I stopped counting bullet holes in the sedan when I got to thirty. It didn’t make any difference to my investigation and besides the sticky blood on the seats kept getting on my pants.
I looked across the garage at Sheriff Cooper and Deputy Weidman and asked, “What are you going to do with the reward money, buy more ammunition?â€
The usual collection of tale mongers had their tongues in hyper overdrive when Randall Weeks walked into Sid’s Diner. He weaved his way through the chatter, sitting down in his regular spot, just as Sid’s wife, Ruby, placed a cup of coffee on the counter in front of him.
“What’s got everyone in an uproar today?” asked Randall, shaking a cigarette out of his pack. Flicking his lighter, he watched the flame torch the end, then grinned as he saw Sid clutch his stomach and run to the men’s room.
It is a little before dinnertime when they approach my rented cart, the woman and her baby boy, the woman winding her way through the crowded mall while the baby squirms in her arms. She looks like she needs a place to rest. Her little one throws himself to the side and I see shoes on his feet; clearly he wants to be allowed to walk, but his mother, she will not allow it. Maybe because there are too many shoppers, this evening a week before Christmas.
“Liquidity.â€
The voice came from the darkness near my feet. “What?â€
“That’s your problem, Luke. Liquidity.†I felt Clay shift next to me. “A man sticks a gun in your face and asks for money it’s best to have some to give him.â€
“There’s Hope in one mile,†he said.
“I’m not going to make it.†She leaned over and retched on the carpet. “Sorry about the car.â€
I was driving my taxi down the street, eyes open for a fare, any fare, even short haul, because there was nothing coming over the radio from dispatch. The weather was unseasonably warm for that late in the fall; dry too, so there was no rain or cold wind pushing people into cabs. The moon was bright, there was a gentle breeze, and folks were more inclined to enjoy the evening by taking a leisurely stroll to wherever they were going.
I’m sure you know the feeling…the chill in the neck when you glance over your shoulder and realize you’re being followed. When no matter how many side alleys you turn into and how much you speed up or slow down, the same shady silhouette remains forty feet or so behind.
“I should have done this a long time ago.”
“Yes, you should have.”
Dennis gripped the steering wheel tighter and shot a reproachful look at Angela. She raised her gloved hands blamelessly. “Hey, I agree with you, boss,” she said brightly.
“That’s when I realised that if I didn’t kill her, someone else would. And I couldn’t let that happen.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “You killed her?”
They found Fire Chief Reginald Morrigan dead early one winter morning, drowned in a large bathtub full of bootleg gin inside the town firehouse. For five years he had been using the firehouse in Calerton, New York as a front to make rye, gin and scotch and to sneak good Canadian whiskey and beer into Upstate New York right near the American-Canadian border.
Ed Dugan and the other firemen dragged Morrigan’s alcohol-soaked corpse out of the tub, laid it down on the floor and waited for the local meat wagon to come pick it up. The whole firehouse reeked of booze and it made Ed’s eyes water. Seeing the chief like that also filled him with anger. He had to wait outside the fire hall and light a cigarette, ignoring the cold that bore right down into his blood and bones.
He knew who had done this. It was the Rogan family, Irish mafia that had come up from New York City. Although they hadn’t left any message, Morrigan’s body made the message quite clear. Stay out of bootlegging trade or else you’re next.