Columbus (8 page)

For the last two weeks, I made a show of stalking Saxon. I watched him out in the open, paced the perimeter of his office, followed him out to his favorite fishing spot in a red SUV. I was letting the sun reflect off me, hoping to reel in my catch.

The door to the restroom pushes open and the bearded man is coming through cautiously but not cautiously enough. I grab his head and the back of his pants and drive him head-first into the bathroom mirror, shattering it, cutting a red streak across his forehead. He’s a professional—up until two seconds ago a pretty goddamn
smug
professional—and he immediately tries to counter, wailing backward with his left elbow, but I move with the blow and use his own inertia against him, whipping him around for a second meeting with what’s left of the mirror.

He’s got heart, I’ll give him that. He drops like a rock, plunging to the linoleum floor as he tries to whip my feet out from under me but I sidestep his scissoring legs and stomp with everything I have on top of his kneecap until the bones crunch like gravel. He wails in pain, instinctively, and reaches into his sleeve for his knife but it’s not there. He looks puzzled for a moment until his eyes settle on my hand.

“You stupid fuck.” I am holding his knife in one hand and my pistol in the other.

“Let’s work something out, Columbus,” he says from the ground, his hands raised, his right leg snapped at an angle like a wishbone. He’s got a thick Irish accent that lends a strange softness to his words. His voice doesn’t match his face in the least.

“What part of me were you supposed to take back to your client?”

He measures me, trying to determine if he should lie. He also wants to keep me talking; as long as I’m talking, he’s alive. I would have tried the same thing.

“Your trigger finger.”

“Kill me first and then the finger?”

“Aye, cut it off while you’re alive, but yes, that’s it.”

He lowers one elbow to the ground, leaning back, breathing hard, blinking blood out of his eyes. It is seeping down the contours of his face and collecting in his beard so the whiskers turn a blacker shade, creating an odd aura around his face, like he’s getting younger before my eyes. His hand creeps toward his side like an inchworm, but I don’t shift my eyes to it.

“You the only one Saxon hired, or are there more?”

“Who’s Saxon?” The inchworm keeps inching.

“The guy who’s going to call all this off.”

“If you say so, brother.” Inching. Inching.

“I say so.”

And the worm reaches his belt, and in a blur the bearded man has a gun in his hand but my first silenced bullet takes off the top part of his hand, sending the gun skittering across the linoleum until it comes to a rest next to the toilet.

He looks at me with true shock in his eyes just a moment before my second bullet closes them forever.

CHAPTER SIX

THE SPOT ON THE SOQUE RIVER WHERE SAXON LIKES TO FISH IS PRIVATE, PART OF A FISHERMEN’S LODGE THAT HAS BEEN STANDING FOR GENERATIONS. SECURITY IS LAUGHABLE, RELIANT ON A FEW “NO TRESPASSING / PRIVATE PROPERTY” SIGNS AND TWO GUARDS WITH SNOWY HAIR AND BULGING BELLIES, AS THREATENING AS FIELD MICE.

I step out of a small copse and stand directly behind Saxon. He looks like he wandered out of an L.L.Bean catalogue, standing on the bank of the river, wearing navy waders and a plaid hunter’s shirt underneath a thick multi-pocketed vest. He is tying a spinner on his line, pulling the knot tight with his teeth as I approach.

“Catch anything?”

He gives me a once-over, like I’ve just befouled his sanctuary.

“No.”

Then he turns his back on me, as if I might disappear. When I don’t, he sighs dramatically before looking at me again.

“You staying at the lodge?”

“No.”

“Well, this is private property, buddy. And I like fishing alone.”

“I caught something this morning.”

“Good for you.”

“You might want to take a look at it.”

He waits, and I can see the thoughts warring behind his eyes: do I humor this asshole and maybe he’ll go away, or do I tell him to get the fuck out of here and possibly incite him? The first choice must win out. Resigned, he offers, “Okay. Show me your catch.”

I toss something at his chest and he fumbles his pole as he tries to get his hands on it. When he looks down at his palm, he realizes he is holding a man’s finger.

He drops it like it’s toxic and stammers, “What is this?”

“The trigger finger of one of your hired killers.”

Fear sweeps across his face and his cheeks burn as though they’ve been slapped.

“Call them off.”

“What?”

“The fence you’re currently using. Tell him to call off the contract.”

“I . . . I don’t. . . . ”

“Don’t insult me, Tommy. I’ve already gotten to Doriot in Belgium. I know you’re behind this.”

I can see terror in his eyes, true fright. This is not at all uncommon in clients who hire killers. More often than not, they are feckless men, men who like to give orders from a safe distance without ever entering the battlefield. They imagine they have courage—ordering the deaths of others through multiple chains of command—but that courage evaporates like boiled water as soon as they come face to face with a man who pulls the trigger. So much for being a hard man. Saxon is as hard as a minnow.

I lower my hands into my pockets conspicuously. His eyes widen as he imagines what I hold there.

“No checking out, no going to the lodge. Just walk out of here slowly, and I’ll follow you to my car. You arrange a meeting with the fence on the way. We go together and we end this. Nod if you understand.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.” He looks like he has something more he wants to add, but he’s afraid to open his mouth. I nod to him. “My lawyer is the one who arranges everything with the . . . um . . . other guys.”

“Fine. Your lawyer, then. Let’s move.”

The drive back is silent. Most men in his situation try to chat me up, to make themselves appear likable, misunderstood, human. But not Tommy Gun. No, he steers the wheel with a scowl on his face, like an unrepentant sinner forced to sit in a Sunday morning service. He’s afraid of me, yes, so he turns that fear to anger. The miles roll beneath the tires and he simmers, a pot of water about to boil over. If he’s waiting for me to say something, to break the silence, he’s misjudged me. Keeping men like him uncomfortable is a skill, and one I’ll admit I enjoy using.

His lawyer’s name is Colin Goldman and he lives in Buckhead, not far from the mall where the bearded man watched me on the escalator, smiling when he should have been shooting. Colin is a small man with a big house.

We stand in the grass of the back yard, a good distance from the rear porch. The lawyer is shivering, wearing a robe over a T-shirt and boxer shorts, his feet in slippers. I didn’t give him an opportunity to change after he answered the door.

“How many gunmen did you hire?”

Goldman coughs into his fist, nervous. He searches Saxon’s face. “I would advise you not to—”

“Tell him.”

“He could be a Fed.”

“He’s not a Fed. Look at his eyes. He’s a goddamn killer. Tell him.” Saxon’s confidence is back, now that he has someone smaller than him to lord over.

Goldman blows out a measured breath. “Ummm . . . just one.”

“Well, your one is dead. I shot him in the bathroom of a fishing store in Jackson Bridge.”

“Jackson Bridge?” The lawyer looks confused.

“He wanted to get in close, so I let him get in close. Then I shot him in the face.”

“I . . . I don’t understand.”

“I don’t give a shit. You hired one and you failed. You should’ve known better than to send a cut-up man after me. Now, I don’t give a fuck if you didn’t like the way I worked the Noel job. I finished it, and it’s done. You want payback, you poked the wrong animal.”

“Wait, what’re you talking about?”

It is my turn to feel uncomfortable. An uneasy feeling is starting to settle in my stomach. Square peg, round hole. Men in their positions usually look shamed, crestfallen, like they got caught in the act and are on their way to the guillotine. But these two are genuinely surprised, genuinely bewildered.

“You sent a man after me.”

Goldman stammers as he stamps his feet. “We . . . we only have one open job, I swear it. We’re taking out an SEC officer. In New York.”

Saxon speaks up. “We understand the Noel job was successful. Why would we—?”

In an instant, I have a pair of Glocks up in either hand and am pointing them point-blank at both of their foreheads. A well-positioned gun held in a steady hand makes a hell of a lie detector.

They draw back instinctively. “Ho! I swear it. Whoever you are, we have no beef with you. You have to believe us.”

I backhand the lawyer with the barrel of my pistol, so he goes down in a heap, and then I point both barrels at Saxon. The fear in his eyes is pellucid, tangible. He cringes, and there is anger in his voice.

“Goddammit, listen to me. I don’t know who you are or what you believe I did, but if you think I put a price on your head, you’ve never been more wrong. I know my targets, all of them. Y-you got this one wrong.” He breathes hard, like he just ran a marathon. “Noel is dead and that case is closed. No reprisals. You got this one wrong.”

Here comes that wave again, that bad-luck wave that has dogged me since Paris. Bad luck because this isn’t ending in Atlanta, not in the back yard of a little man’s big house in Buckhead. And certainly not ending in the bathroom of the Ramsey Bait and Tackle Shop off of Highway 197. Bad luck because where one killer fails, others will surely follow until I find out who has done the hiring. Bad luck because now I know Saxon and the bearded man were telling the truth.

The silver wagon has stopped, the handle has dropped, and I have a name but I don’t know it. It has to be in front of me, somewhere. But where, goddammit?

I know the Noel job triggered this. The heat that assignment brought led someone to Ryan, and Ryan led that someone to me. So it had to be a man who knew Ryan fenced for me on that job, and the only link in that chain is Doriot.

Replaying my conversation with the Belgian fence, I remember he was quick to go where I led him, to finger his client, Saxon. In retrospect, it was too easy. Someone had gotten to Doriot first, before me, which is why he got himself tossed in jail. He was just buying time, as much as possible, till this whole thing washed over. He’s going to regret having misled me.

The bearded man made a solid play initially, taking out Ryan to get to me. Even though he lost the war, he dealt me a crippling blow. Losing my fence, my middleman, is like missing a limb. I need information, someone to bang an idea off of, someone who can root around in the dirt for a bit and get back to me with a truffle.

The last time I saw a fence named Archibald Grant, he was in the process of hiring me to kill the Speaker of the House of Representatives. But Grant withheld some information at the time of the assignment, namely, that he was asked to hire three assassins instead of just me. My friend and fence Pooley died because of this omission, gunned down in my hotel room in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in the middle of my assignment. I would say Archibald owes me a pretty damn big chit.

Archibald served sixteen months in Lompoc on an aiding-and-abetting collar, but within eight hours of his release, he was back in the game, contacting his old associates, setting up new contracts. Boston must’ve been too hot for him; he relocated to Chicago, where he has had little difficulty pitching a new tent. It is just as well; I have too many memories floating around Boston.

When he steps out of his bathroom wearing only a towel and shuffles into his kitchen, I am sitting at his breakfast table.

“Fuck me!” Archibald jumps like he’s seen a ghost, then covers his heart with his hand, trying to calm himself. He takes a long look at me, recognition in his eyes. “Well, I’ll be goddamned. Columbus.”

“How you doing, Cotton?”

That takes him by surprise. He hasn’t heard his given name, Cotton, in a long time.

“You know that one, huh?”

“I know a lot of things.”

“You pop my bodyguards downstairs? The doorman too?” He makes the trigger-pulling gesture with his fingers when he says the word
pop
.

“Nah. They don’t even know I’m here.”

“Motherfucking Columbus. I heard you lit out of here after the Abe Mann blam-blam. Went to Europe or some shit. I would’ve put you to work, man, but . . . .” He reaches into his refrigerator and pulls out a jug of milk before moving over to the kitchen table to sit across from me, never finishing the sentence.

“Yeah? I’m splitting time.”

He takes a pull straight from the jug, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Well, I’m sure you were sore ’bout the way the business was the business. But I was only following orders. And I paid your new boy Ryan triple fee. That may not make it all the way square but it puts some shape on the edges, I would say.”

“I need some information.”

Archibald smiles. “That’s what I do.”

“That’s why I came to you. Someone put a hit on me.”

I let him absorb this. I can see his eyes widen a bit as he calculates the ever-shifting leverage between us.

“What’s Ryan thinking?”

“Ryan’s dead.”

“Shiiiiiit.” He lets this out low in his throat, like a growl. “So you want to know. . . . ”

“I want to know who put the paper on me.”

“Right. Right.” He rubs his chin theatrically, like he’s really stewing over the issue here, trying to figure out how he can help me. Archibald is the type who made gains all his life by convincing people he’s stupid.

Finally, he nods. “Well, this is gonna take me a few days.”

I stand. “Then I’ll see you in a few days.”

“You come to my office on Friday. I’ll shake the trees and see what falls.”

“Okay.”

“You want the address?”

“I’ll find you.”

I can feel his eyes on me as I exit the room.

I lie low until Friday. My mind keeps turning back to Risina, and that story I told her, the one about the boy in the silver wagon, the kid looking down at his dead father, the kid who didn’t know his name. When the walls start to close in on me I venture out from my hotel room to visit the Art Institute. I find myself standing in front of Magritte’s painting of a locomotive racing out of a fireplace, smoke billowing out of its smokestack as a clock on the mantle above it points to nine. I can feel that wave rising over me as I stare at it, transfixed. The juxtaposition of those disparate images hits close to home to a hired killer standing amongst tourists and students and art lovers in the quiet starkness of the museum.