Wiseguys: Blast From the Past (8 page)

Tony 's jaw ached and his head hurt. He was sick of the stupidity of the entire situation, and he was sick to death of this guy pointing a gun at Carter. For a moment, Tony almost shot him on sheer principle, but he needed the guy to deliver a message, and the guy couldn't do that if he was dead.

"None of this had to happen," Tony said. "What family sent you? Which boss?"

"Toretti," the guy said.

Not Luciano like they'd thought, but Toretti. What a fucking joke. Toretti ran whores and numbers two burgs over from where Uncle Sid's territory ended. When Toretti's goons took out Uncle Sid and his lieutenants, it had been the first salvo in a war over territory. Tony never thought Toretti would come out on top in that war, but he must have. Tony hoped Luciano got a big-ass favor in return when he sold the two of them out to Toretti.

"Toretti." Carter snorted. "He ain't got but two brain cells in that puny head of his, and those two don't get along so well."

Tony could see the muscles in the guy's jaw clench. "I should shoot you just for disrespecting the boss."

"He disrespected my family," Tony said.

"And you two
fags
didn't do nothing about it," the guy said. "Until Jojo comes back from vacation and tells Luciano this story about seeing ghosts in Idaho, and Luciano decides to play nice, the boss don't even know you two were alive."

Jojo -- the guy on vacation with his wife and two kids.

"But here you two are, and as long as you're breathing, the boss has a problem." The guy smiled. "I eliminate problems, so here I am."

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Tony said. "There's no problem here."

"You two are here."

"And we're no problem for your boss. Look around you. You see any of the families from back home? You been here long enough to scope us out. You see any numbers going on? Any protection rackets? We're out of the business." Tony bit off the last four words to make them count. "If we're all that's left of my uncle's family, then there's no family. There's nothing but the two of us. We're not planning on going back. Are we?" he asked Carter.

"Not a chance," Carter said.

"You're telling me you two are happy hicks now?" the guy said. "How come I don't buy that?"

"We're living together," Tony said. "Out here in the open. We even walk down the fucking sidewalk holding hands. What's that tell you?"

Tony could see the guy think that one over. He might not believe anything else that Tony had told him, but the guy knew what that meant. He had to know, just like Tony and Carter knew, that the two of them would never be able to stay together and get any respect from any of the other families. Even if they wanted to take over Uncle Sid's old operations, they couldn't, not and still be together.

"I go back and you're not dead, I got my own problems to deal with," the guy said. "My boss, he don't like it when I walk away from a job."

"You won't be walking away," Tony said. "You'll be taking a message."

"Oh, yeah? What message?"

"Leave us alone, and we'll leave you alone. No retribution for my uncle, for the rest of the family. That score's settled, once and for all."

"That's it?"

"That's it," Tony said.

"And if I say no?"

Tony raised the barrel of his gun so that it pointed at a spot between the guy's eyes. "Then you don't walk out of here alive, and I find another way to send the message to your boss."

"You can't kill us both," Carter said. "Take the deal and walk out of here alive, or die. It don't matter to me."

"You'd be dead, too," the guy said.

One corner of Carter's mouth quirked up, just a little. "Like I said, it don't matter to me."

Tony wasn't sure what did it, either the futility of the situation, simple math, or that little quirk of Carter's mouth, but the guy finally lowered his gun. When the red dot disappeared from the front of Carter's shirt, Tony felt like he could breathe again. He lowered his own gun.

The guy on the floor groaned and one of his arms moved, like he was trying to push himself up.

"Get your friend and get the fuck out of here," Tony said.

The guy didn't want to do it, Tony could tell. He was a shooter, not a pack horse. He looked at the guy on the floor like so much dead weight, and for a moment, Tony thought he'd shoot the man himself.

In the end, the shooter put his gun in a shoulder holster and bent to help the guy on the floor get to his feet.

"You got one more in the living room," Tony said. "Except I don't think he's getting up."

"Then he's your problem," the shooter said.

∗ ∗ ∗

This time the sheriff wasn't as accommodating.

One dead body and a middle of the night shootout apparently wasn't what the sheriff had in mind when he'd told Tony to keep his nose clean. Only the fact that there were bullet holes in the front window and another one over the couch, not to mention the fact that the dead guy had night vision goggles and was all the way inside the front door, kept the sheriff from charging Tony with manslaughter.

The sheriff definitely wasn't happy with their story about Tony's gun. Carter had gotten rid of Tony's gun -- all the guns in the house -- before they'd called the sheriff to report the invasion of their home. Tony didn't know how, and he didn't want to. The less he knew, the less he'd have to lie about. They'd told the sheriff that the dead guy's accomplice had stolen Tony's gun, but Tony knew the sheriff didn't buy the story. He just had no evidence that Tony was lying.

Not that the sheriff didn't try. He kept Tony in the little interrogation room for more than two hours trying to shake his story, but Tony had been grilled by cops back in Jersey. He knew how to stick to his story and otherwise keep his mouth shut.

Finally, Sheriff Sewell leaned back in his chair. He pointed a small remote at the camera in the upper corner of the interrogation room. Tony wasn't surprised that the interrogation had been recorded. He was surprised when the sheriff turned the camera off.

If they'd been in Jersey, turning the camera off would have been the prelude to a more physical form of questioning by a dirty cop on another family's payroll. Tony didn't think that would be the case now. Sewell didn't strike him as a guy on anybody's payroll except the county's.

"You two bring trouble with you," the sheriff said. "I know what you are, and I know if you were in a talkative mood, you'd swear up and down that you've left the life behind."

Tony kept his mouth shut. There it was, out in the open. Sewell was studying Tony with his flat cop's eyes, waiting for a reaction from Tony. Tony made sure not to give him one.

The sheriff was pushing fifty, but there wasn't an ounce of fat on him. His uniform was pressed and neat, and the only way Tony could tell that the man had been dragged out of bed to deal with Tony and Carter was the hint of stubble on his face. No, Sewell was anything but a country bumpkin cop, and he was nobody they could cajole. The best they could hope for was a stalemate.

"So, let's say you've left the life behind," Sewell said. "Maybe you have. Norman and Bess tell me you're good boys. Maybe you are. But you're still trouble."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "You about to run us out of town?"

The sheriff sighed. "Not my style," he said. "But if you are good boys like they say you are, you might want to think about relocating voluntarily."

"We got a life here. Got a business."

Sewell nodded. "And friends who care about you. I understand that."

"Then maybe you got a problem with us because of something else?"

The sheriff wouldn't be the first cop Tony knew who was a homophobe, but the idea made him sad. Made him think that the Munroe brothers might be getting off with just a slap on the wrist.

The sheriff's mouth set in a tight line. "I don't care if you're queer or straight or swing both ways. That's not the issue here, and I figure you're smart enough to know it. My job is to care about the safety of the citizens of this town and the tourists who keep their businesses in business. What I hope you care about is the safety of your friends. Bess could have ended up dead. Your neighbors could have been hit by a stray bullet. The little girl who lives across the street from you, the Connors' kid, she could have been killed by one of those guys who came gunning for you."

Tony knew the little girl the sheriff was talking about. He'd never known her name, but she was pretty and blonde and had a pink bicycle that she rode back and forth to school, and if she was ten, she was old.

The sheriff stood up. He folded the little notepad he'd used to take notes during his interrogation closed and put it in the breast pocket of his uniform shirt.

"That mean we're done here?" Tony asked.

"We're done."

Sewell held the door to the interrogation room open, and Tony left. His side hurt, a dull throbbing that ran counterpoint to the pounding of his aching head. The aspirin he'd swallowed before the enforcers hit the house had worn off hours ago. Now that the shooters were taken care of, Tony intended to take the pain pills the E.R. doctor had given him and sleep for about a week.

The sheriff's office was in an old, stucco building across the street from City Hall. From the outside it looked no bigger than the church where Tony had attended mass every Sunday with his uncle's family. Uncle Sid always sat up front, and every Sunday Tony had walked up and down the main aisle to that front pew without a second thought. Now the corridor from the interrogation room to the little room out front where Carter waited for him looked longer than a football field. With the sheriff following close behind him, Tony had to force himself to make that walk look no more difficult than strolling down the aisle at church.

Instead of opening the last door between Tony and freedom, the sheriff put his hand on the doorknob.

What now?

Sewell waited until Tony looked him in the eye. "Think about what I said. If any of the people you care about get hurt because of you, if that little girl across the street gets so much as a hangnail because of you, you won't be walking out of a place like this until you're old and gray."

Tony didn't say anything. There was nothing he could say.

After a moment, the sheriff opened the door. Carter stood up from the bench seat where he'd been waiting, looked between Tony and the sheriff, but didn't ask how it went. The fact that Tony wasn't in handcuffs spoke volumes.

"Keep your noses clean," the sheriff said again, then he shut the door, leaving Tony and Carter alone.

Carter took Tony's hand, held it gently. "You ready to go?"

"Beyond ready." He didn't look back at the closed door. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Tony slept for what felt like days.

When he woke up, the sun was shining, brilliant hot light outside the bedroom window. They were back in a suite at Bess' bed and breakfast. The house they rented was a crime scene. They wouldn't be able to go back until the sheriff's people released the place. Given how the sheriff felt about them, Tony had no idea when that might be.

He blinked until his eyes focused, then he looked at the bedside clock. Nearly eleven in the morning. They should have been at the deli four hours ago.

He'd taken his pain pills before he'd finally climbed into bed just as the sky was turning pale pink in the east. The pills had put him out like a light. Now every muscle in his body felt stiff and sore. When he sat up, his abused side protested. The skin felt tight where he had stitches, but at least he didn't have the hot, cotton-headed feeling of a fever.

He must have made some sort of noise, because before he got his feet on the floor, Carter appeared in the bedroom doorway. "Hey, sleepyhead," Carter said, grinning. "'Bout time you woke up."

"Fuck you," Tony said, managing a small grin. "How come you're not at work?"

"Figured we could use a day off, so I made an executive decision. We're taking a holiday."

"Holiday?"

"Yeah. The first annual Tony and Carter Kicked the Bad Guys' Collective Asses Day."

"Catchy name."

"Think Hallmark will put out a card?"

Tony snorted. "Hate to imagine what'd be on the front of it."

The floors in the suite were hardwood. Bess had put a few throw rugs here and there - hardwood was fucking cold in the middle of an Idaho winter - but now the cool wood felt good beneath Tony's feet. He shuffled his way into the tiny bathroom. The tub wasn't as big as the one in their house, but it was big enough.

"I need a bath," he said to Carter when he was done with the toilet and brushing his teeth. "Want to join me?"

"No bath." Carter handed him a mug of coffee. The suites at Bess' came complete with kitchens. From the smell, Carter had put this one to good use. "Not 'til those bandages come off."

"I stink."

Carter leaned in and kissed him. "I don't mind."

Tony let himself enjoy the kiss. Carter hadn't shaved yet, and the stubble of his beard felt rough and wonderful against Tony's face. "I need a shave, too," Tony said.

"You need a sponge bath, a shampoo, and a shave."

"Fucking sponge bath?" Sponge baths were for old shits who couldn't get themselves out of bed.

"Doctor's orders."

"Yeah?"

Carter grinned and grabbed a washcloth. "Dr. Carter." He closed the lid on the toilet. "Now sit down and let me get to work."

Tony sat.

He'd worn a simple, white tee-shirt to bed along with a loose pair of boxers. Carter turned the tap on in the sink, and while he waited for the water to heat up, he helped Tony off with the tee-shirt.

"Hurt much?" Carter asked when Tony lifted his arms and winced.

"Not so much as if he'd gotten a better shot at me."

"If he'd gotten a better shot at you, we wouldn't be talking now."

No, they wouldn't. They'd gotten lucky, both yesterday afternoon and last night. Tony knew it, and so did Carter.

Tony peered down at his side. The skin poking from beneath the bandages wasn't as red as he expected. He had some bruises that hadn't been there yesterday when the E.R. doctor patched him up. The bandages didn't have any blood staining the white gauze. No bleeding, even after last night. Another good sign.