Kim Oh 3: Real Dangerous People (The Kim Oh Thrillers) (4 page)

“You want to make some changes, bring a new guy on the crew, whatever – that’s fine with me. But not now. We got a job to do. We gotta keep you alive.”

“Exactly,” said Falcon. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s what I’m worried about.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s your job, all right. And you came pretty close to screwing it up today. That’s how Heinz got killed. Something like that wouldn’t have happened before.

Curt lowered his head, spreading his hands apart.

“We’ll do the job,” he said. “You know we will. We always have.”

“I can’t count on that anymore. I think the crew needs some new blood.”

“I just don’t know –”

“I’ve made my decision.” Falcon’s gaze narrowed on him. “I’m the one that somebody out there wants to kill.”

“Okay –” Curt sighed in defeat. “So who do you want to bring on? Somebody from Karsh’s organization? I sure hope not – those punks he walks around with are just about useless.”

“Curt, please. If they’re working for Karsh, they’re top of the line. I wouldn’t be looking to partner up with somebody who scrimps on that sort of thing.”

“Yeah, well, they didn’t exactly impress me. They’re the ones who should’ve checked out that restaurant before we got there. It was their boss who suggested the spot. That’s why we’re a man down now. They didn’t do their job.”

“Things happen. You know that. There was probably some miscommunication – that’s all.”

“Miscommunication? Yeah, right. Heinz got miscommunicated right through the chest.”

“That’s enough, Curt. I don’t feel like rehashing the whole thing now. Besides, I’ve already decided.”

“Decided what?”

“Who the new person on the crew will be.”

Curt nodded slowly. “So when do we get to meet him?”

“Soon enough.” Falcon began sorting through some papers on the desk. “Do me a favor and let the others know. Okay?”

For a few seconds, Curt said nothing, but just remained sitting and watching his boss. Then he got up and headed for the office door.

* * *

“A new guy? Aw, Christ . . .”

The lounge was a little livelier now, but not by much. Mae, the graying-blonde owner, served up drinks to the handful of people at the bar. Over in the same booth they’d started out from that morning, the remnants of Falcon’s bodyguard crew hunched over their beer glasses.

“That sucks.” Foley went on. “I don’t want to have to babysit some kid who needs both hands to find his frickin’ ass.”

“I don’t know.” Elton sipped at his beer. “Might work out.”

“Okay, fine.” Foley glared at him. “We’ll let you baby-sit him. See how you like it.”

“Look, guys.” With his hands wrapped around his glass, Curt leaned back in the booth. “We just need to make the best of the situation. Because there isn’t anything we can do about it. It’s Falcon’s call who he has working for him. If you don’t like that, the only option you got is to quit.” He looked around at the others. “Anybody here feel like doing that?”

Nobody said anything. They all just sat, gazing into their own drinks.

“Seriously,” said Curt. “Now would be the time. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“Come on.” That was Earl speaking up. “If we left . . . where would we go?”

There was a long silence after he said that.

“Okay, then.” Curt let them all of the hook. “So I don’t want to hear any more bitching about this. Done deal, gentlemen. So let’s just get this new guy up and running. And let’s not have any problems with him. We need to make this work.”

“Yeah, sure.” Earl again. “But you don’t even know who this new guy is.”

“Give me a break, already. Mr. Falcone isn’t going to –”

“Fal-
kun
.”

“Right; Falcon. He isn’t going to foist some total putz on us. He wants the best he can get.”

“Okay. But if that’s what he wants . . . why didn’t he let
you
pick him?”

“I don’t know.” Curt’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know why he didn’t ask me.”

“’Cause you know a lot of guys. You know everyone.”

Curt didn’t say anything. The rest of the crew exchanged embarrassed glances with each other.

After a moment, Curt lifted his gaze toward them again.

“Look,” he said. “Just work with me on this one, will ya? That’s all I’m asking.”

“Sure.” Earl nodded. “No problem.

Curt slid out of the booth and stood up.

“Where you going?” asked Foley.

“Got some things to take care of. See you all later.”

They watched him walk across the lounge. He waved goodbye to Mae behind the bar, then pulled the door open. For a moment, they had a glimpse beyond him of the neon sign glinting off the dirty snow in the gutters; then the door swung shut, and he was gone.

The other crew members hunched forward over their beer glasses, bringing their heads closer together, as though there might have been someone who wanted to listen in to what they were saying.

“Maybe . . .” Foley slowly nodded. “Maybe Falcon knows.”

Elton glanced over at him. “Knows what?”

“You know,” said Foley. “About Curt.”

“Shut up.” Earl glared at both of them. “Just shut up, okay?”

Elton and Foley exchanged a silent glance, then turned their attention back to their drinks.

* * *

Curt left little melting clumps of snow on the stairs, as he headed upstairs to his apartment.

He dug his keys out of his pocket as he walked down the dimly lit hallway, with its shabby, peeling wallpaper. He unlocked one of the numbered doors and pushed it open.

Pushing the door shut behind himself, he hung up his overcoat on the brass hook at its side. He stood for a moment, letting the cold seep out of his bones. Gazing at the cheaply framed photos on the wall . . .

Younger guys. A lot younger. Some of the faces in the pictures, he could barely recognize. Including his own. There was one of the whole crew, plus their boss – still Fal-
cone
-ee back then – whooping it up at some tiki bar. A real one, a famous place, all the way out in Hawaii. Everybody had those wildly colored, tropical print shirts on, their pale Midwestern arms sticking out from the short sleeves.

Curt looked at the next picture over. It showed a grinning Heinz, looking like a complete tourist, paper leis around his neck, and knee-length shorts with white socks and heavy wing-tip shoes. There was a sunny, sandy beach behind him, with crashing waves – that had been real as well, not some photographer’s backdrop. Really in Hawaii.

That had been a long time ago. He touched the thin glass over the photo with his fingertips. After a moment, he took it off the little brad behind, leaving a lighter spot on the wall in the shape of the frame.

He carried the photo into the kitchen and tossed it into the trash can beside the sink.

When he came back out, he was carrying a cardboard box he’d taken from one of the cupboards. He sat down with it at the Formica-topped table in the middle of the front room. With his forearm, he made himself some working space, scraping aside the food-encrusted dishes from his last several meals there. But he’d forgotten something; he pushed the chair back, went over to the door and dug his gun out of his overcoat pocket. Then he set back down and began methodically cleaning it, using the blackened rag and the tools from the cardboard box.

It took him a while. He meant it to. The longer it took, the less time there would be to think about other things.

When he finished, he put the rag and tools away. From the box, he took out a carton of ammo and reloaded the gun. Carefully, sliding the bullets in one by one.

He set the gun down on the table. With his hands in his lap, he sat regarding it for a few moments. Then he reached toward it, but stopped just an inch away from picking it up. He watched the slight but noticeable tremor in his hand.

After a couple of seconds, it got worse. He balled his hand into a fist, the knuckles whitening as he tried to keep it from shaking.

He didn’t react when the muzzle of another gun – a bigger one, a .357 – came up behind his ear.

“Hello, Kim.” That was all he said.

I lowered the gun. “How’d you know it was me?”

“I knew you were here soon as I walked in the door. I didn’t have to see you.”

“Damn.” I’d thought I’d been putting one over on him. Taking it slow, hanging out in the apartment’s unlit bedroom, with the door just open a crack so I’d been able to watch him doing his gun-cleaning ritual. I’d thought it was only polite, not to interrupt him during that.

“Have a seat.” He nodded toward the chair on the other side of the table.

“Hold on a second.” I head back toward the bedroom with my gun. “I have to put this away.”

I returned with my backpack, stuffing the .357 inside it. “You
knew
I was here?” I set the pack beside the chair as I sat down. “How?”

“Easy.” He leaned back in his chair. “I smelled you.”

“Um . . . that’s weird.” Made me a little uncomfortable. “You know . . . I don’t wear any perfume or stuff like that.”

“It’s the soap.”

That figured. My brother Donnie had talked me into buying some kind of shower gel that one of his favorite NASCAR drivers did TV commercials for. Why anybody would want to smell like a sweaty fire suit was beyond me – actually, though, the stuff smelled more like breath mints on steroids. I’m not sure what the connection between that and race cars is. But the shower in our crummy apartment already was barely big enough for even me to turn around in, so I’d decided that one bottle of liquid soap was sufficient. I guess I had been smelling of it the last time I’d talked to Curt.

Which just went to show how sharp he still was. He remembered stuff like that, filing little details away inside his head. I’d spotted the tremor in his hand – actually, I’d noticed it before – but his mind was still sharp as ever.

Or at least I hoped it still was.

With his thumb, he wiped a grease spot from his other wrist. “How’d you get in?”

“Your landlady,” I said. “She remembered me, too. From before.”

“She’s got a good memory.” He nodded appreciatively. “Good as mine.”

“So how you been?”

“All right.” He gave a shrug. “Overworked.”

“Yeah, and underpaid.”

“I’ve been saving,” said Curt. “For retirement.”

That was something he and I had talked about – not just the last time I’d been around to see him, but before that. Truth of the matter was, this kind of job didn’t really pay all that well. I don’t mean bodyguard work – that was what they called people like Curt and the rest of his crew, but they did other stuff for their boss. Working for somebody like Falcone – sorry, Fal-
kun
 – you wound up doing other things with the gun you always carried. Things that other guys, who worked for other people like Falcon, tried to do to you. A big part of your job was just making sure that you were the one who was still alive at the end of the day.

Given the hazards involved, you might’ve thought that the job
would
pay more. But unless you were at the absolute top – like Falcon – you got screwed.

Or maybe an in-demand freelancer like my late partner Cole – he’d been the one who’d gotten me into this stupid business. Most of what I knew about killing people came from him. And the rest wasn’t worth squat. He’d gotten paid pretty well – I knew for a fact, because before I’d gotten into the killing thing, I’d actually been the company accountant who cut the checks to pay him. For services rendered to our old boss McIntyre. Killing him had been my first job of this type. Cole and I had worked on it together.

But he was dead now – like I said, kind of an occupational hazard – so now I had to figure all the rest out on my own. Like how to make a living doing this.

“Retirement, huh?” I raised an eyebrow. “That’ll be the day.”

One thing that I’d already learned – from Curt, even though it’d been nothing that he’d said out loud to me – was that I didn’t want to end up like him. An old guy in a crummy apartment. That, I had already – I was hoping to get to the point where I could move me and my brother Donnie to someplace nicer. And after that – a long time after, when I was as old as Curt – maybe there’d be enough set aside in my SEP-IRA account so I wouldn’t have to do this crap any longer. Right now, there was only a hundred bucks in the retirement account. I hadn’t added any more money since I’d started it up, but at least it was there for me to think about. Maybe if I declared my .357, plus the other lethal gear I used for my new career, as business expenses, then maybe I’d be able to sock away a bit more. The IRS really could give small businessmen like me more of a break.