Gray Area

by George P. Saunders

  The stupid, adulterous bitch.

  Now there was a woman that angered August. She was trouble from the word go, and August knew it. He knew her husband was not only a drunk, but a violent one at that. Jason was smart and should have known better. But August knew that when a woman wanted something badly enough—she would have it, at all costs, and damn the consequences. By all accounts, it appeared that her husband had finally said ‘enough is enough,’ went and got himself a big old gun, and then took matters into his own hands.

  By all accounts.

  But August wasn’t too worried about the hubby. He was worried about Arc-Link. Or more specifically, the people who ran Arc-Link. And most specifically, about his direct involvement with Arc-Link and the ramifications of such an association on a deeply, personal level.

  Above all, Robert August was worried about ending up just as dead as Jason Randall and Marianne Simpson.

  At the moment, though … not that worried.

  “Suck it,” August moaned, as Timmy began to unzip his trousers.

  The front door opened without sound as Robert August’s head lolled back, face up to the ceiling, with Timmy’s face buried to the hilt in his crotch. Two men, dressed in fine Italian silk, entered the room silently and were immediately followed by a tall man dressed in simple jeans and a sports jacket.

  The two suits were as different as night and day. One was tall and blonde, with a scar across his lip; his compatriot was half a foot shorter, completely bald, and wore a sardonic smile that never seemed to increase or diminish. They looked like stock characters from Bad Guys, Incorporated.

  Preston Giles, last to enter, closed the door behind himself and cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me,” he said softly. “Forgive the intrusion.”

  Timmy snapped his head around, leaving August’s dick throbbing and waving in the wind.

  “Oh, my god,” Timmy sputtered.

  August, lost in the moment, recovered and looked at his three guests.

  “What the hell is going on?” August snarled.

  “Mr. August?” Giles said, offering something akin to a courteous smile.

  “Mr. Robert August?” the smaller suit echoed.

  Robert August knew inside of half a second that he was in some major horseshit. He watched the two suits produce their weapons in full view of himself and young Timmy.

  “Listen,” August fumbled as he tried to stand while shoving his cock back into his pants.

  Timmy grabbed two cushions, hugging them close to his body as he began to cry.

  “We’re not paid to listen, sir,” Giles said … a vague tone of remorse in his voice. “But I would like to introduce myself. Preston Giles. These are my associates, Mr. Caston and Mr. Majors. We are representatives of Arc-Link Industries. I always like introductions before … well, you know.”

  August did know and didn’t like anything about it.

  “Sorry,” Majors said suddenly, then fired his gun three times into Timmy’s chest. Timmy was dead before he hit the ground, not even having the time to scream in pain.

  August’s only thought, which seemed to come from some place far away, was how quiet the gunshots had been. Silencers, he realized. And these were professionals.

  August began to back away from the sofa, staring in numb astonishment at dead Timmy.

  “You’ve become a liability, Mr. August,” Giles said with no malice in his voice.

  Without fear, August turned toward the suits and Giles. He figured he had lived a good life. And even though he had of late been an on-fire faggot guzzling The Lode (hell, no one’s perfect) … he was from good Catholic stock. But more than that (and this would have surprised August had anyone told him before now) … he was, at heart, a courageous man.

  “You can all go straight to hell,” he said, his eyes locked with those of Giles.

  “You first, sir,” Giles said, then nodded to Caston and Majors. “Do this quickly.”

  Giles opened the front door and glanced in either direction with calm interest. Always good to be cautious. He then exited August’s condo and closed the door softly behind him.

  Castor and Majors moved toward August in tandem.

  Robert August eyed them both contemptuously.

  Right to the end.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The building was 2069 Century Park East, a damn impressive skyscraper filled with condos that had a luxurious terrace attached to every one. Robert August had done well for himself. As did all the lawyers at his brother’s firm, Diamond thought, recognizing the snide mental undertone—which he immediately felt guilty about.

  He parked the car illegally on the side street and looked up at the forty story building.

  Just in time to see something that looked like a body begin to fall from a top terrace. Something that looked like a body ... no, it was a body, Diamond realized a second later. A body screaming and squirming in the still air as it plunged toward the ground.

  He had to actually dodge the falling human projectile.

  The body of Robert August slammed into the sidewalk with a sickening crunch, bouncing once, then still forever. What used to be Robert August was now a twisted heap of flesh and protruding bone. The face was still discernible, albeit mangled and pulpy with lacerated blood vessels and shorn tissue. Diamond tore his gaze away from the pitiful remains of Robert August and looked up at the origin of the young lawyer’s tragic demise.

  It was thirty floors up, but he could see two men standing on the terrace, looking down. They were distant stick figures against the dim moonlight, but it was enough for Diamond.

  Diamond ran to the double doors of the building nearly knocking the young doorman to the ground. It only took one quick look for Diamond to know that the pale and frightened kid had also witnessed Robert August’s swan dive.

  “Call the police,” Diamond snapped, not slowing his pace through the doors.

  The elevator banks were all monopolized, the center one fixed on the thirtieth floor—where Robert August had lived just a few minutes ago.

  Diamond glanced to his right and left, looking for a stairwell. He didn’t relish the ascent of thirty stories, but it might be the fastest way up given the circumstances. It had been a long night already and he might be courting a heart attack but fuck it, he thought. Robert August’s murderers were still in the building, probably ransacking the apartment or contemplating leaving the building. At a stiff sprint, it might take him five minutes. He was wasting time thinking. He headed for the stairwell and unholstered his .38, all in the same move.

  The first ten stories were a breeze. By floor twelve, he was panting. By fifteen, he was wheezing. The twentieth floor brought on cramps that made him pause to take in huge gulps of air. Move, he urged himself silently; move now, die later. He moved. Barfing once along the way, but moving nevertheless.

  He reached the thirtieth floor, feeling faint with an enormous desire to yark once more. But his gut held and he pushed through the inner fire doors, glancing either way down the halls. Snorting and wheezing like an old steam engine, Diamond went down every door, scanning the names on the Plexiglas face plates.

  He found Robert August’s name on 30C. The door was ajar and he quickly kicked it in and crouched low with his .38 aimed directly ahead.

  He did not see Preston Giles in an adjacent hallway watching him. Giles smiled to himself; wonderful, he thought. Target One came to the party. Sans invite, of course, but my, oh my, how very, very accommodating. He took a step forward, then froze as several doors in the hallway opened at once. The noise from Diamond’s door-kicking escapades had attracted attention.

  Shit, Giles thought to himself, annoyed. He would have to bide his time a bit longer. Caston and Majors were already on the roof, ready for pick-up. That was good. In and out, clean. For this relief, much thanks, Giles thought humorlessly.

  Diamond studied the scene before him. August’s apartment had been torn apart. The terrace doors were still open and the white, chiffon c
urtains flapped eerily in the light breeze. Young n’ suckin’ Timmy lay sprawled, bloodied and dead on the sofa.

  A noise made Diamond wheel around, gun up and ready to fire. He found himself staring at an elderly woman in a purple nightgown, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Please don’t shoot, mister,” she said quickly.

  Diamond said nothing, but glanced again into August’s residence.

  “If you’re looking for the others, they went up to the roof,” the woman offered.

  Giles couldn’t help but overhear.

  You old bitch, he thought, now angry.

  Diamond looked at her and stepped forward. “Others? Who?”

  “The ones who were in there with Robert. Two men and one other—”

  Diamond shot a look to the fire escape, then ran in the direction he had come. The roof was two stories up. A hop, skip and a jump after scaling Everest just a few minutes ago.

  The roof door was wide open and Diamond’s combat instincts kicked into Defcon Five. They were up here, just as sure as snake shit. Oh, yeah … that simple. He moved toward the open door then gingerly stepped out onto the asphalt.

  He was greeted with a strafing line of automatic fire which missed him by a half inch but succeeded in slamming some chipped cement into his cheek. He snarled as the pain radiated from his face to his temple, but was grateful for the shock. It made him angry, and when he got angry, the fear evaporated. He waited for the volley to stop, then stepped out and found his target. One man, holding what appeared to be an Uzi machine gun, began to run after yet another man, also armed.

  Diamond took aim, then took an extra second of time to cool his anger. He fired. The shot was true. Diamond heard the Uzi gun carrier, the tall blond man, scream in pain and astonishment as the bullet slammed into his back.

  The remaining gunman, the bald fuck, turned and watched his companion fall as the Uzi clattering harmlessly on the roof, then over the side of the building.

  Diamond fired again at the last gunman but missed as the man ran toward the opposite ledge, out of range and out of sight. There were only three dim roof lights and Diamond could barely track the fleeing man who seemed to have no interest in resuming hostilities. Diamond fired again—once, twice, missing wildly. Nevertheless, he hoped it might make the sonofabitch freeze on instinct and give himself up. Fat chance and buggers to that idea, he thought. Whoever these guys were, Diamond surmised, they weren’t the kind to give up, thank you much.

  Finally, Majors stopped at the edge of the south end of the building. Diamond was now a hundred feet away, a clear shot of the man finally afforded.

  All fine and dandy, except for one thing: the helicopter that seemed to appear out of nowhere. The chopper rose from behind the building, directly in front of Diamond. Majors turned as the helicopter hovered momentarily. Diamond could tell at once that it wasn’t a police chopper—which did not bode well, he added as an afterthought.

  Giles had arrived at the roof door exit a minute earlier. He had seen Diamond dispense with Caston. Very impressive. He wanted to see how all of this played out. Sure, he could end it now, take Diamond down … but this was good theater. And Diamond was beginning to fascinate him.

  Majors waved at the chopper then fired his automatic pistol at Diamond. Diamond, startled by the helicopter, had momentarily forgotten about Majors. He dove in the nick of time behind another stairwell bunker. When he rolled and tried to spot Majors, he saw only the helicopter, still hovering and now sporting an enormous spotlight which blinded the surface of the roof.

  Diamond got to his feet and moved around the corner of the stairwell bunker. Majors slammed a steel girder into Diamond’s ribs. Diamond let out a silent grunt, his body racked by paralyzing pain. A boot smashed against his head. Stars and agony entered his world but he remained conscious and, again, rage filled every fiber of his being. He responded to the attack with one powerful blow to Major’s jaw, which sent the smaller man down to the rooftop.

  Diamond reached for the girder that Majors had used against him. Majors was up now and reaching for his weapon. Diamond pulled the girder back, then thrust it forward with all his might. Majors screamed in horror and pain as the girder tore through his midsection.

  He clutched onto the extra appendage protruding from his belly and did a strange half circle walk, before falling on his knees, fighting for breath.

  Bullets smattered into the rooftop from the helicopter, a few feet from where Diamond was standing, or more accurately, staggering. The volley tore into Majors, ending all pain forever.

  Diamond hugged the stairwell bunker barely missing the helicopter attack. The chopper circled on itself, clearly preparing for another run. Diamond’s vision had returned and he took careful aim at the chopper’s blackened pilot windows and fired. Five shots, one after the other.

  All five shots connected with the windshield, shattering it inwards. The chopper suddenly careened, right, then left, then began to rise almost vertically. It stalled a few seconds later and began to fall.

  Directly toward Diamond.

  Diamond ran, finding breath from some secret reserve. He did not waste time looking up. The chopper came smashing down on the roof and separated into a thousand flaming pieces. The impact threw Diamond an additional ten feet into the air, right over the lip of the building. He caught a security railing with one hand, as the rest of this body began to drop.

  He looked down—a mistake. Vertigo and terror immediately gripped him. After a few paralyzed seconds, he managed to grab the railing with his other hand and drag himself over the top.

  He closed his eyes, not glancing at the flaming ruins of the chopper. For the moment, he knew that the battle had been won.

  Problem still remained: Who, exactly, was he fighting?

  TWENTY-THREE

  Bravo, Giles congratulated Diamond mentally. Bravo, my intrepid friend.

  He could end the cop now, Giles thought. Finish it right and easy, and make LeMay a happy camper. But his dignity wouldn’t allow it. There was a protocol at stake here. Unspoken rules. Honor.

  This Diamond fellow had already had quite a night. And what would be the sport in simply walking up to the man and putting a bullet into his exhausted brain? Forget the sport, Giles thought … where was the compassion in it?

  No, friend Diamond, Giles sighed, backing away from the roof door and moving down the stairs … tonight would not be the time to bring things to an inevitable conclusion.

  Tonight, there would be a reprieve.

  And with that, Preston Giles moved quickly down the roof stairs, not realizing that he was smiling all the way.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The corpse of Robert August was covered and lifted into the M.E. van half an hour later. Timmy had already been zipped and bagged five minutes earlier.

  Rex Daniels out of homicide was there ... again, and staring at his old friend Lou Diamond.

  Diamond, his humor overall just a notch above foul, was being bandaged by a diligent young medical assistant.

  “Ouch,” he snapped. The poor M.A. withdrew quickly as Daniels approached them.

  “My, but we’re having a busy night,” Daniels commented dryly.

  “Fridays, huh?” Diamond said dully.

  Daniels watched the M.E. van drive off.

  “I would have said suicide, if it hadn’t been for a trashed helicopter, and by the way, nice shooting,” Daniels said, pretending to be interested in Diamond’s flesh wound. “That, and two more stiffs on the Lou Diamond Big Dick Notch Board.”

  “Let me guess,” Diamond said, all business. “No identification.”

  “Four phantom bad guys. Your lawyer buddy must have pissed someone off big-time.”

  Diamond considered this in silence. That Linda Baylor had recommended a little tete-a-tete with August just a few hours before his death did not diminish her as a prime ingredient in the increasingly sordid stew revolving around the law firm of Berenson & Marelli.

  “Let’s take a look at
the apartment,” Diamond said at last.

  The forensic and evidence guys had been all over the place for the last twenty minutes. Neat folks they were not, though most of the mess had obviously been caused by the struggle between August and his two killers. Papers and folders lay strewn on the living room floor and August’s desk had been rifled through, the drawers torn from their holders. Someone had been looking for something. Diamond bent down and picked up one folder, marked “Contracts.” The emblem of Berenson & Marelli was embossed on the jacket.

  The folder was empty, its contents hiding under the desk. He reached for them and looked at the title on each page. ARC-LINK INDUSTRIES. He remembered from his old lawyer days what boiler plate Limited Partnership Agreements looked like, along with attendant Exhibits, Schedules and Appendices. Berenson & Marelli was clearly representing Arc-Link’s interests. No doubt a lucrative client judging by some of the figures he was looking at. Six hundred million dollars in purchases from yet another company called UNCLE SAM, INC. The purchases were undefined. Nothing unusual, Diamond reflected, nor did they have much to do with Robert August.

  Or did they?

  Daniels appeared behind him, holding two full baggies of white powder in either hand.

  “Snow heaven, Lou. Your boy August must have had some mean connections to get this kind of take.”

  Diamond reached for one of the baggies. He opened it, dipped his finger inside, and pulled out a mote of white on his nail. He gave it the taste test, then glanced at Daniels. Daniels nodded.

  “You lie down with dogs, you get fuckin’ fleas. Ten to one your shooters were with the Cartel.”

  Not bad odds. And on the surface, not a bad bet. Coke, bad guys, a dead lawyer. All spelled trouble and a professional hit.

  It was all so simple. Police perfect, neat and clean. Open and shut, as they used to say.

  Or was it?