jacket as he put the gun away. “Bloody hell.”
Johnny laughed and said he wanted a taco, which was fine by Sid. It was getting late; he could eat. They’d just let Telly bleed out. They could always cut the body up after lunch.
•••••
We waited at Crestwood Bowl until just after dark. There was no sign of Telly or the money. We listened to the scanner and the radio. As far as we knew he was still on the run.
With partial interest, I followed the Lincoln Town Car back to Cowboy Roy’s. We needed to talk things over. Had to stay on this if we wanted to get paid.
I’d used a pay phone outside the bowling alley to call Chief Caraway. I asked him what he knew.
He said, “Them boys was either damn lucky or damn good.” He asked me again what I knew about Norm Russo but I kept what I’d learned to myself. I still had a few angles of my own to work. I left out my involvement with Big Tony and Doyle.
The Chief told me, “Try a little harder. Do what you gotta do.” He said it was important. Maybe if I broke this case he could pull a few strings. Said he’d like to see me back on the force.
When he asked about my drinking I told him it was under control, I was sober as a judge. And for a couple of hours every day, I was.
“I want you to work with one of my guys on this.”
I was surprised to hear that. Usually if I did anything for the Chief it was in an unofficial capacity. And I always worked alone. I did things my way and got results. I wasn’t bound by the usual constraints. Words like due process and Miranda rights had no place in my vocabulary. My old man played by the rules and I saw where that got him.
“Who you have in mind?” I asked.
“Ron Beachy.”
Surprised, I asked, “Amish Ron?”
“The very same,” Chief Caraway replied.
I told him that was fine. Said I was happy to help but working this case with Detective Beachy was going to fuck everything up for me. Amish Ron was a legend in police work. He’d grown up Amish, but somewhere along the way he’d converted, became one of us. I supposed a man could only raise so many barns without growing jaded.
The parking lot was jam-packed tight when we arrived at Cowboy Roy’s. It looked like a hundred people standing around, eating and drinking in the cold.
Big Tony and Doyle had plans; they’d do whatever it took to get the money. The word on the street was somebody got paid. Not enough to finance a revolution, but more than enough to kill for. If Telly was as dumb as he sounded, he was dead already.
I parked the Vic and enjoyed the beginnings of what was sure to be another outstanding drunk as I stood next to the Lincoln and waited for Big Tony to do another line of coke. He offered one to Doyle but Doyle never touched that shit. He didn’t waste his time with drinking either, because it cut into too much of his time for stealing. When Doyle wasn’t stealing, he was thinking about stealing. Or planning to steal something. He was the kind of guy who dreamed of stealing every night. And when Doyle couldn’t sleep, he wouldn’t count sheep—he stole them.
Even the watch on his wrist belonged to someone else, an established thief named Chuck Porter. He and Doyle went back to the days when Moses wore short pants and they had a rivalry of one-upmanship that was unmatched. They tried to out-steal the other in a friendly competition that Doyle eventually won when Chuck accidently got locked in a safe and ran out of air.
In a bold display of audacity, Doyle slipped the watch off Chuck’s wrist at his funeral, while he was lying in the casket in front of everyone. Doyle’d been wearing it ever since.
I slammed the last of my Corona and threw the bottle in the dumpster. We passed people braving the cold. Drinking beer and eating chili.
Big Tony led the way through the doorway that not four hours earlier I’d stumbled out of. The same doorway where I’d passed that tweaker shit fuck Telly. Goddammit. If I’d only known. He
Johnny laughed and said he wanted a taco, which was fine by Sid. It was getting late; he could eat. They’d just let Telly bleed out. They could always cut the body up after lunch.
•••••
We waited at Crestwood Bowl until just after dark. There was no sign of Telly or the money. We listened to the scanner and the radio. As far as we knew he was still on the run.
With partial interest, I followed the Lincoln Town Car back to Cowboy Roy’s. We needed to talk things over. Had to stay on this if we wanted to get paid.
I’d used a pay phone outside the bowling alley to call Chief Caraway. I asked him what he knew.
He said, “Them boys was either damn lucky or damn good.” He asked me again what I knew about Norm Russo but I kept what I’d learned to myself. I still had a few angles of my own to work. I left out my involvement with Big Tony and Doyle.
The Chief told me, “Try a little harder. Do what you gotta do.” He said it was important. Maybe if I broke this case he could pull a few strings. Said he’d like to see me back on the force.
When he asked about my drinking I told him it was under control, I was sober as a judge. And for a couple of hours every day, I was.
“I want you to work with one of my guys on this.”
I was surprised to hear that. Usually if I did anything for the Chief it was in an unofficial capacity. And I always worked alone. I did things my way and got results. I wasn’t bound by the usual constraints. Words like due process and Miranda rights had no place in my vocabulary. My old man played by the rules and I saw where that got him.
“Who you have in mind?” I asked.
“Ron Beachy.”
Surprised, I asked, “Amish Ron?”
“The very same,” Chief Caraway replied.
I told him that was fine. Said I was happy to help but working this case with Detective Beachy was going to fuck everything up for me. Amish Ron was a legend in police work. He’d grown up Amish, but somewhere along the way he’d converted, became one of us. I supposed a man could only raise so many barns without growing jaded.
The parking lot was jam-packed tight when we arrived at Cowboy Roy’s. It looked like a hundred people standing around, eating and drinking in the cold.
Big Tony and Doyle had plans; they’d do whatever it took to get the money. The word on the street was somebody got paid. Not enough to finance a revolution, but more than enough to kill for. If Telly was as dumb as he sounded, he was dead already.
I parked the Vic and enjoyed the beginnings of what was sure to be another outstanding drunk as I stood next to the Lincoln and waited for Big Tony to do another line of coke. He offered one to Doyle but Doyle never touched that shit. He didn’t waste his time with drinking either, because it cut into too much of his time for stealing. When Doyle wasn’t stealing, he was thinking about stealing. Or planning to steal something. He was the kind of guy who dreamed of stealing every night. And when Doyle couldn’t sleep, he wouldn’t count sheep—he stole them.
Even the watch on his wrist belonged to someone else, an established thief named Chuck Porter. He and Doyle went back to the days when Moses wore short pants and they had a rivalry of one-upmanship that was unmatched. They tried to out-steal the other in a friendly competition that Doyle eventually won when Chuck accidently got locked in a safe and ran out of air.
In a bold display of audacity, Doyle slipped the watch off Chuck’s wrist at his funeral, while he was lying in the casket in front of everyone. Doyle’d been wearing it ever since.
I slammed the last of my Corona and threw the bottle in the dumpster. We passed people braving the cold. Drinking beer and eating chili.
Big Tony led the way through the doorway that not four hours earlier I’d stumbled out of. The same doorway where I’d passed that tweaker shit fuck Telly. Goddammit. If I’d only known. He
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