by P. N. Elrod
Then with gratification he realized that under the dead white make-up she was Amanda Deacon, nèe Pangford. Now that was convenient. So where was Kyle? She didn’t seem to be dancing with anyone.
None of them did.
Time to gain a little altitude. Tarrant found stairs that took him to the upper level where a long balcony overlooked the pit. It was lined with tables, the patrons drinking, watching the dancers, or attempting to converse by means of shouting directly into one anothers’ ears. The lighting was a little better. He found a free space next to the rail and searched the shifting faces below. Amanda remained in place, her patience sometimes rewarded when the center spotlight picked her out. He wasn’t sure if she was on drugs or not, but decided it was safer to assume she’d indulged for the evening.
He didn’t spot Kyle on the floor. The place was big, with a whole second dance area and a deck outside for people to catch fresh air and talk. Tarrant was glad of his nap; this could take all night.
He made a casual cruise of the upper floor, his gaze not resting too long on any one person. He wanted to look like a someone trying to hook up with misplaced friends, not a man on the hunt.
Toward the back, seated at a table for two, was Kyle. Finally. Tarrant didn’t miss a step as he passed close on his way to the bar. They served Coke, not Pepsi, overfilled the squat plastic airline cup with ice, and wanted three dollars for it plus a tip.
God, I hate these joints.
At the table, Kyle faced an older, white-bearded man who was dramatically out-of-place in this determinedly funereal setting. He wore a red fedora hat, a well-fitted light brown suit with a shiny yellow brocade vest, polished wing-tips, and had a cane under one hand. His beard was carefully trimmed; reflections off his wire-rimmed glasses hid his eyes. Too classy to be a pimp, he looked like he’d been hired to lend quaint atmosphere to a place already flooded with it. He might have been part of the music business or a misplaced queen who’d wandered in from the Oak Lawn area by mistake.
Kyle spoke earnestly with him; his body language trying hard to show self-assurance and presenting exactly the opposite. He was nervous, possibly afraid, but attempting to put himself on an equal footing with the fancy-pants. The man in the fedora held to a calm face, a bored sovereign hearing yet another a plea for favor from a supplicant peasant. That was interesting, and considering all the junk Kyle had had stashed in the loft, highly suggestive. Whatever was going on was important. Maybe this was the seed-money source. Tarrant shifted his focus to the hat-man.
Was he confident enough to hide in plain sight, or a gaudy front for the real entrepreneur? Conspicuously posing was not a healthy way to run a drug business. It could be meant to impress the natives. It seemed to work on Kyle.
They took their time. The music noise made talking difficult and eavesdropping attempts impossible. Tarrant went back to interpreting body language.
The man had two guards, big and little. One for raw physical intimidation, the other for martial arts. They looked alert, and were smart enough not to hover too close. They noticed Tarrant. A couple of predators recognizing one of their own. He didn’t want to be mistaken for a cop or a rival supplier; he finished his watery Coke and moved on. No one followed.
Tarrant found the other dance area. He sat at a table with a view of the front door, but out of view of the upper gallery. He pulled out a pen and wrote lines on a cocktail napkin. They didn’t serve Guinness here, so he settled for an overpriced Shiner and sat back to wait.
About an hour later Kyle and Amanda walked past. He looked nervously smug; she looked half asleep and staggered against him every other step. Tarrant gave them a two-minute start, then rolled a twenty around his note and went up to one of the door bouncers.
“Hey, bud, you know that old guy who sits in the back by the upstairs balcony? The one with the red hat?”
The bouncer only shrugged. “I see ’em, I don’t know ’em.”
I just bet you don’t. Tarrant held up the bill and the note. “Do me a favor and see that he gets this. I got a fire to put out or I’d go myself.”
“Must be some fire.” But he took the money. He’d probably read the note, but there was nothing on it that would mean anything to him.
Tarrant escaped from the noise and smoke. Kyle and Amanda were well ahead of him, but walking slow. Amanda was in a giggling, playful mood, bumping her hip against Kyle and pretending to trip so he had to catch her. He visibly snarled, not in the mood. Tarrant went one block over to the next street, going at a brisk walk until he was way in the lead, then cutting back again.
His car was unscathed where he’d left it, but alone. Most of the fun seekers had had their fill and departed, freeing up parking spaces. He drove back toward the loft and found a spot close in. Before getting out, he slipped a semi-auto from its concealed bracket under the dash into one of his pockets, hoping he wouldn’t need it. He left the doors unlocked, but that was okay as he’d be within sight.
Going behind the loft building he went up metal stairs to a fire exit that served as the Deacon’s back door. He picked the lock and left the door ajar. Just in case.
Back on the street, Tarrant located an alcove between buildings and melded into its shadow. From here he commanded a view of the loft and the parking lot next to it.
Things were much quieter now. The bars would be closing soon, their patrons either going home or seeking an after-hours club to round off the night. Only one patrol car crept past. As soon as it was gone a tan SUV rolled up not thirty feet away and parked, dousing its lights. His mouth tightened when the smaller of the bodyguards emerged and went up to the loft, entering without trouble. He returned soon after, walking fast, limbs stiff with anger. It looked like Tarrant’s note, helpfully suggesting that Kyle Deacon’s inventory had gone missing, had been taken seriously.
What the fancy-pants boss’s reaction was remained a mystery, but Tarrant felt the satisfaction that comes from having made the right call. The larger guy came out next. Both bruisers stood ready by the loft building, waiting. Anyone within fifty yards could see they were loaded for bear; Tarrant was considerably closer. He swapped his ball cap out for a Balaclava from a cargo pocket and pulled it on. Running around Dallas looking like an urban ninja would get him arrested, but only if the cops saw him. Tarrant could trust the party in the SUV would be on the alert, telling him if he needed to duck.
Neither of the Deacons noticed the gathered company until it was too late. Big grabbed Kyle; Little grabbed Amanda. The men knew their job, making sure it was done with a minimum of noise and movement. It helped that their victims were too flatfooted with surprise to make a fuss. Kyle knew better than to try and Amanda was still stoned.
Both were dragged toward the vehicle, and the rear passenger window slid down. Tarrant got a glimpse of a red fedora. Kyle shook his head a lot, firmly denying whatever he heard from within. He gestured toward the loft, insistent.
This was the tricky part, waiting for what fedora would do next. Take both kids in the car and drive off or settle things here and now? Tarrant’s hand drifted toward his pistol.
The bruisers took the couple toward the loft. Tarrant faded from his shadow and sprinted across behind the building. He was up the fire escape and through back door while the unsteady foursome negotiated the stairs. Pulling on his surgeon’s gloves, he doused lights, scanning for a decent weapon. He lucked out, finding a nearly full bottle of vodka. It pleased him that it was a brand he hated.
Tarrant was in time to get behind the front door just as it swung inward for Little and Amanda. She was whining and cursing and crying all at once, demanding to know what was going on, trying to shake off Little’s grip.
Kyle was shoved in so hard he skidded and tripped. He didn’t have time to curse as he fell. Neither did Big once he was past the door. Tarrant smashed the heavy bottle in just the right spot on the temple.
The man may have been of a size, but damn few were tough enough to ignore that kind of greeting. He went sp
rawling with a grunt.
Before Little could react, Tarrant gave him a double punch in the back under the ribcage, one for each kidney. He also ceased to be an immediate problem.
Amanda was just beginning to realize there was another player in the game. She got a clout in the jaw, just enough to ring her bells but not so hard that Tarrant couldn’t use his hand. She dropped. He pulled a small bottle and a fist-sized wad of cotton from another pocket. In moments she was out completely, chloroformed into dreamland. She might be sick later, but better that than dead.
“Who the fuck are you?” Kyle demanded. He had a gun in hand and it wasn’t a Glock. Big’s coat tail had been yanked up, and if he’d kept a gun in the small of his back it wasn’t there now.
Tarrant went still, arms out away from his body. “I’m the guy who just saved your life.”
Kyle got to his feet. “What the fuck are you doing in my place?”
“Saving you from bad guys,” said Tarrant, leaving out the word “asshole.” He pointed to Big and Little. “They’re here to snuff you and your old lady.”
“What’d you do to her?”
There was no good reply to that. Tarrant’s gaze went to something behind Kyle. “Oh, shit!”
The kid was just dumb enough to fall for that one, and jerked his head in reaction. The wrong end of the gun ceased to point at Tarrant for half a second, which was all he needed. He slammed the bottle of chloroform at Kyle’s face, and dove forward, tackling him. They hit the floor with a solid whump, Kyle on the bottom with all the breath knocked out. Tarrant wrested the gun away and slapped the still wet wad of cotton against the man’s nose and mouth. He didn’t have much fight left and went limp, but Tarrant kept the pressure up until he felt dizzy from the fumes himself.
He got up, unsteady, and made for the kitchen sink, pulling the Balaklava clear of his mouth just in time. Caramel-colored spit gushed from him, followed by the dry heaves. He ran water and washed the stink from his gloved hands. The place reeked of chloroform. He staggered to the back door, yanked it wide, and gulped air, his head pounding.
No time for this.
Fancy-pants might get curious and come check on his troops.
And Doc will laugh himself silly if I get popped by an old man in a red fedora.
Can’t have that.
Tarrant went back for the girl, hoisted her over one shoulder and took her down the back stairs.
With her belted into his car’s passenger seat, he shifted to reverse and backed down the empty block, then cut a U-turn. He headed south until reaching I-30, then north on I-35 until he found a suitable cheap chain motel. There he checked in using his false ID and paying in cash. The night clerk noted down his car tag numbers anyway, but those were false as well.
Tarrant carried Amanda into their allotted room, easing her down on the bed. She looked better unconscious, and cleaning off the white makeup would have made her pretty, but that wasn’t in his job description. She’d been removed from the line of fire for the time being, and that’s what mattered. He took off her shoes, tucked her still-dressed under the covers, and adjusted the room’s heater to circulate in some fresh from outside.
He block-printed a note to her on motel paper.
Don’t go back to the loft. Cops are after you. If you want help, call.
He then wrote out a number for a disposable phone. He made sure she had cab fare, dropped the room key on the nightstand, and left.
Tarrant returned to Deep Ellum, but there was no sign of Kyle, the bruisers, or the SUV. The loft doors were wide open, the interior even more of a wreck than before, which he’d thought impossible. He departed, not touching anything.
He felt a little gut-sick on the long drive back to his condo, but it was only reaction to the lengthy adrenalin high and the chloroform. It was good to have cleared the job away in such short order, but Kyle had been of great help there; he’d done everything but paint a target on his chest.
For the luckless Kyle Tarrant had no pity. Some people were fish and others were sharks; that’s just the way it was in the big food chain. Bad luck when you’re born a minnow and don’t know it.
Every job was different, he had told Caitlin. Especially so for this one. For once he’d completed a hit and not had to pull the trigger himself. It made a nice change. They should all be so easy.
But that would take the fun out of the game.
Challenge versus achievement.
Tarrant knew what he liked best.
* * * * * * *
__________
SLAUGHTER
Author’s Note: Again, editor Martin H. Greenberg sold the collection THE REPENTANT to DAW and asked me to trib a story. And again, given the opportunity, I tweaked the original to present this expanded version of Gordy and Jack teaming up for fresh mayhem.
Chicago, 1937
“He calls himself Slaughter. None of the guys knows his real name,” said Gordy.
The self-named Slaughter had a booth to himself a few yards from where Gordy and I were seated in the dimly lighted nightclub. More than half in shadows, Slaughter had his back to a wall, but in Chicago that was just a healthy habit for certain guys. He’d popped up out of nowhere, and had apparently, without any fuss, taken over the running of one of the more active businesses under Gordy’s protective eye. Well, it had something to do with protection. I rarely asked for details about his work. If he wanted me to know something, he’d say.
“What’s the story?” I asked, pretending to sip coffee. It was only coffee, too; Prohibition being a not-so fond memory meant you could now order the best from Brazil without getting something routinely added in the cup. Coffee and booze were the same for me: undrinkable. Thrift and principle dictated I not waste booze. The bonus with plain coffee was that it still smelled good to me.
Gordy was slow to reply, being a man careful with words, never using many and often given to understatement. He frowned slightly over his drink, which was also free of alcohol. When on a business call he never had so much as a short beer. “Sent some boys here last night to collect the usual cut. They came back empty. None of ’em’s talking much, and it’s what they don’t say makes me think he’s like you.”
He had my full attention. Another vampire?
We’re a rare breed. It takes a deliberate conscious effort to pass the potential on to another person, and the effort doesn’t always work.
The buzz from a dozen conversations surrounding us faded to nothing as I studied Slaughter, trying to detect any sign of kinship. That would be impossible, not until I got close enough to discern the absence of a heartbeat or unless he chanced to walk in front of a mirror.
“Can’t tell from here,” I said, anticipating the question.
“Time for a word. I’ll lead, you watch him,” Gordy wore caution like his tailored suit, which was why he’d lasted so long in his ruthless line of work, and tonight I was his insurance. If Slaughter was like me, no ordinary human bodyguard would be enough.
We left our table; Gordy’s broad back blocked my view of a sizable portion of the club for a few moments. He was taller than me and a lot wider, all of it muscle. Through restless clouds of cigarette smoke people stared and some whispered recognition. No one noticed me, which was exactly how I preferred it.
Slaughter watched our approach. He was young, reasonably handsome, on the good side of his twenties, dark eyes, tight mouth, and pale skin, but lots of guys were like that. His suit was sharp, expensive, and so painfully new it looked like it was wearing him. I tried to pick up his heartbeat, but the general noise prevented anything so subtle.
“Slaughter,” said Gordy from his height. “You know who I am.” It was not a question. “We need to talk.”
Slaughter gave a half-smile to show he was amused, not intimidated. Wise men were respectful to Gordy; the rest tended to disappear. “Do we?”
“Find a place.”
More smile. Slaughter’s gaze flicked my way. He’d see a tall, lean man in a flashy double-
breasted dark suit and silk shirt, fedora pulled low: probably the boss’s pilot fish, errand-runner, bodyguard, or all three. No one important, easily dismissed. When his attention returned to Gordy, I could tell I’d conned another one. “Okay, come to the back.”
We threaded past the tables, drawing a share of attention from the dance music and couples drifting around the floor in front of the band. The ripples we made subsided along with the hubbub as Slaughter preceded us into the manager’s office behind the stage.
Gordy paused at the door. “Where’s Herm?” Until last week Herm Foster had been running things here.
“He left,” Slaughter answered with a straight face. “Greener pastures.”
We went in. The room had the usual office stuff, plus a long couch. A large-busted blonde girl was sprawled on it, fast asleep, one arm thrown across her eyes against the glaring overhead light. She wore a shiny red evening dress, cut low, and it looked like she’d been wearing it for at least three days without a break. Slaughter went over and tapped the back of his hand against her hip. She woke slow, pitifully hung over.
“Out,” he ordered. “Go clean up. Come back tomorrow.” Then he sat behind the desk, flopping back in the chair and putting his feet up, making it clear that she was of no further concern to him.
She blinked, her sunken eyes smudged and disoriented. It took her a moment to stand, and then she tottered like a drunk. I put a hand out to steady her. Her eyes blank, she stumbled, arms falling heavily over my shoulders, half-turning us around. She sighed, pressed the length of her body against mine, and tilted her head back, smiling. I sniffed and got a whiff of stale sleep-sodden breath. She wasn’t drunk.
