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Eddie set the alarm and flipped off the lights to the restaurant before stepping out onto the dark street. The temperature had plummeted. It finally felt like October. Eddie turned as he heard Marco pull up. The streets were empty and quiet. He checked his watch as he walked to the car, squeezing his tired and burning eyes.
Eddie opened the passenger door of Marco’s car and climbed in. “Jesus,” he said, throwing his jacket in the back. “I’m ready for bed.”
“What’s this?” Marco asked, pointing at a car driving slowly toward them from the opposite direction.
“Shit. I don’t like the looks-a that,” Eddie said.
As the car approached, a burst of gunshots exploded from the driver’s-side back window.
“Shit! Get down!” Marco shouted, grabbing Eddie’s arm.
Marco and Eddie lowered their heads as the car sped past.
“They hit the restaurant! Go after those mother-fuckers!” Eddie shouted.
Without hesitation, Marco spun the car around, tires screeching, until the Mustang was traveling north on Payne. He picked up speed, whipping in and out of the occasional car, as he closed in fast on the dark blue Ford. The sedan whipped around until it was heading south on Payne. Marco screeched the car’s brakes and whipped the wheel until they too were back heading south. He hit the gas and followed the car past Fortunato’s, and then turned right on Seventh toward downtown St. Paul.
“Those mother-fuckers were aiming for us!” Marco yelled, as he maneuvered around a pick-up truck.
“They will die!” Eddie yelled. He pointed ahead, his other hand clinging to the dash. “Stay with ‘em.”
Marco chased the car past the Highway 52/Lafayette Bridge as they headed toward downtown. The car braked before turning right at the Gopher Bar.
“You gonna make that turn?” Eddie yelled, bracing himself.
Marco ignored Eddie and spun the car to the right. He pressed the gas as they entered Wacouta Street, and revved up his speed as the car in front of them crashed into a parked truck.
“Holy shit!” Marco yelled.
He slammed on the breaks, skidding and screeching the car to an abrupt stop at an angle just behind the smashed car. Eddie jumped out and ran toward it. A woman opened her front door, looked at the scene outside of her house and ducked back in, slamming the door behind her.
“Stay cool, Eddie,” Marco yelled.
Eddie appeared calm as he stormed the vehicle. The driver’s head lay on the steering wheel. No movement. The head of the passenger sitting directly behind the driver rested on the backdoor window. No movement.
Eddie drew the .45 he’d lifted from O Jackson and yanked open the back door. The man stirred and shook his groggy head, his eyes unfocused. Eddie noted the gun on the floor, as he pulled the arm of the passenger—the shooter—who screamed, “Don’t shoot, man. Don’t shoot!”
Eddie threw the young white man onto the street and called out to Marco. “Come and get his piece!”
Marco ran to the back of the car, leaned in and took the gun. He then brushed past Eddie to open the driver’s door. He held the gun at the unconscious driver, breathing heavily, his legs spread.
Eddie leaned over the shooter who appeared to be in his early twenties. He was now on his knees in the street, his hands in the air. Eddie pressed O’s gun into his temple.
“Don’t do it, Eddie,” Marco shouted.
Eddie lowered the gun and instead, hit him over the head with the butt several times. The guy fell to the ground, his arms covering his head, as he pleaded with Eddie to stop. Eddie continued to pound him to unconsciousness and gave him two more hits after that.
When Eddie straightened up, he saw Marco shaking his head.
“Okay man. He’s down.”
Marco continued to hold the pistol on the driver who had begun to stir. Eddie moved up to the driver. He nodded at Marco to back away. Marco lowered the gun as he stepped back, but remained ready.
A dark-skinned teenager raised a heavy hand. He looked at Eddie as blood poured from his forehead.
“Please man. Don’t kill me. Please. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please.”
“What’s your name?” Eddie shouted.
“Mike. Mike Parker.”
“Well, Mike, you sure got a lot of fuckin’ balls comin’-ta’ my place-a business and shootin’ it up. Were you tryin’ to shoot me? Or what?”
“I don’t know, man.”
Eddie sideswiped the butt of his gun across Mike’s chin.
Marco moved in. “Come on, Eddie.”
Eddie gave Marco a cold look, so he stepped back.
Blood from Mike’s new wound began to trickle from a deep gash on the side of his face.
“Please stop,” he whispered.
“What’s your address, Mike Parker?”
“My address? What do you need that for?”
“Are you that fuckin’ stupid? You’re gonna’ ask me questions? Give me your fuckin’ address before you end up like your friend down there.”
Mike Parker gave his address on Chesapeake Street.
Eddie turned to Marco. “You got that?” Marco wrote it down in a notepad he kept in his shirt pocket. “Got it.”
“And, what’s this half-dead fucker’s name and address?” Eddie flipped his head in the direction of the shooter, who lay motionless at Eddie’s feet.
Mike looked over at his friend and let out a quiet moan. “That’s Stevie. Stevie Mason. He lives by me. I don’t know the number, but it’s like, three or four houses down. Same side of the street as my house.”
“Okay, Mike Parker. Now, tell me why you and your piece-a-shit friend here had the stupid idea of shootin’ up my business. Was I the target?”
Mike’s eyes welled, his arms still up. “Yeah.”
“Well your friend, Stevie here, sure fucked that up. Who ordered the hit?”
“This guy—his name is O.”
“That right?”
“Yes, sir. O’s probably gonna’ kill me now for tellin’ you his name.”
“He pay you to do this?”
“Yes, sir. He paid us a grand each.”
“Did you get paid up front?”
“Yeah—yes, sir. Half up front.”
“Give it to me.”
Mike’s head seemed to clear. “What?”
“You heard me. Give me the fuckin’ thousand bucks.”
Mike leaned to the side, moaning. He fished five hundreds from his wallet and handed them to Eddie.
“Now get Stevie’s money,” Eddie said.
Mike dragged himself out of the car and walked tentatively toward Stevie, who, to Eddie, looked dead. Eddie watched as Mike pushed Stevie onto his side. Stevie moaned, opened his eyes for a second and then closed them.
Eddie nodded to himself. Good. Not dead.
Mike reached into Stevie’s back pocket and dug out his wallet. He flipped it open and took out five crumpled hundreds and tossed the wallet to the ground near Stevie. He stood and handed Eddie the cash. Eddie snapped it from him as Mike stepped back.
Eddie moved in, leaning close. He flapped the hundreds in Mike’s face.
“I’ll be usin’ this to fix the front window on my restaurant. You’re lucky nobody was in there. And Stevie’s damn lucky he’s a shitty shot.” He shook his finger at Mike. “Next time you see this mother-fuckin’ O piece-a shit, you tell him that his plan didn’t work. You can also tell him that you, and that fuckin’ half-dead Stevie over there, work for me now. You got that?”
Mike’s mouth opened and then shut. “I can’t tell him that, man. He’ll kill me.”
Eddie laughed. “You’re right, little Mike. He will kill you.”
He and Marco headed back to the car just as Eddie heard sirens.
Mike yelled out to Eddie. “What am I supposed to do?”
Eddie turned and walked back to him.
“Quit your fuckin whinin’, Mike. Get Stevie in the car and get outta’ here. Now. Then, you and Stevie come-ta my restaurant tomorrow afternoon, ready to work. I want to know all the deals you got goin’ and be ready to hit the streets.”
Mike’s voice lowered. “What about O?”
“Don’t worry about it. O won’t touch you.”
Mike nodded, even though Eddie could see in the kid’s eyes he didn’t believe it.
Eddie jabbed his finger into Mike’s chest. “You’se better be there tomorrow.”
Marco yelled out to him. “We gotta’ move, Eddie!”
Eddie grabbed Mike’s cheeks with his fingers and thumb and squeezed them. Mike closed his eyes as he raised his chin.
“You know where it is, right? The place you just shot up?”
His eyes still closed, Mike nodded.
Eddie let go of his face and headed to Marco’s Mustang.
“Five o’clock tomorrow afternoon.” He pointed at Mike. “And if I don’t see you both there, remember, I know where you live. And you and your mama don’t want me comin’ ‘round to your house, now do you?”
Mike shook his head. “No, sir. I’ll be there. We’ll be there.”
“Don’t come in-ta my restaurant.” He pointed past Mike. “The parkin’ lot. Somebody’ll come-ta you. Wait in your car.” Eddie waved the .45 in Stevie’s direction. “Now, get him in the car and get outta’ here before the cops come.”
Marco was already in the Mustang when Eddie got in. They drove off, leaving Mike to tend to Stevie.
In the car, Eddie turned to Marco. “You’re some fuckin’ driver, you know that? Nice work.”
“Thanks,” Marco said.
“Now, let’s go see what kinda’ damage those two pieces-a shit did to my restaurant.”
When they arrived, Eddie was relieved to see it was just the window to the front door and not the large plate glass window. Still, it was the whole door.
Marco helped Eddie clean up the glass, tossing bigger pieces and sweeping the rest. They found a cardboard box, cut it up, and covered the door using masking tape—the only thing Eddie could find.
The two of them sat at one of the dining tables. Eddie let out a deep breath. “Jesus,” he said. “What a fuckin’ mess.”
Marco nodded, as Eddie poured two snifters of brandy.
“Seriously though. That was some fine drivin’ you just did, Marco.”
They clinked their glasses and Marco smiled. “Thanks. Gotta’ admit, the drivin’ part was pretty fun.”
They spent the next half-hour reliving the early morning’s events. When the room went silent, Eddie pinched his nose and squeezed his eyes.
“I think I’ll sleep here in this chair until morning. I can’t leave the restaurant like this.”
Marco nodded. “I can stay too, if you want.”
Eddie waved a hand at him. “Na’. You go home-ta your family. I got this.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ll get somebody over here first thing to get the glass fixed. Go home.”
Marco stood to leave. “Alright. I’ll check in with you in the morning when I drop Micola off. See if there’s any runnin’ around you need me to do.”
Eddie raised his now empty glass. “Appreciate that.”
Marco paused. “Say, Eddie. About tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not sure I’m up for all-a this—”
Eddie waved him off. “I know. Sorry about that. Things got outta’ hand. I gotta’ little too rough with those punks.”
He stood and reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of cash.
“Here.”
Marco waved him off. “No. Eddie. I’m not asking for—”
Eddie frowned. “I know. But take it. That was a lot tonight. I wanna’ make it up-ta ya’.”
Marco took the cash, as Eddie looked at his watch.
“Jesus. Kate must be wonderin’ where you’re at. Go home.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks. I’ll see ya’ in a few hours.”
Eddie smiled as he took his seat again. “You drop Micola off and that’s it. Take the rest-a the day off, ya’ hear? I’ll have Dario bring us home.”
Marco nodded. “Sounds good. Thanks, Eddie.”
Marco left and Eddie locked the broken door behind him, which made no sense, but he did it anyway. He returned to his chair and watched the morning light filter in through the front window.
He thought about O Jackson, as he put the .45 in his lap and closed his eyes.
It was time to take care of him.
