Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [20]
There were things he’d have to take care of before he could complete his assignment, as he liked to think of it. For one thing, he’d have to get rid of his red hair. People always remembered a redhead. So he’d driven all the way out on Route 413 to an out-of-the-way drugstore to pick up some brown hair coloring. Right now, first thing before he did anything else, he’d color his hair. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and studied the hair on his arms. Should he do them, too? Was it possible to do that and not get the dye all over his skin?
Fuck it. He’d do the hair on his head and that was it. Besides, if anyone saw his arms, they’d be more likely to remember all the freckles than what color the hair was. He’d just have to stick with long sleeves for now and pray that the month of September would be cooler than August.
He slid two six-packs of beer into the empty refrigerator, then added the hoagie he’d picked up at a deli on his way into Carleton that afternoon. A small blue-collar community, Carleton would serve his needs quite nicely. For one thing, it was only nine miles southwest of Broeder. Close enough for him to keep an eye on his quarry, far enough away from his old life in Lyndon that he wasn’t likely to be recognized. The red hair, though, still had to go.
Right at one end of the block he now lived on was a food market, and at the other, a bar that laid claim to the best burgers in town. The bar looked like every neighborhood tavern he’d ever been in, and that was just fine with him. He could blend in there with no trouble at all. He knew the routine. By the end of the week, he’d be a regular.
As for his keep, well, he had enough money in his secret stash to last him for a long, long time, though he didn’t plan on being around Carleton for more than a few weeks. Once his assignment was done, he’d retrieve the rest of his money and head for someplace warm. Arizona, or maybe New Mexico. He’d heard there was a housing boom out there. He could start up a new construction company with the money he’d stolen from the last one and start life all over again. The irony just about killed him.
He debated whether to eat first, then decided against it. He’d take care of the hair first, just like he’d planned, then maybe he’d eat. Pausing to glance out the window at the street below, he noticed several women walking into the bar. It had been a while since he’d had any female companionship. Well, perhaps tonight might be the night.
Whistling again, he tossed the box of hair coloring up and down in his right hand and headed off to the bathroom. Tonight could be the night, indeed.
Less than two hours later, Vince Giordano sauntered into the Dew Drop Inn and slid onto a stool just three down from where a couple of ladies were deep in conversation over their beers.
“And I told him, look, I don’t need this shit. I have too much going for me—”
“Damn right, you do.”
“—to be putting up with this kind of shit. I mean, do I look like I need the hassle?”
“You know you don’t.” The woman shook her head vigorously. “You got it all going on, Dolores. You got a job—shit, you got your own salon. Half of it, anyway. You got a car, you got your own house. . . . You don’t need nobody leeching offa you.”
“That’s what I told him.” Dolores tossed her bleached blond hair over her shoulders and took a long and righteous drag off her cigarette. “So that is that. I have washed my hands of Mr. Doherty. Done.” She slid the palm of one hand over the other to show she was, in fact, done.
“Frankie, give Dolores another beer on me,” her companion called to the bartender.
“You got it, Connie,” Frankie acknowledged as he poured Vince’s beer from