monkey,” Randall said. “If only your shop worked on unicycles.”

The two of them cracked up.

“Who needs enemies,” I said.

Once their laughter petered out, we were quiet.

“What comes next?” Randall said.

“The day before Gus was killed … the day before I tossed him out … he was hanging around with some dude in his apartment. Partying, getting high. He said so himself.”