Part 40 (2/2)
”Oh, zoooom,” sang Otis, ”I'd like to fly away....”
Otis turned onto the two-lane. Farrow followed in the Mach 1.
Thomas Wilson sat in the idling Intrepid behind the Texaco station. He turned off the heater. He could smell his own sweat coming through his clothes.
He looked at his watch. Farrow and Otis would be way up 301 by now. Another half hour, they'd be pulling into the lot.
He'd been all chest out when he was with Dimitri, talking about how he was going to ”go through with this,” saying it strong, like there wasn't any kind of doubt in his mind. But now that he was alone, the fear had slithered back in. Truth was, if he was to pull a gun right now, it would slip right out of his hands.
And then there were Farrow and Otis. They had that way of theirs that made him feel small and weak, even back in Lewisburg, when they pretended to be his friend. Otis sometimes referred to him as his boy. Errand boy was more like it. He never was one of them, and they had always let him know it, too.
The .38 dug into the small of his back. He s.h.i.+fted in the bucket.
He and Karras needed help. There wasn't any sense in denying it anymore. Maybe Karras was strong and crazy enough to pull it off on his end. But Wilson knew he couldn't do it. He'd be punked out like he'd always been punked out. He'd get the both of them killed.
Wilson was out of the car and walking around the side of the gas station. He was walking to the pay phone, telling himself that this was not another betrayal, that he wasn't being a coward, that he was trying to help his friend. He was talking to himself, sweating and s.h.i.+vering in the cold, when he dropped the coins and dialed, and he was still muttering something when the phone rang on the other end and the line went live.
”h.e.l.lo.”
”It's Thomas Wilson.”
”Thomas -”
”Ain't got no time to bulls.h.i.+t, Nick. I need your help.”
Jonas handed the phone to Dan Boyle. ”It's Stefanos again. For you.”
Boyle put the phone to his ear and listened intently. Jonas watched his face as Boyle nodded and spoke excitedly.
Boyle said, ”See you then,” and handed Jonas a dead phone.
”What's up?” said Jonas.
”I'm goin' out.”
Boyle went back to the guest bedroom, grabbed a pair of gloves from his overnight bag and shoved them in the pockets of his khakis. He unzipped a canvas gym bag, drew his Python, and checked the load. He holstered the Python, reached into the bag, and withdrew his throw-down, a .380 double-action Beretta with a thirteen-shot magazine. He examined the magazine, slapped it back into the b.u.t.t, and dropped the gun in the side pocket of his Harris tweed. He looked over his shoulder, then went back into the gym bag and extracted a Baggie holding confiscated snow-seals of powdered cocaine. He slipped the Baggie into the other pocket of his jacket and walked back out to the living room with the holstered Python in his hand.
”You gonna tell me what's goin' on?” said Jonas.
”When I get back. You got your piece?”
”It's in the drawer over there.”
”Get it,” said Boyle, lifting his wrinkled raincoat off a chair. ”Until you hear from me, you keep it in your lap.”
The two-tone Continental and the red Mach 1 pulled into the back lot of the Texaco station. The Mustang skidded on gravel as it came to a stop. Otis killed the engine on the Mark V, stepped out, and walked to the Intrepid. Wilson opened his door.
”T. W.,” said Otis.
”Roman.” His mouth spasmed as he tried to smile.
”Come on, man. We'll go in Farrow's short.”
Farrow rolled his window down as they neared the car. ”These brakes are shot again,” said Farrow. ”If you just push the pedal in, you get nothing. You got to pump the h.e.l.l out of these things to bring it to a stop.”
”Booker put the fluid in,” said Otis. ”I seen him do it.”
”I'm tellin' you, Roman, they're f.u.c.ked.”
”Let me drive over to the joint, man, so I can see my own self.”
”Suit yourself.”
Farrow did not greet Wilson as he stepped out of the car. Wilson climbed into the backseat, and Farrow went around to the pa.s.senger side. Otis got under the wheel and put the car in gear.
”Where to, T. W.?”
”Pull out,” said Wilson, ”and make a right onto the road.”
Otis tested the brakes both ways as they hit the asphalt. He pumped the pedal and managed to bring the Mustang to a stop.
”You're right, Frank. These brakes are are f.u.c.ked. Have to use the Mark when we do the job for real.” f.u.c.ked. Have to use the Mark when we do the job for real.”
Farrow looked over his shoulder to the backseat. ”What's wrong with your face, T. W.? How'd you get marked?”
”Got stole in the face in a bar,” said Wilson.
”Let yourself get stole, huh?” said Otis. ”Imagine that. You look a little tight, too.”
”Got a minor problem, is all it is.”
”What's that?”
”The inside man, the one who got me the key? He thought about it and now he wants an extra grand.”
”He's already been paid,” said Farrow.
”I told him as much,” said Wilson, noticing a catch in his voice, wondering if they noticed it, too.
”And what happened?”
”Couldn't talk him out of it,” said Wilson.
”I guess I need to talk to him myself,” said Farrow.
”You're going to,” said Wilson as they neared the industrial park sign. ”He's waitin' on us at the warehouse right now.”
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