They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee (23 page)

“Now you do, but I don't think it's worth it.”

“I guess not,” he agreed.

“How did—” My question was cut short by an opening door.

“I put him here, Mr. Klein,” a vaguely familiar voice answered my unfinished question. Dean Dallenbach stepped through the open door. He was flanked on either side by the desk clerk and the ski dude. “Now why don't you make the inevitable easy on everyone and hand over the disc.”

“If it existed, asshole,” I didn't hesitate, “I might be inclined to make it easy.”

“You
are
going to be tiresome, aren't you?” Dallenbach's hand gestures were very affected, exaggerated.

“I guess so.”

“But we've already been through this with your nephew, Mr. Klein. Do you actually believe me such a fool?”

I smiled. “You really want an answer to that?”

“George!” Dallenbach barked.

The ski dude hopped to and proceeded to slap me so hard across the face that the force tore a gash in my cheek.

“Nice shot, George, but you're pissing me off. I get very stubborn when I get pissed off.”

“Jerry!” the Dean was barking again. “Hold Mr. Klein steady for George this time. I don't think our guest quite appreciates the seriousness of the position he and his nephew are in.”

As the desk clerk stepped toward me, I thought I saw him lick his lips. But he was a phony motherfucker. With him it was all show for the boss' sake. And I knew Jerry would be a little more careless than his partner. While he moved by me to take hold of me, I head-butted Jerry in a part of his anatomy that was particularly sensitive to strong blows with a blunt object. He folded like a pup tent in a tornado. And as he was busily getting in touch with his new vocal range, I sprang on top of him, sinking my teeth into his neck. But just as I was clamping through the thick sheath around his jugular, I heard Zak scream.

“Your nephew's about to lose his resemblance to you, Mr. Klein,” Dean Dallenbach warned almost too calmly. “I suggest you get off of Jerry this instant.”

I rolled off and got a kick in the ribs for my trouble. It was worth it. Jerry looked like Christmas; red and green all at once. He had one hand on his balls and one on his neck. George smiled at me. That took all the fun out of things. I knew no good would come of his smile. He teased me by releasing his arm from around Zak's neck. But just as Zak was out of his grip, George pistol-whipped Zak across the back of his head. It was one of George's specialties. I knew from first hand experience.

Zak went down harder than Jerry, blood spurting through his thick, reddish brown hair.

“Have I established my intentions, Mr. Klein? I'm quite certain you can be very stubborn and very brave when it comes to pain. But I know the type of students that attend this school and somehow I don't get the impression that your nephew, as motivated as he might be, could withstand what you could, sir.” His assessment was twin to mine. “And even if he were able to muster what it would take to put up with George's skills, I doubt that you would be able to sit through it. Now please hand over the disc.”

I never got a chance to debate the issue. The door swung open behind Dallenbach and MacClough, hands cuffed behind him and blood leaking from the corners of his mouth, was shoved through. Except for the blood, MacClough seemed well enough. I thought I detected a smile. He had apparently enjoyed his little escapade. He didn't let anyone else catch wind of his pleasure and got properly serious when he saw Zak face down on the concrete.

Two of Riversborough's finest stepped in quickly behind John and closed the door. One of the cops looked like an escapee from a blimp factory and had a nose so full of gin blossoms he could have opened a florist shop. He wore a tired yellow toupee, had yellow fingers with dirty nails and incongruously square white teeth. I doubted the teeth were original equipment. His partner was a fidgety boy with slicked-back hair and eyes that couldn't agree on which way to look. In most places he would have been lucky to get a job as a security guard. In Riversborough, he'd probably make commissioner.

“I don't like it,” said the future commissioner to no one in particular. “I don't like it.”

“You're not getting paid for your opinion,” Dallenbach hissed. “Now get out of here and go tell your story about Mr. MacClough's escape to any fool who will listen.”

The fat cop was busily cleaning a few pounds of dirt from under his nails with a key. He wasn't the excitable type. His manicure complete, he tossed the key to Dallenbach. “For the cuffs,” he said.

Dallenbach immediately tossed the keys to George. Jerry frowned, truly hurt that his boss had chosen George to hold the keys. The cops left. As the door closed behind them, we could hear the fidgety boy still moaning about his work.

“These two I recognize,” MacClough nodded at George and Jerry. “That's the asshole who followed you from the airport and that's the desk clerk from the Old Watermill. But who's—”

“John MacClough, meet Dean Dallenbach,” I introduced them.

“I know all about Mr. MacClough,” Dallenbach doffed an imaginary hat. “Join us, won't you?”

“For a man who's about to take a tumble, you're in an awfully jolly fuckin' mood,” MacClough sneered.

The smile ran away from Dallenbach's face. Zak stirred, sitting up. He rubbed the back of his head. I pulled him to his feet. If the three of us were going to try anything, Zak would be better off in an upright position.

“George!” Dallenbach made a gun out of his thumb and index finger and pointed at Zak. George pressed his Glock to Zak's temple. “The disc. We were talking about the disc.”

“There is no—” Zak began.

“Stop it, Zak,” MacClough cut him off. “There's no use in jerking these guys around anymore. They're way too smart to believe that they got played for fools by some college kid.”

“You're annoying me, Mr. MacClough.”

“Good, I'm tryin' to.”

George broke into a smile, but Dallenbach told him to calm down. John had bought us a little time.

“Where is the disc?” Dallenbach repeated, but, for the first time, there was a trace of doubt in his voice.

“Not so fast,” MacClough played his hand. “After you satisfy my curiosity, maybe we'll talk about the disc. And do me a favor, don't even say that I'm in no position to bargain. If I wasn't, we'd all be dead by now.”

Dallenbach did the finger gun thing again and had George move the real gun to John's temple.

“Kill me, asshole, go ahead. You see, the problem is, I'm the only one who knows where the disc is. I had it with me when I ran and ditched it on the way out of town.”

“You're bluffing.” Dallenbach squirmed.

“Then call the bluff. You're gonna whack us anyways.”

I'd been in several rough situations with MacClough in the past, but he was really pushing it this time. I couldn't believe what was coming out of his mouth. It was all I could do not to tell him to try and play it a bit less over the top.

“Very well.” Dallenbach gestured for Georgie boy to lower his 9mm. “What is it you want to know?”

“How'd a clown like you get involved with Isotope in the first place?” John asked.

“Your manner is starting to annoy me, Mr. MacClough.”

“Slap me on the knuckles with a ruler like the sisters at St. Mark's. It didn't improve my manner any, but it made them feel better. So how'd ya get involved?”

“Weakness,” Dallenbach replied matter-of-factly. “Weakness.”

“That covers a lot of territory,” I noted, pointing my head at George. I thought Dallenbach almost blushed. “Well, yes, I am rather fond of George's
type
.” George wasn't so fond of the word ‘type.' “But it was my gambling, I fear, that did me in. It is one thing to be a compulsive gambler with few resources. It is quite another to be one and have access to a well-funded school's endowment.”

“But you're just a dean!” I exclaimed. “You shouldn't have—”

“But I had access to someone who had access. Money, money, money. . . .”

“But the well went dry,” MacClough said.

“It always does, Mr. MacClough. My friend got faint of heart and was afraid of being found out. You see, he was using the school's purchase of the Old Watermill to cover our tracks and I got just the slightest bit greedy and asked that he divert some additional funds to cover another investment. I thought that other investment would see us through our old age and cover my debts.”

“Cyclone Ridge,” I said.

“Very good, Mr. Klein. Cyclone Ridge.”

“That well went dry, too, and quicker than you thought,” MacClough put his two cents in.

“Much too quickly. Cyclone Ridge was a dog, an albatross.”

“Don't tell me,” MacClough smirked, “you found some new partners.”

“To be perfectly accurate, Mr. MacClough, they found me. Gamblers do tend to wear their debts on their sleeves. My creditors saw an opportunity and called in their markers. It was a set up that suited their purposes quite well. Cyclone Ridge was a perfect storehouse and transshipment point for the distribution of Isotope across Canada and the Northeast. Who would think to look for drugs in sleepy, little Riversborough? Until that fool Markham loaded the goods into the wrong BMW, the arrangement worked out rather nicely for all parties involved.”

“Yeah, everyone but your old boyfriend who got you access to the endowment,” John said. “It's a good bet your new partners had you dissolve your old partnership.”

Dallenbach soured. “I'm afraid they insisted on it.”

“What happened,” I wondered, “a convenient midnight skiing accident?”

“I don't know, frankly. I didn't want to know.”

I was curious. “But you did have Steven Markum killed?”

George got all happy at my question. That alone was answer enough.

“Yes,” Dallenbach confirmed, “and he bloody well deserved it. If it were not for his abject stupidity, we wouldn't all be standing here. Valencia Jones would be just another student struggling with her second tier course in metaphysics.”

“And Kira would still be alive,” I growled.

“That's on your head, Mr. Klein. If you had spent more time looking for your nephew and less time chasing a piece of skirt, your friend would still be drawing breath. It was you who presented us with the opportunity. We simply took it.”

No matter the situation, chatting reduces the level of tension in a room. That's how I managed to get my fist into Dallenbach's teeth without interference. Some of his teeth splintered. Normally, I might have felt some of the jagged enamel dig into the skin of my knuckles, but I was way too preoccupied with the bullet ripping through the top of my left shoulder to notice pieces of broken teeth. Christ, it burned like acid on fire inside me. The floor reached up and yanked me down hard. I forgot how to breathe and why. The shot's report rang in my ears.

“Not in here!” Dallenbach screamed, spitting out blood and bits of his teeth. “You nearly shot me, you fool!”

George enjoyed being called a fool almost as much as he liked being called a type.

“I just clipped him,” George did speak. “And I didn't come close to hitting you.”

Zak and MacClough, his hands still cuffed, came to attend to me.

“Leave him!” Dallenbach had completely lost his sense of humor. “We've wasted enough time, Mr. MacClough. Where's the disc?”

“Fuck you, asshole! There is no disc.”

I winced for MacClough, expecting George to punish him for his delightful use of the English language. But George wasn't smiling, flashing his fists, nor pistol-whipping anyone just now.

“Oh, God, not that again. I warn you, my patience is at low ebb.”

“It wouldn't matter if your patience were at neap tide,” MacClough laughed, “there is no disc.”

“If you're stalling for time, Mr. MacClough,” Dallenbach said, grabbing the 9mm out of George's hand, “you needn't bother. The cavalry isn't coming. I'm afraid that DEA agent who's been following Mr. Klein about had a rather nasty accident in the fire at Cyclone Ridge. Unless you've got an in with Ezekiel, and can conjure up charred bones, no one's coming to your rescue.” Dallenbach ejected a bullet from the gun's chamber for dramatic purposes, pointed it at Johnny's heart and began counting backwards from ten: “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . six . . . five . . . four . . . three . . . two—”

The spring-loaded door flew open, clanging against the wall. Zak and John jumped. I was already so wired that I barely reacted. Dallenbach, however, and his two boys seemed unfazed. I thought I saw Dallenbach check his watch. Two men—one dressed in a loose-fitting trench coat, the other in a full-length vicuna coat—came into the tunnel.

“You're late,” Dallenbach tapped his wrist.

“Fuck you!” vicuna coat said, “these fuckin' tunnels get me all whacky. It's like a fuckin' sci-fi movie down here, people livin' in tunnels and shit. Hey,” he screwed up his face, “what the fuck happened to your face, you suckin' on concrete lollipops or what?”

“One of your partners?” John surmised.

“Actually, Mr. Lippo's one of their representatives. How ever did you guess?” Dallenbach wondered, tongue in cheek.

“With that vocabulary it had to be a toss-up between a wise-guy and Werner Von Braun. Since Von Braun's dead . . .”

“Shut the fuck up!” Lippo ordered. “These the guys?”

“Those three, yes,” Dallenbach confirmed, “but not yet. They have some information I need.”

“Bullshit! The boss says I gotta whack ‘em, I whack ‘em. He didn't say nothin' about waitin' time. And you,” he glared at Dallenbach, “I'm supposed to teach you a lesson.”

“What,” the dean's voice was breaking, “could you possibly teach me?”