BLIVIOUS TO THE EARLY MORNING news reports chronicling the hysteria surrounding the blackout at Three Queens, the Alley Team began to rise and take turns in the single bathroom. Nurse sat on the toilet lid as Sound fussed with her hair and make-up. “You know I always wanted to be a hair dresser,” he gibbered, “but my dad wouldn’t hear of it. Sent me off to electronics school. The old man worked as a truck driver, until his back got so bad he couldn’t drive anymore. Still, he and mom scrimped and saved to get me through technical college. And how did I repay them? Married a woman and a year later got a divorce. But it was all for the best. Finally admitted to myself something was different. She actually knew it before I did. Bless her heart, she would’ve stayed with me, too.”
“Shh,” Nurse put a finger to her lips. “Cap’n just let someone in th’ front door.” Sure enough, Smitty’s footsteps were heard coming down the hall, with Cap’n’s close behind. Without knocking, the guileless fellow shoved his smiling face inside the partially open doorway, ready to report the night’s activities. “Smitty, that you?” Nurse said. “Where’s Lightnin’?”
Smitty began to make frantic hand signals. “Hold on, Smitty,” Cap’n ordered. “You got to go a bit slower. Can’t ya see Nurse can’t see what your sayin?’” Smitty paused and peered at the bandages on Nurse’s eyes. Greg, too, peeked in, chewing on a sweet roll. “Hey,” Nurse groused, “it’s feelin’ crowded in here. Y’all get out and we’ll foller ya’. Me an’ Sound is done anyways, ain’t we Sound?.” The whole gathering reconvened in the comparatively roomy kitchen, where Smitty resumed his narrative. First he hooked his forefingers together and pulled.
“Stretch?” Sound asked.Smitty shook his head and put his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“Short?” Sound responded.
Smitty threw his arms together to form a cross.
“The opposite of short?”
Smitty nodded, hooked his fingers once more and tugged. “Long?” Sound asked.
Smitty nodded, then put his hands together in the shape of a book. “Book?” Cap’n asked.
Smitty shook his head and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Close to book?”
Smitty nodded.
“Story,” Sound said. “Long story.”
Smitty nodded enthusiastically and pointed at Sound.
And so, in the manner of a game of charades, the Alley Team sat down
The sun was high in the sky when Mitch crawled from the culvert. Grandpa’s old truck just hadn’t had enough fuel in its tank to get him across the desert, especially driving it like–as Grandpa would say–‘a bat out of hell,’ the way Mitch did. The old man knew how to deal with the highway patrol, he thought, brushing aside the fleeting worry. A few of them were even his friends. Besides, the car was so cleverly hidden they’d never find it.
He smiled to himself at first, then began to laugh out loud as he strode along the old dirt road, still some 25 miles from town. “I hope I get to see his face when we swap cars,” Mitch said aloud. He booted a dusty stone, soccer-style, down the middle of the road. The rock rolled out about 20 feet and skidded to a stop. “The idiot thinks he can get away with cold-blooded murder.” He stepped up to the stone again and gave it a second whack with his foot. “Blackmail, extortion, going around ruining people’s lives. . . .” The stone stalled in the middle of the road again, this time its momentum having carried it 40 feet ahead. “Dying would be too good for him. The guy needs to rot in a Federal jail till he’s old and gray. . . . No money, no silk suits, no girls or fine cars or fancy food or white carpet. . . . And no thugs like Frankie to protect his pretty face.” One more kick and the rock was sent plummeting off the road and down a ravine.
Mitch turned at the sound of an old pickup truck rattling up the road towards him. Coated with dust and grit, it clattered over the washboard road until it pulled alongside. “Hey, Mitch, what you doin’ out here,” the man said. “You need a lift?”
“Hi, Joseph!” Joseph Brownbear was one of grandpa’s long-time friends. Joseph leaned over to the open window. “I saw your grandpa’s truck on the side of the road back a piece. Wondered if maybe those intruders had stolen it.”
“Intruders?”
Joseph peered into the young man’s eyes. “You don’t know?” A quizzical stare met the old Indian’s gaze. “Know what?” “Cops said he was taken to the hospital. He was beat up or something–still packin’ his pistol when the Highway Patrol happened by. Rumor has it, it was a good thing they pulled in when they did or he wouldn’t have made it. Guess he had a heart attack too. You didn’t know?”
“First to Overton, then somewhere in town. If I knew I’d drop you off. I’m goin’ to town myself.”
“The convention center will be fine. I’ll make a few calls and see if I can locate him.”
Running on three hours’ sleep, two leftover bagels from the front seat of the sedan, and a stale cup of coffee, Barnes and Horne climbed the stairs to Maggie’s porch and rang the bell. Waiting on the doorstep, they discussed the ongoing events of the day. The Highway Patrol had combed the wrecking yard, with probable cause, searching for an intruder, they knew didn’t exist “thought to have injured the owner, Raymond Wilson.” But that was just a front to search. The Ferrari hadn’t been found, but in order to search legitimately the Feds needed a warrant. The judge, however, had concluded that as of yet there wasn’t enough evidence, and with the owner in the hospital and unable to defend his property, the warrant was denied.
That morning Frankie had been set free on a misdemeanor charge of loitering, while Vinnie wasn’t charged with any crime at all. Instead, claiming to be the victim, he’d filed a stolen vehicle report. The health and safety department, meanwhile, had temporarily shut down Three Queens, citing a deplorable lack of emergency lighting.
The front door cracked and a woman eased her face up to the opening. Barnes nodded. “Agent Sutton. . . .”
“Agent Barnes. Horne,” she answered in greeting.
“Is she up?”Barnes asked.
Sutton shook her shock of red hair and turned down the corners of her mouth. “She didn’t get to sleep until six a.m., about the time I came on shift.” She swung open the door and invited the agents inside, Barnes quizzing her about the events–or nonevents–of the night. Then finally he asked, “You told them we’re moving them to a safe house yet?”
“They weren’t too happy about that,” admitted Sutton.
Maggie, carrying a tray with two glasses of orange juice and a plate of muffins, made her way into the living room, bringing Barnes to his feet. “Mrs. Champion, how was your night?” Pleasantries aside, he got right down to business. “I hope you understand, but we need to speak to Mrs. Wilson. . . .”
“The poor girl had a rough night. I’ll see if she’s awake.” She set the tray on a low table in the center of the room. “Please, help yourselves to a muffin. From what I’ve seen, you gentleman probably haven’t had much time for breakfast either.” After their hostess had left the room, Agent Sutton turned to Horne. “Rough night?”
“Killer,” Horne replied as he peeled a plate from the tray and stuffed a muffin in his mouth.
“Anything on Hale?”
“Nothing,” Barnes answered. “And Domenico has our only witness. The name’s Ritter.” He lifted a muffin and set it on a plate, then took a sip of juice.
“These things are great,” Horne mumbled, crumbs still clinging to the corners of his mouth.
“She says they’re from an old family recipe. I ate three myself.” Sutton turned back to Barnes. “Why don’t you bring this Ritter guy back in on obstruction of justice, withholding evidence, or whatever else the legal team can come up with?”
“Domenico would have him back out in an hour. Besides, the arrogant little twit’s already been initiated. Domenico’s old man used to cut the little finger off some of the members of his ‘family’ as a warning not to cross him. Ritter, the stupid clown, had his finger wrapped up pretty tight last night. Said the knife slipped while he was carving a roast.”
Agent Sutton crinkled her nose. “That’s disgusting!”
“He had it coming,” Horne said as he set his empty glass on the tray. “What about the girl–she say anything new?” Barnes asked.
Agent Sutton shook her head. “After last night she’d had about all she could take, and now the old man, too.”
“Which old man?” Stephanie, still in a robe, her face creased with sleep wrinkles opposite a nasty bruise on her cheek, stood at the hall door, blinking her swollen eyes and glaring at the agents.
Barnes and Horne both stood; Sutton followed. “Mrs. Wilson,” Barnes stuttered. “We’d like to have another talk with you if . . .”
“Which old man?” Stephanie insisted. “Is it Grandpa? Is he okay?”
Barnes shifted nervously on his feet. “Please sit down a minute.”
Maggie urged the young woman down into an arm chair. “Here, here,” she said in a motherly tone.
The three agents retook their seats, leaning forward awkwardly. “He’s at University Medical Center,” Barnes continued.
Stephanie gasped. “Is he hurt?”
“He had a heart attack last night. He’s resting comfortably now.”
“I need to see him.” Stephanie started to get up.
“We’ll have Agent Sutton take you there, but please, we need to ask you a few questions first.” Reluctantly, Stephanie eased back in her seat and closed her eyes. Barnes, knowing time was short, got right to the point. “Last night, it was Mitch here in the house, wasn’t it?”
Stephanie looked at Maggie, crouching at her side, wondering whether or not to tell the truth. Then she peered back over at Barnes. “Yes.” Maggie, raised her eyebrows. “He came to tell me I wasn’t safe. He told me a terrible man was looking for me. It was the man you arrested last night, wasn’t it?”
“We arrested someone who’d been watching the house. We think your husband set him up to be caught.”
A faint smile settled over the younger woman’s lips. “He told me he did that once to . . .” She stopped in her tracks.
“Did what?” Barnes asked.
“Nothing.”
“We can’t help if you keep withholding information, Mrs. Wilson. What did he do?”
Maintaining a straight face, Stephanie replied simply, “I heard an explosion. My guess is, the poor man’s muffler fell off.”
“A simple potato bomb,” Barnes muttered. “But I’ve never seen one work like that. It knocked the guy silly.”
“Was he someone who could hurt me?”
“Yes.”
“Mitch wouldn’t have done anything illegal unless he was protecting me.” Stephanie’s voice faltered and she put her hand on Maggie’s. “It doesn’t matter what you think he did. I’m sure when the truth comes out you’ll find Mitch didn’t kill anyone.”
“What did he tell you, Mrs Wilson?”
“That’s it.”
“‘That’s it’? That’s all he said? ‘I love you . . . there’s a terrible man out front . . . I didn’t kill anyone’–that’s all? Look, we’ve got to find him before he gets himself killed. Do you know where he is?”
Stephanie shook her head. “He wouldn’t be hiding unless he’s in trouble. And he wouldn’t be doing your job if you were doing it!” She stood up. “Now I want to go see Grandpa.”
“Sit down!” Barnes yelled. He was tired–exhausted, really–and simply too exasperated to hammer back through all the formalities.
Stephanie, stunned, did as she was told. A leaden uneasiness settled over the room. The highly-trained agent, the professional investigator, had just lost his cool. After what seemed like several minutes had passed, Barnes fixed his steeliest gaze on Stephanie and said calmly, “Mrs. Wilson, this isn’t a game. . . . You knew Mike, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Stephanie’s answer was wooden, emotionless.
“We think he’s dead. We have a witness that claims he knows where Mike’s body is.”
Stephanie lifted a hand to her mouth. “You think Mitch had something to do with Mike’s death?”
“Mrs. Wilson,” Barnes continued, ratcheting up his interrogation, “we found blood in your driveway that matches Mike’s blood type. We found your car inside a building that burned to the ground–a building belonging a very dangerous man–and, what’s left of the organic substance in the trunk of the burnt car, our lab is trying to determine if it’s blood residue. We have your ex-neighbor, Andy Kostecki, trying to strike a deal with us in order to get his tail out of an attempted rape charge. And we have reason to believe that Al Kostecki was being paid to watch you. Everything points to a very, very wicked man who would like to get his hands on you and your husband. . . . Now I’ll ask you again: Where’s Mitch?”
Jettisoning her defenses, Stephanie murmured, “I really don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilson. Your husband is in serious trouble. I witnessed him stealing the car belonging to the man that this all points to. Rumor has it he has a contract out on Mitch. Can you understand our urgency?”
“Yes, but I don’t know where he is,” Stephanie repeated, beginning to sob.
“We can help you both–if he’ll agree to come in and help us.”
“I don’t know where he is.” Her face was buried in her hands.
“Okay, okay.” Barnes lowered his voice and drew closer. “But will you tell us if he contacts you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to have to put you through all this,” he said, reaching up and touching her arm.
Stephanie pulled away and lifted her head. “I’d like to get dressed and go see Grandpa now.”
Barnes stood. “We’re finished.” He stepped towards the door. “Thank you for the juice and muffins, Mrs Champion.”
Horne stood to follow. “Very good muffins.”
Pausing at the door, Barnes spun back around. “We’re the good guys, Mrs. Wilson. We don’t want to see you or your husband get hurt.” And with that the two male agents were out the door.
The Alley Team gathered in a circle on the floor, legs crossed and arms folded, ready for war.
“‘At was a lot t’ say, Smitty,” said Nurse, once the guessing game had come to an end. “You an’ Lightnin’ had one heck of a night. You think he might a’ been lassoed by the law?”
Smitty nodded as Nurse added, “There ain’t much our little bunch can do now ‘cept keep movin’ forward. We got to get ahold a’ that gun so’s we can keep ‘at boy outta prison.”
“First we’ve got to get you a set of teeth and your bandages off,” Greg piped in. “Someone needs to do a little shopping, too.”
The old woman, a squeamish look on her face, quickly changed the subject. “Sound, your friend from th’ T-bird heard from Ritter yet?”
“Not a word. Of course, I didn’t tell him where we’re staying. For all I know, he could have shown up sometime last night or even this morning . . .”
“AWOL!” cried Cap’n. “The private took an injury in battle and he’s gone and bailed out on us. Court marshal him, try him for treason. He’s up to no good, sure as some sneakin’ double agent. Don’t take two days to get no broken hand fixed.”
The old woman raised a calming hand. “Settle down, Cap’n. We don’t know if’n he bailed, no more ‘an we know if’n Lightnin’s been captured.”
“Excuse me,” Greg interrupted. “We’ve got some serious plans to review. If we hope to pull it off, every detail will need to be perfect. Every base has got to be covered.” Sound raised his hand like a school child asking to go to the restroom. “What are we going to do without Lightning?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” Greg said. Sound’s hand rose high in the air again. “Yes,” Greg mumbled, a bit irritated.
“I know someone that can get us fake IDs.”
Greg shook his head. “No, we’ve got to go through Vinnie. Everything needs to land squarely back in his lap. It’s the only way we can take him down.”
Once more Sound waved his hand in Greg’s face.
“Sound, we’re not in school. You don’t need to raise your hand.”
“Oh, sorry. I just get carried away.” Sound bit nervously on his thumb nail.
“So what did you want to say?”
Head swaying side to side and shoulders hunched, Sound replied, “I forgot.”
“Okay, then . . .”
“Oh, oh, I remember,” Sound cut in. He began to raise his hand, then caught himself and dropped it in his lap. “How are we going to find the new location of Mr. Vinnie’s shop?”
Greg groaned in frustration and sighed, “That’s why we’re reviewing everything again.”
“Sorry.” Sound pressed two fingers to his lips and sat back to listen.