Crisscross rj-8

by F. Paul Wilson

Back at the window, he saw Brady offer the boys beers, then light up a joint and pass it around.

  "Giving beer and pot to minors," Cordova said. "That's a good start."

  The kids looked fairly comfortable, as if they were used to this sort of thing. Jack knew what they were: male prostitutes. Teenagers. "Chickens" to the trade. Usually kids kicked out of their homes because they're gay; they gravitate to cities but can't support themselves, so they wind up fodder for chicken hawks. And Brady was a chicken hawk.

  Jack had hoped for something big to use against the man, but never imagined…

  As Brady threw off the robe and the two boys began to undress, Jack moved away.

  "Hey, where you going?" Cordova said.

  "Back to the car."

  Cordova's tone was mocking. "No jacking off now."

  Jack wanted to kill him right there. Do an HVAC job on his skull, then burst through the door and do the same to Brady. But that wasn't in the plan. And it wouldn't change the lives of those two boys. They'd spend some time in the state child-welfare mill, then wind up back on the street.

  The night sky seemed bright compared to the darkness in Jack's heart.

  14

  While Jack waited in the Jeep he got the Mikulski brothers' phone number from information. Brad, the older one, answered.

  "It's me: Jack."

  "Hey. What've you got for us?"

  Jack never made social calls to the Mikulskis. This was no exception. But he wanted to be careful since he was on a cell phone.

  "Got a New York license plate for you. Write this down." Jack recited it from memory. "You might want to do business with the guy."

  "What's he into?"

  "Chickens. Export and import, I believe.*"

  "That so?"

  "And I also believe he's ripe for a takeover bid."

  "How ripe?"

  "ASAP."

  "All right. We'll get on it tomorrow. Thanks for the heads-up, man."

  "My pleasure."

  Jack ended the call, then leaned back in the passenger seat. Calling the Mikulskis in made him feel a little better. Weird pair, those two. Had a real jones for pedophiles. Didn't know what was in their past to make them that way, and didn't want to. But he did know they'd track that van, and if they witnessed what Jack was sure they would, a certain chicken runner would be out of business. Permanently.

  Jack wanted him gone before the shit hit Brady's fan.

  He shifted in the seat and felt something jab him in the thigh. He reached down and came up with a crucifix on a broken chain. Just like the one he'd seen hanging around Sister Maggie's neck.

  Jack closed his eyes and tried to stay calm. The only thing that worked was repeating… it won't be long now … won't be long now … over and over.

  Cordova showed up a few minutes later. He placed his cameras in the rear, then rolled onto the driver's seat. He laughed as he started the car.

  "What's so funny?" Jack said.

  "We got him! We got him six ways from Sunday! He's as good as dead! Even if those pictures don't land him in the slammer, he'll never be able to show his face again! He's gonna have to hide away in his little love nest and never come out!"

  He laughed again and bounced in his seat like a kid who'd just been told that Christmas had been extended to 365 days a year.

  Jack said, "I'd almost think that you had as much against him as I."

  Cordova immediately sobered. "Oh, well, no, I mean I'm just always happy when an investigation comes through for the client. And you gotta admit, this puppy came through in spades. I can't wait to see those photos."

  "Neither can I. Where do you get them developed?"

  "I got a little lab in my house."

  Jack knew that. He'd seen it. Just a converted closet, but a small-time operator like Cordova didn't need more.

  "Wonderful. Let's go. And don't tell me I'm not coming along, because I am. I paid for those photos and I want to see what I've got. If they're what I

  need to bring Brad) down, you'll get the extra thousand T promised right then and there."

  "What? Come to my place? I never…" He paused for a few heartbeats, then, "Well, I guess it would be okay. I mean, seeing as you're laying out all this money and all. Yeah. Sure. Why not."

  Cordova had agreed just a little too easily. Jack had known he'd go along eventually, but had expected him to play a little harder to get.

  15

  Sweet Jesus, Richie thought as he arranged the prints across his desktop. They were . . .fantastic was the only word for them.

  He sat in his darkened attic office and stared. The only sound was the breathing of the guy leaning over his shoulder. Gorcey had insisted on printing every frame. Immediately. He wanted them now. Not tomorrow or the next day. Now.

  That was okay by Richie. The prints wouldn't go to waste. He'd scan them and copy them onto a CD. Then he'd stick them in an envelope marked Personal & Confidential and address it to Luther Brady.

  He wanted to get up and dance. This was the mother lode. This was the California gold rush and the key to De Beers rolled into one.

  Even though he'd had to take the photos through a screened window into a moderately lighted room, the images were clear enough to detail the goings-on in that cabin. Brady without his mask before the boys arrived; Brady putting on his mask; Brady making the boys earn their pay—really earn it.

  Brady, Brady, Brady.

  Richie had been a little sickened by the stuff that went down in that room, but he'd hung in there until he'd had enough. More than enough.

  Luther Brady, you are my meat, you are my bitch. From this day forward, I own you.

  Only one thing stood in the way: the guy behind him. Louis Gorcey.

  He couldn't let him walk out of here. The only way Gorcey was leaving this house was horizontal and feet first.

  But he couldn't risk giving Gorcey even a hint of what was coming.

  He spoke without looking up. "See anything you like?" he said, knowing it could be taken two ways.

  "I like none of it. I am appalled. I was hoping for something scandalous, but this… this is unspeakable."

  Gorcey sounded offended. That surprised Richie. After all, didn't gay guys like young stuff? He knew he did. Girls, of course. Not boys. But teen girls, with the way they dressed these days in their tight tops and low-riding jeans leaving their smooth, rounded bellies showing, it just wasn't fair to a guy who wasn't getting much. How he'd love to pull down a pair of those hip-hugging jeans and put his face…

  Fat chance. Like one of them would go for a guy forty years older—older than their dads, probably. And fat to boot.

  Richie sighed. The closest he'd ever get to one of those was on the Internet. But he could dream. Oh, yeah, he could dream real good.

  He tore himself away from young girls and got back to these pictures of young boys.

  "Well, did I earn the extra grand?"

  "Yes. You earned your bonus."

  "Great. Now, what do we do?" When Gorcey didn't answer, Richie looked up at him. "Hello? Did you hear what I—?"

  Gorcey's face looked strange. He'd finally taken off his sunglasses. Left his gloves on but had to remove the shades, what with the room being kind of dark. His brown eyes were scary. Murderous, almost. Richie's heart stopped for a second when he thought that look might be for him. But how could it be? They'd only met tonight, and it was Brady that Gorcey was after.

  Gorcey nodded. "I heard you. But I'm thinking."

  "About what?"

  "Blackmail." His hand did a quick wave. "I know what you said about your code of ethics, but I'm sure Brady would pay almost anything to keep these out of the public eye."

  An alarm bell sounded in Richie's head. What was going on here? Almost like this guy was reading his mind. A bowel-clenching thought wormed through his head: What if he was sitting next to the guy the nun had hired to fuck up his operation?

  His hand crept toward the .38 in his shoulder holster…

 
Hey, wait. That didn't make sense. Gorcey had just led him to a goose that was going to lay a steady stream of golden eggs. And besides, if Gorcey was carrying—and Richie was pretty damn sure he wasn't—he'd had a million chances on the way upstate and back to do whatever damage he might have come to do.

  No… Gorcey wasn't Jack, wasn't the guy from Julio's the nun had told him about. He was just a fag with a hard-on for Luther Brady.

  Soon he was going to be a dead fag.

  "Blackmail's illegal, Lou. Don't tell me any more. I could lose my license for not reporting you."

  "You wouldn't need a license with what we could squeeze out of Brady."

  "'We'?"

  "Well, blackmailing him would require a certain amount of toughness that I'm not sure I have. But you seem tough, Mr. Cordova."

  Richie wasn't sure how to play this. Gorcey was proposing a partnership. It was tempting in a way. It meant he wouldn't have to kill him. Disposing of a body was no easy thing—as the quick discovery of the dead nun proved. Forensic crime labs were getting better and better. Some simple little thing could fuck him up royally.

  But bringing Gorcey in would mean splitting the milk from Brady, and Richie didn't even want to think about that. But even so, he didn't think a queer like Gorcey had the stuff to stay the course. And worse, he might spill to one of his lover boys, either while whispering sweet nothings or trying to impress some stud he was courting. That would queer—he hid a smile and thought, Oh, pardon me!—that would queer everything.

  Okay. Let's look at the situation. I've got a gun, he don't. The shades are already pulled. My house is sealed up, and so are all the neighbors'. Nobody around here will be out on the street on a cold Sunday night like this. I can put a couple of quick ones into Gorcey's chest and no one'll be the wiser.

  That would work. Then he'd wait till the dead dark hours of the morning and tote the body out to the car. He could dump Gorcey under an overpass or someplace like it and forget about him. There wasn't no connection between the two of them.

  But he had to go about this real careful like. Keep Gorcey nice and relaxed so he wouldn't see nothing coming. Richie didn't want no tussle—even a pansy man could get lucky. Just a quick, clean kill.

  Sticking to the upright, uptight, ethical PI role seemed the best play.

  "Yeah, I'm tough enough," Richie said, "but I'm honest. I'll give you the prints and negatives and then we'll both forget we ever had this conversation. " He patted the area around his desk. "Oops. No envelopes. Have to get one out of the closet."

  Out of the closet… ha!

  As he pushed up from the seat, he snaked one hand into his coat and pulled the .38 free of the holster. He held it chest-high. All he had to do now was make his turn and—

  A gloved hand came out of nowhere and grabbed his wrist while another shoved a big shiny pistol against his cheek.

  "Wha—?"

  "What were you planning to do with that, Richie?" said a hard voice that didn't sound at all like Louis Gorcey's.

  Moving only his eyes, Richie looked. It was Gorcey, all right. He looked the same, and yet everything about him was different. Gorcey wasn't Gorcey no more.

  Richie's knees went soft as he realized he might have made a terrible mistake.

  "I-I-nothing. I was just taking it out to lay it on my desk. It's heavy and it, you know, gets in the way."

  Richie tried to twist his hand free but the grip on his wrist tightened, became crushing, and the muzzle pressed deeper into his face.

  "Yeah, I know. Drop it on the floor."

  "Hey—"

  In the space of a second, the muzzle left his cheek, slammed against his nose, and then rammed into his cheek again.

  Richie let out a yell as pain shot straight through his skull and bright flashes sparked in his vision. "All right! All right!"

  He dropped the gun.

  "Sit."

  He eased himself back into the chair. He looked up and saw Gorcey staring at him. He realized that the murderous look he'd thought was for Brady was for him.

  "W-what's going on, Lou?"

  "Name isn't Lou. It's Jack."

  Jack? Oh-no-oh-God-oh-no! The nun's Jack!

  But he couldn't let on that he knew.

  "Jack, Lou, what difference does it make? You didn't have to lie about your name. All secrets are safe with me."

  He saw Jack's face twist with fury, noticed that he'd reversed his grip on the pistol and was holding it by the barrel. Richie watched it rise above him, then swing down, saw the nubs of the rear sights falling toward his scalp. Tried to duck but wasn't fast enough.

  Pain bloomed in his skull and the world swam around him as he heard an echoey voice say, "Shut up."

  The icy, matter-of-fact tone made his bladder clench.

  Another blow wiped out all sight, all sound.

  16

  "Hey!" someone was saying. "Hey, wake up." A foot nudged his leg. "Wake up, Fatso."

  Richie forced his eyes open. The room did a half spin, then settled, then spun again. His head felt like it had exploded and then been put back together by someone who'd never seen a human skull before.

  He groaned and tried to raise his right hand to his aching head but it wouldn't move. He looked and saw that it was wired to an arm of his chair. So was his left.

  And then he saw that his chair had been wheeled away from the desk.

  "Whuh…?"

  Jack glanced at him. "Oh, good. You're awake. About time."

  It looked like he'd divvied up the prints into a couple of piles. The negative strips lay tangled among them.

  "What're you doing?"

  "Sorting."

  He stepped over to Richie's chair and stood staring down at him. The room spun again as Richie looked up. He looked away real quick when he saw what was in the guy's eyes.

  "What're you gonna do?"

  "If I had the time and inclination, I'd like to do to you what you did to Sister Maggie. Remember her? You threatened to ruin her life, and you did."

  So here it was, right out in the open.

  "You're the one she hired to mess up my computer, right?"

  The guy nodded. "And you're the one who messed up Maggie."

  "You gotta lemme explain. It's not how you think. I didn't—"

  A black-gloved hand backhanded him across the face. "Don't waste my time."

  Richie spat blood. "Okay, okay."

  "How'd you find out?"

  "About what?"

  "About Maggie hiring me."

  "Why do you care?" Another backhand across the face made Richie's head spin. "All right, all right. It was her boyfriend, Metcalf. He cracked wise about me being outfoxed by a nun. That's when I knew."

  The guy sighed and said something under his breath that sounded like "Nobody listens." But he looked like he was relieved or something. Maybe this was Richie's chance.

  "So it's not all my fault. It's Metcalf's too. I shouldn't take all—" He cringed as he saw that gloved hand wind up for another shot. "Don't, please! Just answer one question, will you?"

  "What?"

  "You her brother or something?"

  Please say no, he thought. Please say no.

  The guy shook his head. "Never met her before she hired me."

  Relief flooded him. Maybe he could reason with him, operative to operative.

  "Then why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why come back? You got hired, you did the job—did it real good, I gotta tell you—and that's it. You walk away. It's over. Done. End of story. No reason to come back into the picture."

  The guy stared at him like he was looking down at a splash of fresh vomit. After too long a time he took a breath and pointed to Richie's wired wrists.

  "I wanted to use duct on you like you did on Maggie, but I couldn't risk carrying a roll in case you searched my bag again. Wire takes up much less space." He held up a silvery roll of duct tape. "But look what I came across in one of your drawers."

  With a single sw
ift move he ripped off a piece and slapped it across Richie's mouth.

  Panic ripped through him. He tried to kick out with his feet but his ankles were wired down as well. When he saw the guy pick up the pistol from the desk Richie began to scream, but nothing got through the tape and the noise coming through his nose sounded like baby pig squeals.

  "Let me introduce you to Mr. Beretta." He put the shiny barrel oi the pistol against Richie's palm. "Shake hands with him. You're about to interface."

  Richie wrapped his fingers around the barrel. No way he could get it away, but if he could just keep a grip on it—

  The guy twisted it free like he was taking a rattle from a baby. Then he stuck it in Richie's other hand. "Feel that? Like it? You and Mr. Beretta are going to get real friendly."

  Richie screamed again as the guy picked up a beige cushion. Where'd that come from? Looked like one from the couch downstairs. What was he gonna—

  Oh no! The cushion pressed against Richie's stomach as the guy buried the muzzle in the fabric.

  NO!

  A slightly muffled BLAMl and then searing pain shot through his gut. He screamed against the tape and writhed in agony. He'd never imagined anything could hurt like this. Never. Vomit rose in his throat but he swallowed it back. If he puked he'd suffocate, though maybe that wouldn't be so bad. At least it would stop the pain.

  "I hear nothing hurts worse than being gut shot," the guy said in a cold, dead voice. "I hope I heard right."

  Richie watched through eyes blurred with pain and tears as the guy turned back to the desk and began shoving all the photos into an envelope. The negatives as well.

  The room got gray around the edges and he thought he was going to pass out—if only he would!—but then things came back into focus.

  Richie began to sob from an excruciating spasm, the noise snuffling in and out through his nose. Felt like someone had a pitchfork in his gut and was twisting, twisting…

  And now the guy was stuffing everything into his shoulder bag.

  Richie wailed into the gag. He wasn't going to leave him like this! He couldn't!

  Then the guy picked up the cushion and the gun again and stepped up in front of Richie.

  "You don't deserve this," he said in that dead voice as he placed the cushion over Richie's chest.