reopen the doors. I took the stairs.
Fifteen years ago one of my most prized clients had come to me in a bind.
His teenage son Robin, a thoroughly spoiled little boil on the ass of humanity,
whom I'd already helped extricate from several minor disasters, had finally
gone too far. In a futile attempt to make something of himself, he'd set
himself up as the middleman and somehow managed to end up with both the dope
and the money after a cocaine deal had been interrupted by the DEA. The other
players were not amused.
The mess had come to light when, two mornings later, my client had shuffled
out to pick up the Sunday Times only to find Chuckles, the family Labrador
retriever, eviscerated and nailed to the front door. the handwritten note
tucked under Chuckles's studded collar had been quite explicit. Unless the
drugs and money were returned posthaste to their respective owners, the rest of
the family could expect to meet a similar fate.
My client, having no desire to spend his golden years to Cedar Rapids
looking over his shoulder, wanted me to make contact with the aggrieved parties
and arrange transfers. I'd refused to have anything to do with the dope. I'd
figured this would get me out of it. No such luck.
He wanted me to return the money. Three hundred thousand in large bills. I
balked again. Out of the question. Not my style, I said. The client offered a
five-percent commission. I did some instant arithmetic and went shopping for
professional backup.
I'd heard murmurings about Floyd. Street talk. The kind of larger-than-life
stories that tend to circulate about the truly competent. Nothing solid, just a
few offhand remarks from the right people to the effect that this guy was the
real deal. I'd quietly asked around. Frankie Ortega had told me what number to
call.
Two days later, Floyd returned my call. I explained the situation.
"What do you need?" he'd asked.
"I need to get home safe and sound to the wife and kiddies."
"You don't have a wife and kiddies." He'd done some homework.
"Then, who'll feed my cat?"
"You don't have a cat either. Five grand if we can leave them where
they fall. Ten if I have to do cleanup."
"I'm hoping we don't have to do either," I said.
"Five grand either way."
We settled on five grand. He was there when I got out of my Mustang in front
of Lincoln Park. A big guy, six-four or so, curly hair, little close-set eyes.
Big wet lips under a nose that had seen a lot of wear and was flat at the tip.
All that was left of his right ear was a withered flap of skin that stuck
straight out from his head like a dried apricot. Miss Congeniality this was
not.
Without the benefit of an introduction, he started right in.
"This is supposed to be a one-on-one?"
"Supposedly."
"They'll try to make it look that way, then. They'll send somebody
harmless-looking. You're responsible for the one you meet. He's your problem.
I'll take care of the rest. What are you packing?"
"I'm not," I said. He was disgusted.
"Not very often it get to meet anybody who's actually as dumb as he
looks. Just because this is a park don't mean this is just a walk,
asshole."
He pulled up his right pant leg and liberated an automatic from a spring
holster strapped to his ankle. "Take this."
I dropped the gun in my overcoat pocket. The coat sagged. He shook his head
again. His damaged ear quivered. He held out his hand.
"Gimme it back." The gun snagged several times as I fished it out.
He set it on the ground at his feet, reached into his left sleeve, pulled out a
combat knife, and in one smooth motion yanked up my coat and cut the right-hand
pocket out. He retrieved the automatic, thumbed off the safety, and gave it
back to me.
"Now just stick your hand down through the pocket and carry it along
your leg. Anything happens, shoot right through the coat. You need to get rid
of it, just drop it and keep walking. Got it?" I said I did.
We wound our way down the walkway toward the far baseball diamond where the
meet was
Fifteen years ago one of my most prized clients had come to me in a bind.
His teenage son Robin, a thoroughly spoiled little boil on the ass of humanity,
whom I'd already helped extricate from several minor disasters, had finally
gone too far. In a futile attempt to make something of himself, he'd set
himself up as the middleman and somehow managed to end up with both the dope
and the money after a cocaine deal had been interrupted by the DEA. The other
players were not amused.
The mess had come to light when, two mornings later, my client had shuffled
out to pick up the Sunday Times only to find Chuckles, the family Labrador
retriever, eviscerated and nailed to the front door. the handwritten note
tucked under Chuckles's studded collar had been quite explicit. Unless the
drugs and money were returned posthaste to their respective owners, the rest of
the family could expect to meet a similar fate.
My client, having no desire to spend his golden years to Cedar Rapids
looking over his shoulder, wanted me to make contact with the aggrieved parties
and arrange transfers. I'd refused to have anything to do with the dope. I'd
figured this would get me out of it. No such luck.
He wanted me to return the money. Three hundred thousand in large bills. I
balked again. Out of the question. Not my style, I said. The client offered a
five-percent commission. I did some instant arithmetic and went shopping for
professional backup.
I'd heard murmurings about Floyd. Street talk. The kind of larger-than-life
stories that tend to circulate about the truly competent. Nothing solid, just a
few offhand remarks from the right people to the effect that this guy was the
real deal. I'd quietly asked around. Frankie Ortega had told me what number to
call.
Two days later, Floyd returned my call. I explained the situation.
"What do you need?" he'd asked.
"I need to get home safe and sound to the wife and kiddies."
"You don't have a wife and kiddies." He'd done some homework.
"Then, who'll feed my cat?"
"You don't have a cat either. Five grand if we can leave them where
they fall. Ten if I have to do cleanup."
"I'm hoping we don't have to do either," I said.
"Five grand either way."
We settled on five grand. He was there when I got out of my Mustang in front
of Lincoln Park. A big guy, six-four or so, curly hair, little close-set eyes.
Big wet lips under a nose that had seen a lot of wear and was flat at the tip.
All that was left of his right ear was a withered flap of skin that stuck
straight out from his head like a dried apricot. Miss Congeniality this was
not.
Without the benefit of an introduction, he started right in.
"This is supposed to be a one-on-one?"
"Supposedly."
"They'll try to make it look that way, then. They'll send somebody
harmless-looking. You're responsible for the one you meet. He's your problem.
I'll take care of the rest. What are you packing?"
"I'm not," I said. He was disgusted.
"Not very often it get to meet anybody who's actually as dumb as he
looks. Just because this is a park don't mean this is just a walk,
asshole."
He pulled up his right pant leg and liberated an automatic from a spring
holster strapped to his ankle. "Take this."
I dropped the gun in my overcoat pocket. The coat sagged. He shook his head
again. His damaged ear quivered. He held out his hand.
"Gimme it back." The gun snagged several times as I fished it out.
He set it on the ground at his feet, reached into his left sleeve, pulled out a
combat knife, and in one smooth motion yanked up my coat and cut the right-hand
pocket out. He retrieved the automatic, thumbed off the safety, and gave it
back to me.
"Now just stick your hand down through the pocket and carry it along
your leg. Anything happens, shoot right through the coat. You need to get rid
of it, just drop it and keep walking. Got it?" I said I did.
We wound our way down the walkway toward the far baseball diamond where the
meet was
Similar Books
