The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (18 page)

There were several things Myron enjoyed more than visiting Herman Ache. Having his eyeball removed with a grapefruit spoon, for example.

“I heard your press conference on the radio,” Win said. The top was down on Win’s racing-green Jaguar XJR. Myron was not big on having the top down. It was just a question of time before a bug got stuck in his teeth. “I trust that Christian was pleased with the deal.”

“Very.”

“The press still hasn’t picked up on Nancy Serat.”

“Jake hasn’t released her name yet. Once they do—”

“Party time.”

“Exactly.”

“Does Christian know?” Win asked.

“Not yet. He was so damn happy. I just wanted to let him enjoy it a little longer.”

“You should warn him.”

“I will. Jake promised to let me know the second it got out.”

“You seem to like this Jake fellow,” Win noted.

“He’s a good man. We can trust him.”

Win wiggled his fingers, regripped the wheel, accelerated. “I don’t trust officers of the law,” Win said. “It’s safer that way.”

The car was going very fast. The West Side Highway was not built for such speed—a four-lane highway with traffic lights every twenty yards. Plus the “ongoing”
construction didn’t help. The construction had been going on for as long as anyone could remember. History books stated that Peter Minuit, the Dutchman who purchased Manhattan from the Indians in 1626, often complained about the delays around Fifty-seventh Street.

But none of that deterred Win’s hefty accelerator foot. The Javits Center was a blur. So was the Hudson River, for that matter.

Myron said, “Could you slow down a tad?”

“No need to worry. The car has a driver-side air bag.”

“Wonderful.”

They were getting closer to Ache’s office. Myron’s stomach knotted—not helped by the smog blasting into his face because the top was down. His nerves were as taut as a freshly strung tennis racket. Win, on the other hand, looked relaxed. Then again, Frank Ache didn’t have a contract out on his head.

Win’s car phone rang. He picked it up. “Hello?” He handed the phone to Myron. “It’s P.T.”

Myron took the receiver. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Myron, how you feeling today?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Glad to hear it. Say, you’ll never guess what happened last night.”

“What?”

“Two of New York’s finest hit men were found dead in an alley. Sad, ain’t it?”

“Tragic,” Myron agreed.

“They worked for Frank Ache.”

“That a fact?”

“Forty-four Magnum with dum-dum bullets were used. Blew their heads clean off.”

“Such a loss.”

“Yeah, I’m losing sleep over it too. Anyway, word out
on the street is, this ain’t over. Corpses don’t exactly waylay the wants of a guy like Frank Ache. The contract is still out on whatever ugly slob pissed Frank off.”

Myron said, “Ugly?”

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Myron. Take care.”

“You too, P.T.”

Myron hung up.

“The contract is still in place?” Win asked.

“Yep.”

“They won’t hit you in Herman’s office,” Win said. “He would never allow it.”

Myron knew that was true. There was a certain code, even among men who have probably ordered the deaths of hundreds of people. Some idiots believed that these codes were based on some sort of ethics. Not even close. The codes were two things to mobsters: (1) a device to make them appear almost human, and (2) a way of protecting themselves and their position. Ethics are to a mobster what honesty is to a politician.

A construction site slowed them near Twelfth Street, but they still made it with time to spare. The air smelled of pizza—probably because they parked in front of a pizzeria called The First Original Ray’s Pizza of New York, Really, We’re Not Kidding, Honest, We’re It. A tall woman in a blue business suit and fancy sunglasses strolled purposefully down the sidewalk. Myron smiled at her, and she returned it. He would have preferred a faint or even a small swoon, but you can’t have everything.

At two in the afternoon Clancy’s Tavern was already in full swing. Myron stopped right outside the door, fixed his hair, turned left, smiled, turned right, smiled, looked up, smiled.

Win looked a question at him.

“The feds take pictures of everyone who comes in here,” Myron said. “I just wanted to look my best.”

“Now you tell me. I look like hell.”

Clancy’s patrons were all men. Not exactly a swinging pick-up joint. A jukebox played Bob Seger. The decor was Early American Beer. Lots of those neon signs, the ones that spell out company names. Budweiser, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Lite, Schlitz. A clock courtesy of Michelob. A mirror from Coors. Coasters from Pabst. The mugs had Rolling Rock logos emblazoned across them.

Myron knew that there were probably a million FBI bugging devices in here. Herman Ache didn’t care. Anybody who said something truly damaging in the tavern itself was beyond stupid and deserved to get nailed. The real talk went on in the back rooms. Ache made sure they were swept for bugs every day.

Win drew a few curious glances when they entered. Prep was not exactly the “in” style of Clancy’s clientele. But no one stared too long. This was a bar where no one stared at anyone too long.

“Is that your friend Aaron?” Win asked.

Aaron was at the back of the bar wearing his customary white suit. This time he wore a shirt, albeit one of those pectoral-displaying sleeveless muscle T’s. It was as if Aaron’s wardrobe had entered some molecular transformer with issues of
GQ
and
Pumping Iron
. Aaron waved them to come forward with a hand the size of a manhole cover.

“Hello, Myron,” Aaron said. “A genuine pleasure to see you again.”

Myron Bolitar, Mr. Popularity. “Aaron, I’d like you to meet Win Lockwood.”

Aaron angled the smile at Win. “Pleasure, Win.”
They shook hands with death stares, each sizing the other man up. Neither flinched.

“They’re waiting in the back,” Aaron said. “Come on.”

Aaron led them to a locked door with a one-way mirror. The door opened immediately. They entered. Two hoods stood stonefaced. In front of them was a long corridor. There was—and this was new—a metal detector, like at the airport.

Aaron shrugged, as if to say, A sign of the times. “Hand over your weapons, if you’d be so kind. Then step through.”

Myron took out his thirty-eight, Win a brand-new forty-four. Last night’s forty-four had no doubt been destroyed. They stepped through. The metal detector did not ding, but the two hoods still searched with one of those gizmos that looked suspiciously like a vibrator. Then they searched again, this time by hand.

“Very thorough,” Win said.

“Almost enjoyable,” Myron added. “I thought he was going to ask me to turn my head and cough.”

“Hey, funny man,” one of the hoods groused, “this way.”

The two hoods took over, escorting them down the corridor. Aaron stayed back and watched. Myron did not like that. The walls were white, the carpet office-orange. Lithographs of the French Riviera lined the walls. The front of Clancy’s Tavern looked like a dive; the back like a dentist’s office.

Two other men appeared at the other end of the corridor. They were both carrying guns.

Myron leaned toward Win’s ear. “Uh-oh.”

Win nodded.

The two men pointed their guns at Myron and Win. One barked, “Hey, you, Goldilocks. Get over here.”

Win looked at Myron. “Goldilocks?”

“I think he means you.”

“Oh. The blond hair. I get it now.”

“Yeah, Goldie, get your butt down here.”

“Later,” Win said. He moved down the corridor. The two hoods from the metal detector took out their guns. Four men, four guns. Lots of firepower. Not taking any chances after last night.

“Hands on your head. Let’s go.”

Win and Myron, separated by approximately ten feet, did as they were told. One of the hoods from the metal detector approached Myron. Without warning, he punched the butt of his gun against Myron’s kidney.

Myron dropped to his knees. Nausea swam through him. The man followed up with a kick to the ribs. Then another. Myron slid to the ground. The other man joined in. He stomped on Myron’s upper legs like they were small brushfires. One stomp landed on the already-sore kidney. Myron thought he was going to vomit.

In something of a haze Myron spotted Win. He had not moved, his face displaying something akin to noninterest. Win had sized up the situation and made a quick determination: There was nothing he could do to help. Worrying and fretting were worthless. Win was spending his time calmly studying the men. He didn’t like to forget a face.

The kicks came in a nonstop flurry. Myron curled into a fetal position and tried to ride it out. The kicks hurt like hell, but they were too rushed to do serious damage. One landed near his eye. He’d have a shiner for sure.

Then a voice shouted, “What the hell—Stop this moment!”

The kicks halted immediately.

“Get away from him!”

The men backed off. “Sorry, Mr. Ache.”

Myron rolled onto his back. With some effort he managed to sit up. Herman Ache stood by an open door. “Are you okay, Myron?”

Myron winced. “Never better, Herman.”

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Herman Ache said. Then glaring at his men. “But some people will be even sorrier.”

The men cowered away from the older man. Myron almost rolled his eyes. This was all an act. Herman Ache’s men did not beat up men in Herman’s corridor without permission. This had been a setup. Now Myron supposedly owed Herman, even before the negotiating started. Not to mention the fact that pain is a great fear-inducer, the perfect prenegotiation cocktail.

Aaron came down the hall. He helped Myron to his feet and sort of half-shrugged as if to say Cheap move, but what can you do?

“Come,” Herman beckoned. “Let’s talk in my office.”

Myron moved tentatively into the office. He had not been here in several years, but not much had changed. Golf was still the theme. LeRoy Neiman painting of some golf course on the main wall. Lots of those stupid cartoon/artworks of old-fashioned golfers. Aerial photographs of golf courses. In one corner of the office was a movie screen showing a shot of a fairway. In front of the screen was a golf tee. The player hits the ball against the screen. A computer then calculates where it would have landed and changes the image on the screen to match that. Then the player takes his second shot. Fun city.

“Nice office,” Win said.

Figures.

“Thank you, son.” Herman Ache smiled. Capped teeth. He was in his early sixties, tan, fit, wearing white pants and a yellow golf shirt with a Nicklaus golden bear
where an alligator normally went—as if he were on his way to a gin tournament in Miami Beach. Herman Ache had gray hair. Not his own. A toupee or one of those Hair Club systems, a good one, one most people would probably not spot. He had liver spots on his hands. His face was wrinkle free, probably from collagen shots or a face-lift. The neck gave him away. The flesh was baggy and Reaganesque. Looked like a big scrotum.

“Please, gentlemen, have a seat.”

They did so. The door was closed behind them. Aaron, two new hoods, and Herman Ache. Nausea’s grip on Myron’s stomach began to slacken.

Herman picked up a golf club and sat on the edge of his desk. “I understand,” he said, “that you and Frank are having a misunderstanding, Myron.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Herman nodded. “Frank?”

The door opened. Frank entered. You could tell that they were brothers, both having almost identical facial features, but that was where the similarities ended. Frank had at least twenty pounds on his older brother. He was pear-shaped with small Paul Schaefer shoulders and a rubber tire that would be the envy of the Michelin Man. Frank was completely bald, forgoing the hair weave. His teeth were black with spaces between them. His face was permanently set on angry scowl.

Both brothers had grown up on the streets. Both had started out as small-time hoods and worked their way up. Both had seen their own children gunned down over the years. Both had gunned down plenty of other people’s children. Herman liked to pretend that he dwelled on a loftier plane than his coarse younger brother—a plane of fine books, the arts, golf. But the escape was not that easy. Two sides of the same coin. Frank gratingly reminded Herman of his origins and perhaps true nature.
But Frank was comfortable and accepted in his world. Herman was not.

Frank was dressed in a powder blue sweat suit with neon yellow trim. The jacket was unzippered and—taking a fashion tip from Yves St. Aaron—he wore no shirt. His chest hairs were matted with either some type of oil or sweat. Quite a turn-on. The form-fitting pants were a few sizes too small, outlining a bulge in his crotch. Myron started feeling nauseous again.

Frank did not speak. He sat at his brother’s desk and waited.

“Now, Myron,” Herman continued, “I understand this is all about some black boy who plays basketball.”

“Chaz Landreaux,” Myron said. “And I’m not sure he’d be crazy about being called ‘boy.’ ”

“Pardon an old man who is not up on all the politically correct terms. I meant no disrespect.”

Win sat quietly, studying his surroundings.

“Let me tell you how I see it,” Herman continued. “And I’m trying to be objective here. Your Mr. Landreaux made a deal. He took the money. For four years he helped his family with that money. Then when it was time to pay up, he reneged.”

“That’s objective? Chaz Landreaux is just a kid—”

“Spare me the lecture,” Herman interrupted gently. “We’re not social workers here. You know that. We are businessmen. We made an investment in this young man. We risked several thousand dollars on him. The investment was finally about to pay dividends when you interfered.”

“I didn’t interfere. He came to me. He’s a scared kid. O’Connor got his hooks in him when he was eighteen. There are rules against approaching kids that young for a reason. Now the kid’s trying to get out before he slides in too deep.”

Herman looked skeptical. “Oh, come on now, Myron. Kids grow up fast nowadays. He knew exactly what he was doing. So it was against the rules—big deal. The kid knew the rules. He wanted the money anyway.”