Hook and Shoot (4 page)

He didn't kick and he wouldn't let go of the sword.

Eddie scrambled onto the bench and pulled air in, tugging his collar open. Blood and spit flapped off his lips. “Fucker came in through the moonroof.” He sounded like someone had scrubbed his windpipe with a wire brush.

I felt the tension go out of the guy—one second he's marble, the next a noodle—and pinched the sword blade between my palms, dropped it on the floor.

Burch said, “Grab the tape.”

Two rolls of duct tape were stacked next to the trash bags. I handed one to him. “You buy the whole serial killer kit?”

Burch wrapped the tape around the mouth of the bag and tightened it against the guy's waist. “Do this long enough, you know what's good to have around. Hand me another bag.”

Burch kept that one closed and threaded it between the guy's thighs, flattened it against his belly and lower back like a diaper, then wrapped more tape around it and the first bag to make a fluid-tight seal.

He dragged the guy toward the back of the limo and dumped his feet on the rear bench. The trash bag trailed away from his head and sloshed like a black
jellyfish. Burch used one of Eddie's wet wipes to clean the blood off his hand and blade, dried them on the guy's pants, and returned the knife to its sheath. He checked the windows on the driver's side away from the street. Some parked cars but no pedestrians.

“I'm out first, then Mr. Takanori. You follow, close the door immediately. It'll be tight in the front seat, but I don't think either of you wants to ride back here with stink pants. Ready?”

“I'll find a cab,” I said.

“Sorry?”

“I'm out of this, whatever it is. Eddie, sign my contract and fax it to the gym. We like it, we'll sign it, and I'll see you at the weigh-ins.”

Burch stared at me with a face that belonged behind a sniper scope. He glanced at Eddie and something went between them.

Burch said, “We need to talk.”

“We just did.”

“Hear me out or hand me another trash bag.”

I rolled my neck.

Eddie said, “Woody, please.”

His voice made everybody wince. Even the guy on the floor felt sorry for him.

I pulled my phone out. “You have until the cab shows up.”

Burch helped Eddie into the front seat, handed him a bottle of water, and closed the door on his wheezing. Burch wasn't even breathing hard. Between the two of us, you couldn't tell which one had just chopped up a man's throat.

We took a moment to enjoy the fresh parking lot air, then Burch got to the point. “I'd rather have your help than your corpse to deal with.”

“You're getting neither.”

“Look, I pegged you sharp enough to realize something's amiss, but maybe the dead bloke with a fucking ninja sword is too subtle for you. Mr. Takanori needs you around while we figure out what the hell's going on.”

“Did Eddie tell you what happened the last time he and I rode around?”

“No.”

“So you're not stupid, just ignorant.”

Something flashed across his eyes. He blinked and was back into calm waters. “Mr. Takanori filled me in on what you were up to before he pulled you out of the shit pile.”

“Yeah, so he could throw me to the wolves. I already sent him a thank-you card.”

“My point is, after all you got away with, it'd be a shame to end up in prison now.” Burch set his feet, ready.

I quit watching for the cab. Somebody pulled the plug on traffic noise. “Why would I go to prison?”

He nodded at the limo. “Accessory to murder. Saw it myself.”

“You don't want to go down that road with me.”

“Haven't put a foot on it yet. Just standing on the corner, looking down at the thorns and skeletons. Needs irrigation, looks like the path to fucking Mordor. But you should know this: push me to it, I'll bring a parade of shit to your door.”

“By blackmailing me as an accomplice to a murder you committed? That's insane.”

“Good, so we're on the same page. Now at first I thought Mr. Takanori wanted you around just to look the brute, what with the scars and all. But talking about your dodgy past, I get it. You want me to step away while you make the call?”

“What call?”

“Come on.”

“Oh, sorry. You can stay right there. This won't take long.” I raised my phone. “Ring, ring. Hey, Burch? Fuck you.”

“Good one. I've seen two police cars drive past. Now call somebody who can help us before they pull over to see how much blow jobs are and find a dead body wrapped in a garbage bag.”

Between Burch and Eddie with his unsigned
contract, I was walled in with the lid pressing down. The only daylight came from the crack Burch was holding open for me.

Daylight, or the glare from an interrogation room.

Too soon to tell.

I remembered the phone numbers. The men who answered—if they were still breathing—would remember me. “You want the body burned or pieced out and sold?”

“Nice try. Don't worry about the body; it's going to a safe place. I'm naming him Collateral. Nice Asian name, yeah? You call around to your friends in the security game, see if anybody knows who Collateral is and who sent him.”

“Aren't you all in the same union? You call them.”

“I'm new in town. Nobody knows me.”

“Who the hell are you? What makes you Eddie's last hope?”

“Nah, you're here now. I've been demoted to second-to-last hope. Make the calls.”

It took three calls, Burch driving around with a closed moonroof and the lights in the backseat off. Four if you count the one to Gil to tell him we weren't picking him up.

“Why not?”

“I'll explain later.”

“Oh, fuck me.”

“What's that mean?”

“Are you still with Eddie?”

“Yes.”

“Don't say or do anything else. Just get dropped off and let me deal with him tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“I'm going to sleep. Please,
please
don't let me wake up to bad news.”

“Sweet dreams.”

“I mean it. Don't trust him.” Gil hung up.

Burch said, “You'll explain this later, huh?”

“I'll come up with something.” I looked out the window and caught a weak reflection. We were both disgusted and looked away.

Eddie was glazed, staring through the windshield and rubbing his throat.

“Need me to dial?” Burch said.

I poked the first number in and wondered what would happen to Burch's head if I punched and kicked it at the same time. The phone rang while I considered the shape of his skull, where it might come apart. The first two calls were a few minutes each of catching up, apologizing, convincing that I was actually very sorry for whatever it was I did.

Really, I mean it.

The third went to Walt Burrell, head of Vegas operations for Gauntlet Security. Gauntlet specialized in close-quarters VIP protection—moving sheiks and princes and celebrities around without any grubby civilian fingers getting near them. Walt was close to fifty, a retired Marine with lines on his face from years in the weather and thinking just about everything he said was hilarious.

I apologized to Walt, then went through the dialogue that drew a blank from the first two calls. “You know I'm fighting for Warrior now?”

“Yeah,” Walt said, “congrats on that. You got the face for it, might as well.”

Eddie watched me. He knew the next line.

“Heard some talk they might be under new management soon.”

Walt spent a few seconds breathing into the phone. “I heard that too. Pisser, huh? All our jobs are going overseas.”

“My phone's about to die. You at the office?”

“You're coming by?”

“I can be there in twenty minutes.”

Burch held a finger up.

“Make that one hour,” I said.

Burch nodded.

Walt's breathing stayed slow and level through the phone. “You and who else?”

“I'm with a couple buddies. They won't break anything.”

“Where've I heard that before?”

“I said I was sorry.”

“See you in an hour.”

I put my phone away.

Eddie sipped his water. “Who's this guy?”

“I worked security for him. Off the books, protecting assholes his company wanted to bill but didn't want to be seen with.”

“Which company?”

“Gauntlet.”

Eddie kicked the dashboard. “Fuck that.” It sounded like skin was flapping inside his throat. “I called them after the whole thing with Kendall. Did everything but beg them for security. They said they couldn't help me.”

“Not even off the books?”

“No. Same shit as all the other companies.”

“Man. All the scumbags I had to protect—one of 'em turned out to be wanted for genocide—and Walt won't come near you.”

“Hey, fuck you and fuck Gauntlet.”

“All right. I'll call back, tell him to forget it.”

“No,” Burch said. “Mr. Takanori, if it helps me keep you alive, we need to talk to this man.”

Eddie pouted into his water. He closed his eyes and worked on breathing through his bloody nose.

I leaned forward and looked at Burch. “What are we doing for an hour?”

“You like riding around with your felony? We're stashing him.”

“I know a place just over the side of the Hoover Dam. It's perfect.”

“Sorry. We're keeping your boy nice and handy.” He smiled and winked.

I imagined squeezing his face through the steering wheel and doing donuts in the street, so I smiled back.
We were miles off the Strip, rolling through an industrial complex tucked away from the tourists and cameras in the northwest corner of the city. Lots of food prep and suppliers, some fabrication shops. I saw blinking neon and perked up at the sign of civilization, but it was only a blinking neon sign manufacturer.

Burch wasn't searching for a spot; he knew where he was going. He pulled into a short asphalt drive that ended at a chain-link gate ten feet high. There was a hooded steel keypad next to his door. He snapped a latex glove on while his window slid down, then punched in a number, the keys clacking like an old pay phone.

The gate shook and rolled to the side. Burch drove through and idled between the long, low storage buildings with narrow garage doors set a few feet apart. Buzzing overhead lamps and boxed fixtures along the walls knocked all the shadows out of the place and gave everything a cold, alien facade.

Burch went to the end, about a hundred yards from the gate, and cut left across two more aisles before taking another left. He eased toward the doors on the right and watched the numbers, stopped the limo halfway down the row.

“Here we are.” He put the other glove on and got
out, walked around the back of the limo.

I said to Eddie, “Have anything to say?”

He scowled. “Hurry up.” His voice was crusty. He sipped his water.

I slapped it out of his hand.

He scrambled to save it from glugging empty. “Come on. Asshole.”

I got out of the limo and closed the door. The night air still made sweat pop on my forehead.

Burch said, “What's he saying in there?”

“He said I'm in charge now.”

“Keep your sense of humor. It's important in situations like this.”

He pulled his coat aside, the butt of his pistol hanging there, reached toward a stainless steel disc on his belt, and came away with a single key attached by a cable. The key fit into a heavy padlock on the storage unit's overhead door. He opened the lock and let go of the key. It zipped back to the disc on his belt, gone. The lock sounded like an anchor when he set it on the asphalt.

Burch rolled the door up and hit a light switch for the single bulb in the middle of the ceiling. The storage space was bare plywood walls and exposed rafters, maybe twelve feet wide and twenty deep. There were three things inside. Near the light switch and close enough to smell were a stained box spring and mattress set.

“Eddie makes you sleep here?”

Burch gave me a face I was getting used to. He walked to the back of the space toward the last item.

I wanted to throw another dig at him, make him stop and turn around—anything to stall—but I couldn't breathe. My throat was clamped shut, and my ribs wouldn't expand. I couldn't pull my gaze off the floor to look at what was back there.

I've won fights during the stare down. Bored into the guy's soul, measured him up, found him lacking. He knew it, then fought like it.

I wanted to stare at what was at the back of that storage unit, beat it into a corner of my mind, and stomp it out.

My eyes stayed on the floor.

“Are you fainting?” Burch's shoes were at the edge of the frame in front of the thing taunting me. The shoes turned. “Catching up to you, eh? Deep breaths, get that blood smell out your nose.”

I straightened up, stared at the rafters, the walls, the bare bulb that left a spotlight when I blinked and forced air into my lungs. Then I looked at the back wall.

A white box freezer as big as a sofa squatted there.

I don't mind freezers. They sometimes hold ice cream and I appreciate that. But it reminded me of Tezo's bathtub, that stained trough in an obscene room used for drowning beasts who failed in his
death pit. Looking at that freezer, I heard the faucets open above me, saw the black spots creeping in, felt the cold walls clamping my arms while the filthy water sloshed into my mouth and nose.

I didn't want to be anywhere near it.

Burch shook his head, used the belt key to open another padlock. He lifted the lid and tipped it against the back wall. Frozen vapor folded over the lip and came toward me, then disappeared in the heat before I had to kick it away.

Burch tugged the box spring out and leaned it against the unit's door frame, set one end against the limo's rear fender just behind the back door. He pointed. “Mattress.”