Assume Nothing (20 page)

‘No. But I will if you don’t.’

Cross had to laugh at the suggestion. ‘Me? I just told you—’

‘That Gillis’s death was an accident and that you had nothing to do with what Ben did to Reddick.’

‘That’s right.’

‘In that case, the best thing you could possibly do for yourself is turn yourself in, before the police come looking for you and find you. Let Ben and Will fend for themselves. You can afford to hire a good attorney, Perry, and a really great one could probably fix all this so you do next to no time at all. Maybe even get you off completely.’

‘Really? Next to no time at all, huh?’ Cross leaned in close across the table, hissed, ‘Fuck that. And fuck you.’

Iris had been expecting this reaction; she would have been a fool to think Cross would respond any other way. But it still stung. Somewhere deep down inside, in a corner of her being he had somehow not yet managed to scorch black, she still had feelings for this man.

But not enough to take another minute of his bullshit.

‘Suit yourself,’ she said with a little shrug, and started to push away from the table.

‘Wait. Wait!’ Cross grabbed her wrists with both hands to stop her cold, a naked desperation he had heretofore kept hidden rising to the surface. He despised himself for the show of weakness he knew he was putting on, aware that Sinnott – and possibly even Reddick – was watching, but try as he might, short of strangling Iris right there at the table, he could see no way around what he was about to do next: beg.

‘Let me go,’ Iris said. They were making a small scene and she could feel the eyes of several people upon her.

‘I’m sorry. Please, wait. There’s . . . something I haven’t told you yet,’ Cross said.

He hadn’t meant it as a carrot on a stick, but that was how she took it. Just another goddamn trick. And yet, Iris couldn’t help but wonder: Dear God, could there really be anything more to hear?

‘What is it?’

‘Sit back down and I’ll tell you. Please.’

Having had to say ‘please’ twice in the span of fifteen seconds, it was all Cross could do not to gag on his own shame. Iris glanced at his hands on her wrists, stating a condition for surrender, and he released her. She sat back down. Waited.

‘It isn’t just Reddick and the police I have to worry about,’ Cross said. ‘There’s someone else. Someone way more sick and dangerous than Reddick.’

‘Who?’

‘I can’t tell you who. All I can say is, he’s the reason we needed Gillis to pay us what he owed us so badly. This guy loaned us a big chunk of change a while back and the debt comes due at the end of the week. Trouble is, we don’t have the scratch, and if we don’t come up with it, we’re all dead. And I don’t just mean “dead,” Iris. I mean with a red-hot coathanger wire running through our fucking ears “dead.” That’s the kind of animal this guy is.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Yeah. So going to the police is not an option for any of us. That might get Reddick and the law off our backs over the long haul, but it won’t do anything to appease our psychotic little friend. This guy will get payback, no matter how long he has to wait for it, and I don’t mind telling you, thinking about what he might do to get it is a little disconcerting.’

Iris didn’t know what to think. It sounded so incredible, as if everything Cross had told her before hadn’t already been improbable enough. But she believed him. After years of practice, she had finally learned to tell the difference between what a lie sounded like coming out of his mouth and the truth.

‘And this is why you forged a check from me for seventy-five hundred dollars?’

‘Of course. If I’d thought I could get away with it, I would have made it out for more. It was a lousy thing to do, I know, but I was desperate. And I couldn’t just ask you for the money without your demanding to know what it was for, so . . .’

‘You should still go to the police. They can protect you,’ Iris said.

‘The hell they can. Maybe I’m not making myself clear. The man I’m talking about can’t be touched by the police. He’s got connections everywhere, in and out of law enforcement. If we don’t pay him, nothing’s going to save us from this asshole, Iris.
Nothing
.’

Whether it was true or not, Iris could see Cross believed it, too much to make arguing with him worth the energy it would take to change his mind. ‘So what are you asking me to do?’

‘Nothing. I’m asking you not to do anything, or call anybody or talk to anybody about any of what I’ve just told you, for at least a couple of days, or until Ben and Will and I can figure out a way to pay this guy off. Once that’s done, if you want to drop a dime on us, I’ll dial nine-one-one myself and hand you the phone, I swear to God.’

Cross didn’t believe in God, so the promise meant nothing to Iris; she recognized it as his first flatout lie of the afternoon, in any case. If she were to remain silent the way he was asking her to – the same way Reddick had asked earlier that day, if for different reasons entirely – the minute Cross felt he was safe from the maniac he’d just described, he’d be actively avoiding any contact with the police, back in full denial mode. Iris had no illusions about this. But if she turned him over to the authorities now and he ended up dead as a result, his body mutilated in some grotesque fashion, she knew she would never be able to shake the idea that she had been responsible. Damning Reddick to whatever fate the police were sure to subject him to was going to be hard enough to live with; setting Cross up to be tortured and killed by some sadistic madman would only make matters infinitely worse.

‘What about Reddick?’ she asked.

‘Reddick’s a non-factor,’ Cross said. ‘He caught us by surprise this morning, but that’s all over. Now that we know he’s gunning for us, we’ll be ready for him next time.’

‘And if there is no “next time”? If he decides killing Andy was revenge enough for what the four of you did to him, and leaves the rest up to the police?’

‘Did he say that?’ Cross asked hopefully. ‘Is that what he said he intends to do?’

‘Not in so many words. Answer the question, Perry.’

‘Well, first of all, “the four of us” didn’t do anything to him. I keep telling you that. But if Reddick wants to let bygones be bygones, hey, I’d be happy to do the same, of course. That would make just one less thing for us to worry about.’

He was lying again and this time, Iris called him on it. ‘I don’t want him hurt, Perry. None of this was his fault. If the poor bastard killed Andy like you say, he’ll probably do time for it, and that’s punishment enough, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s not forget what he did to Ben.’

‘Ben had that coming, and more. To hell with Ben. If you want me to help you, those are my terms, take it or leave it. I don’t want Reddick hurt.’

Cross would have liked nothing better than to tell this fool bitch again to go fuck herself and walk away. Who the hell did she think she was, Reddick’s
mother
? But his present circumstances did not allow for such indulgences; Iris was the rock and Ruben was the hard place, and between the two, he had no room to do anything but bend over and capitulate.

‘OK. You’ve got my word that as long as he doesn’t fuck with us, we won’t fuck with him,’ he said. ‘Fair enough?’

Hell no, it wasn’t fair enough, Iris thought. Not to Reddick and certainly not to Gillis Rainey. But it was the closest thing to a square deal she was ever likely to get out of Perry Cross and she’d just be wasting her breath trying to negotiate something better out of him.

‘I’ll give you two days,’ she said.

‘I need to the end of the week.’

‘Two days. No more and no less. After that, I go the police alone and let whatever happens happen.’

Cross hesitated, conflicted. ‘I don’t suppose . . .’

‘No way in hell. I’ll let the seventy-five hundred you’ve already stolen from me ride, but that’s it. The rest you’re going to have to raise on your own.’

Perry looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Had she always been this fucking hard, or was this change in her something new, just one more unintended consequence of his own recent stupidity?

‘Fine. Two days.’

She rose from the table again, making sure this time to be too quick for him to stop her. ‘I don’t know what happened to you, Perry. Maybe you were always this way and I just didn’t see it. But you need help, and I hope you live long enough to get it. I really do.’

He had a comeback ready on his tongue, but she was gone before he could open his mouth.

TWENTY-THREE

T
he melody was familiar. Clarke was sure he had heard it a thousand times before. Still, he couldn’t place it.

It came and went, long stretches of silence sandwiched between iterations, a tinny chime over dime-store speakers nagging him for attention. Finally, he gave in and opened his eyes, blinked through a haze of pain into a dark room turned on its side: his bedroom.

He peered into the shadowy void, tried to remember what he was doing here, on his stomach in his bed, aching from head to foot. The incessant jingle persisted. At last, he recognized it for what it was: the theme music from
Rocky
, clipped and denuded down to the flat-note triviality of a cell phone ringtone.
His
cell phone.

Where the hell the instrument was in the room, Clarke couldn’t begin to guess, but he knew he lacked the will to ignore it for another second. To anyone else, it would have been a minor irritant at most, but to him, at this moment, the sound of the phone held all the aural power of a running leaf blower strapped to the side of his skull. And there was no point in shouting out for Cross or Sinnott to put an end to it; his throat was as dry as soot and the effort of raising his voice loud enough to be heard beyond the bedroom walls was likely beyond his means.

Slowly, he rolled to one side on the bed, encountering pain so intense he thought for sure it would prove fatal. His head felt like a block of iron wedged in a vise and his ribcage cried out in agony with every intake of breath. Even the tips of his fingers hurt.

Reddick
.

He used the man’s name as fuel to continue his ascent, pulling himself all the way upright while envisioning their next meeting, and the myriad ways he might end it: with a knife or a sawed-off baseball bat, or a fireplace poker glowing white with heat.

Still half-blind in the dark, Clarke glanced about for the ringing phone, took a guess it was on the nightstand nearby, where a digital clock announced to the world that the time was 6:42 p.m. He’d been asleep for over three hours. Summoning all his strength and tolerance for pain, Clarke pushed a hand forward, groping, Cand found the phone. He thumbed the answer button to silence it and gingerly brought it up to his bandaged head.

‘Yeah?’

The caller made him wait a few seconds for a response. ‘So you pulled through. Guess I should have tried a little harder.’

Clarke recognized the voice immediately, stomach churning like a cauldron brimming with acid. ‘You motherfucker! You cock-sucking sonofabitch—’

‘Take it easy, Mr Clarke. I didn’t call to get your feathers up. I just wanted to know where to send the flowers, that’s all.’

‘You’re all dead, Reddick. You, the bitch and . . . and your little boy – you’re all fuckin’ . . . dead, I swear to God!’

‘Yeah, I remember you saying that once before. Your pal Baumhower made me the same promise last night – and we all know how unlikely he is to make good now, don’t we?’

‘You wanna try me again . . . asshole?’ Clarke sputtered, a spiraling rage sapping what little strength he had left. ‘Just name . . . the time and place.’

Again, the man on the other end of the line fell silent. Then: ‘No problem. The time is now.’ Reddick lowered his voice to a mere whisper. ‘The place is
here
.’

He hung up.

Here and now
. Clarke tossed the phone to one side on the bed, feeling lightheaded and nauseated. What the fuck did Reddick mean? Could he be here now, somewhere outside, waiting? Maybe even inside the house, in the very next room? Was that possible?

‘Perry! Will!’

He was screaming at the top of his lungs, but it was a pointless waste of energy; in his present state, he couldn’t muster the volume of a Chihuahua choking on a bone. He decided Cross and Sinnott were gone, in any case; were either man still here, playing nursemaid, he surely would have saved Clarke the trouble of answering the goddamn phone.

Clarke was on his own.

He was sick to his stomach and wracked with pain, as close to the doorstep of death as a man could come and not cross it, but he had to move. If Reddick was here and coming for him, he wasn’t going to find Clarke laying helpless on the bed, just waiting to die. Clarke had made it that easy for him once already, and he wasn’t going to do it again. This time, he was going to be ready when Reddick showed his face, and the outcome of their next meeting was going to be significantly different from their last.

Anticipating this moment, he’d made a point of leaving a loaded Glock on the nightstand near his phone before taking to his bed. Remembering the weapon now, he reached out to take it into his right hand, then pushed himself to his feet, stifling a war cry of agony to block out the pain.

Taking one humiliating, baby step after another, he slowly made his way out of the bedroom.

Reddick didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Ben Clarke was still alive.

It was good to know he wasn’t a patient in a hospital somewhere, however. By answering his own cell phone, the big man had all but ruled that possibility out. Cell phones weren’t allowed in ICUs. So Reddick didn’t have to worry about getting to Clarke again without creeping down hospital hallways and stairwells, trying to evade security guards and medical staff.

Though he’d led Clarke to believe otherwise, that he was somewhere outside of a hospital room was all Reddick actually knew about the big man. Sitting in a strip-mall Mexican restaurant in Manhattan Beach, miles from Clarke’s Culver City home address, Reddick had only made the call to Clarke’s cell phone to find out if he was still breathing and, if he was, how hard it might be to finish him off. He hadn’t planned to speak a word into the phone until he’d heard Clarke’s voice on the other end of the line, sounding all hurt and pathetic, and the temptation to put the fear of God in the asshole became too great to ignore. Reddick was the angel of death and he wanted Clarke to know it, and he liked the idea of the big fuck pissing his pants wondering if Reddick wasn’t right there with him somewhere, waiting just around the next corner to put him out of his misery.