Hook and Shoot (3 page)

He got impatient. “Say you get bit by a snake. Zap, right on the hand. The venom is potent, spreading toward your heart. What do you do?”

“Immediately regret shaking hands with you.”

“Play along. You might learn something. You chop the hand off. Maybe the whole arm, make sure you get rid of every drop of poison.”

The limo turned into a narrow lot that cut the city block in half. I didn't know where we were. All I could see were cinder-block walls and service doors.

Eddie said, “But check this: what if you knew you
were gonna get bit before it happened? What would you do?”

“Kill the snake.”

“Kill the entire Yakuza? Not an option.”

He waited again. Typical Eddie. He had a point to make but wanted me to do the heavy lifting.

“I'd get a suit of armor. Let the snake dull his teeth trying to sink in.”

“Not bad. But there's no armor against these guys. The correct answer is what I'm about to do: buy an extra arm.”

Burch led us through a service door, past some cooks too busy to notice us, and down a hallway. It was an Italian place, garlic and wine heavy in the air. We stepped into a closed-off room, a space reserved for wedding receptions, first Communions, and contract killings.

A man sat alone at the middle table, hunkered over a basket of bread and a tumbler of whiskey. Clinks and conversation came from the other side of curtained glass doors. The man was in his fifties, too old for how long his hair was in back. It was gone on top, sidling away from a bloodhound face that made me want to give him a smack, tell him whatever it is, it can't be that bad.

He looked up, nodded at Burch like he knew him, and started to say something to Eddie. Then he saw me in the suit. “You said no lawyers.”

Eddie gaped. “Him? How drunk are you?”

“So what? You brought muscle.”

Guy didn't recognize me from the Burbank fight or otherwise. I started drafting a valentine to my new suit.

“He's my bullshit detector. My other one's out of juice from the last time we talked.” Eddie sat down across from the guy, a second glass of whiskey waiting there, and waved me to the next table over. Burch stayed by the door.

The guy said, “I'm not the one pulling all this last-second cloak-and-dagger crap. I had to ditch my wife to get here.”

“You're welcome. So let's get it done.”

“I told you last time what I need. Otherwise we got nothing to talk about.”

“Lou, I've seen your books. You're hemorrhaging faster than an Ebola clinic. You want—no, you
need
—to off-load Elite as soon as possible. I know this. I already won. All that's left is the pillaging, and I'm willing to work with you on that.”

So this was Lou Gerrone, owner of Elite Combat Sports. Five years ago it was a major player in MMA. Now guys went there to get careers started by beating up on guys who didn't know theirs were over.

Lou plucked a piece of bread out, tugged the crust off. “You gonna change the name?”

“Don't see why. It's a recognized brand.”

“I just figured you might call it Warrior Triple A or some shit. Banzai Eddie's Personal Developmental League.”

I expected the nickname to get Eddie screaming. He either didn't hear it or pretended not to. Distraction or diplomacy, I got a better grip on the significance of this sit-down.

“Doesn't matter what the name is,” Eddie said. “It's never gonna be on the same level as Warrior. No offense, but when this is done, at least your guys won't have to slog through a shitty contract before they get a chance to fight for me. If they show me something, I'll bump 'em into Warrior right away. Regardless, the name is staying.”

“You gotta treat my fighters right.”

“I told you everybody's safe. Nobody's getting cut until he deserves it. Or she. I'm keeping the women's divisions too. For now.”

“And the tax thing.”

Eddie nodded. “You're staying on as vice president—”

“Now see, we're right back where we were.”

“Jesus, all right. President, okay? And you don't have to do shit. Just collect your check and stay out of the press.”

“No bullshit shareholder meetings, any of that?”

“How about I tell security not to let you in? Case you happen to wander into the building during a
bullshit
meeting.”

Lou barked at that. “Ain't gonna happen, trust me. I'm getting my ass down to Mexico, see some real water. Not this blue chemical shit. Any of you guys ever smell the water in these fountains? No? I'll save you the trouble, just piss up your nose.”

There was a moment of awkward appreciation.

Eddie said, “I'll have the papers drawn up, get them to you Monday.”

“First thing?”

“Monday.”

Lou stuck his hand over the table. Eddie shook it.

“You got a big debut planned?” Lou said. “Hey, don't give me that face. I'm just curious, one promoter to another.”

Eddie eased down in his chair, took his first sip of whiskey. I watched the tension roll off him. “I have something working, nothing official yet. There's a Japanese fighter wants to jump into Warrior. I'm gonna let him dip his toe into Elite first, see if he squeals.”

“Oriental guy? Huh.” Lou killed his drink. “Man, I don't know if that's gonna draw for you.”

“And that's why I'm leaving here with your company.” Eddie winked and stood up.

I nodded at Lou and got the droopy lids from him.

We walked down the hallway, Burch on point checking the kitchen, doorway, parking lot.

Eddie put an elbow in my ribs. “Nice work. Looks like you're off the hook for the Zombi fight.”

Funny thing about hooks: when you drop back onto them, they go twice as deep.

Eddie stopped with one foot in the limo. “Sit up front with Burch. I need to make some calls back here. And one of you guys open this moonroof, huh? Air this bitch out.”

“If Zombi's going to Elite, who am I fighting? And when?”

“Easy, brah. Call Gil and tell him we're on the way. You wanna do Guy Savoy again?”

The restaurant where Eddie had signed me to the Burbank fight and dumped me into the mess with Kendall. “No offense to the chef, but that place left a bad taste in my mouth.”

“Good point. We'll figure it out.”

He got in and Burch shut the door, popped the driver's.

I didn't move.

Burch eyeballed me. “I ain't opening your door.”

“I got that.”

“Oh, your feelings are hurt. Don't wanna ride up front with the help? How about the boot?”

“Boot?”

“Fucking trunk.”

“Open it. We'll see who goes in.”

He stepped close. “Look, mate, you oughta know by now. We're condoms to Eddie. He uses us to keep him safe while he fucks about, then tosses us in the bin. It's on you to make yourself comfortable in here with the coffee grounds and banana peels.”

“You're comfortable?”

“Places I've been, this is a bubble bath. Get in.”

My suit didn't seem to mind the leather in the passenger seat, so it was high quality.

Burch started the limo. There was a click from somewhere in the panel behind us.

“What's the fucking holdup? Moonroof.” Eddie clicked off.

Burch pushed a button on a screen set into the dash between us. It had a digital sketch of the limo and showed the moonroof sliding open. There were two ghostly figures in the front seat, one in the back in the middle of the seat behind us. They all had blank faces and round heads, no gender details. The passenger ghost was blinking red.

“Seat belt,” Burch said.

I buckled up. My ghost turned green.

“Not so bad up here, is it? If you want to make rocket ship sounds, I won't tell.” He got the limo moving.

I called Gil and told him about the contract and Eddie buying Elite Combat. I left out Zombi and the Yakuza—no need for false hopes or fears—said we'd be there to pick him up for dinner in forty minutes, according to Burch.

“We're talking contract?” Gil said.

“Eddie has it with him now. Unsigned, far as I know.”

“I'll wear my negotiating boots.” He hung up.

I said to Burch, “You want me to tell Dorian to cancel the suits?”

“I'll take care of it.”

I ran a hand down my tie. “Maybe I should get them anyway. How much we talking?”

“You could trade that one in for a compact car.”

“Yeah, let's cancel the other six.”

We hit a red light and stopped next to another limo. Thin white hands holding neon-green shot glasses flapped out of the windows. The driver slid his down and saluted us. We nodded. His passengers let out a collective screech; shot glasses were emptied. The driver winced, made a gun with his finger and thumb and blew his brains out.

The panel behind us clicked. I expected Eddie to order a commandeering of the other limo, at least a closed moonroof, but he didn't say anything. It clicked off. The light turned green and we rolled away.

Burch said, “You did well at the restaurant.”

“I didn't do anything.”

“Guy your size, I thought you might work the room like a dick-swinging contest, frothing at the mouth and bird-dogging everyone. But you played it right. Professional.”

“How'd you end up in this kind of work?”

“You make it sound like a last resort. You're a fighter. Did you
end up
doing that? I'll wager you found out you were good at it, even liked it, and sought the path to make a living at it.”

“Okay, so you started out as what, a crossing guard? Then hall monitor, security guard, cop?”

“SAS. Familiar?”

“SEALs from England.”

“I know some lads who'd slot you for saying that, but it's close enough. I pulled the trigger a bit over in the sandbox, harassed the IRA boys, protected the Royal Family. Capitalize that when you say it, thank you.”

“From royalty to Eddie? Steep drop.”

Burch squinted. “Less incest.”

The panel clicked. We waited. Again, Eddie clicked off without saying anything.

I said, “I ran into a few guys from the IRA. Said they were, anyway. About eight years back. Met up so they could take a look at a piece of equipment a maintenance guy took off a surveillance plane out at Nellis. They thought it might let them know some of our spying capabilities.”

“Did it?”

“It was part of the coffee machine. Never saw those IRA guys again.”

“I likely shot them in the face at some point.”

I glanced down at the display panel and saw two red figures in the back of the limo, moving from seat to seat. Then none, then one, two. “Burch.”

We both frowned at the screen for a few seconds.

Burch said, “Fuck me.”

I braced and he swerved across a lane of traffic into a strip mall parking lot. As soon as the limo cleared the sidewalk he stomped the emergency brake and let the car slide into a double row of empty slots. He was out the door before we stopped.

I mirrored him on the passenger side, opened the back door and saw Eddie on the limo floor with a wiry Japanese guy sitting on his chest, choking him and trying to shove a short sword under his chin. Eddie had blood streaming from his nose.

Burch dove in and grabbed the guy's sword wrist, shoved it an inch away from Eddie's throat. I hauled
on the guy's shoulders, tried to pull him out of the limo. He was welded in place.

“Hit the fucker,” Burch said.

I knelt on the guy's right and clipped an elbow off the base of his skull.

He didn't even blink. He was staring at Eddie and muttering in Japanese; it sounded like a prayer or a curse.

I hit him again, put everything behind it.

He stopped talking long enough to spit out the piece of tongue he'd bitten off, then went back to it, bright blood running out of his mouth onto Eddie's chest.

Eddie stared at me, trying to talk. His eyes were glassing. I tried to pry the fingers off his throat. The guy could climb mountains without using his feet.

Burch said, “Hold the blade.”

I locked on the guy's arm and planted a foot against Eddie's seat to keep my hands from moving. Little bastard was probably one forty-five, a featherweight, and he was shoving me around. If this ended well I'd give him Gil's card.

Burch closed both doors in the back of the limo. The street noise cut off. Now it was just Eddie's legs drumming on the carpet, the muttered prayer, heavy breathing, and teeth grinding.

Burch snatched something out of a cabinet, flicked his wrist, and opened a black heavy-duty garbage
bag. He spread the mouth wide.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Hold him still.” He lifted his pant leg and pulled a six-inch fixed blade out of the sheath strapped to his shin.

I said, “Wait, take his hands. I'll choke him out.”

“No time.”

The guy didn't seem to notice any of this. He kept talking to himself, shoving the sword closer to Eddie's throat.

“You got him?” Burch said.

“For what? Put your gun on him.”

Burch pulled the black plastic bag over the guy's head and past his shoulders as far as it would go. The praying got louder.

“What's he saying?”

“Fuck if I know,” Burch said. “Get ready to roll them.”

“Wait.”

Burch slipped his knife hand under the plastic, felt around, then his teeth showed and his hand pumped.

The arms twitched three times.

“Roll them,” Burch said. His hand came out, blood on it and the blade. He slammed his shoulder against the guy.

I twisted the sword away from Eddie, letting the guy tip over until he was on his back, and held his wrists above him.

Burch got under his legs and lifted him, stuffed his whole torso in the garbage bag, and held him there while he bled out.