Thursday's Child

This one is for my daughter.

Thursday's child has far to go …

—Traditional

Don't look back.

Something might be gaining on you.

—Leroy (Satchel) Paige

1

1

The whole damned city was in a bad mood.

“If you ask me,” a shrill female voice on the radio was saying, “I think what they ought to do is take all them rapers out and cut their things right off. Use a pair of rusty pinking shears to do the job. That'll teach 'em.”

The call-in show's (male) host gave a theatrical groan of excruciating pain, disconnected the woman, made a wisecrack about how long it had been since
that
broad had been close to any man's “thing,” and went to a jingle plugging cat food.

Robert Turchek reached out and switched off the radio impatiently, proving that his mood was no better than anybody else's, at least that of anybody else who was also stuck on the Santa Monica Freeway. It must have been the heat that was making everybody so crazy, he decided, although you would think that by now the residents of southern California should have grown used to the damned inversions that moved in to trap a load of hot, dirty air right over the area. And then just sat there. For days. But apparently they weren't used to it, because everybody and his neighbor was on a real bitch.

Robert realized that he personally was being made even more irritable by the extremely petty nature of the errand he was on. It wasn't any kind of a big deal at all that had him trapped here on this multi-lane parking lot; this was just one of those shitwork tasks that helped to pay the rent. No challenge involved.

It
was
true, of course, that a couple of his business associates were Fortune 500 types, but the guy he was on his way to see this particular afternoon definitely didn't fall into that category. Instead of Beverly Hills, Robert was on his way to East Los Angeles. Real exciting, right? If he ever actually did get there, he would be visiting an exceedingly unlucky—and definitely just plain dumb—horseplayer named Ernesto Gallos. It wasn't the fact that Ernie couldn't pick a winner at the track if his life depended upon it (which it, in fact, did) that had brought Robert into the picture. He was too important to concern himself with the wins and losses of every two-bit racing fan in the state of California.

No, Ernie's sins went far beyond just being unlucky.

Desperation made a dumb man even dumber and Ernie had tried to pay off his markers by stealing money from his own boss. Unfortunately for this hopeless wetback with an uncanny knack for picking equine losers, that boss was not a man who took kindly to such things. All of which explained why Robert was on the job and why he was stuck in this traffic jam.

Robert finally extricated himself from the horrors of the freeway system and headed for the dismal neighborhood where Ernie lived. At a long red light, he turned the radio on again and punched digital buttons until he found a station that was playing what sounded like Mozart, although he wasn't altogether sure about that. It suited his mood and he jacked the volume way up.

It took him only a few more minutes to reach what was Ernie's most recent address. What a rathole, he thought, parking his pearl-gray Saab directly in front of the run-down residential hotel. Sometimes it made him tired, dealing over and over again with the same kind of people. He honestly tried to help them, going out of his way more times than he could count to make things easier. Even, sometimes, at the risk of irritating those who were paying for his services. But even when he occasionally extended a deadline, it usually didn't do a damned bit of good. A loser was a loser was a goddamned loser.

If Ernie Gallos had the good sense that God gave to a taco, he'd have been back in Mexico by now. But Robert was beyond being surprised by the fact that the jerk was still around. Almost begging for Robert to show up.

Well, now he was here.

This was not a part of town that a smart man would venture into unarmed, even in broad daylight. If the crackheads didn't get you, the street gangs would. Robert checked his shoulder holster automatically, felt the familiar weight of the Magnum he always carried (though he had never actually fired it, except at the range), and was reassured. Then he reached under the seat and took out the cheap gun and homemade silencer stashed there. He put the gun into his jacket pocket.

Damn it, Ernie should have known the way this would go down. Why the hell hadn't he skipped the country? Sure, Robert tried to help the scumbags whenever he could, but if a man allowed himself to turn into some freaking bleeding-heart type, he would end up poor at the very least, and stone dead at the most. Robert had absolutely no intention of letting either one of those things happen to him.

With that thought firmly in mind, he patted the gun in his pocket once more and got out of the car.

He took a moment to lock the door, which didn't mean much these days, of course, not in any neighborhood at all. His only comfort came from the fact that any car thief who was dumb enough to put one little finger on any car
he
was driving would regret it. Sincerely. And the punks seemed to know that somehow. Crooks weren't always as dumb as they seemed to be. Usually, yeah, but not always.

After a quick glance up and down the street—which revealed only a hooker out too early and a couple of hypes for whom it was already much too late—Robert went into the old building.

The janitor who looked after the place was a retired boxer named Sylvester. Too many blows to the head over too many years of an entirely undistinguished fight career meant that Sylvester was several beats off the count most of the time. He paused long enough to peer across the lobby at Robert, his expression one of amiable blankness, then resumed his surprisingly energetic sweeping of the linoleum floor. It seemed like a waste of all that energy, because all he was really doing was pushing the dirt from one spot to another. Sweat had turned his green work shirt black. Somebody probably ought to slow him down before the stupid bastard had a stroke or something. But, after all, it was none of Robert's business, and Sylvester, brain-damaged as he was, still had enough smarts left to realize that whatever Turchek was up to here was none of
his
concern. He just bent over the broom and started whistling tunelessly.

Ernesto's room was on the second floor and, of course, the amenities provided in this building did not include a working elevator. The carpet on the steps was worn thin and stained. This kind of place could really bring a man down, emotionally speaking, if he let it.

Robert was careful not to brush the filthy wall with the sleeve of his new white linen jacket. Belatedly, he realized that it would have been smarter not to wear the jacket on this particular day, but it was too late now. With luck, it wouldn't get messed up during his meeting with Gallos.

The second-floor hallway stank of piss and fast food and several generations of human sweat. Not to mention some other smells that were unrecognizable. Robert tried not to breath too deeply—who the hell knew what you could catch just by sucking up the air in here?

He reached his destination and used his fist to pound on the door of 2D.

“Yeah?” The tentative voice came from the other side of the still-closed door. The caution was no surprise; stupid as Gallos was, he had to know that he was a man about to fall off the edge of the precipice.

“Open up, Ernie,” Robert said, not raising his voice at all. Staying calm was one very good way to scare the losers. Robert knew from experience that psychology played a very big role in his business success. After all, facts were facts. He was only five-feet-eleven and while nobody could call him skinny, he wasn't packing nearly enough weight on his frame to intimidate anybody merely by his presence. Even with a gun. People were always getting fooled by his face. The pale skin, with its almost invisible sprinkling of freckles, and the slightly vague-looking green eyes, all topped by a tangle of nearly red curls, frequently caused people to underestimate him. One former girlfriend always claimed that he looked like an Eagle Scout in search of a Norman Rockwell
Saturday Evening Post
cover.

So it all boiled down to a simple technique. Keep it cool, keep it quiet, and you could scare the shit out of the bastards. Attitude mattered.

There was still nothing but silence from behind the door. It was so quiet that he could almost hear Ernesto's shaky thought process as the little worm tried desperately to come up with some way out of what was going to happen. It was lucky (for him, of course, not for Ernie) that they were on the second floor, or the thieving rat would probably be out a window already.

“Open the goddamned door, Ernie.” Robert, although he was getting hotter and grouchier by the second, still kept his words soft, almost gentle, as if greasy Gallos were some broad he was trying to sweet-talk into bed.

Finally, apparently deciding that taking a header out of a second-story window onto a cement alley couldn't be much better than facing up to whatever Turchek had in mind for him, Ernesto slid the chain off and opened the door slowly. “Hi, there, Mr. Turchek,” he said, flashing a sickly grin. “I didn't know it was you knocking.”

Ernesto was a short, plump man with a lot of nervous energy. It was only too bad that he had never learned to apply all of that energy to anything besides picking lead-footed nags. And stealing from the kind of man you should never, ever steal from.

Robert didn't say anything as he stepped into the room and carefully closed the door. In here, it smelled even worse than it had in the hallway. That probably had something to do with the pile of filthy clothes in the corner and the gray, damp sheets tangled in the middle of the bed. How could anybody live like this?

Despite the fact that Gallos was a slob, Robert looked at him with a certain amount of sadness. This was nothing personal; fact was, he sort of liked the fat little man and would miss seeing him around the track. But some people, it seemed, were just born for trouble. It wasn't fair, perhaps, but that's just how it was. Life didn't come with any guarantees. Except the one that said debts always came due. Sooner or later, they all came due. That was the only sure thing in the whole universe, as far as Robert was concerned.

“I'm surprised to find you still here,” Robert said at last. “I left word all over the fucking town that I was looking for you.”

Ernie licked his lips. “I hadda tip, man, you know? A sure thing, the guy said. And I figured, this paid off, I'd be okay.” Ernie grinned again, although it was a pretty safe bet that he wasn't at all amused. The grin was just a nervous habit; a very unpleasant habit, in Robert's opinion. “See, I win that pot, I can pay Mr. LoBianca back. That's what I figured.”

Robert could only shake his head. “The nag come in like you thought he would?”

“No,” Ernie whispered. His teeth were fuzzy green.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Ernie, it wouldn't make any difference if you'd won the fucking state lottery. See, Mr. LoBianca doesn't care so much about getting the money back. He just doesn't want anybody else getting the idea they could take what belongs to him.”

“I really needed the bread, man. Times is real rough, you know?”

“Well,” Robert said kindly, “at least you don't have to worry about rough times anymore. That's something, isn't it?”

Ernie started to cry even before the handgun was out of Robert's pocket.

Too bad. This kind of thing wasn't fun for anybody. But a man had to learn that if he was going to play the game, he better follow the rules.

2

It was nearly four o'clock that same afternoon when Robert pulled his car into the visitors' parking lot of the Ledgewood Convalescent Home and found an empty niche between a Lincoln and a Porsche. There were no poor visitors here, because there were no poor patients.