Read Online Curtains by Scott Nicholson - Free Book Online Page A

good." Vincent's words
came fast, like bullets from a clip. "You know me. I can have it
for you tomorrow. And—what say we make it ten big ones? All I need
is a little time as this Highwater guy."
    Sid wiped at his mouth with a paper napkin.
Then he put one hand on the envelope, and in a smooth motion, slid
it back inside his jacket.
    "Come on, Sid," Vincent said, checking the
door again. "We've done business for years."
    "Always cash on delivery."
    Vincent tugged at his collar, sweat ringing
his forehead. He knew the window of opportunity was small. Even
though Scattione thought "Robert Wells" was dead, at least one
person knew that Vincent was still breathing. Sid.
    With a fake credit card, Vincent might still
be able to get out of the city. All he needed was a name. He'd
already died once today, he'd killed off a dozen other identities
in his time, but he'd always been the one to deep-six himself. By
choice. "I can deliver, Sid. I know you got skills, but it only
takes you an hour to crank out a set of documents."
    Sid shook his head. "It's not about the
money. It's about pride and reputation."
    Same with Scattione. What sort of rep could a
Mafiaso have if the man who'd fingered him was walking around as
free as sin?
    "Nobody will know, Sid. I promise. I'll
deliver, then you'll never see my ugly mug again. I'm thinking
Cozumel, maybe Rio."
    Sid sat back and pushed his plate away. The
group of Hassidic Jews continued chattering. The college kid set
down his magazine and ordered something. Vincent looked at the
clock.
    "Please, Sid."
    Sid pursed his lips. Then he stood, dropped
some bills on the table to cover the cost of the sandwich, and
brought out the envelope. Except this one had come from a different
pocket. He dropped the package in front of Vincent and shrugged.
"Joey pays twenty, and this is who he wants you to be."
    The bell rang as Sid went out the door.
Vincent stooped, picked up the envelope, and tore it open. Who was
he this time? Not that it mattered. He'd even be a damned McGinnity
if he had to.
    He stared at the driver's license.
    It didn't make sense. It was his face, all
right. But this license was gone, floating somewhere in the East
River. He read the name slowly, his lips shaping the syllables.
    Robert Daniel Wells.
    He moved fast, got to the street, but Sid was
gone.
    Vincent glanced at the crowd, among the eyes
that seemed to shine like search beacons. Which ones belonged to
Joey's people?
    He broke into a run. A laugh tore itself from
his lungs, a spasm borne of fear and hysteria. He should have known
that Joey's reach, even from a prison cell, was longer than the
longest arm of the law. Vincent had been around long enough to know
that Joey liked to play.
    Like a cat with a cornered mouse, like a
spider with a stuck fly.
    Vincent ran on. He thought that maybe if he
ran fast enough, someday he'd catch up to himself. But somedays
never come, and Robert Wells had a debt to pay.
    Under any name.
     
     
    GOOD FENCES
     
    That fence post was leaning again.
    Herman could tell just by looking out the
window, though the neighbor’s yard was over two hundred feet away.
You’d think people would have a little pride. Back in Herman’s day,
you kept your split rails pointing straight up to God, even here in
the Blue Ridge mountains where level ground was as scarce as hen’s
teeth. Of course, you were supposed to keep your grass mowed down
close, too.
    A hippie lived in that house. The new
neighbor drove by every morning, hunched over the wheel of a
Japanese junkaroo with a ski rack on top. The hippie had waved the
first week after moving in, but each time Herman had given him a
no-nonsense, get-a-haircut stare. Nowadays the hippie didn’t even
look over, just rattled up the road to whatever job Communists held
while plotting the revolution.
    Too bad. The hippie could learn something
about American pride from Herman. You keep your house painted and
your windows clean. Your mailbox flap doesn’t sag open.