CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Conor Monroe opened his eyes. Couldn’t see a thing. It was dark. And cold. His head ached. He shivered, breathing through chattering teeth. A hand covered his mouth. Someone whispered, “Quiet.”
He recognized the voice. It was his father, Mickey Monroe. His broken, homeless bum of a father. Which begged the question.
Where the hell was he, and what was his dad doing here?
He took stock of his situation. His clothes were wet.
The air smelled of oil and gas. He was lying on a roughed-up leather couch.
His head hurt. None of it made sense. Then muffled voices filtered through the quiet.
A light clicked on outside the room, illuminating a crack under a door.
Conor's eyes adjusted to the feeble light. He scanned his surroundings. He could see a desk. Catalogs filled the shelves above the desk. Mickey stood over him, holding an index finger against his lips. The men’s voices outside the door grew louder.
“I said I’ll let you know if I see him.”
“If you hide him, you’re dead. If you help him, you’re dead. If you—”
“I know, I’m dead. Just get the fuck out—he’s not here. If I see him, you’ll be the first to know.”
Conor sat up. He knew the first voice. Wasn’t sure about the second. The men outside the room walked away, their voices receding. A door banged shut in the recesses of the building. Footsteps approached. The door swung open. A tall figure entered, switching on a light.
Conor shaded his eyes. A man in blue coveralls stared back at him, standing a couple inches over six feet.
Clean shaven with long, straight black hair tied back in a ponytail.
Broad cheekbones. Eyes with a slight Asiatic tilt.
It was Angel. So that explained where he was—the back office of Angel’s garage, where he'd worked off and on as a mechanic for the past few years.
But the big question still hung out there.
Why was he here?
Angel eyed him, then glanced at Mickey. “How’s he doing?”
“Seems okay,” said Mickey, turning toward Conor.
Conor opened his mouth to talk. He belched. Nausea rose up through his gut. He hugged his arms around his chest as his teeth chattered. His dad hung a coat over his shoulders.
“I was in a little camp of mine on the Mohican River, just down from the bridge at Fox Glenn Park,” said his dad. “I went to piss and saw you on the riverbank. Thought you were dead. What happened?”
Conor huddled in his dad’s coat. It was damp and it was rank, which was to be expected, but it was warm.
The sickness in his stomach settled. He hung his head between his legs.
It started to come back to him-. He and Sully and Fitz tried to rob Sacred Heart cathedral.
The bishop had supposedly locked a gold staff, chalice, and other Catholic voodoo worth around four-hundred thousand in the church safe.
It was supposed to be a sure thing. And after he got his cut, Conor and his girlfriend, Julia, were going to leave town and start a new life.
One last big heist—the kind of cliché you read about in a crime novel.
But, just like a crime novel, it all came crashing down.
There was no gold. All he, Fitz, and Sully had found in that church was a fight that put Sully in the hospital.
Angel pointed at Conor. “Why do Artie and Duck have people looking for you?”
Conor leaned back, closing his eyes. Artie and Duck.
That sparked his memory. Artie and Duck were the old guys that occupied a front table at The Red Fox.
They looked and acted like pensioners who were running out the clock on their last days.
But, if Conor had to guess, they ran everything, and they had the muscle to make sure that anyone who stepped out of line was quickly reminded of who was in charge.
And that was the problem. He, Sully, and Fitz had stepped out of line.
The job of breaking into the cathedral’s safe had been set up by Artie and Duck.
It was supposed to be for one of their crews, not three knockabouts from the neighborhood.
Another bolt of nausea wrenched Conor’s guts. He clapped a hand over his mouth, gagged, and then threw up. Cold water and bile splashed on the floor. He spat, waiting for his stomach to calm.
Angel tapped his shoulder. “Conor. What happened?”
“A lot,” Conor said between shallow breaths.
Mickey smiled. “Did you have something to do with Artie and Duck getting the shit beat out of them last night?”
Conor looked up. An image flashed of him kicking Artie in the face, followed by an image of Duck crawling across a piss-soaked bathroom floor, blood dripping from his nose. Conor wiped his mouth and mumbled, “Maybe.”
Angel stared. “You gotta be kidding me.”
Conor exhaled, shaking his head. “Me, Sully, and Fitz heard about a job that Artie and Duck set up, but it was bullshit. There was nothing in the safe. Then Duck and Artie’s guys showed up.
We had to fight our way out and Sully got hurt.
” A wave of anxiety rolled through Conor as he remembered dumping Sully’s motionless body into the back of Fitz’s Bronco.
“Fitz took Sully to the hospital. I went to the Red Fox to see Artie and Duck. They got what they deserved for what their guys did to Sully.”
Angel shook his head. “So, you tried to steal from Artie and Duck, got caught, Sully got hurt, and you went to the Red Fox to beat them up as payback.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
Conor shrugged. “I know.”
“So, how’d you end up at the river?” said Angel.
Conor took off his dad’s dirty coat. He stood and pulled off his boots and socks as he talked.
“I guess one of Artie and Duck’s guys followed me after I left the Fox.
I was riding over the bridge at Fox Glen Park when he clipped me.
My bike went into a slide and I jumped off.
I don’t remember anything after that.” He grabbed the front of his shirt and twisted it.
Water trickled on the floor. “Guess I ended up in the river.”
Barefoot, he started to strip out of his wet clothes.
Angel glanced at Mickey in disbelief. Mickey shrugged.
Naked, Conor walked by Angel. He grabbed a pair of coveralls off a hook on the back of the office door.
His bare feet slapped the concrete as he walked back to the couch.
He sat, pulled on the coveralls, and said, "That job was supposed to give me enough to leave town with this girl I’ve been hanging with.
I was supposed to pick her up hours ago. "
“She’s going to have to wait a little bit longer,” said Mickey. “You’re in no condition to be doing anything.”
Conor spit on the floor. He stood. “I gotta go. She probably thinks I ditched her.”
Angel stepped over and pushed Conor back down on the couch.
“Duck’s guys are looking for you,” said Angel. “They see you walk out of here, I’m next. You’re staying here.”
“They won’t see me,” said Conor, trying to stand again.
“Not tonight,” said Angel, shoving him.
Conor recognized the look on Angel’s face. There was no way he was leaving without getting into it with Angel. And that wasn’t something to be taken lightly. “How long do I have to stay?” he asked.
Angel stared at Conor. “We’ll talk about it later.
” He switched his gaze to Conor’s dad. “Mickey, take the easy chair. Conor, stay on the couch. I’ll sleep in one of the cars in the garage.
” He pointed at Conor. “You try to sneak out and I will ring your fucking bell, so stay put.” He walked out of the room and came back with an armful of canvas tarps.
He tossed one to Conor and one to his dad.
“Go to sleep. We’ll figure this out tomorrow. ”
Conor watched Angel leave. He waited for his dad to settle into the easy chair and click off the overhead light before he pulled the tarp over himself and turned onto his side.
As soon as things calmed down, he’d explain everything to Julia. He didn’t get the big payday, but they could still leave town. If she let him, he’d make it right.
* * *
Conor stretched. His dad was gone, but a pizza box was on the floor.
He ate the last two cold slices of pepperoni and looked at the clock.
Unbelievable. It was after five. Half the day was gone.
He rubbed an aching lump on the back of his head.
His whole body hurt. He walked out of Angel’s office, feeling bruised all over.
Apparently, spending last night stealing, fighting, and drowning had worn him out.
Angel turned and looked at him from under a car perched on a hydraulic lift.
He dropped a wrench, stepped over to the open garage door, and pulled it down.
“What are you doing?” said Angel. “Somebody could’ve seen you.”
“I’m thirsty,” said Conor.
Angel closed the other bay door. He waved for Conor to follow as he walked into the customer waiting area. He locked the front door and closed the blinds. “Come here,” he said, stepping behind the front counter.
Conor sat on a stool at the front counter.
Angel filled a paper cup from the water tank behind the counter. A bubble billowed to the top of the tank. He handed Conor the cup.
Conor drank the water in one gulp. He handed the cup back.
Angel filled it again.
“So, I checked things out,” said Angel, handing the water to Conor.
“You beat the hell out of Artie and Duck.” He opened the cash register, pulled money out, and counted it.
“Artie’s in the hospital with head trauma.
Duck is in bad shape too, but he’s walking around.
Word is he’s willing to pay a lot to get his hands on you. ”
Conor finished drinking. He threw his cup in the trash can behind Angel. “You hear if Sully is okay?”
Angel rubber-banded the cash. “No. Your dad left this morning to check on him.”
Conor watched Angel count and band his money for a while before he said, “So, you and my dad are...What are you?”
Angel shut the register with a clang. “We’re friends. Is that a problem?”
“No. It’s just, well...He’s a bum.”
Angel zipped the deposit bag and shoved it under the counter. Rummaging around, he pulled out a bottle of vodka and a couple shot glasses. “He’s a lot more than a bum.”
“Yeah. He’s also a drunk.”
Angel grabbed a deck of cards out from under the counter. “You up for a game of blackjack?” he said. “Loser takes a shot.”
“Sure.”
Angel shuffled the cards. Someone knocked on the front door. Angel put the cards down and shouted, “We’re closed.”
Conor heard his dad say, “It’s me.”
Angel opened the door. Conor’s dad stepped inside and pointed at the bottle of vodka. “Having a party?”
“Blackjack. Loser takes a shot,” said Angel.
“Deal me in.”
Angel eyed him. “Is that a good idea?”
“Don’t start.”
Angel counted three stacks of chips and dealt the cards. Conor won the first hand then went on a losing streak until his chips were gone. He drank a shot, feeling the burn as he took Angel’s place behind the counter to deal.
“By the way,” said Conor, dealing the cards. “Thanks for not turning me over to Artie and Duck’s crew last night.”
“No problem,” said Angel, watching Mickey drain a glass of vodka, smack his lips, and then turn to Angel.
“I checked around,” said Mickey. “Fitz dropped Sully off at the hospital and then disappeared. He never made it back to his trailer last night—I checked. Nobody knows where he is. And I visited Sully at the hospital.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “He’s on a respirator.”
Conor turned his cards. Sixteen was showing. He took a hit. Five. “Twenty-one,” he said, raking in everyone’s chips.
His dad poured another glass of vodka, then glanced at Angel. “Fitz might have done more than disappear. Somebody might have found him. You should let Conor stay until we figure out what’s going on.”
Conor stopped shuffling the cards. “Fitz is fine. He’s probably holed up somewhere.”
Angel played with his stack of chips. He glanced at Conor. “Like where?”
Conor’s chest tightened. The last time he saw him, Fitz was driving Sully to the hospital. After that, no one knew where he went. And according to his dad, he wasn’t in his trailer. So where did he go? He shook his head. “I don’t know. But he can take care of himself.”
“Does he know you put a beating on Artie and Duck?” said Angel.
“No.”
“Then he doesn’t know people are looking for you and probably him. They might already have him.”
The room went quiet.
Conor broke the silence. “But Fitz didn’t do anything to them. I did.”
“You and Fitz and Sully all tried to steal from them last night. The beating you gave Artie and Duck didn’t help, but they have more than enough reason to do very bad things to all of you,” said Angel.
He walked over to the blinds, lifted them enough to peek out and added, “You’re staying here for a couple days. ”
“I’m not your problem,” said Conor. “My bike’s probably in the impound lot. If you get it, I’ll ride out of town tonight.”
Angel poured himself a vodka. “No. You’re chilling out for a few days. Anyone sees you leave from here, I’m fucked. We’re letting this thing with Duck settle.”
“That’ll take longer than a couple days,” said Conor.
“All the more reason to stay,” said Angel, holding out his hand. “Give me your cell. No calls in or out as long as you’re here, not even to that girl you’re leaving town with.”
“What?” said Conor.
“Give it to me,” said Angel.
Conor didn’t move.
“You want me to take it?”
Conor looked at his dad, who shrugged. Cursing under his breath, Conor handed over his cell.
“It’s called, ‘keeping you safe,’” said Angel.
“So, am I going to ever meet this girl, Conor?” said Mickey.
“I don’t know.”
“She pretty?” said Mickey.
“Very,” mumbled Conor, watching Angel pocket his cell phone.
Angel met Conor’s gaze. “You have a problem?” he said.
Conor folded his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes.
“I didn’t think so,” said Angel. “Deal. Let’s play some cards.”