To start at the beginning of the story go here.
After seeing his uncle’s corpse, Lanzo wasn’t capable of thought, only moving forward as I maneuvered him. I needed to get him somewhere safe before I lost control of the situation. I kept coming back to the one solution I had, backing away from it, and then only running into it again as we turned another corner. Eventually, out through the narrow opening of an alleyway, I saw what we needed.
Near that end of the alley, I propped Lanzo up on a trash bin, tried to say something comforting, failed. Before I walked out onto the cobblestone road, I took several deep breaths, timing my exhales for control, and wiped the sweat off my dome. With a cacophony of bad ideas ringing in my skull I tried to present a calm exterior. I think I might have even succeeded.
The payphone I spotted from the alley was, gratefully, functional and had no one in its vicinity. I picked it up and dialed. The high tone of the phone chiming continued until Atwell finally answered. “Who is this?”
“It’s your favorite neighborhood miscreant.” Not giving Atwell a chance to reply I continued, “I need you to come pick me up.” Mentioning Lanzo would only increase the odds of Atwell saying no, so I didn’t.
It didn’t matter as Atwell’s refusal was prompt and immediate. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Unless you want me to mention to the Night Governor that you’ve been watching him for Mitnick, I’d suggest you get in that shitty little car of yours and get down here.”
I could hear Atwell subjugate all of his nasty replies in his strangled voice. That not quite silence dragged on until he said, “Where are you?”
A quick scan of shuttered storefronts gave me the street name and a number. I read the address to Atwell, then hung up, not wanting to give him a chance to complain further.
Lanzo was still hunched against the bin, trying to remember his macho pride and cease blubbering. Before he could protest, I rifled through his jacket and came up with his cigarettes, pulled one out and stuck it in his mouth. I lifted his chin and looked him in the eye. If someone walked by and saw the poor, tear-stained mess the kid was and me holding him, they might have mistaken us for lovers.
If that were the case, though, I would have thought of something kind to say. Instead I said, “Get it together.” I pawed through his pockets again to come up with his lighter and flicked it to life, allowing Lanzo to inhale his smoke with shaking hands.
Once he had restored some semblance of control, I told him, “Someone’s on the way to pick us up. We’re going to get out of here.”
“I must find who did this.”
“You need to get out of town with the girl.”
“I cannot let this pass.”
“Did you think this was going to happen without someone getting hurt?”
“But why? He had nothing to do with this.”
I thought again about Sartre’s implied relationship with Moreau. I couldn’t think of any reason Sartre would want him dead; he had spoken of him with a strange kind of fondness. I’m sure that wouldn’t stop Sartre if he wanted to take something from Moreau, but the old drunk didn’t have much the world wanted or want much from the world.
I kept coming back to Whip and Brick showing up at Moreau’s garage. If the Russians were still searching for me, wanting revenge for Mikhail’s death, they might have shown up to see what Moreau knew. If that was the case, I had a pretty good idea of who within Mitnick’s organization was talking to the Russians.
“I don’t know,” I lied. We waited for Atwell.
Amazingly, we didn’t have to wait long before the tiny yellow Citroen rolled down the road. I kept Lanzo out of sight by the trash bin until the last moment. When the car stopped, I grabbed him and hustled in. Atwell protested the entire time, all of it boiling down to, “Who the hell is this?”
“He’s a material witness.” Where that came from I have no idea, but I didn’t elaborate, telling Atwell to drive. His weasel instincts must have told him there was trouble around because he actually did the smart thing and drove.
In the presence of a stranger, Lanzo regained his composure and the good sense to keep quiet. Atwell, on the other hand, resumed his questioning as soon as the Citroen had ceased its whining, accelerating pitch. “What the fuck is going on? Who is this kid?”
I ignored him. “Where’s Sartre?”
“How would I know?”
“You’ve been following him. You know his routine. Where is he?”
In between watching the road to dodge traffic, Atwell managed to spit a petulant, “Fuck you.” He went on, but I stopped listening. I slid the revolver out from the trench coat and set it on my lap. Atwell stopped talking.
Instead of the threat he was expecting, I served up my usual concoction of half-truths. “The kid is one of Sartre’s. Take us there so we can drop him off. When we do I can tell Sartre you saved his ass by starting the fire at the service station. Then you can stop hiding from him.”
Sandwiched between the immediate threat of me and Sartre’s potential wrath, Atwell acquiesced. “OK. He’s probably at his mother’s.”
To read the next chapter, go here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
To read a prequel to this story go here.
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