Deal Breaker
Page 52
“Hello, Myron,” Aaron said. “A genuine pleasure to see you again.”
Myron Bolitar, Mr. Popularity. “Aaron, I’d like you to meet Win Lockwood.”
Aaron angled the smile at Win. “Pleasure, Win.” They shook hands with death stares, each sizing the other man up. Neither flinched.
“They’re waiting in the back,” Aaron said. “Come on.”
Aaron led them to a locked door with a one-way mirror. The door opened immediately. They entered. Two hoods stood stonefaced. In front of them was a long corridor. There was—and this was new—a metal detector, like at the airport.
Aaron shrugged, as if to say, A sign of the times. “Hand over your weapons, if you’d be so kind. Then step through.”
Myron took out his thirty-eight, Win a brand-new forty-four. Last night’s forty-four had no doubt been destroyed. They stepped through. The metal detector did not ding, but the two hoods still searched with one of those gizmos that looked suspiciously like a vibrator. Then they searched again, this time by hand.
“Very thorough,” Win said.
“Almost enjoyable,” Myron added. “I thought he was going to ask me to turn my head and cough.”
“Hey, funny man,” one of the hoods groused, “this way.”
The two hoods took over, escorting them down the corridor. Aaron stayed back and watched. Myron did not like that. The walls were white, the carpet office-orange. Lithographs of the French Riviera lined the walls. The front of Clancy’s Tavern looked like a dive; the back like a dentist’s office.
Two other men appeared at the other end of the corridor. They were both carrying guns.
Myron leaned toward Win’s ear. “Uh-oh.”
Win nodded.
The two men pointed their guns at Myron and Win. One barked, “Hey, you, Goldilocks. Get over here.”
Win looked at Myron. “Goldilocks?”
“I think he means you.”
“Oh. The blond hair. I get it now.”
“Yeah, Goldie, get your butt down here.”
“Later,” Win said. He moved down the corridor. The two hoods from the metal detector took out their guns. Four men, four guns. Lots of firepower. Not taking any chances after last night.
“Hands on your head. Let’s go.”
Win and Myron, separated by approximately ten feet, did as they were told. One of the hoods from the metal detector approached Myron. Without warning, he punched the butt of his gun against Myron’s kidney.
Myron dropped to his knees. Nausea swam through him. The man followed up with a kick to the ribs. Then another. Myron slid to the ground. The other man joined in. He stomped on Myron’s upper legs like they were small brushfires. One stomp landed on the already-sore kidney. Myron thought he was going to vomit.
In something of a haze Myron spotted Win. He had not moved, his face displaying something akin to noninterest. Win had sized up the situation and made a quick determination: There was nothing he could do to help. Worrying and fretting were worthless. Win was spending his time calmly studying the men. He didn’t like to forget a face.
The kicks came in a nonstop flurry. Myron curled into a fetal position and tried to ride it out. The kicks hurt like hell, but they were too rushed to do serious damage. One landed near his eye. He’d have a shiner for sure.
Then a voice shouted, “What the hell—Stop this moment!”
The kicks halted immediately.
“Get away from him!”
The men backed off. “Sorry, Mr. Ache.”
Myron rolled onto his back. With some effort he managed to sit up. Herman Ache stood by an open door. “Are you okay, Myron?”
Myron winced. “Never better, Herman.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Herman Ache said. Then glaring at his men. “But some people will be even sorrier.”
The men cowered away from the older man. Myron almost rolled his eyes. This was all an act. Herman Ache’s men did not beat up men in Herman’s corridor without permission. This had been a setup. Now Myron supposedly owed Herman, even before the negotiating started. Not to mention the fact that pain is a great fear-inducer, the perfect prenegotiation cocktail.
Aaron came down the hall. He helped Myron to his feet and sort of half-shrugged as if to say Cheap move, but what can you do?
“Come,” Herman beckoned. “Let’s talk in my office.”
Myron moved tentatively into the office. He had not been here in several years, but not much had changed. Golf was still the theme. LeRoy Neiman painting of some golf course on the main wall. Lots of those stupid cartoon/artworks of old-fashioned golfers. Aerial photographs of golf courses. In one corner of the office was a movie screen showing a shot of a fairway. In front of the screen was a golf tee. The player hits the ball against the screen. A computer then calculates where it would have landed and changes the image on the screen to match that. Then the player takes his second shot. Fun city.
“Nice office,” Win said.
Figures.
“Thank you, son.” Herman Ache smiled. Capped teeth. He was in his early sixties, tan, fit, wearing white pants and a yellow golf shirt with a Nicklaus golden bear where an alligator normally went—as if he were on his way to a gin tournament in Miami Beach. Herman Ache had gray hair. Not his own. A toupee or one of those Hair Club systems, a good one, one most people would probably not spot. He had liver spots on his hands. His face was wrinkle free, probably from collagen shots or a face-lift. The neck gave him away. The flesh was baggy and Reaganesque. Looked like a big scrotum.
“Please, gentlemen, have a seat.”
They did so. The door was closed behind them. Aaron, two new hoods, and Herman Ache. Nausea’s grip on Myron’s stomach began to slacken.
Herman picked up a golf club and sat on the edge of his desk. “I understand,” he said, “that you and Frank are having a misunderstanding, Myron.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Herman nodded. “Frank?”
The door opened. Frank entered. You could tell that they were brothers, both having almost identical facial features, but that was where the similarities ended. Frank had at least twenty pounds on his older brother. He was pear-shaped with small Paul Schaefer shoulders and a rubber tire that would be the envy of the Michelin Man. Frank was completely bald, forgoing the hair weave. His teeth were black with spaces between them. His face was permanently set on angry scowl.
Both brothers had grown up on the streets. Both had started out as small-time hoods and worked their way up. Both had seen their own children gunned down over the years. Both had gunned down plenty of other people’s children. Herman liked to pretend that he dwelled on a loftier plane than his coarse younger brother—a plane of fine books, the arts, golf. But the escape was not that easy. Two sides of the same coin. Frank gratingly reminded Herman of his origins and perhaps true nature. But Frank was comfortable and accepted in his world. Herman was not.
Myron Bolitar, Mr. Popularity. “Aaron, I’d like you to meet Win Lockwood.”
Aaron angled the smile at Win. “Pleasure, Win.” They shook hands with death stares, each sizing the other man up. Neither flinched.
“They’re waiting in the back,” Aaron said. “Come on.”
Aaron led them to a locked door with a one-way mirror. The door opened immediately. They entered. Two hoods stood stonefaced. In front of them was a long corridor. There was—and this was new—a metal detector, like at the airport.
Aaron shrugged, as if to say, A sign of the times. “Hand over your weapons, if you’d be so kind. Then step through.”
Myron took out his thirty-eight, Win a brand-new forty-four. Last night’s forty-four had no doubt been destroyed. They stepped through. The metal detector did not ding, but the two hoods still searched with one of those gizmos that looked suspiciously like a vibrator. Then they searched again, this time by hand.
“Very thorough,” Win said.
“Almost enjoyable,” Myron added. “I thought he was going to ask me to turn my head and cough.”
“Hey, funny man,” one of the hoods groused, “this way.”
The two hoods took over, escorting them down the corridor. Aaron stayed back and watched. Myron did not like that. The walls were white, the carpet office-orange. Lithographs of the French Riviera lined the walls. The front of Clancy’s Tavern looked like a dive; the back like a dentist’s office.
Two other men appeared at the other end of the corridor. They were both carrying guns.
Myron leaned toward Win’s ear. “Uh-oh.”
Win nodded.
The two men pointed their guns at Myron and Win. One barked, “Hey, you, Goldilocks. Get over here.”
Win looked at Myron. “Goldilocks?”
“I think he means you.”
“Oh. The blond hair. I get it now.”
“Yeah, Goldie, get your butt down here.”
“Later,” Win said. He moved down the corridor. The two hoods from the metal detector took out their guns. Four men, four guns. Lots of firepower. Not taking any chances after last night.
“Hands on your head. Let’s go.”
Win and Myron, separated by approximately ten feet, did as they were told. One of the hoods from the metal detector approached Myron. Without warning, he punched the butt of his gun against Myron’s kidney.
Myron dropped to his knees. Nausea swam through him. The man followed up with a kick to the ribs. Then another. Myron slid to the ground. The other man joined in. He stomped on Myron’s upper legs like they were small brushfires. One stomp landed on the already-sore kidney. Myron thought he was going to vomit.
In something of a haze Myron spotted Win. He had not moved, his face displaying something akin to noninterest. Win had sized up the situation and made a quick determination: There was nothing he could do to help. Worrying and fretting were worthless. Win was spending his time calmly studying the men. He didn’t like to forget a face.
The kicks came in a nonstop flurry. Myron curled into a fetal position and tried to ride it out. The kicks hurt like hell, but they were too rushed to do serious damage. One landed near his eye. He’d have a shiner for sure.
Then a voice shouted, “What the hell—Stop this moment!”
The kicks halted immediately.
“Get away from him!”
The men backed off. “Sorry, Mr. Ache.”
Myron rolled onto his back. With some effort he managed to sit up. Herman Ache stood by an open door. “Are you okay, Myron?”
Myron winced. “Never better, Herman.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Herman Ache said. Then glaring at his men. “But some people will be even sorrier.”
The men cowered away from the older man. Myron almost rolled his eyes. This was all an act. Herman Ache’s men did not beat up men in Herman’s corridor without permission. This had been a setup. Now Myron supposedly owed Herman, even before the negotiating started. Not to mention the fact that pain is a great fear-inducer, the perfect prenegotiation cocktail.
Aaron came down the hall. He helped Myron to his feet and sort of half-shrugged as if to say Cheap move, but what can you do?
“Come,” Herman beckoned. “Let’s talk in my office.”
Myron moved tentatively into the office. He had not been here in several years, but not much had changed. Golf was still the theme. LeRoy Neiman painting of some golf course on the main wall. Lots of those stupid cartoon/artworks of old-fashioned golfers. Aerial photographs of golf courses. In one corner of the office was a movie screen showing a shot of a fairway. In front of the screen was a golf tee. The player hits the ball against the screen. A computer then calculates where it would have landed and changes the image on the screen to match that. Then the player takes his second shot. Fun city.
“Nice office,” Win said.
Figures.
“Thank you, son.” Herman Ache smiled. Capped teeth. He was in his early sixties, tan, fit, wearing white pants and a yellow golf shirt with a Nicklaus golden bear where an alligator normally went—as if he were on his way to a gin tournament in Miami Beach. Herman Ache had gray hair. Not his own. A toupee or one of those Hair Club systems, a good one, one most people would probably not spot. He had liver spots on his hands. His face was wrinkle free, probably from collagen shots or a face-lift. The neck gave him away. The flesh was baggy and Reaganesque. Looked like a big scrotum.
“Please, gentlemen, have a seat.”
They did so. The door was closed behind them. Aaron, two new hoods, and Herman Ache. Nausea’s grip on Myron’s stomach began to slacken.
Herman picked up a golf club and sat on the edge of his desk. “I understand,” he said, “that you and Frank are having a misunderstanding, Myron.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Herman nodded. “Frank?”
The door opened. Frank entered. You could tell that they were brothers, both having almost identical facial features, but that was where the similarities ended. Frank had at least twenty pounds on his older brother. He was pear-shaped with small Paul Schaefer shoulders and a rubber tire that would be the envy of the Michelin Man. Frank was completely bald, forgoing the hair weave. His teeth were black with spaces between them. His face was permanently set on angry scowl.
Both brothers had grown up on the streets. Both had started out as small-time hoods and worked their way up. Both had seen their own children gunned down over the years. Both had gunned down plenty of other people’s children. Herman liked to pretend that he dwelled on a loftier plane than his coarse younger brother—a plane of fine books, the arts, golf. But the escape was not that easy. Two sides of the same coin. Frank gratingly reminded Herman of his origins and perhaps true nature. But Frank was comfortable and accepted in his world. Herman was not.
