Gone, Baby, Gone - Dennis Lehane [150]
“Justice Department.”
“No shit? I figured him for some sort of spook. He was way too fucking calm. Put three shots in Pasquale like it was target practice. Like it was nothing. I saw him sitting at that table, I knew the shit was going to turn bad.”
He coughed again, and I listened. I closed my eyes as he hacked uncontrollably for about twenty seconds, and I was certain by the time he finished that he was left of the opening by about ten yards.
“Remy?”
“Yo.”
“I’m coming up.”
“I’ll put a bullet in your head.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His pistol snapped at the night air, and the bullet hit the steel staircase support clamped to the wall. The metal sparked like someone had struck a kitchen match off it, and I dropped flat against the stairs as the bullet clanged overhead, ricocheted off another piece of metal, and embedded itself with a soft hiss into the wall on my left.
I lay there for a bit, my heart squeezed into my esophagus and not too happy about the relocation, banging against the walls, scrambling to get back out.
“Patrick?”
“Yeah?”
“You hit?”
I pushed off the steps, straightened to my knees. “No.”
“I told you I’d shoot.”
“Thanks for the warning. You’re swell.”
Another round of hacking coughs, then a loud gurgle as he sucked it back into his lungs and spit.
“That didn’t sound real healthy,” I said.
He gave a hoarse laugh. “Didn’t look too healthy, either. Your partner, man, she’s the shooter in the family.”
“She tagged you?”
“Oh, yeah. Quick cure for smoking, what she did.”
I placed my back against the banister, pointed my gun up at the roof, and inched up the staircase.
“Personally,” Broussard said, “I don’t think I could have shot her. You, maybe. But her? I don’t know. Shooting women, you know, it’s just not something you want in your obit. ‘Twice decorated officer of the Boston Police Department, loving husband and father, carried a two-fifty-two bowling average, and could shoot the hell out of women.’ You know? Sounds…bad, really.”
I crouched on the fifth step from the top, kept my head below the opening, took a few breaths.
“I know what you’re thinking: But, Remy, you shot Roberta Trett in the back. True. But Roberta wasn’t no woman. You know? She was…” He sighed and then coughed. “Well, I don’t know what she was. But ‘woman’ seems too limiting a term.”
I raised my body through the opening, gun extended, and stared down the barrel at Broussard.
He wasn’t even looking my way. He sat with his back against an industrial cooling vent, his head tilted back, the downtown skyline spread out before us in a sweep of yellow and blue and white against a cobalt sky.
“Remy.”
He turned his head and stretched his arm out, pointed his Glock at me.
We stood there for quite a while that way, neither of us sure how this was going to go, if one wrong look, one involuntary twitch or tremor of adrenaline and fear would jerk a finger, punch a bullet through a flash of fire at the end of a muzzle. Broussard blinked several times, sucked at the pain, as what looked like the oversized bulb of a bright red rose gradually spread on his shirt, blooming, it seemed, opening its petals with steady, irrevocable grace.
Keeping his gun hand steady and his finger curled around the trigger, he said, “Feel like you’re suddenly in a John Woo movie?”
“I hate John Woo movies.”
“Me, too,” he said. “I thought I was the only one.”
I shook my head slightly. “Warmed-over Peckinpah with none of the emotional subtext.”
“What’re you, a film critic?”
I smiled tightly.
“I like chick movies,” he said.
“What?”
“True.” On the other side of his gun, his eyes rolled. “Sounds goofy, I know. And maybe it’s ’cause I’m a cop, I watch those action movies, I keep saying, ‘Oh, bullshit.’ You know? But, yep, you toss Out of Africa or All About Eve in the VCR? I’m there, man.”
“You’re a ton of surprises, Broussard.”
“That’s me.”
It was tiring to hold a gun extended and pointed all this time. If we were going to shoot, we’d have probably done it by now. Of course, maybe that’s what a lot of guys think just before they get