The Devil's Redhead by David Corbett

Shel thing. Twenty-five words or less: How far you willing to go?”
    Abatangelo stared across the table. He figured it was best not to tell Eddy what he didn’t want to know. “She said she could stand to see me,” he said. “I could stand to see her. I’ll be careful. After that, what happens, happens.”
    Eddy shook his head. The effect of the wine was beginning to show. “That’s no good.”
    â€œEd, what—”
    â€œI can assure you, man, Shel’s in a spot. Her eyes tell you that. But that doesn’t mean she’s suffering for you. Okay? Her being in a jam does not demand a response. Ten years is enough. Too much. Tell me we’re clear on this.”
    Abatangelo put his fork down. “You’ve made your point.”
    Eddy leaned close, eyes aglow. “Don’t … obsess …”
    Abatangelo regarded the face before him with a sudden intense discomfort. He said, “What do you suggest, Ed. Sit and reflect? I’ve had ten years of rolling things around in my head. Time for a little exercise.”
    â€œLook, Dan, I know how you feel.”
    Abatangelo cackled. “Do you, now. What was it, forty-two months you did? Why was that, Ed?”
    Eddy shrank back a little. “Look, I owe you. Big–time. I realize that.”
    Abatangelo waved him off. “To obsess or not obsess is not my problem, Ed. My problem is making sure I don’t fall back into the bad habit that sneaks up on you inside the walls, the habit of thinking everything over ten different ways because that’s all you’ve got the chance to do. Lots of time on your hands. Remember? Well, that’s over. At least everybody keeps telling me it is. What’s your take on that, Ed? Is it over?”
    â€œNo, not yet,” Eddy said. “Not really.”
    â€œAha.”
    â€œWhich is why it’s important to stay smart.”
    Abatangelo wiped his hands on his napkin, felt in his pocket to be sure he had the printout with Shel’s address, and rose from the table. “There’s someplace I’ve gotta be,” he said.
    â€œNo, Dan, come on. Don’t. It’s a chump move.”
    Abatangelo stiffened. “Chump move. Stay smart. You got something you want to tell me, Ed?”
    Eddy looked off, trying to puzzle out where things had gone so wrong. Abatangelo said, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, fill you in on how it all turns out. Thanks for dinner.”
    â€œDanny, please. Sit down.”
    â€œAnd the cake,” He started moving away. “You outdid yourself. I mean that.”

CHAPTER
    6
    Frank surveyed the three vehicles deposited beneath a pole lamp in the Lucky Market parking lot in East Antioch.
    â€œYou said three trucks,” Frank said. “These ain’t trucks.”
    Two of the vehicles were construction vans. One had the shocks gone in back. The other had bald tires and trails of scaly black rust rimming each wheel well. The third vehicle was a makeshift tool wagon, fashioned from a twenty-foot flatbed with a plywood after-shed bolted down in back. As though all this weren’t bad enough, every one of them was smaller than what Frank had had in mind.
    â€œLonesome George must’ve seen you fuckers coming,” he said.
    Mooch hiked up his collar. “Like a little cheese with that whine, Frank?” A winter drizzle began to fall. “Not like we’re driving to Jupiter.”
    â€œThere’s plenty of room, Frank,” Chewy said. He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself. “I mean, how much stuff is there?”
    Frank started back for his truck. “Ever try to shove ten pounds of shit into a two-pound bag? That’s how much stuff there is.”
    There was something else bothering him. He couldn’t quite figure out what it was. He stood there a moment studying the trucks in the rain, then it came to him. The tool wagon’s aftershed, it was