Shank

by Robert J. Krog

  Here we are, two skinny, bitter old broads.

  “Will you be happy if the hit succeeds?” she asked Susan.

  “Yes.”

  Silence again, the crime report came on the news. They stared at it.

  “No,” Susan admitted, “but I might be satisfied that one more killer is gone from the world.”

  “They can’t all be killed off that way. There are always more. The whole history of the world shows that’s true.”

  “Maybe,” Susan said, “but this one will be gone.”

  “He hurt me, not you.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not, but the means is still wrong. You’ll have to repent before you die. Why not repent before it happens? Call it off.”

  “No. Someone has to pay. Let it be him.”

  A graphic content warning came on the screen before them. A minute later, a security camera clip showed a man in a house, getting his hand chopped off by another man with a large cleaver or sword. The man, identified as Gordon Shaw, LEI contractor, was bound and removed from the house, and subsequently taken away by an ambulance. Augusta’s mouth slowly dropped open in surprise.

  “Look at that,” she said, elated in spite of herself. “That’s him. What goes around comes around. He finally got some of what he’s been dishing out professionally for years.”

  “Good,” Susan said, “the hit’s more likely to succeed now that he’s maimed.”

  “But isn’t that enough? He won’t be much of a hitman, with his good hand gone. He’s right-handed.”

  “Good shooters train to be accurate with either hand. Don’t be naive.”

  “Surely he’ll be forced to retire.”

  “The situation hasn’t changed. He needs to be punished, and he’s got it coming.”

  With a sigh, Augusta fell silent. The reporter came on and mentioned the hospital the ambulance had taken Shaw to. Another reporter, who had billionaire philanthropist Gregory Hooker’s house staked out due to his elusive nature and the number of hits that had failed against him, had followed the ambulance.

  “I should go,” she said. “Mother needs her rest. She’s not getting any younger.”

  “And your boys need you. You’ve been gone too much as it is.”

  That may be a slap in the face, but she’s right. I have been gone too much. “I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” Susan said, still not looking at her. “Just stop trying to talk me into calling it off. It’s no use. I won’t.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  In her car a few minutes later, she answered a call from the P.I. “Mr. Cross, what can I do for you?”

  “Have you seen the news? Shaw got hacked up trying to take out Gregory Hooker. He’s in the hospital.”

  “I saw that, yes.”

  “I know a guy in maintenance who can get me access to his info with little to no risk. I could even walk into his room and clean it, no issue.”

  “You want to clean Shaw’s hospital room, Mr. Cross?”

  “No, I want to inject cyanide into his IV, but I’ll settle for getting his personal information and passing it to our hacker friend, so we can take every dime he has in his Cayman accounts.”

  “Do it and charge me whatever it costs.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Mr. Cross?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I couldn’t talk Susan out of the hit. There’s still that shooter from 187A trying to take him out.”

  “It would be a damn pity if he succeeded.”

  “Is there anything we can do to stop it?”

  “Not really. Not without me risking my life for Shaw, and I won’t do that.”

  “I understand.”

  “Even with one hand gone, Shaw’s a dangerous man. He’ll be relatively safe in a hospital from a low-level shooter like that. It’s after he’s out that he’ll be vulnerable. Likely, he’ll have some shooter friends pick him up and take him home, if he has any. Scuttlebutt is, he’s out for his failure and bad publicity, but one can never be sure. His reputation says he’s a loner.”

  “I guess it’s up to him and his resources,” she said.

  “And that’s fine by me. I’ll get to work on my part, Mrs. Sanders, and let you know how it goes.”

  “Thank you.”

  She drove home, her usual exhausted state unusually crushing. Pinching herself, rolling down her window, and slapping her face to stay awake, she made it the last few blocks, and pulled into her driveway. When she entered the house via the garage door, her mother was there, asleep on the couch. Agatha Christie’s The Labors of Hercules had slipped from her hands onto the floor. Augusta tiptoed across the rug and eased her into a prone position, then slipped her shoes off. Mrs. Peterson didn’t wake. Augusta covered her with throw blankets and left the room, clicking the light off as she went. Once she got upstairs to the bedroom, she phoned her father, apologized, and let him know his wife would be staying the night. He was fine, of course. She hadn’t awakened him. He’d been up, anyway, watching classic movies.

  Chapter 8

  A Beautiful Item of Unknown Provenance

  Roger and Emma walked hand in hand through the park after a morning spent at the zoo. They’d enjoyed the fresh air, ridden the camels, seen the sea lion show and been splashed, stood in awe watching the polar bears underwater through the glass, and had lunch while watching monkeys. It had been a fine morning. It was a rare and fine day for flying kites, and there were several people out on the wide lawns at Overton Park, holding tightly to strings with colorful diamonds and such at their ends, 30 feet or more in the air. One skillful old soul had let almost his entire string out, and his simple red diamond was hundreds of feet high, soaring over the trees and the zoo. There was a far off look in his eyes under the shock of tousled gray hair, timeless and dignified.

  Roger, watching it all, her soft hand held firmly in his, realized he no longer felt like he was neither on the edge of tears nor despondent for the first time since Kilkenny’s murder. His first reaction was guilt, a sudden stab in the gut and an ache in his chest, but it was followed by a sense of peace. Of course, my best friend wouldn’t want me to be sad on his behalf forever. It was a bittersweet moment. He stuck his other hand in a pocket and discovered the ring box in it. He’d been carrying it around for days.

  They passed the WWI monument. It didn’t seem like the right place to propose, under the lunging doughboy with his bayonet over their heads, so he didn’t stop her. They walked on, and, as they passed under a cherry tree, he stopped her and stepped off the path. She obliged him and leaned against the tree.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself at last,” she said.

  “I am, too. Things will never be the same again, but I enjoy being with you.”

  “Thank goodness for that.” She brushed the hair out of her eyes. The wind kept blowing it in front of her face. He reached over and tucked it behind her ear, for all the good that did.

  “May I ask you something?”

  She smiled impishly. “You just did.”

  He shook his head ruefully. “Righto, may I ask you something else right after this?”

  She laughed. “Yes, anytime.”

  “No, not all moments would be right for this question. You could be on the toilet or bleeding from a head wound, or at work, or in any number of other inappropriate moments.” He took a deep breath as she responded.

  “Are you trying to ask me if I want to renew the warranty on my car?” she asked.

  He smiled at that and got down on one knee, confident, but shaking a little, pulling the ring box out of his pocket. “Emma Prentiss, will you marry me?” He opened the box to show her the antique ring, a ruby solitaire set in gold.

  Her smile, mischievous before, changed to breathless surprise for a moment, then into a smile of wonder and delight. She could only nod slowly and gently stretch out her left hand. He took it nervously, selected her ring f
inger, and put the ring on it. It didn’t fit quite right, slightly too tight, and he sighed, moving it over to her pinky instead.

  “It’s okay,” she said, still breathless. “We can get it sized. How old is it? It’s beautiful.”

  “I don’t know where it came from, though I’m sure it’s quite old,” Roger said.

  She held it up to the sunlight, admiring it.

  “Kilkenny gave it to me the night we had shish kabobs, if you recall. I guess you saw it?”

  “No,” she said, turning and touching his arm gently. “He didn’t always let me see him. I remember the dinner, though. Oh, Roger, it’s beautiful. It’s simply gorgeous.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Of course it is. How could I not say yes when I’ve been all but telling you to propose for a month or so?”

  “You were telling me?”

  “Not in so many words, but yes, with every action I took, every smile, every word, every touch. Surely, you noticed?”

  “I guess. Frankly, I was pretty nervous about it, even though I thought it was what you wanted.”

  “I’m sure that’s how it’s supposed to be,” she said happily, reaching down and stroking his face with her bejeweled hand. “Yes, yes, yes, I will marry you and love you for the rest of my life.”

  They drew together and kissed. Someone nearby let out a whoop and a cheer. Not embarrassed exactly, yet blushing, they smiled, waved, and walked on, hand in hand.

  Chapter 9

  The Janitor, the Island, and the Necessity of Revenge

  Shaw snapped out of his reverie and looked over at Johns, who was pulling a shift himself. He was currently sitting on the couch by the window, blinds closed, reading a sports magazine.

  “I know how I should have done it, dammit!”

  “How’s that?” Johns asked, barely looking up.

  “I should have subcontracted some jackass from Murder, Inc. or 187A to work with me. I could have sent him into the house via the basement to get mugged by Hooker and his bodyguard and then come in with the ambulance. I could have gained access that way, coming to retrieve the wounded man the way they had to do with Crenshaw, then taken Hooker and the bodyguard out that way. Hooker would be dead, and I’d be fine. It’s so simple, I might go back and do it anyway.”

  “That’s not a bad plan. I’d hate to be the poor bastard from the minor leagues though.”

  “We all take risks.”

  As long as he didn’t look at the lumpy bandage at the end of his foreshortened arm, he could pretend it was only a minor setback. He could feel the hand that was missing and desperately wanted to scratch it.

  He added, “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that first.”

  “It’s a good plan. Better late than never, I guess.”

  When Shaw had no more to say after a minute or two, Johns went back to his magazine. Shaw stared at the window. It beckoned to him. He rose and went to it, pulling the IV cart with him. Johns glanced up as he opened the blinds.

  “Do you think there’s an amateur out there, looking at windows with a high-powered rifle in his hands, hoping to get lucky?”

  “There might be, buddy. Let’s close those blinds, shall we?”

  “Let him get lucky. I’d stand here for hours if the bastard would just make it a clean shot to my brain pan or heart. I’d prefer not to suffer much, but I’d really like to die now.”

  Johns stood, took the chain from his hand, and pulled the blinds closed again.

  “I’m sure there’s still a purpose for you, my friend. I could use a consultant like you to supplement my own knowledge of assassinations so we can better protect against them. I’m spread too thin as it is. You’ve been at it longer than I have, now. Why don’t you work with me? I’ll pay well.”

  Shaw turned away, shuffling back to his bed. “I’m not a bodyguard, Johns. I’m a damned shooter, and that’s how I’ll die. A fucking security consultant? Shit, I’d rather take a bullet. No offense.”

  “Why should I take offense when you scorn what I’ve built from the ground up into a very profitable business that doesn’t involve getting my hands quite as dirty as yours? No offense taken, good buddy.”

  Shaw didn’t look to see if Johns’ face showed any hurt. His tone was still affable enough. Do I care? No, I guess I don’t. He pressed the button for the nurse, and, when one arrived, quite a bit later, he lied and asked for painkillers early, saying he was hurting a lot. She gave it to him, and he slept.

  There was a picture on the wall in that room, lit from underneath. It was vivid, compelling, and surreal, a moonlit scene with a closed gate in a high stone wall. Before the gate was a flesh-colored lump with Shaw’s rumpled, boneless face staring, hollow eyed, up at him. Leading away from the gate and the pile of skin were bloody footprints, which Shaw followed, every step agony, yet he had to. He minced and stumbled his way across the dark, moonlight ground that was bare and stony. A voice—was it Hooker’s?—said, “In his frustration, he clawed his way out of his skin and stalked away bloody, leaving it there in a heap on the ground.”

  Later, an overweight janitor eased into the room discreetly and began to clean the floor, filling the room with the synthetic odor of disinfectant. Johns gave him a careful eye, but the fellow didn’t seem at all suspicious. The janitor asked him to raise his feet a couple of times as he swept and mopped. He did so. The janitor went after other surfaces next, sanitizing the counters and furniture. Johns was on the couch, and the janitor started with the chair, at one point asking Johns to pick up Shaw’s personal effects for him, and Johns obliged. While he was holding them, the man started on the couch, removing Johns’ soda to a previously cleaned counter, muttering, “Sorry about the inconvenience, but we’re fighting a staph infection outbreak, and we can’t be too thorough, you know.”

  “It’s all right. Just do your thing,” Johns said encouragingly, not wanting to get caught up in a conversation that would slow the interloper down and keep him around any longer than necessary. When the couch was done, Johns gave it a moment to dry, depositing Shaw’s items in the chair and collecting his soda. He took a long drink while the janitor cleaned the windowsill and sat down again as the custodian proceeded into the restroom, sweeping, mopping, and then disinfecting. Johns’ eyes started to get heavy while the man scrubbed and flushed the toilet.

  When Alex Cross, PI, exited the restroom a few minutes later, Johns was asleep. The detective loaded a parental control app onto Shaw’s phone and hid it, then he went through Shaw’s wallet quickly, taking photos of everything, made impressions of his keys, and left, pushing his cleaning cart before him. He took a break shortly after, and was soon outside the hospital, getting into his own car. Back at his office, he made copies of the keys. Before the night was over, he went through Shaw’s apartment with the assistance of the hacker, who shut the wireless security system down. By dawn, he was back in his office, lying down on his own couch for some well-deserved shut eye.

  Johns woke before Shaw did, wondering how long he’d been out, and reflecting that it was the best sleep he’d had in months, though it was very unprofessional of him to fall asleep on the job. The phone rang, waking Shaw. The shooter answered, and someone asked him what he wanted for breakfast; he placed his order and hung up. Johns sat, watching his friend wallow in misery. Shaw was staring at the ceiling.

  “Why don’t you buy that island you’ve been talking about for years?” he suggested.

  “And take up fishing?” Shaw responded scornfully.

  “You used to be interested in that.”

  The shooter paused, then said, “Used to. I wanted to retire in triumph and take it easy, having gotten out at the top of my game, not slink off in shame.”

  “You’re still way ahead, buddy. How many successful hits have you made? Dozens just this year, and dozens every year for years, decades now?”

  “Shit,” Shaw spat.

  Johns let it go, stood up, and stretched.

  Shaw looked at him shar
ply. “Did you fall asleep? You look too damn rested for a guy who stayed awake all night.”

  “What?”

  “Did you fall asleep?”

  “You know me. I don’t sleep on the job, buddy.”

  “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “I did not fall asleep on you,” Johns said firmly, but Shaw, moodily, was already on to another topic.

  “I’ll never get it back,” he said.

  “Get what back exactly?”

  “The job, the ability; I’ll never get it back. I’ve never learned to shoot straight left-handed, and the doctors say it’s unlikely I’ll ever be able to use a prosthetic with the proficiency of my missing hand. It’s over. I’m not a shooter anymore.”

  “So work with me and use your brain instead of your trigger finger.”

  “If you were to let the rank amateur who’s out to get me into this room, you’d be doing me a favor.”

  “Screw that. I owe you more than that. You’ll get back on your feet, get a hook on that stump, buy your island, and I’ll call you every few days for expert advice. It’ll be great. You’ll catch fish and have all the female companionship money can buy. It’ll be a great retirement.”

  “Buy that island,” Shaw murmured.

  “Excuse me,” Johns said, “I need to use the facilities. My guy will be here shortly to take the next shift, and I have a business to run.”

  While Johns was on the toilet, Shaw picked up his phone, set it carefully on the bed beside him, and tried to tap out a search. With a little effort and patience, he found that the island he’d looked at off and on for several years in the Carolinas was still for sale, and more cheaply than before. He made a phone call and an offer. There was a certain satisfaction in the exercise of his wealth, and if he didn’t look at his right arm, he could almost pretend nothing was wrong.