3 Men and a Body (4 page)

back against the cool tile on the wall. No matter what he

did, he seemed to screw up. He’d thought he was

protecting his sister when he and Chance had embarked

on the Great Strip Club Caper. Instead he had humiliated

one of the most dangerous men in Atlanta for no reason—

a man he stil owed a great deal of money.

Wesley gave a little laugh. They’d just had a fake funeral

for Carlotta, and his parents hadn’t bothered to show.

He’d told Carlotta that their father had smel ed a setup,

but with so much time on his hands to think in this grimy,

stinky john, he’d begun to wonder if Carlotta had been

right all these years—that their parents didn’t give a damn

about them, and wouldn’t risk apprehension even if one of

their kids was lying in a pine box.

No, he told himself with a mental shake. The fact that he

was doubting his father was just proof of how isolation

and lack of food could mess with your mind.

It was his own fault if The Carver decided to carve him up

and scatter his parts all over the city. He’d come to the

shabby warehouse office in East Atlanta with a peace

offering—the memory chip holding the photos he’d taken

of the man with Cherry, a wel -endowed transvestite, and

a payment of nine hundred dol ars on his loan. But before

he could state his good intentions, he’d been hauled off

his bike, relieved of his wal et, handcuffed, then tossed in

this box.

They hadn’t fed him, but he’d drunk from the sink faucet

to keep from becoming dehydrated. Mouse, The Carver’s

col ections man, told him they were keeping him until the

boss decided what to do with him.

Wesley surveyed the tub he was in, wondering how many

other people The Carver had dissected here, allowing their

blood to run down the drain before gathering their limbs

in garbage bags and disposing of them with the junk mail.

A scratch sounded at the door. Wesley glanced at the

crack at the floor to see the shadows of two sets of

shoes—Mouse had brought company this time. Wes’s

heart jumped to his throat.

The dead bolt slid open, then the knob turned and the

door swung wide. Mouse and another man walked in and

unceremoniously hauled him up out of the bathtub.

“What’s new, fellas?” Wesley asked congenial y.

“Shut up,” Mouse told him as they half dragged him out of

the room and down a hallway. The floor was concrete and

the studded walls had been gutted of drywall. “The boss

wants to talk to you.”

“I can talk better with my hands,” Wesley said. “How

about uncuffing me?”

Mouse clocked him up the side of the head. “I said shut

up.”

Wesley blinked until the starbursts faded, and decided to

take Mouse’s sage advice. They deposited him in an

office—if thugs had offices. It was pretty much just a

windowless room with a rickety straight-back chair and

some menacing-looking stains on the concrete floor. There

was a drain in the corner—just in case the room had to be

hosed down, he guessed.

They slammed him into the chair and left, closing the door

behind them.

He concentrated on not sweating, visualized glaciers and

avalanches and other cold scenes. Ice fishing…igloos…polar

bears…Klondike bars.

But when the door burst open, so did his pores. The last

time he’d seen The Carver, the man had been inebriated

and sitting on the john with his pants around his ankles, a

piece of duct tape over his mouth, his wrists bound with a

cable tie.

He had recovered well.

The loan shark was impeccably groomed, his skin tanned

and glowing, his salt-and-pepper hair smoothed back from

his face, every strand in place. Wesley didn’t know much

about clothes, but the brown suit and col arless shirt

looked expensive, as well as the square-toed shoes. The

only thing that hinted the man was a gangster was the

thick rope of gold around his neck.

Oh, and the switchblade in his hand.

With one click, a six-inch blade appeared. Wesley leaned

forward and vomited the water that had been sitting in his

stomach, splashing the man’s expensive square-toed

shoes.

“Christ,” the loan shark said, taking a few steps back. “Are

you going to piss yourself next?”

Wesley lifted his head and licked his dry lips. “I hope not.”

“Me, too.” The Carver leaned down to get in Wesley’s

face. “You stupid little shit, I ought to gut you for what you

did to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Wesley mumbled.

He looked incredulous. “You’re sorry?”

“Someone shot up my house when my sister was home. I

thought it was your guys. I was wrong.”

The Carver paced all around him. Wesley tensed,

expecting to feel the blade plunge into his bony body,

disemboweling him. Sweat rol ed off his nose and dripped

onto the floor.

“I brought the memory chip from the camera to give you,”

he offered.

“Where is it?”

Wesley kicked off one of his tennis shoes. “Under the

insole.”

The Carver used the knife to lift the insole, then withdrew

the blue memory card, pierced on the tip. “This is the only

copy of the pictures?”

“Yes.”

The man dropped the punctured card on the floor, then

stomped on it for good measure. Every time his heel came

down on the chip, Wesley flinched.

When The Carver stopped, he was panting and slightly

disheveled. Using his hand, he smoothed his hair back in

place, then bestowed a slow smile on Wesley. “But I can

understand that you were trying to protect your sister.”

Wesley swallowed hard. “You can?”

“Sure. I have sisters. That’s why I’m going to let you live.”

Relief flooded Wesley’s body.

“In return for a fee.”

“Fee?”

The man began grooming his nails with the tip of the knife.

“For pain and suffering.”

“H-how much?”

“Twenty-five large.”

Wesley felt weak again. “I don’t have twenty-five grand.”

“Then you need to raise it, Wesley. By five o’clock.”

“I don’t know anyone who has money like that.”

“Think hard,” the loan shark said. “Because if you don’t

come up with the money, you’re a dead man. Then who’s

going to protect your sister?”

Wesley bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted

blood.

“I’m a busy man, so you’d better be thinking of who you

need to call. I’m going to have a sandwich. I’m sending

Mouse in with your cel phone—he’ll make the cal s for

you. If you try to signal someone or get the police

involved, your sister is as good as dead.” He walked closer.

“Here’s a little incentive.”

The Carver grabbed Wesley’s arm and with a twist of his

wrist, sliced a two-inch letter C into Wesley’s forearm.

The pain was intense. Wesley gasped as his blood dripped

onto the floor to mix with the other stains. Since his hands

were stil cuffed, he pressed his arm to his chest to stem

the bleeding. He ground his teeth to keep from crying out

in pain.

“With every phone call, you get another letter,” The

Carver said, his voice deadly calm. “So unless you want my

entire name tattooed on your arm, you’d better make

them count.”

The man strode out of the room and nodded to someone.

Mouse walked in holding Wesley’s cel phone, all business.

“Who do you want me to call?”

Wesley’s mind raced.

“You don’t want to keep the boss waiting,” Mouse

advised.

“Chance Hol ander.”

“Is the number in your phone?”

“Yeah.” His arm was throbbing. “Can you uncuff me, man?

My hands are numb.”

“No can do.” Mouse operated the phone with his fat

fingers, then held it to Wesley’s ear. “The volume is turned

up so that I can hear everything. No funny stuff, got it?”

“I lost my sense of humor on the floor,” Wesley said.

“Watch your step.”

He prayed that Chance would pick up. After two rings, he

did. “Wes?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Where the fuck are you, man? Your sister is worried sick.

She came over with some pierced chick and they kicked

my ass—”

“Dude, listen. I’m in a bind and I need twenty-five grand.

Can you help me out?”

“Twenty-five grand, are you nuts? Have you been

kidnapped or something?”

“Or something. Can you get it?”

“Yeah, sure. But it’l take me a couple of days.”

“I don’t have a couple of days. What can you scrape

together in a couple of hours?”

“Bad timing, dude. I just paid my carriers, and my girls, and

I bought a new hot tub—”

“How much?”

“It was a steal—a ten-thousand-dol ar model, but I got it

for five.”

Mouse rol ed his eyes and Wesley grimaced. “Not the hot

tub! How much can you get together?”

“I could probably find a grand in the couch cushions, but

that’s about it.”

Wesley swal owed against his disappointment. “Okay,

thanks anyway.”

“Dude, where are you—”

Mouse closed the phone. “You know what this means.”

“Come on, man,” Wesley pleaded. “Give me a mul igan.”

Mouse frowned. “What’s a mul igan?”

Note to self: Don’t use golf terms when negotiating with

street criminals. “A freebie. No one has to know.”

“No can do.” The big man went to the door, opened it and

shook his head.

The Carver came in stil chewing his sandwich, and sighed

heavily, as if Wesley were causing him to miss his favorite

TV show. He opened the switchblade. “Hold him, Mouse.”

Wesley resisted, but could only look away. It took more

strokes to carve an A into his skin, more finesse, more

blood. He screamed like a girl.

The Carver used a white handkerchief to wipe the blood

off his knife. “I hope for your sake your next call is more

productive.” He retracted the blade and left the room.

Mouse held up the phone. “Who now?”

Wesley couldn’t think for the pain. His blood was

everywhere.

“Come on, kid. We all want to go home. Give me a name.”

“Liz Fischer. The number is in there.”

Mouse dialed it, then held the phone up to Wesley’s

mouth.

Liz had been his father’s attorney and had gotten Wesley

off on probation when he’d been busted for hacking into

the courthouse database. Recently they’d started

banging—everything that Chance had told him about older

chicks was true. Carlotta would have an aneurysm if she

knew.

Liz answered on the first ring. “Wes? Are you okay? Jack

Terry called me asking if I’d seen you.”

So Carlotta was beating the bushes. “Uh, I’m fine…for now.

But I have a situation here and I need some cash. A lot of

it.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five grand.”

She gasped. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

“The expensive kind.”

“Wesley, you know I adore you. But I can’t get involved in

whatever mess you’re in. I have my career and reputation

to think about.”

He tried to keep his voice steady. “I wouldn’t ask if it

wasn’t important.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t help you. Maybe you should call the

police—”

Mouse flipped the phone shut, then sighed. “I should’ve

worn a dark suit.” He went to the door, opened it and

shook his head.

The Carver reappeared, a paper napkin tucked in his col ar

like a bib. Wesley considered making a run for it, but he

was having trouble even holding his head up. Besides, he

was stil wearing only one shoe. And he wouldn’t get far

with his hands cuffed. Mouse held him for the next

carving, but Wesley didn’t put up much resistance as an R

was engraved on his arm. He didn’t even have the strength

to squeal. The Carver left with no conversation.

Wesley was on the verge of passing out.

“You’re kil ing me, kid,” Mouse said. “Give me a name—a

good one.”

With what little strength he had left, Wesley considered

his options—all of them bad, but one of them viable.

Objectionable, but viable.

He gave Mouse the name and hoped for the best.

5

Carlotta stood in her living room and glared up at Jack.

“Why are you just standing there? Do something!”

Jack seemed to struggle for patience. “Carlotta, we can’t

just send in a SWAT team to storm the place. We need a

warrant, and I can’t get one without probable cause. I

need some kind of proof that Hol is Carver kidnapped

Wesley or—” He broke off. “Or that he’s holding him.”

“You were going to say proof that he’s kil ed him, weren’t

you?” “No.”

“So that’s the guy’s real name—Hol is Carver?”

Jack nodded.

She threw her hands in the air, and cringed when pain

zipped up her left arm. “If you’re on first-name basis with

this criminal, why don’t you call him up and ask him if he

has Wesley?”

He hesitated. “With Hol is Carver, the communication is

one-way.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning,” Hannah interjected, her eyes narrowed at

Jack, “The Carver is a narc. And the police leave him alone,

right?”

Carlotta looked back to Jack. “Is that true?”