The Burning Man (2 page)

Now she looked at him like he was some kind of alcoholic, just because she’d suddenly decided to stop drinking during the week. Like he was a worthless bum, even though he worked his ass off to support her and her two bratty kids. Okay, so maybe he didn’t have some respectable nine-to-five type job, but he was out there hustling every day.

A little of this, a little of that. Dealing skunk weed to dumb-ass frat boys and tourists. Fencing stolen car stereos. Plus, he had a real good score lined up later that night. Something big. Something that’d change their lives and get them out of this dump. Something that would shut her whining mouth for good.

“Randy, honey,” she said, pushing the creaking screen door open. “They’re gonna shut the phone off tomorrow. Think you could go on down the office first thing and take care of this bill?”

“Tomorrow,” Randy said, pausing to down the last of the beer. “Tomorrow I’ll get you a brand-new phone in a brand-new house, how’d that be?”

“That’s what you said last month,” she said, and she gave him that look.

“Dammit, Denise,” Randy said, crushing the beer can and tossing it out into the sandy front yard. “Why you always gotta be so negative?”

He turned to look at her, standing there in the doorway. She was dressed up all fancy in an acid-washed denim mini skirt, neon pink halter top, and high white heels. Pretty much everything hanging out like it was on sale. Hair all poofed up and bright pink lipstick like some kind of rock video tramp. He stood up, eyes narrow as he turned to face her.

“Where the
hell
you think you’re going dressed like that?”

“I...” She took a tentative step back. “I told you it was Joelle’s birthday tonight. Me and Lisa are throwing a little party for her down at Sandie’s. You said you’d watch the girls, remember?”

He stepped into the doorway, backing her into the sweltering house. It was a good ten degrees hotter inside. Air conditioner on the fritz again.

“And I’m supposed to believe you’re dressed like a slut for some chick’s birthday party?” He let the screen door close, then backed her up against the living room wall. “No, no, wait a minute. Doesn’t that spic ex-boyfriend of yours work at Sandie’s? What was his name? José?”

“Jorge,” she stuttered. “But that was way back in high school. Years ago, Randy. He’s married now, with kids.”

“You’re married with kids,” he said. “Doesn’t seem to stop you from whoring around behind my back, now does it?”

“Randy, please...”

“Here’s what you’re gonna do,” he said, keeping his voice low and even. “You’re gonna go back in the bedroom and put on some decent clothes that cover up that fat ass of yours, and then you’re gonna stay right here in this house and take care of your own damn kids while I go out and make us a living. How’s that sound?”

She was silent for a moment, and then her eyes got wide.

“I can’t take this anymore!” she screeched, her voice turning high and grating. “I’ve got no life because of you and your crazy jealousy. I never go anywhere. I never do
anything.
It’s like I’m in goddamn prison with you.”

Her shrill voice drilled into Randy’s aching head, going on and on and on. Blaming him for all her problems. Swearing and squawking just like a talking parrot. A whole lot of annoying noise that didn’t mean anything. He could feel sweat dripping down the center of his back, and gathering under the rim of his ball cap. His head was pounding, the nice comfortable buzz he’d been working on swiftly decimated by her bitchy little tantrum.

“Maybe I
should
use my fat ass to find a new man,” she was saying. “A real man—with a
job.”

Randy punched her in the face.

There was a nice, satisfying double crunch, first his fist hitting her face and then her head snapping back and hitting the wall behind her. She slid down the wall to the spotty carpet, knees to her chest and both hands covering her bleeding nose.

He shook out his throbbing right hand, flexing the fingers.

“Talk like that to me again,” he said, “Ever. I’ll kill you.”

He checked his watch. Nearly nine p.m. He really needed to get going if he was going to meet up with Tony for this big score.

There was a soft shuffling sound in the hallway and when he looked up he saw Denise’s older daughter. She was dressed in a thin, sweat-damp nightgown, her long blond hair loose around her narrow face. The younger kid was okay, pretty quiet and easy to ignore, but this older one was a pain in Randy’s ass. Just like her momma, always begging for the back of his hand. Always judging him.

She was judging him right now, staring at him like he was some kind of bad guy, when Denise was the one who started it.

“What the hell are you looking at?” he asked, glaring at her.

The girl didn’t respond, but she didn’t look away. She just stared at him with those spooky green eyes of hers. Like grown-up eyes in a little kid’s face. He raised his hand to her, but she didn’t flinch. She just narrowed her expression.

“To hell with you both,” he said, almost to himself. “Somebody has to make a living around here.”

He turned on his heel and left, slamming the screen door on the pathetic snuffling and boo-hooing of Denise’s little pity party.

* * *

It was dark when Randy pulled his sorry-ass pickup truck into the empty parking lot of the Save Rite, and there was only one other vehicle there. Normally, he wouldn’t be caught dead within a mile of a police prowler, but this was Tony’s car, so Randy eased the pickup into the slot beside it and killed the engine.

Tony Orsini was the older brother of this girl Sherry he used to bang a few years back. Handsome son of a bitch with a square, comic-book hero jaw and a toothpaste commercial smile. He was five years older than Randy, but he still had a full head of thick, perfectly gelled black hair while Randy’s was more like a dying lawn—thin, patchy and pale brown. Tony was the kind of guy who had a five o’ clock shadow by noon. A real he-man type. Chicks couldn’t get enough of him.

It took Randy a couple of months to start trusting Tony, since he was a cop and all. But it soon became clear that he was as crooked as they come. He was also a generous friend. Always picking up the tab when they went drinking, always sharing the coke he’d confiscated from some lowlife, and always offering up freebies from the working girls he kept out of jail.

Tony talked all the time about how the drug dealers he arrested had stacks of money just lying around, and how easy it would be to make that cash disappear. After all, if you rob a drug dealer, it’s not like he’s gonna call the cops. And even if he did, Tony
was
the cops.

All Tony needed was a good trustworthy partner. Someone he could count on to stay cool under pressure, and back him up on the score.

That’s where Randy came in.

Randy got out of the pickup and slid into the passenger side of the prowler. It was nice and cool, air conditioning running at full blast. But even under the circumstances, being inside a cop car still made him sweat a little.

“You’re late, Randall,” Tony said, instead of a greeting.

“Sorry, man,” Randy replied. “My old lady’s been giving me grief all night. Practically had to chew my own leg off to get away. You’d think that bitch would be a little more appreciative, seeing as how I’m about to make her rich and all.”

“Focus,” Tony said. “We got a big night ahead of us.” He looked over. “Let me see your gun.”

Randy felt a rush of hot blood to his face.

“Goddammit,” he said. “I knew I forgot something.”

Tony just stared at him, flat black eyes ice-cold in his stony, expressionless face.

“Get out,” Tony said.

“Now just hold on a second, Tony,” Randy began.

“I said get out.”

“Look, man,” Randy said, palms out. “I’m sorry. I just let that whiny bitch get to me, break my concentration. Give me a second chance, willya?”

“Now you listen to me, Randall,” Tony said, twisting a fistful of Randy’s sweaty T-shirt and pulling him close enough to kiss. “I’m trusting you with my life here. My life will literally be in your hands, do you understand that? If you screw this up, I’m a dead man.”

“I understand,” Randy said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Honest. It’s not a big deal. We can just swing back by my place and pick up the piece, okay? It won’t take any time at all.”

Tony didn’t say anything for a long, drawn out moment, leaving Randy to sweat in silence. Getting in on a score like this was by far the best and most important thing that had ever happened to Randy. No more smalltime action, this was his ticket to the big leagues. A score like this would change his life forever, and if he screwed it up before it even got off the ground, he didn’t think he could live with himself.

“All right,” Tony said finally, letting go of Randy’s shirt and putting the prowler in gear. “I’m gonna let it slide, just this once. But I expect better from you from here on out.”

“Absolutely,” Randy said, straightening his stretched out collar. “You bet. I won’t let you down. You can count on me, man.”

As Tony drove back down Pearl Street toward the house, Randy had to fight to stop himself from fidgeting like an anxious kid. He’d already made such a bad impression, he needed to do everything he could to show Tony that he was cool. Trustworthy. That he really was ready for the big leagues.

When they turned the corner and the sad little white house came into view, he felt a pulse of shame. He’d been to Tony’s high-rise condo, with the trendy leather furniture and the knockout view. That was the kind of place Randy wanted, not a trashy dump like this. He wanted to explain to Tony that he was better than this, that he had ambition, and that it was Denise and her nagging and lack of faith in him that kept him down. But it didn’t seem like a good time. Better to just go grab the gun and get going.

When Randy walked up to the porch, the door was closed.

That’s weird,
he thought. The door was never closed, not in this kind of heat. But he didn’t really think much about it as he pulled the screen door open and turned the knob on the wooden door behind it. He half expected it to be locked, but the handle turned easily.

When he opened the door, he saw Denise’s older daughter standing there in the middle of the empty living room. Denise must have gone to lie down or something, because although she’d left behind a smeary mess of blood and snot on the wall and floor, she was nowhere to be seen.

That’s when Randy noticed that the little girl had his gun.

For a fleeting second, he thought she’d realized that he forgot it, and helpfully brought it out to give to him. But he didn’t remember telling the kid that he’d be needing it, and he’d never talk about that kind of stuff with a nine-year-old, anyway.

Then she raised the gun and pointed it at him, and any thoughts along those lines swiftly evaporated.

“Olivia, don’t!” he said, hands held out in supplication.

The little bitch shot him.

Tony was starting to regret having chosen Randall as his sacrificial lamb. You’d think it would be impossible to screw up such simple instructions. Clearly he’d overestimated his victim’s ability to distinguish his own sorry ass from a hole in the ground.

Tony had orchestrated this exact same bait-and-switch set up half a dozen times before, cherry-picking some loser to take the blame for the murder of one of Tony’s myriad rivals and competitors. They would break into the target’s house, Tony would shoot both the target and the fall guy, and from there it was a cinch to doctor up the scene to make it look like they’d killed each other during a botched robbery.

Should’ve been another no brainer.

But in the past few months, Tony had been suffering through a tenacious streak of bad luck. Deals going south. Sure things that didn’t pan out. Worse, he’d been having these strange episodes of free-floating anxiety, combined with intense paranoia and an unshakeable conviction that very bad things were going on just outside the limits of his peripheral vision.

He figured it was probably a side effect from doing too much blow, but it was starting to mess with his composure. Making him doubt himself. And given the kinds of animals he dealt with on a daily basis, you could never show a hint of weakness, or else they’d eat you alive.

He lit a cigarette to calm himself as he watched Randall fumble around with the doorknob. This guy was really starting to get on Tony’s nerves. It was going to be a pleasure to kill him.

Again, there was that icy twinge of paranoia as Tony glanced back down the street. He spotted a man standing beside the mailbox of a Pepto Bismol-colored house, on the other side of the street. He really didn’t want anyone to notice him, or wonder why a petty criminal like Randall was getting into a cop car on the day that would become known as his last.

But that wasn’t the only reason the guy was making Tony nervous.

By the glow of a nearby streetlight, he saw that the man was wearing a dark suit and tie, despite the sweltering heat. Also, his face—what could be seen of it—was icy pale under the rim of a black fedora. No tan—not even a hint. Clearly not a local. Some stiff from Internal Affairs?

A Fed, maybe?

Tony was starting to think that the best option was to cut his losses and drive away. He could always come back and silently execute Randall some other time. He was about to turn the ignition key when he heard the shot.

Instinct had him out of the car with his gun drawn before he had a chance to think about what a bad idea it was to get involved in Randall’s domestic mess. There was a second shot and Randall fell backward through the door and onto the porch, clutching his right thigh and making a noise like an angry donkey. Tony figured the guy’s bitch of a wife must have plugged him, and couldn’t blame her, to be honest.

Stepping into the house, he was astounded to discover that the shooter was a little girl.

Tony had always been uncomfortable around kids. It was like they could see right through his flash and charm, and knew that there was something off about him. Something rotten. So he avoided them whenever possible.