The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Part 30

He wanted to try out new things: someplace that was warm in the winter with an ocean nearby. He could picture himself and Sal driving down the East Coast to the Keys to visit his sister, Fiona, who was a big pain in the a.s.s but was the only living relative he had who still talked to him. Her husband was a doofus but played a decent game of golf.

Surely he could do better than Fiona.

How about cross-country? A coast-to-coast excursion, just Sal and him and the open road. Maybe find some hot little spot in Ma-li-bu!

The heels of his shoes made a clacking sound on the sidewalk as he dreamed about his future.

Trouble was, the Malibu chicks liked those sardine-box sports cars-little two-seater numbers with souped-up motors and ear-blasting boom-box jungle-bunny stereo. No, no, no, anyone who couldn't appreciate Sal didn't stand a chance with him.

He took off his jacket and draped it over his arm and thought some more.

Those Malibu babes were fine numbers. He remembered that bathing-suit special about them on TV, all those luscious a.s.ses. So hey, if the girls wanted glitz, he'd get a Harley. He certainly could afford one after this job, that was for sure.

A Fed.

He really didn't want to whack this Fed or any Fed. Feds had protection. Feds had nice families and went to church picnics and taught their kids how to play baseball . . . Well, not all Feds. He didn't know a thing about the Fed Barton wanted him to take out. Maybe this Fed was a monster. Maybe he was that kinda self-righteous p.r.i.c.k who would hide under the guise of being a law-abiding citizen, be all prim and proper but would be, in actuality, a secret diddler of little boys.

Billy thought about that as he made his way home. In his mind, he was picturing this guy-this Fed-coming in backdoor on some little six-year-old boy screaming b.l.o.o.d.y murder.

It always helped to demonize the enemy.

The Fed had a name: Benny Jacopetti. He was middle-aged, average height, average build, average face, just an average guy with nothing that distinguished him from any of the other working stiffs. The guy had a family that included a wife and a slew of kids. He lived in a spanking-new housing development in the middle of nowhere. That was a mixed bag-the city versus the burbs. In the city, Billy was a known quant.i.ty; the police were constantly on his a.s.s. Also, town cops were much sharper than their suburban counterparts. But it was also bad, because that far into the burbs, the wilderness, really, there wasn't any cover . . . nowhere to hide. Things got spotted and reported and gossiped about.

That meant the city wasn't the ideal location, but the burbs weren't any better.

He'd clean him on the road.

Mr. Barton hadn't been lying when he said he had Jacopetti's life down to the minute. After a few days of spotting, the guy's routine was as predictable as sunrise. He left the house around seven to get in to work at eight, leaving Billy about an hour of commuter time to get the job done. The route broke down into the following legs.

Trek One: This portion of the journey-about ten minutes-took Jacopetti from his house to a bypa.s.s road, traveling through suburban developments and past a couple of shopping malls. Wide-open s.p.a.ces, no cover, and other cars on the streets. Meaning it wouldn't serve his needs for the job.

Trek Two: Tooling down a bypa.s.s road: another twenty minutes. This route meandered through the posh houses of the burbs: two-story brick estates sitting on lots of land. Most of the homes were perched on a knoll of lawn, obscured by mature trees and thick clumps of planting. The majority of the area was even devoid of sidewalks. No big commercial developments, only cute little Victorian houses that doubled as offices: One was a real estate agency, another rented to a law firm, and a hairdresser and nail salon took up a third. There were also a couple of small cafes and a Starbucks.

Wherever you went in America, there was a Starbucks.

Four dollars for a cup of java.

And the Feds accused the loan sharks of usurious vigs.

On this pathway, there was better coverage due to the trees. But because it was a bypa.s.s road, there was often tons of morning traffic. Plus, the road narrowed down to two lanes, making quick escape in a car d.a.m.n near impossible. Also, good ole Sal would stick out among all the Mercedeses and Beemers that marched in the early-morning workers' commute.

Billy scratched Trek Two as a possibility.

Trek Four: Jacopetti's route to his job ended with a twenty-minute ride on the highway. Billy was tempted to whack him while racing down the multilane roadway. Here, Sal would blend into the clump of morning traffic-just another hunk of steel chugging down the pockmarked asphalt. But there were other considerations besides fitting in. Billy would have to make a quick getaway. He'd have to make sure that no one saw him pull the piece.

That was the trick.

On the highway, there was always traffic, and that meant there were always possible witnesses. Also, what if there was an accident that caused vehicular backup? It would stink if he shot Jacopetti only to get jammed because of a b.u.mper-to-b.u.mper tie-up.

No, the highway was out.

Trek Three was the option of final resort: For a lone ten minutes, Jacopetti turned off the first bypa.s.s road, detouring onto a smaller secondary bypa.s.s road-a bypa.s.s to the bypa.s.s-that twisted and turned but eventually led to the on-ramp to the highway. Sometimes the lanes got crowded. But at least half the time, traffic was light, almost empty, especially if Jacopetti got an early jump from the house. This small swath of asphalt had only two stoplights and, like the first bypa.s.s road, it meandered through large properties but for a major exception.

There was this one spot, a nature preserve that was filled with overgrown bushes and large trees. The parking lot to the forest was hidden behind foliage. It sat at the first of the two traffic light intersections, neither street having any visible road signs. You just had to know it was the first intersection in the bypa.s.s to the bypa.s.s.

Billy thought this looked promising, so he scoped out the surroundings.

About twenty yards from the lot-twenty feet into the park-stood a tall, lush pine tree next to a thick old cedar, forming a green wall of foliage and needles. Both trees fronted the road. Almost directly behind the cedar and the pine was an old oak that met up with an old sycamore, their branches melting into a leafy canopy. The spot was perfect: nestled and secluded, with a great view of the road and the parking lot. The topper was this little tiny service lane that started at the parking lot, snaked through the park grounds, then ended at the first bypa.s.s road across the street from a big mother brick colonial house.

So here was the plan.

Every morning around six-thirty, Billy would drive over to the park and wait, perched in the oak tree, hidden by all the leaves and brush. He'd bide his time, drink a cup of coffee, do the crossword puzzle until it was close to J-time. Then he'd pick up his gun and stare out through the scope, waiting for Jacopetti's station wagon to travel over the second bypa.s.s road. Most of the time, Jacopetti would make the light: That couldn't be helped, because the traffic light favored the road, which meant it was green most of the time. But odds had to have it that one time-one itty-bitty time-Jacopetti would miss the light. Then he'd have to wait at the intersection, even if it was just for a moment.

That was all Billy needed: a single moment to clip him.

After the pop, he'd simply scale down from his arboreal hiding spot, jump into Sal, and tear out the back way, dumping the gun while speeding through the park. Then he'd hook up with the first bypa.s.s road, which led out to the highway, where he'd be free and clear.

He'd wait a couple days, then pay Mr. Barton a quick visit.

With this final and fruitful score put to bed, he'd be off the radar. It would be retirement from his old life, sunbathing in Florida or Ma-li-bu or someplace with an ocean.

Free and clear with bread falling out of his pockets.

That was the plan.

The first week, Jacopetti made the light, flying through the intersection at high speed. The second week, Jacopetti made the light five times in a row. Third week, same story.

Billy was getting p.i.s.sed.

To make up for the supreme waste of time he had pa.s.sed perched in a tree getting needles in his a.s.s, he decided to pack a bender over the weekend, drowning out his bad luck with Scotch and sodas. So it was as hard as h.e.l.l to wake up Monday morning. Even with the money incentive looming large in the back of his mind, Billy was groggy with a hangover and in a foul mood. He managed a quick shower, then put on a polo s.h.i.+rt, a pair of chinos, and sandals without socks. He packed his gun in the waistband of his pants, locked the door to his apartment, and then went underground to fetch Sal from her parking s.p.a.ce.

From the moment Billy fired up Sal's ignition, he was on autopilot. Going through the route without thinking about it until the unexpected happened. At 6:22 on a muggy summer morning, eight minutes before Billy's arrival at the nature reserve, Sal stalled.

"s.h.i.+t!" Billy proclaimed. "This is all I f.u.c.king need."

He tried again.

The engine kicked in, but as soon as he slipped the transmission into drive, it died.

"f.u.c.kin'-A s.h.i.+t!" Billy popped the latch for the hood and got out of the car. He stared at the engine block. Nothing was smoking, and the fluids looked okay. He checked the tubes, then the wires. Everything seemed in working order.

So what's up with that?

He got back inside, slamming the door, and tried the ignition again.

The engine spat out a few helpless coughs and then died.

"f.u.c.k!" Billy pounded the dashboard.

Sal said, "Cut it out!"

Billy's heart started racing, his eyes widening as he sat up and jerked his head from side to side.

What the f.u.c.k was that?

Calm down, Billy! You're hearing things.

Okay, okay, try the motor again.

He tried the motor again. It was silent, as dead as his last whack in Jersey.

This time he slapped the steering wheel.

"Ouch!" Sal protested. "Whatcha doin', Billy? Why you takin' out your frustration on me?"

This time Billy sat still, his hands balled up into fists. "Who said that?"

"Who do you think said that?" Sal said. "You think it's the trees talkin' or something?"

Billy's eyes darted from side to side, but he remained motionless. "Who . . . are . . . you?"

"You have to ask?" Sal said. "We only been partners for, like, ten years. I, for one, am insulted. And while I got your attention, stop slammin' the door. Just like you, I ain't as young as I used to be."

Billy swallowed hard. "Sal?"

"f.u.c.kin' bingo! Can we get out of here? We ain't gonna get anything done today."

Billy sat up in the seat. He shook his head several times, knocked on his forehead. "Let me get this right. You're Sal . . . my car . . . and you're talking to me."

"Ain't no one else here."

Throwing back his shoulders, Billy opened and closed his mouth. He checked the CD player. It was empty. The radio was off.

What the H is going on?

If you can't beat it, join it. Billy decided to play along. "Cars don't talk."

"Guess again," Sal said. "Look, Billy, I understand your confusion. Normally I don't talk. But extraordinary circ.u.mstances demand extraordinary things. First of all, you're whoppin' me, and I didn't do nothin' to deserve that, so stop, okay? I mean, we've been together for ten years. Haven't I always gotten you from point A to point B without a hitch?"

Billy broke into a sweat. "Yeah. Yeah, you have."

"I've been good to you, right?"

"Right."

"So why you whoppin' me? I tell you, guy, you're losing it."

And that was a true statement. Because here Billy was, having a conversation with a car.

Sal said, "You ain't gonna make it to the park today. Let's just get out of here."

Billy's eyes continued to flit in their sockets. "Why's that?"

"Why's that?" Sal sounded frustrated. "Open your eyes, Billy. We can't get nowhere with that tree impedin' the roadway. I can talk, sure, but I can't pole-vault. I'm a friggin' car, for G.o.d sakes! Just turn me around and let's go home."

Billy looked at the road.

And there it was. The toppled tree had to have been at least sixty feet tall, the five-feet-diameter trunk lying across the asphalt, completely blocking both lanes of the bypa.s.s roadway.

"Motherfu- Why didn't I see it before?"

"You know, Billy, you're a good guy, but sometimes you don't trust yourself. When you said you didn't want to clean a Fed because Feds are protected, maybe you shoulda stuck to your guns. Maybe this is the Big Guy's way of telling you to follow your instincts."

Shaking his head, Billy continued to stare at the tree. "I can't understand why I didn't see it before."

"Billy, did you hear what I told you?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Yeah, yeah, yourself. Go back and tell Mr. Barton that it ain't gonna work with the Fed."

"I can't do that. He already paid me fifty percent down."

"So give him back the money. Givin' up the money is better than sitting in Sing Sing."

Just then the absurdity of the situation dawned on him. He was carrying on a conversation with his car. No, not just a conversation. A debate! An argument! And as far as Billy was concerned, the car was winning.

"Look," Sal said. "There's no sense discussing this here. People are gonna start coming, traffic's gonna be murder. You ain't gonna do anything today with this mama log blocking the street. So go home and do me this one favor, okay? Tell Mr. Barton no. I mean, I've been with you ten years-perfect service-so you owe it to me to just think about what I said, okay?"

"Okay," Billy answered. "Okay, let's go home."

He put the key in the ignition, turned it to the right, and the engine fired up as sound and strong as ever. Billy blew out air, did a U-turn, and headed home.

Sal was making perfect sense.

More sense than any other broad he'd ever talked to.

It took Billy three days to fully realize the absurdity of the situation. He was listening-no, not just listening-scratching a lucrative job on the advice of a talking car! But knowing he was sane, that he wasn't p.r.o.ne to auditory hallucinations even when p.i.s.s-drunk, he eventually accepted the ludicrous predicament as real.

Still, he spent time reevaluating his options, which were really only two-to do it or not to do it. Not to do it involved talking to Mr. Barton and telling him why he didn't want to do it. When Billy thought about that, it really wasn't an option at all. Though he knew he wasn't crazy, Billy couldn't figure out how to explain a loquacious vehicle to Mr. Barton.

So there was no choice. He had to do it. And while it was true that he was fond of Sal-they'd been through lots together-it would be a cold day in h.e.l.l before he'd let anyone or anything dictate who he'd clean. People talked all the time, and Billy never listened. No way a car was gonna tell him what to do.

It offended the sensibilities.

"I'm tellin' you, this ain't a good idea-"

"Shut up!"