Killer, Come Hither

by Louis Begley

  He stopped, transferred the blackjack into his left hand, and with his right drew a knife from under the jacket. Come here dead meat! he called. Now you finished.

  I have a better idea, I answered, grabbing the dart pistol. Listen carefully, Slobo! I want you to drop the blackjack and drop the knife. Then I need you to sit down on the sofa and talk to me. If you do that, I’ll give you a tourniquet for your arm. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you with a dart. It’s loaded with curare and will paralyze you. You won’t be able to move, but you will feel everything. In particular, you will feel it when I cut your ears, nose, and balls off and do a lot of the other fun stuff you and your friends did in Srebrenica.

  His answer, which I had been praying for, was to retreat slowly and carefully, to lurch to the left, and with the suddenness of an uncoiling spring seize Scott’s pistol.

  You dumb fuck, he said, transferring the pistol to his right hand. You leave gun where I can get? You drop that fucking toy, drop the knife, and get down on knees. Hands behind head.

  This was the moment to take the risk. As I charged him wordlessly, I heard the explosion and felt the impact of a hit just above my right eyebrow. That I should be grateful I didn’t lose an eye was something I knew at some deep level, but my vision and attention were riveted to Slobo. He was howling, holding his right arm reduced by the explosion to a stump from which gushed a stream of blood.

  Tough luck, Slobo! I cried. Now do as I say. Drop the knife, take off your jacket, and sit down. I’ll give you a tourniquet, and if you behave I’ll call 911 and get you help.

  He stared at me dumbly, slowly dropped the knife, and began to unbutton his jacket. Realizing in a flash what might be coming I reached for my .45, withdrew it from my waistband, and held it out of Slobo’s sight. My instinct had been right. From under his jacket, held in his left hand, appeared a Browning pistol.

  Now I kill you, dead meat! he yelled.

  At the same time, I fired. My aim was good. I shot the Browning out of his hand. With it went one or more of his fingers.

  Keeping him covered, I backed into the bathroom, grabbed a hand towel, and returning to the main room cut it into two strips.

  Do you want to put a tourniquet on that arm, I asked, or would you rather just bleed?

  Tourniquet, he answered through clenched teeth, tourniquet.

  I threw him the strip and told him how to wrap it just below the elbow and with his left hand, wounded but still usable, twist it until the worst of the bleeding stopped. He followed my instructions with great energy, I would almost say goodwill. When he had finished I told him to hold out the left hand. I bandaged it quickly. That done, I ordered him to sit down in one of the armchairs.

  The telephone rang at this point. It was Sasha. She’d heard twice, coming from the direction of my house, a noise that could be a firecracker—but this wasn’t a season for firecrackers—or a firearm. Was I all right? Should she call the police? I assured her that everything was under control. We’d talk in the morning.

  Oh good, she answered, forgive me for being a worrywart. You know I’ll never forgive myself for not doing something that night when Harry died.

  After I’d hung up, .45 in my right hand because I didn’t trust Slobo’s new docility, I turned on the voice recorder and said, Now you’re going to talk. I’ll record you. You don’t know it, but my uncle recorded you. That’s how I found out what you did to him.

  You get ambulance, he stammered.

  I will, I said, I will. But not before you’ve answered my questions. So be quick about it. Your name?

  Slobodan Milić.

  Did you kill Harry Dana in this house in January by forcing him to hang himself?

  The shithead? I kill him. He give me no trouble.

  And you tortured and killed his cat. Right?

  Fucking queer. Yeah I kill cat. I fuck cat too, but asshole too small.

  And Barbara Diamond. Did you push her under the subway train the next day?

  The fat pig? I push her.

  Who sent you to do it? Mr. Abner Brown?

  I don’t know any fucking Abner Brown.

  So who do you work for?

  Boss in my country. In Serbia.

  Who is he? What’s his name?

  I don’t tell. I tell you, they kill me. You kill me, they kill me, no difference. I don’t betray. You call ambulance now?

  And they’re the same people who sent you to kill me?

  Same people, he answered. The shithead hangs himself. The fat pig falls under a train. You die in fire. You call the ambulance now?

  Any minute now, I said. First tell me this: did you hear anything about who hired your people in Serbia?

  A rich guy. A rich guy in Texas. I don’t know name.

  And why did you come after me on the beach? Weeks ago, before you were hired to kill me?

  Because I hear the shithead is your uncle and you’re fucking marine officer. Fucking marines kill my kid brother in Bosnia. I hate marine guts. Like I call you in your fucking apartment.

  So why didn’t you kill me on the beach? First time or second time, you schmuck?

  First time I have no order to kill. Second time I have order. You die in accident. You get ambulance now?

  I switched off the voice recorder and said, Not yet, not now. You haven’t told me the whole truth about Abner Brown, and you haven’t told me for whom you work in Serbia. You haven’t kept your part of the bargain. But I’m willing to give you a drink or two.

  He wanted whiskey, no ice. I gave him a double shot and then another.

  I turned on the classical music station on the radio, and we sat there peacefully. He asked for another drink. I gave it to him and poured one for myself.

  I take off tourniquet, he said at some point. Arm change color.

  Good idea, I replied. Just make yourself comfortable.

  Meanwhile, I watched him carefully. When his face had lost all color and he began to slump, I called 911 and reported an armed attack on me at my house, which I had been able to repel. The assailant had lost considerable blood. The police dispatcher took down the information and said she’d be sending a cruiser and an ambulance.

  —

  One of the paramedics asked whether I realized my face was covered with blood. I said truthfully that I hadn’t. He washed off the wound and put a dressing on it, after which the paramedics left, removing Slobo on a stretcher. He was alive but unconscious. Meanwhile, the police poked around the studio in a desultory fashion. Having taken my statement, and verified that the .45 was registered to me, the police sergeant in charge observed that I was lucky to be alive, and asked that I leave the crime scene undisturbed in case the D.A. wanted to examine it. I assured him I would. As soon as the police left, I called Kerry. It was past midnight, and I could tell that she was wide-awake.

  It’s all right, I told her. Everything is just fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Can’t wait!

  Jack, she said, you’re holding everything back. What happened? Did Slobo appear?

  Yes, I answered, he made his swan song after what I’m sure has been a long and rich career. All kidding aside, he did pay me a visit. The paramedics and the police have been here as well. Slobo has left in an ambulance, and now they’re gone too. I guess they’re driving him to the hospital in Southampton, it being the nearest, but it really doesn’t matter. He won’t make it to there any more than to Riverhead or Stony Brook.

  After we’d said good night, and I’d told her for the tenth time that I loved her, I realized that I had been crowing. I had not managed to filter out of my voice my immense and shameless self-satisfaction.

  —

  Unless her sleep was preternaturally profound, Sasha had of course seen and heard the police and the ambulance arrive at my house in the night. I called her first thing next morning—earlier than I would have normally dared to—reassured her that I was perfectly all right, and asked if I might come over to have a cup of coffee and explain the strange goings-on. She sat at her kitc
hen table still as a statue as I told her the real story of Harry’s death, the torture of Plato, and Slobo’s visit the night before. After I’d finished, speaking in a tiny, strangled voice she offered me another cup of coffee and, as though the effort to speak had proved too much for her strength, began to cry. She cried noisily, without any effort to control herself, a lamentation the likes of which I had witnessed in Greece, one of which I would not have thought a proper Bostonian of her generation would have been capable. I didn’t try to tell her to stop. Instead, I pulled my chair to her side and put my arm around her shoulders and held her until slowly both her trembling and her tears stopped.

  She asked to be excused while she washed her face. When she returned I said, Sasha there is something I think we should do. I have Harry’s ashes in the house. Would you like to come with me later this morning and scatter them in the surf of Gibson Beach? I think Harry would have liked that. And there is another thing. Mary has Plato’s ashes. I’d like to call her and ask her to bring his ashes and join us. Cats don’t exactly like the ocean, but in this case…I think both Plato and Harry would approve.

  Yes, she said, they would both like that. Let’s do it. And afterward let’s all three have a stiff gin martini. Just the way Harry made them. And I’ll propose a toast to you, in honor of what you’ve done.

  XIV

  I took advantage of the interval between Slobo’s passing out and the arrival of the police to do some housekeeping. Morris went into the coat closet. I could see no useful purpose being served by a meeting between him and the forces of order. The dart pistol, the darts, and the antidote went into the cupboard in the dining room. On the deepest level, I was convinced that I had nothing to hide. Slobo had come to kill me. Acting in self-defense, I’d wounded him. If he died, that was his bad luck. Had I wrongfully withheld first aid? No I hadn’t. I’d given him a tourniquet for one arm and had bandaged the other. Had I acted illegally by not calling 911 sooner? I didn’t know whether there was a duty to rush to the telephone to get help for a hit man who’d just tried to murder you, but if there was such an obligation my failure to meet it was surely minor. My conversation with Slobo—interrogation, if someone wanted to be malicious—took minutes. If he died on the way to the hospital or in intensive care it would be because of the wound he’d suffered, the equivalent of an amputation. I’d seen men die on the battlefield of just such wounds. All too often, medics were unable to stop the bleeding or to provide an adequate transfusion. And was I guilty of some noxious-sounding crime, manslaughter or attempted manslaughter, because I’d put within Slobo’s reach the CIA’s marvelous trick handgun? I thought I could only congratulate myself on having asked Scott for it, and on having a friend able to provide such a piece of equipment. I’d spent enough time with Harry to have heard ad nauseam the old saw: the Law is an ass. I was willing to grant its truth, but even New York State law could not be asinine enough to imply a warranty of safety for a guy who comes to kill you. A promise that the gun he fires at you won’t blow up in his face!

  That these reflections were not off base was proved by the events of the days that followed. Slobo died in the ambulance before reaching Southampton. The police sergeant stopped by the next morning just as I was setting off for my run to say he had no further questions for me. Moses Cohen proved he was worth his salt as an all-around lawyer, able to deal with the problems of the living as well as with those of the dead. I called him Monday morning, right after Kerry left for her office, related the events of Saturday night, and asked what if anything I should do about the Suffolk County district attorney. He swung into action. It turned out that there was a lawyer in Riverhead who knew every plugged-in lawyer in the county. Moses sought his assistance regularly in connection with the zoning problems of his hedge-fund clients. Sure enough, the zoning lawyer had a partner who specialized in criminal law—principally keeping those same hedge-fund managers, their wives, and their kiddies out of jail when caught driving while under the influence, and preventing the revocation of their driver’s licenses. He ran over to the D.A.’s office and returned in no time with the good news that the case was closed. In fact, it had never been opened.

  So that was that. Later that morning, without telling Kerry or Scott that such was my plan lest they try to stop me, I called Abner Brown from my apartment, on my own landline. Marvels never cease. The honey-voiced assistant put me right through to him.

  Hello there, Brown, I said, I’m calling to offer my condolences. And I may be bringing news. I’m in fine shape. But your pal Slobo is good and dead. I’m sure you’ll miss him. For my part I can’t say I will. Have you got someone else lined up to try to kill me?

  The moment of silence on the other end of the line made me think that perhaps I was indeed telling him something he didn’t know.

  Then he spoke more slowly than usual. Listen, you dumb fuckhead. I’m going to ask you once again. What is it you want? How do I get you to go away and stay away?

  Short of having someone kill me? There is no way. But I’ll tell you what I want. I want you behind bars. And that’s a project on which I’m starting right now.

  With that I hung up.

  I made two more calls that morning. I’d spoken to Scott Sunday morning when I came back from my undisturbed beach run to tell him that I was alive and Slobo was dead, and we’d agreed to speak again on Monday to make arrangements about the contents of the safe-deposit box I’d opened. He checked his calendar. It was a busy week but he thought he could come to New York on Wednesday afternoon and leave for D.C. the next morning on the seven o’clock shuttle.

  Don’t think for a moment that I’m lacking in curiosity, he added. That will be also a good time for you to fill me in on the details of Slobo’s demise.

  I understood the need for discretion in our telephone conversations. He was speaking from his office, and his calls were doubtless recorded. He’d given me to understand that the same was true of his official BlackBerry as well as his personal landline in Alexandria and his personal iPhone.

  Next I telephoned Simon Lathrop and said I badly needed to see him.

  Lunch, he asked, or would you rather come to my office?

  The nature of what I want to discuss is such, I replied, that if at all possible I’d like to meet at my apartment. Can I induce you to come to lunch at Fifth Avenue? Jeanette will prepare something to make the trip uptown worthwhile.

  Jeanette! he exclaimed. So you’ve kept her on. In that case…Would late lunch, say at one-thirty, be possible?

  I told him that would be perfect.

  —

  Mr. Lathrop! Jeanette was overjoyed. I know just what he likes. The same thing he and Mr. Harry always enjoyed: smoked salmon, lamb chops with creamed spinach on the side, and cut-up fruit. Poor Mr. Harry! It was like a holiday for him when Mr. Lathrop came over for a meal.

  I can imagine, I said. And I think we should serve wine. I’ll find a good bottle.

  Simon, I said, when we sat down at the table, for a variety of reasons you’ll understand as I tell the story, I wasn’t able until now to be entirely open with you. I hope you’ll forgive me. It was unbelievable that Harry should have committed suicide, and it was unbelievable for the best reason. Harry didn’t take his own life. Abner Brown sent a killer who forced him to hang himself. This last weekend, he sent the same killer to murder me, only this time the plan backfired. I killed him instead. After lunch, I’ll let you see the chain of proof. There is more to this, and I’ll give you a fuller account in a moment. Finally, Harry in his suicide letter, which you haven’t seen but I will show you after lunch, directed me to where he had placed what seems to be a Rosetta stone or road map to Brown’s and Brown companies’ illegal activities. It’s not here now, I’ve placed it in a safe-deposit box at a bank. Quite frankly, while I think I can see this document’s purpose, I don’t pretend to understand it. The one person who would understand it perfectly—apart from Hobson and people working for him—is obviously Kerry. She knows the road map
exists but I haven’t given her an opportunity to study it. Now that Brown has made his unsuccessful move to kill me I think the time has come to go public with the road map—take it to the FBI or whoever is appropriate—and I hope you’ll advise me whether I’ll put Kerry in a real bind or worse by letting her at last review the document and asking for her help. Of course, my purpose is to bring Brown to justice. Not only for the murder and the attempted murder—and that part may be impossible—but for everything else. For the evil Harry wanted to stop, for the evil that brought about Brown’s having him murdered.

  Goodness, Simon said, that’s quite a lot to absorb. My initial reaction is to congratulate you on your instincts. That being said, let’s eat this delectable lunch and then over coffee let me hear and see everything else needed to enlighten me.

  That’s what we did. In the library, I went over the story omitting only Scott’s participation in furnishing the booby-trapped revolver, showed Simon Harry’s letter, and played the two recordings, the one from Harry’s iPhone and the one I had made of my interrogation of Slobo.

  After a long silence, Simon said, I feel sick. I think next time Abner shows up at a museum board meeting I’ll strangle the son of a bitch. Now let’s be serious. If this road map is the result of Harry’s knowledge, as Brown’s and his companies’ legal counsel will allege, of confidential client information he acquired as Brown’s lawyer, its revelation—to the FBI as you suggested, or to the U.S. attorney—has to be considered in the light of lawyers’ professional obligations.

  Kerry has spoken to me about that, I interjected. She said she had to be extremely careful not to disclose privileged information to me.

  Quite right, quite right, Simon continued, I’m glad she was on top of that. There is an argument available to Brown and his businesses that the stuff you think is Harry’s road map is privileged and cannot be disclosed without their permission, can’t be produced in court, and so forth. I’m not an expert on the Code of Conduct that applies to New York lawyers, but there are exceptions that allow a lawyer to go public, as you put it, when the client is committing a crime and the lawyer has tried unsuccessfully to stop him. I can’t believe that one or more of the exceptions doesn’t apply here, or that—assuming that what you have been telling me is generally accurate—Brown would be able to assert privilege.