Cold Around the Heart

by Michael Prescott

  “So you’ve got, um, experience?”

  “Enough.”

  “Right.” He rocked back and forth in his seat like a child.

  A couple of joggers in annoyingly good condition chuffed past. She waited until the pair had gone before asking, “Something bothering you, Alan? What’s on your mind?”

  “I just can’t see ... How can you, you know, do it?”

  “Just pull the trigger.”

  “I meant, does it bother you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because some people are asking for it.”

  “I see.” But he didn’t.

  She wasn’t sure just how to explain it to him. A person who needed killing was a lot like pornography—hard to define, but you knew it when you saw it.

  “I have rules,” she said, aware that the rules, like a lot of basic truths, were hard to put into words. “Lines I won’t cross. Like, if you said you needed your daddy out of the way so you could inherit the family business, I’d tell you to take a hike. If you said you were bored with your wife and wanted her gone, I’d tell you to go fuck yourself. But if you said someone was out to get you and the law couldn’t help—I’d be interested.”

  “That’s the situation here.”

  “Okey-doke. If the biographical portion of the interview is over, I’d like to get down to business.”

  Alan nodded.

  “So what’s the dealio? Why do you think you and yours could be dead by daylight?”

  He looked toward the beach, where the surf hissed on the sand. “A man is after me.”

  “After you, how?”

  “Following me. Showing up at odd times in odd places. A stranger.”

  “When was the first time you laid eyes on this man of mystery?”

  “Two days ago. But I think he’s connected to something else. It’s complicated. I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “Try the beginning. Keep going till the end. Then stop.”

  He breathed a sigh. “I’m an attorney. Six months ago I started a law practice in McKendree Park. My idea was to serve the low-income population. I guess I thought there would be a certain glamor in it. But the truth is, my clients are mainly, well ...”

  McKendree Park had been a burned-out slum since the race riots of 1970. “Meth heads, hookers, and bangers?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. A lot of them are just confused kids—”

  “Yeah, whatever.” She didn’t care about his client list. Scum deserved legal representation just like anybody else. “Stay on point. You think your anonymous admirer is connected to your job?”

  He nodded. “Back in April, a woman—girl, really—came to my office complaining about her boyfriend. She’d broken it off with him, but he wouldn’t leave her alone. He was abusive, threatening. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “I got a restraining order, which naturally the boyfriend ignored. I went to the judge and reported the violation. Multiple violations, actually. The judge, a no-nonsense type—Kittridge, maybe you’ve heard of him—sentenced the kid to two hundred hours of community service. Specifically, picking up trash on the shoulder of Route 35.”

  “Okay.”

  “It seemed to work out, except there was something I didn’t know. The kid in question—well, he’s not a gang member himself, but he’s got this cousin, Darius.” He pronounced it Da-rye-us. “And Darius is a honcho in the G-Rocs. You know about them?”

  She blew a jet of smoke at the gazebo’s hexagonal roof. “Drug crew operating out of McKendree and Maritime, with some franchises farther south.”

  “That’s them. Darius doesn’t like having his cousin out there on the side of the highway in an orange vest. Thinks it’s embarrassing for the family, or for the G-Rocs, or whatever. He’s ... displeased.”

  “How displeased?”

  “My client, the ex-girlfriend, saw me again two weeks ago. She said there was a rumor Darius wanted to come after me and my family.”

  “Come after as in terminate?”

  “Of course. These people don’t fool around.”

  “The G-Rocs are pretty hard-core, but I don’t know if they’re wacko enough to put out a hit on a civilian over something this minor. Maybe they’re jerking your chain.”

  “That’s what I thought at first. But a few days later she’s on the phone with me, saying they’ve definitely hired somebody to get it done.”

  “Hired somebody? You mean like an outsider working a contract?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Why would they outsource? If they’re nutty enough to go through with the idea, they can handle it with a drive-by, keep it all in-house.”

  “According to her, word was it couldn’t be anyone local. Had to be somebody from out of town, who can’t be traced to the G-Rocs. She said they brought in someone from Colombia.”

  “Colombia?” This was getting weird.

  “The gang is reputed to work with the Medellin cartel.”

  “You sure your client isn’t using some of the G-Rocs’ product? This is turning into a Steven Segal flick.”

  “I know it sounds far-fetched. But a couple of days ago I spotted a guy hanging out by my office. Yesterday he’s sitting a few tables away from me at the Surfside Cafe. I heard him place his order. He has a foreign accent. Could be Latin American.”

  “There are a million Latin Americans around here.”

  “This guy was following me. I’m sure of it. I took his picture.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Considerate of him to pose for you.”

  “I snapped it with my phone.”

  He fumbled in his shirt pocket and took out his cell, then navigated to his photos. Framed in the screen was a shot of a man in a leather jacket sitting at a window table, a coffee cup in his hand. The street scene outside was a haze of glare.

  “You said this was the Surfside Cafe? In Algonquin?”

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t think so. The view through the window might be only a white blur, but somehow it didn’t have the feel of anyplace local. Alan was probably lying about that. It didn’t faze her. Most people lied most of time.

  The man in the photo was entirely bald, his scalp so polished it nearly gleamed. He was in his forties or older. His face was pale and oddly batlike, with its pushed-up nose and looming triangular nostrils.

  And he was wearing gloves. Black leather gloves. That was kind of kooky. Nobody wore gloves in summertime. Maybe the guy was a germophobe. Or a fingerprintophobe.

  “What do you think?” Alan asked.

  She sucked down a long stream of smoke. “He’s ugly as ass.”

  “And ...?”

  “Definitely not local. I would’ve noticed a kisser like that.”

  “And the café is miles from my office. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Anything could be a coincidence.”

  “He had to be tailing me.”

  “If so, it was sloppy of him to get made that easily.”

  “Maybe he wants to be identified. Maybe he likes to put a scare in his target before he makes his move.”

  “Maybe.” It wasn’t the way she’d do it. “And all this because Darius doesn’t like his cousin picking up soda cans and fast food containers?”

  “I’m just telling you what I know,” he said, his voice rising.

  “Okay, Alan. Settle down. Stay cool.”

  “I am cool.”

  “Sure you are. Like a squirrel on the turnpike. Mind if I send this pic to my phone for future reference?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She transferred the photo, then gave him back his cell. “So, you’re afraid this guy you spotted is the hitter, and he’s getting ready to take you out.”

  “And my family too. Maybe. All three of us. That’s how the G-Rocs roll.”

  “But you haven’t told your wife?”

  “I didn’t want to worry her.”

  “Yeah, a hit man on her t
ail just might give her the heebie-jeebies. I’m a little surprised you left them home alone.”

  “They’re asleep already. And our house has a security system, a good one. No one can get in.”

  She didn’t argue. The customer was always right, even when he was wrong. “So tell me something. Where’s your friendly neighborhood police department in all this?”

  “Nowhere. I haven’t talked to them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they can’t protect me. You know that. There’s been no actual crime—not yet. Only a rumor and a couple of sightings of a guy who’s not local. They’d tell me I’m paranoid. Especially given who I am.”

  “Yeah? Who are you?”

  “A guy who represents the people they’re trying to put in jail.”

  “So the cops don’t like you because you help the bad guys get away? They’re still obliged to come to your assistance.”

  “If you’re naive enough to believe that, you haven’t lived in Jersey very long.”

  “Long enough.”

  “So you know it’s bullshit.”

  “Yeah. But it felt like something I should say.”

  A tribe of kids on bikes flashed by, ignoring the signs that banned bicycles on the boardwalk.

  “The police aren’t going to help me.” He shrugged. It seemed to be less an expressive gesture than a nervous tic. “To them, I’m the enemy.”

  “I know the feeling,” Bonnie said, taking another drag off her cig.

  His story made a certain amount of sense, but she wasn’t quite buying it, and not just because the photo was sketchy. She decided to change tacks. “You said you opened your law firm six months ago. What were you doing before that?”

  “How is that relevant?”

  “It probably isn’t. Tell me anyway.”

  “We were living in Manhattan. I worked for an international charitable organization. People Against Poverty. They feed hungry people in underdeveloped—”

  “Got it. You were a professional slacktivist.”

  “I take it you disapprove of charitable activity.”

  “I just think it’s pointless. You spend your life trying to save a bunch of strangers. What for?”

  “To make a difference.”

  “But you never do. You save one, and up pops another one. Nothing ever changes.”

  “So we shouldn’t even try?”

  “That’s what I’m getting at.”

  “How about you? Why do you do your job?”

  “I get paid.”

  “Are you always so cynical?”

  “Pretty much. I don’t have that high an opinion of my fellow man. If you’re so gung-ho on do-goodery, why aren’t you still polishing your halo?”

  “We weren’t accomplishing enough. There were too many bureaucratic and diplomatic obstacles. Too much politics. We needed to get things done, but really we were just spinning our wheels.” His frustration sounded genuine.

  “And there were no problems with this charity, no issues?”

  “What kind of issues?”

  “You didn’t discover they were funneling donations into private bank accounts in the Caymans?”

  “Of course not. There never was anything like that. It’s a totally legitimate organization.”

  In her experience, there were no totally legitimate operations, but she let it slide. “Terrific. So you left on friendly terms. You had a good job there? Good salary?”

  “Yes ...”

  “Which means you could have parlayed that position into some other Manhattan gig, right? Corner office, personal secretary, key to the executive washroom, three-martini lunches on the company expense account?”

  “If I were applying for a job in the 1960s, maybe.”

  “Funny. You know what I mean. You could’ve kept living la vida loca. But instead you’re living la dolce vita. You ditched your high-paying job and your big-city life, and plopped yourself down in Mayberry RFD to be a low-rent lawyer for incorrigibles.”

  “I wanted to do some good. To accomplish something for once.”

  “You can take the boy out of charity work, but you can’t take the charity work out of the boy?”

  “Something like that. I still don’t see why you need to know this.”

  “I’m just wondering if this stalker—assuming he really is a stalker—could be connected with your past, and not with the G-Rocs at all.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I already told you—”

  “I know what you told me. But there are holes in your story. I can’t see the G-Rocs flying in a shooter from Colombia to take care of something this small-time. It doesn’t add up.”

  “So you won’t help me?”

  “Didn’t say that. The fact that all the pieces don’t fit is a feature, not a bug. Makes it interesting. But if there’s anything you’re not telling me, anything you don’t want me to know—either spill it now or walk away. Because I need to know it all, and I will find out. I have a way of getting to the bottom of things.”

  “There’s nothing I’m hiding.”

  “All-righty, then. I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea where to find this freak?”

  “I know exactly where to find him. Room thirty-two of the Coach House. You know, the motel—”

  “On the highway. I call it the Roach House. Nice place to crash if you don’t mind spunk on your sheets.”

  “Evidently he’s not too particular.”

  “And just how do you know your chum is holed up there?”

  “The motel manager is a client of mine. He has his share of legal problems.”

  She didn’t doubt it, inasmuch as the Roach House was a rendezvous point for half the hookers and johns in Millstone County, not to mention assorted drug dealers and their clients. “How’d the manager know you’d be interested?”

  “I showed him the picture and asked him if the guy had a room there. As of yesterday he didn’t. Tonight around six the manager called and said the man in the photo had just checked in.”

  This was starting to look a little too easy. It worried her. “He just happens to take a room in the one motel where you gave the manager a heads-up?”

  “It’s the only motel in town. Well, except for a couple of bed-and-breakfasts, but they’re booked months in advance. The Coach House always has vacancies.”

  “Yeah, that’s what happens when you rent rooms by the hour.” She supposed it was a fairly high-percentage bet the hitter would go there. He would want someplace anonymous and close. But ... “If he’s been shadowing you for two days, why is he just checking into the Roach House tonight?”

  “How should I know? Maybe he moves around a lot. When the manager called me, I figured it was my chance. I know where he’s staying. But there’s nothing to arrest him on. I need to use ... other methods.”

  “And you thought of me.”

  “You came recommended.”

  “By who?” she asked, testing him.

  “Someone I trust.”

  She liked the fact that he didn’t spill the name. “All right.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “You’re going home to your wife and kid. And I’m going to the Roach House to pay a call on our mutual friend.”

  “And ... you’ll take care of him? It’s just that simple?”

  “Nothing’s just that simple. It’s not that kind of deal.”

  “But I thought ...”

  “I know what you thought. But I don’t go to extremes unless the guy has it coming. For all I know, you could be putting two and two together and getting seventeen. Maybe this mook’s an innocent tourist slumming it on the Jersey shore. Or you could have a hard-on to get him for some totally different reason than the one you gave me. You could be playing me.”

  “How can I prove I’m not?”

  “You can’t. But he probably can. I’ll find out what he’s up to.”

  “How?”

  “I told you, I’m good at prying out secrets. I always find out what
I need to know.”

  “But if you do have to, um ...”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now there’s just one small but all-important detail to take care of.”

  Alan looked at her blankly.

  “Cash on the barrelhead. Payment up front.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “My standard retainer ...”

  “Twenty-five hundred. I know.”

  “And if my special services are required ...”

  “Then there’s a follow-up payment of twenty-five thousand. In cash.”

  “You came well informed.”

  He tried to hit a jocular note. “Hey, it’s all about the Benjamins, am I right?”

  “Way to keep current with the lingo.”

  She waited while he counted out hundred-dollar bills, placing them one by one into her palm. He seemed embarrassed by the transaction. She wasn’t.

  “I hope this’ll be okay,” he said as she stuffed the $2500 into the wallet in her purse.

  “It’s legal tender, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean, I hope you won’t have to take any unnecessary risks.”

  “Taking unnecessary risks is my job description.”

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt. All I want is for this to be over.”

  “I won’t get hurt. And neither will you and your loved ones. I won’t let that happen. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So chill already. I got your back, Jack.” She smiled. “And yeah, I know your name isn’t Jack.”

  CHAPTER 8

   

  Pascal, alone in the dark, nursing his tender hands.

  The motel room was quiet. The sun was long gone, and with the curtains drawn over the front windows, no light bled in from the parking lot. The bed was comfortable enough, and though he was not tempted to sleep, he could close his eyes and watch the images that appeared and vanished behind his eyelids like splinters of dreams.

  He saw his life, or snatches of it, moments plucked from memory—his boyhood in Chile, his life as a world traveler, the chances he had taken, the opportunities missed. So much of it was defined by his face and hands, the face that set him apart, the hands sheathed in protective gloves. His face had marked him as an outsider, denying him the pleasures of companionship, and his hands had made him wary of contact. He could not touch others or the world around him, a world that had never wished to know him anyway.

  He had been forever cut off. And lonely. He could admit this to himself. He was lonely. He yearned.

  He never spoke of it. To complain was not in his nature. Life was hard and unjust. So it had ever been. So it was meant to be.

  Still, he sometimes caught himself wishing that things had been other than the way they were. If he had been blessed with better hands ... and another face ...