CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO #2
“Hey man, sorry this happened to you.” He squeezed Sully’s limp hand.
“But I gave Artie and Duck a beating right after their guys did this to you. Got ‘em good too—they’re gonna feel it for a long time. Haven’t seen Fitz since, but no one’s heard anything, so I don’t think they got him.
He’s probably laying low after he heard what I did.
” He shook his head. “But Duck hired some guy to kill me. Can you believe that?”
The machine breathing for Sully stopped for a moment, letting out a high-pitched tone. Conor froze. Sully stiffened, and then relaxed as the tone stopped and the machine fell back into rhythm. Conor relaxed. He patted Sully’s hand.
“Hey, don’t do that,” he said. “If you’re gonna die, have some manners and do it after I leave.
” Raking a hand through his hair, he sat back.
He eyed the clock hanging next to a small flatscreen television on the wall.
Visiting time was almost up. He leaned in close to Sully and whispered, “So, listen to this. The guy Duck hired to kill me left a note in my apartment. He said I either fight him to the death, or he’ll kill my friends and family.
” He leaned back and laughed. “Can you believe that? What friends and family? Fitz is hiding. You’re lying here in a coma.
My dad’s a homeless bum. The only person I have is this girl, Julia.
And I gotta tell you, Sully, she’s something.
Came from a bad situation. Her mom overdosed and then she got put in the foster system.
But she moved past all that. And she understands me.
You know what I mean? If anything ever happened to her—”
His grip on Sully’s hand loosened as he remembered the splintered door frame at Julia’s apartment. He set his jaw. The guy who wrote the note—Cracker whatever-his-name-was—he broke her door. Which meant he saw the painting of them sitting together on the beach, holding hands.
“Shit. He knows that Julia and me are together,” he whispered.
Conor stood. He had to find Julia before the guy chasing him did. But how?
His eyes narrowed. His dad. He said he’d talked to Father Sal at Sacred Heart.
Father Sal said Julia left a note, saying she was leaving town.
He stepped next to Sully’s bed and put his hand on Sully’s chest. “I gotta go,” he said.
“You keep fighting. I got faith in you, brother. I’ll check on you again soon.
” He patted Sully’s chest and then walked out.
* * *
Out in the garage, Angel banged away at something.
Conor looked at the clock above Angel’s office door, looked at his dad sitting on the beat-up leather couch, and shook his head.
It wasn’t even five o‘clock, and his dad was drunk. Getting any information out of him about Julia was gonna be a chore. He waited for Angel to finish, hearing an especially loud bang of metal on metal, followed by Angel’s muffled yell of “Gotcha.” He looked at his dad, barely able to stay upright on the couch.
“So, tell me again,” Conor said. “Julia left a letter with Father Sal, right?”
“Yeah. A letter,” said Mickey.
“And she said she was leaving town?” said Conor.
“Yeah.”
“Did she say where?” asked Conor.
Mickey shook his head. He burped and covered his mouth with a dirty hand.
“Did Father Sal say anything about where she was going?”
Mickey shook his head again, then said, “Is there anything to drink? Angel’s contact in Europe is gonna wire us three hundred thousand if we get the paintings. Three hundred, can you believe it?”
Conor watched his dad rise unsteadily to his feet.
He pushed him back down on the couch. “You don’t need another drink,” said Conor.
“Just sit down and sober up.” He walked over to Angel’s desk and poured a cup of coffee from a pot on the desk.
“Drink this,” he said, putting the mug in his father’s hand. The office door opened.
“Lower your voices,” said Angel, closing the door. He pulled a rag from his dirty overalls and wiped his hands, looking at Conor. “I can hear you in the shop.”
Conor thought about telling Angel about the guy that was hired to kill him, then decided against it. Angel was spooked enough knowing Duck was on the warpath. “Sorry,” he said, staring at his dad. “He’s drunk and it’s pissing me off.”
“I am not,” bellowed Mickey.
“Keep your voice down,” said Angel.
“I am not,” whispered Mickey.
Angel looked at Conor and rolled his eyes.
Mickey sipped his coffee. He made a face and then spat coffee on the floor. “That’s terrible,” he said, sticking out his tongue.
“It should be,” said Angel. “It’s from last night.” He picked up the pot of coffee and dumped it in a utility sink. He glanced back at Conor as he rinsed the pot. “Was your girlfriend in her apartment?”
“No,” said Conor. “She wasn’t at work either. But I’ll find her.”
“People go to places they’re familiar with,” said Angel, walking back to his desk with the coffee pot. He put in a filter and started brewing a new pot. “Where’s she from?”
“Massey,” said Conor.
“She got family or friends there?”
Conor shook his head. “An old boyfriend who beat the hell out of her. That’s about it.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” said Angel. “A couple bikers from The Locos owe us for fixing their rides when they cracked up on 311. You remember?”
“Yeah. Ronnie and Pedro,” said Conor. “I was going to call them and see if they could rough up the guy that tried to rape my girl.”
Angel pulled his cell from his pocket. “It’s up to you, but they live in Massey. I’m sure they could find her. You want to talk to Ronnie?”
Conor nodded.
Angel dialed a number, and then handed his cell to Conor. “Here. If she’s in Massey, they’ll find her.”
Conor gave Ronnie the lowdown on his situation.
He described Julia while he watched Angel walk over to his dad, talking to his father in low tones as he took his coffee mug.
Angel washed out the mug, poured in fresh coffee, mixed in a creamer and half a sugar, and then handed the mug back to his father, smiling as his dad took a sip.
Hearing Ronnie say, “If your old lady’s here, I’ll let you know,” Conor mumbled a thanks and hung up the phone.
He stared at Angel, feeling embarrassed.
Angel treated his father better than he did.
“I’m gonna sit out front for a while,” said his father, getting off the couch with Angel’s help. Conor watched his dad sip his coffee and wobble out of the office, closing the door behind him.
“So, ” said Angel. “Everything cool? They gonna find your girl?”
“Yeah,” said Conor.
Angel nodded and walked toward the door. “Good,” he said, grabbing the doorknob. “Let me know how it goes.”
“Wait a second,” Conor said.
Halfway through the door, Angel turned to face Conor. Conor looked at him but couldn’t find the words. Angel lifted an eyebrow. Conor cleared his throat. He looked down and mumbled.
“What?” asked Angel.
Conor raised his head, forcing himself to look at Angel. “Why are you so nice to my dad?”
Angel stared at him for a bit. It felt like judgment to Conor.
Judgment for all the years he steered clear of his father.
For all the times he avoided any contact with him because he was embarrassed to be his son.
It felt like he could shrivel up under Angel’s gaze.
Feeling ashamed of how he treated his father was a new twist in their relationship, and it wasn’t one he felt good about.
“You know, your dad’s a good guy,” said Angel. “He’s just got a disease. Yelling at him doesn’t help.”
Conor felt his face flush. He looked down. “But he’s a drunk. I can’t count on him for nothing.”
Angel walked over and put a hand on Conor’s shoulder. “He wasn’t a drunk until his friend died. He blames himself. And everyone else blames him too. Regret can do bad things to a man.”
“Well, maybe he should blame himself,” said Conor.
“And maybe he shouldn’t,” said Angel. “You don’t know. I don’t know. Nobody knows, cause we weren’t there.” He pointed at Conor. “You need to ease up on him. He’s done a lot for you.”
Conor shrugged. “What, like showing me how to pick a lock?”
“He did more than that,” said Angel.
“He showed me how to peel a safe,” said Conor.
Angel laughed and then said, “You know what? Never mind. Stay away from your dad—he’s trouble.”
“Too late,” said Conor. “The damage is done.”
Angel smirked. He opened the door to leave and stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Listen. I’ll tell your dad he needs to dry up before we pull this job. If he doesn’t, he’s out. You okay with that?”
Conor nodded.
“Good,” said Angel.
Conor listened as Angel went back to work in the garage, the air vibrating with the ring of metal pounding metal. He sat down at Angel’s desk and let the ringing fill him. His body thrummed with the vibration. He turned on the desktop computer, opened the browser and searched ‘Joe Cracker Jones.’
The search brought back over a million results. He pulled his chair closer, clicked the first link and watched a video clip of the man hired to kill him.
An hour passed before Conor logged off. He stared at the blank screen.
Cracker was a wrecking crew. No one in any of the fights made it out of the cage conscious.
And the end was always the same. Cracker bending over, his mouth opened impossibly wide as he stuck out a tongue tattooed with a Confederate flag and screamed into his opponent’s face.
According to comments under the videos, that was what Cracker called his ‘rebel yell.’ The rednecks loved it because it always signaled the bloody end was coming.
Conor mumbled, “I’m in trouble,” and stood.
It was time to stop messing around, steal the paintings, and get out of town.