Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [87]
He was afraid of lying down to sleep. It only brought the visions to life, causing him to wake up bathed in sweat and tears, having ripped and torn at his sheets and skin. So he rarely slept. Rarely rested. Rarely escaped the hell that was his past, present, and future.
Rev. Jim had often thought of suicide, but knew if he was ever really going to go that route, it would have happened after his mother’s death. Rev. Jim was not the kind of man to go out with a note, a bag over his head, and a rope around his neck. He was a fighter and needed to find a better way out.
Boomer’s plan seemed just the route he sought.
He turned from the window, went over to the refrigerator, pulled out a cold can of Budweiser, popped it open, and took two long slurps. He leaned his back against a cold wall and reached for the phone, dialing a familiar number with his free hand. He let it ring eight times before he hung up. His father had always been a sound sleeper; age had only made that sleep deeper.
Rev. Jim finished the beer, tossed the empty into a silver trash can near the window, and reached for the phone again. The voice on the other end responded on the third ring. He heard Boomer grumble a hello and waited. He took a deep breath, eyes searching past the houses across the way, gripping the receiver hard enough to crush it.
“I’m in,” he finally said. Boomer stayed silent on the other end. “Good night.”
Rev. Jim hung up the phone, walked slowly back toward the open window, and waited for the morning sun to arrive and bring with it a small sense of relief.
• • •
THE MULE STEPPED out of the cab and looked up at the four-story Manhattan brownstone, the infant still cradled in her arms. She walked slowly up the front steps as the cab sped off into the New York night. She heard the dead bolt on the front door click open as an icy blast of winter air snapped against the edges of her skirt. A large man in a red silk shirt and black leather pants stood braced next to the door. He nodded a greeting as she went past.
“Which way?” the mule asked, her eyes catching a glimpse of the exposed .44 semiautomatic.
“Take the hall steps,” the man said, locking the door and turning his bulk toward the mule. “The second door on your left.”
“Everybody there?” She moved toward the center hall, her heels clacking on the slick hardwood floor.
“Everybody that needs to be,” the man said, disappearing around a corner, heading into a game room with a full bar and pool table.
The mule took the steps in a rush, gripping the baby with both hands, eager to get on with her task. She turned a sharp corner at the head of the stairwell and nudged open the second door in the hall. She walked in and rested the still baby on a large wood table, next to six hefty stacks of hundred-dollar bills, each wrapped with thin strips of white twine. Four men, sitting in hard-backed chairs spaced throughout the oak-paneled, book-lined room, stood and joined her by the table.
“Any problems?” Paolo, the smallest of the four men, asked.
“The guy next to me smelled,” the mule said. “And the food was horrible. Other than that, no hitches.”
“How much time do you have?” Paolo offered a cigarette from a half-empty pack of Marlboros.
“Flight to Atlanta leaves in two hours,” the mule said, refusing the cigarette. “I make the exchange at the airport and catch a connecting to L.A.”
“Can I have a piece of your frequent flyer miles?” Paolo asked.
“Wish I had some to give,” the mule said. “Each flight’s under a different name.”
“So much for the perks.” Paolo turned from the mule and nodded at the three men huddling around the cash. “Ready the baby and the money,” he said to them in a rougher tone than he took with the mule. “We’ll wait for you downstairs.”
“How long?” one of the three asked, already taking off his jacket and rolling back the sleeves of a black shirt.
“Thirty minutes at the most,” Paolo said, leading the mule by the arm, walking her out of the room and shutting the door softly.
• • •
JOE SILVESTRI THREW one pillow