Shotgun Opera Read online

“What is it? Did you hear anything? Is it—”

  “Go someplace. Get out of town.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “No time to explain,” Vincent said. “Just get the fuck out of town, Andy.”

  “But wait, I—”

  “You got someplace to hide? Far away?” Vincent asked.

  “I was thinking Oklahoma, but I don’t even know—”

  “Go now. Don’t wait.” Vincent hung up.

  Andrew set the phone gently back into the cradle.

  Shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh my God and fucking

  Oklahoma. The middle of nowhere. Who would be able to find him? Uncle Mike was getting a visitor whether he wanted one or not. He couldn’t afford an airline ticket, but he was pretty sure he could swing a seat on a bus. He’d catch Greyhound, ride the big dog all the way to Tulsa, and hide his ass behind a tumbleweed or whatever the hell they had out there.

  He packed his duffel bag one last time. He considered his instruments. The banjo, guitar, mandolin, electronic keyboard. He needed to travel light, but he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving them all.

  Dammit, he knew he was forgetting something— toothbrush, underwear, wallet? No time. Every second counted.

  He snatched up the mandolin and ran out the door.

  * * *

  Vincent Minelli hung up the pay phone in Times Square, scanned the crowd for anyone who looked out of place, saw only tourists, and headed for the subway station. His dad’s pal Big Billy Romano had told him what to do. Leave your apartment. Don’t take anything. Go fast. Get over to the Eighty-seventh Street Social Club. Billy Romano said he’d be safe there surrounded by meaty wiseguys in jogging suits. Don’t call anybody. Don’t tell anybody. Don’t look back.

  But Vincent couldn’t leave his buddies twisting in the wind. He’d tried to call his cousin Anthony ten times, finally risked leaving a message on his machine. It was better than no warning at all. At least Andrew had been home when he’d called.

  So he’d done it. He’d warned his buddies. They were on their own now.

  Vincent hopped on the subway, kept glancing over his shoulder. He felt comforted only a little by the weight of the .38 revolver swinging in his coat pocket.

  5

  Mike Foley returned his nephew’s call, but didn’t get an answer. He waited ten minutes and tried again. Nothing. Mike couldn’t decide if he was worried or relieved.

  He grabbed the knife and the bars of deodorant soap and walked the vine rows, leaving a wake of antibacterial shavings. Mountain Fresh scent. He walked and shaved soap slivers and remembered.

  He’d heard his brother’s young wife had given birth to a son. Was it really twenty years ago? Had it been that long? For the past few years, Mike had been so keenly involved with the daily routine of his exile that he’d forgotten the reason for it. Dan had tried to understand but couldn’t.

  Mike couldn’t find the words to explain himself, but something was definitely wrong. He was too jittery when he and Dan pulled a job. He was slow on the trigger. Tentative.

  Afraid.

  And eventually he would have gotten Dan killed. Maybe in a month or a year, but it would happen. Dan would need Mike to watch his back, and Mike wouldn’t be there. He’d lost it. Mike Foley wasn’t solid on the trigger anymore, and his brother was concerned but also a little angry. It was the end of an era. That was how it had seemed. That once great team, the Foley Boys, had faded into the glorious sunset.

  And so had Mike.

  He headed west, kept going, not really sure what he was looking for but certain what he was running from. He just drove and drove until he was too tired to go anymore, and he pulled into a Holiday Inn and flopped on the bed in the middle of the night, didn’t take off his clothes or shoes, just sank into sleep. But there’d been dreams of blood and screaming and he’d tossed and turned and woken up when the orange sun had stabbed him through the blinds and he rolled out of bed and went to the window and took a good long look at Oklahoma.

  It had taken Mike years and years to push that haunted feeling deep enough into his gut that he almost believed he didn’t feel it anymore. But now, with memory, came the feeling again, that ache in his chest, the knowledge of what kind of man he was, the kind of man to make a horrible mistake and cowardly enough to run from it. To ditch his brother, the man he hadn’t talked to in forty years.

  He finished spreading the soap shavings, then tried to call Andrew again. No answer. How bad could the trouble be for a New York kid to call a long-lost uncle halfway across the country?

  Bad.

  Mike closed the barn doors and hiked back up to the cabin. It was a single-story, five-room log home. Not real logs. Not as if he’d ventured into the forest with an axe and carved a log cabin from the wilderness. He’d purchased a kit off eBay at half price: pressure-treated, log-shaped lumber. Complete with plumbing stuff and everything. He’d put it up in five weeks, but not before blasting a ten-by-ten hole in the rocky ground. He built the cabin over the hole, then fortified the hole with concrete (so the cabin wouldn’t fall in on his head), then used it as a wine cellar. So far the wine cellar’s shelves were relatively barren. A hundred bottles of “Scorpion Hill Special Reserve,” which might or might not turn into vinegar. The cellar was dry and cool and dusty.

  But the house above was warm and inviting. When he’d first bought the property there had been only the barn and a single-wide trailer. When he finally woke up one day and realized he wasn’t going anywhere, he decided to improve his surroundings. So he had a home and a business. He had a reason to live and worked hard every day.

  His nephew’s phone call made him see that it was an illusion. The vineyard, the log home, his Lowe’s charge card. A corny red pickup truck with a Sooners bumper sticker. All an act. The normality show. Like he was some kind of regular old duffer going about his business.

  It was a lie.

  He was a criminal. A thug. A kid killer.

  He sat and stared out the window at the valley unfolding below. He thought about that day in Harlem. He took the memory out and dusted it off. Made himself take a good hard look at it. Thinking about it made a hollow ache in his chest. It hurt still after all these years. Guilt. Shame at the thing he was. At what he’d done.

  The sinking sun splashed the sky orange at the horizon. Mike watched the sky grow dim, then dark, and the phone didn’t ring.

  6

  When the phone rang, Anthony Minelli was banging this Long Island chick up the ass, so he was way too busy to answer. He let the machine get it.

  Anthony gritted his teeth, thrusting hard back and forth, his balls swinging with the same rhythm as her floppy tits. She grunted with each thrust, high-pitched, her eyes crunched shut. Anthony felt his climax build and he banged harder, groaned hoarse and loud when he emptied himself into her. They both fell forward in the tangle of white satin sheets.

  He sat up, pulled out, and slapped her ass. “Nice stuff, Melinda.”

  “Melissa.” She pulled the sheet over herself, closed her eyes, and sank into the pillow. “For Christ’s sake, I told you ten times already.”

  “Whatever.”

  He left her in the bedroom, walked into the kitchen.

  “Bring me a glass of water,” she called after him.

  He ignored her, grabbed a paper towel and wiped his dick, pressed the PLAY MESSAGE button on his machine.

  Vincent’s voice: “Goddammit to hell, where the fuck are you? Okay, look. I gotta go, but listen to me. Somebody whacked DeLuca and Juice Luciano. It’s got something to do with that Arab motherfucker from the container. You got to get low and stay low. This might all be some kind of mistake, but I don’t think so. I got a bad feeling on this one, cousin. I’m going to Billy Romano’s. If you call, they’ll say I’m not there, but I wanted you to know. Later.”

  Anthony wasn’t sure if he’d heard right, so he pressed the PLAY MESSAGE button again. Halfway through, he opened a kitchen draw and pulled out a Colt .45. He checked the magazine. Loaded. He’d never used the thing, but what kind of guy would he b
e if he couldn’t bring the heat when needed.

  DeLuca was a pencil-neck bureaucrat on the take. Somebody would have found a reason to whack him sooner or later anyway, just on general principles. But Juice Luciano was a made man. That meant there was some hard-core shit going down. There would be fallout, and Vincent had sounded sort of nervous in his message. Anthony decided he’d better find out the word on the grapevine.

  “Melinda, you better get dressed,” he shouted. “You hear me? Shit. I mean Melissa. Something came up. I need to get moving.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  Anthony went to the bedroom, stood in the doorway. “Look, I mean it, okay?” He chuckled. “I know I fucked you pretty hard, but no time for a nap. Get up. I’ll get you a cab.”

  She didn’t budge.

  “Dammit.” He went to the bed. She was facedown. He shook her shoulder. Her head flopped loosely. “What the fuck?” He grabbed her, flipped her over.

  “Jesus!”

  The white pillowcase was bright with blood. A long slit in her throat. Her eyes rolled back, mouth frozen in a grimace.

  He turned, realized on some gut level what was happening, and brought the gun up. He glanced toward the closet first, but she came from the bathroom. The surprise that it was a woman flashed through his brain. Willowy, tall, a gleaming automatic in her hand.

  Anthony’s instinct to duck was stronger than his instinct to shoot. He dove behind the bed just as she fired. A silencer on the pistol dulled the report to a breathy pop. The bullet meant for his chest tore through his scrotum, shredding his left testicle as it went through.

  Anthony howled, dropped his gun to grab his remaining gonad. He curled into the fetal position, whimpered. Blood seeped between his fingers. He realized he’d flung the Colt out of reach. With one hand still cupped over his ball sack, he pulled himself along the shag carpeting with the other, hot tears in his eyes. The pain made him nauseous.

  The woman came around the bed, stood over him.

  He shook his head, gulping air, tears trailing down his face and salty on his lips. “No. Wait.”

  She didn’t wait. The bullet punched a bloody hole in his forehead. He jerked a few seconds before going still.

  * * *

  Nikki Enders watched Anthony Minelli’s rapidly cooling body for ten seconds, determined he was plenty dead, but put one more bullet into his brain to be safe. She holstered her pistol and rubbed her sprained wrist. It was still sore, and the pain had sent her first shot astray. Not that she felt any remorse about shooting a guy in the jewels, but she was a professional, and it bugged her when she was off her game. If she’d been up against another professional instead of this dumb wiseguy wannabe, the injury might have made the difference between winning and losing.

  She mentally crossed Anthony Minelli off her death list, then searched the apartment. She discovered that Anthony was a slob, subscribed to Hustler, and didn’t feel the need to clear the shower drain of his thick black hair very often. Not much else of use.

  The last thing Nikki did was push the PLAY MESSAGE button on Anthony Minelli’s answering machine.

  7

  Nikki Enders walked Fifth Avenue like she owned it, casual strollers parting before her determined stride. She wore a severe black pantsuit, white blouse with flared collar. She carried a slick eelskin briefcase. Her hair today: a shoulder-length Betty Boop, midnight-black bangs.

  She looked like a hip young corporate lawyer on her way to crush a delinquent board of directors.

  Nikki turned in to an expensive luggage store, suitcases and trunks and garment bags for the chic traveler on the go. A clerk asked if he could help her.

  “I need to speak to Mr. Stringfellow,” Nikki said.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Stringfellow is quite busy. Perhaps I can help you make a selection.”

  “Tell Mr. Stringfellow I need a sturdy bag for a long and dangerous trip.”

  The clerk raised an eyebrow. “Are you traveling far or wide?”

  “To the four corners of the earth and to the bottom of the deep blue sea.”

  The clerk inclined his head and said he would fetch Mr. Stringfellow.

  A moment later Stringfellow appeared, a gray-haired little man with thick glasses, an expensive blue pin-striped suit, muted red tie with a subtle pattern. He looked at Nikki over the glasses. “Ah. You again. I’d have remembered you even without the passwords.”

  “I should hope so,” Nikki said. “I’ve spent enough of my money here.”

  “We always appreciate a good customer. Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?” He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. “It’s a bit early, but we have a nice sherry.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll probably need your help with a few selections.”

  “Of course. Follow me.”

  Stringfellow led her into the back room, then down a narrow stairway into the basement. He pulled a large wad of keys from his pocket, picked through them a few moments before finding the right one. He unlocked a heavy wooden door and swung it open. A dimly lit hall. At the end, another door, but this time with an electronic keypad. Nikki noticed Stringfellow kept his body between her and the keypad as he entered the code. She heard a lock click, then a whoosh of air and the door slid to the side.

  The large chamber on the other side of the door was brightly lit and operating-room clean. Shelves and cabinets displayed a staggering assortment of small arms, from the smallest pistol to the most daunting assault rifle. Nikki had retrieved a .32 pistol and silencer from a Grand Central Station locker upon returning to New York from Europe. She anticipated needing more.

  “Quite a variety,” she said.

  “Perhaps if you describe your needs,” Stringfellow suggested, “I might be able to narrow it down.”

  “Multiple targets from multiple angles.”

  “Range?”

  “In close,” Nikki said. “Room-to-room stuff.”

  “We can make you a price on a pair of Macs. We have a surplus of tens and elevens.”

  Nikki wrinkled her nose at the thought. “A bit too uh Chuck Norris.”

  Stringfellow smiled slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I think I understand. How about this?” He gestured to what appeared to be an ordinary semiautomatic pistol. “The Glock G18C. Nine-millimeter. Handles light like an ordinary pistol but has full-auto capabilities. I can offer you an extended thirty-round magazine for maximum kill potential.”

  Nikki hefted the machine pistol, felt the weight and balance. “Perfect. I’ll take two, and six of the extended magazines. I’ll need a thousand rounds of nine-millimeter ammunition too.”

  “Certainly. Anything else?”

  “Okay if I browse?”

  “Please do. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  Nikki took thirty minutes to pick out a collapsible sniper rifle nearly identical to the one she’d left in Italy, a .50-caliber Desert Eagle for stopping power, and another 9mm, a Beretta that was smaller and easier to conceal than the Glocks. She considered a gleaming nickel snub-nose .38 simply because she liked the way it looked, but it was such an impractical, inefficient weapon she couldn’t bring herself to buy it.

  At no extra charge, Stringfellow packed her new guns into a set of metal attaché cases with the word Nikon on the sides.

  Nikki opened her briefcase and fetched out three thick bundles of cash and handed them to Stringfellow. They shook on the deal, and Stringfellow assured Nikki her business was welcome at any time.