Kim Oh 2: Real Dangerous Job (The Kim Oh Thrillers) Read online

  “Let’s talk,” she said.

  “All right,” said Michael. “Let’s talk.”

  ELEVEN

  Right while Monica was making that phone call to Michael, that probably would’ve been about the same time that I was lying on the couch back at my apartment.

  Trying to fall asleep, but not having any success. Which was weird, considering how tired I was. That scooting around doing the prep work over at the office building, including almost getting caught by that other security guy Louie – that had taken a lot out of me. Good thing, I supposed, that I had kind of enjoyed all the excitement of it.

  Or maybe that was a bad thing – when you’re tired and trying to fall asleep, it’s hard to sort this kind of stuff out.

  “Kimmie –” My brother called out from the bedroom. “You’re awake, aren’t you?”

  He could always tell. We’d been together a long time.

  I threw off the blanket and got up. In my pajama shorts and oversized T-shirt, I schlepped back there.

  “Yeah.” Sitting on the edge of the bed, I laid my arms across my knees and looked over at him. “Good guess, Einstein. Why aren’t you asleep?”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  How you know we’re brother and sister – we have the same bad habits.

  “What about?”

  Donnie leaned forward, his dark eyes intently studying me. “You’re going to do it. Aren’t you?”

  I knew what he was talking about. There was a lot of stuff that I’d kept from him – that I’d never tell him – but he knew something was going on. Anything that involved carrying a great big .357 around in your backpack was pretty sure to be on the hairy side.

  There was a moment’s hesitation before I could answer. Then I nodded my head. “Yes,” I said. “I am.”

  The two of us sat there in silence for a while. Thinking the same thing, or different things – I didn’t know.

  Donnie spoke up. “What’s he like?”

  “Who?”

  “Cole.”

  I had talked about him before to my brother, back when I had still been working for McIntyre. That was how he knew the name.

  “He’s . . .” I didn’t have a ready answer. “What he is.”

  “I want to meet him.”

  That took me aback a little. “Why?”

  “You always talked before about how horrible he was. And now . . .”

  “He’s still horrible,” I said. “Not a nice guy.”

  “I know that.” Donnie was no fool. “I never thought he was.”

  “So why would you want to meet somebody who’s not a nice guy?”

  “Because,” said Donnie. “He’s important to you.”

  No arguing about that. After another moment, I gave a nod.

  “Okay.” I stood up from the bed and looked over at him. “Just not right now, okay? There’s some stuff I need to take care of first.”

  Donnie nodded, then laid his head back down on the pillow and closed his eyes.

  I went back to the couch and pulled the blanket over myself. Now there was even less chance of getting some sleep.

  * * *

  A little while later, a car pulled up outside the warehouse. Michael was behind the wheel.

  Monica was waiting for him.

  “Get in.” Michael leaned over and pushed the passenger door open. “Let’s talk.”

  She sat beside him, gazing out the windshield at the silhouettes of the freight cranes in the distance, down by the wharves.

  “So.” Michael rubbed a hand across the top of the steering wheel. “What’s on your mind?”

  For a little while longer, Monica didn’t say anything. Then –

  “We should make a deal,” she said. “You and me.”

  Michael nodded, mulling it over. Then he smiled.

  “Sure,” he said. “I kinda thought you’d come around.”

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon, I was still a bit slow from lack of sleep.

  It didn’t stop me from acing target practice, though.

  Out at the abandoned rock quarry, I stood on the muddy ground with my legs comfortably braced apart and let it rip with the short-barreled AR-SF. With one quick burst after another, I nailed all the cans and bottles that I’d set up along the rock wall.

  “Not bad.” From his wheelchair beside me, Cole gave an appreciative nod.

  I lowered the assault rifle and looked over at him. “Good enough?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Better get going.” I checked my wristwatch. “Or we’ll be late.”

  Cole shifted in the wheelchair seat, seemingly nervous. Which was unusual for him.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this –”

  “Too late for that.” I shook my head. “Come on. You’ve got a date.”

  Carrying the assault rifle, I headed toward the van. After a moment, I heard the sound of Cole’s wheelchair as he followed after me.

  I’d left instructions with Donnie, about what to take out of the fridge and put in the oven. And when. So the apartment smelled like dinner when we got there.

  Getting Cole up the stairs – a cheap-ass building like this didn’t have an elevator – was a trip. Good thing that he’d been working on getting back his upper-body strength. It’d required him hauling himself along the stair rail, with me pushing him from behind and keeping him upright. But we finally managed it.

  “What’re we having?” Sitting in one of the chairs at the kitchenette table, he looked around the space. It seemed even more cramped with him there, as if somehow he took up more than his own share. “Smells okay.”

  From him, that was a compliment.

  “Presbyterian meatloaf.” I was already setting things out on the table. “That’s what.”

  “What kind’s that?”

  “The boring kind. It’s all I ever learned how to do.” Strictly speaking, that wasn’t accurate. I’d had a recipe for lutefisk – another souvenir of Donnie’s and my trek through the foster homes of middle America – but even I had hated it. “And mashed potatoes. The kind that come out of a box.”

  I wasn’t embarrassed by my culinary level. By Feral-American standards – which was what everybody was now – I was a regular Julia Child.

  From his wheelchair, pulled up to the table, Donnie studied our guest.

  “Did you give my sister that gun?”

  Cole looked over at him.

  “Yeah, kid –” He nodded. “That was mine. What of it?”

  “I could use one,” said Donnie.

  “The hell you could.” I’d nearly dropped the meatloaf pan when I heard that. “One per household’s enough.”

  “I don’t know.” Cole started to dig around inside his jacket for his cigarettes, then remembered that I’d asked him not to smoke while he was here. He set his hand back down on the table, fingers tapping. “What do you need it for?”

  “Stuff,” said Donnie. “I could go to work with it. Like you and Kimmie do.”

  Cole glanced over at me. “Kimmie?”

  “Give me a break,” I said. “He’s a kid.”

  “Might not be a great idea.” Cole had turned his gaze back toward my brother. “There aren’t a lot of openings for hit men in wheelchairs.”

  That was about the degree of politeness I expected from him. Fortunately, that kind of blunt talk never bothered Donnie.

  “What about you?” Donnie nodded toward Cole’s legs sprawled awkwardly under the table. “That’s how you are.”

  “I was grandfathered in.”

  “I’m glad you boys are getting along so well.” I set the plates on the table. “Really warms my heart.”

  Cole sat staring at the food in front of him. Like he’d never seen anything like it before.

  “This is weird,” he said at last. “I can’t do this.”

  “Can’t do what?”

  “I shouldn’t be here.” He pushed himself back from the table. “Not really m
y thing.”

  “You promised.” I had already sat down across from him. “You said you would.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” His face had turned even grimmer. “It’s just wrong. I shouldn’t be here. Not someplace like this.”

  Great, I thought. I’ve just taken some guy who kills people for a living out of his comfort zone. I couldn’t even throw a dinner party.

  “Look.” I gazed straight into Cole’s eyes. “You can do this. Just bear down.”

  “I’m sorry.” That was Donnie speaking up. “I just wanted to meet you. That’s all. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Yeah, that’s cool, kid.” Cole nodded. “It’s not you. It’s me. I’m the screwed-up one.”

  That wasn’t what I was thinking then. I was thinking that I should’ve known this wasn’t a good idea.

  “All right.” Cole straightened in the chair and took a deep breath. He picked up his fork and poked it at the slice of meatloaf in front of him. “Let’s do this thing.”

  * * *

  After that, things went okay.

  Once Cole and my brother got to talking about that NASCAR stuff, they got along fine. Which left me out, but I didn’t mind. I hadn’t known before, but I might’ve been able to guess that Cole would’ve been into anything that involved machines going real fast and occasionally going up in a big flaming crash. Just the sort of thing that would appeal to somebody like him.

  After Donnie had gone to bed – the excitement of having somebody new to talk to had worn him out – and with the dishes stacked in the sink, I relented and let Cole light up.

  “I’ve got some notes we should go over. From my looking at the numbers.” I pushed my chair back from the table. “I’ll go get them.”

  “No. Don’t.” His voice went low. “We can do that tomorrow. I just wanted . . . to say I’m sorry.”

  “What? For coming over? You did fine.” I smiled at him. “Think of it as a growth experience.”

  “I was big enough already.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We won’t do it again. I kinda think my brother needs to make friends his own age.”

  “That’s not what I was talking about,” said Cole. “I’m sorry I roped you into all this.”

  “All what?”

  “You know. Killing McIntyre.”

  “Excuse me.” I stared at him in amazement. “That’s what I want to do – remember? I came to see you.”

  “Yeah, and I should’ve thrown you out on your ass.”

  “I’ve been thrown out on my ass already, and I didn’t enjoy it. If I had enjoyed it, I wouldn’t have come and talked to you about killing McIntyre.” I leaned back, with an arm slung over the top of my chair. “You know, at this stage in our relationship, I wouldn’t have thought I still had to explain all this to you.”

  Guys who kill people are just like other guys. You shouldn’t use the word relationship around them. It weirds them out.

  “What I should’ve done,” said Cole, “was tell you that you were out of your freakin’ little school-girl mind. You’re not cut out for this.”

  “Not cut out for it? What’re you talking about? We’ve been putting in the hours out at the quarry –”

  “Oh, yeah. Very impressive. If you were looking to be a stone cutter, maybe.”

  “And I blew away Pomeroy. What about that?”

  “You got lucky.”

  “That counts as luck? Remind me never to go to Vegas.”

  “Do whatever you want,” said Cole. “But I’ve made up my mind. I’m pulling the plug. On the whole operation. We’re not going after McIntyre.”

  “You’re kidding.” I stared at him. “Why not?”

  “Because you’ve got a family –”

  “I’ve got a brother.”

  “That’s enough. For this whole thing to be a bad idea.”

  “You knew about him before.”

  “Yeah,” said Cole, “but I hadn’t met him. Now he’s real. Inside my head. You shouldn’t have brought me over here.”

  “But . . .” I had to grip the edge of the table with both hands, as the room started to tilt around me. “What am I going to do?”

  “What are you going to do? Number one, you’re not going to get killed. This isn’t a game. You’re in way over your head.”

  I knew I wasn’t making a very good case for myself, to be considered as a real killer, by starting to cry. But I couldn’t help myself.

  “No . . .” I laid my head on top of my arms on the table and wept into them. “You don’t understand. What am I going to be?”

  “What you were.”

  “But that wasn’t anything.” I lifted my reddened, tear-wet face toward him. “This is something, at least. This is my only chance.”

  “You’re screwed up, Kim.” His face was set tight as he regarded me. “To even be thinking like that.”

  I slumped back in my chair, defeated.

  “You don’t understand.” I couldn’t see him or anything else in front of me. “There was this guy . . . an older guy . . . at McIntyre’s company.” For some reason, the memory came up before my eyes. “He was already working there when I started. He ran the mail room or something. I’m not sure what. But he was a real nice guy. Kind of quiet. He and I used to talk.” I wiped my nose with my sleeve, then went on. “He’d never done anything in his whole life. Just went to work, then came home, then went to work again the next day. Except one time. He saved up his money and quit whatever job he’d been working then, just so he could go overseas and hike around Northern England and Scotland for six weeks. Why there, I don’t know. He told me it was just what he wanted to do. But the thing was, he’d never even flown in an airplane before. This was the first time.” I could hear the guy quietly speaking inside my head. “And something happened when the plane took off. He’s sitting there, crammed into his little economy seat, and one of the engines blows out. And the plane starts to go down. And he can see out the window next to him, the plane’s tilting to one side, and he can see the ground coming up at them. And you know what he thought? What he told me?”

  Cole didn’t say anything, but just sat and listened.

  “The guy thought, At least I got this far. That’s what he thought. At least I got this far. And he was so happy. Happier than he’d ever been in his whole life. And then the pilot got the engine started again, the plane leveled off, and everything was fine. But it would’ve been fine, anyway.”

  I nodded slowly, thinking about the rest of the story.

  “Then he left,” I said. “Left the company, I mean. He quit. McIntyre got on his ass about something, some petty bullshit, and he just said that was it, and he left. Went down the elevator and out the building lobby. And I liked him so much – I mean I liked talking to him – that I ran after him and caught up with him out on the street. I asked him what he was going to do now. He smiled and told me that he was just going to keep on walking. As far as he could. And see where he got to.”

  I could see Cole fiddling with his cigarette pack on top of the table, pushing it with his finger.

  “I’m sorry.” I rubbed my eyes. “I talk too much. It’s just . . . I can still see him, walking down the street. And I wanted to go with him. And I didn’t.”

  My hands laid themselves flat on the table. I must’ve looked a mess by now.

  “All right,” said Cole. “We’ll do it.”

  “Really?” I looked up hopefully at him.

  In this world, that’s what counts as hope anymore. If you’re lucky, if you win the lottery, you get to kill somebody and maybe get killed yourself. It’s something, at least.

  “Sure.” Cole picked up his cigarettes and tucked them inside his jacket. Getting ready to leave. “Why not? But –”

  My breath caught in my throat.

  “Remember I asked you something? About what else you wanted to do?”

  I nodded. “You wanted to know if it mattered to me. If I was still alive afterward.”

  “What’s your
answer now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” he said. “That’s good enough.”

  * * *

  Later, after I had gotten Cole downstairs to the van and taken him back to the warehouse, I thought about it some more. Lying on the couch, with the blanket pulled up to my neck, gazing at the ceiling.

  Not about what I wanted. But about that bit with him telling me that he was pulling the plug on the whole thing.

  He’d probably been gaming me. I realized that now. Running a number on me. The kind of thing that somebody like him did, to get somebody like me where I needed to be.

  I didn’t mind. At least I was there.

  I picked up the shiny .357 from where I had set it down beside the couch. With my eyes closed, gripping the gun tight in both hands, I pressed its smooth, cold flank fiercely against my breast.

  PART TWO

  They’re right when they say that fear is a man’s best friend. As long as it’s the other guy’s.

  – Cole’s Book of Wisdom

  TWELVE

  I pissed Cole off.

  By getting out to his place late the next day. Something came up in the morning, that I had to deal with.

  I was still pulling myself together, getting dressed and stuff, when my cell phone rang.

  “I’m trying to get hold of someone named Kim Oh.” The woman’s voice emphasized the last two words, the way people do when they’re calling a number they never have before. “Is this her?”

  “Who’s asking?” I had gotten a lot more cautious these days. I supposed it came with the territory.

  “This is Karen Ibanez.”

  The TV reporter. I wasn’t completely happy about her getting hold of me. I wouldn’t even have cared whether she had remembered me or not, from when I had come to see her at the TV station, carrying along with me the binder full of backup disks that I’d thought would nail McIntyre’s hide to the wall. And which she had set me straight about.

  “Okay,” I said. “You’re talking to me. What do you want?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “I told you – you already are.”