CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Conor cut the engine. Angel thought going to Julia’s apartment was just plain stupid, but he’d handed over the Camaro’s keys after Conor had agreed to help steal the Grandma Moses paintings, and after Conor had also agreed to Angel’s instructions.
“If someone follows you,” Angel had said, “Do not come back here. If someone catches you, tell them you stole the car from me. Do not—I repeat, do not—involve me in your problems. If you do, I’ll help Duck find you and string you up.
I’m not going down because you have to check in on some girl. Got it?”
Conor had done his best to calm Angel’s fears, thanking him and telling him he’d be right back after checking Julia’s apartment.
It was a lie, but the less Angel knew, the less he’d worry.
Conor scanned the parking lot, looking for any suspicious cars or people.
Everything looked normal for a Monday afternoon.
There were a few cars in the parking lot—probably belonged to stay-at-home moms and retirees—but that was it.
He got out of the Camaro and strolled across the blacktop, making his way toward the dark stairwell that led to Julia’s apartment.
The walk was out in the open, which made him nervous.
He looked up at Julia’s balcony. It was empty.
None of the other balconies had people on them either. Everything looked clear, but—
He jumped as a long-haired, shirtless, teenage boy flew out of the stairwell on a skateboard, wheels clacking over the cracks in the parking lot asphalt. Conor took a moment to gather himself. Stupid kid. He started up the stairs toward Julia’s apartment.
When he got to Julia’s door he froze. He swiveled his head one way and then the other, looking for movement.
There was nothing. The hall was silent and empty.
He looked at Julia’s door again. The frame next to the doorknob was splintered.
Maybe Duck and Artie had figured out they were connected.
Maybe some of their guys were inside right now, working Julia over to get info on where they could find her boyfriend, Conor Monroe.
Conor took a deep breath and slowly exhaled to calm himself. He pushed her door open a crack and listened. Nothing. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him.
There were no signs of life. No bowls or plates in the sink. No magazines or books on the living room coffee table. No shoes on the floor next to the front door. But there was a big painting on an easel in the living room. Conor walked over to it.
He smiled at the memory of the first time he’d seen this painting.
It was when he met Julia. When she thought someone was in her apartment and he walked through it to make sure no one was inside.
This painting, however, was different than the one he saw.
She’d added him to the painting, putting him next to her on the beach, watching the sun rise over the ocean.
Seeing them sitting together, sharing that moment, made something in his chest grow warm.
He traced a finger over Julia’s face, remembering her dark hair.
Her brown eyes. The way her body felt when he held her.
He sighed, scanning the apartment. One thing was certain—she’d moved out. She’d waited for him to pick her up and take her away, and when he didn’t show, she left. Who could blame her?
“Sorry, Julia,” he said, touching the painting once more before walking out.
He closed her door, turned to leave, and then stopped.
He hadn’t planned on checking his apartment.
There was nothing in it he needed, and there was a real danger that someone from Duck’s crew was inside, waiting for him.
He crept over. He touched the splintered door frame.
It looked like the same person who’d broken into Julia’s apartment had broken into his.
That pissed him off. He took a step back from his door, seething at the idea that one of Duck’s guys had busted into Julia’s apartment because of him. He kicked his door open.
The place was ransacked. Every piece of clothing, every dish, and every spoon and utensil had been tossed on the floor.
Conor cursed, looking at the mess. He kicked a pile of books out of the way and walked into the living room toward the balcony.
There was a note taped on his television screen.
He pulled it off and sat on his couch, reading it.
Conor Monroe,
An old fella by the name of Mr. Duck has asked me to kill you.
I’m guessing it has something to do with you giving him a couple black eyes and a fat lip.
He thinks an awful lot of himself, which is good enough reason for him to take a whipping from you, but business is business, and my business is taking you out.
In addition to being honest, you’ll be pleased to know that I’m a man of honor and will provide you with a fair fight.
I will not shoot you, cut you, or try to kill you in any other manner than a hand to hand fight.
If you walk out alive, good for you. If you don’t, I get paid, which is good for me.
Seeing as how we both have skin in the game, we shouldn’t beat around the bush.
In order to speed the process, I’m asking you to visit any local bar at your earliest convenience and tell the bartender you would like them to call me, Joe Cracker Jones.
I will pick you up and take you to a suitable location where we can fight until one of us slips away to our everlasting reward.
I urge you to be clear of mind when I pick you up, as you will need to have all your faculties when you face me.
There is nothing I hate worse than a sloppy fighter, and I will make you pay dearly should you indulge yourself with alcohol or drugs before we are formally introduced.
Of course, I know it’s normal for a man to determine that a fight of this kind is less than ideal.
A man may even believe he can somehow avoid the issue.
I urge you to not travel this path, as I have begun checking around to locate your friends, family, and associates.
I will also be putting your photo into the hands of quite a few people in town.
Mark my words, I will find you. I will also be back in this apartment from time to time, checking to see if you have read this note.
I will know if you have been here, and every minute you are not coming to me is another minute that I will be coming to you.
That will make me unhappy. If you make me find you, people you know and love will be killed.
Don’t make me do that. Be a man, meet me face-to-face, and let’s take care of our business as quickly as possible.
Have a blessed day,
Joe Cracker Jones
Conor read the note twice. He looked around the apartment at the mess, and then looked out the balcony’s sliding glass door into the summer afternoon.
Sunshine. Green grass. Trees rustling in a breeze.
He walked over to the television and taped the note back on the screen but wasn’t sure it was exactly where it had been.
He took it off, tried sticking it in a couple different spots, then crumpled it and threw it on the floor.
When he walked to Angel’s Camaro, he had to fight the urge to run. He got in the car and started it, scanning the parking lot. There was nothing to see but the same few cars baking in the sun. He cranked the air conditioner, feeling off balance.
He’d dealt with bad guys his whole life. This Cracker guy, however, was crazy. A fight to the death? Who did that? And writing a note saying he’d kill people Conor knew unless they fought? The cops could probably put him in jail for writing that.
“But he knows I won’t call the cops,” Conor said, pulling out of the apartment complex. “He knows the cops are the last place I’ll go.”
The smart move would be to head straight back to Angel’s and tell him about this Cracker guy.
The problem was Sully. He hadn’t seen his friend since he was lying unconscious in the back of Fitz’s Bronco.
He had to check on him. If he’d been knocked into a coma, Sully and Fitz wouldn’t leave his side.
Sully deserved the same. It had been two days since they’d broken into the church and gotten ambushed by Duck’s guys.
Two days of hiding without knowing how either of his friends were doing.
There was no telling where Fitz was. He probably ran out of town after dropping Sully at the hospital.
After things settled down Conor would track him down.
But Sully was lying in a hospital bed. He deserved a visit, no matter what the cost. After all, Conor was in the room when it happened.
He’d watched Johnny run over and kick the safe’s door closed on Sully’s head, leaving him lying motionless on the floor.
He’d replayed the scene in his mind a hundred times, wondering if he could’ve stopped Johnny.
There was no way to know for sure, but he was positive of one thing.
He didn’t try. And now, Sully was in a coma.
It took a few extra minutes driving through back alleys to get to the hospital, but he made it there without incident. He kept his head down as he walked to the information desk to ask where he could find Sully. Then he bypassed the elevator, went to the stairwell, and ran up to the third floor.
Visiting hours were over in ten minutes.
He hurried down the hall and stepped into Sully’s room.
There lay Sully, under the covers with his eyes closed and a tube running down his throat, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with a machine that breathed for him.
Conor pulled a chair next to the bed. He grabbed Sully’s hand. Sully didn’t move. Conor patted Sully’s hand.