advice.”
He thinks us kibitzing for a moment is distracting me from seeing him take his finger out of his sucking chest wound and reach for a holdout .22 strapped to his ankle.
“Here, let me get that for you,” I say politely.
I grab the gun, throw a pillow over his back, and fire two rounds into the pillow. Love those .22s. Very quiet and efficient. And when I see that he was using ammo similar to mine, I’m glad I didn’t shoot him in the head. That would have been very disrespectful, like something a Chinese prison camp executioner would do. Plus, I’m not cleaning up Humpty Dumpty’s broken egg all over my cherrywood floors. So my relaxing Sunday turned into a brutal first aid session for myself, and an eight-hour ordeal of, you guessed it, putting Hartman’s faceless, fingerless corpse into six trash bags and dissolving them in a vat of sulfuric acid in some nameless New Jersey chemical plant.
14
----
YOU HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELF
B y around nine o’clock that night, I’m sitting in a truck stop diner outside Trenton, drinking coffee and pondering my next move. Going back to my apartment is out. Guys like Hartman don’t work alone. When people with money want someone dead, they stay true to that commitment until it happens or they end up dead themselves. Speaking of which, I can’t wait to bring the hammer down on the asshole who tried to put a button on me. He is going to have a serious headache when I get through with him and he’ll probably end up hot tubbing in the acid bath without the benefit of being dead.
But that will have to wait. For now, Bob needs to bring me in. I call the office.
“What is it, John?”
“I need to come in.”
“How soon can you get here?”
“Thirty minutes.”
He hangs up. I steal a motorcycle some dumbass left at the gas pump while he went inside to buy a bag of Corn Nuts. As I ride, I’m thinking of scenarios to explain this fine mess. First scenario—Bendini is definitely our target and Hartman is the muscle protecting Bendini and his interests. In that case, I am supremely fucked, becauseHartman may be dead, but Bendini isn’t, and if he wants me greased, he’ll just send some more mechanics. But, of course, that is the least of my worries in this scenario because if I’m blown, then Bob might just decide on forced early retirement.
Second scenario—Bendini is our guy and Hartman works for one of his customers. Customer places a plumber at the firm to make sure nothing clogs the information pipeline. Guy sees me and somehow knows I’m a pro, so he goes to whack me to protect his customer’s interests.
In scenario number one, I am a dead man because my internship at the firm is over and Bob tends to tie up all loose ends associated with unfinished business. In scenario number two, I am in the clear with Bendini but need to watch my back even more than usual. I guess there is always the third scenario—Bob wants me dead.
When I arrive at the office, Bob stokes the flames of my paranoia by stationing half a dozen heavily armed goons in his reception area. After we go over the gory details of the Hartman thing, he finally acknowledges my distrust of him based on the goon squad presence.
“John, if I wanted you dead, I’d kill you myself.”
“Anything less would be an insult.”
“I don’t have any intel yet, so you’ll have to stay here until I can figure out what the deal is.”
He turns to go, but he isn’t finished.
“I’m curious, John. How the hell do you think he made you?”
“No idea.”
“Sometimes even the best can slip.”
“I follow your protocols to the letter. Always have.”
He looks me in the eye, searching for a “tell” associated with lying.
“Please, Bob, you trained me to lie perfectly.”
“My gut tells me you’re not being honest, John. Not completely.”
“Maybe you need to eat something.”
“There’s the attitude again.”
“You want to blame me for this? Go ahead.”
“Okay.
He thinks us kibitzing for a moment is distracting me from seeing him take his finger out of his sucking chest wound and reach for a holdout .22 strapped to his ankle.
“Here, let me get that for you,” I say politely.
I grab the gun, throw a pillow over his back, and fire two rounds into the pillow. Love those .22s. Very quiet and efficient. And when I see that he was using ammo similar to mine, I’m glad I didn’t shoot him in the head. That would have been very disrespectful, like something a Chinese prison camp executioner would do. Plus, I’m not cleaning up Humpty Dumpty’s broken egg all over my cherrywood floors. So my relaxing Sunday turned into a brutal first aid session for myself, and an eight-hour ordeal of, you guessed it, putting Hartman’s faceless, fingerless corpse into six trash bags and dissolving them in a vat of sulfuric acid in some nameless New Jersey chemical plant.
14
----
YOU HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELF
B y around nine o’clock that night, I’m sitting in a truck stop diner outside Trenton, drinking coffee and pondering my next move. Going back to my apartment is out. Guys like Hartman don’t work alone. When people with money want someone dead, they stay true to that commitment until it happens or they end up dead themselves. Speaking of which, I can’t wait to bring the hammer down on the asshole who tried to put a button on me. He is going to have a serious headache when I get through with him and he’ll probably end up hot tubbing in the acid bath without the benefit of being dead.
But that will have to wait. For now, Bob needs to bring me in. I call the office.
“What is it, John?”
“I need to come in.”
“How soon can you get here?”
“Thirty minutes.”
He hangs up. I steal a motorcycle some dumbass left at the gas pump while he went inside to buy a bag of Corn Nuts. As I ride, I’m thinking of scenarios to explain this fine mess. First scenario—Bendini is definitely our target and Hartman is the muscle protecting Bendini and his interests. In that case, I am supremely fucked, becauseHartman may be dead, but Bendini isn’t, and if he wants me greased, he’ll just send some more mechanics. But, of course, that is the least of my worries in this scenario because if I’m blown, then Bob might just decide on forced early retirement.
Second scenario—Bendini is our guy and Hartman works for one of his customers. Customer places a plumber at the firm to make sure nothing clogs the information pipeline. Guy sees me and somehow knows I’m a pro, so he goes to whack me to protect his customer’s interests.
In scenario number one, I am a dead man because my internship at the firm is over and Bob tends to tie up all loose ends associated with unfinished business. In scenario number two, I am in the clear with Bendini but need to watch my back even more than usual. I guess there is always the third scenario—Bob wants me dead.
When I arrive at the office, Bob stokes the flames of my paranoia by stationing half a dozen heavily armed goons in his reception area. After we go over the gory details of the Hartman thing, he finally acknowledges my distrust of him based on the goon squad presence.
“John, if I wanted you dead, I’d kill you myself.”
“Anything less would be an insult.”
“I don’t have any intel yet, so you’ll have to stay here until I can figure out what the deal is.”
He turns to go, but he isn’t finished.
“I’m curious, John. How the hell do you think he made you?”
“No idea.”
“Sometimes even the best can slip.”
“I follow your protocols to the letter. Always have.”
He looks me in the eye, searching for a “tell” associated with lying.
“Please, Bob, you trained me to lie perfectly.”
“My gut tells me you’re not being honest, John. Not completely.”
“Maybe you need to eat something.”
“There’s the attitude again.”
“You want to blame me for this? Go ahead.”
“Okay.
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