3 Men and a Body

by Stephanie Bond

  “No one, hopefully. But I want to question Chance Hollander to his smarmy face, and who knows what kind of people I might run into at his place.”

  “So I should arm myself.”

  “One knife, Hannah. Just one. And let me do the talking.”

  They parked in the visitor lot for his building and climbed out. “We need to grab some empty food boxes so we look like we’re catering a party,” Carlotta said. Hannah stacked empty boxes on a handcart and wheeled them toward the entrance. Carlotta followed, carrying the fire extinguisher. The concierge buzzed them in.

  “We’re catering a party for Chance Hollander,” Carlotta said, then smiled apologetically. “But I’ve forgotten his unit number.”

  The concierge not only gave her the unit number, but held the elevator door for them. She tipped him five dollars.

  “Nice work,” Hannah murmured.

  “All the party-crashing subterfuge we’ve learned occasionally comes in handy.”

  They got off on the top floor and Carlotta took in the upscale decor with a twinge of envy.

  “Wow, Wesley’s friend must be wealthy,” Hannah remarked.

  “Chance Hollander is a trust fund baby, with lots of idle time on his hands.” They found his door. Carlotta rang the doorbell and pushed Hannah in front of the peephole. “If something’s going on, he won’t open the door to me. Try to look friendly.”

  Hannah’s attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace, but a few seconds later, Chance Hollander greeted them, dressed in a short Hefner-esque paisley robe. He was blond and tanned, with the chuffy body and casual posture of a person who enjoyed excess.

  “Yeah?” As soon as he spotted Carlotta, he tried to shut the door, but he was no match for Hannah. She shoved him so hard he stumbled backward and landed on his ass on a zebra-striped rug shaped like an animal hide, in the middle of a room crammed with black leather furniture.

  Carlotta rolled her eyes. Why was it that people with money usually had no taste?

  They walked in and Carlotta closed the door behind them. “We just want to talk, Chance.”

  “I don’t know where Wesley is,” he said.

  Carlotta narrowed her eyes at him. “You know something, you little shit. And you’d better tell me.”

  He got a surly look on his face as he reclined on his elbows. The robe had fallen away to reveal baggy briefs and a spare tire. “Or what?”

  She handed the fire extinguisher to Hannah. “Would you pull the pin, please?”

  “Here, trade me.” Hannah pulled a gleaming twelve-inch cleaver from a box. “This only takes one hand.”

  Carlotta’s eyes widened, but Chance’s startled yelp vanquished the reprimand on the tip of her tongue.

  She hefted the heavy cleaver while Hannah aimed the hose at Chance’s dingy briefs. “Christ, what is it with you rich people and underwear? A three-pack of Hanes at Target for ten bucks—give it some thought.”

  Chance grinned. “Where did you get the dog, Carlotta? I kind of like her.”

  Hannah blasted his crotch with foam, eliciting a scream from him. When the dust settled, Hannah leaned closer. “The cleaver is next, fat boy. Start talking.”

  “It was Wesley’s idea.”

  Carlotta’s stomach churned. “What was his idea?”

  Chance sat up, defeated. “He thought The Carver was behind the drive-by shooting at your place. He was scared that you were going to get hurt. So he came up with a plan to blackmail the guy.”

  “Blackmail The Carver? How?”

  Chance grinned. “It was genius, really. We got a transvestite to go to a strip club with us where the guy was hanging out with his cronies. When he went to the can, we sent in our himbo, and got some incriminating photos. Wesley told The Carver if you got hurt, the photos would be posted on the ’Net.”

  Carlotta shook her head in confusion. “But the man responsible for the drive-by shooting is in jail. He had nothing to do with The Carver.”

  Chance winced. “I know. That part kind of sucks.”

  Carlotta exchanged a horrified glance with Hannah. “We have to go.”

  Chance slowly got to his feet and struck a cocky pose. “Hey, Goth Girl, can I persuade you to stay?”

  Hannah blasted him with the extinguisher again, then grabbed her handcart and followed Carlotta out. They sprinted back to the van, where Carlotta punched in Jack’s number with a shaking hand.

  4

  W esley twisted his handcuffed wrists to glance at his watch. He’d been locked in this bathroom for twenty-four hours. He’d missed the meeting with E., his probation officer. Carlotta was probably worried to death.

  He was sitting in a grimy green bathtub, his head leaned back against the cool tile on the wall. No matter what he did, he seemed to screw up. He’d thought he was protecting his sister when he and Chance had embarked on the Great Strip Club Caper. Instead he had humiliated one of the most dangerous men in Atlanta for no reason—a man he still owed a great deal of money.

  Wesley gave a little laugh. They’d just had a fake funeral for Carlotta, and his parents hadn’t bothered to show. He’d told Carlotta that their father had smelled a setup, but with so much time on his hands to think in this grimy, stinky john, he’d begun to wonder if Carlotta had been right all these years—that their parents didn’t give a damn about them, and wouldn’t risk apprehension even if one of their kids was lying in a pine box.

  No, he told himself with a mental shake. The fact that he was doubting his father was just proof of how isolation and lack of food could mess with your mind.

  It was his own fault if The Carver decided to carve him up and scatter his parts all over the city. He’d come to the shabby warehouse office in East Atlanta with a peace offering—the memory chip holding the photos he’d taken of the man with Cherry, a well-endowed transvestite, and a payment of nine hundred dollars on his loan. But before he could state his good intentions, he’d been hauled off his bike, relieved of his wallet, handcuffed, then tossed in this box.

  They hadn’t fed him, but he’d drunk from the sink faucet to keep from becoming dehydrated. Mouse, The Carver’s collections man, told him they were keeping him until the boss decided what to do with him.

  Wesley surveyed the tub he was in, wondering how many other people The Carver had dissected here, allowing their blood to run down the drain before gathering their limbs in garbage bags and disposing of them with the junk mail.

  A scratch sounded at the door. Wesley glanced at the crack at the floor to see the shadows of two sets of shoes—Mouse had brought company this time. Wes’s heart jumped to his throat.

  The dead bolt slid open, then the knob turned and the door swung wide. Mouse and another man walked in and unceremoniously hauled him up out of the bathtub.

  “What’s new, fellas?” Wesley asked congenially.

  “Shut up,” Mouse told him as they half dragged him out of the room and down a hallway. The floor was concrete and the studded walls had been gutted of drywall. “The boss wants to talk to you.”

  “I can talk better with my hands,” Wesley said. “How about uncuffing me?”

  Mouse clocked him up the side of the head. “I said shut up.”

  Wesley blinked until the starbursts faded, and decided to take Mouse’s sage advice. They deposited him in an office—if thugs had offices. It was pretty much just a windowless room with a rickety straight-back chair and some menacing-looking stains on the concrete floor. There was a drain in the corner—just in case the room had to be hosed down, he guessed.

  They slammed him into the chair and left, closing the door behind them.

  He concentrated on not sweating, visualized glaciers and avalanches and other cold scenes. Ice fishing…igloos…polar bears…Klondike bars.

  But when the door burst open, so did his pores. The last time he’d seen The Carver, the man had been inebriated and sitting on the john with his pants around his ankles, a piece of duct tape over his mouth, his wrists bound with a cable tie.r />
  He had recovered well.

  The loan shark was impeccably groomed, his skin tanned and glowing, his salt-and-pepper hair smoothed back from his face, every strand in place. Wesley didn’t know much about clothes, but the brown suit and collarless shirt looked expensive, as well as the square-toed shoes. The only thing that hinted the man was a gangster was the thick rope of gold around his neck.

  Oh, and the switchblade in his hand.

  With one click, a six-inch blade appeared. Wesley leaned forward and vomited the water that had been sitting in his stomach, splashing the man’s expensive square-toed shoes.

  “Christ,” the loan shark said, taking a few steps back. “Are you going to piss yourself next?”

  Wesley lifted his head and licked his dry lips. “I hope not.”

  “Me, too.” The Carver leaned down to get in Wesley’s face. “You stupid little shit, I ought to gut you for what you did to me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wesley mumbled.

  He looked incredulous. “You’re sorry?”

  “Someone shot up my house when my sister was home. I thought it was your guys. I was wrong.”

  The Carver paced all around him. Wesley tensed, expecting to feel the blade plunge into his bony body, disemboweling him. Sweat rolled off his nose and dripped onto the floor.

  “I brought the memory chip from the camera to give you,” he offered.

  “Where is it?”

  Wesley kicked off one of his tennis shoes. “Under the insole.”

  The Carver used the knife to lift the insole, then withdrew the blue memory card, pierced on the tip. “This is the only copy of the pictures?”

  “Yes.”

  The man dropped the punctured card on the floor, then stomped on it for good measure. Every time his heel came down on the chip, Wesley flinched.

  When The Carver stopped, he was panting and slightly disheveled. Using his hand, he smoothed his hair back in place, then bestowed a slow smile on Wesley. “But I can understand that you were trying to protect your sister.”

  Wesley swallowed hard. “You can?”

  “Sure. I have sisters. That’s why I’m going to let you live.”

  Relief flooded Wesley’s body.

  “In return for a fee.”

  “Fee?”

  The man began grooming his nails with the tip of the knife. “For pain and suffering.”

  “H-how much?”

  “Twenty-five large.”

  Wesley felt weak again. “I don’t have twenty-five grand.”

  “Then you need to raise it, Wesley. By five o’clock.”

  “I don’t know anyone who has money like that.”

  “Think hard,” the loan shark said. “Because if you don’t come up with the money, you’re a dead man. Then who’s going to protect your sister?”

  Wesley bit down on the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

  “I’m a busy man, so you’d better be thinking of who you need to call. I’m going to have a sandwich. I’m sending Mouse in with your cell phone—he’ll make the calls for you. If you try to signal someone or get the police involved, your sister is as good as dead.” He walked closer. “Here’s a little incentive.”

  The Carver grabbed Wesley’s arm and with a twist of his wrist, sliced a two-inch letter C into Wesley’s forearm.

  The pain was intense. Wesley gasped as his blood dripped onto the floor to mix with the other stains. Since his hands were still cuffed, he pressed his arm to his chest to stem the bleeding. He ground his teeth to keep from crying out in pain.

  “With every phone call, you get another letter,” The Carver said, his voice deadly calm. “So unless you want my entire name tattooed on your arm, you’d better make them count.”

  The man strode out of the room and nodded to someone. Mouse walked in holding Wesley’s cell phone, all business. “Who do you want me to call?”

  Wesley’s mind raced.

  “You don’t want to keep the boss waiting,” Mouse advised.

  “Chance Hollander.”

  “Is the number in your phone?”

  “Yeah.” His arm was throbbing. “Can you uncuff me, man? My hands are numb.”

  “No can do.” Mouse operated the phone with his fat fingers, then held it to Wesley’s ear. “The volume is turned up so that I can hear everything. No funny stuff, got it?”

  “I lost my sense of humor on the floor,” Wesley said. “Watch your step.”

  He prayed that Chance would pick up. After two rings, he did. “Wes?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Where the fuck are you, man? Your sister is worried sick. She came over with some pierced chick and they kicked my ass—”

  “Dude, listen. I’m in a bind and I need twenty-five grand. Can you help me out?”

  “Twenty-five grand, are you nuts? Have you been kidnapped or something?”

  “Or something. Can you get it?”

  “Yeah, sure. But it’ll take me a couple of days.”

  “I don’t have a couple of days. What can you scrape together in a couple of hours?”

  “Bad timing, dude. I just paid my carriers, and my girls, and I bought a new hot tub—”

  “How much?”

  “It was a steal—a ten-thousand-dollar model, but I got it for five.”

  Mouse rolled his eyes and Wesley grimaced. “Not the hot tub! How much can you get together?”

  “I could probably find a grand in the couch cushions, but that’s about it.”

  Wesley swallowed against his disappointment. “Okay, thanks anyway.”

  “Dude, where are you—”

  Mouse closed the phone. “You know what this means.”

  “Come on, man,” Wesley pleaded. “Give me a mulligan.”

  Mouse frowned. “What’s a mulligan?”

  Note to self: Don’t use golf terms when negotiating with street criminals. “A freebie. No one has to know.”

  “No can do.” The big man went to the door, opened it and shook his head.

  The Carver came in still chewing his sandwich, and sighed heavily, as if Wesley were causing him to miss his favorite TV show. He opened the switchblade. “Hold him, Mouse.”

  Wesley resisted, but could only look away. It took more strokes to carve an A into his skin, more finesse, more blood. He screamed like a girl.

  The Carver used a white handkerchief to wipe the blood off his knife. “I hope for your sake your next call is more productive.” He retracted the blade and left the room.

  Mouse held up the phone. “Who now?”

  Wesley couldn’t think for the pain. His blood was everywhere.

  “Come on, kid. We all want to go home. Give me a name.”

  “Liz Fischer. The number is in there.”

  Mouse dialed it, then held the phone up to Wesley’s mouth.

  Liz had been his father’s attorney and had gotten Wesley off on probation when he’d been busted for hacking into the courthouse database. Recently they’d started banging—everything that Chance had told him about older chicks was true. Carlotta would have an aneurysm if she knew.

  Liz answered on the first ring. “Wes? Are you okay? Jack Terry called me asking if I’d seen you.”

  So Carlotta was beating the bushes. “Uh, I’m fine…for now. But I have a situation here and I need some cash. A lot of it.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-five grand.”

  She gasped. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “The expensive kind.”

  “Wesley, you know I adore you. But I can’t get involved in whatever mess you’re in. I have my career and reputation to think about.”

  He tried to keep his voice steady. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “I’m sorry. I just can’t help you. Maybe you should call the police—”

  Mouse flipped the phone shut, then sighed. “I should’ve worn a dark suit.” He went to the door, opened it and shook his head.

  The Carver
reappeared, a paper napkin tucked in his collar like a bib. Wesley considered making a run for it, but he was having trouble even holding his head up. Besides, he was still wearing only one shoe. And he wouldn’t get far with his hands cuffed. Mouse held him for the next carving, but Wesley didn’t put up much resistance as an R was engraved on his arm. He didn’t even have the strength to squeal. The Carver left with no conversation.

  Wesley was on the verge of passing out.

  “You’re killing me, kid,” Mouse said. “Give me a name—a good one.”

  With what little strength he had left, Wesley considered his options—all of them bad, but one of them viable. Objectionable, but viable.

  He gave Mouse the name and hoped for the best.

  5

  C arlotta stood in her living room and glared up at Jack. “Why are you just standing there? Do something!”

  Jack seemed to struggle for patience. “Carlotta, we can’t just send in a SWAT team to storm the place. We need a warrant, and I can’t get one without probable cause. I need some kind of proof that Hollis Carver kidnapped Wesley or—” He broke off. “Or that he’s holding him.”

  “You were going to say proof that he’s killed him, weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “So that’s the guy’s real name—Hollis Carver?”

  Jack nodded.

  She threw her hands in the air, and cringed when pain zipped up her left arm. “If you’re on first-name basis with this criminal, why don’t you call him up and ask him if he has Wesley?”

  He hesitated. “With Hollis Carver, the communication is one-way.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning,” Hannah interjected, her eyes narrowed at Jack, “The Carver is a narc. And the police leave him alone, right?”

  Carlotta looked back to Jack. “Is that true?”

  He scratched the back of his neck—she was starting to learn his “tells.” He didn’t want to say.

  “Jack?”

  “I can’t divulge anything that might impact open and future investigations. But Hollis Carver has been helpful to the APD in cleaning up the city.”