Chicago Assault (2 page)

Taken aback, her eyes widened slightly. “Oh … I'm sorry … but—”

“And it's your party to begin with, Felicia. So if you don't like what's going on, the last place you should make your feelings known is to one of your guests.” Hawker pivoted to go. “Tell Saul I've had a
grand
time—”

“Wait,” she said quickly. “I'm sorry. Don't go.”

She grabbed Hawker's elbow. Her lovely lips opened as if to speak, but then she lost control. Her face crinkled, she shuddered, and then the tears began to flow. Hawker stood for a moment, feeling awkward and stupid. Finally, he did the only thing a man can do when a woman begins to bawl. He pulled her head onto his shoulder and patted her gently.

“I shouldn't have snapped at you like that,” he said lamely.

“No, I deserved it,” she said, sniffing. “Christ, everything has gone so rotten. I don't even know what I'm saying half the time anymore.” She turned away from him, rubbing her fists at her doe-brown eyes.

“The party was Saul's bad idea?” Hawker offered.

“Yes. And his ideas seem to be getting worse and worse lately. But this tops them all. He invited his most important business connections from across the country. He wanted to impress them. He read an article in one of those tawdry men's magazines of his that sex parties were the rage. It was an accepted way for wealthy businessmen to relax. Saul has never been what you would call tasteful, but at least he had good business instincts. Most of the men in there are married. Maybe even happily married. They're going to wake up in the morning feeling cheap and silly. They're going to hate themselves for weeks to come—and they'll end up hating Saul for much longer than that.” She shook herself as if trying to awaken from a bad dream. She smiled weakly at Hawker. “How about escorting a lady out onto the balcony? I could use some fresh air.”

Hawker smiled. “Sure. It's beginning to smell a little sweaty in here.”

She chuckled weakly. “I'm going to have the place sterilized in the morning. If I'm still here in the morning.”

Hawker took her arm and led her through the shadowy tangle of bodies. The record had stuck, and the stereo hammered out the same buzzing bass chord over and over again.

A feverish silence had fallen over the participants. There was a pile of naked bodies in the middle of the room. One man's eyes bugged slightly as a blond girl knelt over him, her head sliding up and down in rhythm to the record. The negress had found two playmates. She lay on the couch, her head thrown back, eyes in glassy ecstasy as the men sweated over her.

Hawker slid open the glass doors, and they went outside into the chilly September air.

Below, city lights twinkled. Toy cars and toy people moved through the streets. Lake Michigan was a deeper darkness between sky and horizon. White running lights and an amber flasher pulsed through the night as a tug pushed a barge toward Canada.

“God,” Felicia Beckerman whispered. “It feels good out here. Clean.” She took a cigarette from her handbag. The perfect lines of her nose and high cheeks were outlined in the flare of the lighter. She exhaled deeply, as if ridding herself of tension. “For the first time in a while, I think I might be able to survive the next month or two.”

“More sex parties, you mean?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” She allowed herself to smile briefly. “But it's more than that. It's Saul. Something's wrong with him. Something seriously wrong.”

“You mean Mr. Beckerman hasn't been on his best behavior?”

She studied Hawker in silence for a moment. “Don't patronize me, James. I know what Saul is. I knew when I married him. He's rough and he's crass. I didn't love him. I told him that, but he said it didn't matter. But I did
like
him. Below that rude exterior of his is a truly kind and gentle person. Ours was a marriage of convenience. I'm the only child of two very dear people who have both suffered very serious health problems. It ruined them financially. I was desperate to help my parents, but I didn't have the way or the means. And then Saul came along. Dear, dear Saul. He courted me like a lovesick teenager. I told him my troubles. He made me an offer. Almost a business offer. If I married him, neither I nor my family would ever have to worry about money again. He was both kind and convincing. I thought it over for a long, agonizing twenty seconds. If I had to be a whore, I at least wanted to be a highly paid whore.” She smiled thinly. “But the joke was on me. Saul had no interest in me …
that
way. I think he wanted to try on our wedding night, but he just couldn't bring himself to risk … failure, I guess. He was like a scared little kid. Maybe that's why he shows such bad taste with his crude jokes. And this party. Sex terrifies him. He has no idea of what's acceptable and what isn't.”

She looked deeply into Hawker's eyes. “So I've been a kept woman these last four years. And I've never regretted it.” She hesitated for a moment, as if slightly embarrassed. “Not from the business standpoint, anyway.”

Hawker nodded, wondering why she had chosen to tell him all of this. Maybe it was because she felt he deserved some explanation. Or maybe it was the empty martini glass on the railing.

“You said,
was
a marriage of convenience. Why the past tense, Felicia?”

She studied the glowing eye of her cigarette for a moment. “Because, for the last two months, it's as if the man I married no longer existed. Something is seriously wrong with Saul. He won't talk to me. He keeps telling me that I'm safer if I don't know. He can't be involved in anything illegal. He has too much money to bother with taking risks. But he's scared, James. I can see that. Someone or something has scared him terribly—”

The glass doors slid open, and a voice interrupted. “So this is where you two guys have been hiding!”

Saul Beckerman pushed the doors closed and stood grinning at them. The plump, swarthy face bulged above the tuxedo. “James, God damn it, it's about time you visited your old buddy!” Beckerman pumped his hand as Felicia studied the Chicago skyline, ignoring them. “Hey, James, you ain't out here trying to steal my best girl, are you?” The little man winked and exploded with nervous laughter. “I got a dozen of Chicago's finest inside. Yours for the asking.”

“Those ladies are a little too open for my taste, Saul.”

Beckerman laughed loudly. He seemed anxious and ill at ease. He made small talk for a while. Hawker noticed that he was sweating. It couldn't have been more than forty-five degrees outside, and the wind was colder. Beckerman also kept checking his watch.

Finally Hawker interrupted. “You said you wanted to see me about something important, Saul?”

Beckerman nodded quickly. He looked at Felicia, and Felicia turned quickly to go. “Wait, honey,” Beckerman said, studying his watch again. “I got a little business to take care of first. Maybe you can entertain James for about twenty minutes? I just got to go down the hall for a bit. How 'bout it?”

“Sure, Saul,” she said in a monotone.

Beckerman wagged his finger at Hawker, grinning. “But keep your hands off, you big Irish lug. You can look, but don't touch.” He hugged Felicia roughly and added, “Watch this guy, babe. Word around town is he likes the chicks. Talk to you in a few minutes, Hawk!”

He banged Hawker on the shoulder and left the doors open behind him.

It took Hawker a moment to realize that Felicia was crying again. Weeping softly. “See what I mean?” She groaned. “He's like a mouse who's trying to pretend the cat isn't after him.”

“Seemed like the same old Saul to me,” Hawker lied.

She shook her hair back, fighting to regain control of herself. “You don't have to be polite around me, James. I remember the first time I met you. At one of those horrible luncheons. You were very polite there, too. I watched you out of the corner of my eye. For some reason, you give off the feeling of all those weird intangibles: confidence, tact, discretion. I remember thinking how nice it would be for a man like you to take me into his arms and just … just
hold
me. To make me feel like a woman again, instead of like a … damn museum piece, an object for public display.”

“I'm flattered,” he said. “I mean that.”

She took a step toward him and touched his arm. “I want you to be more than flattered, James. I want you to take me away from this. I want you to take me away from my life … for tonight, at least. Saul is so preoccupied lately, he won't even miss us. I've been the sterling, faithful wife for too damn long. I want to break the contract. I want to break the contract … with you … tonight.”

She fell into Hawker's arms, and he stroked her hair tenderly before holding her away. He shook his head. “I make it a point not to mess with married women. Especially women married to people I know.”

“It's a night for breaking rules, James.”

“Not for me it isn't, Felicia.”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “God, how funny I must be to someone like you. The rich, sex-starved wife. Is that it?”

“All you need is a portable vibrator and a nasty little poodle to complete the picture.”

That struck her as funnier than it really was, and she began to laugh. A full-bodied, alto gust that seemed to make her feel much better.

When the laughter subsided she held out her hand. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for not letting me make a fool out of myself.”

“Believe me, it wasn't easy saying no. You are a very beautiful woman, Felicia. And under different circumstances it would be me trying to steal
you
off into the night.”

“And thank you again—for returning my ego intact.” She shrugged and rested her arms on the railing of the balcony. “And who knows, someday things may change. Someday, something might even happen to—”

Felicia never finished. The wind swept the dull
ker-whack
of the gunshot to them through the darkness.

There was a terrified scream.

Hawker swung around just in time to see the woman's eyes grow wide with shock and horror as the body of Saul Beckerman tumbled off a balcony beneath them, flailing, spread-eagled, his scream like a fading laser of sound, falling, falling, falling toward the asphalt nineteen stories below.…

two

Hawker grabbed Felicia by the shoulders and swung her away just before her husband hit.

Her face was frozen in shock. “My God,” she whispered. “My God … that was … that was …
SAUL!”

His name escaped her lips in a low wail.

Hawker pulled her inside. He fumbled for the switch, and the overhead neons blinked on. There were shouts of drunken protest from the naked people on the floor. The black girl was still on the couch. Hawker grabbed her by the arm and jerked her away from the man who had mounted her.

“Get your hands off me, man. You got no right—”

Hawker shook her roughly. “Shut up,” he said in an even voice. “Shut up and listen. Get some clothes on. Find some brandy. Then take Mrs. Beckerman to the bedroom. Don't let her go near that balcony, understand?”

Hawker didn't wait for a response. The man who had been with the black girl was in his mid-fifties. He had neatly trimmed silver hair and was in surprisingly good shape. He looked like he was probably respectable and reliable under different circumstances. Hawker grabbed him by the arm. “Are you sober enough to take charge here?”

“Hey—what … yes, of course—”

“Then get these people out of here. Mr. Beckerman's been murdered. Call the police as soon as you can.”

“Murdered? My God—”

Hawker shoved his way through the living room and out the double doors. As he sprinted down the hall, he drew the customized Colt Commander .45 from the shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

The elevator was not in use. Hawker ignored it. He threw open the door of the stairwell and ran down the steps three at a time.

He stepped carefully into the hallway on the nineteenth floor. He could hear the low sound of voices. Anxious voices. Hawker moved toward the suite beneath Beckerman's apartment.

The door was cracked open. The voices came from inside.

Hawker hugged the wall as he moved toward the room. When he was about ten yards away, two figures bolted from the room. Two white males in their late twenties or early thirties.

One was holstering a revolver beneath his gray sports jacket as he ran. The other carried an ugly little automatic in his left hand.

“Freeze!” Hawker held the Colt Commander level and ready in both hands as he yelled.

The man with the automatic spun, his eyes wide with surprise. He busted off three wild shots. The automatic popped with the sound of books slapping together. The third shot ricocheted off the wall above Hawker.

Hawker squeezed off one careful round. In the narrow confines of the hallway, the explosion was deafening.

The slow .45 slug smacked through the man's chest and sent him skidding backward, as if on ice.

Blood coated the white marble floor.

“Get your hands against the wall,” Hawker yelled. The second man was frozen near the elevator, right hand inside his jacket. “Move!” Hawker commanded. “Hands against the wall—now!”

Slowly, the man turned toward the wall, hands high.

Hawker stalked toward him. The man had black curly hair and the damaged, aged face of a drug user or alcoholic. He kept glancing over his shoulder at Hawker—or at the apartment where they had just killed Saul Beckerman.

Hawker kicked the man's feet wider. “Nose to the wall, asshole,” he said evenly.

“You a cop?” the man demanded.

“No. But I'm the guy who's going to blow your ears off if you so much as sneeze.”

“You got no right to be doing this, man. You're no cop. You got no right—”

Hawker smacked him in the back of the head. The impact knocked the man's nose against the wall, and his nose began to bleed.