The Good Guy with a Gun (Jim McGill series Book 6)

by Joseph Flynn

  To finance that effort, Lawton and LuAnne left Putnam a bit over a million dollars.

  A handsome, and fairly suspicious, sum for a non-tenured English professor working under an alias at the University of Maryland Baltimore County and his seafood-cook wife. Putnam felt he’d only recently escaped the shadow of his fugitive con artist parents. At least, he no longer had FBI agents tailing him, as far as he could tell.

  He accepted his niece wholeheartedly. He and Sweetie would raise her as their own child. But he wouldn’t go anywhere near a penny of Lawton’s money. He’d bet a good chunk of his own fortune that million dollars had come from dear old Mom and Dad.

  The default legatees were LuAnne’s parents, Emory and Sissy Jenkins. Putnam suggested they give the money to charity. They kept it.

  Putnam feared they’d live to regret the decision.

  At the moment, though, Putnam and Sweetie had a more immediate and heart-pounding fright to deal with: How could they educate their child without taking the risk she’d be killed in her classroom or on the playground? Or, now, even on an athletic field.

  “That’s just what I was thinking,” Sweetie said. “I’ve been going back and forth between the idea of homeschooling her and sitting in on all her classes until she has her Ph.D.”

  “Packing your own heat, of course.”

  “Exactly. Concealed carry is all the rage.”

  “Do you prefer one alternative?”

  Sweetie shook her head. “I hate them both. I hate the whole situation. Things should never have come to this.”

  “You saw the president. Did she or Jim McGill have any ideas?”

  Sweetie outlined the Oval Office discussion to which she’d been privy, and what the First Couple and Galia Mindel had come up with. Putnam agreed with McGill’s notion that you can’t let people hold their noses, and he loved his idea of how to make the masses pay attention. He approved of the president’s and Galia’s spin-offs, too.

  “They forgot one thing, though,” he said.

  He almost added that the omission showed their age.

  But Margaret was five years older than him. Not that you’d know it to look at her.

  “What’s that?” Sweetie said.

  “McGill’s plan has got to go on the Internet. The idea would go viral from the get-go.”

  Sweetie winced. “I didn’t think of that either. Maybe I’m slipping.”

  “Really?”

  Sweetie laughed. “No, but there might come a day.”

  “I’ll knit a shawl for you,” Putnam said.

  Sweetie gave him a kiss. She told Putnam about taking former Senator Roger Michaelson on as a client. He raised an eyebrow. She told him McGill and the president were okay with it.

  She said, “I tried to distract myself last night by looking online for any connections between Joan Renshaw and Representative Philip Brock. Brock brought Roger Michaelson back to Washington and Renshaw fingered him as a conspirator in the plan to kill Patti Grant. But I couldn’t find anything to put them together. They grew up in different states, don’t have a profession in common or donate to the same charities. They don’t share the same church affiliation. Still, the more possibilities I eliminate, the more certain I am there has to be a link.”

  “Because they’re the only two names you’ve got,” Putnam said.

  “That and I’m stubborn.”

  “Persistent.”

  “Willing to admit when I need help, too. You’re a bigshot lobbyist. I bet you know things about the politicians in town that never get posted on the Internet. Is there any dirt you can share on Philip Brock?”

  Putnam said, “It hardly qualifies as dirt … well, maybe it does but …”

  He drifted off into thought.

  “What is it?” Sweetie asked. “Tell me.”

  “I kept a list of the handful of people who got to see Inspiration Hall after the artwork was hung but before the museum was opened to the public.”

  “And?”

  “Representative Brock was on that list. He was a guest of Tyler Busby. I hadn’t thought of that before now. Busby was definitely in on the plan to kill the president. He counted on the destruction of Inspiration Hall to cover up all the forged art he had hung in the museum. Now, I wonder if Brock knew about either the plan to commit insurance fraud or kill Patti Grant.”

  Sweetie frowned. “The guy’s a congressman and a fellow Democrat.”

  Putnam took her hand, stroked it gently as if she were a child.

  “I’ve always heard politics in Chicago is a hardball game.”

  “Yeah, but that’s just a bunch of greedy, grubby … is it really that bad here, too?”

  “Worse. Let’s not forget that somebody killed Senator Howard Hurlbert.”

  “Yeah, but —” Sweetie felt the conversation was starting to get off-topic.

  “Here’s my point,” Putnam said. “If I kept a list about the people who got sneak previews at Inspiration Hall, my money says Joan Renshaw did, too. If she knew Brock got an early look with a guy who’s now the subject of a global manhunt, she didn’t raise a fuss. Why would that be?”

  Sweetie saw the possibility there for a connection between Brock and Renshaw.

  But she still didn’t know what it was or how to prove it.

  Putnam noticed her consternation and offered a suggestion.

  “Margaret, given your strong moral core, you looked for legitimate points of intersection. Maybe the thing you need to do is look for something more casual, social or even kinky that connects your persons of interest.”

  Sweetie gave Putnam an imploring look.

  “All right,” he said, “you take casual and social. If it gets to kinky, I’ll pitch in.”

  That earned Putnam another kiss.

  “About Maxi and her schooling?” he said. “I have an idea, but I’m not sure it’s great.”

  “Has to be better than mine,” Sweetie told him.

  “It’s a variation on one of yours, homeschooling. Have you heard of the Khan Academy?”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  “It’s an organization that provides top-flight classes in a growing number of subjects, online and free. They start with pre-algebra in third grade.”

  “Maxi’s grade,” Sweetie said.

  “Right. What I was thinking, you could base your curriculum on Khan classes, organize a group of say a dozen kids, boys and girls so you keep the socializing aspect of education, and you’re set to go. You select classmates from families you trust. You do one week of classes at each student’s house in a rotating fashion. Each mom and/or dad becomes responsible for the safety of all the kids when they’re studying under their roof. Maybe you could hire an off-duty cop to sit out front or something.”

  Sweetie thought the idea wasn’t half-bad. “I’d be the one to watch over the kids when they’re here.”

  “Me, too,” Putnam said.

  Before the idea could be taken any farther, the phone rang. The White House was calling.

  Calle Ocho — Miami, Florida

  Jerry Nerón’s custom tailoring shop was closed on Sundays, but he was at work upstairs on his latest commission, the legitimate reason for his presence in Washington, DC the past three days. A small television was tuned to a WWN newscast, the volume audible but not a distraction. The Washington client’s new measurements had been taken in exacting detail. Fabric samples from Scabal, Zegna and Loro Piana had been examined. Discussions were had to assess the most flattering cuts for the materials. Shirts, ties, socks and shoes to accompany the suits were chosen.

  Ordinarily, Jerry would advise the client as to the kind of wristwatch or even ear piercings to wear with each suit. His Washington client, though, had unadorned lobes and wore only an elegant wedding band for jewelry. As to staying aware of the time of day, the client depended on his smartphone which he usually had in hand.

  The phone was a slim device, but its dimensions were taken into account when Jerry took his measurements. A m
aster craftsman always did his best not to overlook the smallest detail. Perfection was what concerned Jerry as he sewed the suit for his client.

  His getaway from the murder scene in Washington had gone exactly according to plan. The car he’d used was surely stolen within minutes of being abandoned. He’d disposed of the murder weapon quickly and cleanly. The clothes he’d worn to execute Jordan Gilford and Abel Mays had gone into a donation bin that was part of a national charity. They would be laundered, placed in a resale shop and sold to someone who would never be mistaken for one of his clients.

  He’d made his plane back to Miami with time to spare. The flight home must’ve been smooth but he couldn’t say for sure. The lead flight attendant in the first-class cabin had gently roused him from his sleep, saying, “We’ve landed, sir. Welcome to Miami. It’s sunny and there’s a nice breeze off the ocean. The weather’s perfect.”

  Jerry couldn’t have asked for more.

  Even so, a nagging thought wouldn’t give him any peace.

  Had it been a mistake, an unnecessary complication, to kill that madman who had parked behind him at the National Mall? No, he’d needed to do that. He couldn’t leave a witness behind, and he couldn’t have found a better place to kill either Gilford or the witness.

  But using the madman’s own weapon to carry out Gilford’s execution, laying off his crime on someone else, that had been an unnecessary flourish. It was impulsive, unlike anything he’d ever done. Except for the first time he’d killed a man.

  When Jerry was a young man, already well into his training as the potential assassin of Fidel Castro, his grandfather, Dario, had gone to his grandmother, Arcelia, and asked her to start making suits for men as well as dresses for women. Grandfather had feared that sewing dresses in his every free moment might be turning Jerry gay. Arcelia had laughed at the thought, but embraced the idea to broaden her clientele.

  Truth was, from the time he was fifteen, Jerry’s fittings for the young Cuban-American beauties about to be introduced to society at their quinceañeras involved a measuring system that applied Jerry’s hands to their breasts and backsides as he nuzzled their necks. By the time he was eighteen, he became even more intimately acquainted with a number of prospective brides who wanted to be sure they were marrying the right man.

  At twenty-one, Dario lent Jerry the money to open his own shop. By then, Grandfather had become the one to turn down ever more desperate plans to kill Castro. He wouldn’t sacrifice his grandson on the altar of a scheme that would end not only in failure but also in ridicule. It was enough for Dario to watch as Jeronimo — he’d never called the boy Jerry — became ever more proficient in the arts of war: marksmanship, explosives, hand-to-hand combat and especially knife fighting.

  Having worked with scissors since he was little more than a toddler, Jeronimo felt immediately at home with an edged weapon. His movements were fluid and so quick even older opponents were both dazzled and dismayed. Not that the boy did anything more than nick any of his compañeros. But each of them knew the boy could have killed them, had he wanted.

  At the end of his first year in business, Jerry had repaid his grandfather’s loan and took his parents and grandparents out to dinner to celebrate. Between his family’s business contacts and his friends in the militant exile community, he had all the business he could accept. He often worked sixteen-hour days.

  His parents and his grandmother all told him he needed to get more rest. Take things easier. One night, even Dario told him, “Jeronimo, having a passion is fine, but don’t let it consume you.”

  “Advice you’ve decided to follow, too, Grandfather.”

  The old man nodded. The fact that his grandson shared his hatred of Castro and would be willing to kill him, if given a reasonable opportunity, had become enough for Dario.

  “Even if Castro lives to be a hundred,” he told Jeronimo, “surely he will burn in hell for eternity.”

  “Very well, Grandfather. I will work fewer hours. I will become more discriminating in the clients I accept.”

  The way Jerry did that was not to accept as a client any man who was more than twenty pounds overweight. He said his tailoring didn’t look good on mounds of dough. He was more diplomatic, though, with the men he rejected, referring them to others who would be happy to take their money. In borderline cases, he would make one suit for them, but if they wanted another, it would have to be in a smaller size.

  There were those who used that incentive to take better care of themselves.

  Others bought the one suit and then went elsewhere.

  A third group turned on their heels, angered by the implicit insult.

  Jerry could live with that. His new restrictions brought his client list down to a manageable number. Then, one day, Galtero Blanco strode into Jerry’s shop.

  All 343 pounds of him.

  A fellow maybe half Blanco’s size darted out from behind him, took a look at Jerry as if he was no threat and darted through the shop and into the back room. Jerry heard the door at the rear of the store open and close. The smaller man returned and nodded to Blanco.

  He went out the front door and stood in front of Jerry’s shop with his arms crossed over his chest. A sentry guarding against further commerce. Or any other interruption.

  Jerry turned to the big man and told him, “I take clients by appointment only.”

  “I know. I got mine from the guy who’s supposed to be here now.”

  “Mr. Diaz,” Jerry said.

  “That’s right. Poor guy won’t be needing any more suits. He fell off my boat. My man, the one outside your door there, threw him a life preserver, but it was too late. A shark got him. Terrible thing to see.”

  Blanco smiled as he said that.

  Jerry said, “I’ll send my condolences to his family.”

  Blanco laughed. He enjoyed a good joke, one directed at somebody else. Even so, he took a step back as Jerry came out from behind the counter with a pair of scissors in hand. Blanco halted his retreat and pointed a finger at Jerry.

  “You know who I am?”

  “A reckless boater?”

  Blanco didn’t see the humor. “I’m the new boss around here. You’re in any of the rackets, you give me my share.”

  Jerry shrugged. “I’m not in any racket; I’m just a tailor.”

  “Uh-huh. You do real nice work, too. I liked Diaz’s suit, asked him where he got it. Before he had his accident. I also buy local. Got a good eye for bargains, and you wouldn’t believe how much money the places I buy will make. With you, I figure you can stay and make me some suits.”

  “I’ve got no choice?” Jerry asked.

  “Sure, you do. You can live or die.”

  “Guess I better take your measurements then.”

  “Damn ri —”

  Jerry’s hand, the one holding the scissors, flashed in front of Blanco’s eyes, the blades opened wide. The scalpel-sharp steel didn’t touch the fat man. The trailing blade, however, cut through his belt and the waistband of his pants. They puddled around his ankles.

  Blanco’s mouth fell open, too. “The fuck you think you’re doing?”

  Jerry thought that was obvious. Grandfather had taught him well: The last thing you could tolerate was some thug stealing what was yours. So Jerry was about to show this gelatinous mound of shit the error of his ways.

  Not only trying to steal his business but also costing him a valued customer.

  Having been inculcated with fantasies of killing Castro for years, Jerry knew the lesson would have to be permanent. But the young tailor was momentarily stupefied by the sight before him. Blanco was wearing bikini briefs. That was bad enough, a speck of fabric wedged into a mudslide of flab, but some cretin had silkscreened the absurd undergarment.

  A woman’s head, as seen from behind, was placed opposite Blanco’s crotch.

  The implication was as obvious as it was disgusting.

  Blanco understood the look on Jerry’s face and had the shred of decency necessa
ry to be embarrassed. He put his hands down. They were barely able to reach around his belly to his groin. That accomplished, the big man decided to get mad.

  “You bastard. You’re dead!”

  He turned his head to shout to his little partner. “Fidel!”

  Castro’s namesake? Jerry thought: Perfect.

  Jerry turned the inside of his wrist upward and swung his arm in an arc. The trailing blade of the scissors slashed the fat man’s carotid artery. Jerry jumped clear as a jet of blood shot out. The crime boss toppled backward like a fallen oak.

  Little Fidel, gun in hand, came through the front door just in time to try to catch Blanco. He wasn’t up to the job. With a yelp of dismay, Fidel’s knees buckled and the mass of the “new boss around here” buried him as both men crashed to the floor.

  A muffled shot sounded as they hit.

  A new trickle of blood seeped out from under the big man’s body.

  But whose blood was it, Jerry wondered. Could he really be that lucky? He leaped over Blanco’s bulk and closed and locked his front door. Listening closely, he couldn’t hear Fidel gasping for breath. He’d surely have to do that, Jerry thought, had he been alive.

  He pulled down the shades at the front of the shop.

  Then he did hear a wheeze and a rattle. He’d never heard a man expel his last breath before. Blanco, with his throat cut, hadn’t made any such sound. But Jerry felt sure that little Fidel was no longer a threat to the Cuban community.

  Without touching either body, Jerry called his grandfather and told him what happened. Comrades from the militant exile community arrived swiftly, entering through the back door and leaving the same way with both bodies. Jerry did a superficial mop and wipe of blood and bits of flesh. A crew of Cuban-American cleaning women followed up.

  They scrubbed the entire shop as if they were scourging a soul free of sin.

  Not a bacterium survived their efforts, much less a trace of evidence.

  Grandfather swore to take knowledge of what had happened to the grave.