Souvenir (36 page)

“Yes, and I was pleased. But then this morning I heard about your call to old man Fiorenza. Your offer to eliminate his problem, in exchange for retirement?”

Clay felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Al had an informer. He’d known what was going to happen, and now the tables were turned. He had nothing going for him, no weapon, no noise, no surprise.

“That was to get him off my back, that’s all.”

“Please Mr. Brock,” said Al, waving the revolver back and forth, scolding him for the obvious lie. “So, how were you going to do it? Strangle me? Hit me over the head with a bottle of your cheap liquor?”

Al looked amused, playing with Clay, having some fun with him. Maybe he was curious. Maybe Clay could buy some time, but other than a few more minutes of life, he had no idea what that would get him.

“You know all the angles, you figure it out,” Clay said, folding his arms across his chest.

“Okay,” said Al, moving around the bar, keeping the pistol trained on Clay. “Let’s take a look. Shotgun behind here, maybe? Nope. Handgun in one of these drawers? Nope. Aw, don’t tell me!” Al came up with the old wooden billy club Brick kept on a shelf behind the bar. He slammed it once on the bar, the sound of wood against wood cracking like a tree branch.

“Bust my skull open with this, roll me up in a tarp? Is that what you were going to do? Is it?”

“Nah, you’re too smart for that. I was going to offer you a drink. A Mickey Finn.”

“Now that’s more like it, Mr. Brock. Smart, classy. But not smart enough.”

“You got me there. Listen, when this is all over, ease up on my kid. There’ll be no reason to press charges.”

“Oh, no no no,” said Al, scolding again as he walked back from around the bar. “There’s plenty of reason. Your widow will inherit this place, right? I’m sure she’ll agree to my offer in exchange for letting poor Christopher off the hook.”

Dying was one thing, but dying while this punk planned to go after his family was too much. Clay lunged at him, not caring if he was shot, wanting to get his hands around Al’s throat. Sidestepping, Al slammed the butt of his revolver against Clay’s head. Clay felt a sharp pain, saw an explosion of lights, then nothing.

Clay’s head was pounding when he woke. The back of his head throbbed and it took a second for him to realize the pounding noise was the compressor outside. Lunch break was over. He opened one eye and saw the blurry outline of Al, sitting cross-legged in a chair, lazily holding the revolver on him.

“Finally,” said Al. “I didn’t want to hit you that hard, but you made me.” He cocked an eyebrow apologetically, as if Clay was a naughty boy.

“Why didn’t you finish me off?” Clay said, disgusted with himself and all his plans and schemes. Not only today’s botched attempt, but everything, the numbers, everything that had gone before. How did he end up here, on the floor, about to be killed by this punk?

“Now that’s the difference between a pro and an amateur, Mr. Brock. You planned to do this thing here, on your own turf. Stupid. You had things set up okay, well prepared, but why do it here? Now that you’re awake, we’re going to a nice quiet place, nobody’s turf, and do this right.”

“What if I don’t go easy?”

“Either you go easy, or I don’t on that pretty wife of yours. Not bad for an old broad.”

Clay got to his feet, ready to go after Al again, but by the time he stood up, the barrel of the pistol was pointed at his face. One jackhammer started up outside, then the other. One-fifteen. Time to go. Clay didn’t trust Al to keep his word if he went easy, but he damn sure knew he would if he went hard.

“That’s real smart, Mr. Brock. Now let’s leave nice and easy, out the back. After you.” Al stepped to the side, the mock politeness leaving a smirk on his face.

Clay walked toward the storeroom door, thinking about Jake’s Tavern, all the hours he’d spent here, trying to understand he’d never be coming back. He thought about the automatic, but he wouldn’t have a chance in hell at getting to it. He wondered about the twelve thousand, and if Addy would find it before Mr. Fiorenza did, or Al, for that matter.  
Moving into the storeroom, Clay’s eye darted towards the floorboard where the .45 lay hidden. He saw the floorboard gone, the empty space below. Catching a movement to his right out of the corner of his eye, he came to a stop one step inside the storeroom.

“Wait a second,” he said, raising his arms. “I’ve got Fiorenza’s delivery here, twelve thousand. Maybe we can make a deal.”

“Tell me where it is,” Al snarled, jabbing the revolver in the small of Clay’s back. Clay turned his head to the right, as if to answer Al, and saw the floorboard coming down, the four foot section arcing down over Chris’ head, the hard edge smashing into Al’s wrist, the sound of wood and bone breaking, a yelp from Al and the clatter of the revolver hitting the floor. Clay turned towards Chris and saw he had the .45 out, set on a stool next to him. Spinning on his heel, he grabbed for the gun with his left hand, standing between his son and Al, a flash of Chris’ open-mouthed astonishment frozen in his mind as Al writhed on the floor, holding his broken wrist. He stepped closer, kicked the revolver away from Al, and aimed the .45 at his head. His hand shook, and he forced back the memory of the last time the automatic had been fired.

“Get up,” Clay said.

“He broke my fucking wrist!” Al blubbered, tears welling up in his eyes as he held his limp arm in his left hand.

“Chris, are you all right?” Clay couldn’t turn away, didn’t dare take his eyes off Al.

“Yeah, yeah. Was he going to kill you, Dad, for real?”

“I think so. Chris, listen to me, okay?” Clay held the automatic in both hands, his legs spread apart, putting as much of his body between Chris and Al as he could. He felt Chris’ hand on his shoulder.

“Stay behind me, Chris, and listen, okay?”

“Yeah, Dad.” Clay could feel his son’s breath on his neck, felt his fingers gripping his shoulder. Memories of violence and closeness, carnage, death and friendship flooded through his mind, confusing him. His son had saved his life, rescued him from a certain death, disabling his captor with stealth and cunning. Twenty years ago he’d been with other young men, hardly older, who did the same. But this wasn’t what he wanted for his son. He tried to shake off the images and feelings crowding his mind, to focus on Al as he pushed up to a sitting position, back against the wall, his feet folded beneath him and his arm cradled in his lap.

“You have to go to the library, like I said. Just act like nothing’s happened, don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

“You’re not going to call the cops?” Chris’s voice was shrill, the excitement carrying it high and loud.

“Hang around, kid,” Al said through gritted teeth. “Watch your old man kill a guy. That’s why he wants you out of here. Right, Mr. Brock?”

“Chris, you did great, you saved my neck, but now you have to leave,” Clay said, as firmly as he could manage. “Don’t listen to him.”

“Yeah, Chris, don’t listen to me,” said Al, sneering at Clay. “Listen to your dad here. Ask him why he’s going to kill me, then listen real close.”

“Dad, I think we need to call the cops!”

“Yeah, let’s get the cops over here. Maybe they could have a look around, see what they find,” said Al. “Chris, be a good kid, pick up the phone. I got nothing to hide.”

Chris walked from in back of his father, backing up a step as he did so. “Dad?” The question was almost drowned out by the sound of jackhammers, but Clay looked over at his son. How could he ever explain? How could he let Chris see him as a murderer? It would make him his own father, a shameful thing, another generation to be feared. No. He lowered the automatic.

“Call the police, Chris.”

“Not so fast,” said Al, standing up suddenly, his right arm limp at his side. In his left hand, drawn from a holster around his ankle, was a small .25 automatic. Clay could see the pearl handle between Al’s gloved fingers, the shiny nickel plating, and the barrel three feet from Chris’ heart. Clay raised the .45, but half-heartedly.

“Put it down or I drill the kid. You decide.”

“You pull the trigger and you’re a dead man,” Clay said, his gun halfway up to Al’s chest.

“Leaving you alone to cry over your son’s corpse. Like I said, Mr. Brock, you decide.” Al smiled, as if he were offering Clay a choice of drinks. Scotch or beer? You decide. Clay looked into his eyes, and saw nothing. Dark pupils floating on milk white. No depth, no emotion, everything on the surface. He knew what he was seeing, but at the same time knew there was no way his son could recognize such evil. If he did what he ought to do, Chris would know, and evil would carry the face of his father.

“If I give you the money, will you leave us alone?”

“If you put that cannon down, and give me the money, I’ll walk out of here with you two still breathing,” said Al. Clay set the automatic down on the stool, reluctant to release his grip. He didn’t believe Al’s promise, but he believed his threats.

“Let Chris go, then I’ll tell you where the cash is,” said Clay.

“No,” said Al.

“Pick up the gun, Dad.”

“Shut up, kid!”

“He’s not going to let us go,” said Chris, edging closer to the door.

“Don’t shoot, I’ll get the money,” yelled Clay, “it’s right over here.” Clay moved to the shelves, pointing to the top shelf, trying to draw Al’s interest and aim away from Chris.

“You, kid, away from the door,” Al screamed, moving sideways to block Chris from the door, swiveling his automatic between them. He glanced around the room, looking for his revolver. It was on the other side of Clay’s desk, too far for him to reach.

“Move over there with your old man,” Al yelled, his face contorted in pain and rage, waving the automatic back and forth as he ordered Chris back.

“Okay, okay,” Chris said, his hands up in surrender, edging by stacked boxes of cigarettes.

“Brock, move that stool closer to me, now!” Al pointed his gun at Clay and then at the .45. He wanted the more powerful gun, wanted it out of Clay’s reach. Clay looked into the empty eyes and saw them calculating, coming to a conclusion, then turning his left hand towards Chris, about to subtract one from the equation.

As Al’s gun arm began to move, Chris dropped his raised hands and grasped a box of cigarettes, heaving it at Al, hitting him square in the chest.

Pop pop pop.
Al squeezed off three shots as he went down. A bottle on the shelf behind Chris shattered, then
pop pop
as two rounds went at Clay, breaking more bottles behind him, vodka and glass spilling onto the floor.

“Get down, Chris,” Clay yelled as he grabbed the shelf and pulled it down, sending bottles and boxes crashing to the floor. Al scuttled out of the way, diving for a corner in back of Clay’s desk, away from the breaking glass, paint thinner and alcohol, towards the .38.

The falling shelves knocked the stool and sent Clay’s .45 automatic flying. Clay yelled for Chris to stay low and get into the barroom, while grabbing a bottle of gin and flinging it as hard as he could at Al’s head. Al ducked, and the bottle shattered against the wall behind him. He came up with the .38 in his good hand, a triumphant grin on his face.

“First you, then your kid, then I tear his place apart and look for the money. No one’s going to bother me until six o’clock.” Al laughed as Clay reached under a box, trying to get to the .45. From behind him, Chris threw another bottle that smashed on the wall next to Al.

“You little bastard,” he said, and aimed at Chris. With the automatic in his hand, Clay leapt up to push Chris aside. Al fired once. Immediately there was a
whump
as the muzzle blast ignited the flammable vapors all around him. Then the paint thinner and alcohol pooled on the floor went up. Penned in by the desk and the fallen shelves, and with only one good arm, Al tried to brush off the flames licking at his feet and crawling over his sharkskin suit. He began to scream, falling over the shelves, rolling on the floor, picking up broken glass and spilled alcohol that sputtered into dancing snakes of fire, winding around his limbs, licking at his face, embracing him.

Al rose to his knees and lifted a burning arm, the .38 aimed at Chris.

Clay fired, twice to the chest. It was easier than killing the German.

Chris stood open-mouthed, shock and fear draining him white. Clay put his hand on his shoulder, and guided him out of the room as the flames crackled and grew, creeping up the walls, gaining a foothold in the old dry wood, the once familiar smell of burning flesh riding on the smoke and hooking itself, deep, in Clay’s memory.

Chapter Eighteen

2000

Clay and Chris had gotten on the road by noon the day before, after a stop at the Criminal Investigations Bureau on Broad Street. Chris had been ten minutes, then back out into the car with a thick manila envelope. A little work he had to do, he explained. Earlier they had driven down East Main to Noack’s for smoked ham, cheese and rye bread. Clay made sandwiches and brewed coffee for the thermos, never trusting that a doughnut shop or diner would make it strong enough to suit his taste.

Their journey had begun with a drive down Main Street, by the War Memorial, then down the hill past City Hall, the library and the old neighborhood of Jake’s Tavern. At the bottom of the hill the city began to show its age and decline, the street looking like an old man’s grin, grimy gaps showing between decayed structures. The old train station torn down, department stores vanished, movie houses gone, replaced by a new police building and social service offices. Where people used to eat or buy shirts or chat with storekeepers, they now argued with social workers or bailed relatives out of jail. At each block, Clay could recount the disappearance of a favorite stop. A Jewish deli, the bowling alley, the theater where he and Addy used to go to matinees, a favorite luncheonette, the cobbler’s shop. All gone or boarded up, replaced by half-empty parking lots, a dollar store, the employment office. The sadness he always felt on this street had overcome Clay again as he looked at the empty sidewalks. So much richness gone, so much of life chipped away until there was nothing left but dull concrete and signposts pointing to the mall and the highway.