THE THINGS KINGSLEY DID FOR LOVE. Kingsley took a breath, walked up the steps into the Eastside Rif le and Pistol Range. He was on time, but Robert Dixon was already there. Dixon caught Kingsley’s eye, nodded at him, then raised his pistol and shot six bullets into the target. Kingsley stood safely behind him and watched. Dixon could shoot. Kingsley had to give him that. Six bullets, six hits. He’d peppered an erratic circle around the target’s heart.
Dixon, aged forty and looking every day of it, took off his earmuffs.
“Your turn,” Dixon said to Kingsley. “Impress me, and I’ll hear you out.”
With another sigh, Kingsley put on his earmuffs and safety glasses, aimed his 9mm and shot six rounds into a fresh target. Two in the head between the eyes, two in the heart and two in the groin just to make Dixon think twice.
Kingsley pulled off the earmuffs, turned around and faced Dixon.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Dixon asked.
“French Foreign Legion.”
“I thought all the French military knew how to do was surrender.”
“You’d be curtsying to the Queen of England if it wasn’t for the French.”
“What do you want? A thank-you note?”
“Just a favor. We’ll call it even between France and America then.”
Dixon looked him up and down. “Let’s go talk. Keep your hands off your gun.”
“Your idea to meet at a shooting range,” Kingsley reminded him.
“I shoot better than anyone I know.”
“Not anymore.”
“I’m pretending I don’t know you,” Dixon said. Kingsley didn’t blame him for that.
They left the shooting lanes and found a quiet corner near the lockers. Dixon pulled on his jacket, stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited.
“I need your help,” Kingsley said.
“You’re fucking my wife, and you come to ask for a favor. I almost admire that.”
“I wouldn’t have to fuck your wife if you weren’t too busy fucking your wife’s sister.”
Dixon’s eyes widened. Kingsley smiled.
“Go on,” Dixon said. “What do you need my help with?”
“A girl was arrested in Manhattan last night. She’s being charged today with five counts of grand theft auto.”
“A girl?”
“She’s f ifteen.”
“We better throw in a charge for driving without a license then.”
“You’re funny,” Kingsley said, and mentally put two bullets in Dixon’s head. “I need the charges dropped.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“How much to make it happen?”
“I can’t get the charges dropped. That’s a big fucking red f lag, and I’m not prepared to wave it.”
“Can you get them reduced? I want to keep her out of doing any time.”
“Who is this girl?”
“Friend of a friend,” Kingsley said.
“You have friends who are friends with fifteen-year-old girls?”
“I have interesting friends.”
“I didn’t know you had any friends, Edge,” Dixon said with a wide grin. Kingsley put two more bullets in him—center of his chest this time. “Or do fuck buddies count as friends these days?”
“Are you going to help her or not?” Kingsley asked.
“I’ll consider it. What’s her name?”
“Eleanor Schreiber. She lives in Wakefield, Connecticut.”
“Schreiber? Yeah, they’re looking for the father right now. They want her to roll on him and anyone else she can.”
“She’ll roll on him.”
“Who’s the friend?”
“Why does it matter?”
“I put my job on the line helping a fifteen-year-old girl get out of going to juvie for multiple counts of car theft, I want to know the story.”
“Fine. Short story. An old friend of mine is a Catholic priest now. Her priest. He asked me to help her. I owe him a big favor. This is the favor.”
“You’re friends with a priest?”
“Trust me, no one is more shocked by that than I am.”
“Is he fucking her? The priest?”