The Man Who Heard Too Much

by Forrest, Richard;

  They rode to the fifteenth floor without a word. “Use your own key,” Althea said as they left the elevator and walked down the carpeted hall.

  Rutledge turned with a smile when they stepped inside. “Make us a drink.”

  “Make your own goddamn drink.”

  “I will. Your usual?”

  “Why not. You know, Senator, I ought to shoot you in the goddamn balls.”

  “I think you ought to hear me out first.” He mixed two vodka martinis and handed her one. “Please put that peashooter away.”

  “It’s large enough to kill you.”

  “In your own apartment?”

  “Maybe I don’t give a damn anymore.”

  He knew he had her. She was searching desperately for reasons to reestablish their relationship. If he could only find the correct button to press, the right lever to throw, this impasse could be turned around to his advantage.

  “I think you do care, Althea,” he said softly.

  “Look at me!” She ripped the bandage away from the side of her face to reveal the raw wounded flesh of her left cheek.

  He involuntarily took a step backward and felt the mask on his face slip for a moment. “You should have that tended to. The plastic boys in New …”

  “I did it for you.” The fingers of her free hand fluttered against the wound. “For you! And what do I get for it?”

  “When you’ve had reconstructive surgery, you’ll look as good as new, and after that a vacation in the Bahamas will restore you.”

  “You know, Rutledge, you put on the same act for me as you do for the stupid bastards who vote for you. I don’t know why I never saw that before.”

  “We spent most of our time together in bed.”

  “Not any more, Senator.” Again her hand fluttered against her mutilation.

  “Self-pity doesn’t become you, Althea. One of your finer points has always been your strength.”

  The phone rang and Althea picked it up with one hand while still keeping her small revolver trained on Rutledge. “Yes … who? Just a minute.” She handed him the receiver. “It’s for you.”

  Rutledge took the phone in irritation and snapped into the receiver. “Baxter. What is it?” He listened intently for a few moments. “All right … good … take them. How many men do you have available? Three …” He looked at Althea speculatively a moment. “Wait a minute,” he said into the phone and covered the receiver with his palm.

  “Fowler and the woman have been traced to a motel across the river. Want to go?”

  “When?”

  “Right away.”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine.” He uncovered the receiver. “I’m sending over someone who I want to be part of it. Wait until she arrives and then go at once. Understood?…” He hung up and turned to the redheaded woman with a smile.

  “They’re all yours.”

  Rutledge leaned back on the sofa and observed her over the rim of his cocktail glass. She bustled into the bathroom to replace the bandage on her face, and then quickly changed into jeans and a loose shirt. She would be out of the apartment in minutes.

  He would wait until she was gone, of course, and then he would make a return-call to the waiting men.

  They could take out three just as easily as two.

  Rutledge Baxter slowly finished his drink.

  Weasel hadn’t killed anyone before … at least he wasn’t positively certain he had.

  There had been that time five years ago in Riverside Park when they had rumbled against the Angels and he had fired his piece. One of the Angels had dropped with a bullet in his chest, but several other pieces had gone off. It could have been his shot, but there had been no way to prove it and he had never taken credit for the kill.

  The rusted Saturday Night Special he had fired that night was an ancient blunderbuss compared to the piece he now held in his lap. He fondled the cool metal of the .38 with the long silencer.

  Man Mountain drove Weasel in the plumbing van, while Althea and Two Spot were in a three-year-old green Chevy following close behind.

  He unscrewed the silencer in a nervous gesture.

  “Quit that,” Man Mountain said without turning his eyes from the road.

  “What?”

  “Playing with your goddamn piece. I’m afraid you’re going to shoot me in the gut.”

  “I know how to handle it.”

  “You better. The man don’t want no foul-ups.”

  “Who we working for?”

  “You got no idea?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then play it smart and don’t try and find out.”

  Weasel shrugged. “What the hell. As long as his money’s good. You sure there’s only two of them?”

  “That’s the word.” Man Mountain looked over at him a moment. “You want another coupla yards?”

  “Depends on what I got to do.”

  “There’s a third one he wants taken out. He gave me the word to take care of it and I’ll do it if I have to, but maybe you’d like the extra cream.”

  “Who’s the other one?”

  “The broad with Two Spot.”

  “The redhead in the Chevy?”

  “That’s her. She’s taking a one-way trip to Virginia.”

  “I never killed a woman before.”

  “Shit! You never killed no one before. It’s time you lost your cherry.”

  Weasel shrugged. “Why not? Don’t make no difference to me.” He replaced the revolver in its holster inside his jacket and looked out the window to stare into the right-hand rearview mirror on the outside of the van. The Chevy was following closely behind them, and the redheaded woman on the passenger side was clearly visible. What the hell, he thought. Why not? The combined money would give him enough for a secondhand Datsun 220Z. Jesus, would he make out with those wheels.

  “You sure now?” Man Mountain asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  They drove the rest of the way to the motel in silence.

  Martin let the Venetian blind slats fall back together. He had been staring out onto the nearly empty motel parking lot, not for any reason in particular, but from a vague sense of uneasiness.

  “Who are you expecting?” Sara asked.

  He shrugged. “We can’t wait here until next week on the hope that Sperry’s guys will talk to us. It will be too late.”

  “I’ve been considering the problem. We have to contact someone else.”

  “Who?”

  She sat tiredly on the bed. “I don’t know. Off hand, I can’t think of anyone else in Washington that has the contacts Sperry had. We have to find someone who can corroborate what we say; otherwise, with our past history, no one will believe us.”

  “Operation Barbados is due to commence tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.” Sara sat at the small desk and opened the single center drawer. Inside were half a dozen sheets of writing paper, a ballpoint pen, and some postcards. She picked up a sheet and began to make a list of U.S. senators. “Criteria,” she mused. “The guy we contact can’t think like Senator Baxter. It will have to be someone liberal, and yet someone with enough prestige to have some weight to throw around in governmental circles.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Martin flattened himself against the wall while Sara jerked in fright.

  “Who is it?” Martin called out.

  “Maid. I have fresh towels for you.”

  Martin looked at Sara and she nodded in acquiescence. “Okay,” he said. “Just a moment.” He unlatched the door.

  It swung open.

  Althea, holding a long-barreled pistol, burst into the room. She waved Martin to the far side of the room and lowered the angle of the pistol so that it pointed at his stomach.

  Althea paused for an instant. The man standing ten feet before her was frightened. He was the man who had shot her, the man who was responsible for her failure and humiliation. Their eyes met, she wanted him to know, and she savored this br
ief instant.

  Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  There were two thumping sounds in rapid succession. The wall, near Althea’s head, puckered as a bullet plowed into the plaster. The second shot caught her in the back below the shoulder and spun her in a half-circle. Her gun discharged harmlessly into the ceiling and flew from her hand as she fell awkwardly to the floor.

  Martin threw himself across the room and slammed the door shut as two more “thumps” sounded and shots tore through the wood and ricocheted off the unit’s rear wall.

  He scrambled for Althea’s gun that had slipped under the bed and he fired through the Venetian blinds without aiming.

  Althea groaned and scrambled crablike between the twin beds. “Those bastards … I’ve been set up.”

  Martin crawled toward her, shoved the beds apart, and pressed the pistol barrel against Althea’s forehead. “Who are you?”

  “Althea Remington. I work for Rutledge Baxter … don’t kill me. I can help you.”

  “Baxter sent you to kill us,” Sara said from the far side of the bed.

  “They’re after me too. There’re three of them out there.”

  “I have a weapon,” Martin said. “If they try and come through the door …”

  “They will. You don’t understand. They have automatic weapons in the van. You can’t fight a machine gun.”

  “We can call for help on the phone,” Sara said.

  “They know you won’t do that. That would bring the police. You have to get out of here. Is there a back way?”

  “The units back up against each other,” Sara replied. “There’s only a front entrance and window.”

  “If we ever get out of here, I’ll help you,” Althea said.

  Martin peered over the edge of the bed and aimed the pistol at the door. “You think they’ll come in here after us?” he asked.

  “I know they will,” Althea said. “With machine guns.”

  Man Mountain glared at Weasel. “You fuck-up. You nervous son of a bitch.”

  “You told me to waste the redhead.”

  “After she killed the others, shithead.” Man Mountain whipped the barrel of his pistol across Weasel’s face and dislodged two teeth. Weasel’s gun clattered to the macadam as he fell by the side of the van.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” the fallen man whined.

  “How do we get them out of there, mastermind?”

  “We … we go in after them.”

  “That’s exactly right, and you go in first.” He yanked Weasel to his feet. “In the van. We’ll have to get some heavy artillery.”

  Weasel scrambled almost happily toward the van’s double rear doors. “All right!”

  Man Mountain spun him around. “Yeah, all right. I’ve got a coupla Uzis in there, and we’re going to have to use them.”

  “So, what’s wrong?”

  “So, they’re going to make one hell of a noise. The motel people are going to call the cops, the army, and God only knows who else. We’re going to have to get the hell away from here—fast. And we’re going to have exactly two minutes from our first shot to get in there, waste them, and get the hell away from here.”

  “They got one pistol with a coupla shots left and we got machine guns.”

  “You got a machine gun, fucker. You’re going in through that door while we back you up. Come on, let’s get the artillery.” He shoved the younger man inside the van and sprawled him across the flooring.

  Two Spot, who had held a position alongside the Chevy, poked his head in the van doors. “What’s coming down?”

  “The kid here fired too soon. We’re going to have to go in after them.”

  “Oh, Christ!”

  “The kid goes in point.”

  Man Mountain ripped open a long metal toolbox and picked out the first Uzi. He shoved it into Weasel’s arms and picked up the second for himself.

  “I never shot one of these,” Weasel said.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” He grabbed the weapon back, shoved in a magazine and primed it for firing. He slammed it back at Weasel. “The safety is off. You point it and pull the trigger. Can you manage that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s go. Remember, we got two minutes from your first shot, so you better not waste any fucking time getting in that door and wasting them.”

  “They can hit me as I go in.”

  “Is that right? You should have thought of that before you snapped one off at the redhead.”

  They lined up three abreast five yards in front of the unit’s door. A gray-haired retired couple, sauntering down the walk toward their own room, saw the determined men with weapons and scuttled away toward the motel office.

  “Go!” Man Mountain commanded.

  The three Uzis broke into rapid fire. Man Mountain’s and Two Spot’s shattered the front window and stitched shells along the interior walls of the room.

  Weasel fired a long burst through the door and then ran forward, kicked at the shattered wood and knocked the door back inside the room. He stepped into the room and swung the machine pistol in a low wide arc that walked bullets from one side of the room to the other.

  The room was empty.

  “What the fuck?” Man Mountain said from the doorway.

  “Where the hell are they?” Weasel said.

  Two Spot ran forward and fired into the bathroom. The bullets whined in their ricochet off the tiles. “Not in here.”

  “They got to be here,” Weasel insisted.

  Man Mountain stepped into the closet and looked toward the ceiling. “There’s a goddamn trap in here. They’re on the roof. Come here, Weasel. Get up there.”

  Weasel took a step forward, peered up through the open trap in the ceiling of the closet and shook his head. “No way. I poke my head up there and they blow it off.”

  The barrel of Man Mountain’s Uzi pressed into the flesh of Weasel’s neck. “You stay down here and I blow it off.”

  “Oh, Mother of God,” Weasel said as Man Mountain boosted him upward toward the trap.

  “See anything?”

  “No. If they’re up here, I can’t see them.” Man Mountain stepped aside and let him fall to the floor.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Two Spot said as sirens sounded in the distance.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Althea had bitten her lip from the intensity of the pain when they pulled her through the trapdoor onto the roof. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were closed as her head rested against Martin’s shoulder.

  Without thinking, Sara drove toward the bridge that would take them into Washington. Her only concern was to gain access to the crowded metropolis where they could lose themselves in heavy traffic.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Althea asked weakly.

  “We ought to have left you for your friends,” Martin replied.

  “Or dump you in the Potomac,” Sara said without taking her eyes from the road.

  “I can help you.”

  “Your help is the last thing in the world we need,” Sara said.

  Althea groaned as the car hit a pothole. Her eyes flicked open. “I want you to stop him. You’re the only ones who can.”

  “Stop who?”

  “Rutledge … Senator Baxter.”

  Sara laughed. “We’ve been trying. God only knows, we’ve been trying.” She looked into the rearview mirror to glimpse the ashen face of the red-haired woman in the back seat. Sara smiled tightly. The irony of the situation hadn’t escaped her. They were helping the woman who had shot Martin, attacked them in Ray Heath’s house, and just minutes earlier was prepared to kill them both in the motel room. They should probably shove her out the door onto the sidewalk and let her bleed to death. Instead she asked, “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

  Althea gasped in pain as she tried to sit erect to look out the window. She shook her head as if to orient herself. “Three blocks straight ahead and then turn left.”
She fell back against Martin’s shoulder.

  “How’s her breathing?” Sara asked.

  “Not too good.”

  “I’ll hurry as fast as I can.”

  “Crowell,” Althea muttered. “You have to see Senator Crowell. He can help you now that Sperry’s dead.”

  “Did Baxter kill Sperry too?” Martin asked.

  “Yes. You must see Senator Crowell. I know him. I can phone and make an appointment.”

  “I don’t think you could phone your own grandmother in your condition,” Martin said.

  “Yes.” Althea sat upright and brushed away the trickle of blood on her face with the back of her hand. “Stop at a phone. I can do it.”

  Again Sara checked the other woman’s condition in the rearview mirror. She looked even paler than before, but they would have to chance it. There was an open pay phone on the next corner near a bus stop, and she swerved the vehicle to an illegal stop near it.

  They helped the wounded woman from the car. Althea held to the roof rim a moment as if willing strength to return to her limbs. She shook her head and lurched the few steps to the phone kiosk. The phone receiver trembled in her hand a moment and then was replaced in its cradle with a bang. She glared at them.

  “Who’s got a goddamn dime?”

  Sara searched her pockets, knowing that most of their money was in her handbag back at the motel. “Martin?”

  Martin’s pocket yielded six singles, two quarters, and a nickel. The quarters would do and she rushed them to Althea, who clutched the rim of the kiosk to hold herself erect.

  The trembling woman put a quarter in the slot and dialed the Senate Office Building. “Senator Crowell’s office, please.” There was strength and vibrancy in her voice, as if she had willed her last vestige of stamina into its resonance. “Is the senator in? Oh, good. This is Althea Remington. I worked for the senator some years ago. I’m sure he’ll remember me. It’s quite important … that’s right, Remington.”

  Sara saw lines of pain etched in Martin’s face. “Your arm hurt?”

  He nodded. “It was climbing out of the closet that did it.”

  “You know that we’re probably crazy as hell to let that woman arrange an appointment for us. She’s probably setting us up again.”