Page 1 of The Rivers Edge

1

God damn it all to hell. He dumped me.

Now, Carmine “Red Knuckles” Rossi wouldn’t be the first guy to ever dump me, but he was the first one I hadn’t been sharing a bed with. In retrospect, I should’ve seen it coming. Just like the type of guy who’d sneak out before dawn with my laptop and my credit cards, Carmine had made way too many promises.

“Stick with me, Gino, and you’ll be a rich man.”

“You’re like the son I never had.”

“You and me, Gino, we’ll go far.”

But promises are like kneecaps—made to be broken—so I wasn’t exactly surprised. I cracked an eyelid and took a sidelong look at my current surroundings. Not only had Carmine dumped me, but he’d gone to some pretty great lengths to do it. I didn’t recognize the stretch of the river where he’d left me to rot. Hell, I wasn’t even sure which river it was. I tried to sit up and get my bearings, but my head spun, so I figured it was best to stay put. I’d taken a blow to the back of my skull, a nasty one. And even though an oily, rotten reek was wafting up from the murky water, the riverbank was probably the safest place for me. No sounds but the lapping of the water against the pilings.

I was alone.

Distantly, I recalled that you’re never supposed to let someone with a concussion fall asleep because they might not wake up. That was what I had, a concussion. There’d been acrunch. Whatever it was that whacked me on the back of the head wentcrunch. A tire iron. Which wouldn’t gocrunch. But there was no way to know for sure it was a tire iron. Why I had that impression, no idea. But concussion or no concussion, I didn’t have many options. Even thinking about sitting up made my guts heave. And so I closed my eyes and did my best to regroup.

The pain was sickening. But I drifted.

Some time had passed, I had that impression too, when I heard footsteps. Not the careful steps of someone trying to sneak up on me, either. More crunching, though not the type a tire iron would make on the back of your skull. Thecrunch - CRUNCH - crunch crunch - crunchof someone staggering around on the gravelly bank, all the while hysterically yammering, “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.”

Still flat on my back and moving as surreptitiously as possible, I patted myself down. The piece I usually wore on my right hip was gone. No big surprise there. Who would pass up a free gun, especially one with someone else’s prints all over it? I’d need to improvise. Maybe the tire iron was still within reach. If not, push come to shove, I could always drown God Boy in the river.

Probably, it wouldn’t come to that. God Boy’s last “Oh God” was more of a croak, and the final crunch was different too, like he’d simply given up and flung his whole body down.

Maybe I wouldn’t need my piece, or the tire iron, either. Maybe someone had already done the job for me and the other guy was already bleeding out. I gathered all my strength, shoved aside the throbbing in the back of my skull, and sat up.

“Oh GOD!”

So much for the bleeding out theory. God Boy wasn’t wounded anywhere I could see. In fact, he wasn’t in nearly as rough a shape as I was, given how quick he skittered back on his ass when he saw me move. But he wasn’t much of a threat. Unarmed? Probably. Although his suit jacket could easily hide a .22, he wasn’t reaching for a gun. Plus, he didn’t look like the fighting type. He was an auburn-haired looker with a waifish build and a face that had never been shaped by the business end of a fist. Hell, he didn’t even know how to hold himself, other than to grovel as I locked my knees so I could stand up and tower over him. “Don’t move.” My voice came out even grittier than usual. God Boy balled himself up to make an even smaller target. “You alone?”

He looked all around, spooked to high hell. “Yeah. I think…yeah.”

“Who are you?”

“Shane?” He said it like a question.

“And who do you work for?”

“No one. I mean, I’m between….” He sighed. “I have an interview next Tuesday.”

While I hadn’t survived as long as I had by underestimating anyone, I suspected God Boy Shane posed about as much threat as a gun with an empty clip and nothing in the chamber. I kept right on posturing over him anyway. Old habits die hard, and I couldn’t let anyone get the upper hand, especially with me still reeling from the tire iron. “You think I give a shit which Starbucks you froth milk at?”

“It wasn’t a Starbucks—”

“Turn out your pockets, kid, nice and easy.” I settled my hand on my hip as if the comforting weight of my Beretta was still there. “And don’t try anything funny.”

His hands shook hard as he patted down the front of his suit coat, attempting to turn out pockets that were sewn shut. If I had a conscience, I’d feel guilty for intimidating someone so helpless to such an extent, but my conscience was as long gone as my virginity. Shane’s trembling hands fluttered lower, flitting over the front pockets of his pants, shaking too hard to work them open. “You want money?” he said. “I’ll give you whatever I have.”

I’d only been trying to make sure there weren’t any weapons on him. I hadn’t robbed anyone since I was too young to smoke—my talents fell more to the collection of outstanding debts—but I felt a telling absence of a wallet. My left back pocket was as empty as the holster on my right hip. “All right, stop stalling. Cough it up.”

“I’m not st-st—” Shane hiccuped. His eyes went wide. Then he made a bubbling, horking sound, doubled over, and spewed out a frothing red geyser. This was not cherry Kool-Aid. Not tomato juice, either. I knew blood when I saw it, and what had just erupted from Shane was definitely blood.

White-faced, Shane looked down at the foamy red puddle, whispered, “Oh God,” and keeled over.

Shit. The kid was in worse straits than I was. I don’t have much use for cops, but if I got going and put some distance between us, I could call 911 and have someone see to Shane before whatever was ruptured inside him had a chance to bleed out. I knew it was just my dick thinking for me since, blood aside, this Shane kid was too pretty for his own damn good. Stupid of me. It wasn’t like I’d ever have the chance to collect on the favor. But with a big knock on the head to use as an excuse for being such a sap, I reached for my phone.

It was gone. Like my gun. And my wallet.

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