Final Winter

Imad pulled the truck up to the Ford, left the engine running and the lights on as Vladimir jumped out of the cab. He went over to the SUV, went to the rear tire and felt up against the fender. There. His hand emerged with a key, which he held up so that Imad could see it. Imad honked the horn in response. Vladimir went to the Ford, unlocked the door, climbed in and started up the engine. Their instructions were to wait for a day, possibly two, to ensure that all was in place and that the final payments to their bank accounts were made. He came out as Imad shut off the diesel engine and emerged from the Freightliner, carrying his belongings. Vladimir watched him carefully as he put his belongings into the Explorer. Vladimir followed shortly, carrying his own bags. Imad made to go into the Ford when Vladimir said, ‘The truck. I forgot the paperwork. Could you get it? Please?’

Imad shrugged, went back to the Freightliner. As he did that, Vladimir ducked into the Explorer, looking, looking, looking, and there it was. The small leather case. He opened the case and grabbed what was in it, just as—

Imad was there, a folder of papers in his hand. He looked confused.

‘What… what are you doing?’

‘Showing you that I do know how to kill, boy,’ Vladimir said. And he shot him three times in the chest with his own pistol.

Imad fell back, the paperwork flying from his hand. Vladimir strolled over and, just to make sure, he placed the muzzle of the pistol against the boy’s forehead and pulled the trigger again.

‘And if you didn’t hear me before, fuck you,’ he said.

Vladimir picked up the papers, walked around and picked up the four empty cartridge shells, and then went to the Ford Explorer, ready to leave this place, this state, this country.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Two days after flying back from Memphis, in the laundry room of his small apartment building in Rockaway, Queens, Brian Doyle walked back and forth, listening to the comforting sound of his Highland bagpipes, echoing among the quiet washing machines and dryers. The sound was good in the basement, the drones echoing off the thick plaster walls, the keening sound of the chanter cutting through the steady tone of the drones.

He walked back and forth at a slow pace, going through some of his favorites, starting with the quick marches -’Highland Laddie’ and ‘42nd Black Watch Highlanders Crossing the Rhine’ and ‘Heroes of Vittoria’ — and then a few slowsteps, like ‘Skye Boat Song’ and ‘Blue Bells’ and ‘Sleep Dearie Sleep’ — and as he was getting ready to start another round, there was someone there, standing by the doorway, a grin on his face, slowly clapping his hands’.

Brian let the mouthpiece fall from his mouth, snapped the bagpipes out from underneath his arm. Standing in front of him was his partner, Jimmy Carr.

Jimmy said, ‘Welcome back to the world, partner.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Guess I missed you when you checked in at the house.’

‘Guess you missed me ‘cause I didn’t show up,’ Brian said.

‘Hah. Goofing off?’

‘Time I’ve had these past months, I deserve all the goofing off I can get. And then some.’

Jimmy went over to a low-slung dryer, sat up on it, folded his arms. ‘So how come you’re not back on the job?’

Brian shrugged. ‘Like I said, I needed the time.’

‘Time to heal? Heard you got cut in Cincinnati.’

‘How in hell did you learn that?’

‘I’m a detective. It’s my job to detect, to learn things. Like my partner, who’s been taken away by the Feds, found himself at the wrong end of a knife in Cincinnati. Jesus. Cincinnati. If you’re going to die, that’s a hell of a place to die in.’

‘True.’

‘Next time be more careful, huh?’

‘Sure,’ Brian said. ‘Next time.’

‘Seen your boy yet?’

Brian grinned. ‘Last night. And later today. It’s good to see him…But his mother, though…’

Jimmy laughed at that and said, ‘So why in hell did you come back?’

Brian went over to an idle washer, gently placed his bagpipes down. The bag collapsed a bit, making a sighing noise through the drones, sounding like an old dog trying to relax. Brian said, ‘I guess I got tired. Guess I got fired.’

‘So. What were you working on before you got fired?’

‘Classified.’

‘Boy, am I surprised to hear that. Did you like it?’

‘Nope.’

‘Then how come you’re not back on the job? Hey, remember that car-chopping case we were working on, before you left? The Sanchez brothers?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, it’s been to court and back. Their mother gave them up. Can you believe that? So much for maternal feelings.’

Brian leaned back against the washer, said nothing, Jimmy watched him. Jimmy said, ‘All right. So you don’t want to talk about the job. And you can’t talk about your new job. Classified and all that crap. So what was going on with your Fed job that you can tell me, partner?’