Worst Enemies Read online

  WORST ENEMIES

  A Penns River Novel

  Dana King

  Praise for Worst Enemies

  “You’re going to be surprised and delighted. It’s a great book, and I recommend it unreservedly.” — Leighton Gage, author of the Inspector Mario Silva series

  “By the end, Worst Enemies was miles from Strangers On a Train … When a crime novel goes above and beyond a mere interpretation of a classic, the reader is left as satisfied as the author.” — Benjamin Sobieck, author of Cleansing Eden and The Writer’s Guide to Weapons

  “I finished reading this book on a gurney in an Emergency Room with crying kids, a car accident victim and a loud drunk keeping me company, and barely noticed them. If that’s not a recommendation, I don’t know what is!” — New Mystery Reader

  Praise for Grind Joint

  “King has created vividly drawn characters, a plot the late Elmore Leonard would appreciate, and dialogue that hits all the right notes. Let’s hope Grind Joint is the first in a new series chronicling life and crime in the Alleghenies.” — Booklist

  “One of the best novels I’ve read this year. Period.” —Les Edgerton, author of Bomb, The Bitch and The Rapist

  “I cannot remember a book I’ve read—including anything by Elmore —where the cops sounded more like cops, tricking suspects, stumbling with women, smart-talking the tough guys, and finally getting out of a big shootout with brains, brawn, and guts.”—Jack Getze, author of the award-winning Austin Carr series

  Copyright © 2012 by Dana King

  Down & Out Books edition: October 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down & Out Books

  3959 Van Dyke Rd, Ste. 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  DownAndOutBooks.com

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by Eric Beetner

  Visit the Down & Out Books website to sign up for our monthly newsletter and we'll deliver the latest news on our upcoming titles, sale books, Down & Out authors on the net, and more!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Pronunciation Key

  Worst Enemies

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Dana King

  Other Titles from Down & Out Books

  Preview from Circling the Runway by J.L. Abramo

  Preview from Abnormal Man by Grant Jerkins

  Preview from Screen Test by Jerry Kennealy

  To the Tri-Cities, the Hotel California of the Rust Belt

  PRONUNCIATION KEY

  Western Pennsylvania has a rich ethnic heritage that is obvious from even a quick glance at the phone listings or any high school yearbook. Many of the names are hard to pronounce to outsiders who don’t come across them often. Even for those who do, West-ern Pennsylvania natives have developed unique accents and pro-nunciations that bear little resemblance to how relatives in the old country would speak.

  Charlie Stella, in addition to being the Godfather of mob fiction, has been a priceless source of inspiration and encourage-ment to me. I had no thought of having any of the Penns River books published until Charlie told me I really needed to do some-thing with them. He had but one negative comment: “I can’t pro-nounce any of the names in this frigging book. Ain’t no one in this town named Smith?”

  This is for you, Charlie.

  Allegheny — al-i-GAY-nee

  Dougherty — DOCK-ur-dee

  Dolewicz — DOLE-uh-wits

  Faison — FAY-zon

  Grabek — GRAY-beck

  Gwynn — Gwin

  Mannarino — Man-uh-REE-no

  Napierkowski — Napper-KOW-ski

  Neshannock — Ne-SHAN-ik

  Neuschwander — NOO-shwan-der

  Obbink — OH-bink

  Orszulak — OR-suh-lack

  Schoepf — Shef

  Smith — Smith

  Wierzbicki — Weerz-BICK-ee

  Zywiciel — Suh-WISS-ee-ul

  Back to TOC

  Until I got married, I was my own worst enemy.

  — Unknown

  CHAPTER 1

  Tom Widmer needed to pay attention. It’s not every night someone tells you how to kill his wife.

  Hard enough to hear in Tease as it was, the tekno/disco/hip-hop cranked to Volume Eleven, so loud the pulsing in his eardrums ruined the floor’s foot massage. Chastity’s nipple in his ear didn’t help. She had the rest of her tit wrapped against his cheek like she was about to go off shift in fifteen minutes and needed to get him into the VIP Room now, which she was and did. This was her go-to move when time got short: sit on the arm of his chair, slip the teddy or camisole or whatever they call that thing she wore off-stage out of the way, then ease it in. Usually he didn’t mind. Usually it cost him an extra fifty for a trip to the VIP Room. Not tonight.

  Tom turned his head and Chastity gave him a mouthful. He couldn’t resist a quick lick before he pulled away. “I’m sorry, baby. Marty and I gotta talk. Maybe later.”

  Chastity pulled a pout. “I go off shift in fifteen minutes, Tommy. Can’t it wait?”

  Tom looked at Marty and saw no, it couldn’t wait. “Sorry, babe. Next time.”

  “You’re just a tease.” The smile that never reached her eyes didn’t hide the irritation in her voice. Fifteen minutes wasted. She made a show of tucking the nipple away and ran her tongue around his ear. Bit the lobe for good measure. “Next time. You’ll be sorry you passed.”

  Marty waited for her to get out of hearing range, about three feet. “Can I have your attention now, or do I have to wait for your dick to get soft again?”

  “You’re sure it has to be tomorrow?” Tom swallowed the bottom half of his gin and tonic, looked for the waitress.

  Marty put his hand over Tom’s and forced the empty glass onto the table. “Pay attention. This has to be done before Monday. She hired a lawyer. You understand me? She already hired a fucking lawyer. Once they serve me with papers, there’s no way anyone will believe a burglar killed her. Thursday’s my regular night out and we have this thing with her family over the weekend. It has to be tomorrow.”

  “That’s not a lot of time to plan.”

  “Fucking A, and I got tired of waiting for you to do it. Everything you need’s in the car.”

  “My car?”

  “No, dumbass, in my car. How the fuck would I get it into your car?”

  Tom really wanted that gin; the tonic had become optional. He’d had fun the past few months, basking in young pussy while he and Marty talked about killing each other’s wives, a couple of lap dances for the road. He figured his divorce was almost as close as Marty’s, and Marian would get half of what was already only half as much as it had been, the market’s death by a thousand cuts bleeding him every day. The sun would shine brighter in a world without Marian.

  Now Marty was good to go. Carol had a lawyer and Tom didn’t know for a fact that Marian didn’t. Marty was right: once papers were filed, neither wife could catch cold without her husband falling under suspicion. Of course, wife killing was much more entertaining as an abstraction, and Tom had never killed anything more evolved than an insect in his life. Buried the whole cage when the kids’ pet hamster died so he wouldn’t have to touch Fluffy. Still, it was now or never. Kill her or face the idea of living like an intern again, running the copier for guys whose cufflinks cost more than his car.

  Marty was talking. Probably had been, now tha
t Tom thought about it. “You gotta be there at ten o’clock. Earlier and she’ll still be up. Later and it’s too close to when I come home.”

  “Huh? Wait. Run that first part by me again.”

  Marty squeezed Tom’s wrist until he grimaced. “Pay attention, dickhead. You fuck this up and I’ll come after you myself. There’s no way you’re doing this half-assed and taking me down with you. You listening to me?”

  Tom nodded, tried to make eye contact with the waitress without moving his head. She wanted fifty bucks, he’d give her fifty bucks. A hundred. Just someone bring him a drink, for Christ’s sake.

  Marty didn’t need a drink. “One more time. The stuff’s in the car. Black pullover, black jeans, black shoes and socks. One of those head things like Hines Ward wears when it’s cold.”

  “What? You mean like a helmet?”

  “No, not a helmet. Jesus Christ. Are all stockbrokers this dumb? No wonder the economy’s in the shitter. It’s like a skull cap, tight, pulls over your head, covers everything except your face. Race car drivers wear them.”

  “Balaclavas?”

  “If you say so. At least you’re listening. Put everything on, darken your face up some—”

  “How should I do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Darken my face.”

  “I don’t know. Use some charcoal from the grill.”

  “We have a gas grill.”

  “Then buy some charcoal. Jesus Christ. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars here. Spend three bucks on a lousy bag of Kingsford.”

  “It’s not the money. How am I going to explain the charcoal when I have a gas grill? It won’t look right.”

  Marty rubbed his forehead with a thumb and index finger, closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. “What are you, autistic? Throw the rest of the bag away. It’s just charcoal. It ain’t like they got serial numbers on them. Use dirt if you want to. Just darken up your face.”

  Tom had a thing about being dirty, showered before and after work every day. Sanitized his hands after he blew his nose, snot on them or not. Right now he’d swim naked through a pig trough if someone would just bring him a beer. Lite beer, even.

  “Look at me, you son of a bitch.” Marty grabbed Tom’s cheeks between a thumb and forefinger. “I’m desperate here. This has to happen, and it has to happen tomorrow. You don’t do this and I’ll ruin you. I’ll tell your wife what I know and she’ll get half of what you got left plus child support. And you’ll probably lose your license. Then what are you gonna do?”

  “How you figure to get my license?” Marty could tell stories about Tom lawyers would line up for like politicians at a microphone. Being a randy drunk couldn’t cost him his stockbroker’s license.

  “Remember that time you told me about that old broad—what’s her name?—Finnegan? How you used money in her account for what you called ‘leverage’ to float that hedge fund thing a few years ago? You made a bundle off that, didn’t you?”

  “She didn’t lose a dime.”

  “She didn’t make any, either. You told me how you got her to sign shit she wasn’t sure what it was? Got to be records of that, right? You move money around, something she has to sign for, I can’t believe they just throw the paperwork away when the money gets moved back. I’m no stockbroker, but they must be pretty fussy about their bookkeeping. I mean, it’s money, right? No other reason for a stockbroker to be in business.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Marty told anyone about that and it was over for Tom. He’d be lucky if his old man could get him a job delivering uniforms. If he didn’t go to jail. He opened his mouth to talk. Marty beat him to it.

  “Wait. Don’t say it. How do you know I won’t tell anyway? Right? That’s what you’re thinking. Well, think again. You already have me dead to rights for solicitation of murder. That’s a capital offense. If we quit dicking around and go through with it, both of us have enough on the other guy that neither one can afford to talk.” Marty cocked his head, raised his eyebrows. Showed the palms of his hands like he’d just said something so self-explanatory a retard would understand.

  Tom was drunk, not retarded. He understood perfectly that he was well and truly fucked. Didn’t matter anymore whether he killed her or not. Don’t kill her and Marty would ruin him, maybe even send him to jail. Much as Tom disliked getting dirty, he liked the idea of taking one up the ass even less. Kill this woman he’d never met, never ever seen, who’d never done him any harm, and he knew Marty would hold up his end of the deal. Just watching him, the way he acted when he talked about it, Tom knew Marty wanted to do Marian. Hell, he was looking forward to it. Then Tom would be out from under forever.

  Maybe he should pretend she was Marian.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tom took twenty minutes to decide where to park the car. Right in front of the Cropcho house was too obvious. Up the street either direction meant leaving it where someone might notice it in front of his house. Nothing but trees around the corner where Argonne made the bend to go down the hill, but then he’d have to walk. No telling who’d see him, and the car could get clipped by someone taking the blind turn too fast. He settled for across the street, more or less between two houses so each could think the car was visiting the other. Made him feel good, thinking of that. Like he knew what he was doing.

  Last week of September, steam from his breath reflected the streetlights. Made him feel practically luminescent, like people watching television in their homes would run to the window to see what the hell was glowing out there? His footfalls loud as someone striking an oil drum with a ball peen hammer. How could anyone not see or hear him?

  Relax. Take a breath. He had the key and knew the security code. Might not even need the code; Marty said Carol hardly ever turned on the alarm. She’d be in bed watching 20/20 or a doctor show or some queers designing clothes or cooking. Even if the alarm did go off, she’d assume Marty came home early and wouldn’t get up. Bedroom to the right at the top of the stairs. Walk up, surprise her—she might even be asleep, that would be nice—put a pillow over her face and press. Take a few things to make it look good, break a window on the way out. Easy.

  He paused on the front porch to steady his breathing, try to get a handle on his heart rate. Looked for signs of trouble, not that he’d recognize any. Most houses had a tree or two in the front yard; at least some shrubs. Leaves already falling, more every time the breeze picked up. Made rustling sounds so he couldn’t hear if anyone was coming. Moving shadows in odd patterns, someone could be in any of them. A kid sneaking in late. Sneaking out. Someone walking a dog. Too exposed out here. Time to get inside.

  He probably should have skipped that third drink, the double, but he couldn’t bring himself to think of what he had to do with just two in him. The last one got him feeling sorry for himself, how that bitch Marian was ruining his life and what he had to do tonight would be the first step toward setting things right. Not equating it to killing Carol Cropcho, he kept it an abstract concept, like all those discussions at Tease. As much booze as he had in him, it was more or less an abstract concept, though he felt dead sober now. He adjusted the balaclava, tucked the long sleeve tee into his gloves. The breeze died and took all sound with it except the porch creaking as he walked to the door. Put the key in the lock, rested his hand there and closed his eyes. Leave now and no one would ever know. No going back once the door was open. He thought of what he’d tell Marty, what it would be like to face him, try to explain why Carol was alive. Then he turned the key and pushed.

  The beeping of the alarm sounded like an air raid siren. He reached for the panel on the wall to his left. Fat fingered the code twice, got it right the third time. Stared at the wall until his heart worked its way out of his throat. Stepped across the vestibule to the stairs. Looked up and saw Carol Cropcho standing at the top looking down at him.

  A powder blue nightshirt hung below her knees. Auburn hair to her shoulders in the twenty-first century version of a shag, rumpled from the bed. H
er breasts filled the nightshirt as she breathed, nipples visible though the material in the cool house. Neither moved for three seconds that lasted a week. Gawked at each other like two cartoon characters who’d walked off a cliff, waiting to fall. For a nanosecond Tom’s mind considered stepping back out the door and pretending it never happened.

  Carol turned and ran into the bedroom. Three words ran through Tom’s mind: Nine. One. One.

  He took the stairs two at a time, saw her in the bedroom to the right crawling across the bed to get at the phone. Dove onto the bed, wrapped his arms around her as his momentum pushed them off the other side. The phone glanced off his head. She screamed and rolled away when they landed unevenly on the floor. Reached for the phone and he swatted it under the bed. Carol screamed again.

  Carol got to her feet and backed to the wall nearest the bathroom. Hands hooked near her face, eyes locked on Tom. Screaming, not hysterical. Screaming with a purpose. For someone to hear. To get help. Tom thought of how quiet the neighborhood was. How close the other houses were.

  Someone would hear.

  He stepped up, put his hands on her throat to stop her. Carol scratched for his face and missed, snagged his collar. Twisted her head away. He got one hand on her neck, felt the cartilage under his thumb as he pulled her back toward the bedroom. Her nails raked across his eyes and he let go to swat them away.

  She stepped aside and ran for the bathroom. He grabbed for her, snared an ankle to trip her onto the tile floor. Carol rolled onto her back as he crawled on top of her. Used her heels to kick his shoulders, then his stomach. Not a small woman, in good shape. The kicks hurt. He fell off her and backed away on his knees to catch his breath.