by Harlan Coben
Win had a way of putting things that made very frightening sense. Myron had to remind himself that the logical was often more terrifying than the illogical--especially where Win was concerned. "They're just hired help," Myron said. "They're not going to know anything."
Pause. "Fair point," Win conceded. "But suppose they simply shoot you."
"That wouldn't make any sense. The reason they're interested in me is because they think I know where Greg is."
"And dead men tell no tales," Win added.
"Exactly. They want to make me talk. So just follow me. If they take me someplace well guarded--"
"I'll get through," Win said.
Myron did not doubt it. He gripped the steering wheel. His pulse began to race. Easy to dismiss the possibility of getting shot by reasonable analysis; it was another thing to have to park a car down the street from men you knew were out to hurt you. Win would have his eye on the van. So would Myron. If a gun came out before a person, the situation would be handled.
He got off the highway. The streets of Manhattan were supposed to be a nice, even grid. Streets ran north/south and east/west. They were numbered. They were straight. But when you got to Greenwich Village and Soho, it was like a grid painted by Dali. Gone were the numerical roads for the most part, except when they twisted and turned between streets with real-live names. Gone was any pretext of straight or systematized.
Luckily Spring Street was a direct run. A bicyclist sped by Myron, but no one else was out. The white van was parked right where it was supposed to be. Unmarked, just as Jessica had said. The windows were tinted so you couldn't look in. Myron didn't see Win's car, but then again he wasn't supposed to. He moved slowly down the street. He passed the van. When he did, the van started its motor. Myron pulled into a spot toward the end of the block. The van pulled out.
Showtime.
Myron parked the car, straightened out the steering wheel, turned the engine off. He pocketed the keys. The van inched forward. He took out his revolver and stuck it under the car seat. It wouldn't do him any good right now. If they grabbed him, they would search him. If they started shooting, shooting back would be a waste of time. Win would either remove the threat or not.
He reached for the door handle. Fear nestled into his throat, but he did not stop. He pulled the handle, opened the door, and stepped out. It was dark. The streetlights in Soho were nearly worthless, like pen beams in a black hole. Lights drifting out from nearby windows provided more of an eerie kindle than real illumination. There were plastic garbage bags out on the street. Most had been torn open; the odor of spoiled food wafted through the air. The van slowly cruised toward him. A man stepped out from a doorway and approached without hesitation. The man wore a black turtleneck under a black overcoat. He pointed a gun at Myron. The van stopped, and the side door slid open.
"Get in, asshole," the man with the gun said.
Myron pointed at himself. "You talking to me?"
"Now, asshole. Haul ass."
"Is that a turtleneck or a dickey?"
The man with the gun moved closer. "I said, now."
"It's nothing to get angry about," Myron said, but he stepped toward the van. "If it is a dickey, you can't tell. It's a very sporty look." When Myron got nervous, his mouth went into overdrive. He knew it was self-destructive; Win had pointed that out to him on several occasions. But Myron couldn't stop himself. Diarrhea of the mouth or some such ailment.
"Move."
Myron got in the van. The man with the gun did likewise. There were two more men in the back of the van and one man driving. Everyone was in black, except for one guy who looked to be in charge. He wore a blue pinstripe suit. His Windsor-knotted yellow tie was held in place by a gold tie bar at the collar. Euro-chic. He had long, bleached-blond hair and one of those tans that were a little too perfect to come from the sun. He looked more like an aging surfer boy than a professional mobster.
The van's interior had been custom designed, but not in a good way. All the seats had been ripped out except for the driver's. There was a leather couch in the back along one wall where Pinstripe sat alone. A lime-green shag carpet even Elvis would have found too garish ran along the van's floor and up the sides like a poor man's ivy.
The man in the pinstripe suit smiled; his hands were folded in his lap, very much at ease. The van started moving.
The gunman quickly searched Myron. "Sit, asshole," he said.
Myron sat on the carpeted floor. He ran his hand over the shag. "Lime green," he said to Pinstripe. "Nice."
"It's inexpensive," Pinstripe said. "That way we don't worry about bloodstains."
"Thinking of overhead." Myron nodded coolly, though his mouth felt very dry. "That's smart business."
Pinstripe did not bother with a response. He gave the man with the gun and dickey/turtleneck a look that made the man jolt upward. The man cleared his throat.
"This here is Mr. Baron," the gunman told Myron, indicating Pinstripe. "Everyone calls him the B Man." He cleared his throat again. He spoke like he'd been rehearsing this little speech, which, Myron surmised, was probably likely. "He's called the B Man because he enjoys breaking bones."
"Say, that must woo the women," Myron said.
The B Man smiled with capped teeth as white as anything in those old Pepsodent commercials. "Hold his leg out," he said.
The man with the turtleneck/dickey pressed the gun against Myron's temple hard enough to leave a permanent imprint. He wrapped his other arm around Myron's neck, the inside of his elbow jammed into Myron's windpipe. He lowered his head and whispered, "Don't even flinch, asshole."
He forced Myron into a lying position. The other man straddled Myron's chest and pinned the leg to the floor. Myron had trouble breathing. Panic seized him, but he remained still. Any move at this stage would almost inevitably be the wrong one. He'd have to play it out and see where it went.
The B Man moved off the leather couch slowly. His eyes never left Myron's bad knee; his smile was a happy one. "I'm going to place one hand on the distal femur and the other on your proximal tibia," he explained in the same tone a surgeon might use with a student. "My thumbs will then rest on the medial aspect of the patella. When my thumbs snap forward, I will basically rip off your kneecap laterally." He met Myron's gaze. "This will tear your medial retinaculum and several other ligaments. Tendons will snap. I fear it will be most painful."
Myron didn't even try a wisecrack. "Hey, wait a second," he said quickly. "There's no reason for violence."
The B Man smiled, shrugged. "Why does there have to be a reason?"
Myron's eyes widened. Fear hardened in his belly. "Hold on," he said quickly. "I'll talk."
"I know you will," the B Man replied. "But first you'll jerk us around a bit--"
"No, I won't."
"Please don't interrupt me. It's very rude to interrupt." The smile was gone. "Where was I?"
"First he'll jerk us around," the driver prompted.
"That's right, thank you." He turned the white smile back to Myron. "First, you'll stall. You'll do a song-and-dance. You'll hope we'll take you someplace where your partner can save you."
"Partner?"
"You're still friends with Win, aren't you?"
The man knew Win. This was not a good thing. "Win who?"
"Precisely," B Man said. "This is what I mean by being jerked around. Enough."
He moved closer. Myron started to struggle, but the man jammed the gun in Myron's mouth. It struck teeth and made him gag. The taste was cold and metallic.
"I'll destroy the knee first. Then we'll talk."
The other man pulled Myron's leg straight while the gunman took the revolver out of Myron's mouth and pressed it back against his temple. Their grips grew a bit tighter. The B Man lowered his hands to Myron's knee, his fingers spread like eagles' talons.
"Wait!" Myron shouted.
"No," B Man replied calmly.
Myron started to squirm. He grabbed a loading handle on the floor of t
he van, the kind of thing used to tie down cargo. He held on and braced himself. He didn't have to wait very long.
The crash jarred them. Myron had been ready for it. No one else had. They all went flying, their grips slackening. Glass shattered. The scream of metal hitting metal filled the air. Brakes screeched. Myron held on until the van slowed. Then he curled into a ball and rolled out of harm's way. There were shouts and a door opened. Myron heard a shot being fired. Voices sounded in a cacophony of confusion. The driver ducked out through his door. The B Man followed, leaping like a grasshopper. The side door opened. Myron looked up as Win stepped in with his gun drawn. The man with the turtleneck/dickey had recovered. He picked up his gun.
"Drop it," Win said.
The man with the turtleneck/dickey didn't. Win shot him in the face. He turned his aim toward the man who had straddled Myron's chest.
"Drop it," Win said.
The man did. Win smiled at him. "Fast learner."
Win's eyes slid smoothly from side to side, never darting. Win barely moved, seeming to glide rather than walk. His movements were short and economical. He returned his eyes to his captive. The one still breathing.
"Talk," Win said.
"I don't know nothing."
"Bad answer," Win said. He spoke with calm authority, his matter-of-fact tone more intimidating than any scream. "If you know nothing, you are useless to me; if you are useless to me, you end up like him." He vaguely motioned toward the still form at his feet.
The man held up his hands. His eyes were round and white. "Hey, wait a sec, okay? It's no secret. Your buddy heard the guy's name. Baron. The guy's name is Baron. But everyone calls him the B Man."
"The B Man works out of the Midwest," Win said. "Who brought him in?"
"I don't know; I swear."
Win moved the gun closer. "You're being useless to me again."
"It's the truth, I'd tell you if I knew. All I know is the B Man flew in late last night."
"Why?" Win asked.
"It's got something to do with Greg Downing. That's all I know, I swear."
"How much does Downing owe?"
"I don't know."
Win moved closer still. He pressed the barrel of the gun between the man's eyes. "I rarely miss from this distance," he said.
The man dropped to his knees. Win followed him down with the gun. "Please." His voice was a pained plea. "I don't know nothing else." His eyes filled with tears. "I swear to God, I don't."
"I believe you," Win said.
"Win," Myron said.
Win's eyes never left the man. "Relax," he said. "I just wanted to make sure our friend here had confessed all. Confession is good for the soul, is it not?"
The man nodded hurriedly.
"Have you confessed all?"
More nods.
"You're sure?"
Nod, nod.
Win lowered the weapon. "Go then," he said. "Now."
The man didn't have to be told twice.
Chapter 18
Win looked down at the dead body as though it were a bag of peat moss. "We best depart."
Myron nodded. He reached into his pants pocket and took out the cellular phone. A relatively new trick of the trade. Neither he nor Win had hung up after their call. The line was left open; Win had been able to hear everything that had gone on in the van. It worked as well as any bug or walkie-talkie.
They stepped into the cool night. They were on Washington Street. During the day the place was popping with delivery trucks, but at night it was completely silent. Someone would find a nasty surprise in the morning.
Win normally drove a Jaguar, but he had smashed a 1983 Chevy Nova into the van. Totaled. Not that it mattered. Win had several such vehicles he kept out in New Jersey to use for surveillance or activities just east of legal. The car was untraceable. The plates and paperwork were all phony. It would never lead back to anyone.
Myron looked at him. "A man of your breeding in a Chevy Nova?" He tsk-tsked.
"I know," Win said. "Sitting in it almost gave me a rash."
"If anyone at the club saw you..."
Win shuddered. "Do not even think such a thought."
Myron's legs still felt shaky and numb. Even as the B Man had reached down for his knee, Myron had known that Win would find a way to get to him. But the thought of how close he'd come to being crippled for life kept plucking at the muscles in his calves and thighs. He kept bending down and touching the bad knee, as if he couldn't believe it was still there. Tears brimmed in his eyes as he looked at Win. Win saw them and turned away.
Myron followed behind him. "So how do you know this B Man?" he asked.
"He operates out of the Midwest," Win said. "He is also a superb martial artist. We met in Tokyo once."
"What sort of operation does he run?"
"The usual assorted sundries--gambling, drugs, loan sharking, extortion. A bit of prostitution too."
"So what's he doing here?"
"It appears that Greg Downing owes him money," Win said, "probably from gambling. The B Man specializes in gambling."
"Nice to have a specialty."
"Indeed. I would assume that your Mr. Downing owes them a large sum of money." Win glanced over at Myron. "That's good news for you."
"Why?"
"Because it implies that Downing is on the run rather than dead," Win said. "The B Man is not wasteful. He wouldn't kill someone who owes him a lot of money."
"Dead men pay no debts."
"Precisely," Win said. "On top of that, he is clearly looking for Downing. If he killed him, he wouldn't need you to find him."
Myron considered this for a moment. "It sort of meshes with what Emily told me. She said Greg had no money. Gambling might explain that fact."
Win nodded. "Kindly fill me in on what else has occurred in my absence. Jessica mentioned something about finding a dead woman."
Myron told him everything. As he spoke, new theories rushed forward. He tried to sort through them and organize them a bit. When he finished the recap, Myron went right into the first one.
"Let's assume," he said, "that Downing does owe a lot of money to this B Man. That might explain why he finally agreed to sign an endorsement deal. He needs the money."
Win nodded. "Go on."
"And let's also assume the B Man is not stupid. He wants to collect, right? So he would never really hurt Greg. Greg makes him money through his physical prowess. Broken bones would have an adverse effect on Greg's financial status and thus his ability to pay."
"True," Win said.
"So let's say Greg owes them a lot of money. Maybe the B Man wanted to scare him in another way."
"How?"
"By hurting someone close to him. As a warning."
Win nodded again. "That might work."
"And suppose they followed Greg. Suppose they saw him with Carla. Suppose they figured that Greg and Carla were close." Myron looked up. "Wouldn't killing her be a hell of a warning?"
Win frowned. "You think the B Man killed her to warn Downing?"
"I'm saying it's possible."
"Why wouldn't he just break some of her bones?" Win asked.
"Because the B Man wasn't personally on the scene yet, remember? He got in last night. The murder would have been the work of hired muscle."
Win still didn't like it. "Your theory is improbable, at best. If the murder was indeed a warning, where is Downing now?"
"He ran away," Myron said.
"Why? Because he was afraid for his own life?"
"Yes."
"And did he run away immediately after learning Carla was dead?" Win asked. "On Saturday night?"
"That would be most logical."
"He was frightened off then? By the murder?"
"Yes," Myron said.
"Ah." Win stopped and smiled at Myron.
"What?" Myron asked.
"Pray tell," Win began with a lilt in his voice, "if Carla's body was just discovered today, how did Downing know about the m
urder last Saturday night?"
Myron felt a chill.
"For your theory to hold up," Win continued, "Greg Downing would have to have done one of three things. One, he witnessed the murder; two, he stumbled into her apartment after the murder; three, he committed the murder himself. Furthermore, there was a great deal of cash in her apartment. Why? What was it doing there? Was this money to help pay back the B Man? If so, why didn't his men take it? Or better yet, why didn't Downing take it back when he was there?"
Myron shook his head. "So many holes," he said. "And we still haven't come up with what connection there is between Downing and this Carla or Sally or whatever her name is."
Win nodded. They continued walking.
"One more thing," Myron said. "Do you really think the mob would kill a woman just because she happened to be with Greg at a bar?"
"Very doubtful," Win agreed.
"So basically, that whole theory is blown to hell."
"Not basically," Win corrected. "Entirely."
They kept walking.
"Of course," Win said, "Carla could have been working for the B Man."
An icy finger poked at Myron. He saw where Win was going but he still said, "What?"
"Perhaps this Carla woman was the B Man's contact. She collected for him. She was meeting Downing because he owed a great deal of money. Downing promises to pay. But he doesn't have the money. He knows they are closing in on him. He has stalled long enough. So he goes back to her apartment, kills her, and runs."
Silence. Myron tried to swallow, but his throat felt frozen. This was good, this talking it through. It helped. His legs were still rubbery from the incident, but what really bothered him now was how easily he had forgotten the dead man lying in the van. True, the man was probably a professional scum bag. True, the man had jammed the barrel of a gun into his mouth and had not dropped his weapon when Win told him to. And true, the world was probably a better place without him. But in the past Myron would have still felt some remorse for this fellow human being; in all honesty, he didn't now. He tried to muster some sympathy, but the only thing he felt sad about was that he didn't feel sad.
Enough self-analysis. Myron shook it off and said, "There are problems with that scenario too."
"Such as?"
"Why would Greg kill her? Why not just run off before the back-booth meeting?"
Win considered this. "Fair point. Unless something happened during their meeting to set him off."
"Like what?"
Win shrugged.
"It all comes back to this Carla," Myron said. "Nothing about her adds up. I mean, even a drug dealer doesn't have a setup like hers--working as a diner waitress, hiding sequentially numbered hundred-dollar bills, wearing wigs, having all those fake passports. And on top of that, you should have seen Dimonte this afternoon. He knew who she was and he was in a panic."
