by Tim Stevens
This was his hit, and he was going to pull it off all by himself.
He said to Johnny, “Stay here and watch the apartment building. Keep your phone on.”
Micky didn’t have all his burglarizing tools with him – he’d left his main set in the van, which by now the cops would have impounded – but he kept a basic collection of equipment in all of his vehicles. He climbed out of the Honda, keeping his head low, and popped the trunk. Inside was a canvas rucksack. He checked the contents. Rope, glass-cutting tools, a set of lock picks, a pair of pliers, and thin gloves.
Micky closed the rucksack and made his way to the perimeter of the square. Trying not to look too much as if he was trying to hide his face, he crept along the backs of the buildings until he came to the rear of the block which housed Mykels’ apartment.
He looked up. Six stories, and the apartment he wanted was on the penthouse level. Climbing up the outside wasn’t an option. He needed to get inside the building, somehow. There was a basement – he’d noticed the ramp earlier – and there would be a service elevator. Once he was in, getting into the apartment itself would be the easy part.
And if Mykels wasn’t home, which was entirely plausible given that it was a sunny Sunday afternoon, Micky would just sit and wait for him.
He approached the side of the building. A girl, walking along the street on her own, glanced at him as he passed. Micky tried to adopt a purposeless stroll, as if he was merely out for a walk himself, at a loose end. He met the girl’s eyes for an instant, and forced a quick grin on his face. It wasn’t difficult, really. She was a looker. Small, sassy, with a Goth image.
She smiled back, and Micky got worried. Would she remember him if asked?
He turned the corner and reached the front of the building. A couple walked by, with a lapdog on a leash. They didn’t look at him.
The awning in front of the entrance cast a deep shadow. Beyond, Micky could see a lobby, with a reception desk. Damn. He’d need to bluff his way past the doorman if he went in that way. Better to try the basement parking lot.
He was about to head on toward the ramp when a voice close behind him said, “Don’t look round. Keep walking. The cops are watching.”
Micky’s instinct was to whip his head round, but something in the woman’s tone convinced him indeed to keep walking. His heart hammering, Micky stared straight ahead.
“Turn the corner at the end of the block,” she said.
Micky complied, but he laid his hand on the front of his jacket, over the Chinese pistol in the interior pocket. If she was driving him into a trap, he needed to be prepared.
He turned the corner. A narrow alley lay ahead. There was nobody else in sight.
Ten paces down the alley, Micky decided to risk turning round.
The Goth girl was there, six feet behind him.
In her right hand, she held a pistol of her own, pointed straight at his chest.
His hand gripped the gun through his jacket.
She shook her head gently.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said.
Chapter 20
Blowfly saw them approaching in the rear view mirror, Melinda and a young Chinese-looking guy. They were side by side, but the guy walked uncertainly, and although Blowfly couldn’t see it he knew Melinda had her gun trained on him, artfully concealed beneath her folded arms.
Blowfly had been sitting there in the passenger seat of Melinda’s VW Passat for fifteen minutes. She’d taken the keys with her, so he couldn’t have driven away, but there was nothing stopping him from simply getting out of the car and running.
Nothing physical, that is.
But Blowfly felt rooted to the seat as if he’d been administered some paralyzing nerve toxin which rendered movement impossible. If he got out of the car and made a run for it, where would he go? If he went back to his apartment, she’d find him there. If he went to the cops, what would he tell them? That a crazy woman he’d slept with the night before had pulled a gun on him this morning and coerced him into cooperating with her? He’d be laughed at.
Besides, Melinda knew he’d been up on the Ignatowski woman’s wall when she was murdered. She knew he’d taken photos of the guy who’d probably committed the murder. Blowfly would have to reveal that to the cops. And then he’d not only lose the story, but he’d probably face obstruction-of-justice charges for not coming forward sooner with his evidence.
So Blowfly just sat there, not understanding why Melinda had driven to this genteel spot uptown, not understanding why she’d gotten out of the car or where she’d gone.
And now here she was, with what looked like a prisoner of some kind.
Before Blowfly knew it, the rear door opened and Melinda half-shoved the Chinese guy onto the backseat. She dropped swiftly into the driver seat and turned, the gun hanging loosely from her small hand, not quite pointing at the guy but representing an unmistakable threat.
“So,” she said. “Who are you?”
The Chinese guy glared at her. Blowfly thought he looked furious, and also more than a little confused. The guy kept his mouth firmly shut.
Without warning, so fast Blowfly didn’t register what had happened until a few seconds afterward, Melinda’s hand whipped upward and back. The guy recoiled in the seat with a cry of pain. A gash had opened up across his cheek where the sight of the pistol had scored him.
Melinda gave a small sigh. “Let’s not do it this way. Please. It’s boring for me, and it’ll be very painful for you. Trust me.”
The guy put his hand up to his face. He stared at his bloody fingertips, then at Melinda.
This time, as well as the anger and bewilderment, there was fear in his eyes.
Melinda said, a little louder this time: “Let’s try once more. What’s your name?”
Blowfly was watching all of this over his shoulder. He raised his eyes to the rear view mirror. The car was parked at the end of an alley, and wasn’t visible from the main street except to people passing directly across the opening. Nevertheless, it was broad daylight, on a fine, sunny day. Blowfly thought that at any moment somebody would stop at one or other end of the alley, and notice what was going on inside the car.
The guy on the backseat said, quietly but forcefully: “Who are you, bitch?”
Blowfly cringed, both inwardly and out. He almost closed his eyes.
But Melinda laughed. “You’ve got cojones,” she said. “I like that.”
Blowfly watched her aim the gun down at the guy’s lap.
She said, “So how about I start with them, those brass balls of yours? See just how bulletproof they are? I tell you what. If the bullet bounces off, then I’ll let you go, and you’ll have my sincere apologies and undying respect.”
Blowfly didn’t know a lot about guns, but he could see that the pistol in Melinda’s hand was cocked. In horrified fascination, he watched her finger tightening on the trigger.
The guy said, “My name’s Jacob Wu.”
Blowfly glanced at Melinda, relieved that the guy hadn’t been stupid enough to continue brazening it out. But his heart sank when he saw the narrowing of Melinda’s eyes, the tightening at her mouth.
“Uh-uh,” she murmured. “You’re lying.”
She gripped her gun hand in her other fist, as if steadying it in preparation for the shot.
Blowfly exploded: “For crying out loud, dude. She’ll do it. She’ll shoot. Believe me. Just tell her your goddamn name.”
“Micky Wong,” the guy blurted.
Melinda watched the man’s face closely for four long seconds. Then: “Okay. Good. That’s a start.” Keeping the gun aimed squarely at the guy’s crotch, she said, “How many of you are there, Micky? In the immediate area?”
“Seven,” the man said quickly. Too quickly, Blowfly thought.
Melinda rolled her eyes at Blowfly. “Mm-mm,” she said. “Lying again.”
Blowfly stared through the windshield, the windows. What if the guy was telling the truth? What if se
ven other hoods were closing in on them at that very moment, guns drawn?
“One more,” said Wong. “Driver.”
Melinda seemed satisfied with this answer. She said, “Okay, Micky. Here’s the thing. You don’t exactly look rich. Yet you’re hanging around a neighborhood like this. Plus – and don’t think I’m a racist, because I’m not – you’re Chinese. Last night, a bunch of Chinese guys tried to launch an attack outside an art gallery where Louis Q. Mykels was holding an exhibition. Today, I find you hanging around the apartment of the same Louis Q. Mykels, carrying a rucksack full of burglar’s tools.” She paused, watching him closely. “You see where I’m heading with all of this, Micky? You notice the strange coincidences I’m finding?”
Wong said nothing. But even Blowfly, who wasn’t the most perceptive of people, could see that Melinda had touched a nerve.
“So the deal’s this, Micky,” Melinda went on. “I have an interest in Louis Q. Mykels. What that interest is, doesn’t concern you. But I figure you can help me further that interest. If you tell me why it is you’re after him, why you or your cronies tried to kill him last night and why you’re trying to break into his apartment now, I’ll let you live. If you stonewall, or lie, then, well...” She flicked the end of the pistol a fraction.
Wong’s eyes darted to one side, then back to Melinda’s face, so fast that if Blowfly had blinked he’d have missed it. Melinda shook her head.
“No chance, Micky. The central locking’s on. Besides, even if it wasn’t, you couldn’t outrun a bullet.”
A phone began to buzz, shockingly close to Blowfly so that he flinched. Keeping her eyes and her gun on Wong, Melinda reached into the pocket of her denim jacket with her free hand.
Blowfly saw Wong’s eyes on the phone, and realized it was his. Melinda must have taken it off him when she’d captured him.
She thumbed the receive key and listened.
A man’s voice burst from the speaker, so loud that Blowfly could hear it from where he sat.
“Micky, it’s the cops! Two – no, three – squad cars, high-speed, headed for the apartment building! If you’re in there, get out, get out –”
Melinda glanced out the windows. From down the alley, behind the car, Blowfly could see flashers as they shot past.
“Time’s up, Micky,” said Melinda urgently. “Talk to me. Tell me why you’re after Mykels, or I blow your damn head off right here.”
Tell her, pleaded Blowfly silently. Tell her, tell her, tell her.
He heard a noise from down the alley and craned round.
A uniformed cop was gazing right at the car, his hand on a holster at his hip.
He began to walk at a swift pace down the alley.
“Melinda,” said Blowfly, his mouth dry. “There’s a –”
She said, “I know,” and dropped into the seat, thrusting the gun at Blowfly. He cringed away.
“Take it,” she said. “Cover Micky.”
“What? I –”
“Point the damn gun at him,” she snarled. “The cops’ll be on us any second.”
As Blowfly grasped the grip of the pistol, distantly surprised at the weight of the weapon, Melinda fired the engine.
The car bucked forward in a squeal of rubber, hurling Blowfly back into his seat.
“Hey,” the cop yelled, barely audible over the car. “Hey.”
Through the rear window, Blowfly saw the cop break into a sprint, his gun out.
Melinda took the VW careering out of the alleyway and onto the sunlit street beyond. An oncoming car peeled away in a flare of horn.
Blowfly fought to keep the gun on Wong, who was himself being thrown from side to side by the crazy lurching of the car. He felt a thrill of panic grip his guts.
The cop appeared at the end of the alley, stopped, and Blowfly saw his receding figure pull out a radio and shout into it.
“Come on, Micky,” Melinda yelled. “Tell me about Mykels right now. If you do, I’ll slow enough for you to jump out. If you don’t, my pal here isn’t too experienced with firearms, as you can see. A sudden bump in the road is liable to make him pull the trigger.”
That made Blowfly panic even more. He centered the gun on Wong’s forehead, but it twitched away once again as the car swerved.
Behind them, sirens had started up.
“Ah, what the hell,” Melinda muttered. “Shoot him anyway, Wayne.”
Blowfly stared at her. “What?”
“Keep looking at him, you asshole,” she snapped. “I said shoot him anyway. If he won’t talk, he’s no use to us. Waste the SOB.”
Wong said, “Wait.”
“I’m listening.” Melinda took one hand off the steering wheel and made a keep rolling gesture.
“I was hired to kill Mykels,” said Wong. His voice sounded like it was as painful for him to say the words as if he was giving birth.
“By whom?” said Melinda.
A pause of around three seconds, but it felt to Blowfly like several minutes.
“A man named Torvald,” said Wong.
“First name?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
“Who is he?” said Melinda, as she took the car screeching through a red light and around a corner. Past Wong’s head, Blowfly could see one of the cop cars on their trail, a hundred yards back and closing.
“I don’t know,” said Wong again. “Some rich guy, I guess.”
“Where is he?”
Wong shrugged.
Melinda shook her head. “Lotta things you don’t know, I guess, Micky,” she said. “But the name might be enough.” She turned to glance at Blowfly. “Now shoot him.”
Blowfly laughed. It was a crazy, barking sound, one of relief rather than mirth.
Melinda said, “I’m not kidding, Wayne. Pull the trigger.”
He didn’t need to look at her to tell that she was deadly serious.
“Melinda,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I can’t.”
She said, “Then I’ll shoot you,” and a second gun appeared in her hand.
She must have taken it off Wong, like the phone, Blowfly realized.
He tried again: “Melinda...”
The muzzle of the new gun was inches from his ear. On the periphery of his vision, Blowfly saw her thumb the safety off.
On the backseat, Wong lunged.
Micky squeezed the trigger.
The blast was terrible, filling the enclosed space of the car, the recoil flinging the gun upward and shivering down Blowfly’s arm.
Wong’s head snapped back. The window behind him was daubed instantly in red. A mist spattered Blowfly’s arm and face and hair.
He gave a yell, uninhibited and primal, and dropped the gun somewhere behind the seat.
He turned his head to stare at Melinda.
Steering with one hand, she lowered her gun and craned round to peer into the back.
“Wow,” she said, with what sounded like genuine approval in her tone. “Good shot.”
Chapter 21
The screams alerted Venn that something was wrong just a few seconds before he saw what it was.
Beside him, the cop at the wheel took the car hard round the corner, the tires shrieking on the tarmac, and yelled, “Ah, dammit.”
He braked, provoking a further howling from the wheels. In the middle of the road a few yards ahead lay a bloodied body.
The sidewalks on either side were lined with cowering people, their hands pressed to their mouths. Up ahead, there was no sign of the VW.
Venn threw open the door and jumped out, the engine of the patrol car still running. He reached the body and dropped to his knees beside it.
The head was a mess, cratered at the back by the exit wound of a bullet. The face was sheeted in blood. But Venn recognised the features.
Micky Wong.
What the hell?
Back at the car, the cop was shouting into his radio. Two more patrol cars appeared round the corner and slowed, but Venn w
aved them on urgently and they bypassed him and headed down the street.
He stood up and strode to the sidewalk and said to the crowd there: “Anybody see what happened?”
A babble of voices replied. Venn silenced them with his raised palms and pointed at one particular woman.
“You, ma’am.”
She was white with shock, but seemed together enough that she spoke with relative calm. “A car stopped here. A red Volkswagen Passat, I think. There were two people inside. A man and a woman.”
“No,” cut in another bystander. “It was two men.”
“One was a woman,” she said, with certainty. “Quite young. White. She was the driver.”
“Go on,” said Venn.
“The man was kind of hefty,” she said. “Also white. He crawled in the back. Opened the door and threw this guy out. Then they took off.”
“They weren’t Chinese?” said Venn.
She shook her head adamantly.
Venn went back to the car. Another one had pulled up, and two uniformed cops were already clearing the street around the body.
Venn gazed down at Micky Wong’s corpse.
Things were beginning to get seriously confusing.
*
He’d gotten Mykels on the first ring, just after he’d come upstairs at the precinct house.
“This is Detective Joe Venn,” he said without preamble.
“Detective Venn,” said Mykels, his voice low and courteous. “A pleasant surprise.”
“I doubt it,” said Venn. “Where are you now? At home?”
“No. As it happens, I’m visiting with friends in Connecticut.” There was a brief pause, as if Mykels was moving away from company so as to have more privacy. “What’s this about, Lieutenant?”
“The men who were outside the gallery last night were part of a Triad here in Chinatown,” said Venn. “You were their target. I believe they may be heading for your apartment here in the city right now.”
Another silence for a moment. When he spoke, Mykels sounded unruffled, though not unconcerned. “I see.”
Venn filled him in briefly about the events of the afternoon. He said, “I asked you last night if you had any enemies. I need to think about that question again, very carefully. Somebody has taken out a hit on you. Who do you know that wants you dead?”
