‘My bed?’
‘I got her to the bathroom. Pick up sponges on your way home.’
‘Is she awake?’
‘Snoring like a bear.’
‘You need to move her,’ he said. ‘The men who broke into her motel room last night came to my office. They might check my apartment too.’
‘What if I can’t wake her?’
‘Do what you need to. Drag her down the hall.’
‘And into the elevator? And out to a taxi? Now you’re overestimating me.’
‘Get her down to the building basement. Hang out in the laundry room until I come.’
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘now you’ve got me doing your dirty laundry.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘Call me when you’re in the basement.’
Kelson hung up, grabbed his KelTec and jacket, and left his office. As he rode the elevator to the lobby, he pulled his phone back out and watched its blank screen. He went out to the sidewalk, crossed the street to the parking garage, and jogged up the ramp to his car. He put the key in the door and checked his phone again. ‘Come on, c’mon,’ he said to the screen.
He drove down to the exit, shot out to the street, and cut around a slow-moving truck. He drove two blocks, glanced at his phone, and accelerated through a yellow light. When a red light stopped him two blocks later, he called Doreen’s phone. It rang and bounced to voicemail. ‘No way,’ he said, and hit the gas as the light turned green. Twice more as he drove to his apartment, he called Doreen’s number. Each time, it rang and rang and rang.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Kelson swung to the curb in front of his building, went into the lobby, and took the stairs to the basement. He went through a low-ceilinged corridor with exposed pipes and rounded the door into the laundry room. A couple were making out in the corner, the woman sitting on a washer that vibrated in spin cycle, the man standing between her legs. Kelson yelled, ‘Did you see a big-breasted woman and a redhead?’
The woman pulled her lips from the man’s and stared at Kelson. ‘Creep,’ she said.
‘Get the hell out of here, OK?’ the man said.
‘How long have you been here?’ Kelson said.
‘This is your business?’ the woman said.
‘Like five minutes,’ the man said. ‘Now leave.’
Kelson was already gone. He ran up the corridor to the elevator, muttered at the elevator door until the car came, and rode to his floor.
When he went into his apartment, Payday mewed at him from his bed. He asked her, ‘Where are they?’ He poked his head into the kitchenette. He stepped into the bathroom. Painter’s Lane was sniffing the mess Genevieve Bower made when she missed the toilet. ‘Huh,’ Kelson said. He shooed her out and closed the door.
He left his apartment and ran down the hall to the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time back to the basement.
When he charged into the laundry room, the couple were still making out. The man had a hand inside the woman’s T-shirt. Kelson stared around wildly. Then he kicked a dryer.
The couple jumped, and the woman yelled, ‘What the hell?’
‘Impulse control,’ Kelson said, and he kicked a garbage can. The can spun across the floor and tipped. The lid rolled off, and the garbage spilled out. At the top there was a man’s gray sweatshirt with a Chicago Bears logo – Phillips’s. One of the shirt sleeves was smeared with vomit.
‘Dammit,’ Kelson said, and he kicked another dryer.
Outside in his car, he called Rodman. ‘Phillips and Cushman have them,’ he said.
‘Wow,’ Rodman said.
‘Exactly. I’m heading to G&G.’
‘Don’t,’ Rodman said. ‘This has gone too far. Call Dan Peters or Venus Johnson.’
‘I’m sure that’s good advice.’ Kelson turned the key in the ignition.
‘You’ve no idea what’s waiting for you there,’ Rodman said.
‘I have a pretty good idea. But they don’t have any idea what I’ll do.’
‘Control yourself, OK? If they killed Jeremy Oliver—’
‘If they hurt Doreen and—’
‘I’ll meet you there. Wait in the parking lot. Don’t go in without me.’
‘More good advice.’ Kelson hit the gas.
He sped out to the Interstate and north to Mundelein. When traffic thickened, he shoved up within inches of the cars in front of him, jerked the steering wheel, and slid into an adjacent lane. When other drivers honked at him, he flipped them off out the side windows or in the rearview mirror. Joan Jett’s ‘I Love Rock ’n’ Roll’ began to play deep in his brain. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just no.’ For a half mile before he got off the Interstate, he drove on the shoulder, swearing at the other drivers – and at himself.
When he reached the concrete and glass building that housed the G&G offices, he left his car in the fire lane, ran inside, and poked the elevator call button. When the indicator light showed the elevator stationary at the third floor, he went to the stairwell and ran upstairs. He burst into the G&G reception area out of breath.
The receptionist raised her eyebrows and asked pleasantly, ‘May I—’
He went past her, into the hallway leading to the Cranes’ offices.
Before the receptionist could get up from her desk and follow him, he ran up the hall and rounded the doorway into Harold Crane’s suite.
Harold Crane was there.
So was Doreen.
They sat together on a blue leather couch across from the desk.
They were drinking glasses of wine.
Kelson made a sound. Then he made another sound. Then he managed to make a word. ‘What?’
Harold Crane gazed up, his beakish nose pointing at Kelson, and grinned as if he’d pulled off a practical joke. ‘Ah, Mr Kelson.’
Kelson stared at Doreen. ‘What …’
She gave him a masklike smile. She said, ‘Turns out I know Harry.’
‘Harry?’
‘From before,’ she said.
‘You mean, as an escort?’
‘I went out with Harry to several dinners,’ she said. The little man grinned and squeezed one of her knees. ‘As his evening companion,’ she said.
‘Small world?’ Kelson said, and the words felt small in his mouth.
‘Small city,’ she said. ‘For a select clientele.’ She laid her hand on Crane’s.
Kelson remembered the man’s flaccid fingers from when he first met him. He stared at Doreen touching him and said, ‘Slugs.’
Doreen gave him a warning look. He started to ask her why. But Stevie Phillips, Greg Cushman, and the receptionist rushed into the office. Phillips and Cushman moved toward Kelson as if they would wrestle him to the floor. Kelson dangled his fingers over the pistol in his belt.
Harold Crane said, ‘It’s all right, boys,’ and Phillips and Cushman stopped. ‘Mr Kelson is joining us for a drink.’ He gazed at Kelson. ‘Is wine acceptable, or do you prefer beer? We also have a bottle of Woodford bouncing around. Can you mix alcohol with the opioids you’re taking?’
Kelson brushed his fingers over the pistol grip. ‘How do you know—’ He glanced at Doreen, who shook her head.
Crane said, ‘We have a wonderful research department, as the best investment companies do. Would you like to know your credit history? Would you like me to tell you what you ate for breakfast?’
‘I’d like to know where you’ve got Genevieve Bower,’ Kelson said.
‘You paid for the waffle at the Golden Apple Grill with a Visa card. I tell you this because I want to frighten you.’
‘Where is she?’
‘We’ve already moved her somewhere we can keep her safe.’
‘You mean where you can keep yourself safe from her?’ Kelson said. His fingers rested on the pistol grip.
One side of Crane’s mouth curled in a smile. ‘I assure you that pulling your gun would be the biggest mistake of your life.’
Cushman asked Crane, ‘You want me to take it fr
om him?’ He’d taped a bandage over his cut-up cheek.
Crane asked Kelson, ‘Will that be necessary?’
Kelson said, ‘I’m taking Doreen out of here.’
Crane’s smile spread. ‘I believe the lady’s enjoying her wine.’
Kelson said to her, ‘Are you enjoying your wine?’
Doreen raised her glass to her lips and downed the rest. ‘Very much.’ She set down the glass and squeezed Crane’s hand. ‘Give me a call,’ she said.
She got up and joined Kelson. He stared at her, confused. She smiled. ‘Are we going?’
As they walked out of the office toward the reception area, he said, ‘What the hell—’
She took his hand, squeezed hard, and whispered, ‘Shut up.’
In the elevator, he tried again. ‘What the hell was that about?’
‘She’s in a room in the back.’
‘What?’
‘Genevieve Bower. I got him to tell me – I had to kiss him for it. His goddamned tongue tastes like a turd. If you hadn’t come in, he would’ve wanted more.’ She looked like she wanted to spit. ‘We used to call him Scary Harry. The things he wanted to do.’
‘Did you do them?’
‘Do you want me to answer that?’
‘No.’
They went out through the lobby into the late-afternoon sun. Kelson stopped before they got to his car. ‘I can’t leave her here.’
‘Wrong,’ Doreen said. ‘You’ve got to. You can’t go in alone. You saw that place – you heard Harry. When Phillips and Cushman brought us in, they gave her to three other guys. What’re you going to do against five men?’
‘I can’t—’
‘Call for help,’ she said. ‘Get the cops. What good can you do on your own?’
Then a white van ripped across the parking lot. It stopped in the fire lane behind the Dodge Challenger. Rodman stepped out. He looked cool and calm.
He said to Kelson, ‘You went in without me, didn’t you?’
‘I did,’ Kelson said.
Rodman shook his head, then looked at Doreen. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Never better,’ she said.
‘She was getting drunk with Harold Crane,’ Kelson said.
‘Where’s Genevieve Bower?’ Rodman asked.
‘Still inside,’ Kelson said.
‘In a back room,’ Doreen said.
‘They’ve got five men on her,’ Kelson said.
Rodman glanced from Kelson to Doreen, as if searching for something he didn’t see. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘what are we waiting for?’ He went to the lobby doors and disappeared into the building.
Kelson and Doreen stared at each other. ‘Hell,’ Kelson said, and they followed Rodman.
TWENTY-NINE
Rodman went in to the reception area first, Doreen behind him, Kelson behind her. The receptionist looked unhappy to see them again.
‘We’re here for Genevieve Bower,’ Rodman said, the way a deliveryman might say he’d come to pick up a box.
The receptionist fumbled with her phone. ‘I’ll call Mr—’
‘No, you won’t,’ Rodman said, gentle, and he took the phone from her. Then he moved past her desk into the hallway.
Kelson pulled out his pistol, and he and Doreen went into the hallway after him.
Stevie Phillips was coming from a doorway at the far end. He saw the three of them and froze at the sight of Rodman. Then he yelled, ‘Cushman.’
Greg Cushman popped out of a doorway across from him, followed by a man in a gray sport coat who looked enough like him to be his brother.
When a freckled man came from a doorway halfway down the hall, Rodman backfisted him in the face, and the man stumbled back into the room and stayed.
Cushman’s lookalike reached inside his sport coat, and Rodman said, ‘No, no, no – bad idea.’ Kelson stepped around Doreen, training his pistol on the man. The man dropped his hand to his side.
Phillips ducked back into the room he’d come out of and slammed the door.
‘Silly,’ Rodman said and, as Kelson held his pistol on the other two men, went to the door and tried the knob.
It was locked.
Rodman punched a spot above the knob with the heel of his hand. The door flew open.
He stepped in, and a gun fired at him, twice – a small-caliber pop, pop.
He jumped back out, hugged the wall, and looked at his belly and legs to make sure nothing had hit. He nodded at Kelson, and they switched places – Rodman watching Cushman and his lookalike, Kelson moving for the door.
Kelson went in, his finger on the trigger, his eyes blurring with fear.
The shooter – a guy who parted his long blond hair from over his left ear – was inspecting a little pistol, as if unsure whether it had misfired or he’d had bad aim. Genevieve Bower sat in a chair at one end of a conference table. She no longer looked drunk. She looked terrified. Phillips stood behind her and, when Kelson came in, locked his arms around her head as if he might snap her neck.
‘Put it down,’ Kelson said to the blond guy.
The guy hesitated.
Kelson shot a bullet into the wall beside him. ‘Please,’ he said.
The guy laid his pistol on the floor.
Kelson aimed at Phillips. ‘Move away from her.’
‘You’re out of your goddamned mind,’ Phillips said.
‘Yep,’ Kelson said, and shot again – into the wall beside Phillips.
Phillips tightened his arms. ‘If you leave now, maybe I let her live.’
Then Rodman and Doreen stepped into the room.
Doreen stared at Phillips gripping Genevieve Bower and said, ‘That sucks.’ She walked toward him. ‘I hate guys like you. You think because you’ve got a dick you get to piss on everyone. Guess what? I’ve seen a lot of dicks, and I’m not impressed. Guys like you, you mostly piss on yourself.’ She kicked him in the leg.
He eyed her like she was crazy, and he tried to move aside. He didn’t let go of Genevieve Bower, but he didn’t break her neck.
Doreen kicked him again. Harder. In the knee.
He yelled in pain and tightened his arms.
Doreen kicked him.
He let go and went after her. ‘Goddamn crazy bitch.’
Rodman moved in and slugged him in the face.
Phillips went down.
Genevieve Bower gasped for air. Rodman and Doreen helped her up. ‘Time to go,’ Rodman said.
‘Uh-huh,’ Genevieve Bower said, rocky on her feet. Then she faltered. ‘Uh-oh.’ She bent and dry heaved. She wiped her mouth on her arm and said, ‘Delicate tummy.’ She headed for the door.
Rodman and Kelson went out before her.
At the other end of the hall, Harold and Sylvia Crane blocked the way to the reception area. The freckled man Rodman had backfisted stood between them. His hair was almost as red as Doreen’s. He wore khakis and a white golf shirt that showed his freckled biceps. Blood spotted his upper lip. He held a short, thick wooden bar of some kind, and he seemed interested in using it as a cudgel.
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Kelson said.
Harold Crane said, ‘She stays here.’
Kelson asked Genevieve Bower, ‘You want to stay here?’
She shook her head.
‘She doesn’t want to stay here,’ he said.
The freckled man turned the wooden bar in his hands.
‘Stupid,’ Rodman said, and went for him.
The man smashed the bar against Rodman’s shoulder.
Rodman seemed to absorb the pain. He grabbed the man’s shirt collar and pulled him toward him. The man tried to hit him with the bar again, but Rodman punched his jaw. The blow drove the man against the hallway wall.
Harold Crane stepped aside.
Sylvia Crane stood in front of Rodman.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to her.
‘Do you realize what you’re doing?’ she said.
‘Yeah, I’m walking out of here with my friends.’ His voice calm, gent
le.
She pointed a fingernail at Genevieve Bower. ‘She’s dangerous.’
‘Nah, she’s a frightened bunny,’ he said.
‘I can’t let you leave with her,’ she said.
‘I can’t see you stopping me.’
She looked like she would lunge at him. He gazed at her with his kind, heavy-lidded eyes. She stepped out of the way.
Kelson, Doreen, Genevieve Bower, and Rodman rode the elevator to the lobby and went outside. Rodman opened the sliding door on the van, and Genevieve Bower climbed in back. ‘No reason to advertise you,’ he said, then asked Kelson, ‘my place?’
‘See you there,’ Kelson said, and he and Doreen got into the Challenger.
They drove across the parking lot and on to the frontage road, heading toward the Interstate. When they hit Route 176, Kelson collected his thoughts enough to say, ‘Huh.’
Doreen put a hand on his thigh. She moved as close to him as the center console allowed. ‘I hope this is OK,’ she said.
‘Yeah, yeah, it’s good,’ he said.
THIRTY
When Kelson and Doreen reached the Bronzeville neighborhood and parked in front of the Ebenezer Baptist Church, they gazed out of the car for any sign that the Cranes’ men guessed where they were going and beat them. When they saw no one, they ran from the car and climbed the two flights of stairs to Rodman’s apartment.
Rodman had just helped Genevieve Bower up the stairs and settled her on the couch. When Kelson and Doreen came in, he said, ‘She’s got a story to tell,’ and he went into the kitchen to make coffee.
Genevieve Bower said, ‘Next time someone gives me a bottle of strawberry vodka, remind me to knock them over the head with it.’
Kelson pulled over a chair so he could face her. ‘Tell me.’
She breathed deep. Her breath stank. ‘My uncle takes what he wants,’ she said.
‘Your – Harold Crane?’
‘Uncle Harry,’ she said. ‘When I was little – nine or ten – he was my favorite. When our family got together, my mom tried to keep me away from him. She called him her psycho brother. Her dirty brother. I didn’t understand. To me, he seemed so smart. Funny. Rich. He had everything, while my mom and dad were falling apart. He snuck me these amazing presents in little boxes. A little recorder – to sing into and tell my secrets. A tiny spy camera – to take pictures of myself for him. He gave me little toys to play with in bed after my mom and dad went to sleep.’ She spoke more to the air in front of her than to Kelson, as if having anyone hear her words would hurt more than containing them in herself. ‘When my mom found the camera, she took it away, but I didn’t tell her where I got it. My dad hit me when he found the recorder – he thought I stole it. That made me love Harry more. For my tenth birthday, he gave me a necklace with a ruby. I did everything he asked. He had cameras too – good cameras, video cameras. He called what we did “playing”. I knew we weren’t playing. For a while, I didn’t care – or I didn’t think I cared. And then I did.’
Lucky Bones Page 15