The Ethical Assassin_ A Novel Part 22

Now that his revenge against the Gambler was in play, he needed her to keep an eye on things, make sure all went as he intended. He supposed that maybe if the kid kept moving, she might not have had a chance to check in yet, but he didn't quite buy it. Nor did he believe that something had happened to her. Not Desiree. No, she was punis.h.i.+ng him. She was still angry with him over that business with the boy.

All he'd wanted was to help him, give him a ride, a good meal at the house, and then get him to wherever he wanted to be. How could it be that even Desiree doubted his motives, that even she saw something sinister where there was only kindness? And what would she say about his wanting to taste wines with Chuck Finn? He shook his head. No, his plan was perfect. Get rid of her by promoting her. It would be a hard transition, but he'd live with having to pick up his own dry cleaning. h.e.l.l, maybe he could give Chuck a little part-time work as a valet.

Everything was on the verge of falling apart, and everything was on the verge of being fixed. How ironic and how pleasant that it all hinged on doing to the Gambler what he ought to have done two or three years ago.

Just like that, there he was, only for a second, back in his Las Vegas apartment, falling back hard, knocking his head against the wooden frame of his futon, blood from a cut on his forehead dripping in his eyes, blood from his nose dripping into his mouth. Above him, broom handle brandished like a Homeric warrior, the Gambler squinted in joyless intensity.

For too long he'd held off on dealing with the Gambler, who now was making money, enjoying power, and oblivious to the fact that he lived by B.B.'s grace. No more of that. Doe would solve the problem, and if he dug his own grave in doing so, then B.B. could live with that.

Something-something bad-had evaporated, fled his body. It had been weeks, maybe months, since he'd felt this energetic. B.B. replaced the sungla.s.ses, stepped outside the room, and gave his eyes a minute to adjust to the blazing sun. It was another scorcher today, close to triple digits and humid enough for fish to swim through the air. Reflected light shot off the cars in the parking lot. With one hand to his forehead, he gazed across the courtyard and at the mostly empty pool. This wasn't much of a vacation motel-the guests were people who stopped for the night out of desperate fatigue. Still, the owners, a bunch of Indians, like more and more hotel owners these days, optimistically kept the pool up, waiting for that better cla.s.s of clientele that would surely arrive when Ganesha so ordained.

Right now, the only adult by the pool was an enormous woman in a lavender one-piece, a year or two on either side of forty, lying with shades over her eyes, chewing gum, smiling into the heat. B.B. gave a slight sympathetic shake of his head. The poor pathetic thing, a baking seal with a bleached blond bob, legs like condoms overfilled with curdled milk. Across the pool from her, playing loudly, were two boys he'd seen before. The two aimless, neglected boys who, if left to follow their sad course, would lead empty, disappointed lives. These were boys, he knew, in need of mentoring.

Part of him felt he ought not to be looking for new mentees. He had Chuck Finn waiting for him at home, after all. But he was here, and the boys were in need of a guiding adult presence. It would be wrong, selfish, to fail to do what he could.

B.B. crossed the parking lot and shuffled over to the woman on the chaise longue and blocked her sun. She lowered her sungla.s.ses and squinted up. He smiled his most ingratiating smile. "Excuse the interruption," he said, "but are those your boys?" Of course they weren't, but B.B. knew the drill. Show her some respect, and she'd defer to his charitable impulses.

"They bothering you, too?" She wrinkled her nose as though she had to sneeze.

He shrugged. "I'm just wondering."

"They ain't mine," she told him. "I wouldn't let my boys act that way if I had any. I think they're with their father, and I saw him leave early this morning in his truck. Left them alone, I guess. He was kind of cute," she added thoughtfully.

This was all good news. No parent around to impose misguided values on the children. No hypocritical guardian of right and wrong to impose the pinched morals that denied boys what they needed.

"I'll go talk to them," B.B. told her brightly, as though volunteering to do the dirty work. "Ask them to quiet down."

"Kind of you."

An awkward pause. "I like your sungla.s.ses," he told her, not able to think of anything else to say.

"Thanks."

"I'll let you get back to your sunning."

"You bet."

Though B.B. couldn't see her eyes, he felt sure they were closed now, and the gum chewing resumed with its lulling bovine rhythm. He stayed a moment longer than necessary, staring in train-wreck style at the folds of fat emerging from under her white suit. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were surprisingly small considering her magnitude. It must be hard on a woman, he thought, to be so ma.s.sive and not even have the bust to show for it. Still, there were some men who found obese women attractive. It was a funny world.

B.B. strolled over to the boys, who were playing at the other end of the pool. They splashed around the deep end but seemed capable-enough swimmers. They darted back and forth, up and down, while talking about a comic book character called Daredevil. From what B.B. could tell, this Daredevil was blind and so sounded like a low-rent sort of superhero.

"How you young men doing today?" B.B. asked. He sat on a chaise across from them and smiled a new smile, the one that he knew neglected, aimless boys-boys in need of a role model-found rea.s.suring.

"Fine," one said, and the other echoed in mumble. The older one, who was probably about twelve, was blond and tan and fit, with firm pecs, a flat stomach, and tight little arm muscles. His nose was a bit too long and too narrow for him to be truly handsome, and he had a bit of a receding chin, but he didn't look weak for it. No, with his trim, lithe physique, he wasn't the kind of young man who took c.r.a.p from bullies. The other boy, much darker and covered with unsightly freckles, was probably closer to nine. He was thinner, less graceful.

B.B. cracked his knuckles and leaned forward. "You like this blind superhero, huh?"

"Yeah," said the blond kid. "Daredevil."

"It's a shame," B.B. observed. "The way they force that stuff on you. You can't turn on kids' programs anymore without seeing someone in a wheelchair or on crutches or missing an arm or doing sign language like a monkey. And now they're giving you blind superheroes? They want you to look up to some blind gimp beating up on bad guys with his cane?"

The blond kid didn't say anything. The younger one said, "I'm sorry." He said it very quietly, and he held his head so far down that the water bubbled around his lips.

"And the Hulk," B.B. said. "Half the time he's a loser egghead, and the other half he's a big green moron. What the heck is that?"

"I don't know," the little kid bubbled.

"Now Superman," B.B. said. "There's a superhero for you. He's smart and strong, and he's that way all the time. He pretends pretends to be a dweeb, but that's only to put people off guard. And Batman. You know why I like Batman? Because he's really a regular guy. He doesn't have any superpowers. He's just a man who wants to do the right thing and uses the resources he has to help him do it. And he's got Robin to help him. He's Robin's mentor. I like the way they work together, the way they learn from each other. That's how it is between a mentor and the boys he helps." to be a dweeb, but that's only to put people off guard. And Batman. You know why I like Batman? Because he's really a regular guy. He doesn't have any superpowers. He's just a man who wants to do the right thing and uses the resources he has to help him do it. And he's got Robin to help him. He's Robin's mentor. I like the way they work together, the way they learn from each other. That's how it is between a mentor and the boys he helps."

"They're DC," the blond kid said.

Something twisted in his gut. Something ugly and mean and judgmental was now stomping toward him like an ogre. "What does that mean?" He felt his face grow hot. Were these kids calling him a queer?

"We don't read DC comics," the boy said. "We read Marvel. DC is, you know, stupid."

Okay, they weren't calling him a queer. Just stupid. Well, that was fine. Kids often had this notion that adults were somehow dorky or clueless. He could live with that for now. Let them spend some time with him and they'd know better.

"Yeah?" B.B. asked. "So, who else do you like?"

"I like Wolverine," the boy said defiantly. "I read mostly X-Men. X-Men."

"That's great," said B.B., who lamented a world in which kids read a comic book called The Ex-Men. The Ex-Men. What was going on, exactly? Blind guys and transs.e.xuals? "Listen, I was thinking about heading out to get some ice cream. You boys like ice cream?" What was going on, exactly? Blind guys and transs.e.xuals? "Listen, I was thinking about heading out to get some ice cream. You boys like ice cream?"

"Ice cream," said the beautiful blond kid with an unmistakable note of caution in his voice. A sort of "Who wants to know?" kind of tone.

The thing you had to remember, though, was that these were kids, kids, and they had thoughtless, neglectful parents, the sorts of parents who instilled fear in their kids because they couldn't be bothered to teach them how to distinguish between dangerous strangers and kind people who wanted only to help. They knew adults often told them not to do things, but they also knew that adults often had their heads up their a.s.ses. The trick was to get them to see that the "Don't go off with strangers" rule didn't apply here, and they had thoughtless, neglectful parents, the sorts of parents who instilled fear in their kids because they couldn't be bothered to teach them how to distinguish between dangerous strangers and kind people who wanted only to help. They knew adults often told them not to do things, but they also knew that adults often had their heads up their a.s.ses. The trick was to get them to see that the "Don't go off with strangers" rule didn't apply here, couldn't couldn't apply here, not when this stranger had their best interests at heart. Once you broke down those barriers, you were home free. "There's an IHOP down the road. I thought you boys might want to get an ice cream with me." apply here, not when this stranger had their best interests at heart. Once you broke down those barriers, you were home free. "There's an IHOP down the road. I thought you boys might want to get an ice cream with me."

"Really?" the little kid asked. "What flavor?"

"We're not supposed to," the older boy said, looking at his brother rather than B.B. "Our dad said we had to stay here. And he says we shouldn't talk to strangers."

There it was, regular as clockwork. "I'm sure your dad means that you shouldn't talk to bad men. I can't imagine why he would have any problem with you talking to a nice man who wants to buy you ice cream. Anyhow, my name is William. Everyone calls me B.B., and I work with young men like you every day. I'm a mentor."

They didn't say anything.

"We're even staying at the same motel," he continued. "I'm over in room one twenty-one. What are your names?"

"I'm Pete and he's Carl," said the little one.

"Pete and Carl. Well, it looks like we're not strangers anymore, don't you think?"

"I want strawberry ice cream," the little one said. He nearly sang it. Too loud for B.B.'s taste. The last thing you wanted was a bunch of meddlers getting involved in what they didn't understand. "I don't like chocolate."

"Forget it." His brother shook his head. "I can ask my dad when he gets back tonight."

"Tonight?" B.B. asked, letting the judgment and incredulity seep into his voice. Caution was one thing, but they were standing in their own way. When was the next time they were going to meet someone who was willing to help them, to make them feel important and special, in control of their own destinies, if not their lives, at this moment? "You want to wait until tonight? I'm going for ice cream now. It's hot, and I want ice cream, but I can wait a few minutes if you want to run upstairs and get changed. How fast you think you can be ready?"

"Five minutes!" the younger one said.

"Wow, that's fast." B.B. grinned. "You think the Ex-Men could get ready that fast?"

"Even faster!" the little kid shouted.

It was hard to keep a little triumph from creeping into his smile. Jesus, he was on a roll.

"I don't think we should go," the older one said.

B.B. shook his head sadly. "Well, if your brother wants to go by himself, that's okay, too. You sure you want to stay alone?"

Doubt stretched its shadow across his face. His feet twirled anxiously in the water. He bit his lip. "We're not either of us going?" It was a question, not a statement.

"Just because you don't want ice cream doesn't mean your brother shouldn't enjoy it. I think it's wrong to deny things to other people because you don't want them yourself. That's what they call being selfish, Carl."

"Yeah," his brother agreed.

"I don't know," he said again, which was not exactly a yes, but certainly a retreat from "We're neither of us going." B.B. was gaining momentum; he could feel it. The thing here, he knew, was to go with the flow, to keep it outside of his head. If he thought too much about it, if he concentrated too hard, he would say the wrong thing and blow it. Stay in the zone.

"What's going on here?" the sunbathing woman asked. She now stood directly behind B.B., hands on her ma.s.sive hips, sungla.s.ses propped on her head. Her exposed brown skin glistened with suntan oil. Glimpsing her over his own sungla.s.ses, he was struck by the prettiness of her eyes. Not that B.B. went for fat bossy cows, but still, there was no denying it-they were stunningly green, healthy-lawn green, emerald green, tropical fish green.

"My goodness," B.B. said. "Those are the prettiest green eyes I've ever seen."

"Tell me something I don't know. What's going on with you and these boys?"

"I was asking them to play quietly," B.B. said, "so they wouldn't bother you anymore."

"And ice cream," the little one said. "Don't forget the ice cream."

B.B. went pink as he looked at the woman. "I thought that if I bribed them with a little ice cream, they might leave you alone."

"You're sweet," she said. "Now why don't you get out of here before I call the cops?"

B.B. took off his sungla.s.ses entirely and met her gaze. "Lady," he said, "I am the cops." He'd tried this one before. Always worked like a charm. Better than telling someone he ran a charity that helped young men.

She wasn't going for it, though. "Let's see some ID."

"I'm off duty. I don't have it on me."

"Well, if you go and get it now," she said, "you'll have it ready by the time your fellow officers get here."

"Fine," he said. "I'll be right back. See you in a minute, boys."

B.B. walked breezily toward his room, where he would have no choice but to hole up until the cow finished baking.

Chapter 26.

MELFORD HAD BEEN DRIVING in silence, and I was paying him very little attention. Mostly I was trying to come up with ways to convince myself that my run-in with Bobby wouldn't end in disaster. It was only once we'd pulled into Meadowbrook Grove that I snapped out of my fog. in silence, and I was paying him very little attention. Mostly I was trying to come up with ways to convince myself that my run-in with Bobby wouldn't end in disaster. It was only once we'd pulled into Meadowbrook Grove that I snapped out of my fog.

I stared at the trailers, the ragged lawns, the empty lots. "What the h.e.l.l are you thinking? We need to stay away from this place, not go back to it."

"Your plan of avoidance sounds fine in theory, but the truth is that we need to figure out what is going on. And to do that, we have to learn who that third body in the trailer was. As near as I can tell, the only lead we have is going to be what the neighbors can tell us. So you're going to go into salesman mode, only instead of selling worthless encyclopedias, you're going to ask about b.a.s.t.a.r.d and Karen and who might have been by to see them last night."

"Should I also ask them if they've seen anyone who looks exactly like me fleeing the scene of the crime?"

"Relax, Lemuel. No one saw you."

"If it's so relaxing, why don't you do it?"

He shook his head. "Me? I stand out too much. Dig my crazy hair. You've been in this neighborhood before. Besides, you're the salesman. This is your territory."

There was no way to fully express the degree to which I did not want to do this thing. "What if that cop drives by and notices me? Should I explain to him that it's my territory while he punches me in the stomach?"

"It won't happen. I'll be keeping a lookout. If anything goes wrong, I'll grab you and we'll take off. You'll be perfectly safe."

I then leveled my most compelling argument. At least most compelling to me. "But I don't want to do it."

"And I don't want us to get f.u.c.ked, Lemuel, but we very well may if we don't take charge of the situation. Believe me, I don't like this any better than you do, but Jim Doe is now on to you. And whoever sent that woman we saw at lunch is on to you. We've got to take action instead of sitting around and waiting for everything to catch up to us."

I knew he was right. I hated it, but Melford was right. There was no getting around this. I couldn't simply recede and think that, well, maybe things might have been different if I hadn't gone to jail for multiple homicides. I had to do this.

"So what do I tell people?"

"I don't know. But if you can convince people to spend a ton of cash on books they don't need or want, how hard can it be to get them to gossip?"

He had a point.

"One more thing," he told me. "It's not going to happen, but let's just say things go totally haywire."

"s.h.i.+t," I began.

"Let's say things go completely nuts," he continued, "and you end up with Doe again."

"Screw this," I said. "I'm not going."

"It'll be fine. I'm just giving you worst-case scenario advice. If you end up with him, and you're in some kind of danger, hit him in the b.a.l.l.s."

"You think that'll hurt?"

"Trust me, smarty pants. He's had some testicular distress recently, so he's going to be extra sensitive. Give him, you know, a good smack to the nuts. It should make all the difference."

"And you know this how?"

He smiled. "Because a friend of mine recently had cause to smash him in the nuts," he told me. "Now enough with the questions. Get going."