Authors: Michael Sloan
McCall thought of giving a jaunty wave, but decided against it. He walked to the front of the nightclub.
Outside, the crowd had grown bigger and more vocal. The bouncer was arguing with a young couple, doing some shoving. No one was getting past him. McCall walked out, touched the bouncer's shoulder, nodded at the young couple he'd just shoved away. They can go in. The bouncer stepped aside and the couple entered the nightclub. The bouncer stepped up in front of the next couple, glancing nervously toward McCall. Are we cool now? McCall nodded. Fun to play God. He looked around. There was no sign of Gardiner. No one came out of the club after him. The night was cold, but he decided to walk home.
He climbed the stairs up to his apartment.
Big Gertie hit him with the baseball bat as soon as he walked through his front door.
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CHAPTER 11
The blow brought McCall to his knees. A wave of nausea shuddered through his body. He hadn't heard a thing inside the apartment. In his mind he'd been back at Dolls nightclub, seeing Katia standing frightened and skittish in her revealing black dress, wondering which of the customers with their hundred-dollar dance tickets was going to be the one to whisper in her ear that he'd been promised something more than a twirl around the dance floor. That there'd be a lot more money in it for her. That she'd enjoy herself. He was a really nice guy; never did this kind of thing, but she was so beautiful and â¦
The pain almost took his breath away. He felt blood spill hot down the side of his face, closing his left eye. He cursed himself. When had he
ever
let himself be taken by surprise like this? He waited for the second blow that would crush his skull like an eggshell, but it didn't come. He tried to push himself up from his knees, but a boot smashed down hard in the middle of his back. He managed to stay on his knees. He knew if he was sprawled on his stomach it would all be over.
“Let him get up,” a voice said.
It was thin and reedy and seemed to be coming from a long way away. It sounded amused. McCall blinked the blood out of his left eye and looked up. The room was blurred. Two men were in front of him, one straight ahead, one on his right. Slowly he pushed up on his hands and got to his feet. His vision began to clear. His breathing was coming out in short gasps. He regulated it. Calmed his heart rate. He figured it was at least 180 with the adrenaline pumping through his veins. He needed it to drop down to 140, that would be good enough. He swayed a little, but stayed on his feet. That was for their benefit. He wanted them to think he was more disoriented than he was.
Big Gertie had stepped back from him. His considerable bulk was between McCall and the front door, which he kicked shut with his foot. The Tiffany lamp on the bookcase provided the only light in the room. A second brother stood just outside the archway into the kitchenette on McCall's right. He was small with ferret eyes, shifting nervously from foot to foot, eyes darting around the living room, as if expecting McCall's cavalry to leap out from the shadows somewhere. He looked as if he needed a fix in the next few seconds or he'd puke. McCall could sympathize. The man was holding a length of heavy-duty chain in his trembling hands.
J.T. was standing at the bookshelves at the far end of the living room, the bracelets on both wrists sparkling in the soft light. He had a Colt Python .357 Magnum in his right hand, aimed straight at McCall. He held it awkwardly, his unbroken index finger coiled around the trigger. Then, almost contemptuously, the pimp put the gun into the waistband of his jeans.
“Won't be needin' this right away. Gonna watch my brother go to work on you again with that Louisville Slugger. Seein' as you put my hands out of commission.”
McCall wasn't listening. He was looking at the leather couch in the middle of the room where Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds lay. She was naked, her arms duct-taped behind her back, her ankles taped tight together. There was gray duct tape across her mouth. Her eyes were wide with terror. Her face was bruised. Her ribs were discolored where they'd beaten her. McCall noted red, angry cigarette burns across her breasts. The cigarette end had to have been applied to her white skin very recently. Probably within the last few minutes, while they were waiting for him. As if to make a point, J.T. carefully lit a cigarette with his injured hands and dropped the match into the glass bowl on the coffee table with the M&M's in it. There were more burns down the girl's legs, traveling parallel with the track marks. There was a tight cluster of burns above the dark tangle of her pubic hair. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face was stained with tears. She was trembling violently. She stared at McCall without hope, but her eyes were still pleading.
Do something
.
Please
.
Big Gertie stepped up behind McCall and patted him down. He knew how to do it. J.T. looked around the living room. His eyes fell on the big bronze Mark Newman sculpture.
“Nice piece. What is it? A naked bitch walkin' her big fish?”
“It's an eel,” McCall said, fighting for breath.
“An' lookin' at that gets your dick hard? You're a weird motherfucker.”
Big Gertie stepped back.
“Clean,” he said.
He sounded pleased.
“Course he is,” J.T. said. “He a law-abiding citizen who jus don' know when he should have walked on.” He looked at McCall. “See, thing about playing the heroâyou gotta pick your battles. This here whore, she ain't worth your spit. She a dumb cunt who's gonna meet her maker tonight. As for you, Mr. Bartender, Bobby baby⦔
He pulled the gun out of his waistband and aimed it at McCall again.
“I could shoot you. But that be too quick, too merciful. We go'an show you a world of pain, brother. Like you never knew existed. Then, when you on your knees, beggin' us to finish you off, tha's when the show really starts. You gonna see us fuck this whore real good, me up her ass, Big Gertie with his big cock in her mouth. Sydney over there, he kinda shy, he jus' likes to watch. Then we might have some fun with the handle of that mop you got in the kitchen. Grease it up a little with some butter.”
“Get out of here right now,” McCall said softly. “And I'll let it go.”
J.T. stared at him like he'd lost his mind. His voice lowered to a whisper, as if he didn't want anyone but McCall to hear. “We ain't goin' nowhere, motherfucker. I'm gonna let you watch while I slit this bitch's throat.”
He put the .357 Magnum back into his belt, stubbed out the cigarette in the big glass ashtray on one of the bookshelves, reached behind him, and picked up a slim, sharp paring knife, holding it between his thumbs and index fingers. He'd taken it from McCall's kitchen. McCall recognized the pearl handle. Part of a set of five. He thought about the kitchen. He could get past Sydney with no problem, but he'd have his back to the room and J.T. would grab the big gun before he could take two steps to the microwave. He thought about the Sig Sauer 227 clipped under the bedside table. The bedroom door was ajar, but the room was too far away. He'd never make it. He wondered if the three thugs had already found his small arsenal, but he didn't think so. Both the Smith & Wesson 500 revolver and the Sig Sauer 227 would be out on display. It hadn't occurred to them to search the apartment for guns. What would a bartender be doing with concealed weapons?
“Time for us to go to work on our little girl here,” J.T. said.
He said it with a smile.
McCall became very still. His world telescoped down to just the areas of interest that he needed. When he moved it was with such fluidity, such economy, that he didn't appear to be moving at all. He was standing helpless in front of the three thugs one moment.
And then he wasn't.
McCall picked up the glass bowl of M&M's and threw them up into J.T.'s eyes, startling him. Smashed the bowl down onto the coffee table, shattering it, slammed the long jagged edge into J.T.'s throat before he could move a muscle. Blood gushed out of the carotid artery.
McCall picked up the Frisbee from the armchair and threw it with deadly accuracy at Sydney, catching him in the throat. The little man gagged, dropping the length of chain, falling to his knees.
McCall pulled out the
Sherlock Holmes Volume I
from the bottom shelf of the bookcase as he felt Big Gertie bearing down on him. He grabbed the ornate dagger bookmark out of a page in the
Hound of the Baskervilles,
turned and stabbed it through Big Gertie's left eye. He went down to his knees, dropping the baseball bat. McCall caught the bat before it hit the floor and smashed it into Big Gertie's head, taking out a hefty slice of his brains.
McCall leaped over the couch, picking up the headphones beside the laptop on the coffee table, wrapped the cords around Sydney's scrawny neck, and slammed a knee into his back, forcing him farther to the floor. Wrenched back on his neck until Sydney's violent writhing ceased. McCall let him go. He slid down to the floor and didn't move.
McCall took in a deep breath and let it out.
Remained very still for another long moment.
He dropped the headphones back onto the coffee table beside the stacked DVDs. He picked up the Frisbee and tossed it back to its spot on the easy chair. He pulled the dagger bookmark out of Big Gertie's eye. He didn't bother with the smashed bowl or the spilled M&M's. He had other bowls in the kitchen and those M&M's were a little on the stale side anyway.
Then he looked at the terrified young woman on the couch. She was not moving. She was barely breathing. She stared at him as if she couldn't believe what she'd just seen. Or what she had
barely
seen.
He picked up the paring knife from the floor, sat on the couch, and gently tore the piece of duct tape from the girl's mouth. She gasped in air. He raised the paring knife and she cowered away from him. Still gently, he cut the duct tape binding her ankles, then the wrists bound behind her back, careful not to cut her skin. She rubbed her wrists together, shivering now, not trembling.
“Are they dead?”
“Yes.”
“You didn't check their pulses.”
“They're dead. Where are your clothes?”
“Big Gertie stripped me and took them in there.”
She pointed at the bedroom. McCall rose, moved into the bedroom, and saw her clothes, which consisted of panties, jeans, a Boston Red Sox T-shirt, sandals, tossed onto his bed. He walked into the bathroom, examined the side of his head. Big Gertie's aim had been minimal. He'd just taken a good swing. It had glanced off the side of McCall's head. If the big man had been a little closer to the top of his head, McCall would be brain-dead now.
He soaked a washcloth and wiped off the dried blood, particularly around his left eye. The gash was deep. He opened the medicine cabinet, took out some iodine, poured it onto a cotton ball he took from a jar, and pressed it against the wound. It stung like hell. Then he walked back into the bedroom.
He peeled off the cotton ball and looked in the mirror. The blood was congealing. It looked ugly, but he'd had worse. He tossed the cotton ball into a wastebasket, picked up Margaret's clothes from his bed, and walked back into the living room.
Margaret was sitting up now, bare feet on the floor, staring down at J.T., whose blood still gushed out of his severed carotid artery.
“He always treated me like shit.”
“Not anymore.”
McCall dropped her clothes onto the couch, her sandals in front of it. She put on her panties, pulled the Boston Red Sox T-shirt over her head. She slipped on the jeans and stood up, zipping them up. She slid her feet into the sandals and looked at him.
“That fat fuck did a number on you. That gash looks terrible.”
“It's fine.”
He took her arm.
“They know where I live,” she said fearfully.
“They don't know anything anymore. At least, not about this life.”
“J.T.'s got other friends.”
“What do you have at home you can't live without?”
She shrugged. “Nothing much.”
“Good. You're not going home.”
“I don't know if I can walk so good. They beat me up. It's hard to breathe.”
“I'll support you.”
“Do we have to go right now? Maybe we could wait a few minutes? Not in hereâwith them. Maybe in your kitchen?”
“I don't know if they had any backup. I don't know if J.T.âthat's his name?” She nodded. “If he was going to call someone when it was all over. To get rid of our bodies. They weren't going to do that themselves.”
“What
are
you going to do about their bodies?”
“I'll clean up later. You need to trust me, Margaret. I'm going to take you somewhere safe. Where no one from J.T.'s world will find you. All right?”
She nodded. Suddenly reached up a hand and touched his face. He winced.
“You're hurt.”
“Let's go.”
“The way you moved. What you did to them. It was awesome.”
“It was necessary.”
“Who the hell
are
you?”
He didn't answer.
“I want to stay with you,” she whispered.
“You've got a family somewhere who misses you.”
“They could give a fuck.”
“You might be surprised. It's cold outside. I'll get you a coat.”
She nodded and he disappeared into the bedroom. She didn't look at the three bodies around her. She just clenched her hands into fists and closed her eyes.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Natalya sat at one of the abandoned chess tables in a corner of Washington Square Park. During the day and the early evenings they were always full of intense men and women who played as if the eyes of the world were on them. But not this late. There were no chess pieces on any of the tables. She wondered where they went at night. Packed away somewhere, to be unpacked the next day for friends and strangers to do battle. She liked the idea of chess, staying several moves ahead of your opponent. She could play, and play well, but no one knew that. No one had ever bothered to test her IQ. She was pretty sure it was fairly high, but it didn't matter. It was just another secret locked into her secluded world.