by Tim Tigner
Luther had seen this coming, but he wanted to make Orca work for it. “How do you figure?”
“I got you nine guys. The fact that you chose not to use them is not my problem.”
“Your men were unacceptable. I asked for James Bonds, you sent me buffoons.”
“Make it an even million, or I just might let them know you said so.” Orca walked over and stood toe-to-toe with Luther.
He was good at playing tough with Zero around, Luther thought. But then, who wouldn’t be. For the last couple minutes the giant had been holding Emmy up with such relaxed ease that you would think her weight was on par with a glass of beer. Take Zero out of the equation, however, and Luther could wipe the floor with the fat, balding thug. “Even if they were acceptable, a hundred-grand it a bit steep for a referral fee, don’t you think.”
“I’m not renting apartments. I’m a banker. We work on percentages. If you paid me twenty-six double large without breaking a sweat, I figure the operation’s got to be worth at least three or four times that, say an even hundred mil. At one percent, I’m letting you off easy.”
Luther nodded as if in defeat and walked over to his desk. “Tell you what, James, let’s make it an even two.”
“Now you’re talking. I knew you could be reasonab—”
Luther whipped a Baretta from his desk and put a round in each of Zero’s eyes.
The giant collapsed without a sound—or so Luther guessed. It was hard to tell over Emmy’s screams. He had the gun leveled at Orca’s chest before the mafia boss fully comprehended the amazing turn of events.
Keeping his eyes on Orca, Luther said, “Shut-up, Emerald!”
She did.
Beckoning toward the heavy wooden armchair he had brought to his office in anticipation, he told Orca, “Sit down.”
“So you do have a pair,” Orca said. “I’m glad to see it. I was beginning to get worried. You know, now that my territory is expanding, I’m going to need a legal advisor with balls, a true consigliere.”
“Sit down and shut up.”
“You ever read the Godfather?” Orca asked, ignoring the command to shut up as he took the seat.
Luther brushed off the question and addressed Emmy instead. “You’ll find some thick black zip-ties over there on the bookcase. I want you to use them to bind my guest’s wrists and ankles to the chair.”
Luther had expected Orca to make a bolt for the door at this point, but he remained seated. Now he realized that Orca probably interpreted the bindings as a sign that he was not going to be killed. It was a reasonable hypothesis, but it was wrong.
When Emmy had all four zip-ties in place, Luther put the Beretta in his pocket and gave each of the bindings an extra tug to be sure they were tight. Not one had an extra ratchet left. Emmy had done a good job. “Sit down and cross your ankles,” he told her, motioning to the floor.
Emmy complied.
Luther bent down and bound her ankles together with another zip tie. “Can’t have you running off on me while I’m busy.”
“Busy with what?” Orca asked. “Don’t you go doing anything stupid, anything you’re going to regret. Zero, we can forget about. Water under the bridge. I was planning to get rid of him soon anyway. He knew too much. Besides, as I said, I can use you by my side.”
Satisfied that Emmy would not be able to slip free and relatively certain that she was too traumatized to try, Luther turned his full attention back to Orca. He found the look of panic seated there to be immensely satisfying. After three-and-a-half years of sweating his monthly vig payment, he had a lot of hard feelings built up inside. The Killer Whale’s latest extortion attempt had put him over the edge.
“You shouldn’t have gotten greedy, Orca. You should have left well enough alone. I was just about to give you twenty-six-million dollars. Twenty-six-million on top of the forty-two I’ve dished out these last three-and-a-half years.”
“Hey, Luther, it’s my nature. You ever hear that anecdote about the scorpion and the frog?”
Luther ignored the pitiful attempt to lighten the atmosphere. “I’ve got good news for you, James, and I’ve got bad. The good news is: I’m not going to shoot you.”
Orca let out a big sigh and Luther actually saw a tear trickle down his cheek. “You’re making the right choice, Luther. If for no other reason than that you wouldn’t last a day if you did.”
“My thinking exactly,” Luther said. Then he stopped talking and waited for Orca to ask.
The grandfather clock along the west wall ticked off a good thirty seconds before Orca could not take the waiting any longer. “So what’s the bad news?”
Luther walked over to Zero’s corpse and pulled the racquetball from his pocket. He knew that Zero always kept one there for practicing his favorite walnut-crushing trick. Standing, he put the ball in Orca’s lap so it would be handy for shoving into the pig’s mouth the minute he began to scream. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He flipped it open and tested the edge with his thumb. It sliced off the outer layer of dermis without drawing blood. You couldn’t get a blade any sharper than that. Looking up from the mirrored finish to Orca’s eyes, he said, “The bad news is that Jimmy Choke is going to get the rap for your murder.”
Chapter 82
Troy drifted back toward consciousness feeling woozy. His first jolting thought was that Farkas had erased his memory again, but he dismissed it with a quick sigh of short-lived relief. If his memory had been erased, he would recall neither Farkas nor the erasing procedure. Then his chest protested to the accompanying deep breath and he remembered the Taser.
When the floor did not stop moving as his grip on consciousness improved, Troy realized that his wooziness was seasickness. He was on a boat.
Opening his eyes, he found himself seated in the dark cabin of what he guessed was a thirty-foot boat. Farkas had bound his hands securely behind his back and his feet … What had happened to his feet? They were cold and he couldn’t move them at all. He was weighing the medical likelihood of a Taser blast to the chest doing nerve damage to the feet when the hum of the engine changed. A moment later a door opened behind him and moonlight streamed in, casting his shadow over a grungy wooden floor. The door closed as quickly as it had opened and a florescent bulb flickered to life overhead.
Troy blinked twice, looked down at his feet, and felt his heart drop through the floor. Unfortunately, the cold numb sensation was not the result of nerve damage.
As reality sank in, Troy actually pined for the time he had woken up back on Grand Cayman, locked in a dark trunk with a cop’s bloody corpse. A quote from Dean Acheson leapt forth from the abysses of his mind: “The manner in which one endures what must be endured is more important than the thing that must be endured.” He suspected that the former Secretary of State would recant his famous bromide if he found himself in Troy’s shoes, but nonetheless Troy vowed not to give Farkas the satisfaction of sensing the fear that gripped his heart. “Concrete galoshes. That’s hardly original.”
The coppery-eyed perpetrator of all Troy’s woes walked around him in silence until they were face to face. “True, but then I’m an old fashioned kind of guy. And there’s nothing more reliable. I decided that reliable was high on my list of priorities this time around. I’m sure you understand.”
Troy did understand. And Farkas was right. He was helpless as a newborn kitten. In a strange kind of way, he found that thought comforting. It took the tension out of the situation to know that there was absolutely nothing he could do to change things—short of getting Farkas to change his mind... There. He had gone and done it. The tension was back. And for what? The slimmest thread of hope? Better to go out calm than flailing. At least he would look like a man. Drowning wasn’t supposed to be such a bad death, was it? After all, you did spend your first nine months floating in a bag of water. And your body was ninety percent water. So how bad could it be?
“It’s your contact lenses, isn’t it?” Troy asked. “That’s ho
w you retained your memory.”
Farkas raised his wiry brows. “Very good. I’m impressed. Even Luther hasn’t figured that one out.”
“You sure about that? I mean, if he did figure it out, would he tell you?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Farkas asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you’re wearing them for him. I mean, I was thinking, why would you be wearing protective lenses? Yours is the only game in town. But then it occurred to me. You figure that once Luther has his mattress stuffed to capacity, he’s going to erase your memory and walk off into the sunset, knowing that all evidence linking him to his crimes has been destroyed.”
“As I said, you’re very good.”
Farkas walked back behind Troy, grabbed the top of his chair and tilted it back on two legs. This put the full weight of the concrete bucket on the back of Troy’s calves at the point where they hit the steel crossbar. Nerves Troy did not know he had screamed in agonized protest, but pride kept him from crying out. Once Farkas had dragged him clear of the cabin door and out onto the deck, however, he forgot about the pain. This was it. The last stop. The end of the line. Go forth and feel no more.
Troy looked up at the heavens. Out on the water far from the lights of L.A., the night sky reminded him of Afghanistan. In the category of last-thing-you’ll-ever-see, the pearls-on-black-satin shroud of the Milky Way would be near the top of his wish list. Emmy, he realized, was number one. At least she wasn’t there with him. He prayed that she had gotten out. Praying was all he could do. He was powerless to help her now.
The deck of the old wooden craft stunk with the odor of rotting fish. Just as they had flailed about here, drowning by the thousands, so he too was about to perish in the depths below. That was what Farkas had reduced him to, a fish.
He scanned the peeling decking as a desperate thought surfaced, searching for a stray scaling knife or pair of wire-cutting pliers. His eyes found nothing but a scrap of old netting—and a sledgehammer. The gleaming twelve-pounder stood propped against the cabin wall, near the doorway Farkas had just dragged him through. The price tag was still attached.
“That’s in case you decide to get too lippy,” Farkas said, following his gaze. “Works much better than stuffing a sock in your mouth.”
“Charming place you’ve got here. Is this the boat from the original Jaws?”
“No, I think the shark ate that one.”
Farkas had stopped the boat near a buoy that was taller than the boat itself. Troy pictured himself clinging to it for dear life and wondered if there was a radio beacon aboard that he could rewire to send out an SOS. “You stop here to ask directions?” He asked, motioning toward the buoy with his head.
“I just wanted to make sure that when you go down, you stay down.”
“Huh?”
“Trawling is not permitted within a hundred yards of a buoy,” Farkas said, sliding open the prow gate to reveal the black water below.
Troy realized that he only had seconds left. If he was going to act, this was his last chance. “After you zapped me with that little toy of yours, did you take a look at your boss’s accounting ledger? Did you see how much he’s making? I mean, Wow!”
“It’s a good business.”
“Yeah, but that’s not my point.”
“What is your point?”
“My point is this: You think you’re his partner, but partners make fifty-fifty.” He shrugged. “Maybe sixty-forty or even seventy-thirty. But I’ll bet you’re not even making ten percent. You’re just a tool. But then you already knew that, as your special lenses suggest.”
“I am well paid,” Farkas said. “Sometimes I even enjoy my work. I’m not falling into the American trap of comparing what I earn to others. I make enough.”
“Nice speech. Who you trying to convince?”
“Did I mention the sledgehammer?” Farkas asked, moving toward the gruesome tool.
“You can’t get a refund if it’s been used.”
As Farkas drew in a breath to retort, his satellite phone rang. He pulled it from the pocket of his dark slacks and brought it to his right ear, covering the left against the wind. “Yes … Are you sure?” He hung up without saying anything else.
“God calling?” Troy asked.
“Change of plans,” Farkas said, putting the phone back in his pocket. He picked up the sledgehammer before Troy’s preoccupied mind could churn out another wise crack.
Hoisting the sledgehammer over his shoulder with both hands, Farkas said, “This is going to hurt.”
Chapter 83
Emmy sat in the corner of Luther’s study, ankles bound together with a zip tie that felt like it was made of steel, trying to make sense of her world. The giant who had effortlessly held her aloft for what seemed like ages was now lying dead a few feet away in a pool of blood.
Luther and Orca were arguing loudly just a few feet away, but their words reached her ears like a television coming from another room. She was in shock. The bullets that entered Zero’s skull through his eyes had flown just inches above her head. And Luther had fired twice. Had he intended one of those bullets for her, and just not gotten around to fixing his mistake? No, she decided, if that were the case he would not have bound her ankles. Still, why did he fire twice? It wasn’t as though anyone could survive one bullet through the eye.
Orca’s voice crescendoed, drawing her out of her dazed stupor. She looked up to see Luther shove a racquetball into the mafia boss’s mouth. While that struck her as a dangerous thing to do, Luther’s next move left her flabbergasted. She stared in morbid fascination as Luther unzipped Orca’s fly, reached inside, and pulled out an organ the size of a tennis ball can. Then he picked an open switchblade off the floor and proceeded to … She couldn’t watch. Clenching her eyes as tight as they would go, she put an index finger in each ear.
When she opened her eyes again, Orca was thrashing about in the chair like a man who … well … exactly. After a minute his movements got sluggish, and then he passed out. That was when Emmy noticed the waterfall of blood cascading off the edge of his chair onto the tiled floor. The crazy thought actually shot through her mind that as Luther’s maid, it was her job to clean up the spreading mess. When she pulled her eyes off the morbid pool, she saw that Orca’s face was a deathly pale. She also saw the bloody stump sticking out of his mouth. That was when she passed out.
When Emmy drifted back into consciousness, Luther was not in the room. The clock on the wall registered two AM; she had been out for a full five hours. Either her body had finally yielded to the accumulated stress, or Luther had injected her with a tranquilizing agent. Somewhere deep inside Emmy knew that this was her chance to escape, but she still felt spent. The ordeal on Grand Cayman had been the worst she had ever heard of, much less experienced, but even that was tame compared to tonight’s experience. Her senses were fried. Her adrenal glands wrung out like the season’s last lemons. But then she thought of Troy, and that gave her strength.
The image of Luther’s switchblade danced through her mind. If he had left it behind she could free her legs. Then escape would be easy. Emmy worked herself onto her knees and then her feet using the back of Orca’s chair. Because of the way Luther had bound her feet, with her ankles crossed, it would be difficult if not impossible for her to hop around. She did not even think that she could stand for more than a few seconds unsupported. But she did have a better view. The switchblade, however, was nowhere to be seen. Luther must have taken it with him.
Inspiration struck when her eyes fell on Luther’s desk. Desks had scissors. She even knew where Luther kept them. She tried hopping toward the desk, but the zip-ties bit painfully into her ankles and cost Emmy her balance. She caught herself on the edge of the desk as she fell. She pulled herself up onto the desk so that her ankles dangled freely over the side, and opened the center drawer. The scissors had been removed. Of course they had, she told herself. Luther had taken them when he left her alone in the room. The man was a lot o
f things, but carefree and foolish were not two of them.
Sitting there like a shipwreck survivor on a deserted island, looking across a scene of carnage that belonged only in a gangster movie, Emmy enjoyed another flash of inspiration. Maybe it didn’t matter that she couldn’t escape. If Troy now had Luther’s journal and supply of ampoules, he would bargain them for her release. Luther would do anything to get them back, she was sure of that. But was it worth the price? Was her freedom, her life, worth the price of letting Luther continue with his business? Could she allow him to continue with a quarter-billion dollars worth of destruction?
She did not have the time to process that question before Luther burst back into the room with a bag full of paper-towel rolls, a package of heavy-duty trash bags, and a pair of handcuffs. Seeing the latter, Emmy wondered momentarily if Luther was working with a crooked cop, but then she realized that the cuffs were probably from his box of sex toys.
After setting down his load, Luther picked her up off the desk and carried her over toward the closet Zero had snatched her from. Emmy assumed that he was going to lock her in the dark, but he set her down outside the door and cuffed her right wrist to the doorknob instead. “I take it you’re not going to make me shove that racquetball in your mouth,” he said. It was not a question, but she shook her head anyway.
Emmy clenched her eyes as Luther went to work with the bags and tape. She forced her mind to go elsewhere, and focused on the memory of breakfast in The Grotto with Troy. She tried to taste the conch and brie omelet and hear the swishing surf. She succeeded in blocking out the grotesque noises coming from a few feet away until a new sound registered from below. Someone was coming up the stairs, and judging by the thumping sound, he was dragging something heavy.
She opened her eyes to see that Luther now had both bodies in thick black trash bags. He had placed one bag over the top of each corpse and another over the bottom, joining them in the middle with duct tape. A fifth bag, this one full of blood-sopped paper towels, stood off to Emmy’s side.
