The Weight (38 page)

I turned my shoulders. I don’t know exactly what I was going to do, but Ken stopped me from ever finding out. He put his hand on my arm. “Not like that, kid,” is all he said.

“I was just gonna—”

“You know what happens when you slap a woman-beater around? He takes it, like the bitch he is. Then he goes home and makes
her
pay for it.”

“Then what should I—?”

But Ken was already gone. I reached out and pulled the girl into my chest. Not to hurt her, or to make a play for her. Just to keep her close enough to me so she couldn’t see anything.

In the mirror, I could see Ken walk up to this Eugene. When he got real close, Ken pointed at the wall next to the booth. Eugene turned to his left to see what Ken was pointing at. Ken stuck something in Eugene’s ear. There was a little noise, like a dry twig snapping.

Eugene’s face hit the table. Ken walked back to where I was still holding on to the girl.

“Eugene went to the dice game out back,” he told her. “He left me a message for you: When he’s done shooting craps, he’s going back to his wife. From now on, you’re on your own.”

She looked over at the booth. From where she was sitting, it looked empty.

“I didn’t even know he was married,” she said. “What … what happened?”

“I dunno,” Ken said. “I was walking by when he got up. Told me to tell you what I just told you.”

“Oh Jesus.”

“He got his clothes at your place?”

“Sure. I mean, we—”

“His wife’s in Boston, so you know he’s not coming back for them,” Ken said. Then he turned his back on her and started talking to me.

It took a few minutes for her to walk over to the empty booth. Only by then it wasn’t empty anymore. Four guys were sitting there, playing cards.

She kind of stumbled out, still crying.

Ken slid a red handkerchief across the bar. There was a little lump in it. The guy behind the stick swept it up so smooth you’d have to be watching close to see it. One of the guys who’d been playing cards, a skinny guy in an old brown leather jacket, he walked over and handed Ken a shell casing. A real small one. Maybe a .25; I don’t know much about guns.

“About those arrangements for your beloved aunt?” he said to Ken.

“Ah, you wouldn’t think so, but what she always said she wanted was to be cremated. Said it was the cleanest way to leave this earth. Only her spirit left behind.”

“Aye,” the man in the leather jacket said. He shook hands with Ken, pulled his cap down low over his eyes, and walked away.

That’s why I never wanted to be a hammer; I never wanted to work for anyone but me. And I wanted people to talk about me after I was gone. The way they talk about Ken now. A true hard man. Always true. And hard to the core.

Only, now that I’d met Grace, I realized there was more to being a hard man than what I’d always thought.

By my thinking, I was getting closer all the time. Everyone knows: Sugar, he’s a real thief. Not just stand-up if he gets caught, but good at
not
getting caught.

I know when someone’s been in my place. I was going to say “house,” not “place,” only I never had a house. That’s what convicts call their cell: “my house.”

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I can take one look and see if something’s wrong. Things don’t move themselves. I can always see this picture of how I left things. If the new picture doesn’t fit
right
over it, I know.

If these guys Lynda told me about were as good as she said, no
point trying to sneak up on them. The bike was noisy, but it was quick. I hit the garage button while I was still riding up to the door.

The garage was exactly like we left it. But maybe they had another way in, so I took a few seconds to check down the hall. The place I’d stayed in, nobody had been in there since we’d left.

I jumped back on the cycle and rode it over the bumpy trail Lynda had shown me when we first took off. I didn’t even try and find the best spot, just laid the bike down flat and ran back to the house.

The Lincoln fired right up. I backed it out, clicked the garage closed, and took off.

Part of being a good thief is not needing a map to a place you’ve already been. And not writing anything down. The clock on the Lincoln said 10:15. Plenty of time.

I drove careful. Not
too
slow. And I was still twenty minutes to the good as I backed the Lincoln into a slot all the way across from where Lynda was. I could see the white Caddy, but nothing else.

Lynda didn’t know how these airport meets were supposed to go—Albie never told her details. Probably only told her anything at all so she wouldn’t get worried when he went out late at night.

Albie wouldn’t have a bodyguard. Or even a driver. So Jessop, he’d be looking for Albie behind the wheel. I eased the passenger-side door open, ready to break any bulb that lit up … but none did.

I thought of waiting in the back seat, leaving the door cracked. But it was too risky. Jessop might open the door, but he’d check the front seat before he climbed inside.

A man like Albie, he tells you eleven o’clock, you’re not there by one minute after, he’s gone.

Running through my mind: Was this Jessop smart enough to get there way early? No. If Albie saw a strange car, he’d just pull off.

I had Lynda’s pistol in the carry-on, but a gunshot in that open space would be loud. And the way airports are today, the place would be swarmed with fifty different kinds of cops in ten seconds.

Plenty of darkness, but if Jessop’s headlights picked me up …

I settled for crouching behind the trunk, all the way over to the right. The tire would give me a little cover—best I could do.

The tool I was carrying looked like a long, thin canvas bag with a loop on the end. It was filled with ball bearings, weighed about thirty pounds. I put my hand through the loop. Then I started hyper-tensing different muscle groups. Tense, hold, release. Tense, hold, release. Not as good as stretching, but it would keep me from getting stiff.

A wash of headlights. I heard a car door open and close.

Footsteps.

I snuck a peek. A man, walking straight toward the Lincoln. His hands were empty, but that didn’t mean anything—if you’re expected, you don’t walk up on a man with a gun in your hand.

Heavy shoes, but light-footed, not much noise. Little crunching sounds from the parking lot, louder as he got closer.

I could hear him breathing. Calm and relaxed. Probably did things like this a hundred times before.

One more and … yeah, it was Jessop, all right. He was reaching for the door handle as I came around the back of the Lincoln.

Damn, he was
fast
. But by the time he whipped around and reached for the gun in his belt, the lead-shot club was already on its way. Instead of the back of his head, I caught him full in the face.

The way he went down, I was pretty sure he was already finished—flat on his back, eyes wide open.

I took out a crowbar. Knelt down and held it across his throat with both hands. Then I rammed it down with everything I had.

I heard some kind of sound, but it wasn’t coming from his mouth; it was the little bones crackling in his neck. One of his eyeballs came way out of his head. I didn’t need the smell to tell me he was done.

I kicked the door shut and popped the trunk. Dragged Jessop’s body around to the back by his belt. Heaved him inside. Stuck the key to the Lincoln and the button for the garage in the outside pocket of his jacket. Closed the trunk.

I pulled the gloves off my hands as I walked over to the Caddy, moving easy.

“Jesus, I am
rank
,” Lynda said.

“You’re fine.”

“Sure. It wasn’t you who was back there. I could hardly even breathe.”

“You’re not back there
now
, okay? Just tell me where to turn.”

By the time we got to the highway, she was a little calmer. But she
was
rank, for real.

Then she started shaking. Real bad. I had to light the cigarette for her.

“I guess I’m just a fraud,” she said, an hour later.

“How are you a fraud?”

“I’m supposed to be … I’m supposed to be what Albie taught me to be. He said, he said over and over, ‘Rena, a man has to believe in something bigger than himself, or he can never truly be a man.’ I thought I understood that. I thought I was
doing
that. But … what was he telling me, that it’s only
men
who have to do that?”

“It’s just the way people talk.”

“I … I guess that’s true. I mean, the Israelis, they have women in their army. In combat, I mean. And I know they had a woman Prime Minister once. But all I could do was … 
hide
. That’s all I could do. Like a little kid in a closet, afraid of the monsters in the house.”

“What the fuck did you
want
to do?”

“Why are you mad at me, Sugar?”

“Why? You’re saying I’m nothing, and I’m supposed to just—”

“How could you even think—?”

“You’re better at things than me, right?”

“I never said—”

“Yeah, you did. And you are. But you’re not better at
everything
. This … this work that had to be done; you did your part, then I did mine. That’s what happened. And what’s coming out of your mouth? Ah, you’re such a piece of crap because you didn’t handle the whole thing yourself, like you’re
supposed
to, right?”

“I … I see what you mean. I was just being a bitch, Sugar.”

“I don’t think so.”

“All right, I was
scared
. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No.”

“You won’t even say my name, will you?”

“Which name do you want?”

“You
bastard
!” She tried to reach over and slap at me, but the seatbelt held her in place.

It was another hour before she spoke to me again.