Cold Shot to the Heart Read Free Page B

Château d’Arcins Médoc from the rack atop the refrigerator. She opened it, poured a glass, carried it into the bedroom, and booted up the laptop on her desk. She sipped wine, went to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette Web site. There was an item about the robbery, but nothing that hadn’t been in the television report. The four-paragraph story ended with a Crime Stoppers number.
    She closed the laptop, brought the glass back into the living room. She turned on the radio in the wall unit. It was already tuned to WQXR, the classical station, and a Bach cello suite filled the room. It was a piece she’d come to recognize but couldn’t name.
    Sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor, she unzipped the overnight bag, spilled the cash out. She sipped wine and counted it again. Thirty-one thousand five hundred. Not a dollar more. A lot of risk for little reward.
    It was snowing harder now, the wind dancing it around out there in the streetlights. She put the money back in the bag, zipped it shut, got the bottle from the kitchen.
    She turned off all the lights in the apartment, sat on the futon, legs tucked under her, bottle on the floor. The lights across the street lit the room in blinking blue and red. It was warmer in here now, the radiators hissing and banging, the reassuring sounds of home.
    Alone in the dark, she drank wine and watched the snow.

THREE
    When Eddie the Saint walked out of the halfway house for the last time, Terry Trudeau was leaning on the fender of a primer-gray El Camino parked out in front, smoking a cigarette.
    Light snow was blowing around, the cracked sidewalk already covered with it. Eddie zipped his state-issue windbreaker higher, shifted the bulging trash bag on his shoulder.
    â€œHey,” Terry said. “I thought they were never gonna let you out of there.”
    Eddie looked at the El Camino, slowly shook his head. Terry’s smile faded.
    â€œFive years inside,” Eddie said. “And you expect me to ride out of here in that piece of shit?”
    â€œIt’s the only—”
    â€œCome over here.”
    Eddie caught him around the neck, pulled him close. Terry struggled, but Eddie held him there, kissed the top of his head, then pushed him away one-handed. He fell back against the El Camino.
    â€œHow long you been out here?”
    â€œHalf hour maybe.” Terry flicked the cigarette away, raised his hands. Eddie tossed the bag at him.
    â€œCareful with that. You got my whole life in there.”
    The last time Eddie had seen him, he had a mohawk. Now his hair was short and ragged. He was thinner, wore a sleeveless denim jacket over a hooded sweatshirt. His right eyebrow was pierced.
    â€œLet’s get out of here,” Terry said. “This place makes me nervous.”
    Eddie went around to the passenger side. Terry got in, stowed the bag behind the seat, leaned over and popped the door lock.
    Eddie looked back at the building where he’d spent the last six months; brick walls, bars on the windows. A black kid with dreadlocks stood outside, smoking a cigarette, watching them. Eddie stared at him until he looked away.
    Terry started the engine, exhaust coughing up white in the cold air. Eddie got in. When they pulled away from the curb, Terry said, “How’s it feel?”
    â€œIt feels good. Drive.”
    He looked out the window at Newark going by; warehouses, industrial lots with razor-wire fences, blocks of crumbling brownstones. Bare trees, piled garbage.
    Terry took a pack of Kools from a jacket pocket, held it out.
    â€œI quit,” Eddie said. “Inside. You got any heat in this bitch?”
    â€œSure.” Terry worked the dashboard control, and warm air blew from the vents. He shook a cigarette from the pack, a slight tremor in his hand, fumbled with the lighter.
    â€œI make you nervous?” Eddie said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou need a cigarette to calm your nerves?”
    â€œNo, I