Squall (17 page)

Then Steve’s voice from upstairs again:
”Mommy.”

Mandy said, “May I go to him, please?” and Ronnie said, “Nobody’s going anywhere.” Tom stood and Ronnie swung the gun on him. “Did I say you could move?”

Tom raised his hands and kept going, heading for the desk. Keeping his left hand raised, he used his right to slide open the narrow center drawer and heard Ronnie cock the pistol. He picked up a bright yellow walkie talkie and showed it to her, easing his way back to the bed now, doing his best to show her he was no threat. He said, “My son has the other one upstairs, okay? I don’t want him coming down here.”

Ronnie waved the gun at him. “Get it done.”

Tom turned on the device and spoke softly into its grille: “Hey, bud, can you hear me, over?”

There was a long pause, then Steve’s voice, tinny and alarmed: “Hi, Dad, what was that noise?”

Tom said, “Sorry, pal, that was my fault. I turned the TV on too loud, right in the middle of a gunfight. Did it scare you?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well it’s nothing to worry about, okay? You go on back to sleep now.”

Ronnie said to Tom, “Get it over with,” and glanced at Sanj, motionless and bleeding in his overturned chair.

Steve said, “Can you come upstairs?”

“Not right now,” Tom said. “Soon, though, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.”

Glaring at Ronnie, Tom said, “Goodnight, chum,” and turned off the walkie talkie.

Ronnie said, “Toss it on the floor, evil eyes,” and Tom complied.

With the gun still aimed at Tom, Ronnie returned her attention to Dale, saying, “Where’s the stuff?”

“In the SUV.”

“Why the fuck would you leave it out there? Did you lock the doors at least?”

“I can’t recall.”

“Jesus, Dale, you’re like a lost pup.” She looked over at the Stokes family, huddled together on the sofa bed. “Now please don’t make me ask you again: Who
are
these people and why the fuck are you here?”

“It’s a long story.”

Ronnie said, “All right. Let’s get this over with, then. Go see your friend in Montreal. You can tell me all about it on the road.”

Turning her back on Dale, Ronnie started toward the bed, the gun aimed at Mandy now.

Behind her, Dale got to his feet. “Ronnie, what are you doing?”

Ignoring him, Ronnie said to Mandy, “You got a crib or something to put that in?”

Afraid the woman was actually going to shoot his wife, Tom took the baby from her and tried to shield them both with his body. He said, “Look, Ronnie, you don’t have to do this. Why don’t you just take your stuff and go.”

“Sure,” Ronnie said, still inching toward them. “And maybe you should snap a few Polaroids before we leave, hand ’em out to the cops as souvenirs. Or better yet, why don’t I just jot you a forwarding address?”

“We have nothing to gain by talking to the police,” Tom said, sorry now that he’d taken the baby, thinking that if the crazy bitch got just a few feet closer he could rush her, knock her on her ass even if she put a bullet in him. “I just want you gone. You have my word.”

Ronnie aimed the gun at the baby and said, “Get the kid out of the way.”

* * *

Dale cocked the gun in his hand, aimed it at Ronnie’s back and said, “Put it down, Ronnie.”

Already smirking, Ronnie did a slow pirouette and aimed her gun at him, her manic green gaze ticking to his trembling gun hand before fixing on his eyes.

“Oh, this is rich,” she said. “You’re going to shoot
me
now?”

“If I have to.”

Ronnie shook her head and laughed, and in what Dale realized was a classic feint started lowering her gun...

He thought,
Oh, fuck, here it comes—”
, and closed his eyes.

* * *

On the verge of dropping Dale and saying to fuck with him, Ronnie heard the bitch housewife say, “
Don’t
—try it.”

Keeping the gun trained on Dale, she shifted her gaze to Mandy, who had a snub-nose semi-auto aimed at her now in a very professional, very confident looking grip. Hubby had gotten to his feet and was moving away from the bed with the baby in his arms.

Mandy said, “I’ll be happy to play Wild West with you,
Ronnie
, but before we get to all that, I want you to have a look at those trophies over there.”

Ronnie glanced at what looked like a bunch of shooting trophies shelved in a glass case by the wall—gold and silver figures, all female, rifles and handguns raised and ready—then returned her attention to Mandy, a little more warily now.

“They all have my name on them,” Mandy said. “So before I turn that greasy forehead of yours into a ten-ring, tell me, how would you like to proceed?”

The coke was seething through her now and Ronnie scowled at Dale, wanting so
badly
to destroy him for his betrayal, but totally unsure of little Miss Mandy over there.

“Please, Ronnie,” Dale said, and in spite of herself Ronnie felt a twitch of genuine affection for the guy. “Let’s just take the stuff and go. No one has to get hurt.”

She stared at him a moment longer, thinking that maybe she’d do just that.

Then she swung the gun on Mandy. “Little
bitch
.”

“Ronnie,
no
.”

* * *

Mandy squeezed the trigger and saw a neat round hole appear in Ronnie’s forehead. Either by reflex or intent, Ronnie got a shot off as she fell, the round ripping through the ceiling above her head.

Steve’s room.

Mandy looked at Tom in alarm. Tom handed the baby back to her and left the room running. Still holding his gun, Dale stood staring at Ronnie’s body; the finger he’d slid the engagement diamond onto was fluttering.

His sleep broken at last, the baby started crying and Mandy cooed to him, offering her breast, Sanj’s backup piece still wafting gun smoke on the pillow beside her.

* * *

Tom charged into Steve’s room to find him sitting on the edge of his bed in the light of the bedside lamp, clutching his teddy and staring at the bullet hole in the floor. Surrounding it were the remains of the glass hood from his ceiling light.

Tom sat beside him and hugged him tight.

* * *

Tom returned to the office a few minutes later to find Sanj alive and semi-conscious, Dale applying a pressure dressing to the wound in the man’s chest. The bloody sheet from the baby’s birth had been draped over Ronnie’s body and Dale kept glancing at it, a dazed, quizzical expression on his face.

With a nod at Mandy, Tom moved to assist Dale. The baby was feeding peacefully now, bundled in a blanket in Mandy’s arms. She said, “Steve’s okay?”

“He’s fine,” Tom said, helping Dale snug wide strips of adhesive across the already bloody dressing on Sanj’s chest. “Poor little guy’s so exhausted, he thought he was dreaming. Went straight back to sleep.”

Seeing how distraught Dale was, Tom said, “It’s okay, man, I got this.” Dale stood, nodding gratefully. Tom said, “You better take off before the police get here.”

Dale said, “You mean it?”

Tom smiled. “Just make sure you leave the drugs in the SUV. There’s a pickup truck parked in the laneway outside; I spotted it from Steve’s room. I’m assuming that’s how your girlfriend got here. You should grab the keys and take that.”

“What are you going to tell the cops?”

Standing, Tom said, “I’ll think of something.”

The men shook hands.

Dale found the keys for the pickup in Ronnie’s jacket pocket, then shrugged into his coat. “I’m sorry about all this, Mandy,” he said.

Mandy smiled and said, “What was it your Granny used to say, Tom?”

“It’s the outcome that matters.”

Mandy said, “Exactly.” She paused a moment to glance at her newborn son, then said, “Can I give you some advice, Dale?”

Dale said, “Of course.”

“Find a new line of work.”

Smiling, Dale left through the office door.

––––––––

The pickup truck was a brand new Chevy Silverado, and as Dale belted himself in he couldn’t help wonder what it must have cost the poor son of a bitch who owned it to allow Ronnie into the cab with him. Probably his life.

Dale could smell her perfume in here, a deeply erotic scent tinged with cigarette smoke that never failed to arouse him. Those first few weeks they’d spent together had been the most intimate and exciting of his life, like being invited into the revved up world of some magnificent supermodel, the kind of woman who, before Ronnie came along, would never even have given him the time of day. She was a wild, fearless creature and he knew he would miss her. Well, certain things about her, anyway.

He backed down the hill to the main road and headed east with no particular destination in mind, the seat radiating a comfortable warmth into his tired ass, Trang’s leather briefcase making a nice hand rest on the seat beside him. Leaving behind the heroin—all of it—had been tough, but it was the only thing Tom had asked of him and he owed the man at least that much...and, he realized now, he owed it to himself as well. He’d gone off the stuff cold turkey numerous times before and knew he was in for a couple of wretched days of withdrawal; but he also knew he could handle it.

He decided then that the first north-south route he came to he’d head south, plug along at the speed limit until he got too sick to drive, then hole up in a motel somewhere and sweat the shit out. After that, who knew?

Someplace warm
, he thought, tuning the radio to a classic rock station.
Someplace
hot.

In the oncoming lane two police cars crested a hill and approached him at speed, dome lights twirling. His first instinct was to let up on the accelerator, but he was already doing five klicks under the limit and aborted the urge.

Just hold ’er steady...

The cruisers bore down on him without slowing...and blew past.

Dale breathed.

The tail lights on the trailing car flashed in his rearview for a beat, then went dark. A few seconds later Dale crested the hill. His gaze for the next few minutes kept ticking to the rearview, but there were no cops coming after him. There was no traffic at all.

With a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, Dale turned the radio up and settled in for the long drive ahead, a new artist whose name he didn’t catch rockin’ out a tune called “Lie Machine.” The lyrics made him think of Ronnie.

Saturday, January 18, 8:12 A.M.

ONE YEAR LATER

“Come on, big guy,” Tom said, playing airplane with a teaspoon brimmed with pink goo the baby had no intention of allowing into his mouth. The highchair tray already looked like an autopsy slab. “No birthday goo tonight if you don’t eat your breakfast goo now.”

Lightning quick, the little guy shot out a chubby hand and turned the hovering spoon into a catapult, spattering them both with
Beech Nut
Country Breakfast. A dab of it got into Tom’s mouth and he nearly gagged. “Okay, bud,” he said, “I get it now.” He flashed a pleading look at Mandy, but she only smiled and continued stirring her coffee. Steve liked feeding his baby brother, but he was away on a sleepover.

Playing his trump card, Tom said, “Hon, I gotta get airborne,” and the phone rang. With an evil grin, Mandy got up from the table to answer it.

* * *

Dale’s Deep Dish Pizza didn’t open until ten, but he’d gotten into the habit of coming in early—no big effort since he lived in the apartment upstairs—to make sure whoever had closed up the night before had done a good job...but mostly just to savor the reality of the place: the custom-made triple-D logo in the window, cool even with the neon switched off; the staff aprons neatly lined up on their hangars in the back, the store logo in full color on each breast pocket; the heavy pine tables and chairs, the Plexi-glass table-tops gleaming under the pot lights; the old Wurlitzer jukebox that had been in the place when he bought it last summer, the thing still working like a charm.

He’d thought of calling Tom numerous times before, but wanted it to feel right; and today, on the one year anniversary of their bizarre first meeting, felt right.

It was Mandy who picked up the phone. He’d hoped for Tom, but this would be just as much fun. He strolled into a beam of tropical sunlight by the big front window and said, “Mrs. Stokes?”

Sounding formal, Mandy said, “That’s correct.”

“This is Dale at Dale’s Deep Dish Pizza calling. Was the pie you ordered for pickup or delivery?”

A pause. “I didn’t...”

Grinning, Dale heard the rustle of Mandy covering the mouthpiece, and beyond that, muffled voices. Then Tom was on, saying, “Dale?” and Dale could almost hear the man smiling. He said, “None other,” and joined Tom in a good laugh. “Happy birthday, man. You and the boys.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Tom said. “Little early for pizza, don’t you think?”

“Not for Dale’s Deep Dish it ain’t.”

“You used the name?”

“Indeed I did. Figured it was only fair, since you christened your new son ‘Dale’.”

Tom chuckled. “Try Joseph Michael,” he said. “I thought of it, though, I really did. Almost said it out loud to Mandy once, but decided not to risk a divorce.”

The men laughed again and Tom said, “Where are you, man?”

“Turns out Arubians love deep dish pizza. And they’re not all that big on extradition treaties, so it’s been a perfect fit.”

“Aruba,” Tom said. “You son of a gun, you did it. Good for you, man.” He said, “I was sorry to hear about your brother. Well, not really, but you know what I mean.”

“I do. And thanks. I mean, the prick did try to have me killed. But he was my brother. Moral of the story, when Randall Copeland says twenty-four hours, he
means
twenty-four hours.”

“Well, ol’ Randy’ll be away for at least that many years. Did you follow the trial?”

“Sure did,” Dale said. “Sanj kept his word.”

“Speaking of Sanj, I got a postcard from the man a few months back. Says he started an EMT course in Bangladesh last fall.”

Dale said, “Well, I’ll be god damned...”

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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