Chapter 19
“Let's get going.” Ruiz motioned to the door. “We got a man to kill.”
The four men stood and marched out of the office. Herbert led the way out of the warehouse to his van. He threw open the back doors. Sully, Peter, and Guapo helped themselves to the spare jumpsuits folded in a pile.
“Winslow and Son, huh?” Ruiz stood along the side of the van with his hands in his pockets. He turned to Herbert. “You got a son?”
“Yeah.” Herbert nodded.
“What's his name?”
“Darius.”
Ruiz turned to look at Herbert with surprise in his eyes. “Darius?”
“Yeah.” Herbert stared at Ruiz, challenging him to say more.
“Your son know you're here?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Herbert sighed. He glanced over at the back of the van, where the other three were arguing. He looked at Ruiz and suddenly felt tired. “He's in jail.”
“For what?”
“Killing Gideon Roland.”
Ruiz stared at Herbert. It was as though he had aged twenty years in five seconds. Something clicked in those black eyes. There was understanding. His tongue flicked along his skeleton grin. His hand went to his flask. “Oh.” He took a long drink.
“You have any kids?”
“Yeah. I got two daughters and a son, Blanco.”
Herbert nodded. “Your son ever go on jobs with you?”
“Yeah.” Ruiz nodded and dropped his empty flask. It hit the pavement with a clatter. “Went on jobs on his own, too.”
“You gonna pick that up?”
Ruiz pulled another flask out of his breast pocket. “I got a spare.”
Herbert's grip tightened around his pistol.
The two men stared at each other. Adrenaline rushed through Herbert. He knew he had to tell that unspoken truth. Right now, it was only murky suspicion. He needed to bring it to the light, to make it real. Ruiz needed to know for sure. It was the decent thing to do.
“Listen, Ruiz,” Herbert started.
“Hey, are we hitting the road or what?” Sully emerged from the back of the van wearing one of the spare jumpsuits.
“Yeah.” Ruiz said without looking away from Herbert.
“I probably have one in the back for you, too.”
“I don't need one.” He motioned to his wrinkled suit. “I look put together enough.”
Herbert almost protested but suppressed himself. He exhaled through his nose and nodded. “All right, let's get going.” The two started toward the van.
X
Herbert clenched his hands around the steering wheel. Ruiz sat slumped riding shotgun. His eyes were dead and dull. Empty black holes in his head. He stared down at the gun in his lap. Herbert couldn't help but steal glances at him from the corner of his eye, half-expecting him to put that gun to use right there in the cab of his van. The other three sat in the back, talking and joking.
The van rolled to a stop at a red light. Herbert felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips as he was struck by the absurdity of the situation. He felt like he was driving a group of boys to a Little League game, the way they were arguing and roughhousing behind him. Instead, they were on their way to spill blood for money. They were on their way to allegedly save the city. Nobody would ever know it was them. Nobody would know that a bunch of nameless drunks and thugs were their supposed saviors. Of course, this was all contingent on whether Trotman was telling the truth. It didn't matter, so long as it kept Darius out of jail.
“Take a left up here.” Ruiz grumbled from his stupor.
“How much further?”
“We're almost there. It's coming up.”
They rolled down a North Rim boulevard lined with brownstones and townhouses. A building made of dark stone towered over them. A wrought-iron fence framed the property, the gate flanked by two men in black uniforms. They stood with their arms crossed, guns holstered at their sides.
“Park around the corner.” Ruiz said.
Herbert parked the van a half-block away from the house. He killed the engine and turned to look at the others. “Okay. How're we approaching?”
Ruiz sniffed and placed a cigarette between his lips. He wrestled with his lighter, as it refused to produce a flame. He looked up when he finally got it lit. “The four of you go in through the front.”
“And what about you?”
“I'll go through the back. Over the fence.”
“Over the fence? Look at you, you're too drunk to stand. You hop that fence and you're gonna get lit up.”
“I'll be fine.” Ruiz exhaled a stream of smoke. “This ain't my first time.”
Herbert looked from Ruiz to the other three. Nobody seemed confused or concerned. He shrugged. “All right, then.”
They piled out of the van. Herbert slipped the Barretta in his pocket. He had a gun on each hip. It felt surreal to back on the job, like he was reliving a memory. And with that dream-like quality came a sense of pleasure. Herbert closed his eyes. His stomach turned with disgust and guilt. There was no pleasure to take from murder in cold blood.
Sully, Guapo, and Pete started toward the front of the house and Ruiz strolled toward the back, still smoking his cigarette. Herbert hung back.
“Hey, Ruiz.”
He looked over his shoulder back at Herbert. “What?”
“Listen,” Herbert sighed. His heart was pounding. His mouth was full of cotton and sandpaper. One of his hands went down to his revolver. “It wouldn't be right if I didn't tell you.” He took a breath and looked Ruiz straight in his dark eyes. “Blanco's dead. I killed him....I killed your boy.”
The words seemed to hang in the air between them, shimmering in the shadow. Ruiz stared at Herbert, back lit by a streetlight. The tip of his cigarette glowed. He stood statue still and exhaled smoke through his nose. A hand slid inside his coat pocket. Herbert touched the butt of his revolver. Then Ruiz pulled his flask out and took a swallow.
“I'm sorry.” Herbert broke the silence, his hand shoved in his pocket, gripped around the handle of the gun. “I didn't mean to.”
Ruiz stepped forward and Herbert's muscles tightened. He clapped a hand down on Herbert's shoulder. His grip was tight. “It's all right.”
“What?”
“It was only business.” Ruiz turned and strolled off toward the back of the house.
Herbert stood in the street and leaned back against the van. Stunned, he watched Ruiz disappear around the corner without making a sound. Saliva slipped down the back of his throat. Acid stung his tongue. His stomach rioted, but there was nothing to vomit up.