"But we don't, right?" Charlie said with a pleading look.
"You kidding?" Jack said. "You got a look at them. Having them lying around naked will be lots tougher on us than them."
"And after that?" Lyle said.
"We comb through their clothes, their wallets and pocketbooks, the glove compartment, learn everything we can about them, then decide how you guys get even."
Jack noticed their reluctant expressions. Like true scam artists, they didn't like getting physical.
"If it makes you too uncomfortable, I can do it alone. But things'll move much faster if I have some help."
Lyle glanced at Charlie, then sighed. "Lead the way."
10
Twenty minutes later they were back in the kitchen.
Jack dumped the man's wallet, the woman's pocketbook, and the contents of the glove compartment onto the table, then began sorting through them.
Lyle had this dazed expression. He'd looked that way since they found a .32 caliber pistol in the trunk's now-empty spare tire well.
"Those two people," he muttered. "They want me dead."
"What gives you that idea?" Jack said. "Just because they shot at you, tried to burn down your house, and run you down with their car?"
"This isn't funny."
Jack looked up from the car registration and driver licenses he'd collected. He had to lighten this guy up.
"Damn right it's not funny. Especially cutting their clothes off." He cringed at the memory of the woman's pale, squat, flabby body. "I had to keep mentally dressing her."
Finally a smile from Lyle. This was one major stiff.
"Okay," Jack said. "From what I can gather here, we're dealing with a married couple, Carl and Elizabeth Foster."
Lyle pulled a stack of business cards from the purse and shuffled through them. "I'll be damned!"
"Not if I can help it," Charlie said.
If Lyle heard, he didn't acknowledge the remark. "She's Madame Pomerol! I've heard of her. She was on Letterman."
Jack rarely watched talk shows. "She's big time?"
"Pretty much. Upper East Side. I hear she's been hot the past few years. Her name's popped up quite a bit from my sitters—a lot of them used to be Pomerol regulars."
"There you go," Jack said. "You know who, and now you know why."
"They Upper East Side?" Charlie said. "How come they got such a hooptie ride?"
Jack was about to explain that it was a city thing, but Lyle cut him off.
"The bitch!" he muttered, still staring at Madame Pomerol's business card. "She tried to kill me!"
"The husband was driving the car that just missed you, don't forget," Jack told him. "Looks like a joint effort to me."
"Yeah, but I bet she's been running the show."
Charlie said, "Yeah, well, don't really matter who was the shot calla. The right-now real is that our garage is holdin' two butt-naked honkies tied up like calves ready for slaughter. What we gonna do with them?"
"Not sure yet," Jack said. He was winging it here; usually he went into a job with at least half a plan, but events tonight had moved too swiftly. "The more immediate question is, What are we gonna do to them?"
Charlie was watching Jack. "What you mean, 'to'? I know they tried to hurt us—"
"They tried to kill us, Charlie," Lyle said. "Not hurt us, kill us! Don't you forget that!"
"A'ight. So they tried to off us. But that don't give us no right to off them." He was fingering his WWJD button again. "We gotta turn the other cheek and hand them over to the police."
Jack didn't like the way this was going. "Do that and you leave yourself open for charges like assault and battery, kidnapping, unlawful confinement, and who knows what else," he said. "You want that?"
"No way," Charlie said.
"And who said anything about killing them?"
"Well, the way Lyle talkin'—"
Lyle said, "I didn't mean we should kill them, Charlie. For Christ sake, you know me better than that! It's just that I don't know what we've accomplished here besides figuring out who they are. We let them go and they're right back on our asses tomorrow, trying to off us or run us out of town. I don't want to keep looking over my shoulder, man. I want this done with!"
"That's where I come in," Jack said. He felt the adrenaline start to flow, singing along his nerves as the beginnings of a plan took shape. He took one of the Madame Pomerol business cards from Lyle and waved it in the air. "We've got their address. We've got a set of their keys. Let's see if we can rig some surprises for them."
Charlie nodded. "I'm down with that. What you got in mind?"
"Still working on it, but I think I can find a few ways to keep Madame Pomerol too distracted to worry about bothering you. At least in the short run. We can worry about the long run later. But if I'm gonna make a move it's got to be tonight, and that means I'll need some help." He turned to Charlie. "Where's your key cutter?"
Charlie blinked and looked at Lyle. "Key cutter?"
"I know you've got one. Take me to it. We're wasting time."
"Do it," Lyle said.
Charlie shrugged. "Okay. We doin' copies of their crib keys?"
"You got it. And while we're at it, what do you keep in the way of spare parts for your magic tricks?"
Charlie grinned. "Got boxes and boxes."
"Swell. Show me your stock and let's see if you've got anything we can put to use."
Jack didn't know how the night would turn out, but he knew he'd be a lot later getting to Gia's than he'd planned. Had to give her a call soon. But not now. His blood was tingling and he felt more alive than he had in months.
11
Lyle ground his teeth as he wandered into the garage for another check on Madame Pomerol and her husband. Jack and Charlie had raced off to the city almost two hours ago, leaving him in charge of the… what? Prisoners? Hostages? Human garbage?
Whatever they were they were back in their car—the husband on the rear floor, Madame Pomerol on the back seat, both face down. Lyle had taken the tattered remnants of the clothes they'd cut off them earlier and tossed them over their naked bodies. But that hadn't been enough, so he'd found an old blanket to cover them. He didn't want to have to see their puckered, hairy asses every time he checked on them.
His fury frightened him.
Mainly because the windows and doors had started opening themselves again. Taking a shot at him, trying to run him down, he could handle that. Where he came from, you understood that. But sneaking into his house, changing it, wiring it to do strange things…
His house, goddammit! The first home he'd ever truly been able to call his own, and these pathetic lowlifes had invaded it, defiled it, made parts of it theirs instead of his.
It made him crazy, made him look long and hard at the carving knives in the kitchen, made him open their car trunk and stare at the nickel-plated pistol they'd fired at him.
But as much as he could think of murder, he knew he couldn't do it. No killer in his heart.
Yet God, how he'd love to scare the shit out of these two. Grab them by their scrawny necks and drag them through the rooms, holding their own piece to their heads, threatening to start busting caps on them if they didn't tell him what they'd done to his house, then stand over them and make them undo it, jab and poke them with the barrel when they didn't move as fast as he wanted.
But Jack had said the Fosters mustn't know where they were, mustn't connect their abduction to Lyle and Charlie Kenton. Lyle had never been one to take orders blindly, but this Jack guy… Lyle had to make an exception for him. You pay a man that kind of bread, you'd better listen to him. Besides, the man got things done.
The phone rang. Lyle checked the caller ID and picked up when he recognized Charlie's cell number.
"We through, bro," Charlie said. "We done our business and we headin' home."
"What'd you do?"
"Tell you when I get there, but lemme tell you, dawg, it fine! This Jack is righteous! Now, we took c
are of our end, you take care of yours. See ya."
Lyle hung up and took a deep breath. My end… Jack had laid it out before leaving with Charlie. Sounded easy then, but seemed risky now.
He took a deep breath and headed for the garage.
12
Lyle stopped the Fosters' car in the shadow of a construction Dumpster. With all the rebuilding still going on in the financial district, these things were on every other block; this one seemed particularly large and isolated. He killed the lights and checked the street: nothing moving. This part of Manhattan was just about the quietest spot in town on a Saturday night.
He checked his watch. He'd made good time. The BQE had been light so he'd followed it all the way down to the Brooklyn Bridge and across into lower Manhattan. He'd driven like a timid Sunday school teacher, sticking to the speed limit all the way, signaling every lane change, spending as much time looking in his rearview mirror as through the windshield. The last thing he needed was to get stopped for some minor violation and have to explain what was under the blanket in the rear.
Lyle picked up the carving knife from the seat beside him and thumbed the edge. He noticed the blade quivering in the faint light.
I've got the shakes, he thought. He cast an angry glance over his shoulder. They should have the shakes.
But he'd never done anything like this before.
Let's get this over with.
He pulled the blanket off Madame Pomerol's flabby body, turned her over, gripped her under the arms, and started dragging her from the car. She struggled and he could hear whimpers of fear through her gag, her breath whistling in and out her nose. She'd just spent hours stripped naked, bound, gagged, and blindfolded. Both of them had to be terrified beyond anything they ever could have imagined.
Too bad, Lyle thought as he laid her out on the pavement. Just too goddamn bad.
Next he dragged her husband from the car and rolled him over, face down like his wife. As soon as the man's belly flattened out on the asphalt, a puddle began to form around his mid-section.
What's the matter? Lyle wanted to shout. Think you're gonna die? Think what you planned for me is coming down on you?
He lowered the knife toward the woman and cut three quarters of the way through the tape binding her wrists, then did the same with the man. They'd be able to rip the rest of the way through without too much difficulty.
He hopped back into their car and roared away, looking around, looking over his shoulder, wondering if anyone had spotted him. Lyle was beginning to believe they might get away with this.
He drove to Chambers Street and parked by a fire hydrant. He left the windows down, the doors unlocked, and the trunk open; he left their cut-up clothes on the front seat but folded the blanket and took that along. He dropped the keys through a sewer grate on his way to the subway station on the corner. He'd chosen this spot because the W train stopped here. It also stopped in Astoria, six blocks from his house.
While he was waiting for the train, as per Jack's instructions, he found a pay phone and dialed 911. He noticed his fingers trembling as they dropped the coins into the slot.
Damn! He was still juiced.
He told the operator he'd heard something that sounded like gunshots up on Chambers Street… said he thought it had something to do with a yellow Corolla parked by a hydrant.
The first thing the cops would do would be to check the glove compartment where they'd find the car registration. Next they'd check the trunk and find the .32. Jack had said he'd give high odds that the gun was unregistered.
When the Fosters reported the car stolen, they'd have to explain the unregistered pistol found in their trunk, most likely with their prints on it. If it could be linked to a crime, so much the better. If not, Jack said he had further plans for Madame Pomerol.
Lyle was dying to know what he'd cook up next.
13
Jack let himself into Gia's house through the front door. He punched a code twice into the alarm keypad—first to disarm, then to rearm it. He glided upstairs and spoke a soft hello into the dark bedroom. Receiving a muffled mumble in reply, he ducked into the bathroom for a quick shower, then slipped under the covers and snuggled against Gia.
"You awake?" he said, nuzzling her neck.
She was wearing a short T-shirt and panties, and he was in the mood. He was definitely in the mood.
"How was your night?" she muttered through barely mobile lips.
"Great. How was yours?"
"Lonely."
Jack slipped a hand under her shirt and cupped a breast. It fit perfectly in his hand.
"Just hold me, Jack, okay? Just hold me."
"Not in the mood?"
"Sometimes a girl just likes to be held."
Concerned, he released her breast and folded his arms around her. Couldn't remember the last time Gia had referred to herself as a "girl."
"Anything wrong?"
"Just lying here thinking."
"About what?"
"Possibilities."
"Oh? Got to be about a million of them out there for you. All good."
"I wish I were so sure."
"You're worried about something," he said, pulling her closer. "I sensed it this afternoon. What's up?"
"Like I said, just thinking about possibilities… and the big changes they might bring."
"Good changes or bad?"
"Depends on how you look at them."
"You're losing me here."
Gia sighed. "I know. I'm not trying to be mysterious. It's just… sometimes you worry."
"About what?"
She turned and kissed him. "Nothing. Everything."
"If something's bothering you, shouldn't I know?"
"You should. And when there's—when it's something real—you'll be the first to know."
She slid her hand down his abdomen and gripped him.
"What about just being held?" he said, instantly responding.
"Sometimes that's plenty… and other times it's not quite enough."
IN THE IN-BETWEEN
Other less frightening memories have filtered back to the nameless and placeless one… glimpses of tall buildings and sunlit yards, all so tantalizingly familiar, and yet so resolutely out of reach.
But as comforting as these memories are, they do not lessen the ambient rage. What they represent is gone, and the sense of loss intensifies the rage. The only thing that tempers the fury, keeps it from consuming the nameless one in a blinding explosion is confusion… and loneliness… and loss.
If it had eyes, it would cry.
Still unable to fathom its identity and location, it senses a vague purpose behind its awakening. Like the source of the flitting memory fragments, the nature of the purpose remains elusive. Yet it is there, ripening. Soon, nurtured by the rage, it will blossom.
And then someone, something must die…
IN THE WEE HOURS
Lyle awoke to the sound of music… a piano… something classical. The delicate melody sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn't identify it. He'd bought some classical CDs for background music in the waiting room, but he'd picked them at random and never listened to them himself. Never understood why people liked classical; but then, he couldn't understand why people liked to drink Scotch either.
Charlie? Not a chance. Not Charlie's taste at all. And Charlie was in the sack. He'd come back from his night ride with Jack babbling about how bustin' he was, how they'd set it up to give Madame Pomerol a taste of her own medicine, and how he wished he could be there when it went down. But then he'd faded fast and said goodnight.
Lyle threw off the sheet and swung his feet to the floor. He didn't want to know the time. Whatever it was, it was too late. He'd given up on trying to keep the windows closed so he'd turned off the AC and gone to bed with them open. The temperature at the moment wasn't too bad, though.
But what's with the music? The same song over and over.
Had Madame Pomerol and her husband screwed with his
music system as well? After last night he'd hoped he'd heard the last of them.
As Lyle pounded down the stairs toward the waiting room, he noticed something about the music… thin… just a piano. Where were the strings and the rest of the orchestra? And then he realized it wasn't a CD… it was live… someone was playing the piano in the waiting room.
He burst into the room and stopped dead on the threshold. The lights were out. The only illumination came from the faint glow of the street lights through the open front door. A dark figure sat at the piano, tinkling away on the keys.
Lyle's shakes from earlier in the evening returned, now more from dread than adrenaline, as he reached for the light switch. He found it, hesitated then flipped it.
He groaned with relief when he saw Charlie seated on the piano bench, his back to him. Charlie's head was turned, his eyes closed, a small smile playing about his lips as his fingers danced over the keys. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
The look on his face sent a trickle of ice water down Lyle's spine.
"Charlie?" Lyle said, closing the front door and moving closer. "Charlie, what are you doing?"
He opened his eyes; they were glassy. "I'm playing 'Fur Elise.' It's my favorite." Charlie's voice… but not his diction. He looked like he used to get back in his pre-born again days when he was doing a couple of blunts a night.
The cold spine trickle became a torrent. Charlie didn't play piano. And even if he did, he wouldn't be diddling this light-fingered tune with the funny name.
Lyle's tongue felt thick, sticky. "When did you learn to play piano, Charlie?"
"I had my first lesson when I was six."
"No, you didn't." He put his hand on his brother's shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. "You know you didn't. What are you pulling here?"