Random Victim

by Michael A. Black

  Nuke hung up and snapped his fingers at them.

  “Go take the file cabinet in the office downstairs and load it into the van,” he said. Snake saw Nuke shift the plug of tobacco to the front of his lower lip as he knelt by the corpse and removed Walker’s wallet.

  Snake and Moose moved quickly to the other room. The filing cabinet was heavy and although Moose seemed to handle his end with ease, it slipped from Snake’s grip and crashed to the floor.

  Nuke slapped him on the back of the head.

  “Get outta the way.” He grabbed the end of the cabinet himself. “Go get something to roll him in,” he said to Snake. And then to Moose, “Careful not to hit the walls going down. Take it nice and slow.”

  Slow…That was like a magic word to Snake. He moved into the bedroom and grabbed a folded blanket off the bed. A huge dresser loomed to his right, with a jewelry box, several rings, some cash, and a credit card on top. Snake glanced around and licked his lips.

  Won’t hurt anything, he thought. Who’s to know?

  He rolled down the bedspread and slipped a case off a pillow. A burglar’s best friend. Pocketing the cash and rings, he dropped the credit card and jewelry box into the pillow case. A cordless telephone next to the bed caught his eye so he unsnapped the jack and put that in, too. He was going through the rest of the drawers when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

  Scampering as silently as he could to Walker’s body, he skidded to his knees and stashed the pillowcase under a chair. He was busily spreading the blanket out on the floor when Nuke and Moose came back.

  “Hey, Nuke,” Snake asked, smiling, “can I take his watch and beeper?”

  Nuke strode over and jerked him upright, bundling his shirt in one hand and slapping him across the face with the other.

  “Quit fucking off,” he said.

  Snake recoiled as the redness crept up his cheek.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  Nuke released him. “Find the keys to his ride, and his Rolodex,” he said. Then to Moose, “Take his legs and let’s roll him in that blanket.”

  Snake felt the stinging in his face as he watched them flip Walker’s limp form over. A slight trickle of blood rolled from the dead man’s mouth.

  “Take the feet,” Nuke directed. “And keep him level. I don’t want nothing spilling out of him.”

  They went through the stairway door again with the inert form in the rolled blanket, Nuke shouting directions as they descended. Snake knew his time was limited, so he wasted none of it. His fingers were already twisting the wires from the rear of the DVD/VCR, and he deftly stuck them behind the cabinet as he slipped the machine into the pillowcase. Moving to the desk he found the keys on top as well as the Rolodex. But something else caught his eye in the partially open center drawer: a snubnose, nickel-plated revolver. Snake picked it up and held it at arm’s length, sighting down the barrel at the bronze statue of some fairy-looking guy playing a flute.

  Then he lowered the gun and kept looking at the statue as something clicked. He’d seen one of those before, in Get High magazine, the publication for sophisticated heads. It was some kind of fancy way of hiding your stash.

  A false bottom. He picked up the statue and grinned broadly as he hefted it, testing the weight.

  Yeah, something was in there, all right.

  He stuck that in the pillowcase, too, noticing how bulky it now looked, and went back to wipe the telltale dust pattern off the table where the statue had been.

  Nuke and Moose came in moments later.

  “You find ’em?” Nuke asked.

  Snake held up the keys in one hand and the pistol in the other.

  “Look what else I found.”

  “Put it back where you found it, fuckhead,” Nuke said. “We don’t take nothing except what I told ya.”

  Snake nodded and returned to the desk, eyeing the bulky pillowcase next to a chair, and hoping like hell that Nuke didn’t see that.

  Nuke grabbed the keys and pointed to the Rolodex.

  “Put that in the van. I’m gonna pack a couple of suitcases for this fucker.”

  Moose followed him out the room and Snake sensed his opportunity. He lagged behind, snaring the pillowcase and then moving down the stairs with desperate urgency. He pulled open the rear door of the van and set the Rolodex next to the blanket. Looking over his shoulder, he quickly pulled at the inside panel in the left rear section. Normally, it was used to transport weapons or drugs, but since the White Wolves had ceased to be a viable motorcycle gang in recent months, the artillery was in short supply. The pillowcase fit snugly inside, and Snake replaced the panel and smiled as he patted the blanketed body beside him.

  “Keep an eye on them things for me, would ya?” he whispered.

  The skyline of the factories was barely visible through the fog, and the dark figures moved with a stealth that filled Leal with dread. Everything made sense, even though it didn’t. Johnny DeWayne was there. And Bob Hilton. But so was Brice, who just kept harping that Leal wasn’t a team player. Then Sheriff O’Hara stepped forward, the enormous circles of sweat soaking through the armpits of his suit, and said,“Thank you very much for your contribution tonight.”

  Is he talking to me? Leal wondered.

  Then Marcus LeRigg smiled, showing the gleaming gold-capped tooth, a look of conspiracy in his eyes. Leal knew something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. He set the briefcase with the buy money on the trunk of his car. Brice yelled again about being a team player.

  “Ready to do the do?” LeRigg asked, still smiling.

  Suddenly Leal knew it had all gone sour and he reached for his gun. Beside him, Bob Hilton screamed, clutching his chest and twisting down into a heap. Two “gangstas” stood blazing away. Leal raised his gun, but it wouldn’t fire. The trigger wouldn’t go back. He squeezed harder. Nothing. Brice yelled. LeRigg laughed. The guns in front of him flashed again, and he felt the rounds whizzing by his head. Then the pain in his chest. Like someone hit him with a hammer. No, a poker. A red-hot poker. Everything was red.

  He was screaming as he snapped awake, breathing hard, Sharon shaking his arm. The room was dark.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You were tossing so much you woke me up.”

  He swallowed hard and rubbed a hand over his face. It was wet with sweat. It hadn’t been this bad since right after the shooting.

  “Sorry,” he said, swinging his legs from under the sheet. “Bad dream.”

  “It must have been,” she said, following him as he headed for the bathroom. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded, pausing to flip on the light and check himself in the mirror. It hurt his eyes. “It was an anxiety dream.”

  “Oh, I get those, too,” Sharon said, leaning against the door frame and crossing her arms in front of her breasts. “Like when I’m in school sometime and I’m late for a final and can’t find the room.”

  “Yeah,” he said, rinsing his face and mouth. “In mine, I’m dead.”

  He lifted the toilet seat and she moved out of the doorway as he urinated, and stepped back in as he padded out.

  “My turn,” she said, lowering the seat again.

  When she came back, he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “You got a cigarette?” he asked.

  “I thought you quit,” she said, kneeling beside him and massaging the back of his neck. “You don’t really want to start again, do you?” Her fingers traced over his neck, and she leaned down to kiss him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just…that damn dream…When it comes, it usually means something bad is about to happen. My body’s way of telling me there’s something I missed.”

  Her hands squeezed his neck, then crept lower and she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.

  “Let me see if we can change that,” she said, “because you don’t miss anything.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  Venn Diagrams

  The chirping
of the beeper woke them both.

  “Yours or mine?” Sharon asked, raising her head and arm from Leal’s chest to allow him to get out of bed.

  “Mine,” he said as he pressed the acknowledge button and looked at the screen. “Shit, it’s HQ. Mind if I call?”

  “Sure, go ahead,” she said. “I’ll just lie here and admire your nice butt.”

  He smiled. “If I said that, you’d call me a sexist, right?”

  “No, I’d call you observant,” she said, sitting up and reaching for her cigarettes. “This going to bother you?”

  He shook his head as he dialed, seeing 9:25 A.M. on the digital clock next to the bed. After explaining to the communications personnel that he’d been beeped, he was subsequently put through to Joe Smith.

  “Hey, Sarge, didn’t mean to bother you, but I showed up here today and I’m by myself. Did I miss something, or what?”

  “Yeah, sorry, Joe,” Leal said. “Ryan told me last night that he had some family emergency and might take a personal day.”

  “You think he could’ve at least told me. I’m supposed to be his partner.”

  Even over the phone Leal could sense Smith’s resentment.

  “Joe, we were all pretty burnt out after filming that commercial last night. He only mentioned it to me as we were walking out.”

  Sharon got on her knees beside him and mouthed commercial.

  He grinned and she messed with his hair. Leal shook his head and gave her what he hoped passed for a stern look.

  “Yeah, right,” Smith said.

  “Well, Hart and I are going to hit some of Walker’s favorite haunts up around River North tonight. You’re welcome to come along.”

  “Thanks, Sarge, but we’ve got a Lamaze class. I appreciate you keeping me in the loop, though. And I mean that.”

  “How’d you do on that other stuff we talked about?”

  “Your friend at the credit bureau wasn’t there, but I did make it to the Hall of Records to check on that Lunge Hill Corporation.”

  “Great. What’d you find?”

  “Not a helluva lot,” Smith said. Leal could hear him flipping through papers on the other end. “It’s owned by some company in the Virgin Islands. That’s as far as I got on it. I can keep digging, though.”

  “Sounds good. Touch bases with the guys in Financial Crimes for some help. And run that credit check, too. Like I said, if Margie’s working, she’ll do it on the sly for you if you mention my name.”

  “Gotcha, Sarge. Will do.”

  “And Joe, after you finish those things, take the rest of the afternoon off. We’ll meet tomorrow morning and discuss what we’ve got, with or without your partner.”

  “Okay,” Smith said. “And thanks for the faith in me. I’m learning a lot.”

  After Leal hung up, Sharon pointed an accusatory finger at him, and said, “Did I just hear a police sergeant tell one of his men to circumvent the law?”

  Despite the playfulness in her tone, Leal could tell there was some seriousness mixed in. “I love it when you use big words. Circumvent? What does that mean?”

  “You know very well what it means,” she said. “Sounds like you’re being too lazy or too sloppy to get a warrant.”

  “Not lazy or sloppy, just smart.”

  “Since when is circumventing the legal system smart?”

  “Since it was set up so that lawyers can play their games and get people off on technicalities.”

  She shook her head. He could tell he’d struck a nerve.

  “Hey, it’s not that way,” she said. “Those are all our rights, yours, mine, everybody’s. A person doesn’t just lose them because they’ve been accused of a crime.”

  “Sorry, I forgot I was sleeping with a lawyer,” he said, regretting it almost immediately.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Leal let out a slow breath. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette.

  “Every time I try to have a meaningful discussion with you, where I might be able to get to know you better, you retreat behind your wall.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then smoothed some errant hairs away from her face. “Can’t we just agree to disagree?” he said. “Maybe say that you deal with legal abstractions, while I work in the real world. The two have to meet down the line somewhere, but sometimes they just run parallel. Idealized reality versus practical reality.”

  She traced the scar on the side of his chest with her fingers.

  “Practical reality,” she said softly. “I guess we are like Venn diagrams, aren’t we?”

  “Huh? What’s that?”

  Those diagrams that they use in schools,” she said, drawing circles on his chest. “You know, where one circle overlaps another, and they share this common, shaded area.”

  Yeah, he thought as he pulled her close, and I know which areas I’d like to have overlapping right now, too.

  “So now you want to cancel the payment for the flight on your credit card and pay cash, Mr. Walker?” the girl behind the United counter asked. She smiled politely. “I’m sorry, but we don’t accept cash. Regulations.”

  “Fine,” Richard Connors said, bumping up the dark glasses on his nose in his best imitation of one of Martin’s nervous gestures. “Can you hurry, please? I still have to get through the security checkpoint, don’t I?” He felt a slight tremor, but the false ID that he had showed his picture with Martin Walker’s information. It should be a cakewalk. They looked enough alike that it shouldn’t be a problem when the police showed her Martin’s picture. All he had to do was imitate an innocuous-looking asshole for a few more minutes.

  “It’ll just take a moment more, sir.”

  He looked at his watch. “What time will we arrive in San Juan?”

  “About three o’clock, Chicago time,” the girl said. She pressed some keys on her computer terminal. “Bear with me, please.”

  Connors heaved what he hoped would pass for an impatient sigh. He turned and studied the surging crowds behind him and wondered if she would remember anything about his face when they questioned her.

  “You’ll lose the hour going, but gain it coming back,” the girl said, obviously trying to be convivial.

  “Yes, I know that,” Connors said, letting a little lilt of petulance creep into his tone. Walker did not relate well to women. Give her enough to remember that I’m an ass hole, but not enough to recall any details, he thought. It was like walking a tightrope. Or sacrificing a pawn to take a knight.

  “And you won’t need your hat and overcoat there, either,” she said, handing him the ticket and boarding pass. “It’s a lot warmer than here.”

  Connors nodded curtly, the same way he imagined Martin Walker would have done, and murmured something in reply. “Which way is it to the gate?”

  She pointed, her smile almost flagging, and said, “Gate three, thank you for flying United.”

  He left, uttering a purposefully exaggerated hiss.

  They found the Kit Kat Club sandwiched between an adult bookstore and another club called Games & Faces. The streets were moderately crowded and there were absolutely no parking places. Finally, Leal pulled into an alley and stuck the red light on the dashboard. Hart looked at him.

  “It’s not like anybody’s not going to know it’s an unmarked anyway, right?” he said.

  She nodded.

  Crazily dressed young punks walked by them, some with the Goth look, all in black, and others with multiple piercings and spiked hair. A few yuppies strolled by dressed in high-fashion clothes, interspersed with young lovers and groups of college-age kids.

  “Some of them don’t look old enough to drink,” Hart said.

  “But old enough to get laid,” Leal said. He pointed across the street to a group of hookers in tight, abbreviated dresses spilling abundant cleavage.

  Most of the buildings in this section were two-story brick, with the lights of the skyscrapers lo
oming to the south. The bookstore next to the Kit Kat had a protruding neon sign depicting a woman’s exaggerated figure. The words Adult Books covered the area where her nipples should have been. Movies was centered across her hips.

  “Nice neighborhood,” Hart said. She was a little miffed that Leal had insisted she dress up a bit so they wouldn’t look conspicuous if the chance somehow arose to start a surveillance on Walker in his unnatural habitat. That’s fine for him, she thought. He can wear his gun in a pancake under his sports jacket, but now I’ve got to keep mine in my purse. But the warmth of the day had lasted into the evening, and Hart had left her jacket in the car, feeling comfortable in her sleeveless white blouse and dark slacks. But Leal couldn’t take off his jacket without people noticing. She adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and smiled. Maybe there is some justice after all.

  “Let’s check out the Kit Kat first,” Leal said. “Maybe somebody will know him.”

  They pushed though the glass doors and into the foyer. The blaring music engulfed them even before they entered the bar area. It was set up as a restaurant on the ground level. Beyond that, a sunken area served as dance floor. Several nearly nude girls strolled along a raised platform, next to a sign that advertised Tuesday night as Wiggle Night. Flashing laser lights reflected off mirrored walls, and in the center a young black man with a needlelike mustache sorted out CDs in a glass booth. The bar was rectangular, with padded stools and the customary mirrored back wall. Two bartenders filled orders, slapping beer steins down on the lacquered surface and filling glasses for several waitresses. One of the bartenders was a big white guy with a shaved head and handlebar mustache. The other, a thin blond in her late twenties, looked like death warmed over.

  Leal and Hart moved to the lower portion of the club toward a large guy in a dark turtleneck with a weightlifter’s build. Security was labeled across the breast pocket. He stepped in front of them.

  “Three-dollar cover charge for Wiggle Night,” he said.