there was a dull grinding noise, like a building about to collapse.
Geraci took off running, after a fashion. In recent years he’d gotten a little lax about his roadwork. The gun fell out of his pants, but behind him there was a loud, sharp crack. He kept going. His shoes were soaked. His lungs were on fire. The cracking continued, and he kept running, and he heard what sounded like a gigantic slurp, and he kept on running.
He stopped, bent at the waist, and cocked his head to see the hole in the ice where the tractor had been.
He recovered enough to keep walking. He kept hearing the cracking, kept thinking that at any second he was going to fall through the goddamned ice. Finally, with a wet whooshing sound, he plunged up to his knees in filthy brown icewater. He stifled a yell. But he was only ten feet from shore, tops.
Sometimes, it’s just your lucky day.
Though luck’s the wrong word. Geraci had made a mint off saps who thought they were on a roll. Gambling profits by and large came from idiots who thought math class was a waste of time. Geraci believed in probability and randomness but not luck. Logical explanations you’ll never hear about.
The reason there were no ice fishermen here was that a sewage pipe as big around as a railroad tunnel pumped warm, nitrogen-rich water into the lake near where the tractor sank. When Geraci finally made it ashore, he saw THIN ICE warnings all over the place. Amusing, but he had business to attend to. He had to steal a car, crank up the heat, get a county or two away from here, where he’d be safe from any local yokel John Law out to make his career-making grand-theft-tractor bust.
For the first time in ages, Geraci wasn’t some crazy degenerate living in a rat hole, some fuck who spent his life looking over his shoulder. All a man can do is keep moving. Play offense, play defense, but for Christ’s sake, play. For too long, Nick Geraci had failed to do even that.
He was back.
CHAPTER 5
G eraci told the barber he had a job interview coming up. The frayed clothes gave credence to the down-on-his-luck story. The barber asked what line of work he was in. Bookkeeping, Geraci said. The barber said he had a brother who was an accountant. He said it was kind of a straitlaced field, accounting. He demonstrated his point by giving Geraci a horrible haircut. The reason Geraci gave for keeping the beard was that it covered a scar. Better trim it, the barber said, and did. Geraci thanked him and asked for directions to a JC Penney’s. It was the sort of neighborhood where there had to be one nearby, and there was. He was somewhere between Cleveland and Akron—nowhere, in other words.
At Penney’s, he went into the dressing room and stood holding up clothes in front of a mirror. He wasn’t screwing around with buttons and snaps in a public place. He bought a suitcase and enough unstylish clothes to fill it. He felt as if he were shopping for a Halloween costume.
It was late enough now for Nick to find a closed body shop where he could swap a license plate from some wrecked car with the one on his stolen Pontiac. Then he checked into a Howard Johnson’s, that orange-roofed avatar of the anonymous, out by the Ohio Turnpike.
Still, no one seemed to be following him.
He would have gone back out, but he couldn’t bear getting dressed again. He bought toiletries from a vending machine in the lobby and went to bed.
In the morning, he suffered through getting dressed, and, miraculously bland-looking, he went back to the shopping center, this time to Sears, where he bought a hunting knife, a Ted Williams–brand shotgun, and a box of shells. Then he stopped at an A & P. He bought necessary-looking items like milk and cat food, plus detergent, so that the rolls of dimes he’d come there for would seem laundry-related and mundane. On the way back to the motel, he threw away everything but the dimes.
Buying or renting a car was too risky, at least until he got some new fake
Geraci took off running, after a fashion. In recent years he’d gotten a little lax about his roadwork. The gun fell out of his pants, but behind him there was a loud, sharp crack. He kept going. His shoes were soaked. His lungs were on fire. The cracking continued, and he kept running, and he heard what sounded like a gigantic slurp, and he kept on running.
He stopped, bent at the waist, and cocked his head to see the hole in the ice where the tractor had been.
He recovered enough to keep walking. He kept hearing the cracking, kept thinking that at any second he was going to fall through the goddamned ice. Finally, with a wet whooshing sound, he plunged up to his knees in filthy brown icewater. He stifled a yell. But he was only ten feet from shore, tops.
Sometimes, it’s just your lucky day.
Though luck’s the wrong word. Geraci had made a mint off saps who thought they were on a roll. Gambling profits by and large came from idiots who thought math class was a waste of time. Geraci believed in probability and randomness but not luck. Logical explanations you’ll never hear about.
The reason there were no ice fishermen here was that a sewage pipe as big around as a railroad tunnel pumped warm, nitrogen-rich water into the lake near where the tractor sank. When Geraci finally made it ashore, he saw THIN ICE warnings all over the place. Amusing, but he had business to attend to. He had to steal a car, crank up the heat, get a county or two away from here, where he’d be safe from any local yokel John Law out to make his career-making grand-theft-tractor bust.
For the first time in ages, Geraci wasn’t some crazy degenerate living in a rat hole, some fuck who spent his life looking over his shoulder. All a man can do is keep moving. Play offense, play defense, but for Christ’s sake, play. For too long, Nick Geraci had failed to do even that.
He was back.
CHAPTER 5
G eraci told the barber he had a job interview coming up. The frayed clothes gave credence to the down-on-his-luck story. The barber asked what line of work he was in. Bookkeeping, Geraci said. The barber said he had a brother who was an accountant. He said it was kind of a straitlaced field, accounting. He demonstrated his point by giving Geraci a horrible haircut. The reason Geraci gave for keeping the beard was that it covered a scar. Better trim it, the barber said, and did. Geraci thanked him and asked for directions to a JC Penney’s. It was the sort of neighborhood where there had to be one nearby, and there was. He was somewhere between Cleveland and Akron—nowhere, in other words.
At Penney’s, he went into the dressing room and stood holding up clothes in front of a mirror. He wasn’t screwing around with buttons and snaps in a public place. He bought a suitcase and enough unstylish clothes to fill it. He felt as if he were shopping for a Halloween costume.
It was late enough now for Nick to find a closed body shop where he could swap a license plate from some wrecked car with the one on his stolen Pontiac. Then he checked into a Howard Johnson’s, that orange-roofed avatar of the anonymous, out by the Ohio Turnpike.
Still, no one seemed to be following him.
He would have gone back out, but he couldn’t bear getting dressed again. He bought toiletries from a vending machine in the lobby and went to bed.
In the morning, he suffered through getting dressed, and, miraculously bland-looking, he went back to the shopping center, this time to Sears, where he bought a hunting knife, a Ted Williams–brand shotgun, and a box of shells. Then he stopped at an A & P. He bought necessary-looking items like milk and cat food, plus detergent, so that the rolls of dimes he’d come there for would seem laundry-related and mundane. On the way back to the motel, he threw away everything but the dimes.
Buying or renting a car was too risky, at least until he got some new fake
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