Shotgun Opera

Mike drew his foot back, kicked hard, caught the guy in the teeth. He flew backward.

Mike climbed to his feet, stretched. He felt the furniture around him, groped in the dark until he found something heavy and ceramic.

The guy was moaning and mumbling. Mike followed the noise, found his head, and brought the ceramic vase down with everything he had. Vase and skull cracked open.

Mike backed away, breathing so heavily he was wheezing. He grabbed at the pistol in his belt and drew it, backed up against a wall.

Come on. Who else? What else you gonna throw at me? Let’s go, you sons of bitches.

Mike stood with his back against the wall for a long time. Or maybe it was only a few seconds. It was difficult to tell. He was in a daze, exhausted and numb. The .38 hung loosely in his hand. He hunched over, slapped a palm over the leg wound. It wasn’t bleeding too badly, but it hurt like hell.

When he saw the soft flickering light, he thought at first he was hallucinating. Didn’t they say you saw a light when you were dying? Or was that a tunnel? Mike couldn’t remember.

Nikki appeared in the doorway, and Mike lifted the revolver.

“It’s just me,” she said quickly. She held a candle, which lit her bruised face.

Mike nodded, too tired to talk. What was there to say?

She took three steps toward him, glanced at the dead body on the floor, looked at the pistol in Mike’s hand. Her gazed shifted to his face. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live.”

“Follow me into the kitchen,” Nikki said. “I’ll clean you up.”

42

To Mike, Nikki Enders’s kitchen didn’t fit with the rest of the mansion. It was modern and chrome, space-age appliances gleaming in the candlelight. He leaned against the long island in the center of the kitchen. It was covered with pale wood, an enormous cutting board.

Nikki used the candle to light a large oil lamp. “This is supposed to be decorative, but I don’t feel like looking for any of the flashlights.” The lamp brightened the room. She pulled open a drawer, came out with a bandage and hydrogen peroxide.

There was something stiff in the way Nikki moved, Mike thought. Awkward. Tense. Why not? Dead bodies all over the house. Maybe she was still worried about her mother. “How is she?”

Nikki cut the bandage into long strips with a pair of scissors. “Mother’s room is on the third floor, so she was out of harm’s way.”

“That’s good.”

She looked down at the pistol in his hand. “I don’t think you need that anymore.”

Mike hadn’t realized he was still holding the .38. “Right. Sorry.” He stuck it back in his waistband.

There was a large bread box on the island counter. Nikki put her hand on the lid. “There’s some good Jewish rye in here. I can make you a sandwich before you go. Are you hungry?”

Mike shook his head. “No thanks.” He was too exhausted to eat.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to fix a sandwich for myself. I’m starving.” She opened the lid to the bread box.

Strange, Mike thought. It didn’t really seem like an appropriate time to—

He grabbed the .38 out of his waistband, pointed, squeezed the trigger. The shot caught Nikki Enders in the gut. She flew back against the refrigerator, slid down into a sitting position, her eyes wide. He face pinched with pain, both hands going to her belly.

Mike leaned across the counter and reached into the bread box. It was under the rye, a .25 caliber automatic. Mike put it in his jacket pocket. He kept the .38 trained on Nikki even though he realized it was out of bullets.

Nikki coughed, blood staining her teeth and bottom lip. “How did you know I was going for a gun?” Her voice was small, far away.

Mike shook his head. Stupid. So fucking stupid and useless. But of course she’d had to try. Nikki had to be certain Mike wouldn’t cause her any more trouble, and the only thing certain is death. And he’d killed her sister. What he said was, “It’s what I would have done.” He hated to admit it, but it was true, and he was ashamed. If their positions were reversed, Mike would have killed her.

She convulsed, coughed again. “Goddamn you…son of a…son of a…” Her eyes rolled back, and her neck went limp, head tilting to the side.

Mike took the bandages and tied up his leg. Sloppy but good enough. He picked up the candle, backed out of the kitchen. Time to find his way out of this death house. In the hallway, he held the candle up, looked each way and tried to get his bearings. It was a big house. He started walking.

Nikki erupted from the kitchen, a hoarse, feral scream ripping from her throat. She held one arm across her midsection, the oil lamp held over her head with the other hand. She charged.

Mike drew the bread box .25 from his pocket, squeezed the trigger until the magazine was empty. Nikki was at the far end of the hall. The little automatic was made for close range, and Mike would be lucky if a single shot landed. Every bullet missed Nikki.

But the final shot shattered the lamp, sprayed Nikki with flaming oil. It spread over her entire body. Nikki Enders became a writhing, screaming thing of pure fire. She bounced between the walls of the hallway. A chair caught fire. A drapery went up in flame. Soon the entire hall burned. Nikki was now a small lump in the middle of the inferno.

Mike backed away, horrified.

The flames blocked his way to the front door. Forget it. He’d find a back way, bust out a window if he had to.

Then he remembered the mother. Damn. The old woman was nothing to him, but could he leave her up there to burn? The answer was no. He started for the stairs.

Don’t be a sap, said Danny’s voice. Get out of there. Sticking your neck out for civilians is how you get killed.

“Shut up. We’re not going to do things like that anymore.”

He climbed the stairs, got to the second floor, and his knees were screaming. He ignored the pain, kept climbing. He glanced over his shoulder. The flames roared through the first floor, crept toward the staircase.

Hurry, you old bastard.

Up to the third floor, clenching his jaw all the way. The pain went up through his legs and into his hips. He checked two rooms, found the old woman in the third.

She looked up when Mike entered the room. Her expression was confused, but then she smiled knowingly, nodded after looking at Mike for long seconds. “So you’ve finally come home.”

Mike said, “Lady, your house is burning. I’ve got to take you out of here.”

She seemed not to hear. “I waited. All these years, waited to tell you what you’ve done to your family.”

“I think you’re making some kind of mistake,” Mike said.

“I loved you, and you left me. Left all of us, gallivanting all over the world. You weren’t a husband. You weren’t a father. You were just some ghost we caught glimpses of at holidays.”

Oh…shit.

Was she drunk? Senile? It didn’t matter. There was no time. “Sorry, lady, but I guess I’m going to have to drag you out of here.” He took three steps toward her.

She leapt from her rocking chair, and Mike had a split second to be impressed. So fast, graceful. She lunged in perfect fencing form, arm outstretched.

And thrust the knitting needle into Mike’s gut.

Mike froze, shocked. The needle was thin but long, and had found its way under Mike’s rib cage. His mouth fell open; he didn’t know what to say.

She pulled out the knitting needle, stepped back, looked at him with strange new eyes as if he’d just walked into the room.

Mike stumbled back. “You dumb…bitch.”

Told you so, Danny said.

Can’t you just shut up? Mike thought. But he wasn’t mad. He wasn’t anything. The pain in his belly seemed like something distant, abstract. This made sense. This is what he’d had coming, what he’d deserved all along. He wouldn’t argue with fate. The image of a pink sock flashed through his brain, then Keone’s bullet-torn body. Sure. He had it coming. They all did.

Better this way, Danny had said. Better than cancer. You get to go out fighting.

There’s no good way to go out, Mike had told his brother.

He turned his head slightly, saw the flames dancing up to the third floor. It looked so pretty and orange.

He pulled his hand away from his gut. The bleeding was light, such a small hole. The blood wasn’t dark. He didn’t think she’d punctured any vital organs. He prodded the area with three fingers. Not much pain.

Mike was going to live.

“I have to go,” said the old woman.

“Wait.”

She didn’t wait, she walked out of the room, down the hall toward the stairs and the flames. Smoke billowed. Mike coughed. “Are you crazy?” he yelled after her.

But of course she was.

Mike crossed to the other side of the room, threw open the window. Wind and rain lashed him. He stuck his head out, looked down. A three-story drop.

Hell.

Out of the bedroom. No sign of the old woman. He turned away from the flames, limped down the hall as fast as his knees would let him, ignoring his throbbing wound. Another room. Another window. He looked out and this time had some luck. A rooftop below. The mansion’s third story was smaller than the rest of the house. He swung a leg out the window, then the other leg. He eased himself out and down, hung from the windowsill, and dropped eight feet. Pain shook his knees when he landed. He slid down the wet rooftop and tore a fingernail digging into the shingles to stop himself. He managed to stop himself just in time, feet hanging over the edge. He belly-crawled until he found a drainpipe at the corner of the house, shinnied down, slipped, lost his grip, and fell the final six feet, landing hard on his back.

Mike lay there, sucked for air, rain stinging his face. Above him the windows of the house glowed orange.

He stood up, limped around the house to the gate, found the Cadillac. He looked back at the Cornwall mansion one more time.

Outside, thunder shook the sky and rain battered the earth.

Inside, there was fire.

43

In an old brick building in the bad part of Budapest, the man with the voice shoved sensitive documents into a paper shredder. He also stuffed an attaché case with computer discs and other documents he needed to keep. He’d already erased three computer hard drives. He was in a hurry but didn’t dare leave a trail.

The man with the voice had disappointed some dangerous people. He’d received no confirmation that Enders had been terminated, and Ortega would not even return his phone calls. A seemingly routine matter had blown up in his face.

Time to vacate. His villa in Spain? No, not far enough. He owned a nice condo that overlooked Sydney Harbor in Australia. Yes. That would do.

The alarm chimed on the computer. He checked the display.

They were in the building. They’d found him, and they would get him. The man with the voice had many talents, but he was not a soldier. So they would get him, and they’d ask many questions and it would not be pleasant.

He took a revolver from his desk drawer, put it in his mouth.

Well, it had been good while it lasted.

He pulled the trigger.

44

Mike drove, kept going. He didn’t want to stop, no matter what. Let the pain burn his neck and back. He wanted to go home.

There is no home for men like us, Danny’s voice said. You haven’t learned anything.

Mike said, You’re wrong. I made it home. I built it. It’s mine. I don’t owe you anything.

He drove, eating up the miles, the storm fading into memory behind him.

But he couldn’t keep it up for long. His body ached, sleep dragging him down. He pulled into a rest area in central Louisiana, slumped in the front seat of the Caddy, and slept. When he awoke it was midday, the rain now a light drizzle, the sky the color of nickel. He kept driving, had to stop again at nightfall. This time he stretched out in the backseat, kicked off his shoes. The belly wound was sticky, probably needed cleaning. The leg needed fresh bandages. Mike didn’t have the energy.

He put Texas behind him the next morning, and when he reached the Oklahoma line, he vowed to keep going until he made it.

* * *

Mike’s face felt hot, body sore. But he was warm and dry, and he felt soft hands on his stomach. He opened his eyes. Bright sun, blue sky. Linda.

“I didn’t even try to take you inside. You’re too heavy,” she said. She was doing something to his belly.

Mike remembered now. The long push for home, stopping only for gas, coffee, or a quick sandwich. He’d been exhausted, nearly delirious, when he’d finally turned the Caddy onto the gravel road for home. His cabin lay in ruin, so he’d come looking for Linda. She wasn’t home, so Mike had collapsed into one of her lounge chairs on the back deck, where he lay now.

Linda had cleaned the knitting needle wound and was now applying a bandage. His pants had been cut open to the belt, fresh bandages on his leg. “Let’s get you inside, and I’ll do something about the bandage on your eye. It looks nasty.”

Mike supposed it did.

“You could have let yourself in,” Linda said. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

“Didn’t want to intrude,” he croaked. His mouth and throat were so dry.

“You and that polite shit again.”

He smiled weakly. “Andrew?”

“They left.”

“They?”

“It’s all in the note. You can read it later. Basically he and his girlfriend took off to live happily ever after.”

“A lot happened while I was away.”

“Understatement of the year.” She grabbed him by the arm, helped him up. “And you better believe I have some questions for you.”

“I’ll come clean. Coffee first.”

“Right.”

Together they stumbled into the kitchen, and she helped him into a chair. Soon she had coffee brewing. She set a copy of the Tulsa World in front of him. “That might interest you.”

Mike read the headline. National Guard Searches for Missing Helicopter. Mike pushed the paper away. It would all have to wait until after coffee.

Linda put a tentative hand on Mike’s shoulder, squeezed. “Mike, I’ve been scared. It’s too much. Don’t lie to me. Is it over? Any more surprises?”

“It’s over.”

She searched his face another moment, then nodded, handed him a mug of coffee. Mike sipped, sighed relief.

“I’m taking my suitcase upstairs,” Linda said. “Don’t do anything. Just sit there and take it easy, okay?”

He nodded as she left, didn’t bother to ask about the suitcase or where she’d been. Later. It could all wait until later. Right now there was only coffee and Linda’s familiar kitchen and the Okie sun streaming in through the window.

The next three days were good for Mike. He felt right at home, the belly wound scabbing nicely, aches and pains subsiding gradually. He’d been afraid the leg might get infected, but it would be okay too. He felt resurrected.

Linda nagged him to rest, but her heart wasn’t in it. She could see how good it was for Mike to begin the long process of clearing away the ruined vines, exploring the blackened wreckage of the barn and cabin for anything salvageable. More than ever Mike was aware that he moved like an old man, but he liked hard work and there was enough to keep him busy the rest of his life.

Mike built a bonfire, tossed debris into the flames. He would clean the slate, start over.

He found his empty Thompson gun among a tangle of vines, held it numbly a moment before a pang of remorse struck him deeply. He tossed the gun onto the bonfire.

That night at Linda’s he sipped a beer, listened to her rattle pots and pans in the kitchen. She was a good woman, patient, kind for letting him use the spare bedroom. She hadn’t asked her questions yet, but he sensed they were coming soon. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d tell her about himself, about his past, but she deserved the truth.

A knock at the door.

Andrew!

His nephew had returned. Mike felt sure of it, and his face stretched into a wide grin. He got up from the kitchen table, hobbled to the front door. He realized he’d be happy to see the kid. Perhaps they could have some kind of relationship, maybe eventually be like a real family. Mike liked the thought of that. Maybe Andrew would even stick around awhile, lend a hand rebuilding the vineyard.

Mike opened the door.

It took him a second to place the grim Indian’s face, deeply lined, skin like old sun-dried wood. Keone’s father. He loomed, towered over Mike like some inevitable force of nature. He didn’t say a word but held a stubby pistol pointed at Mike.

Mike understood. The fantasy of family and rebuilding the vineyard was a lie. The Indian’s pistol was the truth. He didn’t need Danny’s voice in his head to tell him that. This is the way Mike’s world would end. No comfortable old age for him. He’d traded that for a pink sock a long, long time ago.

“It’s okay.” Mike didn’t flinch.

Bang.

Epilogue

Jamaal 1-2-3 sat in his dingy apartment off Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn and stripped wires for a detonator. Slowly, without drawing attention to himself, he’d gathered the components he needed. The explosion would be spectacular.

What would be exploded remained to be seen.

His contacts assured him that target information would be coming through the network any day now. What would it be? The Empire State Building? Wall Street? Perhaps they would instruct him to rent a car, drive to Washington, DC.

For many months now, Jamaal had waited, put together the device, worked washing dishes at the saloon two blocks away to pay the rent on the squalid studio apartment. But he was persistent, faithful. His own comfort meant nothing. The cause was everything.

Someone knocked at his door.

Jamaal checked the peephole. Saw the UPS deliveryman. Perhaps this was it! The UPS man might be delivering his final instructions even now. He opened the door, held out a hand for the thick manila envelope in the UPS man’s hand. “Do you need my signature?”

The UPS man said nothing, only stared at Jamaal’s face.

Jamaal frowned. “What’s wrong? Do you need”

The UPS man pulled his hand out of the manila envelope. He held a gun. Jamaal tried to shout, but it was too late. The UPS man pulled the trigger three times, the blasts filling the studio apartment. Jamaal dropped, eyes closed, instantly dead.

* * *

Lizzy waddled next to the UPS man, put a hand on his arm. “You’re sure that’s him?”

Andrew took off the UPS hat, wiped his forehead, and nodded. “Yes. I remember him coming out of the cargo container. I’ll never forget that face.”

She nodded, rested her hands on her giant stomach. Lizzy was huge, the green maternity dress barely covering her belly. She noticed Andrew’s face. It looked blank or maybe a little confused. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” Andrew said.

“Killing someone is hard. It changes everything.”

Andrew said, “It had to be finished.”

“I know,” Lizzy said. “Now let’s hurry, like we planned. People heard the shots, and the cops will be coming.”

“Right. Yeah.” He tossed the UPS hat and jacket into the apartment on top of the body. He wiped the pistol with a handkerchief and tossed it inside too.

Lizzy asked, “Did you wipe the bullets?”

Andrew nodded. “Before I loaded the gun.”

“Good.”

So it was finally ending. Lizzy sighed. Relief. So much had happened these last months. Andrew had insisted on using his mob contacts. They kept their eyes and ears open until they located the object of Andrew’s revenge.

And Andrew had had his revenge. It wasn’t sitting well with him. Lizzy was glad. Let this be the end to blood. She rubbed her stomach again. There was too much in their future for them to build a life on blood and debts of revenge.

She hooked her arm through Andrew’s, led him downstairs and out of the building. “Remember, walk slowly. Don’t draw attention.”

“Right.”

“Will you go back to school now?”

Andrew shook his head.

“It’s okay,” Lizzy said. “We’ll figure something out.”

She was the last Cornwall, heir to a fallen house in a drowned city. They had no home, only freedom and possibilities. Andrew would bring his mandolin. Maybe they could head west. She’d always been curious about California.

Anyway, wherever they ended up, there would be love and family and music.

“Oh!” She stopped suddenly, eyes round with surprise.

“What?” Panic on Andrew’s face.

“He kicked,” Lizzy said. “A really hard one. Maybe he’ll be a dancer.”

“Or a football player.”

Lizzy frowned.

“Tell you what,” Andrew said. “We’ll let him figure it out for himself.”

About the Author

VICTOR GISCHLER lives in the wilds of Skiatook, Oklahoma— a long, long way from a Starbucks. His wife, Jackie, thinks he is a silly individual. He drinks black, black coffee all day long and sleeps about seven minutes a night. Victor’s first novel, Gun Monkeys, was nominated for the Edgar Award.

Also by Victor Gischler

Gun Monkeys

The Pistol Poets

Suicide Squeeze