Dagger Key and Other Stories

“Oh, yeah. We can handle that. But, Avery…whoever the fuck you are. If this is bullshit, I’m gonna be very upset with you.”

“Just have someone here by seven.”

After hanging up he had a moment’s panic, a twinge of fear, an urge toward flight, but these found no purchase in his thoughts. He sat a while longer, then set about making breakfast. Fried eggs and ham, toast, and his last wedge of apple pie.

Shortly after six o’clock that afternoon, a dark green Datsun parked about a hundred feet off along the access road. Shellane pictured Gerbasi crammed into the front seat—the rental car options in Marquette must not have been to his liking. He considered going out to meet them, but though he was eager to have done with it, he was so enervated, worn down by depression, feelings of loss and anxiety, his eagerness did not rise to the level of action. At a quarter to seven the doors of the Datsun opened and two shadows moved toward the cabin, one much bulkier than the other. They vanished behind trees, then reappeared larger, at a different angle to the cabin, like ghosts playing interdimensional tag. Shellane could have picked them off, no problem. He was in an odd mood. So lighthearted that he was tempted to hunt up the nine-millimeter and destroy the men who were intending do what he wanted, just as a prank on himself; but he couldn’t recall where he had put the gun. He heard whispers outside. Probably arguing over whether to shoot through the window. Gerbasi wouldn’t go for it. He enjoyed the laying on of hands. That was his kink. The fat bag of poison wanted you to commune with him before he did the deed. Over thirty years of murdering people who had not necessarily required it, life had been kind to him, except socially. For some years now he had been in love with a woman who shared a house with a guy who claimed to be a gay political refugee from Cuba, a story that scored him few points in the neighborhood, but lent his bond with the woman an innocence that placated Gerbasi, who remained oblivious to the fact that he was being cheated on in plain view. It was amazing, Shellane thought, what there was to know about people.

The door blew inward and Gerbasi’s associate, a light-heavy who must have taken a pounding in the ring—ridges of scar tissue over his eyes—before entering this line of work, posed TV-cop-style with his shiny gun and grunted something that Shellane did not catch but took for an admonition. Then Gerbasi hove into view. Spider veins were thick as jail tattoos on his jowls, and the bags beneath his eyes appeared to have been dipped in grape juice. His breathing was wet and wheezy, and his muted plaid suit had the lumpish aspect of bad upholstery. The lamplight plated his scalp with an orange shine. He waddled three steps into the room and said, “This don’t seem like you, Roy. Just sitting here waiting for it.”

Shellane, his flame turned low, had no reply.

Gerbasi snapped at his helper, telling him to close the door. “What’s going on with you?” he asked of Shellane.

“I surrender,” said Shellane.

“The guy Broillard, he claims he didn’t call us.” Gerbasi’s eyes, heavy-lidded, big and brown like calf’s eyes, ranged the tabletop. “Know anything about that?”

“Broillard? The Gas ’n Guzzle guy? He called you about me?”

Gerbasi’s stogie-sized forefinger prodded Shellane’s laptop. “Somebody called. Broillard says it wasn’t him.”

“Maybe he had a change of heart,” suggested Shellane.

“Maybe you set his ass up.” Gerbasi gave him a doleful look.

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?” Shellane failed to keep the amusement from his voice.

The light-heavy chuckled doltishly. “He ain’t hurting no more.”

“I figure you set him up,” Gerbasi said. “But why would ya do that and still be hanging around?”

“Don’t think about it, Marty. You’ll just break your brain.”

“Maybe he’s got cancer,” offered the light-heavy.

“Worse,” said Shellane.

“What’s worse than cancer?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Gerbasi said to the light-heavy; he removed a long-barreled .22 from his shoulder holster.

“Truth,” Shellane said.

“Y’know, you look way too satisfied for a man’s gonna be wearing his brains in a coupla minutes,” Gerbasi said. “You waiting for rescue, Roy? That it?”

“Why don’t you just do your business.”

“Guy’s in a hurry,” said the light-heavy. “Never seen one be in a hurry.”

“Who cut your face?” Gerbasi asked.

“Just do it, you fat fuck!” said Shellane. “I’ve got places I need to get to.”

“Hear that shit?” said the light-heavy. “Motherfucker’s crazy.”

“Nah, he’s got an angle,” Gerbasi said. “Man’s always got an angle. Don’tcha, Roy?”

Shellane smiled. “I live in certain hope of the Resurrection.”

Gerbasi gave his head a dubious shake. “Know what I useta say about you? I’d say Roy Shellane runs the best goddamn crews of anybody in the business, but he’s too fucking smart for his own good. One of these days he’s gonna outsmart himself.” He seemed to be expecting a response; when none came, he said, “I think maybe that day’s come.”