Lucky Bones

by Michael Wiley

  Kelson grinned at her. ‘You little fellows twisted their arms?’

  She stopped tapping her shoes. ‘Don’t make the same mistake others have made, Mr Kelson. Our research says that despite appearances, you’re smart.’

  ‘You use the word “research” like a knife.’

  Bob Winsin said, ‘We pay well for the services we value, Mr Kelson.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a checkbook.

  ‘No,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ As if Kelson had spoken in a strange language.

  ‘I could get Marty for you easy enough, but I won’t do it. He’s a friend. Crooked as hell, but he’s a good guy, you know. And I don’t like you. At all. I don’t know where you get your money or what you do with it, and I don’t care. Now, if you’ll leave, I’ll walk out with you – I have somewhere to go that I do care about.’

  The Winsins stayed in their chairs, as if they’d bought the office out from under Kelson. Christine Winsin said, ‘Do you know where real power lies? A long time ago, it was with men like you – men who muscled through the world. Then, for many years, it was with governments and churches, with their collective muscle. Then with money.’ When Kelson smiled at that, she said, ‘Yes, it still lies with money. But do you know what the backbone of power is? The nerve center?’

  ‘I know you’re boring me,’ Kelson said.

  Christine Winsin pressed her tiny feet together. ‘The backbone – the nerve center – is personal information. Everyone values it, but few aside from big corporations have the resources to access it. For example, your daughter Sue Ellen – eleven years old – goes to Hayt Elementary School. You should talk with her about the C she’s earning in math. She likes to draw. She has a stuffed animal – a monkey – she keeps on her pillow. You should also probably talk with her about posting personal pictures on the internet. Less easily discoverable, she has a habit of sneaking out of her mother’s house at night. Some might call that a cry for attention.’

  Kelson tried to speak – tried to tell her what he would do if she or her brothers ever hurt Sue Ellen or even thought of hurting her – but his words tangled in his mouth. So he reached under the desktop, pulled out his KelTec, and aimed at her.

  She and her brothers showed no fear.

  ‘Now who’s the little fellow?’ she said.

  But David Winsin said, ‘Good, we’re getting down to business,’ as if all they’d talked about up until this moment was a tedious preliminary to what mattered.

  Bob Winsin said, ‘You should understand, we have no interest in harming anyone. Why would we want to hurt a little girl? Why would we want to hurt her mother? Think of all those kids with unfilled cavities. Why would we want to hurt your friend DeMarcus Rodman? When someone dies in his neighborhood, the police turn their backs and the nightly news does a story on Girl Scout cookie sales.’

  Kelson shifted his pistol so it pointed at the middle of his white Oxford shirt.

  ‘The point is,’ Christine Winsin said, ‘we wish to meet with Marty LeCoeur. We wish to discuss positive outcomes with him. Everyone might benefit – Mr LeCoeur included. Why don’t you contact him – through whatever means you wish to use? Ask him whether he would like to enter a mutually beneficial arrangement with us. If he agrees, we will write you a second check. In the meantime …’

  She didn’t need to glance at her brother. Bob Winsin pulled out a pen, wrote a check, and laid it on the desk in front of Kelson.

  Kelson picked it up. It was for ten thousand dollars. He made to rip it.

  ‘Don’t make the same mistake others have made,’ Christine Winsin said again.

  Kelson eyed her tiny red shoes. He eyed the silver tie clip on David Winsin’s tie. He eyed Bob Winsin’s ageless face. Then he put the check in his top desk drawer.

  He said, ‘I’ll talk with Marty. I’ll see if he’ll meet you.’

  ‘That’s all we ever wanted,’ Bob Winsin said.

  The Winsins got up together as if responding to a silent signal. Bob Winsin set a business card with a phone number on the desk. ‘Soonest would be best,’ he said. He, his brother, and his sister left Kelson’s office. When they shut the door behind them, it made no sound.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Kelson drove north toward KVC Security Services, talking on the phone with Rodman.

  ‘Yeah, I can get a message to Marty,’ Rodman said. ‘He’s holed up at—’

  ‘Don’t,’ Kelson said. ‘These people tapped into Sue Ellen’s school and social media. For all I know they’re listening right now.’

  ‘If they touch Sue Ellen, I’ll break their necks,’ Rodman said.

  ‘Only after I do,’ Kelson said. ‘Problem is, they’re snakes. I don’t know they have necks to break. I do know they aren’t worried about me breaking them.’

  ‘I’ll get the message to Marty.’

  ‘How’s Genevieve Bower?’ Kelson asked.

  ‘Cindi says when I snore I crack the ceiling paint. But that woman kept me up all night.’

  ‘She’s very physical,’ Kelson said.

  ‘She’s a beast.’

  ‘The Cranes are looking for her. Can you put her with Marty?’

  ‘Yeah, I could do that. But she dated him, and Janet might have a problem. Marty’s a lover – can’t say what’ll happen if we get them together in a hideaway.’

  Kelson laughed. ‘Marty’s a lover?’

  ‘For a guy people underestimate, you’re a bad judge of character. Marty’s got moves. I heard Janet telling Cindi what he does with that hand of his.’

  ‘You’re screwing with me now.’

  ‘God’s truth.’

  KVC Security operated out of a large brown single-story building with tinted windows in an industrial park east of the highway. American-made pickups and German sports cars filled the narrow parking lot.

  Kelson turned off his engine in a visitor spot, glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, and, as usual, was surprised by the face that stared back. ‘Here goes,’ he told his reflection. ‘Watch my back.’

  The bald man at the lobby reception desk had wide, unblinking blue eyes and a voice so tremulous Kelson had to lean in to make sense of his words.

  Kelson introduced himself and said, ‘I’d like to talk with somebody about one of the KVC security men.’

  ‘That would be Mrs Ricks in HR.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Mrs Ricks. HR,’ the man said. He sat in his desk chair with the rigid posture of a back injury victim.

  Kelson waited for him to do something. When he didn’t, Kelson said, ‘Could you let her know I want to talk with her?’

  The man picked up his phone, tapped an extension number, and mumbled.

  Then he looked up at Kelson and said something to him.

  Kelson leaned in. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Which security officer?’

  ‘Ramsey Garner – works at G&G Private Equity.’

  The man mumbled the name into the phone, then told Kelson, ‘Mrs Ricks will be right out.’

  Kelson said, ‘Did something terrible happen to you?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘The way you look – and talk.’

  ‘No one shot me in the head,’ the man said. ‘I’d duck if a drug dealer pulled a gun on me.’

  ‘You scare me,’ Kelson said.

  ‘We make inquiries.’

  Then a woman in her late forties came from a door at the far end of the lobby, her heels loud on the tile floor. She wore a beige pantsuit. Her blond hair fell to her shoulders, and she had a single strand of pearls around her neck.

  She held a hand to shake Kelson’s before she neared him. ‘I’m Jennifer Ricks. Let’s go to my office.’

  She never acknowledged the man at the reception desk, and they left him staring unblinkingly at the building entrance.

  ‘What’s his problem?’ Kelson asked as she led him into a bright hallway.

  ‘Does he have one?’ She opened an of
fice door.

  The room had no windows, no art or photographs on the walls. Except for a pad of yellow legal paper and a pen, the desktop was bare. The woman rounded the desk and gestured at a chair across from her. ‘Please.’ She sat and picked up the pen. When Kelson sat too, she gave him a cold smile. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Do all of your security workers hire out as goons?’

  ‘“Goons”? Really?’

  ‘What’s the industry term? Strong-arm thugs? Gorillas?’

  ‘KVC has been in business for thirty years,’ she said. ‘We’ve always remained above reproach.’

  ‘Because you beat up or kill anyone who reproaches you?’

  ‘Because we maintain high standards.’

  ‘Stop reading from the handbook,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Then stop being rude.’ Her voice and expression were placid.

  ‘Tell me about Ramsey Garner.’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘You know who I am. Even zombie-boy at the front desk knows.’

  She tipped her head, as if to acknowledge the truth of what he said. ‘What’s to tell? Mr Garner has worked for us for the past eight months. He has a military background, as I guess you know. He trained for the SEALs but dropped out before completing the program. We don’t hold that against him. He’s received high evaluations in the jobs he’s worked for us.’

  ‘How long has he been at G&G?’

  ‘We don’t discuss clients.’

  ‘Then what do you know about the blast at the Rogers Park Library last week?’

  ‘Nothing, except what the news has said. What should I know?’ Placid.

  ‘Do you know Ramsey Garner used to pal around with the man the FBI and cops are accusing – Victor Almonte? They served together in Afghanistan.’

  For the first time, she hesitated. But her face showed no surprise or concern. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Do you know that one of the men who died from the blast was cooking the accounting for G&G?’

  ‘We don’t discuss clients.’

  ‘Does KVC send you to special school to do that?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘You and zombie-boy tell me nothing with your faces. With zombie-boy, it’s just strange. With you, it’s dishonest. I could tell you that G&G farts poisoned gas, and you’d give me the same flat-faced We don’t talk about clients.’

  ‘I’ve read about you,’ she said. ‘Mr Garner asked for a profile after encountering you and a colleague yesterday. As part of company protocol, our team circulates summaries of potentially troubling figures to all regional employees. When I read yours, I admit that I dismissed you. But now that you’re here, you fascinate me. What exactly do you want?’

  ‘The man who died while doing the G&G books – he was the nephew of a friend of mine. A woman named Genevieve Bower who Ramsey Garner and some other G&G security men have been hunting – she’s my client. I’m pretty sure Garner or his friends killed a guy she was dating. And I’m pretty sure Garner set up Victor Almonte. So I want you to tell me how much you and your bosses know about this. How much of it you’ve let happen. Or made happen.’

  As he spoke she fingered her strand of pearls like rosary beads. But when she saw that he noticed, she laid her hands flat on the desk.

  ‘I can assure you—’ she said, but stopped and assured him nothing because two men entered the office behind Kelson. One of them, about the age of the HR woman, wore a tight black T-shirt over his muscled chest and biceps. The other was Ramsey Garner, who wore khakis and a green golf shirt. He had a bruise on his freckled jaw where Rodman had punched him and a scabbing split over his lip where Rodman had backfisted him. He looked like he wanted to hit someone the way Rodman had hit him. He looked like that someone was Kelson.

  THIRTY-SIX

  ‘Stand up,’ said Ramsey Garner, aiming a black pistol at Kelson.

  Kelson stood, put his hands in the air, and said, ‘I left mine in my office.’ The man in the black T-shirt frisked him. ‘I say dumb stuff, but I’m not stupid. Ask Mrs Ricks. She’s got the research – a word I’m starting to hate, by the way.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Garner said.

  ‘Good one,’ Kelson said. ‘You know I can’t, right? I’m constitutionally – cognitively – unable to—’

  Garner hit Kelson’s head with his gun butt – hard enough to silence most men.

  ‘Ouch,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Another word, and I hit you again.’

  ‘Please don’t. My therapist says a concussion—’

  Garner hit him harder.

  ‘Jesus, don’t do that.’ Kelson spun and tried to punch him.

  Garner aimed the pistol at Kelson’s chest. ‘Are you crazy?’

  Kelson yelled at him, ‘In spite of appearances, no.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Garner said.

  ‘Gladly.’ Kelson sat.

  Garner nodded at Mrs Ricks. ‘Out.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, and left the office, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ Kelson said.

  ‘I guess it’s the man with the gun,’ Garner said. He went behind the desk and sat in Mrs Ricks’s chair.

  The man in the black T-shirt stood behind Kelson, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Kelson glanced at him and said, ‘Stop flexing your muscles, Squirt.’

  ‘You really can’t shut up,’ Garner said.

  ‘I really can’t. Especially when I’m nervous.’ His eye twitched.

  ‘Let’s keep you nervous, then. Where’s Genevieve Bower?’

  Kelson made a face, struggling to keep his mouth shut. It was no use. ‘She spent the night at my friend DeMarcus Rodman’s apartment – he’s the one who clobbered you in your freckled face yesterday – but now she’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Got you,’ Kelson said. ‘I don’t know. DeMarcus is taking her to stay with someone else who interests you – Marty LeCoeur. I don’t know where Marty’s hiding. I swear. But something else might interest you. Marty’s a lady’s man. You’d never guess it – or I wouldn’t. He’s like Squirt.’

  Garner fingered his pistol.

  ‘Does Squirt have a name?’ Kelson asked.

  Garner scratched his face by the bruise. ‘He won’t tell it to you. He won’t tell you a damn thing. But he’ll make you tell me anything I want to know. If necessary, he’ll make your friends talk too. The sounds grown men make once he starts on them are terrifying.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Kelson. ‘Squirt’s a mean little bastard. He spits acid. He pokes holes in human hearts with his pointy fingers. But I have a question for you. Why did you set up Victor Almonte?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I should just shoot you.’

  ‘If you do, neither of us will get what we want.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ll save myself the aggravation.’

  ‘Why did you set up Almonte?’

  Garner stared at him square, and Kelson tried not to swallow hard. Garner said, ‘Do you know how Jeff Finch died?’

  Kelson said, ‘I don’t even know who Jeff Finch is.’

  ‘He served with me and Almonte in Afghanistan,’ Garner said. ‘Drunk or sober, he was the best bomb disposal guy in the unit. Until Almonte fucked up. All Almonte had to do was carry a bag from the truck. Every goddamned job, you carry the bag. He didn’t carry the bag. When he went back to the truck for it, the IED exploded. No more Jeff Finch.’

  ‘Ahh,’ Kelson said.

  ‘Ahh what?’

  ‘You blame Almonte for your pal’s death.’

  Garner gave him a gaze as if from far above. ‘I don’t blame anyone. Sooner or later we all fuck up. When we do, someone dies. It was Finch’s turn, is all. But Almonte blamed himself. Finch’s death tore him apart. I did him a favor at the library. He went out with purpose – on a mission – the way he meant to die.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Kelson said. ‘He died to make the Cranes more millions.’

  ‘He didn’t know t
hat. He thought – no, he knew he served a greater cause. I told him so, and that’s all he needed to know. He died like a good soldier.’ Garner tapped the pistol with a forefinger as if he was sending code. ‘Now, where is Genevieve Bower?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Kelson said. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘What? Convince Almonte to set off the bomb?’ Garner glanced at the man in the black T-shirt. Kelson sensed that if Garner twitched or bared his teeth or wiggled his nose, the man would make him churn out terrifying sounds. But Garner said, ‘A variation on a cell phone trigger. Anybody who’s done the first week of disposal training can take one apart and put it together again. I threw in a couple of neat tricks to satisfy certain requirements, but nothing fancy. Simple is best.’

  ‘A simple death.’

  ‘All death is simple,’ Garner said. ‘You’re living, then you’re dead. A light switch.’

  ‘Except when someone else’s death tears you apart, like Victor Almonte.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t understand how simple it could be. He thought too much. Where’s Genevieve Bower?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know.’

  Garner didn’t twitch. Or bare his teeth. Or wiggle his nose. But the man in the black T-shirt was suddenly choking Kelson. As the man gripped him around the throat, Kelson felt himself lose breath – felt a fast-approaching loss of consciousness, felt what seemed like a cascade of blood from his brain into a cavity he’d never known existed. He reached to grab the man, to gouge his eyes or rip off his nostrils – anything at all – but his hands found empty air. So he signaled submission, total surrender.

  Then he could breathe again – a rasping breath that scraped his throat. He tried to talk. No words came out. He ripped more breath into his lungs.

  ‘Take your time,’ Garner said.

  Kelson breathed – tried to breathe – for a minute, then another, and his breath felt like he was bleeding inside. Garner tapped his pistol and watched. The man in the black T-shirt stood behind Kelson again, his arms crossed over his chest.

  When Kelson spoke, his words cracked, as if the man in the T-shirt had bent his windpipe. ‘I’ll take you – to DeMarcus. You can – ask him – where.’

  Garner looked disappointed. ‘Coward,’ he said. ‘You lasted like seven seconds. Even the weakest soldier lasts ten or eleven before giving up his friends.’