me. And by the time I’d stashed Milt’s carcass, I’d burned through at least one of those precious three hours.
Maria’s body hadn’t become rigid yet. She was cold, but still supple. Tears welled in my eyes. As much as our romance had dwindled lately, I’d still cried about her every night, softy in bed, or loudly in the shower, or even louder in the car.
I started to caress her cheek with the back of my hand. Then I stopped.
I missed my wife. I couldn’t believe somebody had done this to her. Had done this to her, when we were so far from where we should have been. My retirement would’ve solved everything. I wiped my tears with the inner elbow of my sleeve, sat on the stack of sirloin, and pulled out my cell phone.
“Thank you for calling Whole Foods,” answered a chirpy voice. “This is Amber.”
“Hi, Amber,” I replied. “This is Maria’s husband, Michael.” She said hi back. “Just a quick heads-up: she’s got the flu…and yeah…didn’t wanna introduce it to you guys…so…she’s gonna stay home for a couple days.”
We traded a few useless remarks about how, gosh, something sure is goin’ round lately and Stay warm and Belichick always tells his team to drink fluids and I hung up. At first I’d had Milt’s upper body on the ground with his lower body hung by the hook. But Maria’s cadaver had gotten bumped in the shuffling and slowly rotated toward his.
As much as I resented the current population of this meat locker, I couldn’t let them sit there like savages. So I fixed Milt, nice and neat, and let his wobbly head sort of stare at my wife.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I said to his unblinking eyes. I turned to Updike. “C’mon, li’l man.”
Chapter 17
If I was going to enter the docks in daylight hours, I’d need to be ready for a bloodbath.
Milt had said 451. I was pretty sure he meant shipping berth number 451, which was a drop site run by a man named Big Byron. I played the waiting game, sitting in my parked car across the street from the wharf entrance, after hours, staring at a torn photograph of Maria, until a bright-red Escalade pulled in.
Byron. He was that guy. The polyester-track-jacket, medallion-against-a-hairy-chest guy.
“Do you even try not to lure feds?” I said quietly.
I’d never seen him in person. For all I knew, he could be black or Asian or young or old. Or, worst-case scenario, not even in the car.
But after a few turns, the rear passenger window lowered an inch and out came an empty can of Red Bull, bouncing to the road behind him. Confirmed: he was in that vehicle. So I followed at a professional distance as his driver took him to the far end of the shipping yard.
I stopped my car behind a tall heap of loading pallets, the only place where I wouldn’t be detected by my prey. I was past the point of self-preservation. Every fifteen minutes, my mind would remind me that Maria was gone. I’d cry for a half minute, force myself to forget the thought, and clear my head.
A bloodbath? So be it. I’d already shot one person today. By tonight, why not make it two?
I got out of my sedan and quickly but casually walked toward the first empty doorway I could find, just in case the pilot of the red Escalade was eyeing me from a distance. I doubted it. Guys who install fake chrome aftermarket hubcaps generally don’t hire drivers who check mirrors.
I ducked into the shelter of the doorway, counted to ten Mississippi—pretending I was a delivery guy—then headed back to my car, glancing nonchalantly toward the Escalade about a half mile down the road. There it was. Unattended.
Knowing this was my one chance, I sprinted toward my goal. I covered about a half mile in five minutes. When I got close enough to see where they’d entered, I picked up the first rock I could find.
They’d gone into a small warehouse for berth 451. I channeled my inner Cy Young and flung a wild pitch up and over the two-story warehouse so that my rock would land, hopefully, on the far side, on a stack of hollow barrels. Or on something just as loud.
It hit a tin roof. Whaunk!
I entered.
Chapter 18
I had no idea what to expect inside. There could be thick Slavic dudes in turtleneck sweaters, itemizing a table full of weapons, with additional machine-guns aimed at