“Call your stud manager. It might be a while before he gets the courage to call you.”
Finn punched in the number and listened. His eyes grew wide. He sagged. Sat down on one of the veranda chairs, set the phone down on the table beside it. Aligned the phone neatly with the edge of his cigarette pack. Stared at the table and the objects on it as if he had never seen it before.
Shock.
Landry took a picture of Finn’s face with his cell phone. For later.
The extent of the man’s distress was such, he didn’t even notice.
Time to move this along. “You know what this is?” Landry set the plastic bag on the table and pulled out the cruel-looking implement covered with blood, the one that looked like the meanest set of pliers in the world. Finn blanched. Interesting thing about Mickey Finn; his skin color changed with his emotions, like a mood ring.
“No answer? It’s called an emasculator.”
“Don’t treat me like an idiot, I know what it’s for.” He stood up.
Raul and Teddy, bruised and battered though they were, closed around him.
Landry ignored them. “I learned to do it as a kid. I was the youngest and so I got the worst job. We had a lot of horses, and most of them weren’t good enough to be studs like Avatar was; I got so I could do it in my sleep. First, you put the horse under light anesthesia. You can perform the procedure with the horse standing up or you can do it on the ground.”
Could have been the light, but Mickey Finn’s face turned a bilious green.
“I prefer the ground method. Pretty simple—you cut the testicular cord, crimp it, and seal off the blood vessels. Make sure the site is good and clean, all the skin tucked neatly back in. A good job takes twenty minutes.”
“Shut up!”
“You’ll note that the stud manager found him in the paddock. I turned your horse out so he could walk around and keep up his circulation. Wouldn’t want any complications to crop up, a valuable animal like that.”
“Shut up!!!”
Landry said, “But I need to catch you up on where we’re at. The price has gone up—$500,000 to Ms. Hill. I now have an account for her, where you can wire it.”
“You gelded my stallion!”
A sports car turned from the road and started up the lane toward the house. The top down, a different blonde from the one Landry had seen yesterday at the wheel. Landry said, “Here’s the account number. Tomorrow it will be $600,000.”
Finn slammed his fist on the table, and the phone and the emasculator and the cigarette pack jumped. “I’m calling the police.”
“You can if you want to, but I’ll be back tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, for Ms. Hill’s money. And every day the price will go up. If I come back tomorrow, it will be $600,000. If I were you I’d lock it in now. Just think of it as the BlueLight Special.”
“What are you talking about?”
The man didn’t even remember the name of the horse.
Finn said, “She won’t get a penny from me. I’ll have the police on her like that! You’ve committed a criminal act—you threatened me and damaged my property! One call to the police and you and she both will be in lockup by lunchtime today.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“You still threatening me?” He spread his arms out from his body. From the sidelines, his bruised-but-hard-looking bodyguards stared impassively from behind dark glasses. “Just try me! One word from me and you’ll be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life!”
Landry studied Raul and Teddy. They presented a hard exterior but he could see the cracks. He saw it in the hunching of their shoulders. Behind their dark glasses, they weren’t looking at him. They were looking just to the left of him.
They remembered, all right.
Landry heard the sports car’s door close. The blonde started up the walk, shopping bags from an upscale boutique dangling from each hand. “Mickey!” she called, “I bought you something!”
Landry looked from the blonde to Mickey. Mickey looked from the blonde to Landry. His expression defiant. A stubborn man.
Landry said, “You might want to rethink your position.”
“No way, pally. You’re mine.”
The blonde was almost to the steps. She had the longest legs Landry had ever seen.
Landry leaned up close to Mickey. He cupped his hand over his mouth, and spoke in the man’s ear.
“What did you say to him?” Terry asked, after she confirmed that the money was indeed wired to an offshore account in her name.
“I said, ’If I can do it to a twelve-hundred-pound thoroughbred, I can do it to you.’”
WELCOME TO THE
FOOD CHAIN
BY WELDON BURGE
“Flash, huh?” The fat man leveled his eyes at the slender man sitting across the table from him. “Why do they call you Flash? Like that comic book guy in the red tights?”
“Something like that. I don’t like to waste time,” Conwright said. “I was a high school track star. Got the nickname back then. That was in another life, a distant time.”
The fat man, Albert Nigroponte, nodded, grabbed another crab from the table. He ate a prodigious amount of steamed crabs and drank his Pabst Blue Ribbon by the keg. His appetite and obsession had impelled him, over the years, to purchase three “all-you-can-eat” seafood joints on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay. The largest and most profitable restaurant, The Magnificent Wharf, was in Annapolis. The restaurant in St. Michael’s, The Amber Whale, was the swankiest, for the tourists. The establishment in Havre de Grace, The Hammer & Claw, was a true dive. Nigroponte had chosen the H&C to meet Conwright to arrange their business.
At Nigroponte’s request, Conwright had entered the restaurant after hours, long after the restaurant staff had departed for the evening. Nigroponte sat alone at a corner table covered with newspaper. Piled on the newspaper were at least three dozen fiery red, steamed blue crabs. Nigroponte feasted like Neptune. The restaurant reeked of Old Bay seasoning and a distinct, stagnant wharf odor, a foul blend of rotting fish entrails and brine.
“So, can you do the job?”
“In my sleep,” Conwright said. “For the right price.”
“How much?”
“Fifty thousand.”
Nigroponte grumbled and shook his head. “No friggin’ way. She ain’t worth that. No way.”
“No, she’s not. But I am. This is a business. I’m a businessman. My reputation speaks for itself or I wouldn’t be here. I give you a discount, every slob and his brother wants a discount. My reputation suffers.”
“Screw your reputation.” Nigroponte pointed an amputated crab claw at him. “I ain’t payin’ no fifty grand for that bimbo.”
Conwright got up from the table.
“Wait a minute! Just one friggin’ minute.” Nigroponte pasted on a chummy, let’s-be-pals smile. “Ya gotta work with me on this. Cut me a break, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. You own the whole marina. That’s your yacht in the slip right outside this window. And you can’t afford $50,000? Cut me a break.”
“Listen, I have this cash flow problem, ya see. No thanks to that bloodsuckin’ bitch, let me tell ya. Bleedin’ me friggin’ dry.”
“No offense, but I don’t need the sob story. Do you want me to off her or not?”
“Yeah. And don’t leave nothin’ for the medical examiner.”
“I’ll do it right, don’t worry. But I don’t come cheap. Take it or leave it.”
Nigroponte smashed a crab claw with a wooden mallet, and then gingerly removed the lump of blushing white meat from the split shell. He eyed Conwright, no longer smiling.
“You’re one hardass, ain’t ya, Conwright? Think you’ve got the world by the cojones.”
Conwright sighed. “You get what you pay for, Mr. Nigroponte.”
The fat man grunted. “Twenty-five thousand.”
Conwright shook his head. “Fifty thousand, and there’s no way they can link it to you. T
hey won’t even find the body.”
“Thirty thousand. That’s my top dollar.”
“Fifty thousand. And that’s a bargain.”
“Screw you.” Nigroponte pounded another crab claw with his mallet. “I’ll find some other schmuck to do her. A derelict on the street would do it for a bottle of cheap gin.”
“And you’d be in jail the next day. Up to you.”
Nigroponte popped another morsel of crab in his mouth and washed it down with some Pabst. “I’m not puttin’ up more than $30,000,” he said. He looked into Conwright’s eyes as he spoke. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, Flash. Welcome to the friggin’ food chain, ya know? I didn’t get here on my good looks or blind luck. Like you, I’ve done my homework. My contacts, our mutual acquaintances, told me how to deal with you. I know ya need the cash. I know ya owe Solomon Ventura a large chunk of change. You’re currently in no position to negotiate.”
When Conwright frowned at the mention of Ventura, Nigroponte knew he had him. After a bad run of luck in Atlantic City last week, Conwright was in for 20 Gs—plus interest, of course—with Solly Ventura. Nigroponte knew of Solly from his early days in South Philly, where he still had contacts. Solly was not someone you’d want to screw over.
“You trust these people, these contacts of yours?” Conwright asked.
“I trust them. They recommended you highly.”
Conwright stared at the fat man, still frowning. Nigroponte cracked open another crab claw, waiting. The silence seemed impenetrable.
“Okay,” Conwright finally said, pasting on his own best let’s-be-pals smile. “Deal. But, I have expenses. I need $10,000 up front, $20,000 when the job’s done.”
Nigroponte smiled like a cat with mouse under its paw. “Done,” he said. He pulled a wad of bills from somewhere in the folds of his pants and peeled off the cash, six Gs and the rest in C notes—petty cash to the fat man. When Conwright took the money, the bills were damp with Nigroponte’s perspiration.
“I need a week, maybe more, to figure out her routines and determine when best to take her out and in what manner. I’ll meet you here a week from today to finalize our arrangement.”
Nigroponte nodded. “Same time is fine, but I really don’t like talkin’ here. Never know who might walk in, particularly Sheila. Meet me on the Barnacled Dolphin.” He pointed out the window to his yacht. “We’ll go out on the bay, more privacy.”
“That would be ideal.”
For the next hour, Nigroponte told Conwright everything he knew about Sheila’s typical day, her favorite haunts, and her friends.
With all the young Navy recruits in Annapolis, Sheila Nigroponte thought it was “strategic” to relocate here after her separation from her toady husband. She was a relatively attractive, tall redhead with manufactured breasts, collagen-pumped lips, and a well-sculpted nose. Why not make the best of her investments? She had no shortage of boyfriends. She still managed The Magnificent Wharf on the waterfront, as she had during her brief marriage, but now only in a cursory manner. Hers was a social life.
Her only true routine was a daily workout at Gold’s Gym, only a few blocks from where she lived, from 4:00 to 5:00. Dinner followed this at one of the many restaurants in the area, usually with a different man every night. She ate at The Magnificent Wharf on Friday evenings. When the crowd really hummed, she would flit from table to table talking with prominent local socialites. Her marriage to Nigroponte provided access to a massive bank account and was certainly a step up the social ladder for her, but little else.
Sheila took pride in being a “cougar”—she was always on the prowl for fresh meat. She’d noticed the new guy at the gym last week. Not a meathead with bulging muscles, he was actually quite slender and well-toned—probably a cyclist or a runner, from the build. Not bad looking either, but not Brad Pitt by a long shot. Still, attractive enough. She watched him from afar for a few days. He seemed to be a loner, not interacting often with the other gym patrons.
He was working out on a weight bench when she finally decided to approach him. Sheila stood next to the bench, watching him pump the barbells. When he noticed her, she smiled.
“Hi,” he said, returning her smile.
“Need someone to spot you?”
“Nah, but thanks for asking. I’m used to working out alone.”
“You new in town?” she purred.
He sat up on the bench, threw a towel over his shoulder. “Just a few weeks. I’m originally from South Jersey.”
“I noticed you last Friday, thought I’d introduce myself. I’m Sheila Nigroponte.” She moved closer to offer him a better view of her cleavage.
“I’m Jeremy,” he said. “Jeremy Irons.”
“Like the British actor?”
“A favorite of my Mom’s, yes.”
Sheila wondered if she was older than his mother. No matter.
“Finding your way around town okay?”
“Pretty much. I really don’t know anyone here. My boss sent me here to open a new satellite office, so I’m pretty much on my own. Just me and an empty office right now.”
“What do you do?”
“Asian imports, mostly from India. I know, I know! In Annapolis? I guess my boss knows what he’s doing.” He smiled at her again. “I’m looking for a really good seafood restaurant, a place that knows how to cook mahi-mahi. You’d think in Annapolis I’d be able to find something. Got any suggestions?”
“I certainly do. The Magnificent Wharf.” Her smile broadened as well. “Are you asking me to dinner?”
“Depends. Are you going to say yes?”
“If you’re paying.”
“My pleasure.”
No, mine, Sheila thought.
Nigroponte had been drinking before they left the dock in Havre de Grace at the mouth of the Susquehanna. Conwright had to trust his navigational skills, that he could handle the Barnacled Dolphin on a moonlit night.
A large covered pot of steamed crabs waited on deck. Once they’d anchored in the bay, Nigroponte planned to feast again. He already had a table covered with newspaper and assorted mallets, nutcrackers, and skewers ready to fulfill the task. Conwright lifted the lid and looked into the pot.
“Know much about crabs?”Nigroponte asked.
“Not really.”
“Nasty little scavengers. They make dead things disappear. They serve their purpose. Kinda like you, huh, Flash? Make dead things disappear?”
Conwright shrugged. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
“Too bad. A keg and a few dozen crabs and I’m a happy man. Didja ever steam crabs, Conwright? Ya throw them in the pot alive, put the lid on, then turn up the heat. Get the steam rollin’. Listen to ’em scramble to get away from the heat. Too bad they can’t scream. Can ya imagine being slowly steamed to death?”
“No, I suppose not.” But Conwright could imagine steaming someone to death, the flesh bubbling and melting. He could easily picture this in his head, and imagined Sheila screaming as she melted to goo.
Conwright loved his work. It was the planning, the fantasizing, the playing out of death scenarios that made it fun and worthwhile—the “hit” was often frustratingly mundane. Reality never lived up to his fantasies. It was always better to go for the clean kill, leaving nothing for the CSI folks, than to actually realize what he could imagine.
Killing for fun—as in his earlier, formative days—had been satisfying.
Killing for pay was even more so, even if he did have to sacrifice creativity on occasion.
He could easily imagine killing Sheila Nigroponte using a great variety of entertaining methods. She was a vain woman who treasured her well-styled auburn hair. He would definitely shave her head first. That led him to think of an electric chair, and he wondered if electrocution was an option. Probably not, but it would be fun to watch her fry. So many ways to kill her; he could have fun with her.
Nigroponte anchored the Barnacled Dolphin off the southern tip of Kent Island. Conwright could see the li
ghts of Annapolis to the northwest. There were a few boats to the far south, probably crabbers pulling up their pots.
Conwright joined Nigroponte in the cabin. The fat man retrieved two beers from the fridge, handing one to Conwright.
“So, have ya decided how you’re going to do it?”
“The way I normally do it, simple and fast.”
“Where?”
“I’ve been seeing her at the gym, gaining her trust, so to speak.”
“Good, good.”
“We’re going out to dinner this Friday night. When I’m alone with her and the time is right ...”
“Excellent!”
“She won’t suspect a thing. She’ll probably be in the middle of a conversation with me when I slip the gun out. She won’t realize anything until it’s too late. It’ll happen so fast, she won’t feel a thing. Maybe there’ll be a look of surprise on her face, but more likely a look of indifference. That’s the normal reaction. I always look them in the eye. Sometimes you can see the soul depart from the body, like a vapor.”
Nigroponte stared at him like he was a nutcase. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. As long as ya do it, that’s all I care. And don’t look for her soul, ’cause she ain’t got one.”
When they got to the deck, Nigroponte went straight to the pot of crabs. He was slightly drunk.
“Do ya really think you have her fooled?” he asked as he took the lid off the pot. “She’s not stupid, ya know. She could be on to ya, settin’ you up for somethin’ really nasty.” He reached into the pot and started yanking out crabs and throwing them on the table.
“She trusts me. She wouldn’t turn on me now.”
Nigroponte chuckled. “You don’t know my wife.”
“Oh, I know your wife.”
Conwright pulled his Bernadelli, a palm-size Italian .22 automatic, from the holster hidden under his left arm. He loved the slick, warm metal feel of it in his hand, it fit so perfectly in his fingers.
As Nigroponte turned toward him, Conwright looked him straight in the eye. He lifted the gun and pulled the trigger once in a practiced, fluid motion. The bullet perforated Nigroponte’s forehead just above his left eye. The single .22 slug ricocheted within his skull like a pinball razor, shredding brain tissue and vital blood vessels. When Conwright could get close enough to his target, the .22 was his favorite means of execution. When Nigroponte’s body tumbled to the deck, he stood over him and put another slug in his head, just to be sure.
Uncommon Assassins Page 24
