The Reapers

Then the gum chewer produced a gun from beneath his jacket. He didn’t even point it at Willie, just let it dangle by his side like it was the most natural thing in the world to walk into a man’s premises and prepare to kill him. He kept his thumb and forefinger in position while he stretched the remaining fingers, an athlete giving his muscles a final loosening before stepping into the blocks.

“Drop the wrench,” said his goateed buddy.

Willie did. It made a loud clang as it hit the concrete floor.

“You don’t look so good,” said Goatee. Willie tried to place the accent, but couldn’t. There might have been some Canadian in there someplace. Not that it mattered, not now.

“I had a rough night.”

“Well, I hate to say it, but your day ain’t about to get much better.”

Goatee punched Willie hard. Willie didn’t have a chance to prepare for the blow. It hit him full in the center of the face and broke his nose. Willie went down on his knees, his hands already raised to catch the first flow of blood. He heard the second man snicker, then move off. The door to the storage area opened. Willie peered through his fingers, and saw the gum chewer enter the room, his gun raised now. For once in his life, Willie prayed, don’t let Arno do anything dumb.

Goatee now had his own gun in his hand.

“You know,” he continued, “you ought to be more particular about who you go into business with. I mean, I know men who keep company with faggots. I don’t respect ’em, and I can’t say that I much like what they do together, but it happens. Then, Lord knows, I’ve known men to keep company with killers. You might say that I am one of those men, and my buddy back there is as well. We’re both like that, in a way: we kill people, and we keep each other company while we do it. But you, you’re covering all the bases at once. Hanging out with fag killers: that’s quite something. Guess you ought not to be surprised at what comes next.”

He pointed the gun at Willie’s head, and Willie closed his eyes. He heard a shot, and grimaced, but the sound hadn’t come from up close. Instead, it echoed inside the storage room. The noise distracted Goatee for an instant. His head turned, and in that moment Willie was on him. He picked up the wrench as he came, raising it almost to his shoulder and then bringing it down sharply just above the man’s gun hand. He thought that he felt a bone snap, and then the gun was on the floor and Willie’s weight was forcing the other man back against the trunk of the red Olds on which Arno had been working. Even with one hand injured, Goatee was still fast. His left hand lashed out, catching Willie’s busted nose and sending fresh daggers of pain through his face, blinding him for an instant. Willie kicked with his right foot, and the steel toe cap of his work boot co

Arno was standing at the entrance to the storage room, a gun in his hand. The gun wasn’t very steady, and looked too big for Arno to hold. Arno didn’t like guns and, as far as Willie knew, had never fired one before. It was a wonder that he’d managed to hit his target at all. Arno moved cautiously toward the garage door. There was the sound of a car starting up, then driving away.

Willie struggled to his feet. “What happened to the other fella?” he asked.

“I hit him with a hammer,” said Arno. He was very pale. “His gun went off when he fell. You okay?”

Willie nodded. His nose hurt like damnation, but he was alive. His hands were shaking, and now he felt sure that he was going to vomit. He reached out and gently removed the gun from Arno’s hand, putting the safety on as he did so.

“What was all that about?” asked Arno.

“I need to make a call,” said Willie. “Find some wire and tie up the guy in the storage room.”

Arno didn’t move. “I don’t think we’re go

Willie looked at him. “Jesus, how hard did you hit him?”

“It was a hammer. How hard do you think?”

Willie shook his head, although he wasn’t sure whether in despair or admiration.

“I’m working with fucking Rambo now,” he said. “I don’t even know how you managed to wing that other guy.”

“I was aiming for his feet,” said Willie.

“What were you trying to do, make him dance? Aiming for his feet. Jesus. Lock the doors.”

Arno did as he was told. Willie went into his office and picked up the phone. He knew by heart the number that he dialed.

The call transferred to a machine. Then he tried the service, and the woman named Amy took his number and said that she’d pass on the message. Finally, he tried the cell, using this week’s number, to be utilized only in the gravest of emergencies, but a voice told him that the phone was off.

For Louis and Angel had troubles of their own.

Mrs. Bondarchuk was in the hallway when she heard the buzzer sound. She looked through one of the frosted-glass panes of the i

“Can I help you?” she asked, in a tone that suggested any help would be a long time coming. Mrs. Bondarchuk was wary of all strangers, and especially men. She knew what men were like. There wasn’t a one that could be trusted, the two gentlemen who lived upstairs excepted.

“Delivery,” the voice came back.

“Delivery for whom?”

There was a pause.

“Mrs. Evelyn Bondarchuk.”

“Leave it inside,” said Mrs. Bondarchuk, hitting the switch that opened the outer door only.

“Are you Mrs. Bondarchuk?” said the delivery man, as he stepped into the entrance.

“Who else would I be?”

“Need you to sign for it.”

There was an inch-wide slot in the i

“Put it through the hole,” said Mrs. Bondarchuk.

“Lady, I can’t do that. It’s important. I need to hold on to it.”

“What am I going to do with a clipboard?” asked Mrs. Bondarchuk. “Sell it and fly to Russia? Put the clipboard through the hole.”

The front door closed behind the man. She could see him properly now. He had dark hair and bad skin.

“Come on lady, be reasonable. Open up and sign.”

Mrs. Bondarchuk didn’t like the suggestion that she was being in any way unreasonable.

“I can’t do that. You’ll have to go, and you can take your parcel with you. Leave the number and I’ll collect it myself.”

“This is stupid, Mrs. Bondarchuk. If you don’t accept it, I got to haul it all the way downtown again. You know, it could get lost,” the man said, his implication clear. “Maybe it’s perishable. What then?”

“Then it’ll start to smell,” said Mrs. Bondarchuk, “and you’ll have to throw it away. Leave now, please.”

But the man did not leave. Instead, he drew a pistol from beneath his uniform and aimed it at the glass. It had a cylinder attached to the end of it. Mrs. Bondarchuk had seen enough cop shows to know a silencer when she saw one.

“You dumb old bitch,” he said as Mrs. Bondarchuk’s finger left the intercom button, ending their conversation, while her left hand hit the silent alarm. The man glanced over his shoulder at the empty street behind him, then aimed the pistol at the glass and fired twice. The sound was like a pair of paper bags bursting, and almost simultaneously two impact marks appeared in front of Mrs. Bondarchuk’s face, but the glass did not break. Like most things about the building, Mrs. Bondarchuk included, it was more formidable than it first appeared.