A woman's head.
Though it was true that today's men sometimes had long hair, the driver was definitely female. From Z's fleeting impression, a knockout.
Wife of the hood. More likely, girlfriend.
What puzzled Z was that the girl would be leaving just as her "friend" returned. What kind of relationship did they have, anyway?
It didn't matter. Z was grateful she was gone. His job was hard enough with the man in the house; more than twice as difficult with a second party.
Back to the job of breaking in ....
"Move, and I blow your head off!"
A total surprise, that harsh voice! Also the cold, circular feel of a gun barrel poked through the Cavalier's window and into the hollow at the base of Z's skull.
"Hands on the wheel! Don't look at me!" Z put his hands on the steering wheel, Z stupid maybe, but not crazy.
There was the quiet clunk of the door latch release, the gun barrel leaving Z's neck, the door carefully swung out. Looking forward, Z couldn't see the man but had a good idea who he might be. Somehow, the punk who'd been following Z had seen Z trailing him. Easy to pick up Z's Cavalier in late night traffic, Z taking a calculated risk tailing the mobster. Z had already figured the man was bright, the fact that the man had caught him, not the best way to confirm that judgment.
"Come out slow or you're dead."
An easy task with a bum knee.
Standing in the quiet street for the "pat down," Z could see that the other man's shadow shape was formidable. Shorter than Z, but ... bulky.
Putting it all together, the hood had spotted Z tailing him. When getting home, had ordered his wife/girl to leave the house so the man could deal with Z in private, something Z had planned except for the variation of who would be "playing."
Satisfied Z wasn't "carrying," the thug shut the car door. "'Round back," the man ordered. "Don't wanna shoot you and wake the neighbors." A sensitivity to the feelings of others with which Z heartily concurred.
And that's what they did: Z in front, the man following so closely Z could feel the gun barrel bump his spine.
First slanting down the street to enter the thug's yard, Z was shoved down the side and around back, Z able to see by the soft flame of front and backyard gaslights. At least well enough to walk.
Passing behind the garages, crossing a deep patio, they came to a back door.
"Open it," the man ordered, Z turning the knob, going inside.
Utility room.
Nudged to the left, fumbling around, Z opened another door; stepped up into a lavish, lighted kitchen, Italian tile on the workstation in the center, huge refrigerator with ice and cold water available through the door. Two Viking stoves. Two microwaves. Out-sized dishwasher. Double sinks in stainless steel. Cabinets and more cabinets, breakfast bar with short, three-legged stools under it.
Z was then "directed" through the kitchen into a formal dining room featuring a cathedral ceiling, elegant walnut table and chair set, crystal chandelier, and glass breakfront displaying Waterford crystal.
Marched through a plaster arch into a fireplace-dominated study, Z's apparent destination was a chair near a small lamp table.
The house, the furnishings -- all "toys" of the successful executive. Except, the place smelled of .....
* * * * *
Z had difficulty thinking. His mind sticking, except to register a dull pain high on the back of his head. He tried to open his eyes, the light hurting them. He tried again; managed to keep them open -- little good it did him with his sight so fuzzy.
He was aware he was sitting in a chair. Slumped in a chair, he corrected himself, his mind functioning a little better. After blinking his eyes and concentrating, his vision was also clearing.
He felt .... numb. Except for the pain in the back of his head.
He was in a chair. Overstuffed chair.
Fireplace to his left. Sofa. Other chairs.
Uncomfortable.
Because ... he was leaning back against his hands.
When Z tried to get his hands out from behind him though, he ... couldn't.
Because they were ... tied behind his back.
No.
Taped.
It was coming back to Z, the sore spot on his head helping him to piece together what had happened.
He remembered he'd been surprised out front. Taken at gunpoint into the house. Into this room. Then ....
Zapped.
Z had to admire the man's thoroughness. He'd done just what Z would have under the circumstances.
Except for the tape. Z had never trusted tape. He was from the old-fashioned "rope school" of bondage.
Wiggling around as best he could, Z could tell he wasn't fastened to the chair. Nor were his ankles taped together. The man had knocked him out -- and Z hurt enough to guess the man had done it with the steel butt of his gun -- taped Z's hands behind his back, and sat him in the chair.
Exploring with his fingers, the tape felt like the gray duct tape everyone used for everything except the tape's intended purpose -- sealing the seams of galvanized steel air ducts.
Where was the villain of the piece? A little sloppy to be out of the room when Z woke up.
Not that Z was eager for the "fun and games" to start.
For the only thing that made sense was that Z was about to be questioned about the whereabouts of Johnny D.
Z knew he'd be roughed up some, but probably allowed to live. The man who'd been following Z -- undoubtedly the same one who'd snatched Z off the street -- had demonstrated patience; didn't seem to be the crazy killer type. Just another indication the mob had turned into a "professional" organization. Or, at least, was trying to. Meaning, Z hoped, they didn't kill any more folks than they had to these days, extra bodies bad for business.
Z's best defense was to play dumb, something Susan seemed to think Z did rather well.
A squeak of floor. The man entering.
A dark-haired man with thick brows joining above his nose. Dead, black eyes. Wide cheekbones. Narrow nose and mouth. Broad chest. Muscles. Indeterminate nationality.
"Piece of shit," was the man's evaluation on finding Z awake. "Spendin' all this time on a piece of shit like you."
Z kept his mouth shut, judging this to be one of the better times to do that.
Pulling his gun from a back holster, the man walked over to Z, standing over him, looking down, unfortunately, staying too far back for Z to kick the legs out from under him.
Dangerous.
That was the only word Z could think of for the man.
The hoodlum -- Z still didn't know his name -- was casually dressed in a light blue silk shirt, gray slacks, and black loafers. He had an expensive-looking watch on one wrist, a heavy gold "identification" bracelet around the other and a pinky ring that flashed a diamond the size of a faceted marble.
About the man himself, Z's first impression had been right. He was made of muscle: the kind manufactured in a lavishly equipped gym.
Keeping his flat eyes on Z, gun steady in his right hand, the hood used his left to slip a packet of cigarettes out of his front shirt pocket. Tapping up a cigarette on his gun hand, he lipped the cigarette into his mouth and replaced the pack.
Fishing a gold lighter out of his pants pocket, he snapped on the flame, glancing down to apply the fire to the end of the cigarette, at the same time taking a draw. Replaced the lighter, the thug hissed smoke through white teeth, Z smelling perfumed tobacco.
No mistake.
This was the man who'd tossed Z's place.
Z reviewed what he knew about the young mobster.
Bright. Chain-smoker. Careful. A check of Z's apartment.
"Gonna ask you only once." Though undistinguished, the man's voice carried the impact of the inevitable. On the other hand, that's what they all said: "I'm going to ask you only once." Cops and robbers. "Where you got him hid?"
"Who?"
"You know who."
Z tried to look confused.
<
br /> "Dosso."
"Johnny? I know him, but ..." No sense claiming Z wasn't a friend of John's. Never deny anything they know you know. To either cops or robbers.
"But you don't got him hid out?" Cynicism.
"No. Haven't heard from him. Been awhile."
Reaching his left hand behind him, the trigger man took a thin pair of leather gloves from his back pocket. Slowly -- switching the gun from hand to hand -- stretched the gloves on.
A bad sign.
"You been shadowing me. Why?" Z might as well ask.
"You know why."
"You said, you're looking for John? That the reason?"
"Why you think?" The man wasn't buying the innocent routine.
"I've done some work that made me enemies. Could be you were one of them."
"When you spot me?" Taking the cigarette out of his mouth, the man reached down to flip ashes at an ashtray on the end table beside Z's chair; straightened up immediately to continue sucking on the shrinking cancer stick.
"Tonight. Out front." It was the best lie Z could think of at the moment.
"Piece of shit couldn't locate your ass with both hands. Supposed to be a private dick?" Emphasis on "dick." "I been back of you day and night for a week."
Z tried to look impressed.
"Spending a lot of my time. And for what? For a piece of shit."
His cigarette glued to his mouth, the mob man continued to blow smoke, the room filling with the tobacco's strange smell. Z wondered if the hood was smoking some drug (other than tobacco.) Decided if he was, it wasn't slowing him down.
The place smelled of smoke and ... something else, an odor Z remembered detecting when he'd first been herded in.
Something Z never smelled in his own apartment; but a scent he could associate with Susan's place. A "girl" smell.
The smell of ... fingernail polish. ......
No. Fingernail polish remover. Strong ... even though the thug's woman had been sent away some time ago.
Glancing around quickly, Z saw a large, open bottle of remover, upturned lid beside it, the bottle on the table next to his chair. And cotton balls. Plus an emery board and a bottle of pink nail polish.
The fact that the bottle of remover hadn't been capped was another sign of how dangerous the tough was. When he'd ordered the girl to leave, she'd jumped so fast she hadn't done the "woman thing" of putting the cap back on the bottle. A sharp blow across Z's face stunned him, the man's backhanded slap bringing tears to Z's eyes.
"Thought you might be goin' to sleep on me," the man said, grinning evilly.
As Z would have guessed, the gorilla had strong, too-perfect teeth.
"You hit me and I still won't know the whereabouts of Johnny D." Given the circumstances, the most sincere lie Z had ever told.
"Yeah," the man said, frowning.
Could this be an opening? "And you know it."
"How you figure?"
"You said you been following me for a week?" (It hadn't been a week.) "Then you know I got no contact with Johnny. You got a tap on my phone?" Z hadn't thought about that until just now. But it made sense (Z too upset lately to have picked up on this completely predictable bugging of Z's apartment.) Putting in a "bug" something the man didn't bother to deny. "And what you found out is I got no contact with Johnny."
For no reason, the man hit Z again, once more with the back of his gloved left hand. "That's for wasting my time on a piece of shit like you."
While attempting to look hurt, Z was careful not to sigh his relief. Apparently, the punk's ego had convinced him he'd have come up with a Dosso connection if there'd been one.
Again, the man grinned under lifeless eyes. "But I got me another plan, now, thanks to you." Z didn't like the sound of that. "You said, yourself, you're a friend of Dosso's. So maybe I can use you to smoke Dosso out."
The muscle-man paused, thinking, leaning over to snuff out the butt of his cigarette in an ashtray beside Z, all the time keeping his eyes on Z and the gun leveled at Z's chest. "If you took a hit, maybe he'd show himself, looking for vengeance."
"No." What else could Z say?
"You're probably right. But, what the hell? You don't know 'til you try." The man had made his decision. "Get up!"
This was going to end with a bullet to the back of the head unless Z thought of something fast!
With a corner of his mind, Z realized he was afraid, also discovering he was surprised to be afraid. His life had been going so badly Z hadn't thought he'd mind if .... Cancel that unproductive thought.
Back to the desperate present.
Slowing down his racing mind, Z tried to be rational about his situation. There was no way, for instance, he could get away with throwing his body at the man's gun. Not with Z's hands taped behind his back. The man was also keeping back far enough so Z couldn't kick him.
Z had to think of something else ...... the utter bleakness of his situation seeming to provide a new notion. A poor idea, maybe, but at least based on his knowledge of the man. If Z got the chance ....
"Get up!" the man repeated, threatening to hit Z again.
Nodding quickly -- no need to take more punishment than necessary -- Z hunched forward, as if trying to rise.
Finally struggled up, only to let his knee collapse, breaking his fall by leaning back against the small table beside the chair, bracing himself with his elbows.
Getting his feet under him, Z was finally able to stand -- but with a difference. While bend backward over the table, Z had gotten hold of the bottle of polish remover.
Thin plastic bottle, by the feel of it. From the weight, nearly full. A bottle Z maneuvered to keep hidden between his hands and his body, pressing hard with the backs of his hands to hold it there.
He'd get only one chance ... if he got that.
"Move," the hoodlum said.
And Z moved, Z as shaky as he'd been for some time.
Shuffling Z back through the dining room, kitchen -- the gangster stepping past Z to snap inside switches to light the utility room and garage -- the torpedo stepped back to let Z precede him.
Both of them arriving in the one-car emptiness of the floodlit garage, Z turned as if to ask for directions.
At which point Z got the break he'd been hoping for! Already in need of another cigarette, the man paused to slip the pack out of his pocket. Keeping his distance and watching Z carefully, the man hit the top of the pack against his gun hand, using his lips to extract a cigarette he'd tapped up.
Putting the pack back in his pocket, the thug reached into his pants pocket for his lighter.
Meanwhile, as the crook was going through his cigarette routine, Z was fumbling the open bottle of remover into his right hand; had shifted his hands sideways behind him so that the bottle top cleared his left side.
The man then flicked on the lighter, his eyes leaving Z to focus for a single second on the end of the cigarette -- all the time Z needed to squeeze the plastic bottle, the thin, flammable fluid squirting toward the lighter's flame.
Whoosh!
Fire everywhere! On the man's hand and on his face! Flame dripping to his upper chest!
Z had to admire the criminal for getting off a misdirected shot before dropping the gun to bat both hands at the searing flames.
Another second, and Z had taken the single step necessary to launch a kick hard enough to double the man over, a second kick to the temple, putting out the gangster's lights, a third kick skittered the man's gun into a dark corner, Z once again in charge of the evening's program.
No longer needing to "pour fuel on the fire," Z backed up to an open green plastic trash barrel and dropped in the bottle of remover.
Seeing what he needed next, backing up again, Z slid an old "garage" towel off a nail; used the thick cloth to smother the flames on the hoodlum's face, a process that took awhile with Z's hands taped behind him.
Too bad.
After damping out the flames, Z rose to inspect his work, the unconscious man on his ba
ck at Z's feet.
Satisfied, Z walked over to paw -- as best he could with his hands still taped -- through the usual, built-in tool cabinets at the back of the garage. Found what he'd expected in one of them: a gardening knife.
Able to saw through the tape around his wrists, a tough job with his hands fastened behind him, he pulled off what remained of the severed tape, wadding it into a ball and tossing it in the trash. Retrieving the man's gun from the corner where Z kicked it, he spent the time it took to figure out how the pistol "broke," upending it to dump out the bullets on the floor.
After snapping the trigger a number of times to make certain the piece was empty, Z chanced sticking the gun in his belt.
Checking to see that the mobster -- now developing the worst case of puffy sunburn Z had ever seen -- was still out, Z continued to riffle the garage until he found what he was looking for: three fat, strung-together plastic packages of braided clothesline rope.
Using the garden knife to slit the packs, Z cut short lengths of cotton rope, rolling the punk on his face to tie the man's hands behind him. Then tie his feet and knees. Finished the job by stuffing a piece of torn-off toweling in the man's mouth, securing the gag with a length of rope between the thug's teeth, and tied around the back of his head.
All Z had left to do was cut the remaining rope in two long pieces, fashioning a noose on the end of one of them. The ropes ready, dropping the knife, Z tossed the noose-rope over one of the open two-by-fours bracing the garage ceiling, pulling down the loop end to put it around the thug's throat, cinching up the slipknot.
The man secured, the rope ready, Z was free to go back into the house for one of the three-legged stools he'd seen under the kitchen breakfast bar, the seats about two-and-a-half feet tall, Z bringing a stool out into the garage.
What followed was the inevitable wait for the guy to wake up, Z trying to speed the process by locating, then filling a plant-watering can, returning to the garage to drizzle water over the man's red face.
The fellow groaned. Opened his eyes. Tried to struggle free.
"Now who's a piece of shit?" Z purred.
It was strange, Z thought, working without his black ski mask -- the mask still in Z's valise in the Cavalier. No need in this instance, of course, the punk knowing perfectly well who Z was.
Murder by Candlelight Page 19
