by Jon F. Merz
"All that killing not fulfilling enough for you?"
Frank set the serving spoon down. "You know, Gia, whatever you might think of my line of work, it might be good for you to remember that if I wasn't paid to do what I do, you'd be dead right now."
"How do you figure that? I can take care of myself. I was armed."
"What - that little pea shooter? Give me a break. Patrisi's people would have bloodied the street with you days ago and you never would have seen it coming. Now, you can deny that if it makes you feel better, but we both know deep down inside where your stomach has those butterflies fluttering around, that I'm right."
He opened the rice cooker and helped himself to some rice. Gia stayed silent. He looked at her again. "Forget it, okay? What matters is that you're not dead."
She sat. "Does that matter to you?"
"Would I have risked my life if it didn't mean anything to me?"
"Would you?"
"No." He held up the spoon. "You want some of this rice or not?"
"Please."
He dished some out and then slid the bowl of stir-fry over to her. "You know you can't go to work tomorrow right?"
"You can't keep me captive here, Frank."
"Don't think of it as being a captive. Think of it as protective custody. Isn't that the term the cops like to use?"
"Doesn't change what it really is," said Gia.
"Fine. Think of it as you being able to keep breathing for another few days then, how's that sound?"
She used the chopsticks to spear a piece of broccoli. "You steamed it just right."
"I took a class. What do you want to drink?"
"Any beer?"
"Yeah." He got up and went to the refrigerator.
"So, what now?"
He grabbed two bottles and sat back down. "Now, we eat."
"And what about after we eat? What then?"
"Aren't you tired?"
"Not really."
He grinned. "You make it sound like getting shot at by a Mafia shooter happens to you every day." He took a sip of beer. "It doesn't, does it?"
She smiled. "Well, not every day."
"Good."
"I mean it though, what are we going to do? We can't run from Patrisi for the rest of our lives. Sooner or later we've got to come out of hiding. What then? Do we just live in fear of one day being gunned down as we walk down the street?"
Frank shook his head. "We'd be lucky if that happened."
"Excuse me?"
"Being shot," he said. "After what I've done, I'd be lucky if they killed me within twenty-four hours. Knowing what a sick bastard Patrisi is, he'll keep me alive and beat the shit out of me over and over again until he gets tired and wastes me."
She grinned. "You know that for a fact?"
"What the hell do you think? Of course I do. Listen Gia; I know things about the guy you don't know, okay? I know how he took care of some guy who was fucking his wife a while back. Patrisi didn't lay a hand on his wife. But he went to town on this guy. Dragged him down into the basement of the club one night. They went to work on him with screwdrivers. Right through his kneecaps. They used a staple gun on the guy's balls. Nothing lethal, just stuff that put the guy through agony."
"What bout the screams? Someone would have heard."
"Tough to scream when you got duct tape over your mouth. And even if he could have screamed, Patrisi has baffling installed to soundproof the place. He knew exactly what he was going to do to the poor bastard."
"I would have passed out."
Frank leaned back. "They took that into account. Every time this guy passed out form the pain, they brought him around again. Water, smelling salts, I don't know. But they kept him awake for pretty much the entire session."
"How long?" Gia's voice was quiet.
"How long what?"
"To die."
"I heard two days." Frank speared a piece of chicken with his chopsticks and slid it into his mouth. "I heard Patrisi finally got winded and took a reciprocating saw to the guy's head. When he was done with that, he went to work chopping him up into little bits."
"My god."
"Yeah, wellÉGod wasn't there when this guy needed him most."
"What happened to the body?"
"The guy?" Frank shrugged. "Gone."
"Gone? What do you mean gone?"
He pointed at her plate. "You gonna eat? I thought you were starving."
"I will."
He looked at her. "What I heard was they stored the guy in a big Tupperware container. You know, industrial size. And when spring rolled around, the first really warm balmy day in May, they took Patrisi's boat out off of Gloucester."
"They buried him at sea?"
"Kinda."
"Kinda?"
"Once they got two miles out, they starting spooning portions of this guy overboard. You know what a chum line is?"
"No."
"It's what sport fisherman do to attract sharks to the boat so they can catch Ôem. They usually use a mix of fish oil, squid guts, and tuna heads. This time they used the guy who'd been fucking Patrisi's wife."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. It was a religious experience, too."
"Why?"
"Because Patrisi hooked himself a fifteen foot great white shark using the guy as bait, that's why. When they got back into port, he even got written up in the papers for it. You go down to the club, you see that picture behind the counter. You've seen it, haven't you?"
The look on Gia's face changed to recognition. "I remember it, yeah."
"Well, there you go. Guy fucks his wife and Patrisi gets himself in the paper for hooking a great white. How's that for life?"
Gia ate some stir-fry. "FrankÉdid you-?"
"Me? Nah. Not my ball of wax, pardon the pun. I only do hits that are clean. I don't go in for that torture shit. If Patrisi wants someone taken out, I go and do it. Fast and clean. It's how I was taught. I don't intend to dishonor the memory of my teacher by changing."
"I'm glad you weren't a part of that."
"Yeah, me too. Especially on the receiving end, you know what I mean?"
"That poor man."
"Yeah, well he had to know what kind of waters he was swimming in. I mean, Patrisi's wife is pretty well known. Anyone with half a brain woulda steered well clear of her."
"You think she slept with the guy for his brain?"
"Guess not. Sure wasn't much left of it when the sharks got through with him. Or anything else for that matter."
"No one ever came looking for the guy?"
"What are they going to say? Shit, everyone knew Patrisi'd done the guy. But who the hell was going to stand up and say anything? Not only would they have me to contend with, but then they got that psycho basket case Patrisi to deal with as well."
"And here I thought you respected him."
"Respect him?" Frank smiled. "No. I got no respect for the guy. I have loyalty to him because he employed me. That doesn't mean I have to respect him or even like him for that matter."
"How do you reconcile that?"
He needed more rice. And sauce. "There's nothing to reconcile. A guy pays me to do a job for him, he earns my loyalty. I don't step out on my employer."
"Did Moe teach you that as well?"
"Yep."
"Did he teach you everything?"
"Near as I can figure."
"And what did Moe tell you to do in a situation like this?"
"Yeah, well, you know, we never really talked much about this kind of eventuality. Moe's thing was you worked for someone and that was it. You stayed loyal and they'd be loyal right back to you. Moe, you know, he had himself the same boss for over forty years before he retired and took me on as his student."
"Moe ever have a boss try to kill him?"
"No. But then again, Moe probably never gave his boss a reason to try to whack him in the first place."
"And you have."
He studied her for a second. "Thanks to you. Yeah."
Gia ate some more stir-fry and pushed her bowl away. Frank looked at the bowl. "What - you done already?"
Gia reached for her beer. "Kind of lost my appetite halfway through your fish story."
"Yeah. Sorry about that."
"Forget it."
She stood and walked back to the windows. Frank watched her while he shoveled some more food into his mouth. "You really ought to try to eat some more. Moe always said you should always try to eat, shit, and sleep when you can. You never know when you might be able to do again."
She turned back. "I thought you said no one knew about this place."
"I did. No one does. But that doesn't mean there ain't a chance someone could get lucky. If I know Patrisi, he's probably put out a hefty contract already. That'll draw other hitters in pretty fast. Hell, he might even bring some guys in from Jersey and Philly if he really wants to."
"And we simply wait this out until they leave?"
Frank bit into a red pepper and appreciated the crunching sound it made. "Guy like Patrisi? Knows his niece is planning on talking to the Feds and his top hitter has turned? He won't rest easy for a long time. We could stay in here for years and come out one day and he'd still be waiting. And we'd get nailed right then and there, guaranteed."
Gia sunk into the couch. "Well, we can't stay here forever."
"Nope. We sure can't."
"But you won't let me leave."
"Not safe out there for you, Gia. You need to stay here."
"It's hardly safer out there for you. You said it yourself: you're a marked man now."
"Yeah I am. But I can still move easier than you can. And I can take care of myself."
"Why is it that men never admit when they might be scared?"
Frank cocked an eyebrow. "You want me to tell you I'm scared? Well, shit, I am. I'd be a damned fool if I wasn't. And Moe didn't teach a fool. I know what the stakes are. They're higher than anything I've ever played with before. And I am not looking forward to seeing what the dealer slips me for cards."
"So let me go with you."
"No way."
"I could be a help."
"You could also be a problem. You stay here."
"And do what?"
"Do whatever you want. Just don't go downstairs to the armory. It's alarmed."
"And what are you going to do?"
Frank pushed his bowl away. "Well, we got a problem. Patrisi wants us dead, right?"
"Yes."
"And he won't go away and he'll wait for us as long as it takes."
"We covered this already. What are you going to do?"
"The most logical solution to our problem," said Frank getting up, "is to remove the problem."
Gia's eyes widened.
He nodded. "Patrisi and me, we need a little face time."
Chapter Eleven
He ate little for dinner.
He blamed it on the jet lag, but Stahl knew deep down that there was more to his lack of an appetite than mere time shifts. For one thing, he was intensely concerned about the headaches. All of his life, he'd been able to maintain himself in top condition, unhindered by disease and even common colds. Now, all of a sudden - ever since the hit against the serial rapist, he thought, I've become prone to them.
What happened that night? What happened that made me different?
The waiter interrupted his thoughts asking if he wanted more tea. Stahl nodded and watched him pour. The waiter looked young, perhaps only in his early twenties. Stahl wondered if Alois would ever see such an age.
The sooner this assignment is done the better, he decided. The last thing I need to be doing is cavorting halfway around the globe on some insipid assignment.
But was it really all that inane? After all, the money he'd make from this job would be enough to set him and Alois up for the rest of their lives. Alois would be free to do whatever he wanted with his life. And Stahl would always support him.
The way my father never did, he thought sipping his tea.
He ran over the elements of the job in his mind. Assassinating a man - any man for that matter - was not so much a matter of luck, but rather determination. No matter the security surrounding the intended target, a determined and enduring soul could eventually kill him.
But the type of killing this would entail meant that Stahl would forego his usual preferred method of close-contact killing. To try that would mean his death. Even if this man was not as well-guarded as say, the President, he would nevertheless have several guards around him.
Stahl would be a fool to risk his life by attempting to shoot him at close range.
He smirked. I'm a fool anyway for even being here.
Instead, he'd do the job how the target would least suspect it. Where he felt safe. Not vulnerable. Stahl knew that sometimes the place that appeared the safest was actually the most insecure.
But before he could do anything more, however, he would need information about the venue for the target's appearance. He would also need several other items. Things he wasn't sure he'd be able to procure.
But had to.
Stahl's eventual success and personal survival depended on it.
He'd use the contact to find out what he needed to know. To a point. Stahl didn't want to have to entrust his life to anyone if he could possibly avoid it. But on this trip, there were a few things he'd need to rely on others for.
That, in and of itself, was another reason to worry.
He slid cash under his check and left the dining room. Stahl never charged anything to his room number. Not because he couldn't afford it, but an interested party could simply walk past his table, turn the check over and see what room he was staying in. Stahl didn't need any nocturnal visits from uninvited guests.
He paused by the lounge studying the late night menu while he surveyed his surroundings. No one left the dining room after him. No one seemed to pay him any mind as he stood there, hands in pockets, reading over the selection of after dinner drinks.
Good.
That ruled out the incompetents.
The pros would never let themselves be seen.
Stahl ticked off another thing to worry about.
As he rode the elevator upstairs, he mused about the cabby. This wasn't the way he'd wanted to start off. The last thing he needed were Boston cops scouring the wealthy Beacon Hill neighborhood asking questions.
Criminals were everywhere, that much he knew. But he wondered what had made the Bulgarian target him specifically? Stahl didn't think he looked weak. Was his age starting to show? All that gray hair finally overtaking his darker brown? Were the crow's feet aging him even more? Or was it something else?
He sighed. It had been over ten years since he'd last been operational. The hiatus might have dulled him down some around the edges.
He could easily turn on the aura that told people to fuck off. But he hadn't. Not this time. His success depended on remaining an unknown variable until the last possible time. If anyone caught a whiff of him coming, the entire operation - and Alois' life - would be compromised.
Maybe then the attempted robbery was a good thing. After all, if the Bulgarian – himself experienced to some degree – had deemed Stahl an easy mark, then he was doing okay. The Bulgarian had sensed no threat from Stahl.
He wondered if the other people he'd be interacting with at a later time would be so na•ve.
The only reassuring aspect of the kill was the time that it had happened at. Not many people would have even heard anything. And the darkness would make identifying him, if it even got that far, almost impossible.
But it wouldn't come to that. Boston, like any major metropolitan city, had scores of murders each year. Most of which they'd never solve. The Bulgarian's death would go into a the computer as unsolved. And the cops who knew better would simply acknowledge that the small-time crook had tangled with someone he shouldn't have.
And they'd be right.
He checked his watch. It would be almost five o'clock in t
he morning back over in Germany. He frowned as the doors rolled open. He wanted to call his son.
Impossible.
The plush red carpeting in the hallway muffled his steps as he walked down toward his room. He liked this hotel. Nestled in Copley Square, it wasn't ostentatious enough to attract thrill-seekers and celebrity hounds. This was one of the old city hotels that knew its guests demanded discretion and privacy.
After all, hadn't Stahl seen the concierge shepherding a prostitute through the lobby just an hour ago when he'd come down dressed for dinner?
Subtle, quick, and professional. And the older business tycoon Stahl recognized as a leader in the petroleum industry seemed relieved by the level of the concierge's service.
He slid the key in the lock. The hotel had refused to adopt the new cipher key card locks insisting someone who knew how to fabricate master cards too readily picked them.
Stahl grinned. Any professional could get through any lock in thirty seconds if they knew what they were doing.
Inside, he slid his jacket off and hung it in the closet space. He fell onto the bed, suddenly overcome by a fresh wave of fatigue enveloping his body. His joints hurt. His leg muscles ached from the walk around town. Not the distance, but the stress of reacquiring familiarity with the territory.
He thought about Alois again.
He hoped he was sleeping well.
Stahl wanted to hear his voice.
But he couldn't.
Not yet.
Not here.
Even if he could call over there now, he wouldn't from the hotel. Stahl knew beyond doubt that the National Security Agency monitored every overseas call originating in hotels in the United States.
There was no guarantee they didn't listen in on payphone calls as well. But Stahl wanted no record of his passage.
The Bulgarian was the only sign Stahl would leave indicating that he'd passed this way. Even an experienced tracker would have an impossible time trying to figure out what he was up to or where he was headed. There'd be no casting for scent this time.
Stahl placed his hands over his eyes and pressed on his lids, making black and yellow patterns swirl in front of them. He'd once read this was a good technique for curing headaches.
The images shifted.