Authors: John Gilstrap
Russell glanced awkwardly at Heather, who acknowledged him, but made no effort to leave him alone. "I can't really talk about that now," he said as pointedly as he knew how, and wrestled himself out of the man-eating chair. As he made his way out to the foyer, Heather followed. "What did they buy at the store?"
He could hear pages rustling as Tim searched his notes for that detail. "Well, I know he got gas, but other than that, not much. Oh, here we go. The clerk said he bought a candy bar and a box of diapers."
LIKE THE LITTLE lady that she was, Christa Ortega waited patiently in her seat while Tio Jesus walked around to open the car door for her. She had the position of honor in the Cherokee tonight-the back right-hand corner where her father usually sat. Carlos could barely contain his pride as he watched her take Pena's hand and then rise like an angel out of her seat. For her part, Christa handled the attention like a queen. Once she was out on the sidewalk, Carlos's wife, Consuela, followed, sliding across the seat and likewise accepting Pena's hand. Carlos himself stepped out last, from the front seat, and walked his ladies down the long sidewalk toward the school, one draped on either arm. Pena followed closely behind, Christa's cello dangling from his left hand. He kept his right hand free.
"Carlos, this is so silly," Consuelo said, laughing. "You'd think that we were arriving at the Oscars."
"This is better than the Oscars," Carlos said, nudging Christa. "This is my daughter's big chance to show everyone how talented she is."
"Dad-dy." Christa blushed. "I don't even have a real solo part."
"Real enough." Carlos beamed. As a father, it was his job to gush over his daughter's talent, just as it was her job to be embarrassed by it. Every little girl needed to know that she was special. Even more importantly, she needed to know that her daddy would do anything in the world for her.
The Ortegas were not the first family to arrive at the auditorium, but they were far from the last, as they slipped into the crush of parents and siblings who represented 90 percent of the audience for this middle-school orchestra concert.
Carlos craned his neck to see over the heads of the people in front but couldn't determine the source of the bottleneck. Christa stepped off to the side to take a peek of her own, then rejoined the family, frowning.
"It's Sister Inez," she said quietly. "I don't think she likes me."
"That's silly," said her mother. "I'm sure she likes all her students." Then, much more quietly, Consuela whispered to Carlos, "It's her father that she can't stand."
He smiled. What could he say? Consuela was right, and it had been that way ever since he was a little boy here at St. Ignatius School-St. Iggy's to the locals. Never one to abide by the rules, little Carlos Ortega had been a terror, and no amount of beatings from home could change that. When he'd be planted in Sister Inez's office and she'd rant at him, he'd feel truly apologetic. It wasn't that he tried to get into trouble. It's just that he could never get over the surprise that the rules actually applied to him.
Perhaps to make amends-or perhaps to rub their noses in it- Carlos had since donated over $200,000 to the school. In fact, the entire music department would not exist were it not for his contributions. So, Sister Inez had little choice but to be cordial these days. But that didn't mean she had to be friendly.
He waited patiently for his turn in the receiving line, and when he found himself face-to-face with his old nemesis, he smiled politely and shook her hand. "Good evening, Sister."
She barely made eye contact before she bent down to greet Christa. "Play well, young lady."
To which Christa replied, "Good evening, Sister."
Sister Inez reserved her most withering look for Pena, who sort of grunted as he looked her over as if to spot a weapon she might be carrying.
Carlos and Consuela parted company with their daughter at the door to the music room. Christa accepted the cello from Pena and headed on in to the practice room to tune up and get ready.
"She's nearly as beautiful as her mother," said a voice from behind.
The Ortegas turned to see Father Eugene, smile beaming. "Father!" Carlos rejoiced. "So wonderful of you to come! I don't know that she could ever hope to be that beautiful, but it will be close." That last part earned him a shot in the ribs from his wife.
If Sister Inez had come close to driving young Carlos to paganism, then Father Eugene bore the single-handed responsibility for keeping him near the Church. Ever kind, and always willing to listen, this quickly aging priest was a particular favorite among the kids whom Carlos used to hang around with and also taught a kick-ass history lesson. Father Eugene hated everything about what Carlos did for a living, but still managed to treat him as one of his flock. Father Eugene had been there for every significant event in Carlos's life, from his marriage to Consuela to the christening of his daughter to the funerals of both his parents.
After embracing first Carlos and then Consuela, Father Eugene even offered a warm handshake to Pena, who returned it with a smile.
"I presume you're here early for a front-row seat," the priest said as he ushered the others toward the auditorium.
Carlos smiled and produced a camera from his jacket pocket. "Of course. Would you care to join us?"
Father Eugene smiled. "I would love to."
As it turned out, the third row was the best they could manage. As always, Carlos noted the sideward glances from the other parents as they took their seats, and as always, he returned the glances with a smile and a nod. He wondered how much of the radiated discomfort came not from offended citizens, but from customers who were afraid of being outed in front of their families.
Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Carlos always liked that parable.
The orchestra at St. Iggy's was big. Between the Strings Ensemble and the much larger and more accomplished Concert Orchestra, over a hundred kids would play tonight. Given two parents per kid, more or less, along with the faculty and staff who had decided to stick around to listen, there had to be upwards of two hundred people in the auditorium, which was designed for two seventy-five. Unless you wanted to split hairs, this house was full.
At seven sharp, the houselights dimmed and the stage lights blossomed. The combined footsteps of the children filing onto the stage sounded like distant thunder, to which was soon added the metallic clanking of music stands and the scraping of chairs as the kids all took their places.
When all the seats onstage were filled, Carlos's heart rate doubled. "Where's Christa?" he whispered.
Pena saw the look on his boss's face and stood. The set of his eyes and his jaw told everyone that he was prepared to fight.
Consuela pulled on Pena's suit coat. "Sit down!" she hissed. "These are the beginners. Christa won't be out until later."
If Pena felt embarrassed, he didn't show it. He merely smiled to his neighbours and lowered himself back into his seat. Leaning forward, he whispered to Carlos, "You want me to go back and check on her?"
Carlos thought about it briefly, then shook his head. "No, she's fine," he whispered. "I'll never hear the end of it if I embarrass her. She'll be fine."
Behind them, a man dressed all in black stepped into the rear of the auditorium. Filling the doorway as he did, he drew looks from people in the quick-exit seats, but they thought nothing of this man wearing a clerical collar and a gentle smile. Truthfully, the bushy mustache made him seem rather unlikely as a priest, but not so much that anyone would inquire.
The man could see clearly enough in the wash of the stage lights to find a seat about halfway down, in the center section, three seats from the nearest end. When he arrived abreast of the row, he stooped down till his mouth was inches away from the occupant in the aisle seat.
"Excuse me," he whispered, "but would you mind scooting over so I don't have to climb over you?"
Clearly the man did mind, but what could he say to a priest? He nudged his wife in the arm and they each scooted over one seat.
The priest smiled and nodded his satisfaction. "Thank you so very much. I have a bad back, don't you know."
The former seat owner grudgingly nodded and turned his attention back to the stage.
No one would ever think to ask the priest why he never took off his gloves.
William Simpson was furious. Where the hell had that bitch run off to?
He wasn't April's fucking secretary, and he was tired of fielding all of her phone calls. How the hell were they supposed to make ends meet if she didn't show up to her jobs? Jesus, where was her head?
Well, he knew the answer to that one, didn't he? Her head was stuck a foot up her ass worrying about that damn kid. Oh, sweet little fucking Justin. Who needed that little shit around here in the first place? Today had been the first day of peace and quiet in years. It just never stopped. I want, I want, I want. That's all he ever heard. I want a cookie, a juice, a fucking toy. Swear to God, the kid was worse than having a dog. At least a dog'll shit outside. Not dear little Justin. That kid could crap a whole pound on one push.
Did April cut him any slack for that at all? Fuck no. Well, fuck her. And her kid. Let them both go to hell the hard way.
Just so long as she kept her fucking yap shut. If she went to the cops with this, Logan would no-shit for real kill them all, no questions asked. Surely she believed this. Christ, could he have explained it any more clearly?
So, where the hell was she? He could just imagine her wandering through the city, looking in trash cans and alleys, searching for her precious baby. Boo-fucking-hoo. Maybe now she'd feel a little pain for her own miserable self and start treating her husband with a little respect. It was about time for her to start earning her keep. To hell with this burgers and maid shit. With her looks, she could haul in serious bucks off the street. And he could be her pimp. She'd by God show him some respect then or he'd beat the living shit out of her.
He needed a drink. To hell with all of this shit. Let them both fucking die. Grabbing his keys and jacket off the sagging little table in the hall, William headed out.
This playground was a problem. He had never liked walking through such a wide expanse of open space with no place to duck and run to when the gang-bangers got out of hand. It wasn't so bad during the day, but once it got dusky like this, he began to feel uneasy.
Out of nowhere, an invisible horse kicked him in the gut. The impact knocked him backward a good three feet and landed him in a twisted pile of arms and legs, with his butt in the air and his weight pressed against his shoulder and his face. The half somersault had flopped his legs all the way over his head, leaving his feet in a tangle on the cold, wet grass. When he tried to straighten himself out, though, the legs wouldn't work. Gasping for air, he willed them to move, but they wouldn't; they just lay there, as if they belonged to someone else. Panic flashed behind his eyes as he grabbed at the useless appendages and tried to uncoil them by hand. His fingers registered the rough texture of the denim pants, under which he could feel flesh, but the flesh couldn't feel him back.
What the hell... ?
As he struggled for a handhold on his pants leg, the horse kicked him again, and he shrieked in horror as his right hip exploded in a gnarled mess of bone and tissue. The impact seemed even greater than before, spinning him on the ground like a break-dancer and landing him flat on his back.
"Oh, shit! Oh, fuck, I'm shot!" That had to be it. It had to be. But where was the pain? Where was the fucking pain? Feeling nothing terrified him more than any agony he'd ever endured. What the hell was happening?
His breathing wasn't right. He felt an odd pressure in his chest. Not a pain, really, but every bit as oppressive as if someone heavy were sitting on him. The harder he tried to inhale, the heavier the weight became. And the chest-sitter slurped when he breathed. He made a horrid, snoring sound as he struggled for air, and William couldn't understand it.
That's when he saw the blood. With his jacket zipped, it had taken a while for it to ooze out where he could see it, but now it was everywhere. And there was the hole, no bigger around than a pencil. If it hadn't been for a protruding tuft of down filling, he might have missed it completely.
"Aw, fuck, help me!" he cried, and a third bullet screamed in, this one passing maybe an inch from his ear and drilling itself into the grass behind him. William tried to roll over onto his belly to crawl away, but his dead legs were like anchors, keeping him rooted flat on his back.
He tried to scream out for help again, but the weight in his chest had filled his throat, rendering his vocal cords as useless as his legs. Maybe he could just scoot out of there on his back, he thought, but when he tried to lift his arms, the beast on his chest grew to the size of a building.
Godammit, the fuckers won, he thought. As he lay there, staring up at the black sky, he wondered where all the stars had gone.
A block away, in the third floor of a condemned rattrap that had done stints as a hotel and a homeless shelter, Ricky Timmons settled his aim and took his time, savoring what had to be one of the easiest hits of his life. Thanks to his chat with a kid named Fuzzy-the very one who would be found in the river in a day or two, dead of an overdose-Ricky had found out that William Simpson lived by a routine you could set your watch by.