Kim Oh 3: Real Dangerous People (The Kim Oh Thrillers) (8 page)

Earl glanced over his shoulder at him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out for a while.” Foley pulled on his jacket. “I got things to do.”

“Curt said he wanted you here tonight.”

“Screw Curt.”

Foley headed for the door.

* * *

Upstairs, Falcon and his wife had already turned in for the night. They were one of those couples where she fell asleep watching television, while he went on reading beside her in bed. He had a stack of business books on the table with the lamp, mainly whatever stuff had been on the
New York Times
nonfiction list. They all had a page about a quarter or at the most a third of the way through, with a corner turned down. That was about as far as he got with any of them before he moved on to the next one.

Leaning back on the pillows propped up against the headboard, he was slogging through the first chapter of something that promised to make him the next Winston Churchill of the business world. In general – he told me this once – he liked those books better than the ones that gassed on about Ronald Reagan, since he figured some punk actor never fired off a real gun in his life. That kind of thing mattered to him.

He heard something outside. Looking over the top of his half-rims, he turned toward the window and listened. Then he got out of bed, went over, and pulled the curtain back. Just a little window, keeping himself well to the side. Just in case.

“What’s the matter, dear?” His wife raised her head from her pillow.

Falcon went on gazing out the window. He saw Foley below, walking down the driveway toward the gates.

“Nothing,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

She closed her eyes and turned her face back against the pillow. He let the curtain fall back in place, then went to the closet and rummaged through the pockets of one of his suits. He found a scrap of paper and stood looking at it for a while, then tossed it on top of the bedroom dresser. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he picked up the phone from behind the stack of books and started to dial.

* * *

Over at the White Hawk, things were finally livening up.

Still sitting at the bar, nursing a beer, Elton watched as a minimal combo – nothing but a drum kit and a weirdly skinny guy with a beat-up Telecaster knock-off – set up on the little stage.

“Hey – it’s freezing in here!” The guitarist called over to the bartender. “How the hell are people supposed to dance, have some fun, they got icicles hanging off ’em?”

The bartender came out from behind the bar, carrying a battered gasoline can with him. In the middle of the room was a fifty-five-gallon metal drum, lidless. He topped up the drum contents from the gas can, then stood back and tossed a lit match into it. Blue flames licked up from the top of the drum. The place was so cold that even a minimal heat source like that was enough to bring the temperature up a couple of degrees.

Elton had seen that kind of thing before. He told me that where he came from, there were plenty of places where an arrangement like that was pretty much considered to be central heating. If you were in a dancing mood, you just wanted to make sure that you didn’t get so drunk that you were in danger of bumping into it.

“That’s more like it.” The guitarist went back to conferring with his drummer about the set list. Which mainly consisted of deciding which of a half-dozen three-chord standards – the usual bar band repertoire – they’d play first.

Still working on his beer, Elton didn’t turn around when he heard the door open and close. Two big guys, harder and uglier-looking than anyone else there, slid in at the bar on either side of him.

“Well, look who’s here?” One of them flashed a gold-toothed smile. “It’s my man Elton. How ya been?”

He didn’t return the smile. “Not too bad, Sammy.”

“Bud there gave me a call.” Sammy indicated the bartender with a nod. “Said you’ve been looking for me. Shitfire, pal, I’m not
that
hard to find.”

“You are when you owe people money.”

“Money?” Sammy feigned surprise. “What money are you talking about?”

“Don’t act dumb. The money you got fronted for that bookie operation you’re running over on Decatur.”

“That money? I thought that money was a
gift
.”

The two big guys exchanged smirks above Elton’s head. Who wasn’t amused.

“It wasn’t,” he said quietly. “And you’re overdue on your payments. As in haven’t made any.”

“Well, that is a shame. Leon, I bet you feel bad about that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” grunted the other guy. “It’s tragic.”

“It surely is.” Sammy shook his head. “’Cause I don’t know when I’ll be getting around to making any. Payments, that is.”

“Sammy –” Elton gave the man a hard stare. “You’re in big trouble.”

“I don’t think so.” An even more emphatic shake of the head. “But I think
you
might have a little problem. When you go back to those loan sharks you hang out with – especially that Falcone douche – and you have to tell your boss you can’t get his money back for him.

“Let me tell you something, Sammy.” Elton’s gaze turned even harder. “It’s not Falcon’s money we’re talking about. It’s mine. I fronted the money.”

“You did?” Sammy raised his eyebrows. “That was you? Makin’ a little investment on your own, huh? And all this time I thought – shit. Now I do feel bad.” His joking-around manner evaporated, as he leaned in closer. “’Cause you’re not getting
your
money back, either.”

“Really?”

“That’s right. So why don’t you trot on back to where you’d be more comfortable? Rather than some place like this, where you could get hurt.”

“I don’t know.” Elton looked around. “I kinda like this place.”

“Fine. Finish your drink, pal. Take your time. But then I think you really oughta run along. Maybe your boss man’s got some errand for you to take care of. The kind you can handle.” Sammy nodded to the other guy. “Come on, Leon. Let’s go.”

Leon’s face had a broken-toothed grin on it as he and Sammy pushed themselves away from the bar.

“Wait a minute.”

The two big guys turned back toward Elton.

“Yeah? What?”

In one quick motion, Elton grabbed Sammy by the shirt collar and slammed his face against the edge of the bar. Along its length, bottles and glasses went flying from the force of the impact. Sammy grimaced in pain and shock as Elton slammed him once more against the bar.

Leon whipped out a large-bladed knife from his jacket. Elton spun Sammy around in his grasp and rammed him straight into the other guy, knocking him backward. The chairs around the side of the room toppled over as the fight collided into them.

Elton lifted Sammy into the air and hurled him onto one of the tables. It smashed apart, with the dazed Sammy lying in the middle of the wreckage. Scrambling to his feet, Leon came at Elton from the other side, knife in hand. Elton grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting the arm behind him while driving a knee hard into his gut. The knife dropped from Leon’s hand and clattered on the floor. Elton grabbed the bent-over figure by the shoulders and rammed him headfirst into the wall. Leon dropped to his knees, then rolled over unconscious.

Sammy was still lying on his back in the middle of the table fragments, moaning. He gasped as Elton grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him to the middle of the room. Dropping him, Elton pulled over a table and chair. Reaching down and grasping Sammy’s ankles again, Elton mounted onto the chair and then the tabletop, precariously balancing himself as he lifted the other’s feet above the level of his own head –

Then dangled Sammy upside-down, over the gasoline drum. Sammy screamed and flailed about as the blue flames licked around his shoulders.

“So.” Elton spoke through gritted teeth. “About that money, shithead –”

Sammy thrashed in terror, his hair and jacket starting to spark and smolder.

“Damn, Elton!” The bartender shouted to him. “You gonna roast the man!”

The handful of bar patrons gaped as Elton continued to dangle Sammy over the flames.

“The money!” Elton’s voice went fiercer. “The
money!
”

Sammy couldn’t do anything but scream. Elton lowered his own arms, dipping the other man headfirst into the burning gasoline. Then pulled him out and dropped him onto the floor. Elton jumped down from the table, then went over to the bar and grabbed a pitcher of beer. He walked back over and doused Sammy with its contents. Blinded, face blistered and hair smoking, Sammy twitched and blubbered in agony.

“Monday morning, punk!” Elton squatted down close to him and shouted in his ear. “You know where to bring it!”

He stood up and kicked Sammy in the ribs.

“Not a payment, either –” Another kick. “The whole wad!”

A stumbling noise came from the side of the room. Elton looked over to where Leon had managed to get to his feet.

“Get your buddy outta here.” He pointed to Sammy. “He’s really bringing down the party atmosphere.”

Cringing away from Elton, Leon scurried over and grabbed his partner under the arms. He dragged Sammy a few feet away, then lifted him up and hurriedly dragged him out the door.

The place was quiet now. The few patrons looked away from Elton as he went back to the bar and took a sip from the beer he had left there.

“Sorry about the table.”

The bartender shrugged. “Ain’t the first one you’ve broken.”

“Put it on my tab,” said Elton. He finished the beer, then pushed the glass toward the bartender. “And I’ll have another.”

SIX

“What the hell is this place?”

I’d only had a glimpse of where we had wound up before Curt doused the headlights and switched off the Chevy’s engine. Some kind of abandoned farm, maybe. There was a sagging wooden construction right in front of us that looked like it might’ve been a barn.

“Come on.” Curt pushed open his door. “I’ll show you.”

I followed him over to where he grabbed the edges of a garage-sized door and slid it open, along rusted iron tracks on the building’s side. Actually was a barn, or had been – I could smell moldering old hay before we even stepped inside.

Curt knew his way around. Flicking a match, he lit an oil lantern hanging from a nail. That gave just enough light to reveal the rotting bales and decrepit farm equipment stacked up in the corners.

“Oh, yeah –” I looked around. “This is romantic, all right.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Bring a lot of girls here?”

“You’re the first.” He adjusted the lantern’s flame, then hung it back up.

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “We’re not exactly here for recreational purposes.”

“Thank God. The smell of old cow poop never has gotten me in the mood.”

“What I heard –“ Curt tucked the matchbook back inside his jacket. “Is that you’re never in the mood.”

“Not when I’m on the job.” I looked at the rotting harnesses on the barn wall. “And I’m
always
working.”

“You got that from Cole, didn’t you? About putting it on the shelf, for the time being.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “He had all sorts of good advice for me.”

“That’s one of the better pieces. Works on the young guys, at least. Definitely messes with their heads. Some old bastard like me, though . . .” He smiled. “Not so much.”

“Must be a relief.”

He mulled that over. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Kinda is. I mean . . . I wouldn’t have married those last two bimbos if I’d had a brain in my head. Or at least one that worked. First one did a number on me. Diced my heart up over her breakfast cereal. Second one was worse – she just took most of my money.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Any discussion of personal finances tended to evoke my sympathy. Especially if it came from somebody who was in the same line of work as me.

“It won’t happen to you,” said Curt. “You’re smart. Cole told me that’s what he liked about you.”

“Huh.” I couldn’t think of anything to say.

I don’t mind killing people – for the most part. But I hate talking about dead people.

Or at least that one.

“Is this what we came out here for?” I dug my hands into my jacket pockets. “Because I’m freezing.” The night wind sliced right through the rickety barn. “If you just wanted to talk about stuff, there are plenty of places more comfortable than this. Some of them even have coffee.”

“I told you. We’re working.” He looked closer at me. “Where’s your backpack?”