A Killer's Kiss

by William Lashner

  “I was waiting for your call,” said Gregor Trocek. “It was so lonely, waiting like that. My feelings are bruised.”

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “And I hope your busyness was profitably spent. So what have you found for me?”

  “Not much.”

  “Ahh, Victor, you disappoint,” he said, sitting uncomfortably close to me in the rear of his Jaguar. “I don’t enjoy being disappointed.”

  “Join the club.”

  It was quite a car, that Jaguar, with its new-car scent, its ivory leather seats, its burled-wood trays and flat screens in both front headrests. Even as I felt the fear he wanted me to feel, I also felt the old longing to get my piece of the pie, my seat at the table, my own damn Jaguar. Nothing slakes fear like raw greed. Gregor Trocek was leaning on me to get back his one point seven million dollars. How many Jaguars would a piece of one point seven million buy? One was enough, with cash left over for down payments on a town house here and a vacation home in Florida and half enough gas to get me from one to the other.

  “So now, Victor, are you ready to hear my funny story?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Okay, so there was woodcutter in my country named Ivan. Ivan is biggest cuckold in village. Every afternoon Ivan’s neighbor, he strides into Ivan’s house and lies with Ivan’s wife, and Ivan does nothing. Nothing, you understand. So one afternoon Ivan comes into his house with ax in hand and finds neighbor’s bull in bed with his wife. Ivan, he raises ax over his head and slams it down, just missing bull and chopping bed in two. The bull, he quickly jumps out of bed and says, ‘Why you get so angry? My owner, he come in here every afternoon to fuck your wife, and never from you a peep.’ And Ivan, he says, ‘But you I can eat.’”

  A cackle came from Sandro in the driver’s seat, and Gregor joined in with a hearty guffaw that sent shivers of saliva flying about the backseat.

  “Yes,” I said. “Funny.”

  “You don’t like?” said Gregor. “Then how about this one? A friend, he calls me and asks me to kill you. Yes, you. You are in this joke. I ask why? He says because he thinks you are fucking his wife.”

  “I told you already it wasn’t true.”

  “Yes, you did, and I chose not to believe word of it. But even if true, what does it matter? Especially when I learn that maybe he wants to kill you for different reason. Maybe he thinks you stole something from his good friend Gregor.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about money, my money, invested in partnership with some stranger and which is now inconveniently gone. I informed you already, Victor, that I am willing to kill for someone else’s pittance, so don’t even think of what I won’t do to get back what is mine.”

  “I don’t have your money.”

  “Are you sure? Or do you maybe know where it can be found? I have been told that things are going now well with you. A new flat-screen television, new paint in the office, a new couch. Leather.”

  “Pleather.”

  “All the better,” said Sandro from the front seat. “Easier to care for, and if it rips, you just melt it back together.”

  “Thank you for that interior-decorating advice, Sandro,” I said.

  “So where has your new affluence come from?” said Gregor. “I wonder if it has come from my ass.”

  “It came from a case. And whoever’s been whispering in your ear is playing you for a fool. I don’t have your money. Miles Cave has it, and I’m trying to find him just as much as you are.”

  “With no luck.”

  “No.”

  “Convenient. Did you talk to Julia?”

  “Yes. She said she didn’t know him, truly. But I did find out that a great deal of money was transferred to him as Wren Denniston’s business was collapsing. And I know for sure that if he’s ever found, he would lose the money, either to you, through Sandro’s happy knife, or to the government, through litigation. He had one point seven million reasons to run. One point seven million reasons to kill Wren to keep from being found. And one point seven million reasons to try to divert the search for him to someone else.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like me. Which is a laugh, because if I had taken off with your one point seven million dollars, Gregor, I wouldn’t be hanging around on my pleather couch. I’d be in Belize.”

  “Ever been to Belize?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “A little boring for my taste. It is the British influence. They think violence and warm beer make a good time. They are half right.”

  “Who told you that I might have your money?” I said.

  “A little bird.”

  “Probably the same little bird that’s been whispering to the police and that’s been trying to set me up from before Wren was murdered. What was it, a letter? A phone call?”

  “Phone call.”

  “Did you get a name or a number?”

  “Just a number on my phone. Who you think?”

  “I’ll tell you who I think. I think it’s your boy Miles Cave. He probably heard all those Victor Carl stories that Wren was dishing and figured I was the perfect patsy. I think Miles is setting me up, I think he decided to set me up from the start. And if he can convince you and the police to concentrate on me, then he’s free to flit away and live fat off your money. What do you know about the creep?”

  “He was old friend of Wren. He had an in at bank, was able to handle cash payments without filing usual documents with government.”

  “Cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “You gave him one point seven million in cash?”

  “Why not? A small satchel is needed, that is all. I handed it directly to Wren at his house. The terms were all agreed to, including using Miles Cave’s name for the investment.”

  “Was there a written agreement?”

  “Yes, of course. We were limited partnership. Youngblood, LP. I came up with title myself.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “The agreement was written quite carefully.”

  “By your lawyer?”

  “No, by Cave’s. But my lawyer, American working in Lisbon, looked it over.”

  “You have a copy here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “Sandro,” said Gregor with a snap of his fingers. “Briefcase.”

  “While I look at this,” I said when he handed me the partnership agreement, “why don’t you call back that number and try to find out who the hell is whispering in your ear.”

  The agreement was a typical partnership thing, party of the first part, party of the second part, all that legal jazz. It was dated not too long ago, which meant Miles stole the money shortly after it was placed in Wren’s business. Reading through the boilerplate was like wading through a steaming pile of legal muck without your boots on. Miles Cave was the general partner, which meant his name was up front and he was liable for all debts. The investment would be made in his name only. Gregor was a limited partner, which meant his participation could be hidden, even if he supplied the cash. All pretty normal, and the language was enough to induce an insomniac into coma, but as I read through it, I noticed something peculiar.

  Most contracts detail the name of the lawyer who drafted them at the end, by either name or initials. This contract had nothing to indicate the drafter. But in even the most vile examples of legalese, something of the personality of the writer always comes through: a touch of humor, a penchant for showoffy words, a strange fear of spiders. And reading through this agreement, I was getting a whiff of personality. The drafter was both arrogant and imprecise in language, was quick with the formal phrase that said nothing except to let you know it was written by a lawyer, was careful to provide for all kinds of bizarre eventualities while allowing certain obvious loopholes to remain. In short, the lawyer who drafted this partnership agreement was an unpleasant weasel.

  And I ha
d a pretty good guess who the weasel was.

  I looked up from the document. Gregor was on his cell phone. “So,” he said, “be nice fellow and tell me where you are.”

  Pause.

  “No, not what you are wearing, this is not that type of call. Just where you are, please.”

  Pause.

  “You don’t say. So thank you and have nice day.” He flipped closed his cell and looked at me. “Pay phone,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Here. Philadelphia. Thirtieth Street Station.”

  My eyes lit up. “Miles Cave is still in town.”

  “So it appears.”

  “Then we can find him.”

  “Yes,” said Gregor. “The hunt is on. This will almost be enjoyable, though not as enjoyable as squeezing his head until his eyes pop out like avocado pits.”

  “What about me?” I said.

  “Believe me, Victor. If you have my money, I will enjoy squeezing out your eyes twice as much. Cruelty is always richer when the victim is someone you know.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” I said. “What I mean is that if I find the bastard for you, what do I get?”

  “I told you already. The information about Wren wanting to have you killed, it disappears. That was my promise, and I intend to keep it.”

  “I don’t really care anymore. The way things are going, your tepid piece of information is the least of my worries. If I find Miles, I’d be better off turning him over to the government. The D.A. would have a suspect, the trustee of Wren’s business would get his one point seven mil, and I’d be off the hook whatever you do.”

  “I sense a scheme rising. What are you proposing, Victor?”

  “I want a piece of the pie,” I said.

  “Of whatever I recover?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Of my own money?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I was thinking the bank.”

  “It is impossible.”

  “It is only fair.”

  “It is not fair, it is robbery. But if what you want is your normal fee, paid on an hourly basis, then—”

  “I wasn’t thinking of an hourly fee. This is a collection case, pure and simple, and lawyers in collection cases usually get a third.”

  “Because they are greedy bastards.”

  “That’s my club.”

  “A dangerous club to belong to.”

  “But prosperous.”

  “As long as you live. But I might be able to see myself clear to giving you five percent.”

  “Now you are insulting me.”

  “That is absolutely my intention. And just so I am clear, you are ugly as well as greedy.”

  “Give me a quarter and we’ll call it a deal.”

  “Ten percent.”

  “Not enough.”

  “Twelve point five, then, and that is my final offer. Only if you find him first, and only from what I actually recover from the bastard.”

  “Forget it. I’d rather snooze at the shore.”

  “I could have Sandro kill you, painfully.”

  I heard the sound of a switchblade opening in the front seat. Swish-click.

  “Twelve point five it is,” I said cheerfully.

  “So we are agreed. Good.”

  The car pulled up to an intersection and stopped. “Is this all right, Mr. Trocek?” said Sandro.

  “Perfect,” said Gregor. “Good hunting, Victor.”

  I opened the door and started to slide out when he grabbed the lapel of my jacket.

  “My patience is not limitless,” said Gregor Trocek. “I have pressing business back in Iberia. Her name is Aitana, and she is a vision of youth. But for how long, no one knows. So know this, Victor. In exchange for your percentage, I am taking back promise of speedy delivery. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  “For sin’s sake, Victor, let’s both hope you do better than that.”

  I slid out of the car, slammed the door behind me, watched as the Jaguar slid away down the street, did the calculation even as the car slipped from my view. Twelve point five percent of one point seven mil. Something over two hundred thousand dollars. Enough for my own Jaguar after all. Sweet.

  And I knew exactly where to start looking.

  When the car finally disappeared, I scanned the location where I was dropped off. It was the same intersection where Sandro had picked me up. The bank where I had been shanghaied was across the street. I turned around, and there was Derek, still searching the sky as if seeking out those IRS cameras on the light poles.

  “Hey, Derek.”

  He stopped looking and turned his attention to me. “Took your sweet time, bo.”

  “Did you happen to notice, with your brilliant detecting skills, what happened to me across the street?”

  “Trouble with the ATM?”

  “Not exactly. You see, I was kidnapped at knifepoint, forced into a strange automobile, taken on a drive through the city, all the while being threatened with bodily harm from a Cadizian assassin and his blood-soaked switchblade.”

  “Word?”

  “Yes, Derek,” I said. “Word. And all the time you were standing here, across the street, you saw nothing.”

  “Not nothing. I think I spotted one of them cameras right up there.”

  “You’ve certainly got eagle eyes.”

  “So let’s get to it. You got my money?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said, “but first I have to catch a weasel.”

  26

  The offices of Swift & Son were on Pine Street, just west of Broad, occupying the ground floor of an old stone apartment building. The name of the firm was printed in ornate gold leaf on the wide plate-glass window. The gold leaf was in varying states of peel.

  “This a beat little outpost,” said Derek, standing beside me. I had come right over from the bank, and Derek, still waiting for his money, had followed.

  “I’ll just be a few minutes,” I said.

  “What should I do in the meantime, bo?”

  “Wait out here,” I said as I peered through the window. The outer office looked like it was straight out of a Hopper painting, bare and dusty, with a few old chairs scattered across the worn wooden floor. On a side table, a single magazine sat forlornly. Radiators were uncovered, the walls were a faded pale blue, a vintage ashtray stand was set beside one of the chairs.

  When I stepped through the wooden door, a little bell rang.

  “Can I help you?” said an older woman behind a counter so high that only the top half of the woman’s head appeared. From what I could gather, her hair had once been red.

  “I’m looking for Clarence Swift,” I said.

  “Which one, Clarence Swift the Elder or the Younger?”

  I thought about it for a second. “Clarence Swift the lawyer.”

  “That would be the Younger, which is good for you, sir, since Clarence Swift the Elder passed away five years ago.”

  “Lucky me.”

  Just then the little bell atop the door rang again. The woman and I turned our heads at the same moment. Derek.

  “You mind if I sit?” he said. “My dogs are barking.”

  “Just stay quiet, Derek,” I said. “I won’t be long.”

  Derek looked around, took a disapproving sniff, and then dropped into one of the chairs. He picked up the magazine on the side table, looked at it quizzically, then showed it to me. “Who’s that?” he said, pointing to the man on the cover with a shock of dark hair gelled perfectly in place.

  “Reagan,” I said.

  “Who?”

  I turned back to the woman, whose gaze remained on Derek. “Is Clarence Swift the Younger in?”

  “Mr. Swift is quite busy at the moment. Maybe I can help you? Is this about an overdue rent?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “A problem with a property?”

  “Not that either.”

  “You are l
ooking for insurance, then.”

  “No.”

  “Hey, lady,” said Derek. “You got anything more recent than 1987?”

  “No,” she said.

  “No Maxims or nothing?”

  “Maalox?”

  “What say?”

  “There’s a drugstore on the corner.” She turned her attention to me. “Are you sure you gentlemen are in the right place?”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Would you tell Mr. Swift that Victor Carl is here to see him?”

  There was a moment when the eyes peering above the counter appeared to fill with terror, as if I were the ghost of Clarence Swift the Elder come back to enact some terrible revenge, before they calmed again.

  “Just a moment, please, Mr. Carl,” she said, “and I’ll see if he is available.”

  The woman stood, eyed me warily as she straightened her print dress, and then made her way from behind the counter to the door leading to the back office. She was taller than I expected, big-boned and sharp-faced, long past fifty but with a rigidity to her posture that made her an altogether formidable presence. And somehow she seemed vaguely familiar, as if somewhere before I had seen the form from which she had been cast. She opened the door, eyed me again, closed it behind her.

  From inside the back office, I could make out a scene of riotous anxiety. The exact words were muffled by the heavy door, but there was a high-pitched shout, a loud reply in a lower pitch, the scraping of furniture, the banging shut of file drawers, more shouts in the two different keys.

  Derek raised an eyebrow. I shrugged.

  When the door finally opened, the secretary once again appeared, smoothing straight her dress, patting her hair.

  “Mr. Carl,” she said. “Mr. Swift will see you now.”

  She held the door open for me and stared me down as I passed on through. She kept the door open as she returned to her spot at the counter.

  “Victor, yes,” said Clarence Swift, waiting for me inside his office, standing before his desk, hands clasped, leaning forward, peering at me from beneath his brow. “Welcome to my humble workplace.”

  I looked around. “Not so humble,” I said, but I was lying. It was humble as hell.

  The walls were dark and scuffed, the blocky wooden furniture was ancient and rutted, the floor was distressed, not by a decorator but by time. There was a cluttered desk with a battered chair, there were dark wooden file cabinets, there was a tall slanted writing desk with a holder for a pot of ink and a worn stool before it. It was an office out of some 1940s movie, without even a hint of the modern or luxurious. No computer, no radio or television, an old manual typewriter and a phone that was bulky and black, with a rotary dial. I had the sense that except for a few silver picture frames on the windowsill, this was exactly the way the office had been set up by the elder Mr. Swift many decades before, and the son had seen no reason to change it.