G is for Gumshoe (34 page)

I heard voices behind me. I turned and watched as two workmen, probably fuelers, locked the exit door to the hangar and moved off toward the parking lot. Messinger rose to his feet, peering in their direction. He pulled the nose of the .45 up and pointed, making little noises with his mouth . . .
pow, pow.
He blew imaginary smoke away from the barrel and then he smiled. “They don't know how lucky they are, do they?”

“I guess not,” I said.

He sat down again.

His hair had dried into ringlets and the wind lifted them playfully. His eyes glinted in the light from a bulb at the upper corner of the building. He was watching me with interest. “Your daddy ever bring you out here to watch planes?”

“He died when I was five.”

“Mine didn't either. Cocksucker. No wonder I turned out bad.”

“What, he didn't show up to watch you play Little League?”

“He didn't do much of anything except drink, fornicate, and kill folk. That's where I got all my talent. From him.”

My fear had receded and in its place, I was beginning to feel a characteristic crankiness settle in. It was one thing to
die, and quite another being forced to sit around in a cold wind making small talk with a fatuous ass like Messinger. I'd been thinking I better make nice. Now I wondered what the point was. In the meantime, he was staring at my face. I stared back, just to see what it would feel like.

He nodded judiciously. “Your black eye's looking better.”

I ran a finger along my orbital ridge. I kept forgetting what I must look like to the uninitiated observer. The last time I'd assayed my various injuries, I'd noticed the bruises had changed hues dramatically. A lemon-yellow backdrop now blended into lime-green, which was overlaid with plum. “You nearly got me that round.”

He waved the compliment away. “That was just a warm-up. I wasn't serious.”

“What'd Eric think of it?”

“Didn't bother him. Look at cartoons. Kids see violence all the time and it doesn't count for shit. People don't really die. It's all special effects.”

“I doubt he's going to feel that way if you shoot his mom.”

“Not
if
I shoot her—when.” I saw his gaze shift.

Out on the runway, a tiny plane had landed, sounding like a VW in need of a new fan belt. I lost sight of the aircraft behind some outbuildings and then the plane appeared again, puttering toward us. He got to his feet. “I bet this is him. Come on. And keep your mouth shut or I'll pop you one.”

The plane reached the concrete apron beside the hangar and the pilot made a miniature U-turn so that he was now facing out toward the runway. He cut the engine, doused
the lights. Messinger had gripped me across the back of the neck, marching me toward the plane in quickstep. I imagined the pilot taking off his headset, writing in his logbook, loosening his seat belt. If this was Rochelle's brother, he was going to recognize Messinger as soon as he caught sight of him.

A column of fear wafted up my spine like smoke. I tried to hang back, resisting, but Messinger's fingers dug into my neck with excruciating pain. We had picked up the pace, almost trotting side by side until we reached the tail unit of the plane. Just in front of us, the door to the cockpit opened and the pilot stepped down. We were less than six feet away.

Messinger said, “Hey, Roy?”

I screamed a warning.

The pilot turned in surprise.

Spwt!

Roy dropped to his knees. He toppled forward on his face. His nose had been shattered by the bullet, which took out a chunk of skull when it exited. I cried out in horror, recoiling from the sight. I felt tears like a stinging blow. A quick cloud of gunpowder perfumed the night air. I put a hand against the plane for support. Messinger had already lifted the dead man by the arms and he was dragging him backward across the tarmac toward the slanted shadows of the hangar.

I pushed away from the plane. I took off, running for dear life. I headed toward the parking lot, hoping to reach the road.

“Hey!”

I could hear Messinger behind me, pounding hard. I
didn't dare look. He was faster than I and he was gaining. I felt the shove that sent me tumbling forward on my hands. I tried to roll, but I wasn't quick enough to save myself. I was down and he was on me, winded and raging. He pulled me over on my back. I kept my arms up to ward off the blows he aimed at me.

Something caught his attention and his face jerked up. A car was approaching from the direction of the slough. He pulled me to my feet, half-dragging, halfhauling me across the concrete toward the shelter of the building. He backed up against the stucco, my body clamped against his, half tucked under his armpit. He had his one hand across my mouth, the barrel of the gun at my temple again. I was close to suffocation, both of us breathing hard.

The car pulled into the parking lot. I heard two car doors slam, one right after the other, and then the murmur of voices. I saw Rochelle first, heard her heels tapping on the pavement, saw the pale cheeks, the pale hair above the turned-up collar of her trenchcoat. Eric walked beside her, his face tilted toward hers. The two were holding hands. Dietz was locked up close to her, his attention focused on the surrounding darkness. When he spotted the plane, he hesitated. I could almost see his puzzled squint. He put an arm out to stop Rochelle's progress and Eric halted in his tracks.

Messinger pushed us away from the building. “Hey, pal. Over here. Look what I got.”

For a moment, the five of us formed a tableau. I felt like we were part of a pageant, some community theater group acting out a well-known scene from history. No one
moved. Messinger had removed his hand from my mouth, but none of us said a word.

Finally, Eric seemed to perk up. “Daddy?”

“Hey, big fella. How're you doin'? I came to pick you up.”

Rochelle said, “Mark, let me have him back. I beg you. You've had him eight months. Let him stay with me. Please.”

Despite the distance between us, the voices carried easily. “No way, babe. That's my kid. Tell you what, though. I'll make a deal. I get Eric. You get Kinsey. Fair enough?”

Dietz glanced at Rochelle. “He won't hurt Eric—”

Rochelle lashed out at Dietz. “Shut up! This is between us.”

“He'll kill her,” Dietz said.

“I don't give a shit!” she snapped.

Messinger cut in. “Excuse me, Dietz? I hate to interrupt, but you're never going to win an argument with her. She's a hardheaded bitch. Believe me, I know.”

Dietz was silent, looking at him. Rochelle had put her arms around Eric possessively, holding him against her, much as Messinger held me.

Messinger was concentrating on Dietz for the moment. “I'd appreciate your taking your gun out, pal. Could you do that? I don't want to have to blow this lady's brains out quite yet. I thought you might like to say good-bye to each other first.”

“How serious are you about a deal?” Dietz said.

“Let's do the gun first, okay? Then we'll negotiate. I have to tell you I'm feeling tense. I got a .45 with the safety off and the trigger only takes two pounds of pressure. You might want to move kind of slow.

Dietz seemed to proceed in slow motion, removing his gun from the middle-of-the-back holster he was wearing under his tweed sport coat. He held the barrel upright and removed the magazine, which he tossed out on the pavement. I could hear the metal clatter on concrete as he kicked it away. He tossed the gun over his shoulder into the dark. He held his hands up, palm out.

Dietz and I exchanged a look. I could feel Messinger's tension through the bones of my back. I was warmer, laid up against him, and if I didn't move my head, I was hardly aware of the gun barrel. The length of it, with the suppressor attached, prevented him from pointing it, end on, at my head. He was forced to hold it at an angle. I wondered if the sheer weight of it wasn't becoming burdensome.

Messinger was apparently watching Dietz with care. “Very nice. Now why don't you persuade Rochelle to cooperate? See if you can talk her into it, because if not, I'm about to collect on this fifteen-hundred-dollar hit.”

Rochelle said, “Why don't you ask Eric what he wants to do?”

Messinger's tone was condescending. “Because he's too young to make a decision about his own custody. Jesus Christ, Rochelle. I don't believe some of the shit you come up with. That's just the kind of attitude makes you a terrible parent, you know that? If he stayed with you, you'd turn him into some kind of little fruit. Now let's cut the horseshit and make a little trade here. Just send Eric over and we'll see what we can do.”

Dietz looked at Rochelle. “Do what he says.”

She said nothing. She stared at Messinger and then her
gaze shifted over to me. “I don't believe you. You'll kill her anyway.”

“No, I won't,” he said, as if falsely accused. “That's why I brought her out here, to trade. I'd never welsh on a deal where my kid is concerned. Are you nuts?”

Dietz said to her, “You'll have another chance to get Eric back. I promise. We'll help you. Just do this for now.”

Even at that distance, I could see her face crumple. She gave Eric a little push. “Go on . . .” She was starting to cry, hands shoved down in her coat pockets.

Eric hesitated, looking from her face to his father's.

“It's all right, angel,” she said. He began to walk toward us rapidly, head down, his face hidden.

Messinger's grip on me tightened and I could smell the tawny sweat of sex oozing out of his pores. Time seemed to slow as the kid crossed the pavement. All I could hear was the sound of the wind chuffing across the runway.

Eric reached us. I'd never really seen him up close. His face was like a valentine, all pink cheeks, blue eyes, long lashes. So vulnerable. His ears stuck out slightly and his neck seemed too thin. “Don't hurt her, Daddy.”

“I wouldn't do that,” Messinger said. “The car's parked on the far side of the hangar. You can wait for me over there. Here's the keys.”

“Mark?” Rochelle's voice sounded faint against the distant droning of an incoming plane. Tears were streaming down her face. “Can I kiss him good-bye?”

I heard him mutter, “Christ.” He raised his voice. “Come ahead then, but make it quick.” To Eric, he said,
“You wait here for your mommy and then you go get in the car like I said. You eat any supper?”

“We stopped at McDonald's and had a Big Mac.”

“I don't believe it. You remember what I told you about junk food?”

Eric nodded, his eyes filling with tears. It was hard to know which parent he was supposed to listen to. In the meantime, Rochelle was walking toward us along a straight line, setting her high heels down one in front of the other as if in modeling school. Over her shoulder, Dietz's gaze locked down on mine. I thought he smiled his encouragement. I didn't want to see Dietz die, didn't think I could bear it, didn't want to live myself if it came down to that.

I looked at Rochelle. She'd stopped a few feet away. Eric walked over and buried his face against her. She leaned forward and laid her cheek against the top of his head. She was weeping openly. “I love you,” she whispered. “You be a good boy, okay?”

He nodded mutely and then pulled away, hurrying toward the Rolls without a backward look. His father called after him.

“Hey, Eric? There's some tapes in the glove compartment. Play anything you like.”

Rochelle stared at Mark. She pulled the derringer out of her pocket, aimed it straight at his head and pulled the trigger. The blast was remarkably loud for a weapon so petite. I heard his scream. He dropped the .45 and clutched his right eye with both hands, toppling sideways onto the pavement where he lay writhing in pain. Rochelle, with an
efficiency she must have learned from him, stepped in close, and fired again. “You son of a bitch. You never honored a deal in your fuckin' life.”

Messinger lay still.

Dietz began to cross the tarmac, moving toward me. I went out to meet him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the cops finally tore up the area around Bronfen's potting shed, four bodies came to light. The one buried in the footing was tagged as a former resident of the board-and-care, whose pension checks Bronfen had been cashing for a good five months. The pathologists are still working to identify the remaining dead, but one is most assuredly Bronfen's wife, Sheila. Irene is doing better now that she knows the truth. She's found a good therapist who's helping her sort it all out. It may take her years yet, but at least she's on the right path.

A third (and final) hired assassin was apprehended in Carson City shortly after Messinger was killed. Yesterday, I spoke to Lee Galishoff, who told me Tyrone Patty died of a knife wound, the result of a dispute with an inmate half his size.

As for Dietz, he was with me until August 29 when the job he was hoping for materialized. He's in Germany now,
filming mock infiltrations of military bases. He swears he's coming back. I'd like to believe him, but I'm not sure I dare. In the meantime, I have work of my own to do and a life that feels richer for his having been a part of it.

Respectfully submitted,

Kinsey Millhone