by Chris Holm
That left running.
Clueless. Blind.
He knew he didn’t stand a chance. Didn’t have the skill set to make himself disappear at the drop of a hat. Given time—time and money—he could set something up, finesse a new ID out of the ether, and set up a series of blind trusts on which to live; that was his plan once he got his six-mil payout, after all. But when it came to running balls-out, to Bourne-style evasion and ass-kickery, he was as ill-prepared as any career cubicle-dweller in America. Which is, of course, essentially what he had been before he turned stoolie and his whole life went to shit.
Purkhiser ducked under the bed, reaching for the shoe box full of cash he’d stashed there in case of emergencies. Well, more like a quarter full. He’d blown most of his emergency stash on Papa John’s, Xbox games, and handles of Jim Beam. Fat lot of good those did him now.
“Mr. Purkhiser,” came a voice, lightly accented, from behind him. Purkhiser started when he heard it and slammed the back of his head against his bed’s wooden support slat. His vision dimmed momentarily, but he remained conscious. Given that he assumed whoever that voice belonged to was here to kill him, he wasn’t convinced that was a good thing.
That son of a bitch, he thought. He said I had three days.
Purkhiser withdrew his head from under the bed— moving carefully, this time—and rolled over to face the man who stood just feet away inside his bedroom. The man wore a pair of khaki trousers over burnished leather oxfords the color of cognac, and a starched blue button-down with a white collar and French cuffs. His sandy blond hair framed an aristocratic face, and he wore kid gloves on his hands despite the fact that the day’s warmth had yet to bleed off into the night sky.
In one hand was a silenced gun.
When Purkhiser saw the gun, he quailed and covered his face, waiting for the shot to come.
“My apologies,” said the man, who made no move to raise the gun from where it hung at his side. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Purkhiser peeked at him from between parted fingers. When nothing happened for a couple beats, he said, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“I assure you, I am not.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
The man smiled. “Not so long as you do as I request. I’ve no interest in your petty squabbles with whosoever wants you dead.”
Purkhiser smiled—an unhinged expression that wouldn’t have appeared out of place in a psych ward lockdown. “Anything! Just name it, and it’s yours!”
“I came here looking for a man. A man who I assume, given your sudden urge to take a holiday, has recently visited you. A man whose services I suspect you’ve recently turned down. Do you know the man of whom I speak?”
Purkhiser nodded with crazed enthusiasm.
“And am I correct in my assumption that you elected not to employ him?”
Again, Purkhiser nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
“I see. Now—and understand, this next question’s an important one, with nothing short of your continued existence riding upon your response—did he give you any method by which to contact him?”
“Yes!” Purkhiser exclaimed. “He gave me his phone number! He said if I changed my mind, I should give him a call.”
“Excellent. That’s precisely the answer I was looking for. I’m going to need that number, of course—and one other thing, as well.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to need you to call him and tell him you’ve changed your mind.”
“B-b-but I can’t afford to pay him!”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” said the man. “You’ve proven quite resourceful in the past. And it goes without saying that I’ll be watching your every move, so I assure you, fleeing is not a viable option.”
“You trying to trap this guy or something?”
The man smiled. “Yes, or something.”
“If I hire him, you’ll let me live?”
“You have my word I will not harm you.”
“No—I mean, thanks, but...what I meant was, will you let him do his job before you whack him? Take out the guy who’s coming to kill me, I mean.”
The man appeared to think about that for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, “Oh, why not? It seems you’ve caught me in a charitable mood.”
“Okay then,” said Purkhiser, “you’ve got a deal.”
“Wonderful. I’m glad we could reach an accord. It bears mentioning that if you breathe a word of our agreement to our mutual friend—or anyone else, for that matter—said agreement is null and void, and so are you. Once I tire of watching you writhe in agony, that is—and believe me when I tell you, I do not tire easily.”
At that last, Purkhiser imagined himself an insect pinned to a collector’s board, limbs flapping.
“Oh, and one last thing,” said the man. “I don’t suppose he was so kind as to give you his name, was he?”
Purkhiser shook his head, and the man’s face fell—theatrically, as if for Purkhiser’s benefit. “Ah, well. One can’t have everything, now, can one?”
Purkhiser looked at the bag on the bed, half-full of clothes and wasted hope. All he’d wanted was his dough back—a second chance at the good life he thought a man of his ingenuity deserved, but of which the Feds had seen fit to strip him.
Instead, what he’d gotten for his trouble was a heaping ton of shit—one he might not be able to claw out of alive. Which left him pining for the depressing, quotidian life he’d so callously tossed aside.
So can one, in fact, have everything?
No, he thought. One very fucking can’t.
Meeting adjourned, Alexander Engelmann returned to his temporary accommodations—a foreclosed split-level ranch across the street and three doors down from Purkhiser’s, painted a horrid combination of white and salmon pink but nonetheless affording from its master bedroom a smashing view of Purkhiser’s mirror image of a home. Engelmann had employed countersurveillance tactics on his brief trip back here, walking a good ten blocks with many an abrupt reversal of direction to travel three, but—his own satisfaction at a job well done aside—he knew it was for naught. Partly because he was an astute enough student of human nature to see Purkhiser was too frightened to dare follow him, and partly because he could hear Purkhiser pacing his living room via the sound-activated bugs Engelmann had planted throughout the man’s home.
The bugs transmitted to a receiver in the living room of Engelmann’s squat. When he returned from Purkhiser’s, he cranked the volume on the unit until Purkhiser’s every footstep—his every breath—echoed through the empty house. As Engelmann listened, he wandered the house, his eyes half closed—to the kitchen, to the bedroom, to the master bath. His movements mirrored Purkhiser’s, their footsteps ringing out in time. For a moment, as their breathing synched, he felt that he and Purkhiser were one—and in that moment, he was sure his plan would work.
Though Engelmann would scarcely admit it to himself, he was relieved his intuition regarding his quarry’s use of the Council’s book code had finally borne fruit. Since his discovery of Cruz’s cipher, it had yielded nothing. After Chicago, he was mildly concerned. But when Long Beach failed to pay off, too, he began to doubt the veracity of his lead. He’d been forced to consider the notion that his quarry identified his clients by means other than the Council book code.
Then again, he realized, perhaps there was another conclusion to be made by the fact that he’d elected not to help either Franklin or D’Abruzzo: it was possible he considered protecting violent criminals beneath him.
Could it be his quarry fancied himself a moral man?
When Engelmann revisited his quarry’s file, that question in his mind, a pattern emerged. His clients were all relative innocents. Like Morales. Like Purkhiser.
It appeared Engelmann had arrived in Springfield just too late to lay eyes on his quarry. He’d driven directly from the airport to Purkhiser’s home, hoping that by staking it out, he might
witness his target’s approach, and then follow him until a time to strike presented itself. Instead, what he found was a panicked Purkhiser preparing to flee, and so he made do as best he could.
Engelmann refused to grant the possibility that Purkhiser would fail as a lure. He was now certain his quarry believed himself a good person and was therefore predisposed toward helping this pathetic wretch.
Such burdensome things, consciences. Engelmann was relieved not to be afflicted with one.
Of course, there was another reason Engelmann refused to entertain the possibility that Purkhiser would fail in his task. The week Engelmann’s contact had promised him was almost up, which meant the Council would soon halt all communications via their old book code, their old race sites. The Purkhiser job would likely be the last one posted—which made it Engelmann’s last chance to bag his man.
And it was clear to Engelmann the Council was losing patience with him. He heard it in his contact’s tone when they spoke over the phone. He saw it in the resources the Council offered by way of assistance—once unlimited but now often withheld. He was certain the only additional rope they’d be giving him would be used to bind his hands and feet before they killed him should he fail.
No matter, he thought. Such maudlin concern got him nowhere. And besides, he was right about Purkhiser and his quarry both—he knew he was.
And though he assured himself of exactly that a thousand times in the musty stillness of the abandoned house, Engelmann relaxed perceptibly when he heard Purkhiser pick up the phone and dial.
Hendricks’s burner phone rang long-short-long. That meant Purkhiser. The only other person who had Hendricks’s number—as far as Hendricks knew—was Lester, and his ringtone was set to an ascending scale, four trilling tones from low to high.
Hendricks wasn’t surprised when Purkhiser called. In the years he’d been at the job, they nearly always did. What he hadn’t figured on is what Purkhiser would say.
“You get my money?” Hendricks asked without preamble.
A hesitation. “Not exactly,” Purkhiser replied.
“Then this conversation is over.”
“Wait—don’t hang up!”
In spite of his own better judgment, Hendricks didn’t hang up. “I’m listening,” he said.
“I want you to take it all.”
“Excuse me?”
“The whole six mil. Every fucking penny. Just get these guys off my ass long enough for me to rabbit, and it’s yours.”
Six million dollars.
Six million dollars.
It was more than Hendricks could make in three jobs— in five. All he had to do for it was pop some low-life Outfit button man.
A six-million-dollar payout would ensure neither Evie nor Lester would ever need to worry about money again. It meant that someday, once Hendricks had finally made his penance, there might be an end to this violent life he led.
But Purkhiser didn’t need to know any of that. So Hendricks played it calm, cool.
“And how do you propose to get me this money?” he said.
“That’s the beauty part,” replied Purkhiser, relief apparent in his tone. “We just have the casino give it straight to you. See, that big check is just for show—I’m supposed to give ’em my account info ahead of time so they can transfer the funds directly once their dog-and-pony show is over. But I figure a big-shot hitman like you has probably got a numbered account somewhere, all nice and anonymous-like, am I right? So who’s to say for the purpose of this transaction that account ain’t mine?”
Hendricks should have said no. Should have realized that the Purkhiser he’d met a few hours ago would never have parted so easily with so large a sum. He should have sensed that something wasn’t right—should have up and walked away.
But six million dollars buys a lot of bad decisions. So what he said instead was: “You try to screw me, and
I’ll kill you—you know that, right?” Purkhiser, hopeful: “That mean we got a deal?” Six. Million. Dollars. “Yeah, we got a deal.” “Cool—let me grab a pen.”
19
Pendleton’s Resort and Casino was a tacky riverboatthemed complex overlooking the Missouri River from an industrial park just north of Kansas City proper. The approach was like pulling into an airport—a confusing tangle of roads peeling off toward various parking lots, some of them vast asphalt plains dotted by sodium vapor lights resembling bare husks of long-dead trees, and some multilevel concrete structures, open on all sides. Sleek black shuttle buses ferried people to and fro, their mirrored windows a false promise of debauchery within. The fact was, Pendleton’s was more a family place. Their shows tended toward the squeaky clean, mostly traveling productions of Broadway staples, and their upscale steak house and French-inspired fine-dining restaurant sat shoulder-toshoulder with a dinosaur-themed rib joint and a NASCAR-branded bar and grill.
Michael Hendricks left his rental car in one of the outermost satellite lots, opting to hoof it rather than hitch a ride in the shuttle bus. The sun blazed orange as it touched the western horizon, streaking the cirrus clouds that stretched across the evening sky. The lights of the casino glinted like a mirage in the distance. It was seven p.m. Tuesday— twenty hours and change since Purkhiser had hired Hendricks, and less than two days from Leonwood’s planned hit. Hendricks had spent the morning on the phone with Lester, who’d worked his digital mojo to put together a dossier on Purkhiser’s would-be assassin, Leonwood, which he read to Hendricks in its entirety. Hendricks never traveled with his laptop, because it contained no shortage of incriminating evidence, and he refused to download anything that might later implicate him to his cheap, unencrypted burner phone.
Lester’s dossier painted a picture of a seasoned hitter with a rep for high-risk, high-stakes jobs—public figures, law enforcement, you name it—and his MO seemed to be the nastier, the better. Rumor was, Leonwood was the one responsible for stringing up that First Circuit Court of Appeals judge on Boston’s Zakim Bridge after he ruled against the Winter Hill Gang back in ’04. If the Outfit wanted Purkhiser’s death to be messy, they’d sure as hell hired the right guy.
Once Hendricks had memorized the salient details, he made the drive from Springfield to Kansas City—just under three hours at a sensible five miles per hour over the speed limit. He made a stop at the FedEx shop in Belton— a sprawling suburb south of town—where Lester’d sent along a package to be held for pickup by one Steven Rogers.
The contents of the package were listed as “Cookies,” and the sender as “Grandma Rogers.” Inside the box was a tin containing one thousand dollars cash (all the excuse one ever needed to be in a casino); a ceramic knife, which was invisible to metal detectors and twice as sharp as steel, with a pebbled grip designed to thwart fingerprinting; a functional penlight that doubled as a single-shot zip gun, loaded with a jacketed 9mm hollow-point round; a mug shot of a young, fresh-faced Leon Leonwood, taken decades ago when he was arrested for manslaughter, but hopefully bearing enough resemblance to the man he’d grown into for Hendricks to ID him; and four oatmeal raisin cookies.
The mug shot and weaponry, Hendricks stashed inside his rental’s spare tire, protection against the unlikely event the car was searched. Today’s mission was one of reconnaissance, not violence, and carrying weapons—even ones as unlikely to be detected as these—would potentially create as many complications as it would guard against. Once his scouting was complete, if Hendricks decided more fire-power—such as handguns, rifles, or small explosives—was required, he’d acquire it locally; it was foolish to travel with such items when they were so readily available, so unwise to hold on to, and so easily discarded.
Lester’s cookies, as ever, were delicious.
Hendricks’s boot leather creaked as he ambled along the sidewalk that ran parallel to the casino’s main drive. A job like this, the key was blending in, so he’d decked himself out as a full-on gambling cliché. A red-and-white checked cowboy shirt with white trim. Dark-blue boot-cut jeans o
ver alligator cowboy boots. An off-white Stetson on his head, a pair of BluBlockers hiding his eyes, and as much of a horseshoe mustache as he could muster from three days’ stubble. Even his walk was affected: a slouching, duck-footed swagger that took two inches off his height. He looked ridiculous—but it was precisely the same sort of ridiculous as half the gamblers in attendance, the sort of ridiculous that caused one’s gaze to slide right by.
Hendricks was greeted at the casino entrance by a smiling bellhop. An old-timey marquee awash in the light of a thousand bulbs gave way to an interior whose decor was as loud and jarring as the din rising from its endless banks of clanking slots.
Purkhiser’s ceremony was supposed to take place in a banquet hall just off the gaming floor called the Fountain Room. Today, the Fountain Room featured two performances by a ventriloquist—lunch and dinner, complete with buffet. Later tonight, it hosted a country act Hendricks had never heard of.
Hendricks bought a ticket to the ventriloquist’s buffet— fifteen dollars, food included. The clink of flatware on glasses filled the hall as he entered, and the tables—round and draped in coarse white linens—were about three-quarters full. Though the show had yet to begin, the buffet’d been open twenty minutes by the time he arrived, so the line was short. The buffet ran half the length of the room along the left-hand side. Hendricks got in line—a good excuse to walk the length of the room and scan the crowd.
The room was big and dimly lit, with plush carpeting of green and red and floor-to-ceiling curtains on each wall. The stage was small, set up at the far end of the room from the main entrance. There was a bar in the corner to the right of the stage, people crowded all around. The only points of entry were the main doors through which Hendricks had arrived and two emergency exits, one on the right-hand wall and another behind the stage. At each of the emergency exits was a security guard—husky, uniformed, armed. Another two security guards stood offstage at either side.
