Kill Fee (8 page)

And on top of all that, he also had to convince his clients that his bill did not mark the beginning of a lifetime of blackmail payments.
Fee for services rendered,
that's what his mailed statements said and that's what he intended to collect. One payment, period. He was no blackmailer. This, too, was a risk; Pluto feared there were people in the world who just might take their own lives rather than face a lifetime of being bled dry by a stranger. It hadn't happened yet, but it was a possibility that haunted him.

This last time, for instance—he'd thought the possibility had come true. He'd made a serious mistake: he'd overestimated the
Summit
editor's strength. He may have overestimated his bankroll as well—but that was Walsh's problem. The fee was fixed, one hundred thousand. But Walsh had gone to pieces over the phone, the first time they'd talked. The editor was feeling guilty over profiting from Sussman's death, he was feeling guilty over not calling the police when he'd received Pluto's bill, he was afraid for his own life, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to raise the money, he was afraid he would be hit for payment again and again. A messy mixture of self-blame and self-interest.

Pluto didn't quite know what to make of it. Over the phone he'd said, "You may call me Pluto. I recently sent you a bill—"

And Walsh had burst into tears.

Now what do you do with a man like that? At age fifty-
four,
a person is just about as grown up as he's ever going to be—yet Walsh had blubbered like a baby. Pluto was exasperated. It was a simple
business
arrangement; all this emotionalism was out of place.

When Walsh finally recovered to the point where he could talk intelligibly, he'd actually asked for some sort of E-Z Payment Plan, Reasonable Rates. One payment, Pluto had said firmly; he wanted as little contact with his clients as possible. How Walsh raised the money was his business; and Pluto kept drumming away that after that payment, Walsh would never hear from him again.
One
payment.

He always allowed his clients a reasonable amount of time to raise the money; in Walsh's case, he suspected, it would take a little longer than usual. But Pluto could be patient when it served his interests to be so. Leon Walsh was adequately terrified; there was no need to push him. He'd get the money.

But what if he couldn't get it all? Pluto mused idly over what he himself would do in such a case; it had never happened before. Would he just take what he could get and forget the rest? Or would he break his long-standing rule and agree to accept payments over a period of time? The answer to that one was
No.
He could kill Walsh—as punishment. But there was no profit in that; it wouldn't even serve as an object lesson, since no one else knew about their arrangement. Pluto found himself halfway hoping Walsh would not be able to raise the whole amount—just so he could find out what he
would
do when the time came.

But all that was for later. In the meantime, it was business as usual. Pluto didn't intend to sit on his hands waiting for Walsh to pay his bill. He was going to need money
himself
soon, a lot of money. Besides, the War of the Tenors was reaching epic proportions; even people who never listened to opera knew of the enmity between Luigi Bàccolo and John Herman. The time was ripe to cash in on the rivalry.

There remained the difficulty of dealing with Bàccolo afterward. Bàccolo's temperament was legendary, deliberately exaggerated (originally for publicity purposes, no doubt) until it had become an integral part of the man's personality. The singer was theatrical, flamboyant, a regular cliché of an Italian tenor. All of life was to him one
grande passione
after another. Would he be able to keep quiet about what had happened?

It'd probably be safer to remove Bàccolo and collect from Herman. But that presented problems too: Herman didn't have as much money as Bàccolo, and the younger man might balk at paying anyway. The older Bàccolo wasn't that great a threat to the upcoming Herman; all the Canadian had to do was wait, and age and an eventually overworked voice would take care of his rival for him. He didn't need a man with a gun.

Bàccolo, on the other hand, could very well profit from Pluto's services. The very things that were helping John Herman were working against the
primo tenore
—time, primarily. Herman could outwait Bàccolo, but Bàccolo was already losing ground. Pluto never met his clients face to face, so there was no danger the garrulous tenor would identify him. And as to any story Bàccolo told about some unknown gunman who murdered on spec—might that not be taken as simply one more example of the theatrical self-aggrandizement now more or less expected of the tenor? The danger seemed less the more Pluto thought about it, until he at last did make his decision: he would go with Bàccolo.

Yes,
that was best. Bàccolo would be the client, Herman the target. Pluto opened a cabinet drawer and studied its contents. He'd used the .45 on Jerry Sussman; let's see . . . the .357 Magnum this time, he thought. Pluto never used a gun once and dropped it at the scene, as so many other practitioners of his profession did. For one thing, that would look like a contract killing; and Pluto didn't care to encourage the police's thinking along those lines. For another, there was no way for him to acquire a new weapon without personal contact of some kind. So he kept his small arsenal in tip-top condition, replenishing it only when absolutely necessary.

Bàccolo versus Herman—Pluto was satisfied with his decision. If you wanted to be a success in this business, you had to know how to choose the right side in a quarrel. He would help Bàccolo.

Besides, John Herman's top notes did get a bit reedy at times.

At first Leila Hudson had wondered why her former husband had brought her to Luchow's; Leon knew she hated noisy restaurants. But then it occurred to her he was acting like those chickenprick husbands who take their wives to public places to ask for a divorce. To avoid scenes, noisy recriminations, embarrassing outcries of pain. Leon was
protecting himself
against her even while he was trying to get something out of her.

"Let me make sure I've got this straight," she said. "You want me to lend you twenty-five thousand dollars—but I'm not to ask you what it's for? Did I get that right?"

He looked miserable. "That's about it. It's damned unreasonable, Leila, I know that. But I just can't help it. I have to have the money and I can't tell you why."

Now what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into?
she
thought. "Can't you raise money on your
Summit
shares?"

"I've already done that," Walsh said tightly. "I need twenty-five thousand more."

More.
"That must be one hell of a spot you're in," she said. "Leon, are you being blackmailed?"

"No, not really, I—"

"Not really?!
What kind of answer is that—
not really?
Are you being blackmailed or not?"

"Not. It's . . . it's money I owe, that's all I can tell you. For God's sake, Leila, don't make it any harder than it is."

She recognized the pitch for sympathy and ignored it. "Twenty-five thousand isn't all that much. You should be able to get it on your signature alone. Take out a dozen small bank loans, two thousand apiece or whatever."

"I've already gone that route as far as I can go. I had to raise money to buy Sussman's
Summit
shares, enough to give me a majority. And then this other thing came along on top of it, this thing I can't tell you about. I'm tapped out. If I can't get a personal loan, I. . . ." He trailed off, his eyes seeing something inside his head, something hidden to Leila.

"Finish it, Leon," she said, curious. "What happens if you don't get a personal loan?"

"Then I die."

Leila stared at him in disbelief. She was outraged; what kind of fool did he take her for? She was prevented from saying anything by the appearance of the waiter, who gathered up dishes and asked if everything was all right and refused to leave until he got an answer.

When at last he'd gone, Leila said to Walsh, "So you're going to kick it if I don't come up with twenty-five thousand dollars for you, is that it? That makes me re
sponsible
for whether you live or die—cute, Leon, real cute." She paused. "You've always been quick to dump guilt on other people, but I swear to God this one takes the cake!"

"Leila, I'm not making it up, it's true! My life depends on my getting the money before next Wednesday. That's as long as I've got."

"Somebody has threatened your life. Is that what you're saying?"

"Well, yes, that's what it comes down to."

"And of course you've gone to the police."

"No! The police mustn't know anything about this! I've already told you more than I should—promise me you'll say nothing to the police."

"I'll promise you no such thing," Leila said hotly. "How do I know what you're involving me in? Leon, what have you
done?"

"I, have, done, nothing." He gave her his best sincere look. "I have broken no laws, and I'm not being blackmailed. It's just that I'm in this . . . situation. I've got to pay off, ah,
pay
some money I owe, and I've got it all except the twenty-five thousand. This man I owe money to—I'm afraid of him, Leila. I'm afraid of what he'll do. He's dangerous."

She made a noise of nervous exasperation. "All the more reason to go to the police."

Hating himself for what he was about to do, Walsh took a deep breath and said, "That wouldn't solve anything. Leila, this man is dangerous in a way you can't even imagine. He might kill me—or he might kill someone close to me. You know who that would be, don't you?" He looked away from her horrified face, forced himself to go on. "You're the only one I'm close to. You."

Her
mouth worked for a moment before she said, "You're telling me
my
life is in danger."

"Might
be. He could go after either one of us."

She laughed disbelievingly. "Leon, that's preposterous."

He shook his head, praying she would swallow the lie. "I don't know how to reach this man, I don't even know his real name. The police wouldn't be able to stop him—they wouldn't even be able to find him. You're contaminated, Leila, just by your association with me."

Leila looked far away. "You mean," she said in a small voice, "there's a man out there somewhere who goes around threatening to kill people if they don't pay him—"

"No, no—it's not like that. I
owe
him the money, Leila. It's a one-shot deal—I pay him what I owe and I never hear from him again." He hoped. "I wish I could tell you the details, but I truly can't. I
can
buy our safety —I wanted to do it by myself, so you'd never know you were even momentarily in danger because of me. But I just can't swing it. I came up twenty-five thousand short."

Leila was silent for a long time. Then: "I can't get it until tomorrow."

Walsh nodded. "I have until Wednesday," he said.

CHAPTER

5

Sergeant Eberhart shifted his weight uncomfortably. Captain Ansbacher never invited you to sit down. The Captain himself leaned back in his desk chair.

"You did question the
Summit
staff? All of them?" Ansbacher asked in his overly precise speech that always made Eberhart feel like some dumb kid who'd been called into the principal's office.

"Yessir, I did. I talked to every one of them."

"I didn't see any reports."

"I reported to Lieutenant Murtaugh."

"In writing?"

"No, sir—verbally."

Ansbacher narrowed his already small eyes. "What is the matter with you people? How many times do you have to be told?
I want written reports on all homicide interrogations.
Do you understand that? Are you capable of understanding that?"

"Well, they weren't exactly interrogations, Captain."

"Oh? Then what were they . . . exactly?" Ansbacher said sarcastically.

Eberhart
cleared his throat. "Interviews, I'd call 'em. We didn't bring anybody in for intensive questioning. The
Summit
staff people aren't suspects, Captain—just sources of information."

Ansbacher looked at him a long time without saying anything, long enough for an already uncomfortable Sergeant Eberhart to start fidgeting. Eberhart tried to meet the Captain's eyes but couldn't; he found himself staring at Ansbacher's pink and white cheeks. Jowls that would do a bulldog proud—and the complexion of a baby.

Then Ansbacher said, softly, "They aren't suspects, you say. You don't consider Leon Walsh a suspect?"

"Lieutenant Murtaugh doesn't," Eberhart answered—and immediately felt like a fink. Buck-passer.

"I know what Murtaugh thinks. I'm asking you what you think."

Eberhart thought furiously before replying. Was Ansbacher offering him a way out? It sounded as if he was building some sort of case against the Lieutenant—and wanted to use Eberhart in some way. "I don't really know whether Walsh should be considered a suspect or not," he temporized, wondering if he could get away with straddling the fence.