Dead on My Feet

by J. A. Konrath

  Unsurprisingly, it led to the deck. I stepped outside, staring over the railing at the brownish water of the Fox River. The smoke odor was replaced with something akin to sewage.

  Oldridge pretty much sucked all over.

  There was about a four meter drop from the railing to the water, and the opposite bank was about twenty meters away. If I had to jump overboard and swim for it, I could. But it would be stinky, and probably lead to some sort of nasty infection.

  I went back into the tobacco haze, adjusted my tie until I could feel the Windsor knot wrestle with my Adam’s apple, and then headed for the bar to mellow out this coke buzz.

  The bartender was in his thirties, tall and clean cut in a pressed tuxedo uniform, sporting the styled blond hair and chiseled good looks that made young ladies easy prey. His nametag said Chip, which amused me.

  I asked for a tequila martini, a double.

  “Tequila and dry vermouth?”

  I nodded.

  “Doesn’t sound very good.”

  “It’s not as bad as it tastes.”

  He professionally prepared it for me in under thirty seconds. I took a sip.

  Awful. Just how I liked it.

  I slapped a fifty on the table.

  Chip scooped it up. “I’ll be right back with your change.”

  “No change, Chip. I’m looking for Jimmy Mulrooni.”

  I watched his eyes. Unlike Fred the Super Security Sentry, Chip’s face betrayed recognition.

  “Uh, Mr. Mulrooni is unavailable at the moment, sir. If you’d like to leave him a message, I’ll be sure that he gets it.”

  I pulled the large bankroll out of my pocket and placed it on the bar for him to see.

  “Tell him I’ve got all this money and I’m itching to play poker, even though I’m really awful at the game and cursed with bad luck.”

  He considered it, nodded once, and then walked out from behind the bar and through a service door behind some slot machines. I put the money back in my pants and sipped my disgusting drink, planning my strategy. After a minute, no strategy came to mind, so I figured I’d just wing it.

  More fun that way.

  Chip did not return. But from the door he disappeared through came one of the largest guys I’d ever seen. I’d been in the presence of professional weightlifters before. This dude looked like he ate weightlifters as snacks. About my height, but his shoulders had to be almost twice as wide as mine. And his arms—

  No exaggeration, no hyperbole, the bulges in his sleeves were at least as big as bowling balls. Sixty-five centimeters around, minimum.

  He wore a blazer, or more accurately, three XL blazers sewn together. I could fit my whole body into one of his pant legs. My tiny thirty-two caliber Seecamp in my boot heel wouldn’t do shit to this man. If I shot him, the bullets would wet themselves and run away, crying.

  I kept my eyes on him as he approached, keeping my posture neutral. He was bald, and as he neared I noticed the stubble on his scalp, telling me baldness was a fashion choice rather than a disappointment thrust upon him. To round out his look was a doughy face, small, dark eyes, and a tattoo of a blue tear, on his left cheek.

  “You looking for Mr. Mulrooni?” he asked.

  His voice was as low as I would have guessed. Like he gargled testosterone every morning.

  “And who are you?”

  “I’m Bruiser.”

  I smiled, probably the only one in the casino doing so. “Seriously? Your parents named you Bruiser?”

  “You looking for Mr. Mulrooni?” he asked again.

  But I wasn’t done poking the bear yet. “So…” I said, giving him a slow once-over, “you work out?”

  He puffed out his chest, and I had a sudden fear his top shirt button would pop off and blow my brains out the back of my head.

  “You look sorta familiar,” Bruiser said.

  I hadn’t been expecting that. But I ran with it. “I get around.”

  “You related to a guy named Hugo?”

  Hugo.

  That caught me off-guard. I hadn’t thought about Hugo in years. That was on purpose. Having Hugo in my head wasn’t a good thing.

  I took a beat to contemplate a reply. Giving up personal information was even stupider than unnecessary chatting. But if I wanted to meet Mulrooni, I’d already muffed the low-key approach, and I wasn’t going to try and strong arm King Kong.

  So I tried something different. The truth.

  “Hugo is my brother,” I admitted.

  He glanced at my head. “You a skin?”

  I didn’t answer. Instead I said, “I heard Mulrooni’s got a game going on. I’d like in.”

  Bruiser paused. I could tell he was considering it. I pushed a little.

  “You do time with Hugo?” I asked.

  Slight nod. “A nickel. Statesville. Never mentioned no brother.”

  “You know Hugo. Private guy.”

  Another slight nod.

  “I’m Phineas. Call me Phin.”

  I offered my hand. He shook, putting on just enough pressure to let me know he could break it off if he wanted to.

  “I owe your brother a solid. He looked out for me.”

  Hugo had looked out for this beast? My brother had always been big, but how big had he gotten?

  I stayed silent. It’s an old trick. When you’re trying to convince someone to do something, state your piece and then clam up. Let them talk themselves into it.

  “I take you in there, you fuck around, makes me look bad.”

  “I hear you.”

  “Five hundred ante. You good for that?”

  “Sure.”

  By my calculations, I was good for about four hands.

  “You packing?”

  “No.”

  Bruiser clapped me on the shoulder, and if I hadn’t braced for it I would have been knocked over. “One more thing. You get out of line, I’m gonna pull your arms out of your sockets and stick them up your ass. You know what this tear means.”

  I nodded. A jailhouse blue tear tat meant he’d killed a guy.

  “Been thinking about getting another,” Bruiser said. “Don’t give me an excuse.”

  He released me, and I followed him through the super-secret door, down a carpeted, soft-lit hallway, to a set of double doors where a bodyguard stood. He wasn’t as big as Bruiser, but the guy looked like he knew his way around an ass-kicking.

  I expected a pat-down, but that was apparently too rude for Mr. Mulrooni’s guests. Instead I got the metal detector wand; a handheld black device shaped like a fraternity paddle.

  He waved it over me, and it whined at my pocket.

  “Car keys,” I said. I reached in, slow, and took them out, slow.

  The bodyguard continued to move down my body, and as he neared my boots the cocaine sweats kicked in. I’d told Bruiser I didn’t have a gun. If they found my Seecamp, it might annoy him. And I liked my arms attached, and didn’t like things up my ass.

  But the bodyguard missed my heel, and he put away his wand and opened the door for us.

  More smoke. Cigars. Seated around an octagonal poker table were five men. White guys, fifty and older, the kind who wore watch fobs because they’d already bought one of everything else. By experience, I knew that you couldn’t really spot criminals by appearance. What looked like a gang banger coming at you might just be a suburban kid late for a movie. That weird neighbor you’re sure is a serial killer actually has a doctorate in chemistry and falls on the front end of the autism spectrum. And that creep who gives off that child molester vibe—

  Well, he’s probably a child molester. You can tell with those assholes.

  You can also tell with mobsters. And the men at this table were mobbed up, right to their lapels. All had manicures. All wore ties worth more than my suit. And all had that look; the empty, expressionless look, that wouldn’t change whether they were doing business with you or peeling off your skin with pliers.

  I was a guppy who’d just swam into the pira
nha pool. Willingly, too.

  Thank you, cocaine bravado.

  The guy seated facing the door gave Bruiser a glance. He had to be Mulrooni.

  “A friend of a friend,” Bruiser told him. “Wanted to play a few hands.”

  “And you are?” He had a scratchy voice, like his saliva gave up.

  “Phineas Troutt. I heard you like to gamble, wanted to try my luck.”

  Mulrooni gave me a long stare, like a leech looking for the best place to bite.

  “You sure you wouldn’t be more suited to those video poker machines? They’re the latest thing. Good odds, high limits.”

  “I prefer people to machines.”

  “Our profits indicate you’re in the minority. No dealer salaries or benefits. No potential cheating. Digital is the way of the future.”

  I didn’t respond. Sometimes, rather than try to convince people of something, you had to let them talk themselves into it.

  After a few seconds of silence, Mulrooni said, “You are correct, Mr. Troutt. I do like to gamble. How did you hear about our little game?”

  “A friend of a friend.”

  “Does this friend of a friend… have a name?”

  I glanced at the other wiseguys. They were more interested in their cards than saying hello.

  “Marty Martowski,” I said, remembering the name McGlade mentioned.

  Mulrooni stuck out his lower lip and nodded. “Marty Martowski. Good ole Marty. Didn’t he just have a bypass? How’s he doing?”

  “Not listening to his doctor, and eating wrong.”

  “Sounds like Marty.”

  It sounded like everyone who ever had a heart problem. Didn’t need to be a fake psychic to make that predication. It was the same way horoscopes worked. Every horoscope was so universal that it could apply to damn near anybody, and that’s why people believed that shit. As long as I kept things vague, I could convince this pinhead that Marty Martowski and I were best friends.

  I shrugged and smiled. “Yeah, you know Marty.”

  “I used to,” Mulrooni said. “Marty Martowski died fourteen years ago.”

  Oh… hell.

  “Look,” I said, “I lied about that because I really want in on this game. I have the money. If it’s okay with you, I just want to play. I’d consider it a big favor.”

  More of my limited psychological knowledge. If you ask someone if it’s okay with them, they’re more inclined to do what you want. The same thing with asking for a favor. Asking for favors made people like you more than doing favors, for some bizarre reason.

  “If it’s okay with me?” Mulrooni asked.

  “Of course. You’re the man. Everyone knows that.”

  Mulrooni looked around, seeking some approval from his fellow Mafioso.

  “And you’d consider it a big favor if I allowed you to play?”

  “I would.”

  “Because you came here to play.”

  This wasn’t going how it was supposed to go.

  “I came here to play. And with your permission, I’d consider it a favor.”

  “A favor to a dead man.”

  I wasn’t sure if he called me that because he could spot the cancer, or because he was about to kill me. Either way, this was going from bad to worse. Maybe my lack of any sort of plan, and the fact that I was high off my ass, were contributing factors.

  I tried the silence routine. Hoping he’d talk himself into letting me play.

  The silence stretched on for so long, every pore on my body seemed to open up at once, dumping sweat.

  “Tell me something, Phineas Troutt, of 1995 Abbotsford Lane, Apartment 301…”

  Worse to much worse. He knew my old address.

  Mulrooni stuck his hand into his blazer pocket, and I braced myself. If he pulled a gun, I’d have no choice but to go at him, take my chances.

  But he didn’t take out a gun. It was a…

  Oh… hell. One of those new iPhones.

  “This is you, right?” Mulrooni asked, showing me the screen.

  It was my mugshot from earlier that day. Taken, digitally, by the Flutesburg PD.

  Better living through chemistry and technology?

  Not for me.

  “How much is that dot-head, skank, baby-killer paying you?”

  Okay. This could be a way out. He pays me off, lets me go, I never bother him again.

  “She promised me eight grand to stop the threats against her.”

  “And how did she find you?” Mulrooni snapped his fingers, making a face like he’d just had an a-ha moment. “Griffith. You the prick that Griffith hired?”

  I nodded.

  “You hurt two of my boys. Hurt them pretty good. Tony still got a limp.”

  “Tell him I’m sincerely sorry.” And I was.

  “You an addict, Phineas Troutt? You got that twinge look about you. What is it? Meth? Coke?”

  No point in lying anymore. “Coke.”

  Mulrooni laughed, gesturing to the peanut gallery. “Tough guy here. Wants to take me on, for a little nose candy.”

  I stole a glance at Bruiser. He stared back, disapprovingly. Even the hired help knew I sucked.

  “Who you working with?” Mulrooni asked.

  I thought about McGlade. Would giving him up help me, or hurt me? It’s not like Harry McGlade was my best buddy. We’d been through a pretty rough ordeal, but Harry seemed like the kind of guy who would run away when things got serious.

  I was about to say his name, and hesitated.

  Even though I was all out of virtues, I had a tiny shred of loyalty left. You don’t rat out your friends.

  “I’m alone,” I said.

  “So no one knows you’re here?”

  Oops. Played that one wrong. I looked around for exits—which should have been the first thing I’d done when I entered the room. But the only door I saw was the way I came in, and it was blocked by Bruiser.

  “The way I see it,” Mulrooni continued, “you’ve given me several options. First, you come work for me, help scare this bitch off.”

  I nodded. “I like that idea.”

  “But there’s a problem. If you get caught, you’d say I put you up to it.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “You’re willing to betray her. Which means you’d be willing to betray me.”

  Guy had a point.

  “You’ve dealt with cowards before,” I said, thinking fast. “Pay me to go away. You’ll never see me again.”

  Mulrooni spread out his hands, turning his palms up. “Perhaps. But that still leaves the problem of that camel jockey doctor.”

  I was pretty sure camel jockey was a slur against those of Middle Eastern decent, not Indian, but I kept that to myself.

  “A better idea,” Mulrooni went on—he was leading court and obviously enjoying himself, “is that I have Bruiser break your legs. That sends a message to the doctor. Works on her guilt. Maybe she won’t hire no one no more, and get the hell out of town like she’s told.”

  “You said it before. I could talk to the cops.”

  “Me and the cops, we’re like family. How do you think I got your mug shot so fast?”

  “The Feds, too? You want to deal with a RICO situation?”

  I wasn’t exactly sure what RICO was. Only that it allowed the FBI more authority to investigate organized crime.

  “You’re right. I don’t want to deal with that.”

  “Which brings us back to the first option,” I said. “You pay me off. And I won’t get caught. I’m pretty good at what I do.”

  “Yeah. Real good. You’re proving it right now.”

  “You caught me on a bad day,” I said.

  “This brings us to our final option.” He smiled. Not a fake smile, intended to scare me. But the genuine smile of someone who found something very amusing. “I kill you.”

  “I really like that first option,” I said truthfully.

  “I’m sure you do. But I like money. I like it a lot, Mr. Troutt. And I don�
�t want to give any of my money to some little pissant, coke-snorting coward, such as yourself. Bruiser, get rid of this lowlife.”

  I’d been on a runaway train, gaining speed, and it had just taken the death dive off the end of the bridge. Bruiser moved quick for a big man, and I wouldn’t have time to free the Seecamp in my heel before he grabbed me. So I spread my hands, backed away, and went for the Hail Mary pass.

  “I do have a partner,” I said, talking fast. “If he doesn’t get my signal in the next two minutes, he follows the plan.”

  Mulrooni motioned for Bruiser to halt. Bruiser did.

  “And what is this plan?” Mulrooni asked me.

  Shit, Phin. What’s the plan? “He’s on the boat now. If he doesn’t hear from me, he…” What the hell does he do? Come in with guns blazing? Call 911?

  “He starts a fire,” I said.

  Mulrooni shook his head. “We’re up on all of our fire codes, Mr. Troutt. There are sprinklers and alarms everywhere. How much damage could he cause? A few hundred bucks?”

  But I wasn’t thinking of fire damage. I was thinking about those electronic people counting gizmos.

  “What happens when those sprinklers and alarms go off? How many gamblers leave the boat? And for how long? Two hours? Three? Maybe the whole day? You’ve got this whole thing dialed in. I bet you can predict how much money you’re making, minute by minute. All depending on how many suckers are on board. So how much money are you willing to lose?”

  His smile dropped away. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Try me.”

  Mulrooni sat back, touching the tips of his fingers together and making a pyramid. “How you gonna signal this so-called partner?” He glanced at Bruiser. “He got a cell phone?”

  Bruiser shook his head.

  “We’re supposed to meet,” I said, “every ten minutes.”

  “It’s a casino, Mr. Troutt. We don’t want people to be aware of the time. Ain’t no clocks in here. And you don’t have a watch.”

  Shit. I had a watch. A nice watch. Some hooker took it.

  “Get rid of this scumbag,” Mulrooni ordered, jerking his thumb at the door.

  Bruiser grabbed my biceps, so hard I actually feared he’d snap my arm in half.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Troutt,” Mulrooni said. “It’s a shame we couldn’t play poker together. I would have enjoyed taking your money. If you don’t catch the subtlety there, it’s because you suck. You suck at game theory, you suck at lying, and you suck at life.”