"Yes, who is it out there?"
"Hi, Clarissa."
"Who? Who did you ask for?"
Embarrassed, I corrected my error. Clarissa was the fantasy "it" girl from my old romantic poem. Where was my mind off to today? "Sorry, I meant to say Alec. I'm Tommy Mack Zane. A little earlier we spoke over the phone."
"Oh, I remember you." Her security features flew off, and her door arced inward. She matched—auburn-haired, freckled, and petite—the photo Mr. Ogg had given me before I tucked it into my wallet. What I found in the flesh was more vibrant. She wore a dressy black smock (no bra) and black slacks no doubt she’d selected and put on for our meeting. She’d fake eyebrows. My crackling pheromones indicated we generated chemistry. I gave her my most ingratiating smile, and she showed the white, even teeth in hers. "Thanks for coming. Enter, please, Mr. Zane."
Mr. Zane
. Was that classy, or what? I trailed her inside the loft, and she closed up behind us. The fresh tang of paint and turpentine was that of a serious artist's ardor, why she'd fallen for my ploy to represent a new upscale art gallery out in Middleburg. A local gallery exhibiting her artwork had impressed me, and I was interested to see any newer projects to include in an exhibit sponsored by our gallery. She'd acted gushy and effusive—"Rad! Awesome!"—over the phone.
Three smoke-tinted skylights heightened the airy, citrus-toned loft. Date palms bracketed the doorframe, and I also saw a flock of canvasses, some still white blanks. The maddeningly insistent grinds to Ravel's
Boléro
played from her laptop.
Glib was never my strong suit, and the real topic here wasn't the modern art she depicted in her splashy cityscapes. As she hunched her sculptural shoulders, I whiffed her sandalwood cologne, and I lost any zest to kill her. She was just too damn cute to leave as a stiff, two caps drilled in her skull. Like I said, this contract was nixed, my call.
"Do any of the art pieces jump out at you? I love to get my patrons' immediate reactions."
"Ms. Snell, I'll cut to the chase." My eyes bored into hers. "I don't know bupkis on modern art, and I own no art gallery in Middleburg or anywhere else. You see, the outfit is my employer. Do you know who they are, or should I elaborate?"
"Oh. My." Her smile wilted as her sensual mouth shriveled from her spiraling horror. "Them again."
"Yes, them again."
"I only did the right thing."
"Commendable, yes, but terribly naïve, I'm afraid. You got more than one warning to keep it zipped, but you chose to disregard them."
"Well, I was under oath and committing perjury could result in prison."
"Nevertheless thanks to you, several gentlemen I know rot in prison for long stretches."
"Look, I didn't plan to be there. I just told what I saw them do in the alleyway beside the restaurant. Murder is murder."
"Sure you did, but these gentlemen are ruthless."
"Ruthless?"
Thank goodness
Boléro
had ceased playing on her laptop. She needed a jazz
appreciation course from yours truly.
"Direly," I said. "You see, my actual profession is a hired assassin. You
might know me better as a hit man. That's right, I've received a boodle of cash to kill you. But before you freak out, that's not what I'm set to do, but only
if
…"
She turned pale enough to wash out her violet freckles and rasped out her one-word rejoinder. "…
if
?"
I lowered my prison-yard glare on her. "
If
you chose to accept my harsh but essential terms."
She swallowed. Bit her lips. Rubbed her forehead. "I'll go to the cops. Again. I will."
I said nothing, and her fragile threat was left hanging until its thread broke.
"All right, so you've got me cornered. Do you expect me to cut and run?"
"Pointless. The bloodhounds can find you wherever you decide to flee."
"What then? I slink off and lay low for a while?"
"You're on the right track." I paused before springing the zinger on her. "Except this trip will be a permanent one.
Permanent
. Understand me?"
She laughed, maniac and shrill, before she hushed and lowered her cool blues on me, her indignation heated. "You expect me to give up my life in D.C., forsake my friends, and sever ties with my family?"
"It sure beats the grim alternative: death."
"Well, I don't want to die."
"Who does? That's why I brought my deal."
"Deal. For me. Why?"
"Maybe I've found religion. Maybe I'm a hit man with a new heart of gold. Maybe I'm falling in love with you at first sight. What do you care?"
"Because I better know a little about the devil offering me the deal."
"I'll be candid with you. You showed plenty of guts to stand up to them, and I admire that. Most ladies I know would've folded, but not you. So I'm cutting you a break. You can take it or leave it."
"Won't you get into trouble?"
"Let me worry about that part."
"Are there any strings?"
I smiled. "Strings come attached, yes."
"Are you prepared to tell me what they are?"
"Nothing repulsive, I can assure you."
"At least that's something. How long can I think it over?"
"One minute, and counting."
"You don't leave me much—or rather, any—choice…I suppose we'll do it your way."
"You've rendered a most wise decision."
"Will I have to sacrifice my art, too?"
"No-no. You should be still on safe ground there."
"Let's get to it then. How do we do this?"
"I'm still honing the finer details. First you'll need traveling money." I pressed a green wad into her palm. "Use this to tide you over until you can wangle a paying job."
"Is this money stolen from a bank or armored van heist?"
"It's the blood money they paid me to whack you. Now you get the last laugh on
them by spending it. How does that make you feel?"
"I feel nothing, Mr. Zane. Numb tracks from my head to my feet. Level with me. Did you come armed to murder me?"
"You bet your sweet bippy I did." The .22 snub nose tumbled out from my jacket pocket. "Compact but very lethal."
The shiver rattled her own compact frame. "What's that icky rash on your hand?" she asked.
"It's my pox and penance."
"Huh?"
"Never mind. Time grows tight, so let's put our heads together…"
A half-hour later, I whistled down a gypsy cab, left Alec Snell still alive and in the process of spiriting out of D.C. I returned to
Virginia
. She was a resourceful, plucky, and shrewd young lady, and I'd every confidence she'd pull a convincing Houdini act. If I entertained any misgivings or regrets on not carrying out my contract by killing her, I didn't keep them.
You'd've thought I learned my lesson from when I helped Icie who wanted out from under her abusive drunk husband Victor, but Alec struck me as special. For beginners, she was a painter, not a lush. Her dynamic art appealed to my creative side, and I felt willing to gamble my own life that we had a shot at a happy future spent together.
T
hree-and-a-half months later, Mr. Ogg and I huddled in the front room at his bungalow.
"The Alec Snell hit," he said, his savage words jolting my spine. "Remember her?"
"The young bitch living downtown at
Logan
's Circle, wasn't it?" I said, my calm voice belying my wariness.
"The blabbermouth, yeah, she's the one. Funny thing. She must be a Lazarus that rose up from the dead. Miraculous, ain't it?" His aviator shades riveted on me as if he saw straight into my guilty soul.
"Oh?" I asked. "How is that so?"
"Our
Baltimore
friends got the word she was holed up in
Paris
,
Idaho
. They checked it out, and she was there, all right, hiding behind an alias. McCoy made the flight, and he drove a wooden stake through her Lazarus heart, and she won't run off with her mouth again."
"Uh-huh," was all I said except I knew Alec Snell didn't reside in
Paris
,
Idaho
. But a young lady—Dolores Spicer—who bore a coincidental but striking enough resemblance to Alec Snell sure did. My computer hacker pal had researched it to locate the closest physical match for me. Then via the back channels, I'd leaked the rumor to the
Baltimore
outfit.
That way I knew the dolt McCoy had gone and whacked the Alec look-a-like Dolores. The outfit scratched off Alec (Dolores) as toe tagged on a morgue slab in
Idaho
. But she—and I—could breathe a lot easier. My plan had triumphed, and I exulted in my success. Of course, I was now banking on my store of goodwill with Mr. Ogg to wheedle a second chance from him. He was beyond pissed off at me.
"Here's the bottom line, Tommy Mack. I might dig one target returning from the dead." He jacked up one gnarly finger to emphasize his point. "After all, Lazarus did it, but if you ever go this nuts again to save out a piece of juicy, young ass for yourself, I'll be in the market for a new Tommy Mack. Am I registering?"
"Indeed you are, Mr. Ogg."
"If you're that horny, I've got a whole stable of sex slaves fresh off the boat from
Romania
. Virgins, too. Just let me know, and it's on me."
"That's okay, and thanks, too."
"Aw, shut up and get out of my sight before I take off your head at the neck like I ought to do."
I did as he ordered, smiling after I exited his bungalow’s front door.
Chapter 27
"I'
m set to throw a fit for a smoke," I said. "Hand me a pack of Blue Castles, Danny."
"Can't. They're all gone," she said.
"What? I just bought a whole carton of them."
"Talk to D. Noble, not me. All I got are the sawed-offs, ammo, and body armor."
I looked from her in the rearview mirror to D. Noble riding shotgun beside me. "What do you know about my missing cigarettes?"
"You can blame me, all right. I pitched them out the window."
"You did what?"
"I tried smoking one, and they stink up the coupé."
"Never mind. I should quit."
"How did the dark suit find you?" ask Danny.
I'd given them the skinny on the drugstore shootout. D. Noble compared it to a busy day in
Afghanistan
, and I told him that was bullshit. Their caliber of firepower made ours look puny. "The shifty cashier must've called it in. She was holding a cell phone, and I thought I'd seen her somewhere before."
"Mr. Ogg knows you only use coin phones, home slice. He's spread the word to be on the lookout for you there."
I nodded before D. Noble went on.
"Two things are obvious. The cops didn't pinch this chump Gutt for Gwen's murder, and it's open season to bag your ass."
"There's no Gutt, and Rita was baiting me for a trap." I let out a long breath. "How many leg-breakers did Mr. Ogg bring into the city? They're roving the streets in taxis now."
"Many. Stop at the next bodega, and I'll buy your Blue Castles," said D. Noble. "I'll put up with the stink, if it settles your nerves any. Danny, break out the sawed-offs. This time we'll be armed for whatever shit comes at us."
The bodega was yet another dive I found blighting
Old
Yvor
City
tonight. I braked, slowing to negotiate the turn, and the coupé parked diagonally out front. The glass front revealed the interior lights as a harsh white glaring down on the junky aisles. Next door the tawdry pink neon shingle glimmered over a narrow shop door.