Gideon by Russell Andrews Page B

“but I accept.”
    They shook firmly. And as they released their grips, as if the physical contact had created a more powerful bond, Harry said quietly, “Do you have any idea what you’re mixed up in?”
    The big man’s tone made Car pay attention. It frightened him. “Some kind of best-seller,” he responded. “It has to be done as fiction or there’ll be a major lawsuit. It’s controversial. It’s big. Apex is printing a ton of copies.”
    Wagner spoke quietly again. “You have no idea at all, do you?”
    Carl frowned at him. “So why don’t you tell me, Harry? What am I mixed up in?”
    Wagner didn’t answer him, just gathered up the diary and Carl’s latest output. He went to the window and studied the street. “You know what I wish, Carl? I wish you appreciated the wonders of a good cigar.” He took one from his jacket pocket, unwrapped it, and carefully sliced off the tip with his sterling silver cigar cutter. He stuck the cigar in his mouth, unlit. “Tell you what.” He removed another one from his pocket and laid it on the desk in front of Carl. “A victory cigar. For when we finish.”
    Carl shook his head. “I’ll never smoke it. I hate cigars.”
    “Keep it. I insist.” He tossed Carl a book of matches. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
    “Now, why would I do that?”
    “You never know about these things, Carl.” Wagner went to the door and opened it. “You just never know.”
    “It’s not that I’m not appreciative,” Carl said before Harry could escape, “but why this sudden desire to be my friend?”
    Harry looked thoughtful, giving the question serious consideration. Then he nodded, satisfied that he had the proper answer. “Because I want someone to understand why I’m doing this. And because everything in life is reciprocal. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “That you might need a friend yourself sometime.”
    Harry smiled, pleased. And then he was gone, leaving Carl to wonder just exactly what it was he had been trying to tell him.

chapter 6
    The Closer sat there in the darkened room staring at a talk show on the television set. Something to do with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver. The Closer couldn’t tell what, or care less. The sound was no on. Noises of any kind interfered with the Closer’s ability to stay focused. So did lights.
    The Closer sat there in the dark, focusing.
    Until the phone rang.
    “Now,” said the voice on the other end of the line, “would be an excellent time.”
    The accent was veddy, veddy British. Upper-class on the surface, but salted with a street coarseness—if you know how to listen. The Closer knew how to listen.
    “So soon?”
    “We’ve accomplished what we needed to accomplish. If we wait …”
    “Yes, I know,” the Closer said. This was not the first time the voice had expounded on the subject. “Procrastination too often means failure.”
    “There are many complications this time. It is best to remove them as quickly as possible.”
    “It usually is.”
    “Will that be possible?” the voice finished.
    “Anything is possible.”
    The Closer hung up the phone and promptly got dressed. The navy blue linen suit. White silk shirt. Red bow tie. Black ankle boots polished to a high gloss. The Closer turned off the television set, locked the door, and left.
    The street outside was still active at this late hour. People coming home from their evening out. Cabs were plentiful. The Closer hailed one and took it way downtown to where Greenwich ran into Duane Street. Here there was only darkness and quiet, the warehouses and offices and small factories deserted now.
    “You sure this be where you want to get out?” asked the cabdriver, who had a thick Russian accent.
    The Closer handed him a ten-dollar bill, got out, and walked down the block, stopping at an unmarked steel door. There was a buzzer. The Closer pushed it and was buzzed in.
    Inside was a dingy stairway littered with broken pint bottles of