by Chris Holm
That’s what he told himself, at least.
The truth was, seeing Evie pregnant with Stuart’s child had rattled Hendricks, and calling off the Long Beach job had left him antsy. What he needed was distraction, not time alone with his thoughts.
What he needed was to work.
The Gadget Shack wasn’t busy. No Gadget Shack Hendricks had ever been in was. There were two guys behind the counter, dressed identically in store-branded polo shirts and khakis. One was a rumpled teenager, pudgy and long-haired, with a thin wisp of peach fuzz on his upper lip. The other was older, neater, and fussier—a manager, by the look of him. Neither of them was Purkhiser. Hendricks wasn’t surprised. If he’d just won six million bucks, he wouldn’t be caught dead peddling RC cars and Y-adapters, either.
But home address and job were all Hendricks had on the man, so he figured he’d come here anyway and shake the tree.
“Can I help you?” the manager asked. Chad, according to his name tag.
Hendricks flashed him a smile. “Maybe—is Eddie around?”
Chad’s eyes narrowed. “Palomera? What do you want with him?”
“He helped me out big-time a few weeks back. I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d swing by and tell him thanks.”
“If he helped you out, you’d be the first. Guy was the worst employee I’ve ever had,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at the teenager standing next to him. “And that’s saying something.”
“Was?”
“He up and quit a couple days ago. Didn’t even think to tell me. I found out when I called to ask him why he didn’t show up for his shift.”
“So you don’t know where I could find him, then?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said brusquely, and drifted off toward the only other customer, a woman eyeing a display of smartphones. Apparently, a friend of Eddie’s was no friend of his.
“What a douche,” the kid behind the counter muttered. His name tag read Brody and had a faded sticker of the Punisher logo affixed to one corner.
Hendricks sized him up—a little shaggy, a little nerdy, with a woven-hemp necklace and sly, heavy-lidded eyes. When Hendricks bounced that off the image of Purkhiser that Lester’s file had painted, he decided Brody and Purkhiser were probably friendly, if not friends. “You ain’t kidding. Any chance you know where Eddie is?”
“Seems like you wanna find him pretty bad—how come?”
Hendricks made a show of looking left and right, then dropped his voice. “He told me how to splice into my neighbor’s cable. Made it sound so easy, I figured it was too good to be true. So he bet me twenty bucks that it’d work. It did, and now I’m trying to make good.”
Brody laughed. “That sounds like Eddie, all right—but he doesn’t need your twenty. He hit it big last week at the casino. That’s why he quit. Said fuck this job—he didn’t need it anymore.”
“Still,” Hendricks said, “a deal’s a deal. I’ll throw in a twenty for you, too, if you can point me in the right direction.”
The Starlite Arcade was adjacent to the food court. The place wasn’t vintage or retro or hipster-ironic, just old—a relic from another time. Black lights shone down from a water-stained drop ceiling. At the center of the room was an air hockey table, glowing beneath the lights. On the far wall was a bank of Skee-Ball lanes. Beside them, a claw machine was piled high with stuffed animals. Everywhere else, arcade games blipped and emitted random bursts of stilted dialogue all by themselves.
An unshaven man with an Atari T-shirt stretched across his beer gut and a quarter dispenser on his belt was nodding off atop a stool inside the entrance, his back propped against the wall, one arm resting on a Jimmy Fund gumball machine. It wasn’t hard to see why he was bored. The arcade only had one customer.
Eric Purkhiser was in his early thirties—wiry and slouch-shouldered in a bowling shirt and skinny jeans. His rockabilly pompadour and wallet chain glinted in the black light. His face was lit by the glow of the Galaga cabinet he was hunched over.
Purkhiser was a rarity among Hendricks’s would-be clients. He’d testified against the Mob, which meant he knew damn well there were people out there who wanted him dead. Hendricks figured that’d make him a little jumpy. But Purkhiser didn’t even glance at him when he sidled up to watch him play.
Purkhiser’s eyes flitted across the screen as he piloted his spaceship left and right, shooting teeming swarms of pixelated insects. The speed at which they came at him was astonishing, and Purkhiser’s score was climbing steadily toward one million—he must have been playing awhile.
“That’s a hell of a score,” Hendricks said.
“Shhh,” Purkhiser hissed. He slammed the joystick hard left and smacked the fire button repeatedly, to no avail. His ship exploded. Purkhiser cursed.
The game prompted him to enter his initials. It appeared he’d taken second place. First place read KNH. Once Purkhiser put in his initials, second through eighth read ELP. “Thanks, asshole—you just cost me my high score! It’s the last one in the whole joint I don’t hold.”
Hendricks glanced at the machine beside him—some Technicolor monstrosity called Mr. Do! Sure enough, the top score was held by ELP. “I’m sure you’ll get it next time,” he said mildly.
“Maybe—but I’m running out of next times,” Purkhiser replied. “Come Friday, I’m leaving Springfield and never looking back. Onward and upward. Sayonara and good rid
dance. I just hope I beat this fucking thing before I go.”
“Why?”
“A fella’s gotta leave his mark somehow. Ain’t no point floating through life like a ghost.” Purkhiser took a quarter from his pocket and rolled it idly up and down his knuckles. The move looked more practiced than cool. “Wait— why’re you so interested in me and my high score? You’re not KNH, are you?”
“No, Eric—I’m not KNH. But I am here to talk to you.”
At the mention of his real name, Purkhiser blanched. The quarter fell from his hand.
“What did you call me?”
“You heard me fine the first time.”
“My name’s not Eric, it’s Eddie. You must have me confused with someone else.”
“I don’t. Now, listen: you’re in danger. I’m here to help you get back out of it. I can explain more once we’re somewhere safe. But you have to come with me right now, okay?”
Purkhiser swallowed hard. Nodded slowly.
Then he shoved Hendricks and bolted.
Hendricks sighed. Fine, he thought—we’ll play it your way.
At the sound of Purkhiser fleeing the arcade, the sole employee jerked awake and rose, startled, from his stool. Purkhiser grabbed him by the shoulders and propelled him toward Hendricks with all he had. He threw the stool at Hendricks, too, and knocked down the gumball machine on his way out of the arcade. The former sailed wide and slammed into a Donkey Kong machine. The latter shattered when it hit the floor, scattering shards of glass and gumballs everywhere.
Hendricks caught the stunned arcade employee, steadying him before he toppled over. Then he took off after Purkhiser at a sprint, gumballs crunching underfoot.
Purkhiser cut across the food court, climbing tables and knocking over chairs—anything to separate himself from Hendricks. When he peeked back over his shoulder, he slammed into a man in an apron, sending a tray of Panda Express samples flying. Both men went down, but Purkhiser bounced back up like he was spring-loaded. He winged the empty tray in Hendricks’s direction and took off down the hall toward Westlake Plaza’s main concourse.
Hendricks closed the gap between them, ignoring shouts of anger and alarm from those he passed. He ignored the mall’s security cameras, too; they were hardwired to the security booth—a dated system—and he’d cut their feed as soon as he’d arrived. But if he didn’t calm Purkhiser down soon, mall security was going to be an issue. Even if they were armed, they didn’t pose much of a threat, but if he had to hurt one of them it would no doubt make
the evening news.
Purkhiser dodged his way down the broad hall—trying his best to put as many people between him and Hendricks as he could. Hendricks juked around an old man on a Rascal scooter and leapt over a stroller when a panicked mother froze.
He caught a break when Purkhiser reached the mall’s main atrium and tried to head up the down escalator. As he struggled against the tide of people and stairs, Hendricks hopped on the up escalator and glided past. Then he planted a hand in between the escalators, and vaulted onto the down one, three steps ahead of Purkhiser. Purkhiser pirouetted, flashing Muppet eyes at Hendricks, and took off down the escalator—but not before Hendricks got a hold of a fistful of his hair—pomade greasy in his hand. Eric screamed as Hendricks yanked him backward.
“Calm down, Eric—I’m trying to help you!”
“My name’s not Eric!” Purkhiser replied. He threw a wild elbow that caught Hendricks in the eye, and wriggled free. Then he burst off the escalator and tore across the atrium—splashing straight into its massive, rust-stained central water fountain.
Hendricks gave chase for a moment, and then stopped.
Mall security ringed the atrium, their Tasers drawn.
Hendricks raised his hands above his head.
Purkhiser, dripping wet and panting at the center of the fountain, smiled.
“You boys want to tell me what the problem is?” The man speaking was in his late fifties. Decent shape. Bushy mustache. Brush cut beneath his uniform cap. No wannabe, this guy, Hendricks thought; he looked like a cop who went private once he put in his twenty.
“Yeah, asshole,” said Purkhiser. “How about you tell the nice man why you’re chasing me?”
“Sure,” Hendricks said. His expression was neutral, his voice calm. “Officer, this no-good greaser stole my wallet.”
Purkhiser laughed. “I what?”
“Eddie,” the mall cop said, “is this true?”
“True? It’s goddamn ridiculous, is what it is. Why would I take some random dude’s wallet?”
“I don’t know why he took it, but he took it,” Hendricks said. “Search his pockets if you don’t believe me.”
“C’mon out of there,” the mall cop said. Purkhiser sloshed to the edge of the fountain and stepped out. “Now empty your pockets.”
“Gladly,” Purkhiser replied. But when he reached into his right front pocket, his face dropped—and his hand came out with an unfamiliar wallet.
“You son of a bitch,” Purkhiser said.
Hendricks didn’t react—but inside, he was all smiles. He’d seen the guards approaching during his ride on the escalator and planted the wallet when he and Purkhiser tussled seconds later, as insurance against this very eventuality.
“Let me see the wallet, son.”
Purkhiser reluctantly handed it to the mall cop. The mall cop glanced inside, and then gave it to Hendricks. “Well, Mr. Allard, it seems you’re telling the truth. Although I wish you’d simply notified security instead of chasing this idiot around my mall.”
“Please, Officer, call me Kent,” Hendricks replied. “And you’re right—I wasn’t thinking.”
“Would you like to press charges?”
“No,” Hendricks said, fixing Purkhiser with his gaze. “I think he’s learned his lesson.”
“I suppose he has, at that. C’mon, Eddie—you and me are going to go fill out an incident report. And when we’re done, you won’t be welcome back here anymore. I hope you got that high score of yours this morning.”
Purkhiser’s expression curdled. Hendricks blinked flatly back at him.
“So I’m free to go?” Hendricks asked.
“Yes, Mr. Allard, you’re free to go.”
15
Purkhiser spent an hour trying to convince security he was innocent, shivering in his wet clothes all the while. He explained that he’d been set up. That this Allard dude was after him. He’d even gone so far as to ask them to review the security footage—he was sure it would exonerate him. But apparently, there was some kind of mall-wide security camera outage, so he had no choice but to back away from his claims. Without evidence—or disclosing the fact that he was in hiding from the Mob—even Purkhiser was forced to admit he sounded like a loon.
Eventually, they released him—two guards escorting Purkhiser from the building and into the falling dusk. The mall parking lot was nearly empty. Most of its lights had yet to turn on, although a couple early risers flickered to life as night descended. Only three cars were in sight. Purkhiser’s rusted-out Buick Skylark sat a ways out from the other two, its windows reflecting the sky’s fading orange.
Purkhiser stood there for a moment—watching, waiting, looking for any sign of Allard. He was sure the name was an alias, but he had nothing else to call the guy. He told himself the parking lot was too big for one man to keep track of. That loads of cars had come and gone since he’d been detained. That there was no reason to think Allard knew which one was his. But he still sprinted to the car like a runner stealing home and unlocked it with jittering hands— peering wildly around the lot the whole time.
He ducked inside, slammed the door, and jammed the key into the ignition. As he turned the key, he closed his eyes, half-expecting the car to explode.
It didn’t.
It didn’t turn over, though, either.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” came a voice from the backseat, “but after your freak-out in the mall, I didn’t want you gunning the engine and crashing us both into a light pole before we had a chance to talk.”
Purkhiser went for the door handle. Didn’t realize he’d put his seat belt on. Hendricks reached forward with his left hand and locked the door—and with his right, he grabbed the shoulder strap of Purkhiser’s seat belt and yanked. The lap belt tightened, pinning Purkhiser to his seat.
“Relax, Eric,” Hendricks said. “I’m not here to kill you.”
“I told you,” he said, thrashing against the seat belt like a trapped animal, “my name’s not Eric—it’s Eddie. Eddie Palomera. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
“No, I don’t—and the sooner you stop trying to bullshit me, the better this will go for the both of us. See, while I’m not here to kill you, there are others close behind who mean to—and they’re doubtless good at what they do. If you want me to, I’ll let you go right now and disappear from your life forever—just say the word. But understand that if you do, you’re on your own. I won’t be able to protect you.”
Purkhiser stopped struggling while he digested what Hendricks had said. His eyes met Hendricks’s through the Buick’s rearview. “You’re here to protect me?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you with WITSEC?”
“No,” Hendricks replied. “I’m not with WITSEC.”
Purkhiser laughed then, black and bitter as old coffee. “ ’Course not. I figured maybe they saw my picture in the paper and sent you to keep an eye on me, but I shoulda known those ass weasels don’t give a damn about me anymore.”
“You’re no longer in the program?”
“Nope. I told those fuckers to take a hike about a year back. Always keeping tabs. Checking up on me. Poking ’round my business. I couldn’t get at a dime of the dough I socked away—”
“Stole, you mean.”
“—with them looking over my shoulder all the time. So I dropped out. Told ’em I was fine. And I woulda been, too, if it wasn’t for that fucking picture. That is what brought you here, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” Hendricks said. “That’s what brought me here. Honestly, Eric, what the fuck were you thinking letting them print it?”
Purkhiser shrugged. “I didn’t have a choice. The casino made me sign a bunch of shit that said I’d do whatever publicity they wanted or I wouldn’t get my goddamn winnings. So I figured what the hell—it’s just some tiny local rag. Probably nobody’d even see it.”
“I saw it. And I’m not the only one.”
“So if you ain’t with WITSEC, who the hell are you
? All I know for sure’s your name ain’t Allard.”
“You don’t need to know who I am. All you need to know is who I work for.”
“Okay, then—who do you work for?”
“You, actually. Or, rather, I will, for the bargain-basement rate of a quarter million dollars.”
“A quarter million dollars.”
“That’s right.”
“Which gets me what, exactly?”
“You know those guys coming to kill you?”
“Yeah?”
“I kill them first.”
“Shit—you’re like some kind of hitman entrepreneur? Now I’ve fucking heard everything. But seriously, dude, don’t you think a quarter mil’s a little steep?”
“Hey, that’s your call to make. But I would’ve thought a guy with damn near thirty million of the Atlanta Outfit’s dollars in the bank would have no trouble forking over a paltry quarter mil to avoid his own grisly murder.”
“You’ve seen my car, dude, and the shithole I’ve been working in these past two years. Do I look like I got thirty mil to you?”
Purkhiser had a point. Hendricks told him so.
“Damn right. See, the Marshals Service took it personal when I kicked ’em to the curb. Guess once I did they figured out I wasn’t square with them when I told ’em I didn’t know shit ’bout all the money that went missing. Next thing I know, I got a federal prosecutor sniffing around, asking all kinds of questions about unreported income and wondering if maybe I had any back taxes needed filing.”
“Wow. Bad break.”
“You’re fucking telling me. I ain’t been near my stash since, for fear they’d bust my ass. I don’t have to tell you that if they locked me up, I’d be shanked within the week—and no pile of money’s worth that. I was gonna skip the country and wire my money to a new account once I was clear, but those assholes revoked my passport. So instead, I decided it was time to get some dough that I could actually use. Hence my trip to the casino.”
