12. Cale
12
CALE
M y father owned a Mustang. A vintage model from the early seventies in the color blue.
When I was really small he’d sometimes haul me into his lap and let me ‘steer’ the car into the small detached garage next to our house. Typically my mother would be watching from the kitchen window and then she’d emerge from the side door to scold him with a laugh. He’d pull her into his arms and plant a kiss on her lips.
These memories of my parents manage to be both vivid and fuzzy, like a show I watched a long time ago when I was half asleep.
Over the years I’ve magnified such scenes in my mind a thousand times. I’d never be able to tell you what my parents were wearing or any other words that were spoken on those days but I’m sure of the sound of my mother’s laughter and the sight of her dark hair swinging as my father spun her around. I wish there were more videos of them.
The bright mayhem of Las Vegas was left behind hours ago and now I’m cutting straight through the heart of Arizona. Traffic has been light and the drive is easy with no bridges or toll bottlenecks to deal with. This sleek rental Mustang has nothing in common with my father’s prized vintage car but it feels good on the road and I don’t need more than that for this trip.
While I’m driving I tend to prefer podcasts to music, especially if I’m making an effort to stay awake. The one I’ve been listening to for the last hour is all about preppers. While I’m not a prepper and will never be a prepper, I’ve got to admire the commitment, even if I’m on the opposite end of the scale. I don’t tend to keep more than three edible items in my fridge. The future isn’t a theme I like speculating about.
Flagstaff is dark and sleepy this hour. Many miles of driving still lay ahead. The prepper host is now talking to a guy who dug an underground tunnel that was a quarter of a mile long. It leads from his garage to the nearby woods. He plans to use it to escape from the feds if they come knocking on his door. He also dug a cellar out in those woods, which he keeps stocked with food and provisions.
“I can outlast the bastards,” he says with pride. “Just let ‘em try it.”
I’m not so sure. It probably wouldn’t take anyone with more than a few brain cells very long to locate the tunnel and follow where it leads. Then again, if the man’s tunnel helps him sleep soundly at night then good for him.
“On our next episode,” says the cheerful host, “we’ll be talking about survivor skills in the event of a large scale nuclear attack.”
I’ve had enough apocalypse content for the night. Anyway, it’s just about time to stop for gas and food. I’m considering taking the next exit when my phone lights up. I answer immediately.
“Luca.” My gut tenses as I wait to hear my brother explain why he’s calling in the middle of the night.
“Didn’t wake you, did I?” He yawns, meaning there’s obviously no emergency.
“Nah, I’m on the road.” I check the dashboard clock. “Are you up early or partying late?”
“Neither. I have an exam in three hours. Studied until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, fell asleep at my desk and woke up in a puddle of drool. Figured I might as well call you since you had to cut the call short yesterday.
“Sorry about that.”
“Where were you? Sounded loud.”
“Las Vegas.”
He snorts. “Didn’t go there to acquire another wife, did you?”
“Not exactly. Business trip.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. It’s pretty unrealistic to think that my brother has no idea what I do as Richie’s chosen sidekick. Still, I hold out hope that the worst version doesn’t reach his ears.
“Just a casino grand opening,” I say to fill in the blanks and set his mind at ease. “Uncle Richie’s latest venture.”
“Oh, that’s cool. I talked to him on Wednesday.”
“Did you?” I prefer to think that if Luca’s out of Richie’s sight then he’s also out of Richie’s mind.
“He’s taking Aunt Donna to the Keys for their anniversary next weekend. They’re going to stop in Miami and he wanted to make sure I’d be around for a quick visit.”
This sounds harmless. Maybe it really is. But with Richie, I always have my doubts. If he still has ideas about sweet talking Luca into a life inside the Amato criminal empire then this visit is far more sinister.
Yet I need to choose my words carefully. Luca was only a toddler when we lost our folks. He has almost no memories of them. They’re just nostalgic stories. Photos in a frame. For the most part, he was raised by his Uncle Richie and Aunt Donna. With Luca’s law school days rapidly coming to an end, Richie intends to remind his nephew of those family ties. I hate the idea of Richie being alone with my brother, messing with his head.
“Know what?” I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “Maybe I can clear the schedule for a few days to join you down there.”
“Sure. Will you be bringing Sadie this time?”
I wince over his question. Lying to Richie is one thing. Lying to my only brother always feels like shit.
“We’ll see,” I say. “She has trouble getting away from the ranch.”
Luca’s reply comes slowly. “Right.”
Luca’s no fool. He knows me well enough to suspect something isn’t right. I wish I could tell him the truth. Lies shouldn’t exist between brothers.
Though my eyes see only the road ahead, my mind strays back to the first time I ever saw Luca. After nine years as an only child, I wasn’t too excited about the addition of a screaming baby. That all changed the second I walked into a hospital room where my mother, looking tired but radiant, held a dark-haired little bundle. My brother’s tiny hand waved from the folds of the blanket. When I reached out, he instantly gripped my finger and wouldn’t let go. In that moment I knew I’d do anything to protect him.
“I’m still planning to pay you back for the condo,” Luca says.
That’s funny. It’ll be a snowy day in Miami before I take any money from my kid brother. “Keep the condo. Or sell it and buy something else. We’ll count it as a graduation gift.”
“I’ll be paying you back whether you like it or not. Just might take me a while. Uncle Richie sounded disappointed when I said I was interviewing for local jobs. After all, New York offers would be far more lucrative. And I sure miss Aunt Donna’s Sunday dinners with the family. What do you think?”
What I think is that Richie already has me under his thumb. He doesn’t get to have Luca too.
“You’ve got a good setup in Miami. You’ll have your pick of jobs. And you always brag about how you get to surf in January. Can’t do that in New York.”
“Very true.”
We go back and forth for a few more minutes. Then Luca says he needs to get some more studying done before test time. He was always like that. Driven and focused. A great kid who follows all the rules and never causes trouble. Though we look very much like the brothers we are, that’s where the resemblance ends. Luca will be a decent man. And if he someday learns enough about me to feel ashamed to call himself my brother then so be it.
After saying goodbye to Luca, the silence in the car feels unsettling. I’m starting to regret the decision to drive through the night. On impulse I check to see how far my current location is from Bright Hearts Ranch. Nearly three hundred driving miles. That’s a hell of a detour. I can’t explain my vague sense of disappointment. It’s not as if my so-called wife would be thrilled to see me if I suddenly rolled into her driveway for a surprise visit. I don’t know why it even crossed my mind.
What I really need is a snack and a gallon of coffee to keep me from dozing off. And I still need to buy gas. The tank just ticked lower than the quarter mark. I’m somewhere between Flagstaff and Winslow but a sign shows there’s a rest stop up ahead. Good timing.
The gas station is farther away than it seemed from the freeway. After the exit I cruise along a crunchy parallel road and follow the arrows until I reach rows of gas pumps bathed in sickly yellow lighting. I spend a few seconds getting the lay of the land before stepping out. The other pumps are empty. The only thing special about the adjoining convenience store is that it looks like it’s part of an old movie set. The sign is broken, the lottery posters on the window are yellowed and peeling, and there’s a general vibe of dust and neglect. Only two crappy vehicles – a Chevy sedan that should be in a junk yard and an old orange pickup – are parked at opposite ends of the parking strip in front of the store.
The pump itself flickers a few times before processing my card. I always travel with a stack of prepaid debit cards. They can’t be tracked, at least not easily. And I’m not a fan of using cash. The digital numbers at the pump flicker in and out, rolling by with maddening slowness. There’s no noise, except from the sporadic hiss of cars careening down the unseen highway. I flinch when a shadowy creature that’s either a cat or a very well fed rat darts from one sage bush to another.
Sixty dollars later, I shove the pump handle back into place and twist the gas cap back on. No other cars have come this way and no one has entered or exited the store. I cannot explain the chill tickling base of my spine. I’ve been in legitimately dangerous situations countless times and this isn’t one of them. I haven’t been followed from Vegas. And there’s no way anyone anticipated my stop at a grubby gas station in the middle of nowhere. It’s only out of habit that I check the loaded pistol under my blazer before crossing the ten yards to the store entrance.
A two note bell sounds when I open the glass door. At the moment there’s no clerk minding the register. The door whispers shut at my back while Johnny Cash sings about Folsom Prison Blues.
On the opposite side of the wall, there’s a rather anemic coffee station with barely enough left in the pot to fill a paper cup. After collecting a Red Bull, a Twix bar and a bag of Fritos, I drop everything on the dingy laminate counter.
There’s no self-checkout option and still no sign of any employees. A rusted metal call bell sits on the right and I slap my hand on the button.
The tinny sound is extra loud in the stillness, even with Johnny Cash still crooning away. Maybe the clerk is on the shitter. I’m about to throw a hundred dollar bill on the counter and let whoever finds it figure out how to keep the change.
Then I see the blood.
It’s a lone splattered drop trailing down a glass display containing souvenir keychains. If I’d been less familiar with the sight of blood I could have easily overlooked it. Or just assumed it was paint.
My gun is already in my hand. With the hammer cocked, I take a big step backwards toward the coffee station and glance down the aisle. Nothing to see but shelves of refrigerated beer. I swivel to the left and crane my neck, trying to get a better view of what’s behind the counter.
What is see is two feet inside dusty black sneakers attached to denim-clad legs, one stretched straight and the other bent at the knee. There’s a lot more blood, puddled on the tile floor. I can’t see the top of the body but the size of those sneakers indicates they belong to a man. Or at least they did. Judging by the volume of blood, he’s probably no longer alive.
I hear the shot before I feel it. The upper glass pane on the entrance door shatters and I dive to the floor.
My first thought is that this isn’t a real hit. It would have to be the most incompetent gun for hire in history.
My second thought is that there’s an unpleasant reason for the sudden fiery pain in my right side and I sure do wish I’d stopped in Flagstaff instead. I look down and see my own blood staining my shirt.
Now I’m really pissed.
Seriously, this fucking sucks.
Not that I haven’t been shot before. Years ago, back when I was new to Richie’s crew, a deal went wrong in a New Jersey warehouse. Heated words turned into bullets flying everywhere. One of them ended up lodged in my right forearm. I was proud of that scar, even embellished it with a tattoo designed to look like an open eye.
This, however, feels like an insult. Like getting ambushed on the toilet or something.
Staying in a low crouch, I move down the aisle toward the back of the store. Straight ahead there’s a sign pointing to a restroom on the right, toward an open corridor. There’s just no telling what else is waiting in that direction. Maybe an exit. Maybe not.
The rational side of my brain does some quick calculating. The shot was fired through the main door while I stood at the checkout counter. Whoever pulled the trigger will be expecting me to run this way, to the back of the store.
Backtracking in silent stealth, I’ve reached the edge of the aisle when the sound of creaking hinges comes from the direction of the restrooms. The ensuing footsteps are heavy, more of a shuffle. I have to roll my eyes because whoever this dickhead is, he couldn’t be sloppier.
The shuffling stops and a nasally voice hisses out, “Dean?”
Shuffle. Step.
“Dean, do you see him?”
I guess ‘him’ is me. The guy who just wanted to buy a fucking snack and get back on the road but now has a bullet wound and a bad mood.
Shuffle. Step.
I drop to one knee behind a swiveling rack of sunglasses and keep my gun trained down the aisle. The ominous sticky feeling right under my ribs isn’t improving my temper.
Meanwhile, Dean’s Friend realizes Dean isn’t in the room. “Hey you,” he yells. “Whoever, you are, come out with your hands up right now. This is, uh, this is the police!”
Seriously? This shit is turning into a comedy sketch.
The shaking barrel of a pistol appears before he does. He’s wearing a ski mask and his gut rolls over the top of his filthy jeans. His movements are jerky, either from fright or because he’s jacked up on some cheap street garbage.
No matter. His worries are over. Without missing a beat, I fire a shot between the ski mask eye holes and dedicate the kill to the murdered store clerk. The man emits a strangled gurgle and falls with a thud.
Now if Dean himself were the least bit smart he would have been peeling rubber toward the highway by now. Instead, he barrels through the shattered door with a pistol in each hand like he’s goddamn Billy the Kid while screaming “Fucking motherfucker!”
He’s thinner and moves faster than his dead buddy. Maybe the two of them got a special two for one deal on ski masks but I don’t need to see his face to turn him into mincemeat.
Even though the first shot hits him in the throat he manages to stagger backwards through the broken glass before falling down in the parking lot. He’s making a wheezing noise and claws at his ski mask with one hand while the other keeps wildly firing the only gun he’s still holding. Since I’ve had more than enough of this nonsense, I end the threat for good with one clean shot to the forehead.
After a quick walk around the building, I conclude that there’s no one else here except those two dead assholes and the unfortunate guy behind the counter, who I’ve confirmed is also dead.
Now the sheer crappy luck of it all is really setting in. I’ve just been blindsided at a rural gas station by two of the dumbest robbers ever to hold a gun. Once the New York crew gets wind of the story I’ll never hear the end of it.
I’ll have to worry about that later. Headlights are approaching in the distance. Worse, there’s a faint whine of sirens in the air. The last thing I feel like doing right now is giving my name to a gaggle of small town cops. This will mean a whole lot of questions while I’m stuck here with no good explanation as to why I have a duffel bag full of cash in the truck of my rental car.
A million times I’ve pleaded with Richie to get out of the dark ages when it comes to currency. But he’s stuck in old fashioned movie mode and likes the drama of unveiling a bag of cash like it’s fucking nineteen eighty.
And guess who now gets to deal with the fallout?
The first thing they’ll do is search the car. All it takes is one enterprising reporter to go digging and uncover my connection to New York crime boss Richie Amato.
Nobody needs that noise right now. Not me, not Richie.
Given the decrepit state of the gas station, it’s a reasonable hope that they don’t have a decent surveillance system. That will buy me a little time until I can set the wheels in motion to get this garbage sorted out.
Ten seconds later I’m back behind the wheel and zooming away in the opposite direction. After a few miles of bumpy backroad navigation I find the highway entrance and place a call to Vinny.
“Ran into some trouble,” I say and give him a rundown of the last ten minutes.
“Holy shit,” he says. “How bad are you?”
“It’s nothing.” I feel the area through my shirt with one hand and grit my teeth when my fingers touch the entrance wound. “But this will require some cleanup. More than I can arrange from here.”
“Understood. Want me to call the boss to set things in motion?”
“I’ll do it. Stand by in case you need to drive out here in a hurry.”
“Will do.”
My uncle knows that I don’t interrupt his sleep unless it’s important. Richie Amato’s best quality is that nothing surprises him. He’s also quick to make decisions. He decides to call his Phoenix connections. He’s confident they’ll apply enough pressure to local law enforcement and grease enough palms to make the story disappear. The public will hear that the heroic gas station clerk was mortally wounded but managed to put down his attackers before succumbing to his wounds. The guy will be a hero. Everybody wins. Sort of.
“How bad’s the cut?” Richie asks.
I’ve hardly had a chance to think about it. Now I look down at the ugly blossom of red on my shirt and try to assess the damage.
“Small caliber. Clean entry and exit below the ribs. It doesn’t feel too nice but I’m not coughing up blood and it’s leaking a little less. I’ll just keep driving to Santa Fe and get stitched up there. Baines will cooperate with whatever we tell him.”
“Nah, he’s not the most dependable bastard. Are you all right to stay on the road for a few hundred miles?”
“I can do that.”
“Good. Go to your wife’s place.”
Fuck.
I should have known that would be his next suggestion.
“I’d rather not involve her.”
“ Involve her? She’s your fucking wife. She’s involved. Just get there and I’ll arrange to get you patched up. Got it?”
There’s really no way I can refuse. It’s far too late to turn back and face the music. Anyway, Richie is not asking for my input and I have no plausible explanation as to why I wouldn’t want to go see my wife.
“Okay. I’ll head to Sadie’s ranch. I’m guessing I’ll make it there around daybreak.”
“Drive straight through. Don’t interact with anyone.”
“Got it. Sorry about all the hassle. Can’t believe I walked into this.”
My uncle’s voice softens. “No hassle, Carmine. This is what family is for.”
I want to gag. “Right. I’ll let you know when I get there.”
“Take it easy, kid.”
Richie kills the connection and I recalibrate my destination for Bright Hearts Ranch in Sleepy Rock, Colorado. Then I pull over to the side of the highway to inspect my wound more carefully.
It’s still leaking from both the front and the back but the drip is nothing lethal. Aside from the fact that I could use a hefty dose of painkillers I don’t feel too wrecked. With a few muttered curses, I raid the trunk and grab a couple of rolled up pairs of socks from my bag to apply pressure to the wound. At least the bullet sailed through cleanly. With any luck there’s no permanent damage.
Shaking off a fleeting spell of dizziness, I ease back onto the highway, careful to keep my speed reasonable. Getting pulled over right now wouldn’t be fun.
For a while I switch back to the podcast to keep me company. Then I decide that listening to people fret over the end of the world isn’t exactly the kind of energy I need right now. I switch to a podcast about Artificial Intelligence. That turns out to be terrifying in a different way but I don’t feel like hunting for something new so I leave it on as the dark miles tick by, each one bringing me closer to Sadie.
I’m starting to feel rotten about shocking her without so much as a texted warning. Then again, what could I possibly say?
“Hey babe, it’s me. Your phony husband. I’ve been shot, I’ve killed two guys at an Arizona gas station and I’m heading your way. Awesome, right?”
She’ll flip the fuck out.
I mean, she’ll flip the fuck out anyway when I show up with an unexplained bullet wound. But it’s probably better if she doesn’t have time to carry on first. Talking her out of hysteria will be much easier if we’re face to face.
A twinge of guilt scrambles my brain for a second. Or maybe it’s more like a spasm of pain. With each passing second the fire in my side gets hotter.
No, it really is guilt. At this hour Sadie is sure to be sound asleep in her cozy little animal sanctuary with no clue that her mobster husband is about to shatter her serenity.
I feel bad about that. I’ll even apologize. I’ll be out of her hair as quickly as possible. Just as soon as I get fixed up and satisfy any suspicions Richie might have about this marriage. No big deal. I hope Sadie agrees but I’m not really giving her a choice.
Damn, I wish I had some caffeine. Even some juice wouldn’t hurt. Just something to scrape the fuzziness out of my mind. The adrenaline has now worn off. The road signs offer a choice of gas stations where I could make a quick stop but I’m feeling sort of iffy about gas stations after the last experience. Besides, I’d rather not risk some night clerk getting all hyper at the sight of some blood.
Hours pass. Arizona turns into New Mexico and then into Colorado as the sky begins to lighten. This is a pretty part of the country. I’ve never given any serious thought to leaving New York but I can appreciate why Sadie prefers these clean wide open spaces to eastern metro congestion. There’s a wholesome vibe out here, like you just want to stare at the scenery and fill your lungs.
Maybe I’ll feel like doing that later, after I get some rest, eat a meal and fix the hole in my body. I don’t have to wait much longer. A road sign promises that the town of Sleepy Rock will appear in another thirty miles.
I give my head a shake to stay focused and ignore the fact that I’m feeling weirdly buzzed, like I’ve downed a trio of whiskey shots. Swiping a palm across my forehead, I’m surprised to feel sweat. This whole getting shot thing is the fucking pits. I’d rather have three root canals and a prostate exam.
The town of Sleepy Rock is exactly what I was expecting. Small and quaint. I’d probably appreciate it more if I didn’t need to keep pinching myself to keep from veering off the road. Spots dance in front of my eyes.
Some minutes later, I’m on the final approach to Bright Hearts Ranch. A long single lane driveway leads to a closed wrought iron gate beneath a metal arch displaying the ranch’s name in rustic letters. The orchard of trees on the right are currently bare and beyond them squats a rambling red house that looks like it was assembled with Lincoln Logs. A large barn sits a comfortable distance away from the house beside a corral. There’s also the long building Sadie calls The Doghouse and a few smaller buildings.
I’d be a rotten guest if I ruined Sadie’s gate by crashing through it. Instead I switch the engine off and hop the low white perimeter fence. This turns out to be a bad idea. I leave a large smear of blood behind and now there are more spots dancing across my eyes. The spots become blobs and the blobs start sticking together as the ground kind of tilts in front of me. But even through the spots and the tilting ground, when I look up and squint I can see curly red hair less than fifty yards away.
There she is. My wife.
She’s talking to some kid. He points in my direction. I would wave hello at everyone but I’m distracted by a loud crash.
It’s only when I find myself staring at the sky that I realize the crash was me falling flat on my ass.
Then the sky disappears and everything goes black until the sound of her voice brings me back.