Dead Anyway (11 page)

My knowledge of the psychology of professional killers was limited at best, though I knew something about professionals in general, which was half the battle. Pragmatism tends to rule, upsides and downsides clinically weighed and decisions usually, though not always, driven by rational selfinterest. I trusted Fred to decide there was nothing to lose, and everything to gain in playing this one exactly as I wanted it played.

“Okay,” he said, using my pen to circle The Jack Hammer. “That ain’t him. I seen him. I never seen the other two, so it could be one of them.”

“Can you tell me where they live?” I asked.

He thought about that.

“Last I heard, Pally was back doing security at Clear Waters in Connecticut.”

“What’s his real name?”

Fred shook his head.

“I want to say Chipmunk, but that can’t be it. Chalupnik. That’s it. I don’t know what nationality that is. Bulgarian or some shit.”

“First name?”

“Pally? Other than that, no fuckin’ idea.”

“What about Ott?”

He looked even more strained to recall.

“Definitely New England. The biggest of the independents. Even the wise guys are afraid of him. Originally outta Boston, though I don’t think he’s there anymore. He’s kicked a couple jobs to me over the years. Subcontracts. Doesn’t get his hands dirty. Polite guy. Very calm. Everything went down according to plan, so no beef from me.”

“So no guesses,” I said.

He pondered some more.

“Both jobs were up in Connecticut. So maybe he’s there. But you said guesses, and that’s all I got.”

“Do you have a way to get in touch with him?” I asked.

He scoffed.

“No way. He gets in touch with you.”

He sat back in the booth, put both hands in his lap and studiously ignored the
Time
magazine filled with money. I slid it closer.

“Thanks for that,” I said.

“I ain’t guaranteeing I got it all right.”

“We’re okay,” I said.

“Unless I lied.”

“Unless you lied.”

“Or I coulda just made a mistake. And you’d think I’m lyin’.” He lifted the tip of some sort of firearm up above the surface of the table, then put it back down again. “Which is why I’m gonna put a slug into your belly right now and be done with it,” he said, glancing down to where he had both hands under the table.

“Noise,” I said. “And eyewitnesses all over the place.”

“Worth the risk. They’re all a bunch of rummies. And this piece is quieter than a wet fart.”

I was a little disappointed that I hadn’t foreseen this possibility, given the nature of my booth companion, though I felt no self-recrimination. I was in a daily contest between precision and expedience, trying to attend to every detail, while pushing, pushing forward. All with a mind I still didn’t entirely trust.

“Yet you hesitate,” I said, “revealing your intent and wasting the valuable element of surprise. You’re not a hundred percent sure this is a good idea.”

In fact, he looked entirely sure it was a good idea, and was more likely driven by curiosity than fear.

“I don’t like being threatened.”

“Neither do I,” I said.

“This ain’t a threat, it’s a sure thing.” His face hardened and I could sense the gun moving under the table.

“Here’s the thing,” I said. “You know nothing about me, but I know a great deal about you. I know where you live, what you do during the day, the names of your friends and all your family and where they live. You’re not the only professional I’ve spoken to. I’ve arranged things so if I’m killed, you and the people closest to you will be dead within a week.” I sat back in the booth and used my open hands to point at the middle of my chest. “So go ahead. In the end, the world will be a better place.”

A look of calculation on his face took the place of conviction. His eyes stayed fixed on mine, but the stiffness went out of his posture.

“Who the fuck are you, anyway?” he asked.

That was a good question.

“Not sure, to tell you the truth. The concept of identity has become an abstraction. I’m not sure I still have what you’d call a conventional mental state. And my behavior seems propelled more by veiled compulsions than conscious deliberation.”

“Whatever the fuck that means.”

“You asked,” I said, and got up and left by way of the kitchen and out the back door, ignoring the chubby guys in greasy aprons who called out to me, and headed to where I’d left my car.

In another minute I was absorbed back into that twilight realm of barren hope, discontinuity and pain, observed as much as felt.

C
HAPTER
9

W
hen I got back to my little house, I booted up my computer and saw a note from Evelyn to MrPbody. It was a simple message: “Call me.”

“How are you feeling,” she asked when I reached her disposable.

“Hard to tell.”

“How’s the spatial acuity?”

“Still the same, but I’m getting used to it. Tiredness continues to be a problem. Have you heard from Maddox?”

“Nothing,” she said. “But that’s not why I called. You remember we were doing a valuation of the agency. Mr. Brandt had his auditors in all week.”

“How’s it going?”

“Great. They’ve been very complimentary of Florencia’s management. Bruce says they’ll be aggressive about getting a letter of intent on the table, but obviously not until they’ve done a thorough audit.”

When it came to our respective professional pursuits, Florencia and I had a nearly perfect arrangement. I’d regale her with tales of my projects and occasional field exploits. She told me almost nothing about her work life. She said the last thing she wanted was to drag herself again through all the daily trials and tribulations. She loved the work, she’d say, but only because it never became an obsession. My work, on the other hand, was a delightful diversion for her, described with such narrative brio, that it became her favorite form of entertainment. So, for better or worse, this was the pattern we settled into. I did all the talking, she did all the listening.

“What kind of an offer?” I asked.

“Generous, I’m thinking. Brandt wants the place for his kid, he’s got deep pockets and they’re liking what they see. A decision could be on top of us very soon.”

“I can’t concentrate on this right now,” I said. “I’ve got other things to deal with.”

“That’s why you needed to know.”

“What happens next?”

“They finish up with due diligence. It’s a process. Bruce tried to explain it to me, but I don’t really understand. Financial stuff is seriously over my head.”

“All you do is cut into people’s chests and perform quadruple bypass surgery. Couldn’t expect you to have the brains to balance a checkbook.”

“Speaking of which, I think I sold the house.”

”Really. How’d that happen?”

“I lowered the price to fifteen hundred bucks. The offers flooded in. I got it back up to two thousand. Just kidding. I did a little haggling, but the buyers are basic Wall Street yuppies, and seemed willing to settle on eight-fifty.”

“That’s fine. Just keep the proceeds liquid,” I said. “Things are complicated out here.”

“If only I knew what ‘here’ meant.”

“No. You really don’t.”

I
EXHAUSTED
the rest of the night trying to connect the name Chalupnik with anyone at Clear Waters Resort and Casino, a stunningly huge gambling and entertainment venue in the southeast corner of the state. I did capture the addresses of three Chalupniks who lived nearby, a bigger number than you’d think with such an odd name. I assumed relatives.

It was late when I finally gave up the chase, my eyes tearing to where I could no longer read the computer screen, and the limbs on my weak side nearly frozen with cramps and numbness. I brushed my teeth and lay down on top of the bed, breathing hard and gazing bleary-eyed at the ceiling. I remembered myself as a vivacious person, driven along by a jazz combo of curiosity, natural vigor and good cheer. While I’d lost large pieces of my essential nature, a version of that energy had been reincarnated as a malignant force, taking the place of the demolished joie de vivre. It was more than life had lost its meaning. The very idea of meaning, in the affirmative sense, was a forgotten concept.

Though still active, I was prone to moments of depletion so absolute I wondered if I could ever rise again. Even the relentless pain in my thigh seemed like such a weary thing it barely deserved notice. Amputees experience the cruelest form of torture—pain emanating from an arm or leg that isn’t even there. For me it wasn’t a phantom limb, but the destroyed elements of my self that was the greater agony. Indefinable, beyond language, yet tangible, solid enough to grasp, to clutch to my chest.

So when sleep came it was not so much a solace as a suspension of time, a bridge from the gloom of night to the eternal darkness that enveloped my soul.

C
LEAR
W
ATERS
Casino rose out of the forest like the other-worldly phantasm it was meant to be. It was located on its owner’s Native American reservation. The isolation from urban centers only added to the imaginary feel of the place, at once startling and seductive.

My disguise for the day was my current appearance, which looked nothing like I once did. Pale skin stretched over a shaved head, my luxurious moustache another distant memory. A pair of heavy-framed glasses. Haphazard eating and continual exertion had ground down my body, converting once fleshy folds into hard angles on which clothes looked more draped than worn. I could mostly forswear the cane, though I brought it that day, aware that the sheer scale of the casino would mean long walks often over hard surfaces.

The purpose of the trip was pure reconnoiter. I had no plans or expectations. I didn’t even know if it was necessary, but the massive fact of the place compelled me to at least take a look. I was careful, though, to look around without appearing to look around. This was a place where nothing went unnoticed, by either living or electronic eyes. It was part of the deal, so to speak, and everyone knew it.

So I played the slots and a few hands of blackjack, bought a baseball hat and then lunch at a piano bar, tipping the piano player despite the effrontery of a Barry Manilow medley. The bartender worked for the owners of the franchise who’d leased the space, but once had a stint as a croupier at the roulette tables.

“Sounds romantic,” he said of his former job. “Like everybody’s in ball gowns and tuxedos speaking French. Actually, it’s people no better’n me and you get tired of watching that little goddamned ball.”

“Good place to work, though, eh?” I asked. “I’m thinking of applying.”

He agreed there.

“Oh, yeah. They take good care of their people. What do you want to do?”

“Security,” I said. “I was an MP in the Army. Computer jockey. Never left the little dark room, but somebody’s got to do it.”

“So, what, injured?” he asked, glancing down at my legs.

“Something like that,” I said, slightly ashamed to imply I’d been in combat. “Who should I talk to about applying? Any ideas?”

He took a tattered book out from under the bar and leafed around until he found the right page. Then he wrote a name on a cocktail napkin: “Ron Irving, AVP, Human Resources/Security.”

“Good guy,” said the bartender. “I’d tell you to say hello for me, but he doesn’t know me from shit. I’m not as famous as I should be.”

“A common complaint,” I said.

A
s
I moved through the wide corridors and out into the open spaces filled with sparkling, cacophonous machines, I scanned the faces of every man in uniform who passed by. Since anyone could be in security, I also scanned men in cheap casual wear, like Fred Tootsie’s, men in plain suits, workout gear and polo shirts. When I realized I was studying everyone, I stopped for fear of attracting attention.

I wandered into a big area filled with blackjack tables. I picked one run by an attractive young Asian woman. There were already two guys there, but she folded me in seamlessly.

“How many points does a king get?” I asked. The other two guys looked at me like I’d just tracked fresh manure over to the table.

“Ten,” said the dealer, in clear, accent-free English. “As many as a queen or a jack.”

Then I won my first hand. My popularity among my table mates adjusted downward. Blackjack had been a good game for me growing up, since counting cards was something I did naturally, until my father pointed out that the skill could get my legs broken if practiced in the wrong venue. This should have no longer been an issue, given that I could now barely count my fingers and toes, though I still seemed to sense the flow of the cards. I followed that flow for the next hour, until I found myself up about $400.

The other two guys drifted away without comment.

“Beginner’s luck,” I said to the dealer.

“When did you begin?” she asked. “As a child?”

“I used to be good,” I admitted. “I didn’t know I still was.”

“You want to go a few more rounds? I think the house can afford it.”

I said sure and the two of us started to play.

“I have a few old friends who work here,” I said, in the midst of innocuous small talk. “I was thinking of tracking them down.”

“You know what they do?” she asked.

“One’s in security. Don’t know about the other one. You don’t happen to have, like, an employee directory or something?”

I lost the next five hands, then I flipped over a five of clubs and laid it on a six of hearts and ten of spades.

“There’s nothing published,” she said, “though the guys on the help desk know everything. You should ask one of them.”

I played well enough through the next hour to get the feeling I could play to near perfection for the rest of the night, which would have been a bad idea. So I lost a few to help curb the temptation.

The dealer didn’t buy it.

“You’re counting cards,” she said, in a very low voice. I also noticed she was smiling.

“No, I’m not,” I said back, as quietly. “Not intentionally. It’s just happening. Must be some sort of weird calculation taking place on the subconscious level. I used to have a mathematical mind, but I was injured, and I thought I’d lost it all.”