Drop Shot (1996) (18 page)

"Did they find anything?"

"No. They believe that Swade is dead. So do the police. He was a punk, Myron. He wasn't on a path that led to a long life even before this incident."

Myron followed up with a few more questions, but there was nothing more to learn. A few minutes later the two men stood.

"Would you mind if I spoke to Gregory Caufield before I leave?" Myron asked.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't."

"If there's nothing to hide "

"I don't want him knowing I told you this. Attorney-client privilege, remember? He won't speak honestly to you anyway."

"He will if you tell him to."

Cross shook his head. "Gregory's father controls him. He won't talk."

Myron shrugged. The senator was probably right. The only leverage he could apply on Gregory would be what Cross just told him. Cross had neatly arranged it so Myron couldn't do that. He'd have to think of a way to end-run that. Caufield was an eyewitness. He'd be worth a few questions.

The two men shook hands, both making serious eye contact. Was Senator Cross a sweet old codger, a grieving father trying to protect his son's memory? Or had he calculated that this would be the most effective strategy for dealing with Myron? Was he cagey or sympathetic or both?

Cross gave him the endearing off-center smile again. "I hope I've satisfied your curiosity," he said.

He hadn't. Not even close. But Myron didn't bother telling him that.

Chapter
20

Myron left the building and strolled down Madison Avenue. Traffic was at a standstill. Big surprise in Manhattan. Five lanes were merging into one on Fifty-fourth Street. The other four lanes were blocked by one of those purely New York construction sites with steam pouring up out of the streets. Very Dante. What was with all that steam anyway?

He was about to cut across Fifty-third Street when he felt a sharp stab in his ribs.

"Give me an excuse, asshole."

Myron recognized the voice before seeing the taped nose and the black eyes. Fishnet. He was pressing a gun against Myron's rib cage, using his body to hide the gun from any curious onlookers.

"You're wearing the same shirt," Myron said. "Jesus Christ, you didn't even change."

Fishnet gave him a little gun jab. "You're going to wish you were never born, asshole. Get in the car."

The car the powder-blue Caddy with thick scratches on the side pulled alongside of them. Jim, Fishnet's partner, was driving, but Myron barely noticed him. His eyes immediately locked on the familiar figure in the backseat. The figure smiled and waved.

"Hey, Myron," he called out. "How's it going?"

Aaron.

"Bring him here, Lee," Aaron said.

Fishnet Lee gave Myron a nudge with the gun. "Let's go, asshole."

Myron got in the backseat with Aaron. Fishnet Lee joined Jim in the front. The front seats were both covered with plastic where Win had dumped the maple syrup.

Aaron was dressed in his customary garb. Pure-snow-white suit, white shoes. No socks. No shirt. Aaron never wore a shirt, preferring to display his tan pectorals. They gleamed from some sort of oil or grease. He always looked fresh out of the wax salon, his body smooth as a baby's bottom. Aaron was a big man, six-six, two-forty. The weight lifter's build was not merely for show. Aaron moved with a speed and grace that defied the bulk. His black hair was slicked back and tied into a long ponytail.

He gave Myron a game-show-host grin and held it.

Myron said, "Nice smile, Aaron. Lots of teeth."

"Proper dental hygiene. It's a passion of mine."

"You should share your passion with Lee," Myron said.

Fishnet's head spun. "What the fuck did you say, asshole?"

"Turn around, Lee," Aaron said to Fishnet. Fishnet glared a few more daggers. Myron yawned. Jim drove. Aaron sat back. He said nothing, smiling brightly. Every part of him glistened in the sunlight. After two blocks of this Myron pointed at Aaron's cleavage. "Your electrolysis missed a chest hair."

To Aaron's credit he didn't look. "We need to chat, Myron."

"What about?"

"Valerie Simpson. For once I think we're on the same side."

"Oh?"

"You want to capture Valerie Simpson's killer. So do we."

"You do?"

"Yes. Mr. Ache is determined to bring her killer to justice."

"That Frank. Always the good Samaritan."

Aaron chuckled. "Still the funny man, eh, Myron? Well, I admit it sounds a bit bizarre, but we'd like to help you."

"How?"

"We both know that Roger Quincy killed Valerie Simpson. Mr. Ache is willing to use his considerable influence to help locate him."

"And in return?"

Aaron feigned shock. He put a manicured hand the size of a manhole cover to his chest. "Myron, you wound me. Really. We try to extend the hand of friendship and you slap it away with an insult."

"Uh-huh."

"This is one of those rare win-win situations," Aaron said. "We're willing to help you get your killer."

"And you get?"

"Not a thing." He settled back into his seat. "If the killer is found, the police will move on to other matters. We will move on to other matters. And you, Myron, should also move on to other matters."

"Ah."

"Now, there's no reason to have a problem here," Aaron added. When the sun hit his chest at a certain angle, the reflection dazzled the eyes. "This isn't like some of our past encounters. We both want the same thing. We both want to put this tragic episode behind us. For you, that means finding the killer and bringing him to justice. For us, that means ending the investigation as soon as possible."

"But suppose I'm not convinced Roger Quincy did it," Myron said.

Aaron raised an eyebrow. "Come on now, Myron. You've seen the evidence."

"It's circumstantial."

"Since when has that bothered you? Oh by the way, a new witness has come forward. We just got wind of it."

"What kind of witness?" Myron asked.

"A witness who saw Roger Quincy talking to your beloved Valerie within ten minutes of the murder."

Myron said nothing.

"You doubt my word?"

"Who's the witness, Aaron?"

"Some housewife. She was at the matches with her kids. And to answer your next question we have nothing to do with her."

"So why the big fear?"

"What fear?"

"What's Ache so concerned about? Why hire Starsky and Hutch up there to follow me?"

Fishnet turned around. "What the fuck did you call me, asshole?"

"Turn around, Lee," Aaron said.

"Ah, come off it, Aaron, let me fuck him up a little. You see what the motherfucker did to my car? And look at my fucking nose." Car first, then nose. Priorities. "He and his faggot buddy jumped me. Two on one. When I wasn't looking. Let me teach him a little respect."

"You couldn't, Lee. You and Jim together couldn't."

"Fuck I couldn't. If I didn't have this busted nose "

"Shut up, Lee," Aaron said.

Immediate silence.

Aaron rolled his eyes at Myron and spread his hands. "Rank amateurs," he said. "Frank is always trying to cut corners. Save a buck here. Save a buck there. In the end it always costs more."

"I thought you stopped working for the Ache brothers," Myron said.

"I work freelance now."

"So Frank just brought you in?"

"As of this morning."

"Must be something big," Myron said. "You don't come cheap."

Aaron gave him the teeth again, adjusted the jacket of his suit. "You want the best, you have to pay."

"So why's Frank so bent out of shape about this?"

"I have no idea. But make no mistake about it: Frank wants your investigation to end. Now. No excuses. Look, Myron, we both know you've been something of a pain in the ass to Frank. He doesn't like you. To be honest he'd like to ace you. That's no bullshit. I'm talking man to man here. Friend to friend. We're friends, right? Buddies?"

"Best of chums," Myron added. Shovel, shovel.

"But Frank is showing incredible restraint with you. Generosity even. He knows, for example, that you took Eddie Crane out to dinner. That alone would be reason for Frank to want you roughed up a bit. But he doesn't. In fact he's decided that if Eddie Crane chooses your agency, he won't get in the way."

"Big of him."

"But it is big of him," Aaron insisted. "He owns the kid's coach, for crying out loud. By all rights he belongs to TruPro. But Frank is willing to let him go, and he's willing to help you bring in Roger Quincy. Two very big favors. Gifts really. In exchange, you do nothing."

Myron turned his palms up. "How can I pass up a deal like that?"

"Do I sense a whiff of sarcasm?"

Myron shrugged.

"Frank's trying to be fair, Myron."

"Yeah, the man's a prince."

"Don't push him on this. It's not worth it"

"Can I leave now?"

"I'd like your answer first."

"I'll have to think about it," Myron said. "But I'd be much more willing to let go if I knew what Frank was trying to hide."

Aaron shook his head. "Still the same old Myron, huh? You never change. I'm surprised no one has wasted you yet."

"I'm not easy to kill," Myron said.

"Maybe not."

"And I'm also a snazzy dancer. No one likes to kill a snazzy dancer. There're so few us left."

Aaron put his hand on Myron's knee and leaned toward him. "Can we stop the lunatic routine for a moment?"

Myron's eyes flicked down to the knee, then back to Aaron. "Uh, your hand?"

"You know about the carrot and the stick, Myron?"

"The what?"

"The carrot and the stick." The hand was still on Myron's knee.

"Oh. Sure. The carrot and the stick." What?

"So far I have shown you only the carrot. I would feel amiss if I did not also show a bit of stick."

In the front seat Fishnet and Jim shared a chuckle.

Aaron's fingers gave the knee a little squeeze. Like a hawk's talons. "Now you know me. I'm not a stick man. I'm the gentle sort. I'm kind. I'm nice. I'm' " He looked up as though searching for the word.

"A carrot," Myron finished.

"Right. A carrot."

Myron had seen Aaron kill a man. Snap his neck as though it were a twig. He'd also seen the results of Aaron's work in venues ranging from boxing rings to morgues. Some carrot.

"But nonetheless I need to add a bit of stick. Just for the record, you understand. It's expected. I know it's not necessary in your case. The stick, I mean."

"I'm listening," Myron said.

"Yeah," Fishnet added, "tell him, Aaron." Fishnet and Jim restarted the chuckle. Louder.

"Shut up," Aaron said softly.

Again immediate silence. Like they'd both been shot in the head.

Aaron swung his line of vision to Myron. His eyes were suddenly dark and hard. "There will be no further warnings. We will simply strike. I know you don't scare easily. I explained that to Frank. He doesn't care. He suggested striking places that another man might consider taboo."

"Like?"

"I understand Duane Richwood is playing well. I'd hate to see his career cut short." He gave the knee a harder squeeze. "Or take your beautiful Jessica, for example. Now I know she's out of the country right now. In Athens, in case you don't know. The Grand Bretagne Hotel. Room 207. Frank has friends in Greece."

Myron felt a cold chill. "Don't even think about it, Aaron."

"Not my decision." He finally let go of the knee. "It's Frank. He's adamant about this. He wants you to let go now. You know what they say about grabbing a tiger by the tail."

"If he touches her "

Aaron waved him off. "Please, Myron, no threats. There's no reason for threats here. You can't win. You know that. The price of victory is too high. You and Win are only two men. Two good men. Two of the best. Worthy adversaries. But Frank has me, for one. And he has others. Many others. As many men as he needs. Men with no scruples. Men who would break into Jessica's room, take turns with her, and then blow her away. Men who would jump Esperanza on her way home from work. Men who would even do unspeakable things to your mother."

Myron stared at Aaron. Aaron did not blink. "You can't win, Myron. No matter how tough you are, you can't stand up to that kind of thing. We both know it."

Silence. The Caddy pulled up to the front of Myron's building.

"Can I have your answer now?" Aaron asked.

Myron tried not to shake as he got out of the car. Without glancing behind him he walked inside.

Chapter
21

Win worked the heavy bag. He was snapping side kicks that bent the eighty-pound bag almost in half. He threw kicks at every level. The opponent's knee. The abdomen. The neck. The face. He struck with his heel, his toes angled down. Myron went though several katas, or forms, concentrating on the precision of his strikes, imagining a person in front of him rather than the air. Sometimes the person was Aaron.