by Tod Goldberg
"I understand that all intellectually," she said, "but they scare me."
"Trust me," I said.
Twenty minutes later, a Power Quest zipped up to Cricket's dock. It was an expensive model, the 340 Vyper, and it looked new. I counted three men on the boat. The most marked characteristic I picked out about all three was that they tucked their shirts into their shorts and that they were wearing what looked like orthopedic sandals, the kind with the straps that wrap around the ankle and have extra padding to fight against aggressive cases of plantar fasciitis. They looked like the kind of guys who took lunch at that one strip club with the afternoon buffet. I put all three of them at no older than forty. I put their weights down as no less than 250, and that wasn't muscle weight or water retention. That was cheese-and-beef weight. In their free time, when they weren't shaking down women, I suspected they sat on that boat together and listened to the Jimmy Buf-fett box set and told one another lies.
What they weren't, categorically, was dangerous.
I asked Cricket if these were the same three guys who always collected from her. She said yes. Sam was waiting for her down the drive, but before I let her leave, I asked, "And what scares you about them?"
"They threatened to kill me," she said.
"If they killed you," I said, "they wouldn't get any more money out of you. If they killed Dixon, same deal."
Cricket thought about that. "I never considered that," she said.
"I know. That's why you can trust me. Okay?" I watched the men walk from the dock and across to the grasscrete pathway that circled around the numerous estates and led up from the personal marinas. Sam is waiting on the other side of your gate in your car. I'm going to take care of this. If you hear something that sounds like a gunshot while you're walking, don't be concerned."
"What does a gunshot sound like?"
"You'll know," I said.
The sun was already halfway down when Cricket scurried away. Outside, Biscayne Bay looked flat and glassy. I could make out a FOSS tanker coming into port. Overhead, planes were taxiing into and out of Miami International. Next door, in another multimil-lion dollar mansion, I suspected people were probably eating dinner. It would be a lobster bisque kind of night-just cool enough once the sun disappeared that you'd catch a chill. Dixon Woods, the real Dixon Woods, was making calls right now-I was sure of that-trying to figure out who Hank Fitch was. Brenda Holcomb was explaining just what the hell had happened in the offices of Longstreet Security. Natalya Choplyn was likely plotting how to kill me. My own government was working on that issue, too. My mother was smoking. My father was rotting in the ground, and though there was plenty of space in the cemetery, I had no desire to join him.
I checked my gun. Made sure the silencer was on just right.
I cracked my neck, because I'd slept funny the night previous.
I thought about Fiona and her hand on my chest.
I called Sam. "They're here," I said. "Cricket's on her way. Give me ten minutes. Text me when you're on your way back up."
This? This was going to be fun.
Because there's fight.
There's flight.
There's submission.
And then there's posture. You see this in the wild all the time. You watch the Discovery Channel long enough, you'll find out that every animal from the cocker spaniel to the black bear and all points above and below strike a pose. How you pose. How you stand. How you present yourself makes all the difference when you're about to get into a fight.
You assess the danger and you pose accordingly.
When I was Jay Gatz, my pose was all money and privilege and never taking no for an answer.
When I was the guy asking for directions to the airport, I was an idiot the security guard shouldn't have turned his back on.
Hank Fitch? His pose was simple. A guy you simply do not want to fuck with.
I watched the three men make their way around the house, watched as they smiled and slapped backs and got themselves mentally prepared to be bad asses and decided that I'd shoot the happiest-looking one of the bunch if I had the choice, but any of them would do. Through the peephole, I could see them adjusting their pants, making sure their shirts were tucked in just right.
It was like watching three high school buddies heading to the whorehouse for the first time, each getting the other up for their two minutes of glory.
The fattest of the three, a guy wearing a blue polo shirt with a penguin logo on it, pounded on the door and actually bellowed, "Open up!"
I swung open the door. "Yeah?" I said. I kept my gun hand behind the door.
The three guys looked at one another with varying degrees of surprise and annoyance. I'd dressed down for the occasion, so instead of wearing a suit, I had on a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that made me look sort of like a college professor on his day off, except that behind the door instead of holding a sheaf of student papers, I was holding a Russian 6P9, an eight-round silenced pistol. A gift from Fiona.
"Who are you?" Blue Shirt said. His buddies, Striped Shirt and Yellow Shirt, tried to look intimidating. It wasn't working. It's hard to look intimidating when you're wearing a rope belt, which all three of them were.
"Hank Fitch," I said. "Who are you?"
"We're here for Cricket," Striped Shirt said.
"Then you're in the right place," I said, all down-home goodness. "Come on in. She's in the living room." I opened the door wide and the three men walked into the entry hall, single file. Yellow Shirt actually gave me a polite nod, like maybe I was just the houseboy there to help out for the day, and he was just another guy at the end of his work day.
I could have shot each of them in the back of the head before a single one of them had a moment to react. Instead, as they walked by, I did a cursory once-over again, just to see if there were any bulges in odd places, apart from their guts. All three had cell phones clipped to their belts, while Striped Shirt had an ancient-looking revolver shoved down the front of his shorts. This would be fun.
Blue Shirt and Striped Shirt had wedding rings. Yellow Shirt had a wedding ring and one of those bulky class rings. I had a feeling it wasn't from the Citadel.
All three were wearing Rolexes.
I followed them into the living room, where all three were standing around looking lost. Everything in the room was different, right down to the window shades and pictures. I had my hands behind my back in a courtly pose that I figured would make the fact that I had a gun in my hand less apparent, not that these three had much in terms of cognitive resonance.
"What's going on here?" Blue Shirt said. "Where's Cricket?"
"New rules," I said.
"Yeah?" Blue Shirt said.
"Yeah," I said, and to prove it, I pulled out my gun. In most cases, pulling out a gun is enough to stop someone from acting stupid. They recognize that you have a gun and they decide they'll cut through their bullshit mechanisms and act rationally-which is to say, they'll cower in fear. Unfortunately, Striped Shirt thought the appearance of my gun was an invitation for him to draw his Civil War relic and attempt to shoot me.
The first problem he encountered was that he'd never shot anyone before. The second problem is that in the space of time it took him to realize he didn't know what the hell he was doing, I grabbed his gun hand and then pistol-whipped him, which is like getting hit in the face with a slab of very accurate metal. I broke his nose and took out at least five teeth, maybe more if he swallowed a couple, but five was what was left on the ground.
This didn't stop Yellow Shirt from trying to come at me from behind, which would have been a problem if Striped Shirt didn't squeeze off a round at the same moment (I doubted it was intentional, but involuntary things happen when you're writhing in pain), hitting his partner in the leg. It was all over in about five seconds and I didn't even need to personally shoot anyone.
I gently removed the gun from Striped Shirt's hand and emptied the bullets into my pocket while Blue Shirt just sort of stared at
me.
"Here," I said, and handed the gun to Blue Shirt, who shoved it wordlessly into his cargo shorts. I decided to let Blue Shirt be the one to make sense of it all, since one of them had to be alert. "I'd hate for your friend to lose such a priceless heirloom."
If you get shot in the leg, here's what happens: The bullet enters your leg, which hurts, and then, if it hits the bone, the odds are the bone will shatter, which also hurts. The shattered fragments of bone will scatter around inside your leg or out the back, if the bullet doesn't get lodged in the muscle.
What does hurt feel like?
It feels like someone has detonated a bomb inside of you. It feels like someone has replaced your blood with hot gravel. It feels like you're about to die. Because you'll actually be suffering from three wounds: the entry wound, the percussion wounds from the bullet pinging around your bone, and the exit wound. You'll probably flop on your back and then black out. When you awake, which could be just a few seconds later, you'll probably cry. People who get shot tend to cry.
If you think you're going to get shot, tell your two buddies who think they're tough guys-but who really haven't had any experience with this kind of conflict, who have only seen people shot on television and in video games, because if you run around with two buddies, the odds are you play video games-to eat a light lunch, too. Get shot in the leg in front of your two buddies, and as soon as they are showered by bits of bone, skin, muscle, and maybe a little bit of your orthopedic sandals, the odds are they're going to dry heave.
If you want to go into a field of business where people will get shot around you, or where you might get shot, it's a nice idea to strengthen your gag reflex.
After Blue Shirt and Striped Shirt stopped gagging, Striped Shirt on the perfect mixture of his own blood and a nice sum of his own teeth, I gave a whistle to get their attention. "Gentlemen," I said, "unless you want your friend to bleed to death, you might want to apply a tourniquet to his leg." Blue Shirt looked at me blankly. Striped Shirt was still trying to catch his breath, which was hard because his face was broken in half. Yellow Shirt? He was moaning and crying and trying to crawl away, which wasn't working too well because he had a shattered shinbone. The truth was that he was unlikely to bleed to death anytime soon, but it wouldn't hurt to stanch the bleeding lest he slip into shock from blood loss and go into cardiac arrest. "What's your name?" I said to Blue Shirt. I had the gun on him, which I think got him to focus.
"Stan," he said. His voice was weak and scared, which was the point, after all.
"Stan, I want you to take off that rope belt you have holding up your shorts, and I want you to bind it tight across your friend's shin."
Stan yanked his belt off and did just that. Striped Shirt, at this point, was a useless mess. He was curled against the wall beneath the mirror and was sort of mumbling and whimpering. He'd need plastic surgery if he ever wanted to model. He was sputtering now, coughing, gagging some more.
"Tell your friend over there to lean forward, or else he's going to choke on his own blood," I said to Stan. "If he leans forward, it will drain."
Stan repeated what I'd just said, which actually got Striped Shirt to move. "You killed my brother-in-law," Striped Shirt managed to say once he was able to cough out some blood. He meant, I presumed, the guy he actually shot.
"I didn't kill anyone yet," I said. "If he's still bleeding, that means he's still alive. That's how that works." I leaned down and looked at Yellow Shirt's wound. It was a good one, but he'd live. He'd limp for the rest of his life, but he'd have a good story to tell, replete with a moral and everything.
"Stan," I said, "you'll note I haven't hurt you yet. So let's get something straight."
"Anything," he said.
"As you can see," I said, "Cricket is no longer with us. Whatever debt you think she owed you? That's gone."
"We just collect," Stan said. He was looking back and forth at his two friends, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing, like he'd never imagined a situation in his life where he'd be surrounded by that much blood. Faces and legs tend to gush.
"Of course you do," I said. "Now let's be straight here, gentlemen, before I have to shoot someone else. Would I be correct in saying you work for Dixon Woods?"
"I don't even know who Dixon Woods is, man," the shot guy spit out. He was rather lucid now, despite the gunshot wound, the pain, the tourniquet, the likely realization he was having that he'd have to explain to his wife how he get shot. "I've been shot for some motherfucker I don't even know. I'm having trouble seeing. Jesus. I'm going fucking blind over here."
"You should know your clients better," I said. "What kind of organization sends three men to collect from a woman? You need to talk to your boss, gentlemen, get a better idea of the dangers involved. Maybe see if he'll spring for some shooting lessons. A lesson would be a good thing to have had right now, wouldn't it, Stan?"
"No, sir," Stan said.
"We can be honest with each other, Stan," I said. "Let me guess, you just like to slap women around. Is that right, Stan?"
"No, sir," he said again.
"What about you?" I said to Yellow Shirt, whose yellow shirt was now covered completely in sweat. It did look like he was suffering.
"I'm going blind," Yellow Shirt said again.
"That's from pain and blood loss," I said. I turned to Stan. "What exactly do you do for a living, Stan?"
"What?" He was starting to get glassy-eyed, too. Slipping into shock and nothing had even happened to him. That can happen when you're in combat: You see someone get shot in front of you, it has a life-affirming effect or it has a life-stunting effect. On Stan, it seemed the latter. The one with the broken face had fallen oddly silent, too, apart from the crying and this weird sucking sound he was making through his missing teeth.
"Do you have a job, Stan? Something that allows you the opportunity to leave work early on a Thursday to shake down socialites?"
"We sell real estate," he said.
"See, that's interesting," I said. "Because you know what I do?" Stan shook his head. He was starting to look a little clammy. "I invest. Take a look around, Stan. What do you see?"
Stan looked around. "Furniture," he said.
"What kind of furniture, Stan?"
"Nice stuff," he said.
"That's right. What else? Look outside. Go ahead. Stand up. What do you see?"
Stan got up, looked outside the window, saw the new flowers. The decorative stones. The Malibu lights, which weren't armed yet, because a guy needs to keep his surprises to a minimum sometimes. The trimmed lawn. I even had the fountain going. "You've taken care of the garden again," he said. "Made it look nice."
"Right again," I said. "You see, Stan, while you were busy shaking Cricket down for your boss-and we'll get to that in one second, Stan, because I can see you're starting to get nervous that maybe I didn't believe your friend's assertion that he didn't know Dixon-I was looking at the big picture from a boss' perspective. Saw a real business opportunity here. You three are just bagmen. But I like Dixon's moxie here, pimping his own wife. That's a class operation. So you know what I did? I bought the house."
I pointed the gun at Stan when I said this, let him know I really meant what I said. I didn't of course. At least not exactly.
"Look," Stan said, "don't shoot me."
"I'm not going to shoot you, Stan," I said. "Whatever gave you that impression?"
"You shot Burl," he said, pointing to the man on the ground. I didn't bother to correct his error. If he thought I shot his friend, all the better.
"Why don't you just tell him all of our names!" Burl said. "Give him your social security number while you're at it, Stan! Jesus. I'm having trouble breathing."
"If you were really having trouble breathing," I said, "you wouldn't be able to talk." I looked over at the fellow under the mirror, the one who would need some real dental care if he hoped to chew anything ever again. The upshot is that I might have fixed any deviated septum issues he might
have had. "What's his name, Stan?"
"Danny," he said.
"Okay," I said. "Stan, Burl, Danny, here's the deal: I know you're working for Dixon. I don't hold that against you. But Dixon and I have a business interest overseas that he's reneged on recently. It took me a very long time to find him, so I was fortunate when I finally met Ms. O'Connor and learned of her problems. She's graciously allowed me to move into her home, which I've happily done. The real problem, the one you three are paying the price for here, is that your employer Dixon owes me a substantial amount of money, gentlemen. So I want you to get him a message. Are you listening?"
Stan, Burl and even Danny, all regarded me with expectant looks.
"I'm not concerned about the opium anymore. The price of doing business." All three men darted looks at one another. If I had an idea about Eddie Champagne, it was that even the people working for him, in this case three real estate agents, were probably suspicious of his background, but not all that willing to be too suspicious if money kept flowing to them. Now that one of them had been shot, opium farms in Afghanistan probably seemed like a real possibility. I figured if I tossed in the price of doing business as a mysterious rejoinder, well, they'd figure getting shot was the price, too.
At any rate, I had their attention.
"What I can't forgive," I continued, "is the mess he left me with in California. That ended up costing me a great deal of money and resulted in the Mexican Mafia putting a hit order on me, which you can imagine didn't please me." Now I was just riffing, adding on, letting Stan, Burl and Danny know they were in deep with someone they didn't even know, someone who might end up rolling a hit onto them.
Guys like Hank Fitch can deal with a La Erne.
Stan, Burl and Danny? They watched documentaries on Dateline about that sort of thing and felt claustrophobic with fear, as if watching the program might mark them as snitches and result in a shank in their granite-lined showers while their wives pressed their morning espresso.
Eddie Champagne? If he knew Dixon Woods had a problem with the Mexican Mafia, Eddie would ditch his name and his holdings and any money he thought anyone might associate with it and get out of town quickly. (Out of the country if he could, but I had Sam working on that.)
