One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel (26 page)

Nicky leaned closer. "We will give you twenty-four hours to resolve this, Paul. And then I'm going to have to handle things my way."

"What does that mean?"

Nicky smiled that smile. "It means exactly what it sounds like, no more, no less. We will simply do whatever seems necessary to recover the disc, regardless of the consequences to you or your organization."

"I don't care for the sound of that," Pesci said. He forced a smile. "I'll give Mr. Stone one more night to find and bring us the disc, Nicky. If we don't hear by tomorrow noon, I'll pull the plug on that version of the operation. We'll get our own people on finding it, even at the risk that something may be traced back to us. That's what lawyers are for, right?"

Nicky sat down abruptly and rolled his chair backwards. "You have one of your own. Young Jacob Mandel. Consult with him on how to best muddy the waters, as you say. But get this job done, Paul. Bring us the disc. My superiors are gravely concerned."

"I will," Pesci promised. "I have something for you, my friend. I'd planned on saving it for later tonight, but there's no time like the present." He spun his chair, picked up a remote control and punched two buttons. A wooden panel on the soundproofed wall slid away with a faint hiss, revealing a giant screen television set. The picture came into focus. Two gorgeous young Asian women lay naked on satin sheets. They noticed the camera had come on, smiled and waved. One began to fondle herself. Nicky grunted with desire. The women were magnificent.

"Room two-eleven," Pesci said. "They are waiting for you."

"The camera?"

"Keep this." Pesci used the remote, handed it to Nicky. "The code is the room number in reverse, one-twelve. When you're done, come back here and pop out the one DVD copy, and hit erase. Or just turn it off now if you don't want to record the experience. It's your choice, but somehow I think you're going to want to have something to remember them by."

Nicky got up, touched the screen. He was already erect. "They are indeed beautiful. Thank you, Paul."

Pesci had taken a small mirror, a straw, and some cocaine out of his pocket. They did two lines each. Nicky rubbed his nose. "Very good shit."

"The twins are fifteen hundred apiece for the night," Pesci said. "So please, don't leave any marks."

The two men shook hands. "No hard feelings, Paul," Nicky said. Both knew he was lying. "Twenty-four hours, or I must take over the recovery operation."

"Understood."

They went out into the hall. Pesci slapped Nicky on the back, locked the room, and headed back to the party. "Enjoy."

Nicky stood for a moment, examining the remote control, his natural caution momentarily overcome by lust. He left the recorder on, put the remote in his coat pocket, and took the hallway to the small private elevator. It felt like a padded coffin. He rode down to the fourth floor. The girls met him at the door, saw his size, giggled and began to rip at his clothes. Nicky double-locked the hotel suite, placed his 9mm under the pillow and watched them hump and stroke one another until he couldn't stand it anymore.

The next few hours dissolved into shadows and sexual heat. Nicky carefully positioned the twins so that the secret video would be exceptional. They rubbed top-grade cocaine on his penis and sucked him in tandem, one on his scrotum and one on his shaft, then traded places. After ejaculating for the first time, Nicky returned the favor with a generous tongue. When the cocaine took him a bit too high and created jitters, he smoked a bowl with the twins and licked vodka off their pert breasts. Three orgasms followed the first. Exhausted, Nicky ordered the women to turn on the Jacuzzi tub. A tiny electronic ringing tone kept him from dozing. He opened his cell phone.

"Nikolaou."

One of the twins, he'd never bothered to learn their names, was squatting on the bidet, far too close to the bathroom door for comfort, so the conversation that ensued was entirely in Nicky's native language. She glanced his way, saw his features darken with rage and shot her sister a concerned look. When the tub was ready, the twins padded back into the bedroom with forced smiles, each to one side of the oversized bed. They reached for his arms, but paused. Little Nicky had fallen asleep. His mouth opened in a snore, thick lips bubbled with saliva.

The two women locked eyes. The one on the left side of the bed trembled with fear and shook her head. She raised her hands, palms up, and mouthed the word "no." The female on the right ignored her plea and tiptoed over to her purse. This one had a feral glint in her eyes, and clearly a different kind of soul than her sister, who had already slipped back into her evening gown and was heading for the door.

They shared another long look. The first girl wept, crossed herself, and left. The door closed silently behind her.

The second twin knelt on the carpet, opened a secret pocket in her purse and produced a syringe already loaded with a clear fluid. She was not about to pass up one million dollars. She studied Nicky, whose snores were deep and evenly paced, knowing his was the last cock she was ever going to have to suck. She eased closer, the needle hidden in her palm and partly behind her back. She paused at the side of the bed, legs slightly parted.

Another long wait. There could be no mistakes.

Finally, she went down to one knee, leaned in close and located the carotid artery. The girl had been on and off heroin for two years. She knew how to work with needles. She brought the syringe up and did a practice run, stopping just short of injection. She'd been told the contents of the syringe were obscure poisons mixed with insulin. They would induce an immediate heart attack and leave no trace evidence.

In less than a minute, this would all be over. She mentally rehearsed the act and then the aftermath. She would smash and scatter the syringe. She was to leave immediately. Her sister was already in a car, headed for Reno. The second the death was verified, a call would be made. Her sister would go to a bank, open a safe deposit box, and leave with a bearer bond for one million dollars. The plan was to meet in San Francisco the next day for an overnight flight to Berlin. And then they would disappear forever.

The girl took a deep breath, released it, then a shallow one. Nicky continued to snore. She brought the needle down, and stabbed for his neck.

The world went white and she found herself on her back, legs splayed. She could not get a breath. Her hands clutched at her throat. Nicky was now pacing the room like a Bengal tiger; his hairy, heavily muscled body rigid with rage. The girl heard wheezing sounds.
His right hand. . .
. It had come up in a flash, flat as a board, and caught her flush across the neck. Her throat had been crushed. She writhed in agony, whimpered and struggled as she slowly strangled to death.

Nicky went down on his knees. "Having fun?" He slapped her face, held up the syringe. "You could take an hour to die, bitch. Or I could help you out with a dose of your own medicine."

"P-p-please," she managed to gasp, "h-h-help."

"Oh. You wish me to call the physician who is downstairs at the party, to see if there is something he can do?"

Her eyes begged. Nicky fondled her nipple absently. "You have given me great pleasure tonight, so I shall consider your request."

The girl gagged, wheezed, whispered promises of things he'd never dreamed about, things she'd never done for anyone, all the while slowly gasping for breath. Her world was going dark and cold and she did not want to die. Not here, not this way, naked on a carpet and still a whore. . . .

"But, of course, I have a condition," Nicky said, leaning closer. He stroked her forehead in an obscene parody of affection. "First, you will tell me who sent you, yes?"

Moments later, Nicky did two more lines on the edge of the spa tub. He went into the water and ran the jets. After a short bath, he freshened up and returned to the bedroom to get dressed. The second twin was barely moving by now. Her face had blackened. Her eyes were wide with terror. She had wet herself. Nicky slipped into his Armani suit and stood over her. He held up the syringe.

"Ready?"

By this time the woman could no longer bear the pain. She nodded vigorously, gratefully . . .
please get it over with, please. . . .

Nicky dropped the syringe on the carpet. The girl tried to scream but could only manage a vague hissing noise. "Do it yourself, if you want death so badly. I'll see you in hell."

He walked out without looking back.

Out in the hallway, Nicky checked his 9mm and a second gun, a small Firestar, he kept strapped to his ankle. He made a mental note to be sure to get that DVD. The sex had been outrageous—replaying it, followed by the death of the hooker, would provide many intense climaxes in the years to come. He glanced at his Rolex. It was only ten o'clock, but the party had been going on since the late afternoon.

Nicky rode the private elevator up to the top level. He returned to the celebration as if nothing happened. The glass room was dimly lit, classic rock music blaring from hidden speakers. The night outside was bright with a summer moon and speckled with crystal stars. People were dozing with joints in their fingers, burning holes in the expensive leather couches. The catering bar was officially closed, but open bottles were everywhere, enough to keep the event running until morning. Nicky surveyed the room. A State senator was getting lap-danced. Some local businessman had begun playing strip poker with some of the call girls. Nicky left and locked the doors behind him.

Meanwhile, Big Paul Pesci was in the Presidential Suite, sprawled on the bed in his boxer shorts with a drink balanced on his fat belly. Paul was watching his favorite hooker dance around the room in high heels. Finally, Michelle went to the closet, bent over to give him a great view. She brought out a hat box, opened it up and produced sex toys. Pesci laughed drunkenly as she strapped on a huge, black dildo and walked around in a circle, jiggling.

"Sorry to interrupt."

"The fuck?" Pesci sat up suddenly, spilling his drink. Michelle screamed, lost her balance and fell backwards, crushing the hat box. Paul shaded his eyes. A huge man stood in the doorway.

"We need to talk, Paul." Little Nicky moved into the room, waved for Michelle to get out. She ran for the bathroom without bothering to remove the dildo. "Someone just tried to off me."

"Off you? What happened?"

"The twins, Paul," Nicky said. "They were great in bed, as you promised, but it did not end there." He sat on the edge of the bed. Paul saw that he was smiling. That only made things worse. "One of them tried to inject me with something, which got me thinking. Why inject? There is only one reason. A gunshot wound would attract attention, but an injection of something that could not be traced. . . . But who, then? Who gave this order?"

Pesci swallowed. "Ask the girls. Make them talk."

"One got away while I was sleeping, unfortunately. The other is dead."

"That's too bad," Pesci said. "Now we'll never know who hired them." He leaned back against the wall.

"Wait." Nicky showed his teeth and produced a small handgun, the Firestar. "Let me see your left hand, Paul."

Pesci blinked. "My hand?"

Nicky grabbed it, wrapped it in a pillow, pressed the gun against the fabric and fired. Big Paul shrieked and gibbered and clutched his bleeding hand. Nicky gave him the edge of the bedspread. "Quiet. Bite down on this. If Michelle walks back in here, I'll kill her on the spot. It's your call."

"What are you doing? Why did you do that? I don't know anything about this! Please, listen to me!"

Nicky studied him. "This is beneath you, Paul. You fucked up. Take the consequences like a man."

"I didn't do anything, Goddamn it! Nicky, it wasn't me!" His other hand crept to the side of the bed. Pesci felt around for the small panic button, pushed hard; again, and then again.

Nicky grabbed Pesci by the leg and covered his right foot with another pillow. "Bite down." Pesci began to babble. Nicky fired a second time, POP, and the room stank of burning cotton and cordite. Pesci passed out for a time. Nicky sighed, got up, looked around for some liquor, poured himself a whiskey. Went back over to the bed and poured some ice water on Big Paul.

"No," Pesci whimpered, "please don't. It wasn't me."

"Don't bullshit me, Paul, I know it was you."

"Who said that? Who lied about me?"

"You embarrass yourself," Nicky said quietly. "This is how a man drowns, by panicking."

"I demand to know who fed you this crap!"

"It's simple, Paul. The girl told me."

"She lied."

Nicky shook his head. "First she told me because she thought I would call for help if she was honest. She said Big Paul. The second time I let her think I would end it for her with less pain. She swore she'd told me the truth. I believe her. It is a difficult thing to hold back on the way to the grave, Paul. Few do."

The door opened behind the two men. Pesci gasped with joy. He raised his good arm and pointed at Little Nicky. "Kill him! Kill him now!"

Cowboy Eric and Clyde entered the room, weapons raised. Nicky stiffened a bit and lowered the Firestar to the floor. He sat back in his chair, now calm. Pesci scrambled back into a squatting position on the bed, one hand and one foot dripping blood. "Get the doctor in here, Eric, but first, shoot this piece of shit."

Nicky sat quietly. "Should I explain?"

"Not interested," Eric said.

Pesci struggled to wrap his wounds in the bed sheet. "Take him in the bathroom and shoot his ass in the shower, Eric. Clyde, you cut him up. I don't want a trace of this bastard left behind. We'll say he ran off with the twins."

"I was just in their room," Eric said quietly. "One's gone, the other's dead."

"Okay, one of them. Whatever. Just kill him. Look what the fucker did to me! Michelle? Michelle?"