Gannon had been cooperative. Hilton had called him up and told him he was wiring over six hundred thousand dollars from Prolea. When Gannon asked what for, Hilton had explained that five hundred of it was for forged oil trading contracts that Gannon needed to prepare and fax over. Fake contracts to cover his ass with Prolea. The other hundred was for Gannon. Initially, Gannon had protested. Then Hilton said he wasn’t sure he even needed the contracts, that he was coming into a lot of money, and just needed coverage for a week or so. Then Gannon had agreed. To an average person this would seem like a lot of money, but transfers of this size were standard in the oil trading business. Hilton simply had his secretary write up a wire transfer form, sign it and fax it. Within half an hour, the money was wired from Prolea to Gannon. Gannon had called his bank to tell them he would be coming in to make a large cash withdrawal. Hilton drove to the bank’s parking garage and Gannon handed over the money. Hilton opened the suitcase and glanced at the money but didn’t even count it. Gannon walked to his car with his hundred thousand. Then they both drove off in different directions.
Hilton took one more look around the apartment. He checked the closets, drawers and stacks of papers lying about. He had hoped to find more evidence of the Chequamegon field—maybe some additional reports or geological data in files—but there was nothing. The apartment was pretty sparse. Martin was still at that odd point in a divorce where you don’t want your apartment to look too nice or too comfortable. Yet you want the basic stuff like a bed, your favorite clothes and some living room furniture and a television, so if you do have somebody over you don’t look like you’re camping out. Nice picture of Liz with the kids—what a great piece of ass. Why dumb shit Martin was walking out on that he had no idea. There were a few books. A stack of magazines on the coffee table.
Hilton mentally walked through how he wanted to do this. Best to get Martin under control first, then scare the hell out of him. Might as well show him the money right away. First few seconds are important. Need to get him under control, show him who’s boss. Just as Hilton was getting things ordered in his head, he heard a car idle up very close to the door and park. Hilton jumped to his feet with the gun and got in position. Then he heard Martin turn the key and push open the door. Hilton put his back to the wall and held the .357 tightly in his right hand. With the silencer—actually a suppressor—the barrel was extra-long. As Martin stepped into the apartment, Hilton stepped up behind him, smashed him over the head with the gun, and pushed him with all of his strength up against the wall. He pushed the muzzle of the silencer up against Martin’s neck and told Martin not to move a muscle. Foggy from the blow to the head, Martin stood frozen to the wall while Hilton quickly took handcuffs from his belt and snapped first one and then the other of Martin’s hands behind his back.
“What the hell,” said Martin. He was stunned from the blow to the head.
With the handcuffs firmly in place, Hilton grabbed the chain of the cuffs and rapidly spun Martin into the living room, where he tripped over the armchair and went sprawling to the floor. Hilton was over him, kicking him repeatedly in the back and legs while Martin tried to roll away from him, his hands still cuffed firmly behind his back. Hilton was strong from hours of lifting weights and working out at the Houstonian. Martin was helpless. Finally, Hilton stopped beating Martin around the head and let Martin lie there, panting and groaning. Martin rolled from side to side on the carpet. The entire exercise had taken less than two minutes. Tucking the gun in his belt, Hilton reached down and grabbed Martin under the arms and lifted him up onto one of the hardback chairs at either end of the couch. He eased him down onto the chair, pulling his arms behind the back of the chair, still firmly handcuffed together. Then Hilton reached under the coffee table and evenly lifted the briefcase off the floor and placed it directly in front of Martin on the table. He opened it slowly and carefully, watching Martin’s eyes narrow as he realized the pile of cash before him.
“You’ve been a bad friend, Martin,” Hilton started in. “You came to me for help and I said I would help you, but now you are not including me in all of your fun.”
“What in the hell,” said Martin. “Handcuffs?” Martin twisted around in the chair.
“Yeah, handcuffs. Actually won them in a poker game about twenty years ago. Only used them a few times,” said Hilton.
“Hilton, what in God’s…” As Martin began to speak, Hilton took the flat of his hand and slapped Martin as hard as he could across the face, nearly knocking Martin over sideways with the chair. If it had been a fist, Martin would be missing a few teeth.
“Shut up and listen, you piece of shit. I’m the one doing the talking now.” Hilton hovered over him.
Martin closed his eyes and sat motionless. His entire body felt as if it were on fire.
Hilton pulled the gun from his conceal-carry holster on his belt and sat down on the edge of the couch. Martin had been around guns and looked it over. Probably a Colt, a big revolver with a silencer. One by one, Hilton began to remove each bullet from its chamber and set the bullets upright on the edge of the glass top coffee table. He continued to speak as he removed each bullet, examined it thoughtfully, and then placed it on the table.
“You’re a good man, Martin. In some ways I actually like you. There’s no doubt about that. But you haven’t been treating me very nice.” Hilton paused an especially long time looking at bullet number three before he set it on end. The chink of the metal on the glass was deafening in the silence.
Hilton continued. “I know all about the oil you’ve found up there in Wisconsin. I know all about that bullshit story you gave Larry before sending him up there. That bullshit about the diversification and timber and paper business. Very good. I liked that. How else to get a bunch of farmers to sign up to long term mineral leases on their land? Even Larry was a sucker for your story, and he’s been around awhile. Of course, for ten grand Larry would believe almost anything.”
By now Hilton had all six cartridges lined up in a row and he momentarily sat gazing at them. Then Hilton rose from the couch and walked past Martin into the kitchen. Martin grimaced as he went by, expecting a blow from behind, but Hilton just kept on walking to the sliding glass door and soon Martin heard the shades being drawn over the window. On the way back, Hilton opened the refrigerator. Martin heard the clinking of glass before seeing Hilton return and sit back down on the couch. The arrogant bastard had poured himself a drink.
“I’m going to make you an offer Martin, and you are going to take it.”
“I don’t want an…” Martin started to speak and Hilton hit him in the throat. Martin gasped for air.
“Just shut the fuck up,” said Hilton, still holding the drink in his hand. “So… I’m a businessman, and businessmen understand that sometimes it takes convincing for a customer to come around. So here it is. I’m going to buy you out of your deal in Chequamegon. Everything. Your files. Your seismic tapes. Your spreadsheets. You will forget you ever heard of the place. All of them. I’m sure that by now Larry has most of those leases signed, and I’m going to transfer those leases over to me. I’m going to pay you for this, too. More money that you’ve ever seen before. And I’m leaving the money right here for you. Five hundred thousand dollars in cash, tax free.” Hilton walked over and grabbed the suitcase. He placed it on the recliner in the corner of the living room and opened it. Inside there were neat bundles of cash.
“Not a bad payback for the time you’ve put in, huh? Of course you were doing this while Basin Oil was paying you, right? But I’m not going to tell anyone about this. I’m not going to tell your employer. You can keep your job and you’ll be half a million better off than you were a week ago. Tax free. Anita is the only one who knows that something is going on, but I can keep her quiet. By the way, you really need to talk to her about security at Basin Oil,” he snickered. “From the sounds of it, people can carry just about anything they want out of there.” Hilton laughed again at his own little jok
e and then paused to sip his drink.
Hilton sat back down on the sofa. “Now here’s the good part. You know, Martin, I’ve learned a lot over the last twenty-five years. One of the things I’ve learned is that human life is very fragile. A blowout occurs drilling an oil well and a couple of guys die. Life goes on. A steam cracker explodes at a refinery and takes a few people with it. A week later, nobody even remembers their names. Life is very fragile. People get down, get depressed, and blow their own brains out in the back yard. It’s sad, really.” Martin watched silently as Hilton took his index finger and counted down the row of the six bullets lined up on the table, selecting number three and dropping it into the handgun. Then Hilton spun the cylinder once and then again, put the barrel to his own head and pulled the trigger. The sharp click of the firing pin was followed by a laugh from Hilton.
“You’re fucking crazy,” said Martin. He had seen Russian roulette in the movies, but never, never in person.
“You’re not the first person to tell me that, Martin. Crazy, maybe, but my friend, life is fragile. Even for someone like you. Healthy, good looking, you’re been depressed because your wife’s thrown you out. You’re having troubles at work. You’re living alone.” Hilton spun the chamber again and then again; he quickly placed the barrel up to Martin’s forehead. Hilton pulled the trigger as Martin tried to twist away from the gun, gritting his teeth at the last instant before the hammer again slammed down on an empty chamber.
Hilton was standing directly in front of Martin, “A guy just decides it’s not worth it anymore and kills himself in his apartment. Other than his mother, nobody really gives a shit… His ex-wife doesn’t care, she gets the life insurance. So, you will take this money and get lost. I’m leaving this half million in cash and you go on your merry way. I get the oil. If you try and mess with me, then me or one of my associates comes back to visit you and you run the risk of looking like one of those sad suicide cases that you read about in the paper all the time. Or maybe next time somebody is waiting in the back of your car in the parking lot for you. Maybe they grab you as you’re leaving the grocery store. Or maybe somebody knocks you over the head when you’re going into work early in the morning before anyone else is around. Somebody brings you back here to your apartment and you die. Trust me, it will look like suicide.”
“You’re a fucking predator, you think…”
Hilton tapped the gun against the side of Martin’s head. “I thought I told you to shut up.” Martin groaned again. “You know you wouldn’t be the first person to call me names.”
Hilton settled back into his chair and sipped his drink while staring blankly at Martin. It must be twenty years ago since Larry had first told Hilton about the Russian roulette trick. You needed to make damn sure you got the dummy bullet into the chamber, but the best part of it was making someone believe you were not only crazy enough to kill them, you were crazy enough to kill yourself. Hilton had spent an hour in his office simply putting the gun to his head with the dummy bullet, spinning the cylinder and pulling the trigger, just to get comfortable doing it.
Hilton studied Martin, who was now sitting quietly. Larry had told Hilton that half of the guys would just breakdown at this point, blubbering like babies when you put the gun to their head and pulled the trigger. Martin was composed. His hair was certainly disheveled, and his clothes were torn. Hilton’s muscles rippled underneath his designer dress shirt. Martin was a tougher son of a bitch than Hilton had calculated. It was a good thing Hilton had the element of surprise and a gun with him to handle this guy. Martin’s face still showed the imprint of the hard slap across the face. The mark would be gone by morning. Hilton had tried to make sure he didn’t bruise the face. It might not be a problem to have him going to work with a black eye, but it wouldn’t make things any easier for Martin to explain either. Hilton finished his drink and looked Martin squarely in the eye. Expressionless, confident, Martin looked back at him, unblinking. The thought occurred to Hilton that Martin seemed too cool. Maybe Martin actually felt like he had nothing to lose. People were dangerous when they felt like they had nothing to lose.
Hilton continued. “Okay, so I am out of here. You get together all of your electronic files, all of your research. Get together everything you got on this Wisconsin deal and I will take it from here. It’s just business Martin, think of it as just doing business.”
Martin studied Hilton quietly before Hilton spoke again. “So now I’m going to quietly depart. I’ve thrown the keys to those handcuffs under your bed. It might take you awhile to get the keys and get those off, but you’ll figure it out. Thanks for having me over for a drink, Martin. Sorry I’ve got to run. And Martin, if you mention a word of this to anyone, I will know. I know everybody. You tell anyone about this and we will come for you. Take the money and go away.” Hilton picked up the briefcase packed with stacks of cash and dumped the cash onto the couch. He put the gun back in his holster and pulled his shirt over it. He also threw the scotch glass into the case. On the glass were the only fingerprints Hilton had left at the apartment. Hilton clicked shut each of the brass latches and turned the little combination lock to a new set of numbers. Patting Martin on the head as he walked by, he looked out the window, and then opened the door, holding a towel from the kitchen to avoid leaving any finger prints. He casually walked out, closing the door behind him. He walked left behind the K and J buildings and then took the tennis court path back to the visitor parking lot. He was taking the long way back to his car. There was no sense in someone seeing him both coming and going. Even though he had taken care to avoid parking directly under the streetlight in the parking lot, the white Mercedes stood out in the early evening darkness. Drawing the key from his slacks, he pointed it at the rearview mirror as he walked up, and the doors clicked dutifully open. There was a new guard now on the evening shift. Hilton looked away just as he passed the guard shack. It wasn’t even Christmas, but the bushes around the shack were covered in white, Chinese twinkling lights. Very nice. Even though Hilton needed to turn right to get to the restaurant, just for purposes of deception he turned left onto Memorial without stopping and barreled off toward downtown.
The guards were supposed to record the visitor license plate number both on time of entry and departure. The night guard only got the first few numbers of Hilton’s plate, but he looked down his long list of visitors for the day for the entry time. Nobody had logged the guy in so might as well blow him off. Other than Martin’s bruised and aching body there was no evidence that Hilton had ever been to Martin’s apartment at the Memorial Creole.
CHAPTER 40
He was a little early to the restaurant, but he took a seat at the bar and ordered two glasses of champagne. His dinner date would be along any minute. They always liked it when he ordered them a glass of champagne. Made him seem kind of sophisticated, too. It had been a long afternoon, but a good one. The wire transfer had been routine. Gannon had done a good job showing up with the money and would be no problem. As long as Prolea didn’t do some surprise audit, Hilton had until the end of the month to cover the dummy crude oil purchase contracts. It had been no problem getting into Martin’s apartment. That had gone pretty well too. Martin had seemed under control when he left, pretty cool for such a little shit. Wasn’t a little shit either, pretty big guy. Martin had just sat there. Probably just in shock, sitting there in shock that Hilton had even found out about the deal. Certainly, in shock that Hilton had somehow gotten into his house and put a gun to his head. Good thing Hilton got the jump on him. The gun thing had worked. Martin got the message. Martin also spent a lot of time staring at that five hundred thousand. That was a fair price. Hilton would be set for life if he pulled this deal off. Easily twenty or thirty million dollars just for brokering the deal. He wouldn’t be able to get any rights to the oil under the state forest, but by now Larry would have signed up all of the private landowner leases around the area. Once Larry got going on something like this, he’d work seven days a w
eek from eight in the morning until nine at night talking to the landowners, getting their confidence and getting them to sign up. One time Larry had told Hilton that Sunday was one of the best days to get people to sign. It was the only day that many people ever took time to think about their family or step away from their jobs and realize they were broke. If you worked in a few comments about “sharing it with the Lord,” even the woman would be telling the husband to sign. Larry always did pretty well putting the women at ease. Once in a while he would get a stubborn man and it’d take five times longer to get a signature. But Larry would get the signatures one way or another. Hilton was confident of that.
Hilton finished his first glass of champagne in a series of quick gulps and directed the bartender over for a refill. Even better if it looks like he’s waiting for his date to show up before he takes his first drink. He could’ve just had someone kill Martin, even forge the contracts, but this way was better. Killing Martin would bring investigators prying into Martin’s private affairs, his work. Hilton needed to get those contracts down here in Houston and get them signed over from Martin. What could Martin do later? He’d have no proof that someone had forced him to sign things over. Even if he wanted to report it to someone, how would he explain where he had gotten half a million dollars in cash? Martin could hide the money somewhere, but sooner or later he would start using it and half a million in cash is a lot of money to leave lying around. No, Martin would be just fine. He was onboard. Martin had just sat there looking at the money. It was a lot of money to a guy like Martin.
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