Dirty Deeds (6 page)

“Don’t bother. I’ll take it as-is. I like the feel of it. I’ll need another black with pinstripes, two black without, and three dark suits your choice. I’ll have my secretary contact you in the morning,” I said, knowing Marisa would be pissed if she knew I called her my secretary. Even though she did everything one would do, she preferred personal assistant. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

“Excellent.” Jacques handed me his card. I knew better than to hand him a credit card. Deals like this were done by the secretaries. . . I mean personal assistants. We couldn’t be bothered with the arduous task of swiping credit cards.

I would never understand what having money meant to most people, and I’d stumbled into it at an early age. Some would say I didn’t appreciate it, and maybe they were right. On a slow night about a year ago, while watching a repeat on the Investigation Discovery Channel, I did the mental math about how much I’d need to spend a day in order to spend every dime I had to that point. I don’t remember the exact number but I know it was ridiculous. Skimming the interest from all these accounts wasn’t fast enough. I’d since grown bored with buying homes and cars. Some days I wish I had a bad cocaine problem or drank too much, because I was restless.

I decided (I swore to myself for the hundredth time) I’d make an effort to date someone. Anyone. A first date wasn’t going to kill me, and I needed to hang around with someone who wasn’t rich or was tied up somehow in what I did, either legal or illegal.

Jacques was staring at me again. He’d been asking me questions and I was off daydreaming.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

I shook my head, plastered a smile on my face, tried not to worry about my cheeks flushed with embarrassment and headed for the door.

In the elevator I checked out the suit in the mirrored doors and smiled. I looked good. I also looked tired. I had bags under my eyes and my skin looked grayish. I looked fat and looked much older than I was.

“Stop acting like a diva,” I whispered. If a dude was with me right now he’d pull my Man Card. I wouldn’t be able to argue, either.

The doors to the elevator opened and I jumped back, ready to strike.

It was my driver and he was smiling.

“You alright?” he asked, trying not to laugh.

“What are you doing? You almost got punched in the face and knocked out,” I said.

He didn’t look like he believed me. Right now I didn’t believe me. I’d lost a step or three. Ten-fifteen years ago I would’ve broken his neck without hesitation and then tried to figure out where to dump the body. I was hoping I hadn’t pissed my pants.

I needed a vacation.

“We have a slight bump in the road,” the driver said.

He led me to the car and pushed the key fob, opening the trunk.

There was a man’s body inside with a bashed-in skull. I didn’t recognize the poor bastard.

“Friend of yours?” the driver asked.

I shook my head. I wasn’t much of a fighter unless I was cornered, although I could hold my own. It wasn’t as if I was bad at it, just I didn’t like doing it. Physical confrontation was not my thing unless it was last resort.

“He tried to sneak up and put a bullet in my head, but I’d been watching since you got in the elevator. There was another guy in a black sedan but he took off when I beat his partner with his own pistol.”

“How big was the pistol?” I asked. The damage was extensive. My driver was a big man but it would take half an hour to break a skull this bad. I hoped it wasn’t what he’d been doing while I was getting fitted for a suit.

“I dragged him to the trunk and used the tire iron.”

“That makes sense,” I said. I looked at the driver for signs I was next or he’d ask some questions. Instead, he closed the trunk and opened my door.

“Your suit looks nice. Are you still up for a bar?” he asked.

I waited until he got into the driver’s seat to answer. “No. I think I’ve had enough excitement for the night. Just drop me off at the hotel.”

He nodded and started the car.

“Should I ask what happens next?” This wasn’t the first time I’d been in a car with a body in the trunk, but it still freaks me out.

“Your personal assistant took care of the details. I’ll drop you off and wait on the next block for an hour in case we were followed. A man named Robert will meet you in the lobby in the morning and make sure you get out of New York City in one piece.”

“I need to check out the three locations first,” I said.

The driver shrugged. “I’ll let Robert know. He can drive you.”

I realized I didn’t know the driver’s name, and I thought it was a good thing.

Unlike sitcoms and hour-long dramatic television, life rarely lets you solve one mystery before the next one comes along, right as the previous one is tied up with a pretty bow and put away.

I was still dealing with the Little Chenzo stuff when Marisa called, and it had taken another turn for the worst last night after meeting Jacques. Not to mention the dead guy in the trunk. I decided not to ask Marisa about any of it, because I really didn’t want to know too much. I was starting to realize how good she was.

“Boss, we got another job. This one is a bad one, too. Older subject in Las Vegas,” she said.

I hated trying to subdue an older kid. Babies were easy. You snuck in, tried to keep them from crying, and stepped out. With older kids you sometimes had a fight if you didn’t do it quickly, and there were also the problems that came with a subject who knew who his family, friends, life, etc. had been and didn’t understand what was happening.

Those kids had to be more or less brainwashed into believing they were someone else. I had a doctor somewhere in Dallas who specialized in this part of the journey, but I didn’t know a thing about him. It might even be a
her
for all I knew. The system was in place a long time before I got here, and it would evolve as we progressed. Marisa had made vast improvements in the network over the years, too.

“She’s just turned fifteen. High school student. She’s a cheerleader. Stays after school for practice and walks home. Three blocks. Easy,” Marisa said.

Marisa liked to downplay how hard this was, as if I’ve ever complained or said I couldn’t do a job. I’d take the money and do this because I could only imagine what the alternative would be. I guess a legitimately dead kid somewhere.

“What timeframe are we talking?” I asked. I could feel a headache coming on.

The ride from Manhattan to Pawtucket had been wonderful. I’d figured out how to use the satellite radio and found a decent hard rock station, singing along to Led Zeppelin and Motley Crue. Sue me. I’m old.

“Within the week. Obviously Monday through Friday so she’ll be in school and you can get her. Tell me what you need,” Marisa said. She liked to play this game whenever we got a new job. And it wasn’t just me. It was a
we
when it came to making these successful.

I’d been in Marisa’s shoes for a few years until my boss had retired and handed me the reins to this business. It had been in the eighties and I had to scramble to do everything the old fashioned way: putting dimes in a payphone booth. For the younger generation feel free to Google it and see how they used to work.

I was formulating a plan in my head. “I’ll need a beat-up white van. A work van. A good disguise and something to render her unconscious in seconds before she screams,” I said. I wanted to create the perfect illusion of a pedophile grabbing a pretty teen girl off the street and getting her into his van. I’d need an escape route and a safe place to switch her into another car and away before the cops showed up.

“I’ll need to talk to the father or whoever is paying me.”

“No way. We’ve been over this before. Look what happened in Philly. Don’t you get it? There is absolutely no good reason to meet anyone, and they don’t want to meet you. They just want to wire the money to an account and act surprised when their little princess is abducted,” Marisa said.

She was right, but it still felt odd to not see this horrible person eye to eye.

An older teen was also a gray area for me, as there was obviously no way to simply hand the kid over to a new set of parents to raise as their own with no questions asked. I’d need to put this girl away for awhile until I could figure out what to do with her, and killing wasn’t an option.

The easy part was the kidnapping. Getting her unconscious into the van and speeding away was exciting, and the adrenaline rush was going to keep me wired and going until I got to the safe house.

When she woke up, though, would be where the hard part began. I couldn’t just keep her on ice indefinitely. I could waste my time trying to convince her she was safe now, but there was no chance in hell she’d believe her kidnapper. If I told her what had really happened she’d think I was lying. I’d think I was lying if I were in her shoes. Her shoes probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and I owned two dozen pair of jean shorts and more black t-shirts than was sane.

I tried to remember the last time I’d had to do this with an older subject.

“Boss. You still there?” Marisa asked over the phone.

“Huh? Yeah. Just daydreaming again. I’m trying to recall the last teenager job.”

“It was July of 2005. Harry something or other. Remember? He was fifteen. You did the job in Portland,” Marisa said.

“Portland? Yeah, I remember. It was cold in Maine, right?”

“Who knows? You grabbed Harry in Portland
Oregon
. You really should see a doctor about your memory loss. I worry about you,” Marisa said.

“I’m playing with you,” I lied. “Didn’t he end up in foster care? He got sent to the weird doctor in Dallas to brainwash him or something.” I’d never met the doc in Texas but he seemed really creepy over the phone. He also charged a huge amount of cash but he got results. “I think I’m going to need to get to Dallas with the girl, too.”

“I’ll start working on a car and places to stay. That’s a long trip from Vegas with an unwilling passenger. You might need to keep her sedated,” Marisa said. “I figure nineteen hours if you don’t have to stop much.”

There was always a chance something could go really cross-eyes if you kept someone out for too long, and I didn’t want the worry. I had no real idea how else I’d survive such a long car ride, though. Maybe a stop at a sleazy hotel would work to break up the drive. A dude carrying an unconscious teen into a hotel room wouldn’t warrant a second glance at some places. Marisa needed to find one halfway to Dallas.

“How are we looking for my Montreal trip?” I asked.

“You’re booked and all set. I e-mailed you everything you need and downloaded the ticket to the other phone,” Marisa said.

“Which phone?”

“The two blue stripes, old man,” Marisa said. We went through so many numbers and phones I sometimes needed help figuring out which one I was using. When carrying a cell phone became the norm and I no longer needed my beeper, I’d often taken the wrong burner with me or the active phone in my suitcase would ring while the one in my pocket wasn’t even working.

Marisa solved it by adding markings on each phone and synchronizing us so we knew which phone was in operation. Really, it was for me.

“I’ll spend two days in Montreal unless there’s trouble. Then I’ll head to Las Vegas and take care of this job. I need to stay focused and not lose any ground with the Little Chenzo thing,” I said.

“Will Black. Don’t call him Little Chenzo. His father gave up the right when he had him killed, remember?” Marisa took this serious. Sometimes more serious than I did. I guess her wounds of abandonment were still fresher than mine, and I’d long ago made peace with it.

I also knew who the bastards were who tried to have me killed. One of the perks of taking over for your predecessor. I supposed the first thing Marisa would do when or if I turned this all over to her was to find out who her real parents were.

That’s exactly what I did, and I regretted doing it every day since. But I could talk to her for hours about not doing it (like had happened to me) and I knew she’d look. And forever hate the fact she did.

“What are Will’s parent’s names again?” I asked.

“Frank and Delores Black.”

“Frank Black? Like the guy from The Pixies?”

“Who?”

I groaned. “Forget it.” Damn kids don’t appreciate good music anymore. They want pretty people singing inane lyrics to a simple dance beat while gyrating across a stage.

Damn kids, get off my lawn.

Yeah, I’m an old man.

“I’ll send over as much intel as I can collect tonight. At the hotel you’ll be receiving a package and in the box is a laptop with everything downloaded. I’ll walk you through it so you can turn it on,” Marisa said.

“Not funny.”

“I thought it was,” Marisa said. “You have your passport already.”

“Yes, ma’am. Larry Jones. I like it. Can I ask people to call me Chipper?”

“Don’t get cute. This is one of the reasons Keane is sniffing around so closely now. You need to stop being so cocky and get the job done,” Marisa said.

I felt reprimanded but I deserved it. I had been too cocky lately.

“On the laptop you’ll also find a few outstanding sports card orders and bills I need you to look over. If you want me to pay them just let me know. You also have a query about a few Atlanta Braves cards,” Marisa said.

“You already know the answer is no to selling my personal collection.”

“They’re looking for bulk commons from the 1990’s. Offering a penny apiece, which is way more than they’re worth.”

“They’re worth more to me. Tell the client thanks but no thanks. I’m not selling anything Braves. We’ve had this discussion too many times,” I said.

“Fine. I don’t get it but you’re the boss.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Your driver is waiting downstairs, by the way,” Marisa said.

“I don’t need him. Pay them for the time but tell them to go away.”

“Obviously I heard about last night. It’s a new driver and they’ll be taking more precautions,” Marisa said.

“Someone supposedly wanted to kill me. Why do you think that is? How did they know I was here? I have too many unanswered questions to put my life into anyone’s hands right now. I’m not climbing into the backseat of a car with tinted windows and getting shot,” I said.