Shank

by Robert J. Krog

  He couldn’t answer for a moment.

  “Roger?”

  “I…I used it to bury the dog in.”

  “Your granddad’s rug?”

  “Yes. It’s okay. It was just an old rug.”

  “Okay. You don’t sound good. Should we call the picnic off? Want to just stay here?”

  “I’ll be okay in a moment.” How do I do this? My friend and muse is dead. I can’t mourn him, except in secret, because his existence was secret, and I suppose Deadrick Granger will find out I’m alive and try to have me killed again. Do I care? Kilkenny is dead, and Emma can’t comfort me because I can’t explain. How will she ever believe me or understand?

  He sobbed and hit the wall with his fist.

  Deadrick Granger! I never did anything to him except look up to him and offer him friendship. I’ll kill him.

  “Roger!”

  “It’s okay,” he said, trying to keep his voice level and normal. “I just dropped the bar of soap and bumped my knee.”

  “Are you okay? Please tell me what’s really wrong.”

  “Emma.” I love you.

  “I’m here.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll be out shortly.”

  “Okay. I’ll get things ready to go, or should I just wait for you?”

  “Go ahead and get things ready to go.”

  He pulled himself to his feet, found the bar of soap, and scrubbed the dirt off his body.

  Two can play this game. He must think I’m dead. I could hire someone to kill him. I could make the call as soon as I’m out of the shower. He could be dead by tomorrow before he knows I survived. Kilkenny would be avenged.

  He stopped there. Never in his life had he sought revenge. It was a sin, and he knew it. Do I care?

  The very question hurt him to ask. He sank down on his knees in the shower, realizing that he hadn’t even prayed for Kilkenny’s soul, and he couldn’t do that and also seek revenge. Would God answer the prayers of a man who was trying to have another man murdered? It was too hard a question. He knelt in despair under the steaming hot water and poured his heart out to the Lord, wordlessly imploring.

  Book 5: Down by a Hand

  Chapter 1

  Antagonism and a Challenge at Last

  The opera had been dull, frankly—something about love—but his date, Becky, had been a hit with every man in the Orpheum Theater that night. The dinner had been excellent, and she hadn’t talked too much. Later, she’d been wonderful in bed. All in all, Shaw decided, he’d happily do it again. Even though opera was uninteresting to him, he enjoyed the glitz, the atmosphere, and the envy of other men. The plot of the next opera in the season involved several deaths. He could get into that, maybe. He’d bought tickets and engaged the compliant Becky for the evening, as well.

  He was taking a walk around the lake at Shelby Farms for a bit of fresh air the next day when he got a text from Brenda.

 

  Amused, he asked,

 

  He thought it over briefly then asked,

  There was a five-minute delay before her next response.

 

  He made her wait 10 minutes, finishing his walk, then sent back,

  The next text came back fast.

 

  He laughed and walked back to his car. He got another one halfway back to his apartment.

 

  A moment later, the contact information appeared on the screen, At a red light, he dictated a message back to her.

  “You’re a consummate professional, Brenda, dear. Thank you.”

  was her swift response.

  He scrolled back up slightly and tapped the contact card she’d sent. The client’s name and other info appeared. He hit the text button and dictated a message.

  “This is Shaw. I understand you wish to engage my services.”

  It didn’t take long for his phone to ding with a response. He told the phone to read it back to him, which it did in an artificial English accent.

  “Yes. You were recommended by Anastasia Clawson, Charlie Gorley, and others. Do you know who Gregory Hooker is?”

  He dictated, “No. Should I?”

  “Gregory Hooker is a multimillionaire philanthropist who pours a lot of money into politics in the Tri-State area and around the country. His interests conflict with ours, and he is implacable. He won’t be dissuaded from his efforts, which will destroy a considerable investment we’re making in West Tennessee.”

  Disinterested, Shaw dictated a response.

  “Your reasons aren’t important to me. If you’re paying, and the target’s challenging, I’m willing.”

  “You have no idea, Mr. Shank. Incredible. We’ve already hired three shooters, all of whom failed. We’re desperate. Our future is at stake. We want you to take it.”

  “You don’t have to ask twice. I’ve been wanting a real challenge for some time. I’m on the job. Please send details.”

  “May we meet in three hours? I have a complete dossier to deliver to you. I’m on a plane coming into town.”

  “Sure. What’s your hotel?”

  “East Memphis Hilton.”

  “Very good. Tell the taxi to take you to Killer Coffee on Poplar. It’s near there.”

  “Is this a sort of shooter-friendly cafe?”

  “No. It’s just a coffee shop that’s very proud of its beans and brews.”

  “See you there in about three hours?”

  “Yes. I’ll be wearing a plaid flannel jacket and reading a magazine with a World War 2 fighter plane on the cover.”

  Killer Coffee wasn’t the best in town by Shaw’s standards, but it was good. They also had decent scones. He got there a bit ahead of Avery. The executive from Gold Star Logistics showed up a little later, wearing a gray business suit—expensive, to Shaw’s eye, though suits weren’t his thing—with a coat over one arm, and bearing a briefcase in the other hand. He eyed the cafe, spotted Shaw, who nodded, nodded back, then went to the counter to order some coffee.

  He sat down a couple of minutes later, saying in a low voice, “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Shank. We have a real problem here, and fixing it won’t be easy.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Mr. Avery. I fix things in a permanent way.”

  They shook hands. Not every client would do that.

  “He doesn’t get out much, which makes it hard to get at him. Since our initial attempt on his life, he’s redoubled his efforts against us—dug his heels in, you know.”

  “The target is a shut-in?” Shaw asked.

  “Hooker’s taking precautions. He knows we have a hit out on him. There have been five attempts on his life by three of your colleagues, one of whom is now dead, and two of whom are now cripples.”

  Shaw felt his spirits lift and his face light up. “Really? You only said ‘failed’ before.”

  Avery lifted an eyebrow, and his frown deepened as Shaw’s smile rose. “I don’t understand your reaction, Mr. Shank.”

  “It’s Shaw. Shank is an unfortunate nickname.”

  He nodded. “Do you hate your colleagues, Mr. Shaw?”

  “Some of them I disdain. Some of them I respect, but what I love
is a challenge. I haven’t had many challenges lately.”

  At that, Avery raised both eyebrows and nodded seriously. “You’ll be challenged, unless you opt to use a rather large bomb.”

  “Bombs are messy and usually cause collateral damage. As a professional shooter, I can’t afford peripheral casualties of any kind. LEI is not forgiving of that kind of thing, and neither am I. The target will be the only casualty of the hit, except bodyguards.”

  “He has three bodyguards on eight-hour shifts.”

  “Are they the cause of my colleagues’ injuries and demise?”

  “We suppose so,” the executive shrugged, “but no one knows. The first shooter we hired, Henderson, was bisected from crown to throat with a bladed weapon. Self-defense, of course.”

  “I’ve heard of Henderson, but never met him. You went cheap the first time, I gather?”

  “The imperative wasn’t as great at first to kill Hooker. We thought only to scare him away when he wouldn’t accept generous offers and joint business ventures. The second shooter, Giles, was crushed by a large piece of furniture and lost the use of his legs, permanently. The incident was deemed an accident.”

  Shaw chortled. It was too much. “Giles getting crushed by a piano like in an old cartoon is funny. You were still being cheap,” he added without apology.

  “Yes. We wised up after that. Hooker wasn’t scared, and we had to get serious. The third, Crenshaw, killed a bodyguard, then fell into the basement, broke a leg, and was bludgeoned with an aluminum baseball bat, possibly by Hooker himself. They say Crenshaw will learn to speak and walk again, with therapy, but may never recover his full memory or mental faculties.”

  Shaw shook his head in wonder. “Why were they all in so close?”

  “The house is a fortress, Mr. Shaw. Authorized visitors come and go all day, most days, but no one else gets closer than the sidewalk outside. Deliveries are left with a butler. To get a clear shot at the target, they all waited for him to emerge. He never does. He used to, rarely, but hasn’t since Henderson’s attempt. When he didn’t emerge after weeks, they broke in, looking for him each time.”

  “I see.”

  “I hope you do. They say you’re exceptional, one of the best. They said that about Crenshaw, too. Would you like to have what information is available on the house, floor plan, security system, and so on? All of that was provided, insofar as it was possible, to your predecessors. It’s all here.” The executive slid a folder to Shaw, who took it with a nod.

  “We need him dead, Mr. Shaw. There will be a substantial gratuity in it for you, another million, if you kill him before the next election cycle gets underway. If his estate gets stuck in probate court while political ads are running, that will really aid our efforts.”

  “It won’t be a problem, Mr. Avery.”

  “That would be a nice change, Mr. Shaw.”

  When Shaw returned to his apartment, Ginger was leaning against the wall beside his door. She looked his way, straightened, and waited for him, eyes downcast, hair over half her face. He took stock of the situation. She appeared to be alone, and the door to the stairwell wasn’t cracked. With caution in mind, he approached her.

  “Something I can do for you, Ginger?”

  She looked up and pulled her hair back, revealing her face. The skin on her left cheek sported a large, purpling bruise.

  He nodded. “Did you lose some teeth to that?”

  “No, but a couple are loose, now. You’re really a shooter, aren’t you? You’re not a political strategist?”

  “You looking to have someone killed?”

  Father Darren’s door opened then, and the priest came out.

  “Gordon, I warned this young woman away, but she wouldn’t listen. For the sake of your soul and hers, don’t do it. Whoever hurt you,” he said, turning to Ginger, “we can stop him without resorting to the kind of steps this man will take. It’s better to suffer wrong than to commit it, but you don’t have to continue suffering it. Come in and talk to me instead.”

  She looked him up and down as though he were a pile of trash. “What can you do? Leave me alone, Reverend.”

  “Gordon, is it worth your soul and hers? Let her go.”

  “She came here of her own free will, Darren. Sorry. Ginger,” he said, putting his key in the door and opening it, “after you.”

  “Gordon!” Darren shouted, but Shaw shut the door on the priest and locked it.

  Ginger went to his kitchen and found a beer.

  “Bring that one to me. You only get one if I let you stay, which I might or might not.”

  She looked over at him reproachfully, then dutifully brought him the beer. He popped it open, checked out the peephole and saw no one there, took a drink, and sat down.

  She took another chair and said, “I want to hire you, Gordon, Tony, whoever you are.”

  “I figured,” he said. “The boyfriend catch on to your freewheeling ways?”

  “It’s your fault. He suspected. He got friendly with one of my coworkers who doesn’t like me so much she told him she’d seen me with you on our date. He hit me and threatened me last night.”

  “And you want him killed?”

  “Yes. What do you charge?”

  “I don’t set prices. It doesn’t work that way. I’m on another job, but I can multitask. Here, call this number and ask for Gordon Shaw.” He offered her his phone, but she didn’t take it.

  “Is it expensive?”

  “Usually, but your boyfriend is probably pretty low on the list.”

  “Can we trade?”

  “LifeEnders doesn’t take sex for payment, and I don’t do any work without their say so. It’s a carefully circumscribed business. Freelance shooters aren’t tolerated. We all work strictly through the corporation or franchises. However, if you’re looking for a roll in the hay in addition to seeing your boyfriend snuffed, I’m happy to oblige.”

  She thought a moment, then nodded. “Okay to both. What number do I call?”

  He showed her the number on his phone again, and she tapped it into hers.

  Later that night, after Ginger pretended she was acquiescing to her boyfriend’s demands for fear of his threats, they went to her apartment. They walked in to find the young man pacing back and forth. He paused mid-stride and reddened when Shaw stepped in behind Ginger.

  “Hi, Brandon,” she said, waving and moving aside.

  “Whore!” he shouted. “You bring your gigolo back here? This is the end. You’re never leaving my sight again.”

  “Gigolo?” Shaw laughed.

  “Get out, asshole. I’ll give you two seconds before I kick your ass down the stairs.”

  “Well, go ahead,” Shaw suggested.

  The boyfriend picked up a baseball bat and lunged for him. Shaw shrugged, whipped out one of his Sigs, and put four hollow points center mass. Brandon fell back, surprised, and took a little time to die.

  Ginger, who at first had cowered and covered her ears, was open-mouthed and elated within seconds. She jumped up and down a couple of times and clapped her hands. “Oh, that was awesome.”

  “Well, the job is done,” Shaw said. “It’s been a fun evening, but I have things to do, and more important clients waiting on results. I’ll be going now.”

  “Hold on, let’s go to bed first.” She took his hand and pulled him toward her bedroom for more fun. He thought about leaving, but figured, What the Hell, why not?

  They stepped over Brandon’s dying body to get there, leaving the door open in their haste.

  Chapter 2

  Grief and a Little Comfort

  There was a text from Brenda.

 

 

  d complaint on to her before. Sexual frustration making you petty? I can still set you up with a stud from my gym. Tell Granger the body must not have been discovered yet, or that someone is keeping it quiet, probably his publisher. That happens with celebrities sometimes.>

  He expected her to cuss at him again, but there was no response. He shrugged and went on with the close examination of the blueprints to Hooker’s mansion.

  “You’re almost yourself tonight,” Emma said with a pleased smile. “You’ve been different since the day that stray dog got killed, and you had to bury it.”

  They were at dinner in a place known for its fancy entrees, cheesecake, and live music. A string quartet was playing a bit by Tchaikovsky called Andante Cantabile from a stage in a part of the restaurant Roger couldn’t see. It was lovely, slow and sad, like a conversation between lovers saying goodbye forever due to circumstances beyond their control. Roger and Emma were waiting on the cheesecake to arrive. Kilkenny had been murdered three days ago.

  I should just tell her, he thought, but he didn’t. He had the ring Kilkenny had given him in his pocket, thinking earlier in the day that he’d propose and get on with his life. It all seemed pointless again, though he ached for her. Kilkenny was dead. He couldn’t do anything right anymore. As he sat there, waiting on cheesecake and looking at his love, he remembered again that he hadn’t taken precautions against Granger making another attempt on his life, and that nothing would be certain until he did. He had a plan of sorts, or he’d had a plan. It was gone.

  She was staring expectantly at him. He stared back blankly. I missed something. What did she say? Her expectant expression changed gradually back to the patient compassion she’d worn most of the last three days.

  She reached over the table and took his hand. “I know I asked before, and I’m repeating myself, but is something else bothering you?”

  I can’t tell her. “I’m okay,” he lied. “I guess I’m not feeling well.” He smiled at her, forcing it as he had been since the attempt on his life. He patted her hand, looking at it instead of her face. His mind drifted back to the unresolved questions of Kilkenny and Granger.