AHMM, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The guy who stood there looking at him could have been a shooter for the Tuittes, but Leo doubted it. He looked more like a little thief-weasel or graffiti bum from behind the rec center. Not that it meant a whole lot on its own. Leo's customers, by and large, weren't the city's most upstanding citizens.

  "What'd you say your name was?” He remembered it; he wanted to know if his visitor did.

  "Moody. Dan Moody."

  "This can't wait till tomorrow? You think I don't have a life?"

  The kid shrugged. “Can I take my hands away now?"

  Leo nodded. The kid lowered his hands to his sides.

  "I'm not from around here,” the kid said. “I got directions at the Rob Roy. The guy there seemed to think it would be all right if I came along to see you now."

  "The Rob Roy, huh? That don't surprise me. Guys in that place think the world don't exist till the stars come out.” He patted the guy down crudely and let him in. Jerked his head at the table. “Sit there, keep your hands in front of you, and tell me why I ought to give you a dime."

  The guy sat. Leo sized him up. Late twenties, maybe a little older, scruffy hair narrowing into a widow's peak. Hands thin, no grime or calluses, probably hadn't done a day's work in his life. He looked like he bought his clothes off the Sally Anne discount rack. Eyes gray and searching and intense.

  "How much do you need?"

  The kid tried to smile. “A couple of grand would be nice."

  "Lot's of things would be nice. How much do you need?"

  The kid blew air out his pursed lips. “Five hundred?"

  "Why should I give it to you?"

  "I don't know. I need money. You lend it. That's your business. You make money at it."

  Smart-ass, this kid. Quick with the mouth. He had this in common with Mr. Bar Harbor. Difference was, Bar Harbor had money, and the kid here had diddly-squat.

  "I don't make money by throwing it out the window!” Leo said. “I haven't seen you around. Why should I trust you? How do I know you won't do a run on me?"

  A thoughtful frown. “Well, I'm not sure. Only that would probably be pretty stupid of me. You'd find me, I'm sure of that, and I don't want to have my legs broken."

  Leo grunted. Right answer. “You keep thinking that,” he said. He poured himself a finger of rye. He was beginning to believe the kid was all right. “Five bills, though—I don't know. If you're a floater, just passing through..."

  "I'm from out of town, but I'm working here. Got a job at the Rob Roy. All I need is a little stake so I can get myself hooked up.” He stared directly into Leo's eyes. Look at me. Honest as the pope. “I plan to open my own bar, Mr. Skorzeny. Not right away, of course, but as soon as I can. And then I'll come to you for some of the money. So I'm not gonna mess things up for myself, am I, by screwing you around."

  "Trying to screw me around."

  "That's what I meant."

  Leo mulled it over. He noticed the kid had pulled his eyes away and was shooting quick, evaluating glances around the room. Probably the first time he had come to a shy. Probably expected walnut furniture and mahogany paneling. Leo ought to send him to Big Toot and Little Toot, lots of wood paneling there to look at, and pay six points more for the privilege.

  Later Leo would wonder if he had been thinking clearly. But at that moment he felt tremendously tired. Worn out. He wanted to get rid of this guy, find a boring game on TV, lay down on the couch, and close his eyes. He took one more look at the kid. It was only five bills. And if he did start a business—like that would happen, but anything was possible—then Leo could hook him on for the big money.

  He heaved himself to his feet, jerked a small kitchen drawer open, and pulled a sheet of paper from a clutch of them inside. He slapped it down in front of the kid. “Read this marker and sign it. Where it says there, the amount, write in the five. I'll be right back. Don't get out of that chair."

  "Jeez,” the kid said with a not unfriendly smile. “Just like at the bank."

  "I keep records too,” Leo said. He paused. “Somebody might want to buy me out, I have to show what I got, don't I?"

  It was a thin joke, meant only for himself.

  He shuffled out of the room, feeling as if he weighed at least a million tons. The whiskey, the pills, the pain—they were all getting to him. He pulled the kitchen door shut behind him and locked it. He went into his office. He bent across the corner of the desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and began counting out the five hundred in small bills from the four grand.

  Then he felt the point of the knife at his neck.

  "That's fine,” the kid's voice purred in his ear, “now put your hands behind you, old man."

  * * * *

  Leo sat in the kitchen chair, disgusted with himself. Letting this little thief-weasel get the jump on him! And with his own kitchen knife too. His head throbbed where the kid had slapped him, but that didn't count much; only one more pain on top of all the others. He shifted his weight. He wasn't tied to the chair, exactly. The way the kid had bound him with the electrical cord, his wrists were lashed behind the chair back, and the back thrust up high between his arms. It effectively prevented him from getting to his feet. Part of the problem was his gut. He had to lean forward practically on his face to stand up these days, and the chair back wouldn't let him do that.

  The kid was chortling about the Mickey Mouse lock on the door.

  "I can't believe it. Security like that. I was picking those things in grade school just as fast as the nuns could lock them. You need something better. Spend some cash, old man. It takes money to make money, didn't anybody tell you that?"

  He had the Glock. He had the money from the desk drawer stacked on the table in front of him, where he had twice given up trying to count it. He was so pleased with himself he couldn't keep his mind on the job.

  Leo tested the cord around his wrists. There was some slack there, and he would work on that, but it might take a little time. While he was at it, he wondered what he could do to delay this guy. Not much, apparently. He would bundle up the money and go before Leo had a hope of freeing himself. Then Leo thought about Mr. Bar Harbor, imagined him showing up here later and finding Leo tied like a hog for the slaughter. That wouldn't be good, and it wouldn't be pretty.

  He laughed out loud.

  "What's so funny?” the kid said.

  "You are."

  "Want another slap,” the kid said, “to go with the first one?"

  "You think that's big money. You don't know what big money is."

  The kid threw him a look. “Am I missing something here?"

  "Forget it."

  The kid pushed his chair back, got up, came toward him.

  "No. Let's talk about it. Tell me what you meant by that crack."

  "I told you to forget it,” Leo said.

  The kid hit him across the ear with an open hand. Leo reeled. His ear rang.

  "I wanna know,” the kid said evenly, “what you meant."

  "And I'm telling you to get lost,” Leo said. He had trouble with the words; his jaw didn't want to move properly.

  The kid hit him again.

  Then the kid looked at the stove. At the pot Leo had cooked his dinner in. He reached out and switched on the element, and the stove made fast little pinging noises, heating up. “I'm gonna get this pot smoking,” the kid said, “and shove it right in your face. I wanna know what you meant, and I wanna know now."

  "You wouldn't burn a guy."

  "Just watch me."

  Leo knew better, of course. The little psychopath would love it. He'd pull Leo's fingernails out too, if he thought it would get him somewhere.

  Leo closed his eyes and put on a defeated look. He let his head roll forward on his chest.

  "Okay, okay,” he said. “You don't have to get nasty."

  "I'm listening.” The pot was creaking. Leo could smell macaroni warming up.

  "There's a guy supposed to be coming here tonight, he should be bringing some more cash with him."<
br />
  "How much?"

  "I don't know yet. Fifty, sixty grand."

  "Keep talking, old man."

  "He's my route guy, been making collections, down the South Shore and into the Valley."

  "Somebody told me you worked alone."

  "I can't help what somebody told you."

  The kid studied him. “Anything else?"

  "That's all there is. He'll be here anytime now."

  "And you're telling me all this because you love me, is that right?"

  "I'm telling you this because you're a mental case. I like my face just the way it is."

  The kid was studying him. Leo waited. Now is when the kid would decide. Make a run for it with what he had, or hang around and try to up the ante.

  The room stank, now, of burnt cheese. The kid yanked the pot from the element and switched off the stove.

  "Sounds like easy money to me,” he said. “I think I'll wait around a while."

  * * * *

  They waited for another hour. The kid counted the cash on the table at least six times. He couldn't seem to get enough of the feel of it, the weight of it, all that dough right there in his hands. Probably wondering how big a pile the rest of it was going to make when it arrived.

  Leo kept pulling, straining at his bonds, trying not to be obvious about it. The cord was cutting into his flesh, burning him, a circle of fire now around his wrists. But slowly, slowly, the knots seemed to be loosening.

  And then they heard it. They both heard it at once. The soft, muted crackle of tires rolling over the gravel outside in the yard. Somebody pulling in real slow, like they didn't want to announce themselves. Burbling exhaust. Leo recognized the sound. It was Mr. Bar Harbor out there, coming back to sort Leo out.

  The kid grinned and picked up the Glock. “Happy days,” he said.

  He stepped across to the door and waited.

  Leo didn't know what the kid's plan was, or even if the fool had one. Probably a fuzzy notion of bashing some bagman over the head, maybe even shooting him, and then grabbing an armload of cash. After that, make a run for it. For Leo, things were all very dicey. If the kid bashed Bar Harbor, or shot him, he'd discover pretty quick that there wasn't any dough. And just as likely, once that happened, he'd put a bullet in Leo Skorzeny.

  Or it might go the other way: Mr. Bar Harbor could plug the kid. That would leave Leo trussed up and helpless with a very provoked Mr. Bar Harbor in his face.

  Neither scenario was appealing.

  Leo strained harder at the cord.

  The kid, with his ear to the door, whispered, “What's he doing out there?"

  "What do you mean, ‘what's he doing?’”

  "Well, why don't he come in?"

  "I guess he's suspicious,” Leo said. “Most of the time, I go out there and meet him."

  "Well you're not going out this time, don't even think it,” the kid said.

  "Fine. You're calling the shots. But you should open the door at least. He'll be expecting that."

  The kid thought a minute. He made up his mind. He began to pull open the door, glancing back at Leo as he did it, a dumb thing to do, but probably what saved him. It put him off center slightly, leaning sideways, when something whacked the doorframe like a tack hammer an inch from his right ear. Startled, the kid leaped back inside, slamming the door. He stared at the doorframe with his eyes wide open. There was a long plug of wood knocked out of it, and there was a hole in the opposite wall of the kitchen.

  His expression said it all: Jeez! Someone just tried to kill me!

  His bewilderment turned to suspicion, and then anger crept across his face.

  "You warned the guy, old man, didn't you?” He stepped closer, took Leo's face in his hand and jerked it upward, twisting Leo's cheeks. The kid's eyes had a flat emptiness in them that Leo had seen before in some guys: definitely a psycho. “You got a signal out to him somehow,” the kid said, as if trying to convince himself.

  "Don't be stupid,” Leo said, struggling to form the words, the kid's hand digging into his face. “How could I do that?"

  "I don't know. But you better call him off. Make him toss his gun down and come in here, or so help me, I'll put a bullet in you!"

  "It won't work,” Leo said. “He doesn't listen good."

  "I think he listens just fine. How else did he know I was here?"

  "He's just smart. He's hard to fool. You could get some tips from him, if he doesn't shoot you."

  The kid let go of Leo, went to the window as if to take a peek outside. Then at the last minute he caught himself and rocked back on his heels. Good thing too. He might have gotten his stupid head blown off, and that would not have turned out well for Leo. Nothing was going to turn out well for Leo as long as he was tied in this chair.

  "You talk to him,” the kid said, getting a sudden brainwave. He stepped over, grabbed the back of Leo's chair, and tried to shift it, manhandle Leo to the door. But he couldn't do it. There was no way. Leo weighed a good three hundred pounds at last count, and this kid couldn't lift a sack of potatoes.

  The kid was rattled.

  "Is there another way in here?"

  "There's always another way in,” Leo told him. “A thief like you ought to know that."

  A pinging sound behind the wall made the kid stiffen. Just the water heater clicking on, Leo knew.

  "What's behind here?” He stared stupidly at the wall.

  Leo tried to shrug, his bound wrists preventing him. “Repair bays. This used to be a gas station."

  "Can he get in from there? Where's the door?"

  "There isn't one. It's closed off."

  "But he got in there! I can hear him!"

  Again Leo sighed. Tried to sound exasperated. “There's an outside door. Maybe he jimmied it, I don't know."

  "Why would he have to jimmy doors if he's with you? Wouldn't he have a key?” Mounting fear narrowed the sallow face. The kid was brutal, but he wasn't stupid. Leo reminded himself to be more careful.

  Again some noise in the other room; this time the burners kicking in. The kid aimed the gun at the sheetrock, moved it left, right, up, and down.

  "Go ahead,” Leo told him, “pull the trigger. You never know, you might get lucky and hit the guy."

  The kid did just that. The Glock was loud in the room. A hole appeared in the wall. Then another and another.

  "Keep going,” Leo said. “He must be there somewhere."

  The kid suddenly realized that the gun was clicking. Now real terror showed in his face. A killer was stalking him, and he was defenseless.

  "Bullets,” he hissed. “Where are the bullets?"

  "On the other side of that wall, right where you shot them, I guess."

  "I mean fresh bullets, you idiot!"

  "There aren't any."

  The kid gaped at Leo with incredulity. An instant later there was a splintering crash, and the door leaped on its hinges. Mr. Bar Harbor had heard the shots, too, and had decided to break into the place. Another blow and the door flew back. The kid raised the now-useless gun in his hand, aimed it at the door, and pointlessly pulled the trigger.

  The Glock clicked. At the same instant there was a shot, a different sound than the Glock, thinner, flatter, more of a bang to it.

  The slug caught the kid high up, like a hand in the middle of his chest, kept him moving, threw him against the wall, and dropped him on his back by the stove.

  Leo shook his head. Dumb kid. This was not a good development. It was a plus to be rid of the psycho case, but he now felt even more vulnerable and exposed than before. Mr. Bar Harbor had come here for a reason. Mr. Bar Harbor had come here to settle a score.

  Nothing happened for a moment. Leo couldn't see out onto the stoop. Then a shadow crossed the doorway, and Mr. Bar Harbor, as unrumpled as ever, hobbled cautiously into the room.

  "Good shot,” Leo said.

  "I can hit you just as easily,” Bar Harbor announced, bringing the gun around on Leo to make his point. “Who was he?" />
  "Just a customer."

  "With customers like that, maybe the brothers don't need you."

  Leo knew he only had a minute. The man wasn't here for further negotiations. Not after their earlier meeting. Not after shooting the kid.

  Leo saw now what he had to do. Take the biggest risk of all.

  "Stupid kid,” he said, “came here to rob me."

  Bar Harbor's eyes flitted to the cash spread out on the table. Keeping Leo in his field of view, he limped carefully across the kitchen and gently prodded the bills with his gun barrel. “Chicken feed,” he said. “Now I know the brothers don't need your business."

  Do it, a voice said in Leo's mind. But don't make it easy.

  "Well,” Leo said, “you know how it is. Payday was the end of the month, nobody needs a lot of help right now."

  Bar Harbor sneered. “I do know how it is. I know the end of the month was two weeks ago, which makes it the middle of the month, so what are you giving me?"

  Leo shrugged. He began to answer.

  "What I think,” Bar Harbor said, overriding him, “is that you're trying to hand me something here."

  "Look,” Leo said, “I'm being straight with you—” He was interrupted by the bark of the gun. The shock wave of the bullet tearing past his head.

  "I think you have more money than what I see here, stashed away somewhere in this place,” Bar Harbor said.

  "If I told you I didn't, would you believe me?"

  "No."

  "So what do you want me to say?"

  "I want you to stop playing games. I know there's more money here, and I want to know where it is."

  "I'm not sure I'm going to tell you that."

  "I can shoot you in the leg next. Would you tell me then?"

  Leo closed his eyes. He wondered what that would be like. If it hurt bad enough it might take his mind off the pain in his gut. He tipped his head as if to relieve a cramp. “All right, then, I guess it's your call. But you got to let me out of this chair."

  Bar Harbor ran the fingers of his left hand over the bristles of his beard. After another moment's contemplation, he said, “What have I got to lose? Why not?"