Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [109]
“I’m done,” Rev. Jim said, jumping down from one of the window ledges to the front of the door well, blocking the man’s view. “Now for the fun part. Getting paid.”
“Outta my fuckin’ eyes,” the man hissed at Rev. Jim, the gun held against the side of his right leg.
“You ain’t anything special to look at either,” Rev. Jim said with a smile, holding his work pail, half filled with water, in his left hand. “You hand me the thirty bucks for the job and I’ll turn invisible.”
The man looked at Rev. Jim and lifted the gun in his hand to chest level. “Get the fuck outta here,” the man told him. “Now.”
Rev. Jim held the smile on his face. “They’re only windows,” he said, turning his back on the man with the gun, still blocking his view with his body. He then swung the pail high above his shoulder and crashed it down against the side of the man’s head. The man fell backward into the entryway, out cold, his gun falling to the floor. Rev. Jim stepped into the building and quickly dragged the man into the hall, locking the door behind them.
“We’re in,” Rev. Jim said into his mike.
“Who the hell’s we?” Dead-Eye asked.
“Just a friend I bumped into,” Rev. Jim said.
• • •
DEAD-EYE STOOD WITH his back to the flowered paper of the hall wall, his two guns crisscrossed over his chest. He listened as the three men in the room to his right griped about the long hours they were forced to work in return for low pay and small chance for advancement. Dead-Eye took two steps to the side and braced both his feet against the doorway entry, guns now held out at waist level. The men looked up and chose not to move.
“If you’re looking for money, you’re on the wrong floor,” the one with a thick, dark beard and shaved head announced.
“I heard,” Dead-Eye said.
“This is an adoption agency,” said the biggest of the three, a tall, middle-aged man dressed in a long-sleeved olive shirt and tan slacks. “You come here for babies, not for bucks.”
“I came for your guns,” Dead-Eye said, walking into the room. “Pull ’em out slow and slide them on the floor over to me, butt end first.”
“We’ll find you, man,” the last of the three, young, with a bushy mustache and slight lisp, threatened. “We’ll hunt you down and burn you.”
“I lead a really boring life,” Dead-Eye said. “Sounds like you’d bring a little spark to it. Now the guns.”
The men lifted their weapons from their holsters, bent their legs, and slid the guns over. The revolvers scraped against the hardwood floors, coming to rest near Dead-Eye’s boots.
“That’s only three,” Dead-Eye said.
“How many of us do you see?” the one with the beard asked.
“I see pros,” Dead-Eye said. “Guys paid salaries to kill on orders. Those guys carry more than one.”
“Maybe we ain’t as good as you think, spook,” the one with the lisp said. “Maybe we’re just startin’ out. Not as smart as we should be.”
Dead-Eye wasn’t listening.
He was looking at the eyes of the third man, the one in the dark designer suit and black button-down shirt. The eyes that told him everything he needed to know.
There was someone standing behind him, ready to do some damage.
• • •
BOOMER HELD THE baby with both hands and watched him as he cooed and smiled. Mrs. Columbo rummaged through a large fake leather handbag open on her lap, looking for a tissue. With one hand she dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. Her other hand stayed in the purse, holding her .38 caliber.
“I really hate to give up on the little guy,” Boomer said. “It’s tough knowing I’ll never see him again.”
Edward responded in the most professional of tones. “He’ll be living in a good home. That I can assure you.”
Boomer looked down at the baby, then across at Edward. “You’re sure about that, right?”
“Our lists are made up of the best people in need of a baby.” Edward was growing impatient with Boomer’s unending stream of questions. “This child will go to private schools, travel to Europe, and live a life that wouldn’t be open to him living with you and your wife.”
“Listen to the man, honey,” Mrs. Columbo urged