The Dangerous Mr Wolf

by Brian Drake

  Marcus eyed the automatic hungrily. He said, “Trish Newman is the twist I’m working with. It was her idea. She came to me for muscle.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She works for a company Fulton is trying to take over. Everybody knows that when he does that, he’ll close the company and lay off every single employee. Trish is using the kid to make him back off.”

  “Doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Well you’ll have to ask her about it.”

  “Okay.”

  Wolf kicked the gun toward Marcus. He grabbed it and fumbled getting his finger on the trigger. When he raised the gun, he was smiling but Wolf had Gina’s gun out and already pointed at Marcus. Marcus’s eyes widened and he hesitated. Why he did not fire Wolf didn’t think about or really care about. He could never figure out what made Victor Marcus tick. Instead he pulled the trigger twice.

  He stepped over Marcus’s body as he wiped off Gina’s gun. He dropped the gun near the couch and left the apartment.

  Wolf went into his bedroom and donned jeans, black sweater, black boots. From a trunk in his bedroom closet, he gathered a selection of telephone equipment, and steered the Camaro across town. He stopped at the phone pole down the street from Trish Newman’s condo complex. She lived in a small condominium with her husband and autistic 10-year-old nephew, of whom they were legal guardians. Wolf slung his pack of gizmos and climbed the pole to the junction box. The pack moved back and forth across his back, some of the gear digging through the sweater as he shifted his body for each step. His stomach quibbled at the height, so he didn’t look down.

  The quiet slanting rooftops scattered around, with their lit windows, were of no interest; he thought he heard a cat meowing from a nearby tree. A football game blared from an open window somewhere, with accompanying shouts and cheers. Popping open the junction box he examined the wires and connections and plugged in a portable handset. The CompuSoft files had provided Trish Newman’s number, but the wires weren’t labeled that way. He had to call each line in order to get the one he needed. He rang the lines, asking for Trish each time. After a string of wrong numbers, a woman with a rough smoker’s voice said, “This is she.”

  “Missus Newman,” Wolf said, “you’re one of the lucky few who have been chosen--”

  “Not interested.” Click.

  Wolf tugged her line free from the jumble of wires and exchanged the handset for a small remote transmitter which he connected to the box’s power supply and spliced to Trish’s line. A light on the transmitter flashed when he pressed a small button on the side.

  A car with a clanking engine drove by, but did not stop.

  Wolf closed the box, shimmied down, and climbed back into the Camaro. He screwed an earpiece into his left ear and drove to a new parking spot directly across from the condo complex. Easing back the seat, he took a cigar from his inside jacket pocket, snipped the end, and lit the tip with a gold Zippo. By the time half the cigar had turned to gray ash, the earpiece crackled to life. Trish answered the call. The voice on the other end said the girl was having a freak out--Wolf heard a female screaming in the background--and what should they do? Trish told them to handle it. The 24 hours were almost up so she wouldn’t be a bother for long.

  Wolf tossed the cigar out the window and the earpiece on the floor. He exited the Camaro and collected a black dart pistol from the bag of tricks in the rear compartment. He crossed the street.

  The husband answered the door. He started to open his mouth and Wolf fired a dart into his chest. The husband’s eyes rolled back, and he dropped. Wolf stepped over the unconscious man. Trish, on the couch, screamed over the sounds from the television; Wolf’s next dart struck her above the heart, and she plopped against the cushions. The 10-year-old nephew, unsteady on his feet with a glass of milk in one hand, gaped at Wolf from the kitchen. Wolf fired a third time. The kid dropped, the milk spilling over his clothes, the floor. Wolf jammed the dart pistol in his belt, slung Trish Newman over his shoulder, grunting under her weight, and hustled out to the car.

  The juice wore off within a half-hour. Wolf hadn’t loaded the darts to full capacity. He watched the woman’s eyes open, look around the cold room, and wince from the bright light which blasted up her nose. She was a stocky brunette with short hair. Leather straps confined her to a hard metal chair, a metal table between her and Wolf. The lamp sat on the table.

  As the woman squinted, Wolf removed the Colt .45 auto from under his arm. He leaned into the light so she could see the muzzle. He said, “Tell me where Suzi Fulton is, or I’ll blast your head in half.”

  A professional would have argued the logic of such a statement, Wolf knew. But Trish Newman was not a professional.

  It took two hours to reach the cabin, the Newman’s weekend home, where the hired goons held Suzi. Wolf stopped the Camaro at the end of the long driveway. Decked out head-to-toe in black, he stayed in the shadows as he advanced up the length of the drive. Pine needles crunched under his boots and crickets stopped chirping as he moved. In the old days, his enemies would have taken the sudden silence as a sign of impending attack; tonight, he need not worry. The chilly night cooled the sweat on his face and neck. His Colt .45 auto rode on his right hip; he carried a stubby Heckler & Koch MP-7 submachine gun in both hands. He squatted in the dry brush near the front, examined the porch and windows. The drapes were closed.

  Wolf aimed the MP-7 at the door, fired three controlled bursts that destroyed the hinges. A kick sent the splintered door spinning inward. He moved into the house. Down the hallway in front of him, a man in baggy clothes dug behind his back and hauled out a pistol. Wolf stitched him stomach to chest and continued forward.

  A girl screamed from somewhere in the house.

  A gunman with long hair swung around a corner across the room and zeroed in as Wolf pivoted, triggering the HK. The slugs split open the gunman’s head.

  Wolf followed the wall down the hallway to the living room. The screaming continued, getting louder. As he cleared the corner, two more males in T-shirts and jeans let a few rounds go, Wolf dropping low, the wall spitting chunks of plaster and dust over his head. Some of the plaster landed on his neck and trickled down his back. Wolf hit the floor and fired. The MP-7 burst drilled one of the shooters; the sub gun clicked empty. The last shooter jumped from cover, firing with one shaky hand, the rounds going wide, as Wolf clawed the .45 from leather. The man in black fired twice. The slugs struck the last shooter in the chest; his mouth opened in a silent scream, and he landed atop his dead compatriot.

  Wolf’s eyes hit the screaming, wrecked figure on the floor near the television, covered in soiled blankets. Suzi. She wore only a T-shirt, no pants or underwear, hair in tangles, face cut and inner thighs bloody. When Wolf approached, she screamed, pulled knees to chest, tried to bury her head in the blankets. Wolf found clean blankets in a hall closet and returned to the girl. That’s when she peeked at Wolf’s face, stopped screaming, and started crying. Wolf wrapped her up and carried her out.

  Wolf brought Suzi to the home of a doctor, Harry McNeil, whom he trusted to keep his mouth shut and not phone the police. He’d patched up Wolf on several occasions. The doctor and his wife treated Suzi in a back bedroom. Wolf went into the kitchen, flicked on the lights, and called the Fultons and told them how to get there.

  Wolf sat at the kitchen table with elbows on knees, staring at a spot on the tiled floor, shoulders in a deflated slump. He wondered where he had gone wrong. Maybe he should have investigated the CompuSoft people sooner. Maybe he should have brought in help to follow Suzi. He wouldn’t have lost her in traffic that way. Maybe he should have--

  He stopped. It didn’t make a difference anymore.

  Fulton showed up with wife Kimberly in tow. She didn’t take the news well, and McNeil’s wife led the crying Mrs. Fulton into another room while the doctor said to the father, “She suffered a lot of blunt trauma. No fractures or broken bones, though. The physical wounds will heal. The rest? Well, I
know a good rape counselor if you’d like her name.”

  Fulton asked to talk to Wolf out in the car. They sat in the back seat. The doors seemed to block any air from getting in, and the two men sat silent within the silence. Fulton’s body shook. Wolf sat still, breathing evenly, hands in his lap, unable to comfort the man. He knew all too well that there would never be any comfort after this night.

  “Tell me everything that happened since I saw you last,” Fulton said.

  When Wolf finished the story, Fulton said, “Where is Trish now?”

  “Where I can get to her.”

  “Options?”

  “She can be found in an alley with a broken neck, or I can turn her over to you.”

  Murray Fulton said nothing for a long time. Just stared at his shaking hands.

  “She’ll say this wasn’t supposed to happen,” the black-haired man said. “She’ll say she only wanted me to back out.” He looked into Wolf’s eyes. “Give her to me. My people will take it from here.”

  Fulton let out a breath, rubbed his face with both hands, but held together. Wolf sat with him until he was ready to go back inside.

  The news and gossip rags picked up the story once Suzi checked in to the local hospital and cops arrested Trish Newman. After the CompuSoft president did the perp walk following her arraignment, Fulton spoke to reporters. “Whatever it takes, my family will get through this. My daughter will be okay.” The Botox had worn off, and his face made lines here and there as he spoke.

  A few nights after the arraignment, Inspector Callaway joined Wolf on yet another rooftop.

  “The contract on you hasn’t been cancelled,” Callaway said.

  “I know.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Later,” Wolf said. “I’ll deal with it later.”

  Callaway laughed. “I bet.” He paused a moment. “I hope I never catch you with a gun, Wolf. I’d hate to...well, you know.”

  “I’m glad we have that understanding.”

  “How desperate can somebody be to organize a kidnapping?”

  “This would have been the second time Trish lost a job because of Fulton,” Wolf said. “She has a huge responsibility to her nephew. The way things are right now, that was all it took to push her over.”

  “I’ll never figure people out,” Callaway said.

  Wolf found sleep difficult once the trial began. He’d dream about smashing into the cabin over and over, but he never reached Suzi in time.

  A few months later a jury convicted Trish Newman and sentenced her to ten years in prison, and Wolf figured that was the end, until the following morning. He stood out on the deck watching the morning traffic in the streets below with the television news in the background. The anchorman began talking about a young woman who, the previous evening, had sped onto the Richardson Bay Bridge, reached the middle of the span, and tried to drive off the side. The concrete sidewall stopped her. The young woman blasted out of the car and leaped over the wall.

  Three days later, Suzi Fulton’s body washed ashore. She’d joined all the others in the dark.

  When authorities escorted Trish Newman into prison on a bright sunny day, Wolf watched from the parking lot with his right fist clenched tight. He’d have to wait ten years, but he’d see her again. One last time.

  Part III

  The Red Ruby Kill

  The Red Ruby Kill

  There are only three rules in this city:

  Never cheat your partner,

  Never take more than your share,

  And never cross

  WOLF

  The deadbolt needed extra force, but it turned.

  Wolf entered the apartment. The occupant was dead, presently lying in a downtown alley from which he had ambushed Wolf twenty minutes earlier. He didn’t get off more than one shot before Wolf nailed him with a pair of .45 slugs in the chest.

  The contract was still open.

  Not that Wolf had heard otherwise. He hadn’t heard much at all about the contract since learning that he was a marked man. Nobody on the street knew anything. Some would more than happily lie if it meant getting rid of him, but even the informants he trusted were stumped.

  But somebody wanted him dead. After his last adventure, somebody had put out the contract. Worse, the dead killer wasn’t local; that meant either imported talent, or every trigger-happy gun thug was on his way to try for the ten grand. It didn’t even seem worth the effort.

  Wolf searched the place. No furnishings except a futon for a bed and couch along with a small TV and scattered personal items. Nothing to indicate there was a second occupant. He found clothes in a suitcase. An x-ray proof bottom fell away once he found the lock and revealed two boxes of .45 ammo and a gun to shoot it with, a Government Model like the one Wolf carried. He put the ammo in his jacket pockets and the extra pistol in his belt. One could never have enough guns, especially ones that weren’t traceable to him.

  He sorted through the personal items. Usual electronic junk. Wolf found a cell phone, but it was of the use-it-and-lose-it variety with no stored numbers.

  Wolf locked the apartment and left. There wasn’t anything worth stealing, but the cops would ID the body soon enough and he wanted the place secure so they could try their luck.

  Back on the street he climbed into his car and drove off.

  He had an appointment.

  “You’re not out of breath,” Wolf said.

  Inspector John Callaway of the city police smiled as he crossed the rooftop to where Wolf stood.

  Callaway said: “I’ve been hitting the treadmill.”

  “You’re looking good.”

  “How can you tell?” Callaway wore his usual rumpled suit and overcoat combo over his overweight frame.

  “Your face is brighter.”

  This was their routine. When Wolf needed to talk, they met on a rooftop. Climbing fire escapes was getting to be part of a regular routine for the inspector, but he still didn’t know what to make of Wolf. The man had no past that anybody knew of, never spoke of one; the only thing that gave Callaway a clue that Wolf had even existed in the past was the silver locket he wore. Callaway saw the chain, as always, hanging from the other man’s neck, but Wolf kept the locket hidden under his shirt. The inspector hadn’t worked up the guts to ask what it meant yet.

  Wolf might have been sketchy, but Callaway had to admit he came through for the cops a lot and offered services for-hire to anybody who needed a friend. Some guys got dead when Wolf went into action, but it was usually only the bad guys.

  Callaway said: “What’s up?”

  “Find any stiffs today?”

  “Who have you hypothetically killed?”

  “You may recall that there’s a contract out on me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Somebody tried to cash in. Not a local. Either out-of-towners are arriving to give it a shot or the mastermind is bringing in his own people.”

  “Where might this alleged wanderer be?”

  “Potentially in the alley near 16th and Bryant.”

  “What happened?”

  Wolf told him.

  “I’ll ask about it,” Callaway said. “That’s not my territory.”

  Wolf handed Callaway the apartment key. “Found that on him along with a post-it in his wallet with the address. I stopped by but there wasn’t anything good.”

  Callaway pocketed the key. He pressed his lips together.

  “What’s on your mind, John?”

  “Rumors. You say this guy isn’t local. I’m going to bet money he’s from the east coast. We’ve heard that several free-lancers are coming here, but nobody knows who they are or anything else. Your guy may be the first positive ID we get.”

  “Ten grand is nothing to people like that,” Wolf said. “They’re coming in for something else.”

  “You stirred up a hornet’s nest last time. Maybe they think you’re a threat.”

  Wolf shrugged. “I probably am. It would be nice to know
what I’m threatening, though.” He started for the fire escape. “Let me know what you find.”

  “Goes both ways,” the inspector said to Wolf’s back. “I’m not your secretary, Wolf.”

  Somebody had to know something about Callaway’s rumors.

  After finishing his scrambled eggs and bacon the next morning, Wolf wrote a list of the independent operators not connected to the Gulino or Sanchez syndicates, but allowed to operate in the city as long as they kicked back a portion to the two capos. The contract had gone out after he hit the indies looking for Suzi Fulton’s kidnappers. It didn’t matter if he’d hit a gang not involved. Somebody knew where she was or who had her, and he made them hurt until one delivered the information.

  But by then it had been too late.

  Wolf examined his list and figured it was enough to start. Shaking cages had worked once; now it was time to shake some more.

  The assassin had fired his first and only shot through the windshield of Wolf’s Cadillac. As he drove on the western expressway, wind whistled through the hole. Wolf figured he’d plug it with chewing gum until he properly replaced the windshield. He chewed the gum as he drove.

  He exited the expressway and drove along city streets to the Shipwreck Bar, owned and operated by the first name on his list: Nate Mason. Mason also ran an off-grid poker room which Wolf had raided while looking for Suzi Fulton, stealing twenty grand. Want somebody to talk? Hit ‘em in the pocket-book.

  Wolf parked at the curb. As he reached the sidewalk, he took the gum from his mouth and stuck it in the hole in the windshield.

  He left his jacket open for easy access to his Colt .45 should the gun be required. Wolf entered the bar.

  No customers this early. The neon beer signs were off; a morning chat show played on the muted TV on one wall. The bartender’s welcome smile faded as soon as he recognized Wolf’s map.