One False Move
Page 50
Big Guy Mario stormed toward Myron. His fists were clenched at his sides. His face was contorted like it’d been pressed up against a glass door. “You’re dead, asshole. You hear me? Dead. Dead and buried. I’m gonna take you outside and—”
Myron snapped up the knee again. And again it found its target. Big Dope Mario landed hard on the cool marble and thrashed around like a dying fish.
“Today’s friendly tip,” Myron said. “A protective cup is a worthwhile investment, though not as a drinking receptacle.”
Myron looked over at Sam. Sam still rested on the banister. He took another drag of the cigarette and let the smoke ease out of his nostrils.
“New guy,” Sam said in way of explanation.
Myron nodded.
“Sometimes you just want to scare stupid people,” Sam said. “Stupid people are scared by big muscles.” Another drag. “But don’t let his incompetence get you cocky.”
Myron looked down. He was about to crack wise, but he stopped himself and shook his head. Cocky, a knee in the balls.
Too easy.
Win waited by Myron’s car. He was bent slightly at the waist, practicing his golf swing. He did not have a club or a ball, of course. Remember blasting rock music and jumping on your bed and playing air guitar? Golfers do the same thing. They hear some internal sounds of nature, step on imaginary first tees, and swing air clubs. Air woods usually. Sometimes, when they want more control, they take air irons out of their air bags. And like teens with air guitars, golfers like to watch themselves in mirrors. Win, for example, often checks out his reflection in store windows. He stops on the sidewalk, makes sure his grip is right, checks his backswing, recocks his wrists, whatever.
“Win?”
“A moment.”
Win had repositioned Myron’s passenger side mirror for a better full-body view. He stopped mid-swing, spotted something in the reflection, frowned.
“Remember,” Myron said, “Objects in the mirror may appear smaller than they are.”
Win ignored him. He readdressed the, uh, ball, selected an air sand wedge, and tried a little air chip. From the look on Win’s face the, uh, ball landed on the green and rolled within three feet of the cup. Win smiled and put up a hand to acknowledge the, uh, appreciative crowd.
Golfers.
“How did you get here so fast?” Myron asked.
“Batcopter.”
Lock-Horne Securities had a helicopter and a landing pad on the roof. Win had probably flown to a nearby field and jogged over.
“So you heard everything?”
Win nodded.
“What do you think?”
“Wasteful,” Win said.
“Right, I should have shot him in the knee.”
“Well, yes, there is that. But in this instance I am referring to the entire matter.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that Arthur Bradford may be on to something. You are not keeping your eyes on the prize.”
“And what is the prize?”
Win smiled. “Exactly.”
Myron nodded. “Yet again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He unlocked the car doors, and the two men slid into their seats. The Leatherette was hot from the sun. The air conditioner sputtered out something close to warm spit.
“On occasion,” Win said, “we have performed extracurricular duties for one reason or another. But there was, for the most part, a purpose. A goal, if you will. We knew what we were trying to accomplish.”
“And you don’t think that’s the case here?”
“Correct.”
“I’ll give you three goals then,” Myron said. “One, I’m trying to find Anita Slaughter. Two, I’m trying to find Horace Slaughter’s killer. Three, I’m trying to protect Brenda.”
“Protect her from what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Ah,” Win said. “And—let me make sure I understand you here—you feel that the best way to protect Ms. Slaughter is to agitate police officers, the most powerful family in the state, and known mobsters?”
“That can’t be helped.”
“Well, yes, of course you’re right about that. And we also have your other two goals to consider.” Win lowered the visor and checked his hair in the mirror. Not a blond hair out of place. He still patted about, frowning. When he finished, he snapped the visor back into place. “Let’s start with finding Anita Slaughter, shall we?”
Myron nodded, but he knew that he was not going to like where this was going.
“That is the core of the matter, is it not? Finding Brenda’s mother?”
“Right,” Myron said.
“So—and again let me make sure I comprehend completely—you are taking on police officers, the most powerful family in the state, and known mobsters to find a woman who ran off twenty years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And the reason for this search?”
“Brenda. She wants to know where her mother is. She has the right—”
“Bah,” Win interrupted.
“Bah?”
“What are you, the ACLU? What right? Brenda has no right here. Do you believe Anita Slaughter is being held against her will?”
“No.”
“Then what, pray tell, are you trying to accomplish here? If Anita Slaughter craved a reconciliation with her daughter, she would seek it. Clearly she has opted not to do that. We know that she ran away twenty years ago. We know that she has worked hard to stay hidden. What we don’t know, of course, is why. And instead of respecting her decision, you choose to ignore it.”
Myron said nothing.
“Under normal circumstances,” Win continued, “this search would be a close call. But when you add in the mitigating factors—the obvious danger upsetting these particular adversaries—the call is an easy one. Simply put, we are taking a tremendous risk for very little reason.”
Myron shook his head, but he saw the logic. Had he not wondered about these same issues himself? He was doing his tightrope act again, this time over a raging inferno, and he was dragging others, including Francine Neagly, with him. And for what? Win was right. He was pissing off powerful people. He might even be inadvertently helping those who wished Anita Slaughter great harm, flushing her out into the open where they could set their sights with greater ease. He knew that he had to step carefully here. One false move and ka-pow.
“There’s more to it,” Myron tried. “A crime may have been covered up.”
Myron snapped up the knee again. And again it found its target. Big Dope Mario landed hard on the cool marble and thrashed around like a dying fish.
“Today’s friendly tip,” Myron said. “A protective cup is a worthwhile investment, though not as a drinking receptacle.”
Myron looked over at Sam. Sam still rested on the banister. He took another drag of the cigarette and let the smoke ease out of his nostrils.
“New guy,” Sam said in way of explanation.
Myron nodded.
“Sometimes you just want to scare stupid people,” Sam said. “Stupid people are scared by big muscles.” Another drag. “But don’t let his incompetence get you cocky.”
Myron looked down. He was about to crack wise, but he stopped himself and shook his head. Cocky, a knee in the balls.
Too easy.
Win waited by Myron’s car. He was bent slightly at the waist, practicing his golf swing. He did not have a club or a ball, of course. Remember blasting rock music and jumping on your bed and playing air guitar? Golfers do the same thing. They hear some internal sounds of nature, step on imaginary first tees, and swing air clubs. Air woods usually. Sometimes, when they want more control, they take air irons out of their air bags. And like teens with air guitars, golfers like to watch themselves in mirrors. Win, for example, often checks out his reflection in store windows. He stops on the sidewalk, makes sure his grip is right, checks his backswing, recocks his wrists, whatever.
“Win?”
“A moment.”
Win had repositioned Myron’s passenger side mirror for a better full-body view. He stopped mid-swing, spotted something in the reflection, frowned.
“Remember,” Myron said, “Objects in the mirror may appear smaller than they are.”
Win ignored him. He readdressed the, uh, ball, selected an air sand wedge, and tried a little air chip. From the look on Win’s face the, uh, ball landed on the green and rolled within three feet of the cup. Win smiled and put up a hand to acknowledge the, uh, appreciative crowd.
Golfers.
“How did you get here so fast?” Myron asked.
“Batcopter.”
Lock-Horne Securities had a helicopter and a landing pad on the roof. Win had probably flown to a nearby field and jogged over.
“So you heard everything?”
Win nodded.
“What do you think?”
“Wasteful,” Win said.
“Right, I should have shot him in the knee.”
“Well, yes, there is that. But in this instance I am referring to the entire matter.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that Arthur Bradford may be on to something. You are not keeping your eyes on the prize.”
“And what is the prize?”
Win smiled. “Exactly.”
Myron nodded. “Yet again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He unlocked the car doors, and the two men slid into their seats. The Leatherette was hot from the sun. The air conditioner sputtered out something close to warm spit.
“On occasion,” Win said, “we have performed extracurricular duties for one reason or another. But there was, for the most part, a purpose. A goal, if you will. We knew what we were trying to accomplish.”
“And you don’t think that’s the case here?”
“Correct.”
“I’ll give you three goals then,” Myron said. “One, I’m trying to find Anita Slaughter. Two, I’m trying to find Horace Slaughter’s killer. Three, I’m trying to protect Brenda.”
“Protect her from what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Ah,” Win said. “And—let me make sure I understand you here—you feel that the best way to protect Ms. Slaughter is to agitate police officers, the most powerful family in the state, and known mobsters?”
“That can’t be helped.”
“Well, yes, of course you’re right about that. And we also have your other two goals to consider.” Win lowered the visor and checked his hair in the mirror. Not a blond hair out of place. He still patted about, frowning. When he finished, he snapped the visor back into place. “Let’s start with finding Anita Slaughter, shall we?”
Myron nodded, but he knew that he was not going to like where this was going.
“That is the core of the matter, is it not? Finding Brenda’s mother?”
“Right,” Myron said.
“So—and again let me make sure I comprehend completely—you are taking on police officers, the most powerful family in the state, and known mobsters to find a woman who ran off twenty years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And the reason for this search?”
“Brenda. She wants to know where her mother is. She has the right—”
“Bah,” Win interrupted.
“Bah?”
“What are you, the ACLU? What right? Brenda has no right here. Do you believe Anita Slaughter is being held against her will?”
“No.”
“Then what, pray tell, are you trying to accomplish here? If Anita Slaughter craved a reconciliation with her daughter, she would seek it. Clearly she has opted not to do that. We know that she ran away twenty years ago. We know that she has worked hard to stay hidden. What we don’t know, of course, is why. And instead of respecting her decision, you choose to ignore it.”
Myron said nothing.
“Under normal circumstances,” Win continued, “this search would be a close call. But when you add in the mitigating factors—the obvious danger upsetting these particular adversaries—the call is an easy one. Simply put, we are taking a tremendous risk for very little reason.”
Myron shook his head, but he saw the logic. Had he not wondered about these same issues himself? He was doing his tightrope act again, this time over a raging inferno, and he was dragging others, including Francine Neagly, with him. And for what? Win was right. He was pissing off powerful people. He might even be inadvertently helping those who wished Anita Slaughter great harm, flushing her out into the open where they could set their sights with greater ease. He knew that he had to step carefully here. One false move and ka-pow.
“There’s more to it,” Myron tried. “A crime may have been covered up.”
