Indebted To A King

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  "So how long have you had this file of yours?"

  "Since the first time I hired the three of you."

  "You've been sitting on this information for over a year?"

  "Yes, but in my defense, that's what my office does. We search and save information for the day that we need it. Today seems to be that day."

  Newman is somewhat convincing, but it could be because he'd say just about anything to save his ass right now.

  "This is my final offer," I say firmly. "I'll fix this mess for you tonight for the regular price plus an extra thirty percent on top and the file. Otherwise I'm walking."

  "Thirty percent? That's kind of high. I'm giving you the file which I'm sure is worth more to you than money."

  "You sound like an idiot. There's nothing more important than money," I lie. "Thirty percent is a whole lot better than my original offer. If I were you I'd take it."

  "This isn't how we usually negotiate payment. Camden and Roman–"

  "Let me clarify things, you're right it isn't; but Camden and Roman aren't here and there's a dead woman over there on the bed. So that's the price."

  "Do they know you're robbing me like this?" he asks while rubbing his temples as if he's having a migraine.

  "You've gotta be shitting me right now. You think I'm the one robbing you?"

  "You're just randomly making up prices," he continues to complain.

  "I'm not sure how many ways I need to say this, but there's a woman in this hotel room whose body is growing colder by the minute. Head bashed in. Brains on the pillow. So you tell me. How much is your life worth to you, Clifford?"

  He looks back over at the woman and tightens his lips.

  "Ten more seconds and the price goes back up to double," I warn. Fed up with negotiating.

  "Okay, okay. I agree to your terms."

  As if there was any other choice.

  "Good decision. I need the money wired and the file in my inbox by nine a.m. sharp."

  Newman turns around and looks at the woman once more with a defeated look on his face. He's still coming down off of his high, and the gravity of his actions seem to be finally registering inside of his drug scrambled brain.

  "I'm not sure that I can get that amount of money together that early."

  "Send the file in the morning, and I'll give you until the end of the business day to wire the money."

  "Okay."

  "And if this long-lost brother story of yours is a load of bullshit that you're feeding me, then I'm coming for you, Newman. You feel me?"

  "Yes, I understand completely."

  He doesn't take his eyes off of the corpse when he responds to my question. I'm afraid that he may be slowly unraveling, and the last thing I need is for this dirtbag to lose his shit.

  "Newman, hey!" I snap my fingers loudly in his face. "Are you with me right now?"

  "Yes," he says somberly.

  "Good. So the first problem is that you're covered in this woman's blood and now I am too. You'll need to strip, put all the clothes in this pillowcase, and go into the bathroom and take a shower. A long hot one. Scrub the shit out of yourself. Especially under your nails. Don't keep going over your skin with the bloodied cloths, or you'll just rub the blood back into your skin. Use every washcloth and hand towel in that bathroom and plenty of soap."

  He nods his head with what I hope is some semblance of understanding.

  "When did you check into the hotel?" I ask as I pull my sweater off and turn it inside out.

  "Umm, I think about ninety minutes ago."

  "You think or you know?"

  "I . . . know."

  "How many people did you talk to when you checked in?"

  He thinks hard. "Two women at the front desk, and some other staff who greeted me as I made my way through the lobby. Maybe about six staff people in all."

  "You're a married public figure who decides to carry on an affair at a five-star hotel, but then you go ahead and speak to everyone in the damn lobby? That's what's wrong with the politicians in this city. You all think that you're untouchable."

  Newman is silent for a moment. Hopefully pondering his stupidity.

  "I guess I didn't put that much thought to it."

  "That's pretty obvious."

  "Um, there's one more thing."

  "What else."

  "I can't go home."

  This night just gets better by the minute.

  "What the hell are you talking about? You need to go home and slide in bed with your wife, so that you have a solid alibi for tonight."

  "I can't."

  "Why not."

  "My wife thinks I'm out of town."

  "For how long?"

  "A few days."

  I should have stuck to charging him double.

  "Surprise her. She'll love it."

  "She'll know something's up. She's already suspicious about the affair."

  "Fine, I'll put you up somewhere for a couple of days, but you're going to owe me for this headache. Lodging wasn't part of the deal."

  "Agreed."

  After we finalize our arrangement, a few tears start to fall down Newman's face. Good fucking grief. I'm going to kill my brother for making me deal with this nut job alone. I just want to finish this and go get shit-faced at the titty bar. Ever since Cam and Roman fell in love with their women, I've been the one doing all of the dirty work lately. This is exactly why I want out. I send my brother an angry text.

  Me: I hope you have a good reason for blowing off work.

  Camden: Absolutely.

  Me: You better not be fucking Jade right now.

  Camden: lol:)

  Me: Why are you laughing? Did you actually ditch work to get your dick wet?

  Camden: How can I help you, brother.

  I can hear the annoyed undertone of his text. Full of Camdenesque attitude as if what I said about getting his dick wet was disrespectful. Okay, so maybe it was. Getting your dick wet are words we use to describe sleeping with whores, not with girlfriends or wives, but he knows that I didn't really mean it that way. Jade is not a whore. She's our assistant, my friend, and his woman. I more than respect her. It's just that now that he's become so possessive of the little minx, he's entirely too touchy about everything I say. He needs to relax and be a little patient. It's going to take some getting used to the fact that the two of them are together. Really together. Like monogamous together. And living in our house as a couple.

  In the beginning of their relationship things were fun. In the beginning, he used to share. My brother and I have always shared women ever since we were teenagers. Now we don't. I guess change in any relationship is inevitable, but that doesn't mean I've got to like it.

  Me: This thing tonight is not easy like you promised. It's a situation.

  Camden: I'm sure you've got it handled.

  Me: I know I can handle it, but it's really a two-man job.

  It doesn't happen often but the words situation and two-man job have always been code between us that there's a violent situation to deal with.

  Camden: You've got this. I'm not worried.

  Me: What happened to the mantra you've been preaching since Dad died? About not making mistakes.

  Camden: Are you going to make a mistake?

  Me: No, you condescending asshole, but best believe that I'm going to kick your ass when I'm finished with this shit storm tonight.

  Camden: Good luck with that, little brother. Gotta go. Duty calls.

  Me: You're so pussy whipped.

  Camden: Indeed:)

  I don't even bother telling Cam about how I've managed to arrange for us to get paid extra for this job or more importantly about the possibility of us having a long-lost brother. I decide the news of both can wait until I know for sure whether Newman's intel is real, because how could we have possibly missed something as huge as having another brother? I'm pretty sure we couldn't have, but I'm willing to allow this thing to play out however it does.

  "You're not in the sho
wer yet?"

  I try gaining Newman's attention, since all he seems to be preoccupied with as of now is sitting on the edge of the bed and gawking at the gory scene he's responsible for. This guy's head is all over the place. He seemed fine when he was negotiating the price of this fix, but now I think he may falling into shock.

  "Should I cover her up?" He gingerly touches the dead woman's leg. "She feels cold."

  The woman's limbs are somewhat contorted and her chocolate brown eyes are wide open but the color of her pupils are dulling. I'm no CSI expert, but I can pretty much surmise what went down in this hotel room tonight after assessing the scene.

  The two of them probably came here to get high, and they came here to fuck, and my guess is they did it often. But tonight they argued about something. Something that took him completely by surprise and enraged him. Maybe she told him that she couldn't do the whole clandestine thing anymore. Maybe she threatened him by saying she'd tell the wife or tell the press.

  Whatever it was, the look on her dead face and the scratches on Newman's face tells me that she was fighting for her life until the very end. Now that the scotch and OxyContin that he has probably been inhaling all night is wearing off, he seems to be feeling some semblance of remorse and sadness. Almost as if he had genuine feelings for her. Too bad that it's too little too late.

  "Hey, hey. Eyes on me. We don't have time for regrets. She's cold because she's dead, and there's nothing you can do about that now. So do what I told you and get in the shower. It's your ass on the line. I'm going to run out and get some supplies that I'll need for cleanup, and I'll also grab you some fresh clothes so that you can walk out of here easily. And one more thing . . ."

  "Yeah?"

  "Try not to touch her body again if you can help yourself," I say sarcastically.

  "How long will you be?" he asks as a look of dread settles across his face.

  This is exactly why you need a partner at a fix. It's risky leaving clients at a scene by themselves. They might make a mistake or freak the fuck out. Newman is scared, but in order for this fix to work, I've got to make him feel like I've got total control over this thing and over him.

  "Look at me, Newman. I've got this. I can do this all day and night in my sleep. I'm going to get you out of here, I'm going to get her out of here, and I'm going to make it like this never happened. That's what you're paying me the big bucks for. Now where's your cell."

  "Okay, umm, let me find it."

  He starts to scramble around the side of the bed looking for his phone, and finally finds it underneath the other side of the bed. The side she's on. The screen is seriously cracked and the tempered glass looks like an intricate spider web. He must have thrown it at her and it hit the wall or something. What a dick.

  "I'll take that."

  "What for?"

  "You can't call anyone, so I'm taking away the temptation. In fact, I meant to ask if you called anyone besides me after this happened?"

  "No one."

  "You're sure? I need to know."

  "Yes–you can check my outgoing calls."

  I take a look at the cracked screen, click on the home button, and then raise my eyes up.

  "Really?" I show him the screen. "Because whose number did you call approximately thirty-five minutes ago."

  "I d-d-don't know," Newman stutters as his eyes drop to the ground. "I don't recognize the number."

  "You better figure it out." I act like I'm reaching back for my gun.

  "I was high earlier," he blurts out.

  "That's already been established. The question on the table is who did you call?"

  No sooner do I ask then there's a heavy rap at the door. I draw my weapon and point it straight toward the middle of Newman's head. I'm betting that whoever he called is the person on the other side of the door. Making this a bigger mess than it already is.

  With my free hand I bring my pointer finger to my lips, motioning for Newman to keep quiet, as I take a look through the peek hole. There's a rather rotund man, at least three hundred pounds, dressed in a tight-fitting navy blue suit looking rather stoic and extra official.

  I wait for a moment to see if he'll leave.

  "I'm here, Cliff," he says through the door. "Open up."

  I look over at Newman. The stranger called him by name, and it's obvious that Newman recognizes the voice as well, because his eyes are as big as saucers and he's stock still. I motion silently for him to walk into the bathroom, but he won't move.

  "Walk," I whisper angrily under my breath.

  Once we're in the bathroom, Newman sits on the toilet seat and drops his head in his hands. I tap him twice on the side of his head with my gun and give him my "what the fuck" look.

  "I forgot that I called him."

  "Called who?"

  There's increased knocking at the door. Shit, this guy's not leaving.

  "I panicked."

  "Understandable in this situation," I say through gritted teeth, "but I need to know who's on the other side of that door before I can handle it, Newman."

  "He's . . . FBI."

  I knew he looked official.

  "What are you talking about."

  "He's my sister's husband."

  "Is he cool? Will he protect you?"

  "He's on the management track at the bureau, so he's completely by the book. I doubt that he's just going to let this go."

  "So why the hell would you call your by the book brother-in-law to a murder scene? Are you insane? Did you buy your law degree off of the Internet? You're the district attorney. You're supposed to be smart."

  There are another few hard knocks at the door, and then Newman's cell starts ringing. This guy won't quit.

  "I think I can get rid of him."

  "You think or you know, Newman, because you look petrified right now."

  "I'm remembering bits and pieces. I think I may have left Rick a short message about needing his help." He firmly pushes into his temples with pads of his fingers. "Dammit, I didn't actually think he'd come. We're not even that close."

  The knocking has stopped which I hope means the fed has given up, but what it probably means is that he's left to get security to grant him access into the room. I could go now, and leave Newman on his own, but that's bad business. Newman is a client, and a contract is a contract. Risk is part of the deal. So I re-evaluate the scenario.

  There's a dead body on the bed.

  Newman is covered in blood.

  My prints are all over the room.

  It looks incriminating for the both of us, so I make the only decision that I can live with.

  "You're going to have to get rid of him. There's no other way for this to play out without anyone getting hurt. You aren't paying me enough to assault a federal agent, and that's what I'd have to do if he comes inside this room."

  "I don't want anyone else getting hurt. Especially Rick. My sister would never speak to me again. Tell me what to do."

  But it's too late.

  Someone is sliding a key card into the lock.

  And that's when it hits me. I forgot to engage the safety latch on the door.

  The door bursts open to angry commands.

  "On the ground now! Hands behind your head!"

  I slowly lower myself to my knees. Hands clasped behind my head. All I can see through my peripheral vision is the barrel of a gun pointed at me, and the very wide orthotic shoe belonging to a man I can only assume is Rick. There's no one else with him, not even hotel security, which is a good thing.

  "Is that a dead woman on the bed, Cliffy?" he asks Newman.

  "It was an accident."

  "Did he do this or did you do it?"

  "Calm down, Rick," Newman says nervously. "It was an accident."

  "I am calm, but you need to start talking, man, because this looks really bad."

  "I know and I'll explain, but first let my friend get up. He's here to help."

  "Help you do what?"

  "Fix this."

 
; "Fix this?" Rick begins walking around me. Sizing me up. Judging me as most official tightly wound guys like him usually do. Cops, feds, and other official types see my size, my tats, and the way I handle myself as a threat. It's always been like that. It probably will always be that way.

  "Nah, I don't think so," he objects. "Not until I get a better understanding of what happened tonight."

  Exactly like I thought.

  "I'm standing up now, Rick," I say coolly. Sick of kneeling.

  "Stay right where you are."

  My eye is twitching.

  "I had nothing to do with the girl getting hurt," I explain calmly.

  "Stay right where you goddamn are!"

  "Get your man, Newman," I warn but decide to acquiesce by staying low to the floor for now.

  "Rick, please," Newman pleads. "He's only trying to help."

  "No fucking way. Both you and him can stay right the hell where you are until you explain what went on in this hotel room."

  I sigh to myself. This isn't going to end well for Federal Agent Rick. I hate involving innocent people in my fixes, but there's only so long that I'm going to tolerate a gun in my face. I don't mind a good bar fight, but there's something about a gun in my face that I fucking hate.

  While still crouched low, I make my move to end this. I extend my right leg and spin around on the ball of my left foot. Swiping the fed behind the knees and forcing them to buckle. Unfortunately, I don't use enough power, or the guy is heavier than I thought, because he doesn't fall like timber. Instead he catches his balance and takes a hard swing at me which lands right against the back of my head.

  Then we start fighting.

  We're going blow for blow for about twenty seconds, while Newman cowers over in the corner. It's an unfair matchup, because I'm actually really good with my hands, so I try holding back. I don't want to kill the dude. I just want to tire him out a little. That is until Rick lands a lucky right-hand jab above my left eye and slices it open.

  Blood quickly starts to drip down my face.

  I wipe my cheek and stare at my bloody fingertips.

  Now I'm mad.

  When I see my opening, I take two of my fingers and jab them straight into the fed's windpipe. His hands quickly claw at his throat, and when he gasps for air, I pull out Benny and aim it right at his fat head.