Kim Oh 3: Real Dangerous People (The Kim Oh Thrillers) Page 6

  “Well, look who’s here?” One of them flashed a gold-toothed smile. “It’s my man Elton. How ya been?”

  He didn’t return the smile. “Not too bad, Sammy.”

  “Bud there gave me a call.” Sammy indicated the bartender with a nod. “Said you’ve been looking for me. Shitfire, pal, I’m not that hard to find.”

  “You are when you owe people money.”

  “Money?” Sammy feigned surprise. “What money are you talking about?”

  “Don’t act dumb. The money you got fronted for that bookie operation you’re running over on Decatur.”

  “That money? I thought that money was a gift.”

  The two big guys exchanged smirks above Elton’s head. Who wasn’t amused.

  “It wasn’t,” he said quietly. “And you’re overdue on your payments. As in haven’t made any.”

  “Well, that is a shame. Leon, I bet you feel bad about that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” grunted the other guy. “It’s tragic.”

  “It surely is.” Sammy shook his head. “’Cause I don’t know when I’ll be getting around to making any. Payments, that is.”

  “Sammy –” Elton gave the man a hard stare. “You’re in big trouble.”

  “I don’t think so.” An even more emphatic shake of the head. “But I think you might have a little problem. When you go back to those loan sharks you hang out with – especially that Falcone douche – and you have to tell your boss you can’t get his money back for him.

  “Let me tell you something, Sammy.” Elton’s gaze turned even harder. “It’s not Falcon’s money we’re talking about. It’s mine. I fronted the money.”

  “You did?” Sammy raised his eyebrows. “That was you? Makin’ a little investment on your own, huh? And all this time I thought – shit. Now I do feel bad.” His joking-around manner evaporated, as he leaned in closer. “’Cause you’re not getting your money back, either.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s right. So why don’t you trot on back to where you’d be more comfortable? Rather than some place like this, where you could get hurt.”

  “I don’t know.” Elton looked around. “I kinda like this place.”

  “Fine. Finish your drink, pal. Take your time. But then I think you really oughta run along. Maybe your boss man’s got some errand for you to take care of. The kind you can handle.” Sammy nodded to the other guy. “Come on, Leon. Let’s go.”

  Leon’s face had a broken-toothed grin on it as he and Sammy pushed themselves away from the bar.

  “Wait a minute.”

  The two big guys turned back toward Elton.

  “Yeah? What?”

  In one quick motion, Elton grabbed Sammy by the shirt collar and slammed his face against the edge of the bar. Along its length, bottles and glasses went flying from the force of the impact. Sammy grimaced in pain and shock as Elton slammed him once more against the bar.

  Leon whipped out a large-bladed knife from his jacket. Elton spun Sammy around in his grasp and rammed him straight into the other guy, knocking him backward. The chairs around the side of the room toppled over as the fight collided into them.

  Elton lifted Sammy into the air and hurled him onto one of the tables. It smashed apart, with the dazed Sammy lying in the middle of the wreckage. Scrambling to his feet, Leon came at Elton from the other side, knife in hand. Elton grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting the arm behind him while driving a knee hard into his gut. The knife dropped from Leon’s hand and clattered on the floor. Elton grabbed the bent-over figure by the shoulders and rammed him headfirst into the wall. Leon dropped to his knees, then rolled over unconscious.

  Sammy was still lying on his back in the middle of the table fragments, moaning. He gasped as Elton grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him to the middle of the room. Dropping him, Elton pulled over a table and chair. Reaching down and grasping Sammy’s ankles again, Elton mounted onto the chair and then the tabletop, precariously balancing himself as he lifted the other’s feet above the level of his own head –

  Then dangled Sammy upside-down, over the gasoline drum. Sammy screamed and flailed about as the blue flames licked around his shoulders.

  “So.” Elton spoke through gritted teeth. “About that money, shithead –”

  Sammy thrashed in terror, his hair and jacket starting to spark and smolder.

  “Damn, Elton!” The bartender shouted to him. “You gonna roast the man!”

  The handful of bar patrons gaped as Elton continued to dangle Sammy over the flames.

  “The money!” Elton’s voice went fiercer. “The money!”

  Sammy couldn’t do anything but scream. Elton lowered his own arms, dipping the other man headfirst into the burning gasoline. Then pulled him out and dropped him onto the floor. Elton jumped down from the table, then went over to the bar and grabbed a pitcher of beer. He walked back over and doused Sammy with its contents. Blinded, face blistered and hair smoking, Sammy twitched and blubbered in agony.

  “Monday morning, punk!” Elton squatted down close to him and shouted in his ear. “You know where to bring it!”

  He stood up and kicked Sammy in the ribs.

  “Not a payment, either –” Another kick. “The whole wad!”

  A stumbling noise came from the side of the room. Elton looked over to where Leon had managed to get to his feet.

  “Get your buddy outta here.” He pointed to Sammy. “He’s really bringing down the party atmosphere.”

  Cringing away from Elton, Leon scurried over and grabbed his partner under the arms. He dragged Sammy a few feet away, then lifted him up and hurriedly dragged him out the door.

  The place was quiet now. The few patrons looked away from Elton as he went back to the bar and took a sip from the beer he had left there.

  “Sorry about the table.”

  The bartender shrugged. “Ain’t the first one you’ve broken.”

  “Put it on my tab,” said Elton. He finished the beer, then pushed the glass toward the bartender. “And I’ll have another.”

  SIX

  “What the hell is this place?”

  I’d only had a glimpse of where we had wound up before Curt doused the headlights and switched off the Chevy’s engine. Some kind of abandoned farm, maybe. There was a sagging wooden construction right in front of us that looked like it might’ve been a barn.

  “Come on.” Curt pushed open his door. “I’ll show you.”

  I followed him over to where he grabbed the edges of a garage-sized door and slid it open, along rusted iron tracks on the building’s side. Actually was a barn, or had been – I could smell moldering old hay before we even stepped inside.

  Curt knew his way around. Flicking a match, he lit an oil lantern hanging from a nail. That gave just enough light to reveal the rotting bales and decrepit farm equipment stacked up in the corners.

  “Oh, yeah –” I looked around. “This is romantic, all right.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Bring a lot of girls here?”

  “You’re the first.” He adjusted the lantern’s flame, then hung it back up.

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “We’re not exactly here for recreational purposes.”

  “Thank God. The smell of old cow poop never has gotten me in the mood.”

  “What I heard –“ Curt tucked the matchbook back inside his jacket. “Is that you’re never in the mood.”

  “Not when I’m on the job.” I looked at the rotting harnesses on the barn wall. “And I’m always working.”

  “You got that from Cole, didn’t you? About putting it on the shelf, for the time being.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “He had all sorts of good advice for me.”

  “That’s one of the better pieces. Works on the young guys, at least. Definitely messes with their heads. Some old bastard like me, though . . .” He smiled. “Not so much.”

  “Must be a relief.”

  He mulled that over. “Yeah,”
he said after a moment. “Kinda is. I mean . . . I wouldn’t have married those last two bimbos if I’d had a brain in my head. Or at least one that worked. First one did a number on me. Diced my heart up over her breakfast cereal. Second one was worse – she just took most of my money.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Any discussion of personal finances tended to evoke my sympathy. Especially if it came from somebody who was in the same line of work as me.

  “It won’t happen to you,” said Curt. “You’re smart. Cole told me that’s what he liked about you.”

  “Huh.” I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  I don’t mind killing people – for the most part. But I hate talking about dead people.

  Or at least that one.

  “Is this what we came out here for?” I dug my hands into my jacket pockets. “Because I’m freezing.” The night wind sliced right through the rickety barn. “If you just wanted to talk about stuff, there are plenty of places more comfortable than this. Some of them even have coffee.”

  “I told you. We’re working.” He looked closer at me. “Where’s your backpack?”

  “Left it in the car.”

  “Go get it.”

  When I came back into the barn with it, Curt slid the door shut behind me.

  “What’re you carrying these days?”

  I zipped open the backpack, dug out the .357, and showed it to him.

  “Nice piece.” He nodded appreciatively. “Cole?”

  I nodded. I could remember when Cole had first given it to me. It’d seemed to weigh a ton then – I’d barely been able to lift it in both hands.

  Now I’ve gotten used to it.

  “You had that with you up in Albany?”

  “Yep. It’s my main piece.”

  “Any problem with it?”

  “None whatsoever.” I gave him a thin smile. “Didn’t Moretti tell you I could handle it all right?”

  “Moretti doesn’t have the same standards that I do.”

  “Yeah, well – it gets the job done.”

  “In Albany it didn’t.”

  I didn’t like the way this conversation was going.

  “If you’re just going to get on my case about what happened to Andriessen . . .”

  Curt didn’t say anything. He went over to the flickering oil lamp and turned the little brass knob at its side, shutting off the flame.

  I couldn’t see; it would take a few seconds for my night vision to start kicking in.

  “You know the drill.”

  His voice came from some other spot, different from where I had last seen him.

  “Aw, come on,” I said. “Not this crap again –”

  I’d been through this particular game before. Cole had run me through it, back when he had been getting me ready to take care of our old boss McIntyre. Then, it’d been in that funky warehouse where Cole had operated from. Before we’d finished, and Cole had switched the lights back on, I’d managed to blow away the saucepan on the little one-ring hot plate and wing a corner of the fridge.

  I was better at it now. For one thing, I knew what to expect.

  The red dot of a laser pointer hit one of the sagging wooden beams above my head. There it was –

  One-handed, I swung the .357 up and squeezed the trigger. The little red dot showed the inside of the bullet hole I’d just drilled, then switched off.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the red dot blink on the wall behind me. I swung around and nailed that one as well.

  “This was easy before.” I still couldn’t see where Curt was hiding. “And I’ve had a lot of practice since then.”

  The red dot picked out a rat, eyes glittering, crouching on top of one of the rotting hay bales. I blew it away just as quickly.

  “Is this really necessary?” I turned slowly, scanning for Curt. “Why don’t we just stop screwing around –”

  Another shot sounded, but not from my gun this time. The bullet pinged off a piece of rusted metal next to my shoulder.

  “Damn –” I dropped to my stomach. The red dot appeared again, over on the opposite barn wall. I rolled onto one side and fired. It pissed me off when the dot moved over a couple inches to show the bullet hole, then snapped off again.

  This was something new. Even when Cole had run me through the drill, I hadn’t had to dodge shots from his gun.

  “That’s real cute.” I raised my head and shouted into the dark. “You want to play games? All right – go ahead –”

  I heard the next shot go right over my head. I grabbed the strap of my backpack and ran, hunched over, farther into the barn . . .

  * * *

  Back in town, Elton was still drinking at the White Hawk.

  After his little business meeting with the guys who owed him money, nobody felt like coming over and talking to him. When guys do stuff like that, as a general rule it’s a good idea to leave a few bar stools between you and them.

  The two-piece band was slaughtering one of their numbers on the little stage. They had both come back so red-eyed and stumbling from their between-sets break, out in the alley behind, that they didn’t care if anybody was dancing or not. The empty beer pitcher they were using for a tip jar had two folded dollar bills in it – from Elton, actually. Maybe he’d just wanted to signal to everybody that he wasn’t in a bad mood, now that the conference was over.

  He listened to one of the drunker patrons saying something to whoever had just come in from the street.

  “Hey, buddy –” The drunk swayed on his perch at the other end of the bar. “Sure you’re in the right place?”

  “I’ll let you know if I’m not.”

  Elton looked over his shoulder and saw Foley heading his way.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on duty tonight?”

  Foley sat down next to him and signaled to the bartender.

  “Whoa.” Foley caught sight of Elton’s scraped-raw knuckles. “You really should find a nicer place to hang out.”

  “I like it here,” said Elton. “They don’t put little paper umbrellas in the drinks.”

  The bartender set a beer in front of Foley.

  “You never order those kinds of drinks.”

  “It’s just the idea. Creeps me out.”

  Foley took a long pull from his beer. “We gotta talk,” he said as he set it back down.

  Elton shrugged. “So talk.”

  “It’s important,” said Foley. “Maybe we should go someplace private.”

  “I’ve already taken care of enough business today. This is my happy hour.”

  “It can’t wait.”

  “Yeah?” It dawned on Elton, about how serious Foley was. “So what is it, already?”

  “It’s Curt.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.” Elton turned back to his beer. “What about the man?”

  “He’s screwing up,” said Foley. “Big time. You know it, I know it, everybody knows it.”

  “Seems like everybody knows it – except Mr. Falcon. Otherwise, he’d have fired Curt’s ass by now.”

  “Falcon doesn’t see him up close. The way we do. He doesn’t see things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the little problem Curt’s got with his gun hand. He can barely fire a piece anymore.”

  “I don’t know.” Another shrug. “It’s not so bad.”

  “Think so?”

  “Yeah, actually. I do.”

  “Then think about this.” Foley leaned closer to him. “When we were at that restaurant, and everything came down on us – when all that stuff was happening – why didn’t you see Curt taking a shot?”

  “He was busy,” said Elton. “Thinking what to do next. That’s his job. He runs the crew, remember?”

  “Well, he isn’t thinking so hot these days.” A slow nod. “Or maybe he is . . .”

  “Meaning exactly what?”

  “Maybe Curt knows he’s losing it.” Foley’s brow practically touched the other man’s. “Maybe he figures Fa
lcon’s gonna see it. Then Falcon’s gonna want a new leader for the crew.” He sat back a little. “And that’s why Curt brought his old girlfriend back on board.”

  “Girlfriend? What’re you talking about?”

  “What, are you blind? That Kim broad. Who the hell do you think she is?”

  “Didn’t hear about her being Curt’s girlfriend.”

  “Before your time, pal. She and Curt were hot and heavy in the sack. Like minks. That’s why Curt talked Falcon into hiring her before . . .”

  When I found out that this was the load that Foley told Elton, I just about hit the roof. Can you believe this guy? What kind of story is that to make up? I didn’t know if I was more pissed that Foley came up with this crap, or that Elton didn’t fall off his bar stool, laughing.

  I mean, really. Not only was I not putting it out for anybody – following Cole’s advice on that score – I certainly wasn’t putting it out for Curt. The guy could’ve been my grandfather! Look, I realize I’m not exactly some Kardashian in terms of hotness, but I’m not that desperate. Like I said before, I’ve pulled my act together at least a little bit, from back when I’d been Little Nerd Accountant Girl. And if I were going to put my ass on the line – literally – for a job, it sure wouldn’t be this one.

  Plus – what is it with guys nowadays? When did they all become girls? Even an old guy like this Foley putz. I would’ve thought he’d be more old-school than this. Instead, he dished out this back-stabbing crap like he’s on some junior varsity cheerleader squad, instead of a crew of hit men bodyguards.

  I blame it on that whole bit about men getting in touch with their feminine sides. Even hit men. Instead of getting in touch with something inside them that was like, say, Mother Theresa or Amelia Earhart or Eleanor Roosevelt, no, they gotta channel that bitchy girl you remember from high school, who always gave you that sweetie smile and then went around telling everybody what a tramp you were.

  “Is that right? Her and Curt, huh?” Like I said, Elton fell for it. “I would never have figured that.”

  Right, Einstein.

  “Then when she screwed up in Albany,” Foley went on, “and Falcon fired her cute little butt, there wasn’t squat that Curt could do about it. Unless he wanted to get bounced, too.”