The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (73 page)

Santo opened the boot. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve covered his face,’ and showed Rem what he took to be a plaid bedcover. Even when he recognized an area of skin, a white upper arm, it still didn’t register that he was looking at a person. The smell – sharp, sweet – of an animal in fear, some beast that sweated.

Stooped to look into the boot, Rem figured out slowly, rationally, what he was looking at: here, hands bound at the wrist with silver duct-tape; there, a single fleshy bend, a knee; and there, a towel wrapped over a head with a wet and frayed breathing slit, as if a man, and this had to be a man, had chewed at the cloth.

Santo shut the boot with two hands, fingers sprung, with an expression of achievement, a man happy with a sale, or maybe even a little prideful, a man with something to prove. The boot, punctured on the left side with a set of six indented holes, had to be punched down to close. Rem assumed from the hot stink, the arcs of sweat, the natural turn of the man’s head that he was alive, although there were no proper signs, no sound, no evidence of breathing.

The two men stood over the boot, an unsteady edge to Santo, aside from the evidence of a bound man locked in the trunk of his clapped-out car.

‘You know who this is?’

Rem could not move, felt absorbent, like he was taking in water, becoming heavy.

‘It’s Paul Geezler.’

Now Rem couldn’t think – couldn’t manage much more than a blink.

Santo gave a presentational gesture, a
what do you think
flourish, and appeared, if Rem had got this right, disappointed at his reaction.

‘That’s Paul Geezler?’

Santo nodded, pinched his nose. ‘You need another look?’

‘In your trunk?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘Alive?’ Rem couldn’t see, on any level, why or how such a task would be decided and managed. ‘I don’t know what to say to you, Santo. This is insane. You have to get him to a hospital. This is wrong.’

‘I gave him –’ Santo clicked his fingers – ‘can’t remember the name. But, yeah, he had to climb in first.’

Rem looked across the lot to the corner diner, but could see no one inside, only the reflection of the street, the sky, the long avenue.

‘You have to let him go. Call the police. Let them find the car. If he dies …’ He shook his head. ‘Santo, what is this for?’

‘It’s about you, Rem.’ Santo began to walk toward the diner. ‘Let’s have a coffee,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk. And then I’m gone.’

Three police officers sat at one booth. The sun full on the floor also caught their boots, the sides of their legs. Guns clipped to their holsters, weighted so they pulled away from the men’s sides. The officers had about them an irritated look, and Rem could not imagine the explanation he would have to give to impress on them the fact that a man was tied up in the boot of a car in the opposite lot.

Had he touched the car? Left any kind of trace? His connection would not be difficult to establish. Had these men seen him?

Santo picked a table by the window, deep in the glare. He asked Rem not to do anything. ‘Just stay as you are. Calm. I’ll get the waitress. I’ll get us some coffee. Something to eat. You can just sit there and do nothing. Let me get the coffee. We’ll talk. Just coffee, that’s all we need right now.’

This discussion, at least, sounded normal. Not knowing what else Santo might be capable of, Rem agreed with a nod: the police across the room, Geezler jammed into the boot, everything held in the window.

Santo spoke with the waitress, who nodded while he placed the order. They needed cups, and water. If she could bring water. He pointed to the cooler at the back.

While the waitress fetched the coffee Santo took a tissue from his pocket and opened it out to show two off-white pills. He covered the paper with two hands when the waitress brought the coffee, and smiled at her as she poured.

When she left he asked Rem to hear him out. ‘You’re drawing attention to yourself. They’re watching you now. Put your arms on the table, sit back, and look like you’re relaxing.’

Santo pushed the napkin toward Rem. ‘First. You have a choice. You need to decide to take these pills. If you don’t take these pills, if you make any kind of move, I will stop you.’ Santo looked into Rem’s eyes. ‘I don’t want to do that. So you have this choice.’

Rem looked from Santo to the pills.

Santo cocked his head. ‘Rem, listen to me. This is all done. This is all decided.’

‘Why are you involving me?’

‘Because this has everything to do with you. We are in this situation because of you. I didn’t want it to be like this. The others wanted you to come along.’

‘Which others?’

‘Clark and Pakosta. We’ve worked this out. And this is the deal I have made with them. You have to know about this, and you have to live with this. The pills, that’s my idea, to make it all a little easier. We can do this two ways. You can just go ahead knowing what is going to happen and leave us to do what we are going to do, or you can tell the police and try to stop this.’ Santo looked sorrowfully at Rem. ‘But I don’t want you to do that.’

‘Why the pills?’

‘This is my idea. I gave these to Geezler. It will make things easier for you. I didn’t want you involved, but Pakosta thinks you know too much, and he holds you responsible. He wants you to know what we’re doing. I agreed to come and sort it out.’ Santo pushed the napkin up to Rem’s sleeve. ‘It’s enough that you know.’

Rem looked to the car to make certain that this was true: the apartment block, the open lot, the car strangely weighted.

‘Take them. You know Geezler. You know what he’s done, and don’t tell me he hasn’t got this coming. He’s laughing at us, he’s laughing at Kiprowski. Every day above ground this man is laughing at us. Take the pills.’

‘The hearing starts in a week.’

‘And what good will that do? You’ve heard what he says about everything. He’s the last man accountable for what happened.’

‘Are you going to kill him?’

Rem drew the napkin between his hands. He licked his forefinger, pressed down on one of the tablets and put it in his mouth. ‘What will it do?’

‘Take both.’

Rem took the second pill, swallowed it with the coffee. ‘They will catch you.’

‘And who are
they
, Rem? No one has any idea. People should thank us for what we’re doing.’ Santo sat back. ‘He’s untouchable, they can’t find a thing against him.’

‘It isn’t Geezler.’

‘Nice try. Keep telling yourself that and maybe it will help.’ Santo lifted Rem’s hand and let it drop, and Rem felt a sensation run through his arm, a fuzz of heat. His stomach also tightened.

‘Don’t worry. Just relax.’ Santo pinched his mouth. ‘Don’t try to stand up. They give this shit to horses. You’ll be OK.’

‘You know I have to tell someone.’

‘To what point, Rem? It’s already too late. This is almost done now. It’s almost over.’

Rem began to panic and when he attempted to rise his legs gave no support. Santo took out his wallet and threw down five dollars. ‘I’m going to take you back.’ He slipped out of the booth. ‘I’ll need your keys.’

Rem attempted to resist, his fingers now feeling too fat to control.

‘I’ll take you home. You’ll begin to feel sick. You shouldn’t look so scared. I promise nothing will happen to you. We’d better get going.’

He hitched his arm about Rem and hoisted him out of his chair. ‘You’re going to have to help me a little if you can.’

The officers watched as Santo shuffled Rem upright then walked him sloppily to the door, and Santo joked to Rem, although he couldn’t focus on more than the bright light, the welter of sounds, the hectic displacement of planes. Two of the officers rose, one to get the inner door, the other to get the outer, both with a little laugh as Santo explained himself, tapping Rem on the chest, and pointing out that he needed to get him home, that this wasn’t anything to worry about, he didn’t need any assistance, he just needed to get him home and back on his meds. The second policeman stepped sharply back, and Santo looked down, apologized. He does that. It’s just what happens.

Santo managed Rem across the road, into the lobby, a fireman’s lift up the stairs, Rem’s physical senses condensed now down to his guts, to his skin, prickling, and then the realization that he had wet himself.

Santo wrested the keys out of his pocket, leaned Rem between his hips and the wall, Rem’s arm struck out crazy into the air, pointing.

‘I’ll sit with you till you sleep, and then I’ll be going.’

Santo sat him in the chair. Propped him up with cushions and clothes so that he was lodged upright. Rem had messed himself, Santo noted, he was sorry, it sometimes happened. I should have brought you back first.

Rem focused on Santo’s mouth and could no longer clearly follow what he was saying. The words came dog-like, chewed, shapes made out of his mouth, a cracked lower lip, uneven teeth, looking small in such a big mouth.

Santo talked about a room, a drive, a story about people stopping at motels, about meeting a girl, some beautiful woman, and how things might work out, you just don’t know, about how he would not come back, and would make no attempt to see him again. Sutler had been discovered in Syria, he said, out in some desert, half-dead. Smoking now, Santo held back to exhale. Can you even believe that? He’s dying in some hospital in Damascus.

Santo held Rem’s head in his hands. ‘I’m taking Geezler back to his house. I’m going to leave him in the basement, and I’m going to shut the door. In nine hours he’s going to revive. Alone. In a room he can’t get out of. You have to live with this. You have to deal with this on your own. We can’t let him continue, we can’t allow him to make more profit from what he has done. We’re all adults, and there are consequences to every action that we take. What happened to Kiprowski wasn’t right, and Pakosta will have to live with that, but Geezler, he doesn’t have to deal with anything, not unless we do this.

‘In fourteen hours you’ll come out of this. You should throw away these clothes, burn this chair, get rid of anything which attaches you to any of us. You will not go to the police. Pakosta is still sore at you. I’ve talked him round and this is the deal. You live with this, like we have to live with this.’

Rem slipped out of himself, backward and away.

✩

Picture yourself above a highway, right below you a mess of trucks, cars, motorbikes converging on a slick turn on a rising road. Imagine, right before the scene gets complicated, that you can drop down, right out of the sky, pick someone up, and take them out of harm’s way. Imagine that. The car spinning behind you as you rise. The truck jack-knifing. The bike scudding the rock. Imagine not one person, but every one of them. That you could spirit them away. Every single one.

Oftentimes, at night, bordering sleep, the same sensation of hovering above a bright and broadening field would overtake Rem – and sometimes this sensation would annihilate him, at others he would hover with expectation that someone else was readying to join him.

Early on the last Sunday of July, Amelia Peña, supervisor at via Capasso 29, rented a tiny basement room to Salvatore, who, with his sons, ran a modest grocery and eatery set into the corner of the palazzo.

They met at the small service door on via Tribunali, and Peña escorted the man across an inner courtyard to the basement stairs. The courtyard was cluttered and unswept, and as they walked Salvatore answered Peña’s questions but did not chatter. He spoke quickly and in a soft voice, mellow enough so that much of what he said was lost to her.
No,
he said,
in all these years he hadn’t seen these rooms before.
The windows overlooking the courtyard were closed and shuttered.
This wasn’t for him
.
This wasn’t for his business.