The side door was still nailed shut, so Max unlocked one of the overhead roll-up doors and tentatively walked in. Less than forty-eight hours had passed since he had last walked into this space. As soon as he stepped in, he regretted the decision to return so soon. Especially in a quest for fishing tackle.
Things didn't look much different than usual. The floor was a bit cleaner than was his habit. Shattered remnants of the side door stood as a reminder that he really didn't need. He knew it was probably his imagination, but the smell of death was in the air. Or perhaps it was something in the murdered refrigerator. He stepped behind the curtain to be greeted by the broken poker table, its green felt top sporting a few small spots of dried blood that had gone unnoticed early Sunday morning. Max flipped the table over completely onto its top and pried out about thirty upholstery tacks that held the felt in place. He wadded it up and stuffed it the washer. It was one of those wringer machines about the same vintage as the departed Ammana refrigerator. Old man Franklin had said that he used it for coveralls and shop towels back in the working days of the garage. Max still used it occasionally for throw rugs and Bruno's bedding.
He found the tackle box under the back work bench and started back out, anxious to lay low for a couple of days. Before passing the refrigerator, he peeled off a length of duct tape and covered the string of bullet holes that stitched across its door.
Out of sight, out of mind.
He pulled the door open partly out of curiosity and partly out of thirst. Years' accumulation of frost, in, around, and over the freezer compartment had not yet completely melted. Several of the bottles were still intact.
And they were cold.
He grabbed a Rainier and pried of the top with a pair of pliers. Closing his eyes, he took a long breathless pull on the beer, draining half of the contents. Landing at the bottom of a stomach too long without food, the brew set into motion a deep, resonant, low-frequency, seismic belch that rose in volume and culminated in a calm mental equilibrium that only a veteran beer guzzler could appreciate.
He basked in this first short moment of conscious relaxation in the past 48 hours.
It was a very short moment.
"Good morning, Max."
Shelly's gravelly voice sounded like Drano on the rocks. His eyes snapped open, not to see Shelly, but the cavernous black hole in the muzzle of her .45.
"Check the freezer, Ed." Shelly said, staring straight through Max with eyes as black and frigid as the gun in her hand. With a smooth practiced movement, she eased the hammer back with her left hand. "Ed?"
"Yeah, there's somthin' in here all right."
"Well, what the hell is it?"
"A little foam plastic box. There's some more of them little vials in here." Ed's beady little eyes lit up. "Hey!"
"Hey what? What's wrong?" asked Shelly, still holding on Max.
"Boss, there's one of them little bottles of booze in here too. Like they give you on the airplanes." Little Ed pocketed the whiskey bottle. Then he plucked out an envelope that was tucked into the box lid. "Looks like we hit the jackpot here, Boss. A letter addressed to Manny. And it was sent clear from India."
Shelly's face flushed, and her eyes sparkled. Her face did not smile. "Good job, Ed. Max, Manny swore by you. He said that you'd end up being a big help whether you knew it or not. But as far as I'm concerned, you've been nothing but a royal pain in the ass."
Max couldn't see it, but he heard the soft click when Shelly flipped off the thumb-safety.
"Goodbye, Max."
A black-and-tan blur of teeth and fur whizzed by Max at chest level. At the sudden sight of Bruno, Little Ed fumbled the box, dumping its contents to the concrete. The vials that didn't shatter on impact were crushed to smithereens by his size 12 wing tips. Shelly shifted her point of aim and jerked the trigger. The hammer snapped down onto the vacant chamber. Bruno's paws struck her square in the chest before she could work the slide. The dog was at her throat before both of them hit the concrete. The death grip on her larynx savagely shook loose a chunk of flesh and cartilage big enough to swallow a grapefruit.
Little Ed clubbed Bruno on the side of the head with the butt of Shelly's gun. He kicked the dazed beast to one side. Clamping his hands around Shelly's missing throat, he tried in vain to stem the torrent of blood. Her entire body vibrated for an instant, then went slack as her heart beat double-time spraying Little Ed with what was left of her life. He ratcheted the slide and sent a slug flying wide as Max raced out the garage door.
Max tore around the corner, nearly falling in the alley's pea-gravel. He vaulted the wrought iron fence around the courtyard and dashed into the lobby. Little Ed, engulfed in atavistic rage, was on his feet and out of the garage in seconds. Max ducked into the electrical equipment room, barely escaping detection when his pursuer blasted in from the courtyard. Through the cracked door, he could see Little Ed come to a sliding stop on the slick tile of the lobby. The big man stood, and listened. He scanned the small lobby and began a slow circumnavigation, checking each door, and peering through each window. Frank's Place was nearly empty. One guy at the bar, and a couple at a window table. No place to hide in there. All looked calm. The boutique was empty, save for the clerk that was popping her gum and picking at a hangnail.
Max racked his brain for some way to distract and elude Little Ed and Shelly's .45. From the courtyard he heard a high-speed gallop, just before Bruno exploded into the lobby, all four legs locked-up in an attempt to stop. Bruno skidded clear across the floor, knocked Little Ed's legs out from under him and continued on to slam broadside into the front windows. Little Ed's gun had ricocheted across the floor with Bruno, coming to rest beside him. Little Ed scrambled to his feet. His shoes were just as slippery as Bruno's claws on the waxed floor. He was now frantically in search of refuge from the big Doberman.
Max opened a control panel for the someday elevator. He used the needle-nose pliers to jumper across the terminal block labeled 'manual door over-ride'. The bell chimed and the light lit. Little Ed ran for the door and dove in, scarcely inches ahead of Bruno's snapping incisors.
In semi-darkness, Little Ed fell fifteen feet from the first-floor, through the basement, and into the elevator pit. The fall left his right leg bent at a right angle just below the knee. He struggled to turn over and sit up when the diminutive whiskey bottle rolled from his jacket pocket. The pain was unbearable, and he thanked God for suddenly providing this little favor. He twisted off the cap and put the bottle to his lips. It was thick and very bitter. Little Ed gagged and spat, and vomited, but it was too late. In seconds his blood pressure screamed up to over 500, his heart rate doubled, tripled, and quadrupled. His jaws clamped down and bit his tongue in half.
His teeth had ground themselves to dust before the ambulance arrived.