The Ethical Assassin_ A Novel Part 28

"Sure. No problem. But can you tell me what story he's working on?"

"I guess so. I mean, why not, right? There are two things. One I can't tell you about except that we got a tip from another reporter, one who didn't want to take the story herself. A woman who works for one of the local TV stations, but her beat is supermarket openings and celebrity visits, so she pa.s.sed it along. There's some funny business going on in a trailer park near Jacksonville. But that happened after Kean already left for Jacksonville, and it's about as much as I can tell you."

"And the other story?"

"Get this," she said, as though we were old friends. "Pets. There's been a string of dog and cat disappearances in the area, and he went down to investigate. Pets. A hot piece of investigative journalism. He's been working on the story for three weeks, and he's yet to file a single paragraph. It's like he wants to get fired. I don't get this guy."

I got him. I got him with no trouble, because suddenly everything started to make sense. Well, not everything. But some things, and that was an improvement.

I was not about to waste any time. I ran down the stairs and found Chitra still in midchatter with a small cl.u.s.ter of friends. She looked happy and radiant, as though the business with Ronny Neil had never happened. That was bad. I wanted her to be afraid.

I took her hand. "Come on," I said as I yanked her up. "We have to go." I pulled her by the hand into the little building with the registration desk. "I need a room," I told Sameen, who appeared very disturbed that I was still holding on to Chitra.

"Yes, certainly," he mumbled.

"Sameen, I need it to be on the far side, by the parking lot. As far away from the Educational Advantage Media group as possible." I took out my wallet and put three twenties on the desk. It was half the money I had on me, and I hoped I wouldn't need it later. "This is a secret. You understand, sir? There's a man in our group who tried to hurt this young lady tonight. I'm trying to put her somewhere she'll be safe."

The look on his face changed considerably. He slid the money back toward me. "I do not need to be bribed to do the right thing," he said softly. "You are a good boy to help her."

I blushed, since I didn't feel like an especially good boy. "Thanks."

I grabbed the key and, still holding her hand, half jogged around to the back of the motel, where we found the room. I opened the room, led Chitra inside, and shut the door softly, as though afraid to alert anyone.

"That's some story," Chitra said. She turned on the light and began to look around, as though the room might somehow be different from the one she was already staying in. The one with all her clothes, I thought.

I took her hand again and kissed her swiftly on the lips. "Listen, Chitra, there's a lot going on and more than I have time to tell you. I need to go somewhere, and it is a little dangerous. I don't want you to open the door for anyone but me. And if I'm not back by meeting time tomorrow morning, don't wait for them to come looking for you. Call a cab and get out of here. Go to the bus station. Just go home."

"What is this about? Ronny Neil can't be that dangerous, can he?"

I shook my head. "It's not about Ronny Neil. Not the way you mean. I think this whole operation, Educational Advantage Media-all of it-is a front for something else. I don't know what, exactly, but it involves drugs, and there are some pretty high-powered guys involved, and people have already been hurt. Don't trust any of the bookmen, especially not the Gambler. Bobby might be okay, but I'm not sure enough to tell you to trust him."

"Are you serious about all of this?"

I nodded. "I wish I weren't."

"Let me come with you," she said.

I laughed, a stupid guffaw of air. "It's not a movie, Chitra. I don't know what I'm doing, and I don't want to take you along for the fun of watching me try to figure it out. I just want you to be safe, that's all. That's how you can help, by being safe."

She nodded. "All right."

"Remember, don't let them come looking for you. If I'm not back by nine tomorrow morning, call a cab and go."

"Okay."

"And give me your home phone number," I said. "In case I'm not dead, I want to call you."

Chapter 31.

THE REPORTER WAS GONE, convinced that the story was all a hoax. He'd seemed reluctant at first, but a few hundred dollars had set him straight. The Gambler knew those guys liked to act all high and mighty, but they were no better than anyone else. convinced that the story was all a hoax. He'd seemed reluctant at first, but a few hundred dollars had set him straight. The Gambler knew those guys liked to act all high and mighty, but they were no better than anyone else.

Now it was just him and B.B. He dumped some Seagram's vodka into a plastic bathroom cup and then pulled the wet carton of orange juice from the ice bucket. Little disks of ice scattered over the brown carpet, and he idly kicked them under the dresser while he mixed the drink.

"You want?" he asked B.B., bracing himself for rejection, since B.B. generally wouldn't drink anything but his fancy bulls.h.i.+t wine. Screwdrivers were beneath contempt.

B.B. shook his head. "Nah."

"We've got things to discuss," the Gambler said. "Big, strategic things that always work better with drinks. You want to get some wine and then sit down to hash it out?"

"Nah, I'm okay."

Jesus, what was wrong with this guy? Another bombsh.e.l.l dropped, and he sat there looking like a r.e.t.a.r.d. The screwdriver was too vodka heavy, but he drank it down because . . . why the h.e.l.l not. He then sat at the foot of the bed and looked at B.B.

"Well, let's do it. What do you think about the kid?"

"The kid?" B.B. asked. "Which one? The older one?"

Holy h.e.l.l. He was still thinking about those boys outside. His little empire was falling down around him, and he was still thinking about sticking it to those boys outside.

"Altick." The Gambler tried to rein in his impatience. "You think he's probably okay?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"What did Desiree say about him?"

"She didn't see anything weird with him," he said, and then turned to look at the window, even though the heavy cloth curtains had been drawn closed. "She said he seemed okay."

The Gambler got the distinct impression that B.B. hadn't even talked to Desiree. Not that it mattered. Altick was clearly a red herring in all this, a poor a.s.shole who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not that it meant his troubles were over. The way the Gambler saw it, Doe was beyond corrupt, they had a reporter snooping around, the boss was coming undone by boy b.u.g.g.e.ry, and they had three dead bodies floating in a pit of pig s.h.i.+t. And Scott, one of his own boys, had been the one to tip off the reporter. Scott was going to have to go down for this.

Why would Scott do it? The Gambler had always taken care of him and Ronny Neil. A sellout for big money he could understand, but talking to a reporter? Out of some sort of resentment toward Altick, no doubt. It was a bonehead move, there could be no denying it, but maybe the problem was that he hadn't given those boys enough to do. Maybe he needed to give them more responsibility in order to motivate them, find a way to channel Scott's rage.

"So, what's your next move?" he asked.

B.B. appeared suddenly to come awake. "I need to get my money, Gamb. I can't have money like this just falling off the face of the earth."

"We've got to face the real possibility that Doe is bent, and if he took the money, we're not getting it back without some serious violence. You want to risk that?"

"I got the DevilDogs in Gainesville," B.B. said. "We know for a fact that it was Doe, we have them ride down here and beat it out of him."

The Gambler shook his head. B.B. was supposed to be the mastermind, but he'd become like a body without a head when his freaky b.i.t.c.h wasn't around. "The county has made life h.e.l.l for motorcycle gangs here. You know that. The DevilDogs come riding in, the sheriff's department is going to be all over them. If a mayor and police chief get worked over and killed, even a bulls.h.i.+t one like Doe, it's going to mean a big investigation. And we're f.u.c.ked if one of those n.u.m.b.n.u.t.s gets nailed by the cops. You think they're going to keep their traps shut? Next thing you know, we've got the DEA involved, which means they'll find something or someone who will tell them about the lab, and that's going to ultimately lead them back to us."

"Okay," B.B. said quietly. "What do we do, then? How do we get the money?"

"I guess we have to figure out a way to get Doe to 'find' it, to make him realize that it doesn't make any sense to rip us off."

"How do we do that?"

The Gambler said nothing.

B.B. took this as a sign that the Gambler, too, was out of ideas. He stood up and walked to the door, rested one hand on the k.n.o.b. "Let's wait until Desiree gets back. She'll figure something out."

"So, that's it?" the Gambler asked.

"For now, yeah. That's it for now." Then, all at once, his face grew bright with a private joke. "There'll be more later, though." And he was gone.

Two drinks later, his head filled with muted vodka clarity, the Gambler answered a knock at his door. It was Doe, leaning against the doorjamb, dressed in uniform, bottle of Yoo-hoo dangling in one hand.

"I got a noise complaint," he said. "Neighbors say there's a sound of vibrating bulls.h.i.+t coming from your room."

The Gambler stood aside to let him in and then quickly shut the door. "You want a drink?" he asked, holding up his cloudy plastic cup.

Doe held up his bottle. "I don't leave home without it."

The Gambler sat in his chair by the window. "So, what do you want?"

"I got a noise complaint," he said. "Neighbors say there's a sound of vibrating bulls.h.i.+t."

"It wasn't funny the first time."

"How about the second?"

"Doe, this isn't the tryouts for MAD MAD magazine, so how about you tell me why you're taking up my time." magazine, so how about you tell me why you're taking up my time."

Doe took a swig and flashed his crooked teeth. "I hate to bother you when you're sitting in a cheap motel drinking vodka by yourself, and normally I wouldn't, but h.e.l.l, Gamb, I think you'll want to hear what I have to say."

"Then say it."

"First of all, let's cut the bull-f.u.c.king-s.h.i.+t, okay?" He walked over to the dresser and slammed the bottle down hard. A crack appeared in the particleboard. "I know that you and B.B. are full of little ideas about how I ripped you off, is that right? That maybe I killed b.a.s.t.a.r.d and took the money, and now I'm trying to pin it on this f.u.c.king hapless kid to get myself off the hook. Does that about cover it?"

The Gambler tried hard to look impa.s.sive. This, he knew, was a showdown. Doe was there either to get himself off the hook for what he'd done or to set the record straight. Fine. Either way, it didn't much matter in the end, since there were more important things than the $40,000. The continuity of the operation, for example. And power. When this little duel was over, the Gambler needed Doe to think of him as tough, decisive, and in charge. Everything else, even that chunk of cash, was secondary.

He took a sip of his drink. "That pretty much covers it."

"And you want me to come up with cash or face consequences, I suppose."

"I've had thoughts along those lines, yes."

"Maybe you want to shut those thoughts the f.u.c.k up. Did you ever think of that?"

"No, I never thought of that. But since you did, maybe you should tell me why."

Doe shook his head in sad disbelief. "First of all, I didn't kill b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And that means someone did, and that someone is still out there and has the money. You can believe me or not, but we've been doing this thing long enough that you know if I'd killed him, I'd admit it. h.e.l.l, if I stole the money and killed him, I'd still admit to killing him. I'd say he tried to rip us off and got caught and tried to kill me."

"Now that we've established how you would be lying if you were lying, let's hear number two."

"Number f.u.c.king two," Doe said, "is why the f.u.c.k would I rip you off? You cut me out or try to find the b.a.l.l.s to take me out, I'm worse off than if we keep going on like we've been. I'm earning way too much from this s.h.i.+t to d.i.c.k it up, so think with your f.u.c.king head for a second instead of B.B.'s. Snoop into my s.h.i.+t, if you want. I don't got any debts, I got a pile in the Caymans. I want more, and I'm not going to f.u.c.k with the system."

It was all true. Doe had relatively little to gain in the short term and nothing to gain in the long term by ripping them off. In fact, the only thing that made the Gambler still doubt Doe was the Altick kid, who said he'd seen the chief snooping around b.a.s.t.a.r.d's trailer. But that could have had something to do with the girl, he supposed.

He sat still, looking thoughtful for a few more minutes. "And those are your two points?"

"No, I got one more point. Point number three," he said, "is that B.B. called the station today, disguised his voice, and said that you killed b.a.s.t.a.r.d and took the cash. Now, I don't know who has the money, but maybe that doesn't matter so much right now, because B.B. has decided to f.u.c.k you up, and I think you want me on your side."

"How do you know it was B.B. if the voice was disguised?"

"Because he's an a.s.shole, and I recognized him. Besides, who knows that b.a.s.t.a.r.d is dead besides you, me, B.B., and his wh.o.r.e?"

Doe gave a half nod. "And how do I know you aren't setting him up?"

"I guess you don't. But you maybe want to decide what you believe, because if B.B. figures out I'm not going to deal with you, he might have a backup plan that takes you by surprise."

The Gambler finished his drink and set down the plastic cup. "Okay," he said after a minute or so, a minute he needed mostly to keep Doe waiting. "I'll keep this information in mind. But let's be clear about something. I don't care if you stole the money or not. This is your house and your mess, and you need to clean it up. I'll look into what you say about B.B., and I'd better not find out that you're f.u.c.king with me, or I'm going to be p.i.s.sed off. But if you're not, then we're going to be under new management, and new management says you clean up your f.u.c.king mess." He stood up. "Because if you can't get your act together, then you're f.u.c.king worthless to me. So by Monday morning I want that money or I want to know what happened to it. And if you go with choice number two, you'd better make me believe you're telling the truth. Now get the f.u.c.k out of here."

Doe finished his bottle and dropped it on the floor. "I like that," he said. "I like that forceful s.h.i.+t. We need more of that around here." He walked to the door and then turned around. "You want me to take care of B.B.?"

"Why?" the Gambler asked. "Because things on your end are running so smoothly that you have lots of extra time?"

"No," Doe said, "because I figured you might want to keep your hands clean. But have it your way, boss."

When Doe was gone, the Gambler rose to fix himself another drink. f.u.c.king B.B. trying to screw him over. Why? And his efforts were so inept, it hardly mattered. An anonymous phone call. He'd lost it completely, and even if he hadn't been conspiring against the Gambler, he'd have to go, just for safety's sake.

So maybe there was some order in the universe, he thought. Maybe there was a way to turn liabilities into a.s.sets. And maybe, he thought, there was a way to turn Scott's inappropriate rage into something more useful.

After his unsatisfying meeting with the Gambler, B.B. had gone out to a local McDonald's for a strawberry milk shake and to take in the local scene. He liked to go to McDonald's. There were always lots of happy kids getting the c.r.a.ppy food they loved. In his work with the Young Men's Foundation, he saw only the unhappy boys. He liked the happy ones, too.

B.B. brought a newspaper with him but couldn't be bothered to read it. He looked into nothingness and tried to avoid the stare of the big-eyed black kid behind the counter who acted as though he'd never seen a man drink a milk shake before. He ought to have seen it. It probably happened pretty often in here.

After nearly an hour with no one interesting to look at, B.B. went back to the hotel. He figured he ought to be thinking about the money, but that was Desiree's job. And where was Desiree? He hadn't heard from her all day except for one hasty phone call in which she'd said that the kid appeared to be hapless and clean, but she was going to keep tailing him. It wasn't like her not to check in more often.

Approaching his room from the parking lot, he could see there was a piece of paper taped to his door. It was yellow, wide-lined notebook paper with torn perforation. When he pulled it free, it took a good chunk of the door's aqua blue paint along with the tape.

It would be from the Gambler, or maybe Doe, possibly even Desiree. Instead, a clumsy, childish hand had written in scrawling letters, "Mister my Dad called and said he wont be back before Late and my little brother gone off with his aunt. Can I have that Ice Cream now, and mabey talk about some stuff that's going on with my dad? Carl. Room 232."

B.B. folded up the note and held it in his hands. Then he unfolded it and read it once more. He held the paper in one hand and then the other, as though he could gauge its import from its flimsy weight.

Could it be a joke? Who would play such a joke? And what would be the point? On the other hand, how would that kid know his room number? Maybe he'd asked the Indian behind the counter. The guy wasn't supposed to give out that sort of information, but he probably didn't know any better, since who knew what sorts of ideas about privacy they had in India, where cattle wandered in and out of people's houses? Besides, Carl was nothing but a little kid who surely didn't mean any harm. Carl, he thought. Carl.

B.B. went into his room and washed his face, combed his hair, and put on a little bit of aftershave. Not too much, since kids didn't like too much, but enough so that he'd smell mature and sophisticated. That's what boys Carl's age wanted in a mentor. They liked to be in the presence of a grown man who knew how to talk to a boy.

Not that Carl was worth all this fuss. No reason to think he was. Back at home was Chuck Finn, and Chuck Finn would be worth the fuss. Even so, spending a little time with Carl might be productive. It would certainly be helpful to the young man, and that was why he did this work, after all. He did it for the young men, and for himself, if he was going to be honest. He liked the feeling of being helpful. And there was something else, too, something on the edge of his vision, just outside his range of hearing, a smell too vague to identify but strong enough to notice. But this wasn't the time. Maybe next week, maybe with Chuck, but not just now.

B.B. felt as though something from the highway had soiled his suit, so he dusted himself and headed out the door, up the stairs, and around back, where he found the room. Somewhere in the distance, he heard electronic pop from someone's room. a.s.sholes needed to learn to keep it down. But Carl's room was mostly quiet. The curtains were drawn, but he could see a light on inside and vaguely hear a television droning. Before knocking, he took out the note and read it once more, making sure he had the room right and that he hadn't misunderstood the boy's intentions. No, there could be no misunderstanding. He'd been invited.