Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [18]
Dead-Eye had inched his right arm out of his coat pocket and moved it to where his hand could feel the handle of the Hauser. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and was ready.
“These things are so fuckin’ slow,” the Spanish man said, watching the number move from one to two. “Be faster if we walked it.”
“Healthier too,” Dead-Eye said, a smile on his face now.
“What’s the rush?” Magoo said, looking over at the Spanish man and giving him a wink. “We got ourselves all night.”
The elevator eased its way slowly from two to three.
“I can’t stay that long,” Dead-Eye said. “I made some plans.”
“Such as?” Magoo asked, still looking up at the numbers.
Dead-Eye came out with his Hauser, coat slipping off his shoulder, and put one into the back of Magoo’s head. He then aimed up and shot out the forty-watt bulb, plunging the elevator into pitch darkness. Within a fraction of a second, all guns were drawn and fired, sparks setting off steady flashes of light. The noise was deafening, screams and shouts as loud as the steady fusilage.
It lasted less than thirty seconds.
More than sixty rounds were exchanged.
• • •
THE DOOR TO the fourth floor slowly slid open. An old woman pulling a shopping cart stood by the entrance, a look of horror across her face. The light from the hallway entered the elevator with a sudden jolt. Blood dripped down the sides of the walls. Magoo’s body slumped forward and fell onto the hallway floor. Two of the leather coats were piled on top of one another in a corner of the elevator. The other two lay wounded on the ground.
The Spanish man had taken three in the chest, yet stood with his back against the elevator buttons, a sly smile still on his face.
Dead-Eye was against the far wall of the elevator, facing the old woman. He was shot in the leg, chest, and both arms. His empty gun was still in his hand, blood pouring down his fingers. His face was splattered with other men’s blood, thick enough to blur his vision. The pain was so intense, he could barely speak. He knew he couldn’t move.
“My God!” the old woman said, shaking where she stood.
“Maybe you should wait for the next one,” Dead-Eye said to her, trying to manage a smile.
“I’ll call the police,” she said through quivering lips.
“Doctor be better,” Dead-Eye whispered.
Dead-Eye fell to his knees and tossed the empty gun to the side, watching it land in a large circle of thick blood. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, waiting for whatever help would arrive.
Dead-Eye wasn’t in any rush. Not anymore.
It was March 8, 1981.
His last day as a cop.
3
Mrs. Columbo
MARY SILVESTRI STARED at her husband across the kitchen table. He had his head down, forking apart a chicken leg, trying to avoid another night of arguing. Their fourteen-year-old son, Frank, sat between them, immune to his parents’ squabbles.
“Are you going to answer me or not, Joe?” Mary asked with an edge she usually reserved for work.
“Can we give it a rest?” Joe looked up from his plate. “One night. That’s all I ask. One night when we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I need to talk about it,” Mary said, hands resting flat on the pine surface. “And I need to talk about it now.”
“You always need to talk about somethin’ now,” Joe Silvestri said, pushing his chair back and folding his arms across his chest. “You ask your questions and then you want your answers. And you don’t ask them like a wife or a mother. You ask them like a cop. You treat me and Frankie like we’re two suspects. Well, not tonight, Detective. You want any answers outta me, you’re gonna have to arrest me.”
Joe Silvestri walked out of the kitchen, turning his back on his wife and son, and grabbed a jacket from a hook in the mud room. He slammed the door behind him.
Frank looked over at his mother and managed a meager smile, fork poised against the side of his plate.
“It’s like an episode of The Honeymooners in