[b][u]the run: part 2[/u][/b]

It was nearly midnight by the time they finished burying him. Pike glimpsed one finger poking out of the black dirt, a glimmer of gold on it. A shovelful of vitreous earth then buried it unceremoniously. Pike silently watched Connor and Raul pant as they leaned over rusty shovels, their backs wet from two hours of work. The road was a good mile away from them, a snaking trail of headlights and asphalt worming its way through the hillside. Raul had his back turned to him, and the Colt in Pike's pants tempted him. He could think of a dozen excuses that would satisfy Santiago. Raul drank on the job and confessed to the cop about our cargo. We found Raul skimming off our supply. Raul was working for the Comanchez. Pike's muscles seized up the more confident he grew about it. Before he could reach for the handle, Raul turned around and wiped a sheen of sweat off his matted brow.

"That's it. We oughta get back to the truck now."

They walked. Connor and Raul shared a one-sided conversation dominated by Raul's nasal grousing throughout the way, but Pike only paid attention to the wake of crunching pebbles and wet grass beneath their boots. The night air was cold, but he could still feel the splash of warm blood on his face, the friction of digging pounds of dirt out of the ground. His pace slowed until Raul was walking in front of him. He stared at the back of Raul's head, pondering some more. He started with the obvious first: whether it would take one or two shots to kill him. He'd killed before. It wasn't that hard. Russell wasn't that hard. He stepped on a twig, and the splintery crack reminded him of a gunshot. The memory of Russell's pale face, a geyser of blood erupting out of his neck, made him wobble. He forced the bile down his throat.

Connor took the wheel this time. Pike chose to take the backseat while Raul took the passenger's side. The meadow where they buried the cop disappeared into the black of night, and Pike stared up at the smiling moon above him. The radio blared a serenade of static, and Connor banged it with his fist to shut it up.

"Look, I get it," Raul muttered under his breath, cleaning the dirt from under his fingernails with the edge of a penknife. "It was a little messy. Could have done it cleaner."

"You didn't need to kill the man, dumbfuck," Connor said, tapping the side of his cigarette on the window with one hand on the wheel.

"Man was a cop," Raul shrugged. "What if he tried to peer into our trunk?"

"You don't know that," Pike retorted, anger bubbling under his voice.

Raul guffawed, rubbing his pockmarked nose with the back of his hand. "Yeah, you don't know cause you're acting like you're the one who killed him. Nah, I'm the one that did. See this, Pikey?" Raul lifted the penknife to his cheek, tracing the edge on his skin. The blade glinted, but less so, dulled to a rust-red by flecks of dried blood. "Don't think I'm dumb enough that I didn't see that look on your face. You think I'm a killer, but you?" Raul snorted, hacking out a glob of spit through the rolled-down window. "You're the worst killer of us all, O'Malley. You've sold iron for five years. It's people like you that allow me to kill, so fuckin' square up, O'Malley. At least you didn't get your hands dirty like you did with your brother."

[hr]

[b]later[/b]

Hort's was emptier than it should be at this hour, even in this neighborhood. The diner was normally crowded with every Mineenoonan from every corner, but, instead, the seats were empty. There were no waiters, only the hiss and crackle of grease from an underpaid cook frying trout on a griddle. Being alone in a place like this should have comforted him, if he were truly alone. The man on the other side of the table made him feel caged. Harold Santiago, renowned arms trafficker and his boss, stabbed a fork down into his meal-a whole fried catfish-spearing a chunk of white flesh encrusted with greasy German beer batter. He was dressed simply in a ratty polo shirt with loose strings poking out of the collar and crinkled brown slacks. His beard seemed as though it had been shaven past the skin and into his jawbone. He kept one lazy eye on Pike as he ate, swallowing but not chewing.

"You hungry? Ordered something for you in case you were," Santiago said, nodding to the plate of cold, soggy fries in front of Pike. Pike blinked mutely at him, tracing the edge of a glass of water with his thumb.

"No, thanks."

"So-" Santiago took a sip of his own water, ice cubes rattling, "-how's our business?"

"Business is good. Volume's steady. Currently working on that rifle deal with those guys from Delaware."

"That's good." Santiago set his fork and knife down. "I heard about what happened a few days ago on the 31. Unfortunate but necessary. Look, about Raul... I get it. Man's a little—" Santiago didn't say the word, but his cheek twitched as though he were telling some salacious family secret, "—you know what I mean. But, better to control a rabid dog before you have to put it down. Kind of like what happened with your brother."

Don't let him fish. Don't let him fucking fish anything out of you. Pike's left hand brushed against the pistol in his pocket, keeping his expression stolid.

"Uh, mind if I have that?" Santiago waggled a finger toward the dish of fries, and before Pike could answer, the crime boss had already dragged it over to his side of the table, picking up the limp fries two or three at a time and using them to clean the grease off his plate.

"So, you heard much in town these days?" Santiago asked.

Pike kept his mouth shut.

"Hm." Santiago took the salt shaker and shook it up and down over the fries like he was strangling the glass. "Ever heard of the ATF?"

He said it as though he were observing the weather, but still, Pike's heart started to hammer. The Bureau of Alcohol, Trade and Firearms was a folktale in his circles, somewhat of a joke at times. They were shit at their jobs and even shittier at preventing the flow of iron through the mid-atlantic into the east coast ports where the merch was at. Still, having the attention of government spooks wasn't exactly something you brushed off.  He wondered for a moment if he should play dumb in front of Santiago. 

" Uh, you mean the feds?"

" Of course, I mean, the fucking feds." Santiago rolled his eyes. " You ever heard of anyone talking to them?"

"No."

"Ever seen one on the streets? Anyone come to you looking odd these past couple of days."

Santiago's voice was calm but Pike knew from the way he was sawing his knife into his plate that he was stressed. 

" I've been working for you for nine years and the feds or cops don't know what we do down here. If you're doubting me, then, you wouldn't call me here for this meeting."

The knife in his hand stops moving and Pike can't decipher the searching look that Santiago gives him. The crime boss then raps the window by his side, and the doorbell jingles. Pike heard the sound of footsteps, and then, a body landed on the table. He nearly leaped out of his chair, but two beefy guys forced him down. It was the guy who had beaten him black and blue at the shop. Pike stopped struggling and was forced to look at the gormless, dead face of some dark-haired guy. His lips were so swollen Pike could hardly make out his nose.

"That's one of my street dealers. Bobby. Deals down near Marigold Avenue with the chinks and gooks. Anyway, see, few days ago, one of my men caught him talking with someone dressed too nicely for a couple of hours before leaving. So, I asked him to come over to my house for coffee. Asked who it was. Said it was some guy, Bobby, that we used to trade with, but the only problem is that Bobby doesn't wear fucking hundred-dollar suits. So, I took these little things out." Santiago reached into his coat pocket and dropped several white things, the size of marbles, onto the table. One of them rolled over to Pike, and he blanched, realizing why the man was missing all his teeth. "One by one. And then, he wasn't much good for conversation after that."

"Now, rumour on the street out is that the ATF is here. Didn't believe it at first but after Bobby....." Santiago brushed Bobby's shoulder aside to reach for the catsup. " Well, can't afford to be careless now. So, given these—uh—security risks, I want you to handle all of my merchandise from now on."

"Santiago, I've got other clients—"

"I'm your only client from now on, or do I need to get my man to persuade you some more?"

The hand on Pike's shoulder tightened so hard he could feel his collarbone bend. Pike nodded hastily and was relieved to no longer feel the pressure on his shoulder. Santiago reassuringly patted his hand on Pike's shoulder, giving a languid smile.

"Good, and let's be clear on one thing." The hand on Pike's shoulder reeled him closer until Santiago's teeth were practically kissing his ear. "If you ever try to fuck with me—and not in a dumb way, but in a way that you think makes you look smart—I will go with my men to the West End. To that little, two-story, white-picket-fenced house with the azaleas. I will kill Muskie's wife. I will kill his two little daughters. I will burn his house down to the ashes, and then, I'll kill you. In that exact order."