The Plan

Chapter 25

Mickey watched the taxi leave through the window in the den. Then he put the tape Ryan had given him into the VCR.

It was devastating. Mickey watched as Haze Richards sobbed and cried from his seat in the Republic airliner, then ordering, begging to have the plane turned around. Mickey knew he had to get the original and all copies of the tape back. He also knew for certain that Ryan was his enemy. He called to New York Tony who was in the kitchen getting coffee.

"I gotta problem here," he said to the hatchet-faced trigger man. "You gotta do a rubout for me."

Rubouts were New York Tony's specialty. He had skagged almost twenty guys over the years. He followed quietly as Mickey led him out the front door to the Jeep.

"Don't do it around here, and I don't want pieces of him floating up, so make sure when he goes away he stays away. Also make sure he gives you all the copies of thi s v ideo he made. I don't want this thing to ever surface. Go t i t?"

"Done."

New York Tony drove the Jeep into Cape May and parked it on the street there. Two blocks over he found an unlocked, green '81 Country Squire station wagon. He got in, slipped on a pair of gloves, hot-wired the ignition, and drove the wagon away. He pulled up at the Cape May Inn just in time to see Ryan Bolt coming out, carrying his bag, and climbing into a waiting cab.

"Perfect timing," New York Tony muttered as he watched the cab pull out. But instead of going south toward the airport, as he'd expected, it headed back into town and stopped in front of the Hertz agency. New York Tony waited while Ryan paid the cab and went inside.

A few minutes later, Ryan got into a white Land Rover, pulled out of the parking lot onto the highway, and headed up the peninsula road toward Princeton. New York Tony was behind him in the wagon. Ryan Bolt was driving very slowly, almost as if he was afraid to be behind the wheel. New York Tony looked at his watch; it was only seven A. M. He figured he was fifteen minutes ahead of the morning traffic. . now was the time to make his move. He was on an open stretch of road where he could make a pass and crowd Ryan over. The shoulder slanted down into an empty snow ditch. He checked the highway for traffic, then edged up behind the Land Rover, waiting for just the right moment.

New York Tony had learned his trade as a teenager, working for his father in the kill shed of the West Jersey Cattle and Meat Packing Company. He stood four-hour shifts in the blood and dust with a.22-caliber pistol loaded with dumdums. He would calmly fire behind each Hereford's ear, obliterating the animal's thoughts in a spray of red. He perfected his technique with a few cool disco moves. Several of the plant workers had been horrified to see the stocky teenager execute spinning pirouettes, followed by loud bangs. Cows slumped heavily. Tony loved the job. Loved the copper taste of blood in his mouth.

When New York Tony killed men, he thought of them with the same lack of passion. They were just meat, two-legged Herefords. He still worked with a short-barrel.22.

His trademark hit was a dumdum in the head and then a.22 long in the heart. He'd been told that trick by one of the legendary street hitters, a mob assassin named Jimmy Hats. A second shot in the heart prevented bleeding, the old man said, and it was true.

Ryan was surprised at how easy it was to start driving again. The bone-numbing panic that had crippled him every time he got behind the wheel in L. A. had left him, just like the shadow dreams.

On this stretch of road, he could see ahead for a quarter mile, so he picked up speed. The two-lane highway looked empty, but then a station wagon accelerated past him, swerved, and tried to push him into the ditch. Ryan yanked the wheel, crashing into the wagon.

The cars traded paint. Tires squealed.

Ryan saw New York Tony behind the wheel, his thick neck muscles bunched, his teeth bared in determination. Then the Land Rover dove right, its wheels falling into the snow ditch, where it skidded along and finally lurched to a stop. New York Tony was out of the car fast. He pushed a gun through the driver's window, into Ryan's face.

"Out," he barked. "Get in my car, behind the wheel."

Ryan was looking into the barrel of the.22. He moved slowly toward the station wagon, hoping a car would pass, anything he could use as a diversion. His adrenaline was pumping, his senses tingling. He was afraid, but something else was mixed in with it. . He was angry. He'd had enough.

"Move faster," Tony barked.

Ryan got into the driver's seat as Tony threw his briefcase and bag into the backseat.

Tony got in on the passenger side, holding the gun out. "Okay, get going. Drive slowly."

Tony wanted to get far away from the Rover, then find a secluded spot off the road where he could pull the stolen station wagon in. He'd tie Ryan up and work him over-find out where all the tapes were. He'd do the kill, then get a bag of lye, a blanket, and a shovel. Burial and last rites would be finished before noon. He'd leave the car unlocked in the Trenton ghetto. Some hucklebuck piece of shit would undoubtedly steal it, leaving his prints, putting Tony in the clear.

For the last ten minutes, Ryan had been surreptitiously unscrewing the metal turn indicator. It was almost off when Tony said, "Turn right there." They were ten miles west of Melville on Interstate 47. A heavy stand of cypresses bordered the two-lane highway on both sides. Tony spotted a dirt road that led through the trees.

Ryan made the turn, his gaze flicking to the pistol in Tony's hand. He was trying to gauge whether he could risk trying to crash the car to gain some advantage. The small-bore pistol was aimed right at his head, never wavering. Tony spoke in a rasping whisper, as if he were reading Ryan's mind. "Don't. This thing is loaded with dumdum bullets. It'll turn you into guacamole."

Ryan decided to wait.

"Pull up there," Tony said, indicating a clearing at the end of the dirt cul-de-sac. Ryan stopped the car and set the brake and reset the turn indicator, twisting it. The small chrome rod came off in his hand. Feeling its light weight, he wondered what possible good it was going to do him.

Tony gestured Ryan out of the wagon. "Stand there, by them cut trees," he said, indicating a pile of logs that had been stacked at the end of the dirt road. Ryan moved to them. Somewhere he could hear a stream running.

Tony took the suitcase and the briefcase out of the wagon and dropped them on the ground. "Okay," Tony rasped, "get something straight. Mickey said don't hurt ya 'less you get stupid. You got videos of Governor Richards. I need 'em."

"I gave the tape to Mickey. There aren't any more," Ryan lied. Without warning, Tony fired the pistol over Ryan's shoulder. The dumdum entered the tree near his head; the exit hole was the size of a grapefruit, blowing t iny chips of the bark everywhere. Ryan looked at it in horror, astonished by the devastation.

"Come on, Mr. Bolt, I'm not some dipshit in a TV script. Where are the original tapes?"

Ryan knew that each time he cooperated, he was just moving closer to his own death. Tony leaned down and tried to open the briefcase. The originals were inside. Once Tony found them, it was over, but the combination locks were set and it wouldn't open.

"How do you get this open? What's the combination?" Tony asked.

"I don't remember," he said, lamely. Tony turned the gun at the case and fired. The briefcase blew open and three videotapes rolled out on the ground.

Tony held them up and looked at them.

"This everything?"

"No, I made copies."

Tony was smiling at him, and then he put the tapes on the ground and stomped hard on each one, shattering the cassettes. He pulled the tapes apart and unwound them. Ryan considered charging him while both of his hands were busy with the broken cassettes, but Tony read him again and pulled the gun up.

"Nothing says you gotta die here, Mr. Bolt, 'less you make a mistake." New York Tony took out a cigarette lighter and set fire to the tapes. They didn't burn at first but finally started to blacken and curl as the small flame licked at the edges.

"Know what I think?" Tony said as the tapes were smoldering between them.

Ryan's body felt weak.

"I think this is the whole deal, right here. I don't think there's any more copies."

"You're wrong," Ryan said.

"Turn around, Mr. Bolt."

"What're you gonna do?"

"I'm just gonna ask you to face the other way while I get outta here," Tony lied, thumbing back the hammer on the.22, getting ready to do the kill shot, wishing he were back in the West Jersey Cattle and Meat Packing Company where he could work close, feeling the heat of the animal against his leg. He liked doing his disco shots while the big bovines stood, waiting. But this guy was quick, so he kept his distance.

"Come on, turn around," he ordered.

Ryan knew he was out of time. He turned, planting his right leg, then pivoted back and hurled the turn indicator at New York Tony, who saw it coming too late. It hit him above the right eye. Tony fired prematurely. His first shot went wild; his rhythm was off. Ryan was scrambling for the trees and Tony fired a second time, hitting Ryan in the left thigh. A large chunk blew out of his leg, causing him to spin around and land on his back in the wet leaves. In a flash, Tony was upon him, wiping the blood from the small gash over his right eye. He held the.22 on Ryan.

"We're gonna skip the closing prayer, asshole." He thumbed the hammer back, pointed the gun at Ryan's head, moving the sight up so it was aimed at a spot between his eyes.

Then New York Tony's head exploded.

Red mist, bone, and original thought flew into the air and rained down on Ryan, a wet salad of destruction. For a horrible moment, Tony's headless torso was still standing over Ryan, the gun gripped in its hand. And then New York Tony made his last cool disco move. His left leg buckled and he spun around in a tight circle and fell sideways, landing two feet to the right of Ryan.

Ryan felt numb all over. Then he saw movement in the trees and a stocky, middle-aged man moving slowly toward him. The man was wearing a Hawaiian shirt under an overcoat. He had a huge.357 Magnum in his hand and a chewed-up cigar wedged in the side of his mouth. He came over and looked down at Ryan.

"Hi, I'm Kazorowski. You looked like you was in need of a dust-off," the grizzled ex-fed said.