Blood and Bone (16 page)

Hannibal ran as hard as he could but a rough shoulder check shoved him into the shower stalls. He slipped on the tiles trying to get out, and a vicious right hook smashed his ribs hard enough to push him back into a steel control lever. It stabbed painfully into his back, and started a rush of cold water down on his shoulders.

The cold burst cleared the cobwebs from his mind as it cleared the sweaty locker room smell from his nostrils. He tasted blood and wondered if any teeth were loosened. Fire fighters rushed toward him, their footsteps echoing in the narrow shower area. He certainly couldn't beat them all. So he picked out the biggest one and swung a wide crescent kick to the side of his head. The boxer's head made a hollow sound against the wall when he fell, but then the crowd was too close to swing in. Two men managed
to gather Hannibal's arms behind him while another went to work on his face and body until his mind stopped accepting the pain messages and then his mind simply stopped.

After a long internal debate about the wisdom of taking any action at all, Hannibal finally opened his eyes a crack. Incoming light from an overhead fixture set off a series of explosions in his brain, building to a throbbing pain which threatened to burst his skull before easing down to a dull ache. Raising a hand, he found a small bandage over his right eye but no moistness from blood. His nose was intact and his jaw, while sore, worked normally. A deep breath brought him the pain of muscle soreness but not the sharp stab of a broken rib.

“They must have stopped soon after I passed out,” he mumbled to himself. Then, to check his brain function, he decided to go over the five W's. He knew who he was, a good sign. And he remembered what happened. A quick check of his watch told him when. It was still Thursday. He was only out for three hours. He could not know where he was beyond the fact that he was on top of the covers on a single bed with worn springs. As to why, he would have to investigate to find out. Then a familiar voice cut through his headache.

“Tell the boss Sleeping Beauty is awake.”

“I know that voice,” Hannibal said, pushing himself into a seated position. He was in an office of some sort, on a bed at the opposite end from the big oak desk. The man behind the desk stood up, revealing a sling supporting his right arm. The hand hanging from it bore the faint mark of an old, horseshoe-shaped tattoo. He stood a couple of inches taller than
Hannibal, and he was much wider. He wore an ill fitted, cheap brown suit.

“I know you,” Hannibal repeated, rubbing the back of his head. “You're Sloan Lerner, aren't you? You killed Paton. Then you stole my car when I tried to help you.”

“Sorry about that,” the big man said. “I kind of had to get away. The cops were after me. And I don't know no Paton.”

Hannibal looked more closely. The resemblance to his brother was there, but the mouse-like features were morphed by the shift in proportions usually associated with slow wittedness. His eyes were too close together, his brow too low. And in place of his brother's low cunning, a blank look covered his face. His movements and words were not childish, but rather childlike. A very real difference, it seemed to Hannibal.

He swung his feet to the bare wooden floor and was about to stand when the door opened. A short, round, well dressed man with an old world Jewish face and slicked back hair strolled in with an air of control. A huge, six-dollar cigar poked out of the right corner of his mouth. He was followed by three white men whose shoulders barely fit through the door. He stopped facing Hannibal, his three followers moving in so he was cloaked in their shadows. He drew on his cigar, took it out of his mouth, and blew a long tube of smoke before he spoke.

“Don't stand up,” the short man said in a low, smooth voice. “These guys get nervous.”

Hannibal put his hands behind his head and leaned back against the wall. He lifted his left ankle to his right knee. “Zack King, right?” he asked.

“That would be me. And you are in fact Hannibal Jones, yes?” Hannibal nodded. “You help people in trouble, get involved in other peoples' problems. Admirable. Don't always help the cops. Even more admirable.”

“Glad you approve,” Hannibal said, wrinkling his nose at the smoke. “Mind telling me why I'm here?”

“Slo's on the run. I put the word out I wanted to see anybody who came looking for him. Now your turn. Why are you looking for him?”

“Handful of reasons,” Hannibal said. “For one, he banged my head and stole my car. Can't let people go around doing things like that in my business.”

Zack looked around at Slo Lerner and puffed on his cigar again. “Yeah, he told me about that. He might not have gotten away if you hadn't come along. He damage the car much?”

“Insurance will cover that,” Hannibal said, “except for the deductible of course.” The mundane nature of the conversation disturbed him a little.

“Good. Now, tell me about this murder thing. You put that story in the street?”

“Your boy was running from the crime scene,” Hannibal said. “Apparently he shot Ike Paton in the head.”

Slo moved over to Zack, his face twisted in confusion. “I don't know no Ike Paton, Mister King.”

“You know him as Patrick Louis,” Hannibal told Zack. “He used to work for you. Look, I don't care much about that. The guy was a low-life. Much like yourself. I just want to know why you had him killed. Did it have to do with something he did years ago? Did he kill Jake Mortimer?”

Zack was staring at Slo sternly, as a teacher who caught her star pupil cheating might. For all his bulk,
Slo was cowed by the icy stare. Zack finally removed his cigar again and pointed with it. He spoke slowly and quietly.

“You kill Pat Louis, Slo?”

“I swear, Zack,” Slo said, pleading with his good hand. “I went to get the money, just like you said. He must have thought that lawyer's house was a good hiding place. He was sure surprised to see me again, I'll tell you. And he must have thought I was after him or something because he just went crazy. He threatened me and, I don't know, I guess it turned into a fight. I don't mind a good fight. But when he started losing, he pulled a knife on me. After he cut me, I clocked him. I clocked him good, knocked him out. But I didn't hit him hard enough to kill him.”

“He was shot in the head,” Hannibal said, putting both feet on the floor and watching Slo squirm.

“Shut up,” Zack told Hannibal.

“I didn't shoot nobody,” Slo told Zack. Then he actually started to pout. “I didn't shoot nobody,” he said again.

Slo wandered back to the desk and sat down. The room was very quiet for a minute. Then Zack released a bored sigh and shoved a pudgy hand into his pocket. His hand came out wrapped around a roll of hundred dollar bills. He talked to the bills as he flipped them upright, one at a time.

“Okay. One, two, three, four, five. That ought to cover the deductible for the damaged Volvo. Two hundred for the lumps you got from Slo. Couple more for the little punch up at the gym. And let's say one more to keep quiet and get off my back. See, I believe Slo. He's never lied to me before, and I don't think he could anyway. So you and me, we're square, right?”

Hannibal slowly leaned forward so his elbows rested on his thighs and dropped his chin onto his fists. He was not sure what was most offensive. Being handled so casually? His bruises and lumps being reduced to money? Or Zack thinking his silence could be bought so cheaply. It was degrading to be brushed aside this way. He felt the anger beginning to boil in his belly again. He must learn to control that. Perspective, he told himself. Aloud, all he said was, “I thought you knew me. You found out some, but you missed some important points.”

Zack had a big laugh, and it bubbled up from deep inside him like tar from the LaBrea Pits. “What, like you can't be bought? Face it, little man, everybody has a price. Only difference is, when you get to be where I am, you set the price.” Grinning arrogantly, Zack flipped the stack of bills into Hannibal's face.

Hannibal did not move until all the bills had fluttered to the floor. Then he dropped his hands to his legs and turned his face slowly downward and to one side. Perspective, he told himself. There was that anger again, like a knot pulled tight in his stomach. He must learn to control that. Someday.

He uncoiled like a steel spring, his right fist flying upward to smash into Zack's jaw with all the strength of his arm, stomach, back, legs and heart. The impact was loud as a shot in the small room. Zack lifted off the floor, flew backward a few feet, and crashed down on his desk. And like the Dallas Cowboys' front line, Zack's three followers guaranteed Hannibal would not gain one more inch.

First sound…an alarm clock near his right ear. First smell…antiseptic. Alcohol? Probably. First taste…blood, probably old. First sight…Cindy's beautiful face in profile, aglow in a soft wash of dawn sunshine. First thought…sure would love a hot cup of coffee right now.

A nurse stood beside his bed, fussing with an intravenous drip bag. The alarm he heard was not a clock, but the electronic monitoring device on the IV pole which buzzes when a bag runs empty. He followed the path of the colorless liquid down into the crook of his own right elbow. Probably saline or glucose, maybe with a painkiller and a mild sedative. The best patients are those who stay asleep.

The scratchy sheets meant a public hospital. A private room meant they knew who he was and somebody had sent money. He was Hannibal Jones and a trio of sadists had beaten him rather badly because he got stupid and made a statement by knocking their mobster boss across the room in a fit of anger. He must learn to control that. The when and where he would have to investigate. Cindy sat in a chair six feet away, against the far wall. She faced the door, which was not far beyond his feet. She wore jeans and the green sweatshirt she brought back from
her vacation in Barcelona. Her makeup was almost gone. Her hair and clothes looked like she spent the night in that chair. He lifted his head from the flat spongy pillow and tried to whistle to her. That was how he found out about his split lip.

“Hannibal!” Cindy sprang from her chair and threw an arm around him. She smelled of jasmine and honey and her soft, pliant flesh pressed into his chest made him want to do things he probably was not up to.

“Okay, I'm healed,” he said. “Let's go home.” He hoped his words were not as slurred as they sounded to him.

“Not until a lot of paperwork's done,” she said, carefully kissing his forehead. “God, you had me worried this time.”

“You too, huh?” Hannibal smiled as best he could. “Look, Babe, I'm a little fuzzy on the chain of events here. How long have I been here, and just where is here, anyway?”

Cindy stood back and put on her stern mother face. “Here is the hospital, where people go when they do very risky things without any backup. The Jersey Shore Medical Center, to be exact, in the sleepy little town of Neptune, New Jersey. Which, by the way, is a good sixty-five miles farther up the coast than you told me you'd be. It's where you've been lying since late last evening. God, they could have killed you.”

“But they didn't,” Hannibal said. “I hurt everywhere I can think of, which probably means these guys were very good and very careful. Any real injuries?”

“Your doctor says no,” she said. “A lot of bruises and lumps, you're black and blue from head to toe, but no broken bones and no damaged organs. Said he's seen it before. Says they must have worked on
you for quite a while, and what you needed most was rest. They patched what they could and kept you asleep. Hannibal, I was here for hours, waiting while they did x-rays, ultrasounds, even an MRI.”

“Whoa. Who authorized all that?”

She put her hand on his forearm and stared seriously into his eyes. “Now listen closely, all right? I got a phone call last night. All the guy said was you were here and the bill is paid, including every reasonable test. Then he said something really funny. He said, no hard feelings. Hannibal, when they brought you in here, they found a thousand dollars in one of your tennis shoes. I don't know all of what went on, but I think this time you ought to take the hint. Whoever you were messing with, back off.”

Cindy's lecture trailed off into a plea at the end. And this time, he considered, she may be right. This beating was Zack King's way of saying back off. But if he was guilty of anything serious, Hannibal would have simply disappeared. So Zack was also telling Hannibal he was on the wrong trail. Was Zack concerned about Hannibal's condition being traced to him? It would explain why they took him so far away. No, the long ride was probably Zack's way of saying get out of town and stay out.

Still, he was more certain than ever that things were not as they appeared. And while he rolled in a drug induced stupor, his mind had been pushing the parts of the Angela puzzle around. They would not fit together, but the pattern he saw said they would fit into the Paton/Louis puzzle. He was about to sit up when the door eased open.

“So, he's alive I see.” Ray's face revealed genuine concern his voice tried to cover up. “I leave for a minute to grab a little breakfast and he recovers.”

“You here too?” Hannibal asked, lifting his head. The pain came in a burst, then faded back.

“You okay, Paco?” Ray asked, moving in until he stood beside his daughter. “You still don't look too good.”

“You were worried, eh?”

“About you?” Ray asked, with a wave of his palm. “Hell, no. You harder to kill than crabgrass, man. But Cynthia wanted to get up here right away and it was easiest just to drive her on up, you know?”

“Yeah, Ray,” Hannibal said, grasping his friend's hand. “I do know. Now, it's time I checked myself out of this place.” Using Ray's hand for balance, he pulled himself up and swung his feet around toward the floor. His green hospital gown almost choked him, until he shifted so he was not sitting on it.