Vasiliev threw the newspaper on the table and removed his reading glasses from the end of his nose. He folded them carefully and dropped them into his top pocket. His eyes were cold and blue. There was energy there, self-confidence. Nothing that might pass for compassion. He barked something to his men in a way that left you in no doubt he was the dog who ate first. The men hopped to, untied the rope binding McIntyre’s arms and pushed him down onto the bench seat opposite Vasiliev.
‘Anton tells me you gave them a spot of trouble,’ Vasiliev said with a faint smile, ‘Tried to run away.’
His voice had only the slightest accent. If you didn’t know he was foreign, you wouldn’t pick it up.
McIntyre shrugged, tried to ignore the oiled eels writhing in his stomach.
‘It’s good for them. They need a bit of exercise now and again so they don’t get lazy, keep them sharp. However,’—he held up a single finger—‘I don’t like what that implies.’
McIntyre swallowed. He didn’t like it much either.
‘Because a man who has the money he owes isn’t a man who runs away. I assume you still don’t have my money.’
McIntyre stared at him, unsure what to say, unsure whether he was supposed to say anything. He didn’t have anything to say anyway.
‘I’ll take your silence as confirmation, shall I?’
McIntyre nodded, very aware of the two enforcers behind him shifting nervously, as if they knew what was coming next.
‘Have you done anything to try to get it? No, I didn’t think so.’
McIntyre spread his hands wide, a what am I supposed to do gesture. The man on his left grabbed hold of his wrist, held it, like he thought McIntyre might try to hit the boss.
Vasiliev cocked his head, his eyes diminishing to slits.
‘Did you think we’d just forget about it?’
McIntyre shook his head, words failing him.
Vasiliev leaned back and crossed his arms, thumbs in his armpits.
‘You’re a businessman, aren’t you?’
McIntyre managed to find his voice at that.
‘I was. Until everything went tits up. That’s the problem.’
Vasiliev smiled, a hard edge to it now. McIntyre saw the news of his death in the bright, mean eyes, heard the sound of shovels in the dirt.
‘Yes, I remember. You were fucking your partner’s wife. So he killed himself and the business went down the toilet. Then the good times bankers took your house as well so you can’t even sell that to pay me.’
One of the guys behind said something and they all laughed, like you might at a dirty joke, Vasiliev included.
‘Exactly. Mikhail says you should have kept it in your pants. But I digress. We’re both businessmen here, we understand the need to give people an incentive to do what we want them to. And the problem we have here is that you’—he jabbed his finger into McIntyre’s chest—‘are not sufficiently incentivized to pay me my money.’
Anton, the one gripping McIntyre’s wrist said something under his breath, the threat clear in his tone even if the words meant nothing. Vasiliev nodded.
‘Anton says that’s what we’re here to address today. Anton is extremely well incentivized to do his job, Mikhail too, all the men who work for me. As you are about to find out. It helps, of course, if they enjoy what they do.’
Without waiting for a sign from Vasiliev, Mikhail stepped in, grabbed McIntyre’s right wrist and twisted his arm hard up behind his back. He leaned into him, forcing his chest onto the table. Anton slammed McIntyre’s left hand onto the table, clamped it there, as if it were nailed down ...
The third man came to the table and opened the tool bag, pulled out a heavy claw hammer and a box of six-inch nails. McIntyre stared in horror, his lips moving, no sound coming out, as his heart tried to compress itself into something the size of a marble. He tried to move, tried to shake off the men holding his arms. It was useless. Mikhail jerked his arm higher between his shoulder blades until McIntyre stopped thrashing, his cheek resting against the scarred wood of the table top.
McIntyre didn’t think things could get any worse, until they did.
Vasiliev put a hand inside his jacket as if he was going for his wallet or his cigarettes. He pulled out a straight razor and set it on the table. Almost absently, he unfolded the polished blade from its well-worn black leather sheath.
‘It’s your choice, Mr McIntyre,’ Vasiliev said and picked up the hammer, feeling the weight. ‘We either nail your hand to the table top, or we cut off your finger. What do you people call it here? Your pinkie. Such a cute word, don’t you think?’
McIntyre’s mind was a blank. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak.
‘Or if you can’t make up your mind, we’ll do both.’
Vasiliev said something to the man with the tool bag. He dug around in it some more, found a dirty cotton cleaning rag.
‘Any second now Maxim is going to stuff that rag in your mouth. Then we won’t be able to hear what you say, what you decide, and we’ll have to do both. I’d make your mind up soon, if I were you.’
McIntyre lifted his head, stared in horror at the hammer, the nails, the straight razor, his mind a complete and utter blank.
‘We’ll let you keep the finger, if that helps you decide.’
Vasiliev nodded and Maxim grabbed hold of McIntyre’s hair, pulled his head back as Mikhail leaned harder on his back. McIntyre clamped his jaw shut but the pressure on his neck pulled his lips apart. Maxim forced the rag between his teeth.
‘Looks like it’s both.’
Vasiliev spread his hands in a that’s the way it goes gesture. He looked up into the expectant faces of his men.
‘Anton, it’s your turn to decide. Finger first or hammer?’
McIntyre shook his head and screamed with everything he had from behind the rag.
Hammer.
***
MCINTYRE LIFTED HIS HEAD off the table, moving slowly and carefully, hardly daring to breathe. He watched the pool of blood slowly soak into the table top, his mind numb, his hand not so numb. Two inches of nail protruded from the back of it, two inches went through the middle and the last two inches were buried firmly in the wood.
Before Vasiliev and his men got back in their expensive cars and drove off, one of them had fished McIntyre’s phone out of his pocket and thrown it ten feet away, where it now lay in the wet grass. Then they found a pair of pliers in the tool bag and left them two inches beyond his comfortable reach, beyond the point where he pulled his flesh and bone against the bloody nail.
Anybody can find an extra two inches in their reach if they stretch hard enough.
He gripped the nail head between his fingers and tried to turn it. He’d have more chance picking up the picnic table and walking with it to the nearest hospital than moving the nail. Even with the pliers it would be a long, excruciating job prying it free from the wood. If he wanted to get through this, he needed to hold onto his anger, his hatred, tell himself over and over that somebody was going to pay.
He picked up the cotton rag that they’d stuffed in his mouth, wadded it up into a solid lump, then bit down on it and stretched.
Chapter 10
EVAN WALKED SLOWLY UP and down the sidewalk, his cell phone clamped to his ear, and talked to himself, nodding along as he listened to what nobody on the other end said. He passed the gated entrance to the apartment complex where Jesús Narvaez lived for the second time. Out the corner of his eye, he saw a man approach from the other side, also talking on his phone, maybe even to a real person.
Evan turned again, timing it just right and stopped in front of the gate. He almost let the phone slip out of his hand as he pretended to dig his keys out of his pocket and talk at the same time.
‘Hang on a sec, Kate, I’m going to drop my phone in a minute if I’m not careful.’
The guy on the inside pushed the gate open without a second glance and turned left, holding it open for the briefest moment before going on his way.
Evan mouthed his thanks, caught it with his foot and slipped through.
‘Sorry Kate, it’s no use begging. You want a dinner date, you stand in line with everybody else.’
A woman coming out her apartment gave him a strange look, like if he was her boyfriend, she’d give him a well-deserved slap. He smiled at her and put the phone away, wishing he had the balls to speak to Guillory like that in real life.
He followed the path until he found the apartment he wanted, and knocked. The door was answered by a solidly-built Hispanic man of about the right age, his hair still full and dark for the most part. He wore a pair of heavily-tinted glasses even though the room behind him was in semi-darkness, as if he suffered from photophobia.
‘Jesús Narvaez?’
Narvaez nodded, looked down at Evan’s hands to see what he was selling. He looked vaguely surprised when he didn’t see anything. Evan capitalized on that positive outcome and got right to the point.
‘My name’s Evan Buckley. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to ask you a few questions?’
‘About what?’
The tone was a nice mix of aggressive and suspicious. It wasn’t about to improve in the next few minutes.
‘Your sister, Margarita.’
Narvaez flinched as if Evan had slapped him, his lips parted. He swallowed drily and tried to say something, couldn’t find the words. Evan was sure now he had the right man.
‘Sorry it’s such a shock, just coming out with it like that. I was worried you wouldn’t speak to me otherwise.’
Narvaez gave a short, sharp laugh.
‘I don’t know what makes you think I will now.’
Evan was finding out just what an impediment it was, not being able to say something along the lines of because my client would like to give her or her children a couple hundred million dollars.
Narvaez’ lips were set in a line, hard and unforgiving. Evan got the impression he was already putting things together himself. And that the memories surfacing as a result were not all good.
Suddenly Narvaez stepped aside, a decision made, and invited him in. They went through to a large, comfortable sitting room, not so dark once you got into it. Narvaez went straight to a well-stocked drinks cabinet.
‘Drink?’
It wasn’t surprising really, it wasn’t every day somebody turns up at your door with a name from fifty years ago. He was jumping to conclusions—it was fifty years for Frank Hanna, but for all he knew Margarita might be in the kitchen cooking her brother’s dinner at this very moment. He shook his head. Narvaez poured himself a generous shot and they both sat down.
‘I’m right in thinking Margarita Narvaez is your twin sister?’
Narvaez sipped his drink and nodded at him over the lip of the glass. Something about not being able to see his eyes made Evan wish he’d accepted the offer of a drink, to put himself on an equal footing. He wasn’t sure if he licked his lips or some other giveaway. Whatever it was Narvaez inclined his head towards the drinks cabinet.
‘Why don’t you get yourself one, to stop you from staring at mine.’
Evan hopped up and got himself a small whisky, sat back down again.
‘I appreciate this is out of the blue—’
‘Not at all.’
‘And I’m afraid I can’t ... did you say not at all?’
‘Uh-huh.’
Frank Hanna’s words immediately went through his mind, the warnings about the need for secrecy, about the sort of people who also had a vested interest in finding—or not finding—a valid heir. It was inconceivable they were two steps ahead of him, had tracked down Narvaez already.
He needn’t have worried, it wasn’t that at all.
Jesús Narvaez pulled off the dark glasses and stared at him. Evan couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath as he looked back into Narvaez’ eyes.
‘I’ve been waiting fifty years.’
***
‘I ALWAYS PUT THEM on when I answer the door,’ Narvaez said, waving the glasses in the air. ‘Don’t want to scare the pizza delivery boy.’
Evan concentrated on the point between Narvaez’ eyebrows so as not to stare too obviously at his glass eye or the network of faded scars that surrounded it. He was surprised he hadn’t noticed the largest scar, the one that ran all the way up through the eyebrow. It would be visible even when he was wearing his dark glasses.
‘You don’t mind if I don’t put them back on?’
Evan gave a not at all wave of the hand, it was his house. He took another sip of his drink.
‘Bet you’re glad you changed your mind about the drink, ey?’
Evan shrugged as if to say of course not, he met horribly disfigured people every day of the week.
‘Mr Narvaez—’
‘Call me Jesús.’
A small smile crept onto his lips. Evan got the impression he was playing with him.
‘Jesús—’
Narvaez held up his hand.
‘Call me what you like. I shouldn’t play with you, I know how funny you Anglos think it is to call a person Jesús.’
Evan took a second, couldn’t decide what to call him now. How would ornery old bastard go down?
‘Mr Narvaez—’
‘Before you waste any more time or breath, I should tell you now I will not help you in any way as far as my sister is concerned.’
An awkward silence filled the gap between them like a third person in the room.
‘You don’t even know—’
‘Frank Hanna.’
They stared at each other a long while, the smile back on Narvaez’ lips, smug now.
‘Don’t look so surprised. Private investigators’—he put a mocking emphasis on the words—‘aren’t the only ones who can work something out. A private investigator comes knocking on my door asking about my sister for the first time in fifty years ...’
For a second, Evan thought he’d spit on the floor. Now that he noticed, the carpet looked like it wouldn’t have been the first time.
‘That tells me everything I need to know. A man who was a coward fifty years ago is still a coward today, sends his boy to do his errands.’
Evan let the boy slide, there was clearly a lot of pent-up anger inside the old man.
‘He can rot in hell for all I care.’
Narvaez threw the rest of his drink down his neck, stared at Evan, challenging him to contradict him, give him any good reason why he was wrong. Evan wasn’t sure there would ever be a time when Narvaez might relent and help him. This certainly wasn’t it. Time to go. He pushed himself up out of his chair.
‘Sit.’
Evan sat.
‘I meant what I said. I won’t tell you a thing about Margarita. But I’ll tell you something else, something about the sort of people you work for. Get me another drink.’
Evan got up again, wishing the old man would make his mind up, and took the empty glass thrust at him.
‘Get yourself another one while you’re at it.’
It wasn’t what you’d call an offer, more of a command.
‘In fact, bring the bottle. No ice.’
Evan did as he was told, lowered himself slowly into his chair, ready to jump out again if Narvaez suddenly decided he wanted some pretzels, potato chips, whatever.
‘You’ve met Frank Hanna. I won’t ask you what you think of him, I don’t care. You’ve met the successful businessman he’s become.’
Evan’s face must have given him away again.
‘Is it so strange I’ve followed the career of the man who might have been my brother-in-law if he had done the right thing?’
Evan shook his head and Narvaez gave an angry wave of his hand.
‘None of this matters, beyond the fact that he’s a coward. What matters, what you have no idea about, is the kind of man his father, George Hanna, was. And the people who worked for him.’
‘Hanna told me—’
‘I don’t care what Frank Hanna told you. He doesn’t know what happened
.’
Would he ever be allowed to get a complete sentence out? But he was here to listen, after all. He settled back into the chair and let Jesús Narvaez tell the story that had festered inside him for fifty years.
***
‘IT WAS SOMETIME IN June 1965 when two men came to our house. They worked for George Hanna. One of them was called Thompson, the other one’s name I never knew. I was never sure what George Hanna’s business really was. I found out later that his father had been a bootlegger during prohibition and Thompson’s father had worked for him. That should give you some idea about the sort of people Thompson came from.
‘They came to our house one night when my father was out. After he learned about Margarita’s pregnancy he spent very little time at home. When he wasn’t working he was either on his knees in the front pew at St. Thomas’s, praying for Margarita’s eternal soul, or in any one of a dozen bars trying to forget he had a daughter at all.’
Narvaez paused and sipped at his drink, his one good eye as unseeing as the glass one, as fifty years faded to nothing. Evan stared at the hand that held the glass, the knuckles white, tendons standing out against his liver-spotted skin. He hoped the glass was a strong one.
‘I was sixteen at the time, as was Margarita. We were at home with our mother, in the kitchen, dreading the time when our father would return home drunk. At around seven somebody knocked on the door as if they were trying to break it down. I remember the time because we all looked at each other, thinking it was early for our father to be home, hoping it meant he would be less drunk than usual. He never hit Margarita, but I didn’t have to do or say much to get a slap around the head. We thought he’d forgotten his key.
‘My mother told Margarita to go to her room—the sight of her swollen belly always set my father off. Then she opened the door and there they were, filling the doorway, most of the hallway too. She tried to close the door, knowing instinctively that no good was going to come from their visit. She might as well have tried to shoo them out with her apron. They walked straight in, knocking her to the floor.’
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