The Removers (10 page)

“Why, baby?” he asked again.

“Because he was the only man I could find who had the guts! Who wasn’t scared of you!”

“We’ll see about his guts,” Fredericks said. “Now you go home and clean yourself up—”

She said, “You’re not going to touch him! You’re not going to lay a finger on him!”

He said, “Fenn, take her home!”

There was a slight hesitation. I didn’t look in Martell’s direction.

He said, “Mr. Fredericks, I don’t think I ought to leave right now.”

“What the hell do you. Oh, this one? Hell, I can handle this beanpole Casanova. You saw—”

“Yeah, I saw,” Martell said, and I knew he was squirming inside like a hooked angleworm. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay and supervise my fate. But it was his turn to remain in character. He tried once more, however. “My advice—”

Fredericks flushed. “Who the hell’s asking your advice, punk? Take her home. And, Fenn.”

Martell’s voice was very soft. “Yes, Mr. Fredericks?”

“Don’t go inside the door. I heard all about you long before you got here.”

“Yes, Mr. Fredericks.”

He came across the room stiffly. Moira seemed to come out of her hate dream with a start. The mark of her father’s hand was still red on her cheek, but her eyes were suddenly dark and remorseful as she glanced in my direction.

She’d used me to hurt the man behind the desk, without thinking of me. Now she was realizing what she’d done to me—or thought she’d done: the outcome hadn’t really been changed much by her angry words. Fredericks hadn’t brought me here to welcome me into the family.

I said, “Run along, kid.”

“I won’t leave—”

“Go on,” I said, wishing she’d hurry up and get Martell out of there. As long as he was around, I was in serious trouble.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I didn’t mean. I just kind of flipped, I guess.”

“Sure. Now go.”

She started to speak again, and checked herself. Martell was waiting. She went up to him, and they left the room together. Before the door closed, I saw a man standing guard outside, the man who’d brought us down the hall.

It still wasn’t good, but with Martell gone it didn’t worry me too much. I’d met Fredericks; I knew where I stood with Martell; I’d learned all I could expect to learn here. It was time to stage a disengagement, as we used to say in the Army.

Fredericks was staring at me hard over the desk. He said, “So you’ve got guts, have you? We’ll see about your guts!”

I watched him get up and walk around the table and come to me, and I couldn’t help being aware of my aching ribs and throbbing jaw. These hoodlums walk so big and talk so loud.

He said, “That isn’t the only thing we’ll see about. We’ll fix you so you’ll be no more trouble to young girls.”

It wasn’t unexpected, it was the way his mind would work, but it didn’t help establish him in my mind as a citizen to be protected and preserved. He came to me and slapped me across the face—slapped me, for God’s sake! It was pitiful. It was irritating. You get tired of being the cold, impersonal, machine-like hunter of men sometimes; you think of the fun it would be to do one strictly for kicks...

My hand was in my pocket, and the little knife was in my hand. He slapped me again, and I’d had enough of Salvatore Frederici, and I grinned at him pleasantly, the little man who was dead and didn’t know it. All I had to do was bring it out, flick it open, and insert it in the right place. By any standards of judgment, he’d lived quite long enough. My mind gave the signal. My hand didn’t move. I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t do it. I heard Mac’s voice:
It’s a war of sorts and you can consider yourselves soldiers of a sort...
I couldn’t do it just because I was fed up with the guy. I couldn’t do it because he’d slapped Moira. I couldn’t even do it because, in some way that I didn’t know about yet, he was undoubtedly the man responsible for turning the ranch where my children lived into an armed camp with an atmosphere of terror.

Don’t misunderstand me. He was on the list, and if I ever got a chance at him in the line of duty, I wouldn’t hesitate. In fact, from now on I’d be looking for the chance. But I didn’t need to kill him to get away—at least I didn’t think so—and I couldn’t kill him just because he’d made me lose my temper. It wasn’t a sufficient reason. It wasn’t what I’d been trained for. It wasn’t what I was here for, to avenge injuries to my tender pride.

Something moved in his eyes, a kind of sudden, vague uneasiness, and he stepped quickly to the desk and hit a buzzer. An instant later the man in the hall was standing behind me. There was a little more after that, of course. Big Sal had been afraid for a moment there; and like his boy Ricky he had to regain status by kicking the dog. I had a tender abdomen and a bloody nose to add to my souvenirs when they marched me out and turned me over to the two punks, with instructions. Ricky thought those instructions were real great.

“Keep him covered,” he said to Tony. “Keep the bastard covered till we get him out of town where I can work on him right.”

Tony said, “Do you just give orders around here, or can you push elevator buttons, too?”

They took me downstairs again, and out across the parking lot to the car. It was broad daylight now, and had been for several hours, and I had that feeling of having lost track of the days that comes when you’ve gone without sleep for a while. It was hot, with the dry Nevada heat bouncing off the asphalt pavement. There were some people on the street but none in the parking area. The people who made this a busy place at night were sleeping late this morning. I didn’t want any interference, so I waited until Tony had escorted me around the car before I took him.

I’d been a good boy long enough. He was nice and relaxed now, in exactly the right position. I got him by the arm and made the throw in fine style, bringing his arm down sharply across my knee at the finish. He screamed once as various anatomical items tore and snapped; then he hit the pavement with his head and was quiet. It was a little drastic and I felt a little sorry. Unlike some of them, Tony hadn’t seemed to be working full time on being as big a louse as possible.

The gun had hit the pavement without going off, which was a relief. It had bounced under the car, which was all right. I didn’t want it, anyway. I had other, less noisy, plans for Switchblade Ricky.

He’d been about to open the car door for us. He turned at the single, cut-off scream, and there was a comical, shocked look on his face as he realized that his partner was out of action and he was on his own. The knife came out fast, I’ll hand him that. He pushed the button, and the long, thin blade clicked into place.

“All right for you, Buster,” he said in his best, menacing tone. “You want it here, you can have it here, the full treatment!” He started forward.

I took my hand out of my pocket and gave the little snap of the wrist that flicks that kind of knife open if you keep it properly cleaned and oiled and know the technique. Opening it two-handed is safer and more reliable, but it doesn’t impress people nearly so much. Tony’s eyes widened slightly, and he stopped coming. This wasn’t supposed to happen. When you pulled knives on suckers and squares, they turned pale green and backed off fearfully; they didn’t come up with blades of their own.

He hesitated, saw that my cutting implement was only about half the length of his, regained confidence, and came in fast. I was tempted to play with him a bit, but it was hot, I was tired and sleepy, and when you start playing cat-and-mouse with human beings you deserve trouble and sometimes get it. I sidestepped his clumsy thrust, moved inside the knife, clamped a good hold on his arm, and made one neat surgical cut. The knife dropped from his fingers. That made two of them who’d be operating left-handed for a while, if not forever.

He backed off, holding his wrist, staring at the blood pumping from between his fingers.

I said, “You’d better get a tourniquet on that before you bleed to death.”

I stepped over and put my foot on the blade of his knife and pulled up on the handle until the steel snapped. It didn’t seem to be very good steel. I kicked the pieces towards him.

“The cheaper the punk,” I said, “the longer the blade.”

I backed away until I was fairly sure he couldn’t hit me left-handed even if he had a gun and came out of his trance long enough to use it. I turned and walked away across the parking lot, taking out my handkerchief to wipe my little knife clean before putting it away. Then I looked up, as a small open car that I recognized came off the street in a hard flat turn that would have had an ordinary sedan wallowing and screeching. I stopped where I was and waited for her to reach me. She flung the right-hand door open.

“Get in! Quick!”

“What’s the rush?” I asked in a puzzled voice. I mean, she was a pretty girl I’d spent the night with, and I’m not superhuman.

She stared at me for a moment, and looked at the knife and at the stains on the cloth with which I was wiping it in a leisurely manner. Then she looked across the area to where one man lay unconscious on the ground and another stood leaning against a car, clutching his wrist and watching the blood run out.

She said, “Damn you, stop grandstanding and get in before somebody else comes out here!” I got in. She swung the little Mercedes around sharply, and sent it away. “Are you. all right?” she asked, looking straight ahead.

“Yes.”

“What were they going to do to you?”

“An operation was mentioned, I believe, among other things.”

She swallowed hard. “How lousy can you get?” Then she said harshly, “Well, if there’s a way of getting lousier, he’ll find it!”

Then she gave me a sudden, startled, questioning look, and I realized what she was thinking: she’d left me alone with her father—a prisoner—and she’d found me down here, walking free.

I said, “It’s all right, Moira. Your dad’s all right.”

“Did I ask? Do I give a damn?”

I said, “Lousy as he is, he’s still your louse, you said once.”

She started to speak angrily; then she sighed. “Sure. Blood is thicker than water and all that crap. The hell of it is, it’s true. I could never feel the same.” She glanced at me, flushed, and stopped. After a moment, she said, changing the subject completely: “You haven’t asked me about my trip.”

“Tell me about your trip.”

“That’s a real creep, from Creepville.”

“I know,” I said. “He reminds you of me.”

She made a face at me. “Fenn,” she said, tasting the word. It didn’t taste good. “He didn’t say a word out of line. He didn’t touch me. But
think?
My God, he had me raped once a block and twice at each traffic light. He’s got it on his mind so bad he aches all over. I’d hate to be working in the house that gets his business.”

It was a matter of record, of course, but I was glad to have it confirmed from the feminine viewpoint.

“I was damn glad when the car that had been tailing us pulled up to pick him up,” she said. “I was afraid he’d come into the house with me in spite of Dad’s orders. I waited until they were out of sight, and jumped back in the Merc and drove like hell. I hope Sheik’s all right, alone there. Baby, do you think it’s safe to go home?”

I considered the question briefly. Martell might want to come right after me again, but I doubted that Fredericks would let him. “I’d say so. I gave myself away pretty badly when I took those punks. Your dad will spot it as professional work.”

She glanced at me. “Professional. I don’t suppose I’d better ask what profession.”

“You’d better not,” I said. “I might tell you.”

“I still think you’re a government man. Even if—”

“Even if what?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to know. How does your giving yourself away make it safe for us to go home?”

“Your dad acted hastily and lost a couple of his boys, at least temporarily. He won’t want to make the same mistake again. He’ll guess I’m not just an amorous tourist, and he’ll want to do some serious investigating before he takes further action.”

“You hope,” she said, “because here we are.”

We pulled into the driveway by the little blue house and went inside, picking up the newspaper that lay on the front step. I had again that funny feeling of guilt. I was bringing my girl home in broad daylight after a long and dissipated night.

The dog had a nice padded wicker bed by the little fireplace at the end of the living room. He acknowledged our presence, after the door had closed behind us, by opening one eye to look at us warily and closing it again with relief: we weren’t the kicking variety of humans.

“Some watchdog,” I said. “I read somewhere that they were even used to hunt leopards back where they came from, but I guess the modern breed is pretty much for show and rabbits. It’s funny how they can breed the guts out of just about any animal, if they keep at it long enough.”

I was teasing her, and she reacted right away: “You’re not being fair! Just because he wouldn’t. I asked too much of him. He just didn’t understand!”

“Maybe not,” I said, “but I’d sure hate to stack him up against a real tough bobcat, and they only weigh about thirty pounds. All right, all right,” I said, grinning, as she threatened to become violent. “He’s a big brave dog and he just didn’t want to hurt those poor little fellows. Ouch!”

She’d kicked me. I grabbed her, and we wrestled a bit, not altogether playfully. She was really mad. Then, her temper vanished in an instant, and she was laughing, and then she gasped, and I looked where she was looking at our images in the big mirror by the door: two beat-up characters too long without sleep, too long in their clothes. She freed herself and faced the mirror squarely.

“Oh, my God!” she said. “No wonder Dad said.”

She checked herself, grimaced, reached down for the belt and back for the zipper, and let the dress fall about her feet. She stepped out of it and kicked it through the open bedroom door and one shoe with it. She kicked the second shoe after the first, and reached up to extract the few remaining pins from her hair, shaking it loose. It was longer than I’d thought, soft and bright to her bare shoulders.