Iron House

CHAPTER THIRTY

Jimmy was waiting on the front porch when Stevan finally decided to show up. It was late, most of the men either racked out or playing cards. A subtle anger filled the house, a whiff of mutiny. There was no air-conditioning. The only television had a hole, dead center. But it was more than that. Every man inside was an earner. They didn’t have Stevan’s millions or Jimmy’s plans. They had their turf, their hard-won, blood-soaked piece of the American dream, and Stevan was screwing that up-and for what? They should have killed Michael days ago. They should have never let him out of the city. Now, they felt cut off and exposed.

Jimmy understood.

He didn’t care, but he understood. Every man needs a reason to feel proud, just like he needs a dollar in his pocket. None of that was a problem for Jimmy, of course. His wants had evolved beyond the simple matter of fear, respect and opportunity. They’d grown, yet become simpler. He wanted Michael dead, so people would know for certain who was best between them; and he wanted sixty-seven million dollars. It was a very specific number. He thought about it as he stood.

Maybe an estate in California…

Something with a vineyard…

Headlights swept across the house as Stevan parked the car, and Jimmy touched the weapon in his belt. He met Stevan at the top step. “Where have you been?”

“Are you channeling the ghost of my father?”

“Your father would beat you first and ask questions second. He would never drag his people down here in the first place. He would have killed a traitor at the first sign of treason. He’d have never given his men reason to doubt.”

“Jesus, Jimmy. Nice to see you, too.”

“That was not a polite greeting. Cops are all over the estate. The men are pissed, and Michael is still alive. You’re fucking this up.”

“I’m too tired for this, Jimmy.”

Stevan looked stressed, tie loose enough for coarse hairs to show at his collar, eyes drawn into their sockets. He pushed past, but Jimmy stopped him two feet from the door. “Your people need to be led.”

“That’s the right phrase, isn’t it?” He squared up on Jimmy. “ My people.”

He reached for the door, but Jimmy stopped him again. “I want to call Michael. I want to get this done.”

“We’ve had this discussion. I have a plan. It’s set.”

“Will you finally tell me what this genius plan is?”

“Look, Jimmy, my father may have trusted you to run parts of his business-I get that-but we’re not even close to that point, you and me.”

“This is bullshit.”

Stevan touched his chest, and spoke as if to a child. “Brains,” he said, then pointed at Jimmy. “Muscle. Brains. Muscle.” Hand moving. “You get how this works?”

“What about the girl?”

An eyebrow came up. “Is she still alive?”

“What do you want me to do with her?”

“It’s your mess.” Stevan opened the door. “You clean it up.”

The door clicked shut, and Jimmy thought of things unspoken. He thought of Michael and the girl, of how Stevan was a fraction of the man his father had been. He thought about sixty-seven million dollars, and about the things he’d found in the dark, silent barn: the chains and metal hooks, the old stone wheel and the many tools it could sharpen. He pictured Stevan spread-eagled and weeping blood, then wondered how long the little bastard would last, how many hours he might scream before giving up the account numbers and access codes.

Sixty-seven million dollars.

A dusty barn and a world of silent woods.

Jimmy took a deep breath, and smelled all the places he could bury a man.