CHAPTER NINETEEN
Conor watched Angel stretch next to the racks of free weights that filled the far corner of his garage’s basement, but the bulk of the space—about nine hundred square feet—was open wrestling mat.
Angel liked to spar. Well, really, he liked to fight.
Conor knew that. He’d heard the stories about Angel being some kind of special forces bad ass years ago.
But it couldn’t have been that many years ago—Angel could still throw down with the best of them.
No doubt it was because he trained every day.
He lifted, ran, and threw fists and kicks at whoever was dumb enough to spar with him.
Conor wasn’t a fan—too many aches and pains afterward.
But Angel insisted. And Conor knew he couldn’t decline the invitation.
Angel was taking a big risk hiding him here.
If Duck found out, Angel would be fighting for more than staying in shape—he’d be fighting for his life.
Conor sighed. Stripped down to his shorts, he checked himself in the mirrored wall. The fight with Duck’s crew at the church had painted his thighs, arms, and shoulders with bruises. Sparring with Angel would only add to his collection. Time to get this over with.
He tied his hair into a ponytail, put on gloves, and padded over to Angel.
“Ready when you are,” he said.
Angel cracked his neck. “Were you really gonna leave town with a girl?” he asked, rolling his head from side to side.
Conor nodded. “Yeah. We were gonna go up to Maine and hang out. That safe being empty at Sacred Heart kinda killed the plan, though. Can’t live if you don’t have money—know what I mean?”
Angel pulled on padded gloves. “You always have a job here.”
“Part time at eighteen bucks an hour? That’s why I was leaving.”
Angel laughed. “Lots of people would kill to make anything.” He waved Conor toward him. “Enough jawing. Let’s go.”
Conor watched Angel bounce on his feet. Angel threw a lazy left hook. Conor ducked it. Two jabs popped him in the mouth. Bam, bam.
Conor pulled out his mouth guard and wiped his mouth. He looked at a smear of blood. He stuck his mouth guard back in, put his hands up, and then walked toward Angel, bobbing his head.
Angel confused Conor with feints, sneaking a jab in here, an uppercut there.
An occasional kick knifed into Conor’s thigh to keep things interesting.
But it didn’t take long for Conor to catch up to Angel’s timing and land a few counters.
Feeling good, he went on the offensive, backing Angel up with a jab followed by a hard right to Angel’s ribs.
Then Angel got busy. None of his punches were full speed, but he wouldn’t stop.
Left to the face. Right to the body. Right to the chin.
Conor covered up and retreated. Two body shots in Conor’s ribs took his breath away. “Thought we were sparring,” he huffed, grabbing Angel and tying him up.
“I am,” said Angel.
Conor shoved Angel away. He circled him, then lunged, catching Angel with an overhand right to the temple. Angel staggered. His eyes rolled back.
Conor’s left hook whistled toward Angel’s chin, on course to snap his head around and drop him. He pulled it in. No reason to take Angel’s head off. The man was out on his feet. He dropped his hands and said, “You okay?”
An elbow came from nowhere, smashing Conor’s face.
Conor grabbed his nose and dropped to his knees. It felt like the floor tilted as he tried to stand. Angel grabbed his shoulder and eased him back down.
“Give it a minute,” said Angel.
It took a while for his balance to settle. Conor sat and scooted backward until his back was against the wall. Angel handed him a towel.
Conor looked at the floor between his legs, waiting for his head to settle. He wiped his face. Blood smeared the terry cloth. He pressed the towel to his nose. “What the fuck was that?”
“An elbow,” said Angel.
“I know it was a fucking elbow. Why’d you do that? You saw me drop my hands.”
“A fight doesn’t have rules,” said Angel. “Better you learn that here than when it matters.”
A door squeaked open. The sound of footsteps came down the basement stairs. Conor stood next to Angel, still feeling a little woozy. His dad stepped into view halfway down the stairs.
“What’s up, Mickey?” said Angel.
Mickey nodded at Conor as he descended into the basement. “I checked around about this girl of yours. Looks like she disappeared too, just like Fitz.”
Conor slung the towel over his shoulder. He picked up his jeans from the floor. “How would you know?” he said, slipping into his jeans.
“I know more than you think,” said Mickey. “I know she lived next door to you. I know she worked at Sacred Heart.” He cocked his head. “And I know her name is Julia Terranova.”
“Not bad,” said Conor.
Mickey threw his shoulders back and smoothed his hair, looking smug. “Father Sal told me she moved into town and started working for him a few months back. Said she lived in your apartment complex—and that she left him a note saying she quit her job the other night. Hasn’t shown up for work since.”
Conor looked at Angel. “I should probably check her apartment to make sure she’s not hurt or anything.”
“No,” said Angel. “That’s not happening.”
Conor slipped into his T-shirt. He lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Before the job at Sacred Heart, Julia’s old boyfriend stopped by her place,” said Conor, his gaze flicking over to his father standing at the base of the stairs before settling back on Angel.
“The guy was a real piece of shit. He tried to rape her. I need to check on her.”
Angel moved toward the stairs. “Let’s have some lunch. I don’t think well on an empty stomach.”
* * *
Conor waited in Angel’s office with his dad, sipping a beer while Angel paid the pizza delivery guy. Angel brought in the pizza, paper plates, and some napkins. Conor grabbed a slice and took a seat on the couch next to his dad. Angel sat at his desk and opened a beer.
“I know you want to make sure your girl is okay,” said Angel, taking a bite of pizza. “But going to her apartment isn’t going to help.”
“Why?” said Conor.
“Because if someone sees you, we’re both in trouble. And even if she is there, what are you gonna do? You got no money. That Sacred Heart job was a bust.”
Conor’s dad nodded. “Girls don’t like broke-ass criminals. Take it from someone with experience.”
Conor finished his pizza. He threw his empty beer in a trash can across the room. “This girl’s different,” he said. “Money don’t matter to her.”
“I been around a long time,” said Angel. “Never met a girl like that.”
The time he’d spent with Julia told Conor different. They had fun going out to eat hot dogs. Riding through the countryside on his motorcycle. Simple things. But even those things required a little money, and he had none. He looked at his father, and then at Angel.
“So, what do you suggest?” he said.
Angel tossed another beer to Conor. “If she’s in town, there’s no need to rush over there. She’ll still be there next week. And in the meantime, I might have something that fixes your money problem.” He nodded at Mickey. “It’s something your dad’s been working on.”
Mickey grinned. “It’ll fix all our money problems.”
Conor’s stomach tightened. He’d spent years maintaining an arms-length relationship with his father.
The man had gotten his partner killed (or accidentally killed him—opinions varied), sent Conor’s mom running for greener pastures, and eventually turned into a homeless bum.
Conor’s high school years had been pretty desperate times.
A glass of tap water and a box of macaroni and cheese had been dinner more times than he could remember.
His father tended bar and worked minimum wage labor jobs—when he was lucky enough to get them—and drank himself into a stupor every night.
A white-picket-fence, blue-sky existence it was not.
“If my dad’s involved, I’m out,” said Conor, eyeing Mickey. “Even if it’s a sure thing, he’ll screw it up,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.
Angel lowered his voice. “Your dad carried you here on his back,” he said, sipping his beer. “Without him, Duck’s guys would’ve found you. You’d be dead.”
“So? He’ll still fuck it up ,” said Conor.
The room fell into an uneasy silence. Conor sipped his beer. His dad mumbled, “Can’t fuck it up any worse than your last job.”
Conor turned toward him. “What did you say?”
Mickey cleared his throat, then said, “You heard me.”
Every muscle tightened in Conor. He talked through clenched teeth in a whisper. “Why do you think I even did that job?”
“What?” said Mickey.
“You heard me. Why did I try to rob Sacred Heart?”
Mickey looked at Angel and shrugged, searching for the answer.
Angel took a step toward Conor. “Take it easy, Conor. There’s no need to—”
“Shut up, Angel,” said Conor. He stood from the couch, turned, and pointed at his father. “It was because of you.”
“Huh?” said Mickey.
“You’re the reason I tried to rob Sacred Heart,” said Conor.
“What did I do?” said Mickey.
“You shot your partner in a black out drunk,” said Conor. “You chased mom away. Then you became a homeless drunk. What kind of chance do you think that gives me?”
Mickey bowed his head. “I pay for my mistakes. Every day.’”
“That isn’t enough!” said Conor. “It doesn’t fix anything. It sure doesn’t fix all those years I was wearing clothes from Goodwill. It doesn’t give Fitz his dad back. It doesn’t make it any easier hearing people talk about what a fuck up you are, and how I’m just the same, does it?”
Mickey stared at Conor. He opened his mouth, then shut it. He lowered his gaze to the ground.
“That’s enough, Conor,” said Angel. “Sit down.”
Conor glanced at Angel. He bit his lip. He sat, and then nodded at Angel. “I don’t care what kind of job it is. There’s no fucking way I’m doing it with him. You can’t believe anything he says.”
Angel shook his head. “You don’t have to believe him.” Angel tapped his chest. “Believe me. I checked it out.”
“What is it? Sawing the tops off parking meters?” asked Conor.
“You ever hear of Grandma Moses?” said Angel.
“Grandma who?”
“She was a painter,” said Angel. “Your dad found out about her. She gave two of her paintings to Louis Bromfield, the guy who owned Malabar Farm before it got turned into a state park.”
Conor shrugged. “So?”
“So, those two paintings are worth three hundred grand. And they’re hanging in an old farmhouse,” said Angel.
Conor watched his dad drain his beer, put the bottle down, and mumble, “It’s the easiest money we’ll ever make.”