Cold Night

TWENTY-ONE

In the morning he felt whole. He awoke alone, but for the first time in two days he felt like a live man. His ribs ached, but it was a dull, inconsequential hurt he could live with.

He dressed and went out of the bedroom, down the long stairs and out through the front door as Gerald, in his tennis togs, came in.

"Well, well," Gerald said. "Look who's returned from the dead." His voice was mock sweet. He pointed with his racket to the far end of the driveway. "Rebecca had your car brought up here from. . wherever it was."

He turned to go but Paine stopped him.

"Why do you hang around here?" Paine asked him.

"Two reasons," Gerald answered. "Money, and money."

"Cute answer," Paine said. "Does Rebecca know anything about your coke habit? You're pretty stupid to leave the stuff in the bathroom upstairs. I found it next to your cheap aftershave."

Gerald's face clouded. "She doesn't know about it."

Paine nodded. "I didn't think so. I've got a friend in the police department who grew up Irish poor and loves to bust rich jerks like you. Should I give him a call or would you like to get lost?"

He watched Gerald's face as the options dropped away from him.

"I'll leave," he said finally.

"Don't look so sad," Paine said. "There are plenty of other tennis courts in Westchester."

The keys were in the ignition of Paine's car. He pulled out of the driveway, feeling like he'd been away from the world for a year. His ribs were telling him that a year off might not be a bad idea.

He drove down to Croton. The blue Chrysler was gone from the front of Hartman's house. In its place was a white Mercedes. It looked like the car that had followed him to the funeral home.

Paine went to the front door, tried the lock, which was engaged.

He stepped off the stoop and walked to the small bay window fronting the living room. He heard a television set, a baseball announcer laughing, the rise of the crowd noise and the announcer's laughter turning to excitement.

"Holy cow!" the television said. It sounded like a Yankee had hit a home run.

"Holy cow," Paine muttered to himself, shaking his head at the bad luck of the man sitting in Hartman's chair smoking a cigarette and watching the baseball game. It had to be Childs. It would be his bad luck to lose his teeth before Hartman did.

Paine walked calmly back to the front door and kicked it in with the flat of his right foot. The bolt splintered out of the jam and Paine pushed the door the rest of the way open. He walked in. Childs was up, his cigarette still in his hand.

"Shit," he said, dropping the cigarette and running to the back of the house.

Paine went after him. He kicked the television off its stand as he went by. The sound stayed on, increasing in volume. "Holy cow!" the announcer shouted.

Childs turned from the kitchen table, leveling a.44 at Paine as he entered. It was a wide miss. Paine ran at him and drove him into the refrigerator. Childs dropped the gun and tried to drive his fist into the back of Paine's head. He struck at Paine's rib cage. Paine groaned and loosened his grip. Childs scrambled away. Paine straightened to see the back door fly back on its hinges. Childs disappeared into the backyard.

Paine followed. His hurt lope turned into angry pursuit. Childs vanished into the yawning opening of the garage. Paine saw another figure in there, working under the upraised hood of the blue Chrysler.

Paine returned to the kitchen, retrieved Childs's.44 and walked back into the yard, keeping the wide mouth of the garage diagonal to him.

"Let's talk," Paine called into the garage.

"Fuck you," Hartman's voice answered.

The blue Chrysler's rear end butted invitingly out the garage door. Paine took aim at it, putting a slug into the rear panel just above the gas tank.

"Shit," Childs shouted from the far reaches of the garage.

"Here's what's going to happen," Paine said. "I'm going to pump shots into the gas tank until one of them hits it. When that happens, gasoline and metal will blow right through your fucking faces. Got anything to say?"

"Fuck you," Hartman called out.

Paine put another slug into the side of the car, a little lower.

"Maybe the next one," Paine said.

"Jesus," Childs answered, but once again Hartman yelled, "Fuck you!"

Paine aimed another shot at the Chrysler, shattering the back windshield.

There was fast arguing and Paine moved toward the side of the garage as Hartman ran out into the open with a shotgun, pulling off one chamber and shouting. He stopped shouting and found himself out in the open with Paine behind him. Paine took careful aim. "Drop it," he said, but Hartman wheeled with the shotgun, pulling off the other chamber. His shot flew into the air as Paine's hit him just under the chin and he got a surprised look on his face and took a couple of breaths through the hole in his neck and then dropped, gasping on the ground like a banked catfish.

"Enough of this shit," Paine said. He walked to the doorway of the garage and fired two more shots into the tank of the Chrysler.

One of them flared the tank and Childs ran screaming out of the garage as it blew. The back of his shirt caught fire. He ran blindly at Paine, and Paine punched him and threw him onto his back and snuffed the flames from his shirt.

Paine stood and put his foot on Childs's chest.

"Let's talk."

"We should have killed you in that parking lot," Childs whimpered.

"You were supposed to, asshole, weren't you?" Paine moved his foot up to Childs's neck and pressed.

Childs said nothing, so Paine pressed harder. "Weren't you?"

"Yes," Childs gasped.

"Who do you work for? Hartman told me you worked for Paterna but that was bullshit, right?"

Childs said nothing, and Paine increased the pressure on his neck until he began to fight for breath.

"Tell me. That's Paterna's Mercedes out front. Who gave it to you?"

Childs was losing his battle for breath; he nodded abruptly, and when Paine released the pressure on his windpipe he gasped, "Henry Kopiak."

"You work for Kopiak? Paterna did, too?"

Childs nodded listlessly.

From inside, the baseball game still droned on loudly, balls and strikes, runs and outs, the passing of an early autumn afternoon with a summer game.

Paine bent down over Childs, the twinge of his broken ribs telling him he shouldn't do that. "Call an ambulance for your asshole friend," he said. "And like I told him, you're the kind of scumbags that'll never get it right."