Chapter Five

City Lady Country Killer

The door opened.

“Who the hell are you?” The man was in an evening suit, pressed and freshly cleaned. His breath stank of Islay.

“David York?” I asked. “Rita is in the hospital.”

The color drained from his face. He shuffled aside.

The apartment was minimalist. It was out of place in the old wonder of the Descartes. A gray couch and gray coffee table on a gray rug. A gray landscape of the sea hung behind it. A window occupied the far wall. Below it, there was a drink cart. A spotlight lit the painting and the couch.

Two people were on the couch.

“Samuel,” Lalli Ramone whispered. She was stunning, angular, and tall. “What on earth are you doing here? Did you say Rita was in the hospital?” Beside her, taking up most of the couch, was a large Mexican man. He wore a bolo tie. The clip that held the two strings was up in his neck. He smoked a cigar and measured me over it. A small duffle bag was next to him on the floor.

Ramone’s face held steady, the tip of the cigar glowing.

“I did,” I said.

David York stumbled, holding his forehead. He made his way to the bar cart and spilled while pouring a drink.

“It’s a good thing you had her papers in order, York,” Ramone said, in a deep grumbling accent. “One less thing to worry over.”

“She’s not dead, is she?” David called out, before downing the whisky.

“Almost,” I said. “Found her in a burning car.”

Ramone rolled the cigar to the side of his mouth.

“That’s horrible,” Lalli said, lifting her drink from the coffee table and putting it to her head.

“Your name is Steelson?” Ramone whispered. “It seems you’re wrapped around this tighter than you ought to be.”

“He’s just the messenger,” David said, dialing a number on his phone. “Leave him be, Ramone.”

“He’s more than that,” Ramone said. “You’re not a city boy.”

“He’s a hick, honey,” Lalli said, “remember how I told you about that man who helped me, before we got together? That’s him.”

“Oh,” Ramone smiled, and put an arm around Lalli. The coat he was wearing rose. A pistol butt gleamed on his hip. “I’ll tell you what I think this is. And you tell me if I got it wrong. Little Rita didn’t die in a car fire. She went off yapping to you. She says she’s in some trouble. You agree to help her for a price, as men like you do. She says a little too much. You take her in your arms, hold her close, tell her it's all taken care of. But there’s a problem. What’s a country boy got to do with some city whore’s affairs?”

“She’s at the hospital,” David said, holding his phone to his ear.

“Shut up, York. You run into some trouble on the road. Couple of farm boys who can’t shoot anything unless its caged. You drop her off someplace, and come here to tell us what’s what.”

“I’ve come here to get that bag,” I said, pointing at the duffle. “That’s it. I could care less about your plans.”

“But you know about Steelson. Rita’s passed father. The estate in Rita’s name. The papers for six counties of farm land to the west of here. From Fillman to Dry Creek. Hasbad to Brownsville. Largest amount of private land owned by a single man.”

I held my stare, but bile rose.

I lived in the center of those counties.

“And she told you she wasn’t going to sell. That she was going to hold onto them, as her idiot father had. All that land! Running on the same shitty phone lines from the 50’s, God!” Ramone slapped Lalli on the back of the head. She fixed her hair and didn’t meet my eye. David sat on the ground like a child.

“I’ve got the equipment already on trucks. I’m gunna make a fortune off that dirt, and fill in that spec of gray on our coverage map. We’ll get industry in to replace those dick-brained farmers. The apartments will follow, and who knows, maybe a small college named after my sweets,” he grinned.

“Why blackmail her,” I asked, “then try and kill her?”

“It’s not her!” Ramone laughed. “You haven’t got it all figured out, huh, country boy? Well from one hick to another, let me show you.”

“Ramone! You said you wouldn’t!” David yelled.

Ramone pulled the duffle onto his lap. He pulled out the plastic bin. He undid the latches and waved me over. He pulled out a few Polaroids. One fell to the ground.

In it, David York was nude, bent over, and taking it from his wife. She was equipped with a pink rubber dong.

“David’s the target,” I whispered.

“Yes, you dumb son of a bitch!” Ramone laughed, and cigar ash fell in a puff. He went to wipe it off his jacket, and I jumped towards him. Lalli screamed.

He pulled out the pistol and jammed it up under my chin.

“I’m gunna make the country glow,” Ramone said, “turn every cornfield into a warehouse. Put a phone in the hand of every Dick and Jane running away from society. Take a step back boy, I’ve shot greater men for a lot less.”

“What’s holding you back?”

“You helped out my girl and her daughter. Don’t say I’m a man without morals. But you so much as twitch…”

I backed up and raised my hands.

“Pack it up, Lalli,” Ramone said. He kept the barrel pointed between my eyes. “I’ll give you a call, David.”

York looked down at the bottle between his legs.

Lallie carried the bin to the door. Ramone backed up, keeping the gun pointed at my head.

They left the apartment.

I went for Lalli’s cup. I drank, putting my lips to the lipstick on the rim.

“I’m fucked-”

“Shut up,” I said, walking to the front door. I put my ear to it.

“…she’s not dead, you idiots! Find her!” I heard the elevator ping.

I turned.

“Is there a service elevator?”

David pointed left, raising the bottle to his mouth.