Читать книгу The Evil That Men Do - Dave White - Страница 13

Chapter 2

Business at the Olde Towne tavern had been booming in the last few months. Donne didn’t know what it was. Even with school out, people would pack the place on weekend nights to the point where you couldn’t sit at the bar and couldn’t move your elbows when you stood. On weeknights, you had to get there before seven to get a table. Maybe the new chef Artie hired had stopped overcooking the burgers.

Or maybe Artie had finally cleaned the taps.

Either way, Donne made sure he was there at six P.M. on the dot, Molson in front of him, a grilled chicken sandwich on the way. He placed his cell phone on the bar next to his pint glass. It wasn’t until Artie approached him that Donne realized he was staring at the phone.

“Waiting for a call?” he asked.

Looking up, Donne said, “No, deciding whether or not to make one.”

Artie nodded and waited.

“Bad date?” he asked when Donne didn’t elaborate. “No, my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

Donne downed his pint and Artie took it to refill. “There’s a reason you didn’t know that.”

“And now you have to call her about something?”

“You’re quick,” Donne said. There was no smile to go along with the comment.

Artie put the pint down so hard he nearly dropped it. He turned on his heel and walked away. Donne picked up his cell phone and dialed.

Susan picked up on the third ring.

“I’ll do it,” he said without preamble. “I can start tomorrow. Where’s Mom staying?”

“Uh,” she mumbled. “Grove Estates in Wayne. On Berdan Avenue.”

Two women walked into the bar, hair made up like they’d just come from shooting The Sopranos. They wore shorts and tank tops and cracked gum.

“I’ll be there in the morning.”

“Do you want me to be th—” He snapped the phone shut.

***

Steve Earle on the CD player. A good way to go, because he did feel all right. Surprisingly so. There weren’t any nerves, no sweaty palms, just the job at hand.

The Ryder truck rumbled up Third Avenue, crossing Seventy-sixth. Mike Garibell could see the restaurant up ahead. He was going to need to find parking soon.

Mike Garibell. He smiled at the name.

He was going to have to think of himself that way tonight. That was the name on the fake driver’s license. In case he got pulled over.

Hey, Mike, how are you tonight? the bouncer at the bar next door might ask, checking the ID.

I’m fine.

No, don’t say anything. Just smile and nod. Act like you belong.

Carter’s was on the corner of Seventy-ninth and Third. A banner hung from the canopy advertising “Our 75th Year!” Good a time as any for revenge. The exterior of the restaurant was wood paneled, with glass swing doors that led to a dark hallway. No one was inside. The place had closed down hours earlier.

Mike pulled the truck to a stop on the corner. Put it in park. He figured it would take about two minutes for someone to come out of one of the bars and notice the damn thing and call the cops. Another seven or eight minutes for the cops to get there and check it out. If it hadn’t been two in the morning, even less time.

That would give Mike about ten minutes to get some space between him and the truck. Doable. Might even get to suck a pint down before pressing the old button.

They had to learn. Family was the most important thing. Payback started now.

Fuck it, just get the hell out of there. He stepped down from the cab of the truck and crossed the street. He didn’t hurry. He walked. He looked like he belonged. Like Mike Garibell was supposed to be there.

He made his way up to Eightieth and turned left. There was an Irish pub on the corner, and he stopped in. The place was nearly empty. Five more minutes and the fuzz would be swarming around the big yellow truck.

When the bartender put a glass full of Smithwick’s in front of him, Mike decided it was time. He didn’t know how the fucking Arabs did it, sat in the car and pressed the button. Let themselves go with the truck. It didn’t make sense.

Even now, a block and a half away, he felt a moment of regret as he reached into his pocket.

Finding the remote, he pressed the button. A moment of hesitation, then an eruption of light and sound rattled the glasses. The bartender swore and hit the ground.

Mike finished the pint in two gulps, dropped a five on the bar, and left.

He was six blocks north when his ears finally stopped ringing.