The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

He turned to see a second woman approach him, this one with upswept gray hair. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “I’m Mrs. Oberholz. You wanted to see Mr. Delaney?”

  “Correct.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s not here.”

  “When will he be?”

  “I can’t say. I don’t have his schedule.”

  “Who does?”

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  “I’ll discuss that with Mr. Delaney. Find out when he’s expected.”

  She hesitated. “Perhaps you should speak with Mr. Norbert, our executive vice president.”

  “Fine. Where do I find him?”

  “Will you follow me, please?”

  She led the way through a door and into an area containing cubicles where people were busy on phones and typing at computers. At the far end of the area were more doors. She knocked on one of them, opened it, and put her head in.

  “Mr. Norbert,” she said, “I have Detective Barker with me. He wanted to see Mr. Roger Delaney. I explained to him that Mr. Delaney isn’t here, but he insisted.”

  A voice said, “Send him in.”

  The woman stepped aside, and Barker entered the office. She closed the door behind him.

  A man rose from his desk. He had thinning black hair and wore rimless glasses. His suit was charcoal gray. “Hello, Detective,” he said. “I’m Douglas Norbert. Sorry we can’t help you.”

  “I think you can,” Barker said. “When will Mr. Delaney arrive?”

  “Why, ah, I really don’t know.”

  “Is he out of town, on a trip or something?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  What the hell was this—more runaround?

  “You don’t know? Roger Delaney is head of this company, isn’t he?”

  “He has the title of president. But it’s honorary, you might say.”

  “Tell you what, Mr. Norbert. Suppose you spell it out for me, okay?”

  Norbert cleared his throat. “Mr. Delaney doesn’t actually work here. He did, but that was some time ago.”

  “So who runs the place?”

  “I’m in charge of our day-to-day operations. I was given the responsibility by Mr. Delaney’s father, George Delaney, who is still the chairman and CEO.”

  An image appeared in Barker’s mind. It was of an old man who was slumped in a wheelchair. His eyes were glazed, and spittle ran from the corners of his mouth and his lower lip.

  “I’ve seen Mr. Delaney’s father,” Barker said. “He doesn’t seem to be in very good health.”

  “He isn’t. That’s why I’m in charge.”

  “And your directors go along with this arrangement?”

  “Yes, of course. Ours is not a public company, we’re privately owned. Mr. Delaney’s father established our administrative structure before he became ill.”

  “And when was that, when he got sick?”

  “It was some months ago. He had a massive stroke and very nearly died. Up until then he was here every day.”

  “You said Roger Delaney is not active in the management now?”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “But he was at one time?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what happened?”

  Norbert’s gaze shifted.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t want to say anything that could cast our company in a bad light.”

  “Look,” Barker said. “Anything you tell me from this point on will remain confidential. Okay?”

  “Can I depend on that?”

  “Absolutely. You have my word.”

  “All right. Roger Delaney was with us for a couple of years. He was being groomed to take over the company someday. But then it came to light that his personal life was, ah, less than exemplary.”

  “Booze, drugs, women?”

  “All of those. He got into one mess after another, some of them quite lurid. And his mistakes became public. People were talking about him, and his picture was in the papers. Can you imagine what that was like?”

  Yes, Barker could. In fact, he didn’t have to imagine it.

  “And then on top of everything else,” Norbert said, “some money was, ah, misappropriated.”

  “A lot of money?”

  “Yes. A lot of money. So his father relieved him of all responsibility. To save face, Roger was given the title of president and put on an allowance. He signed an agreement that said if he got into any more trouble, the allowance would be cut off. I’m not sure, but I think his father changed his will, too, so that if there was even one more indiscretion, Roger would be disinherited.”

  “So how often does he come in here?”

  “Hardly ever. His mail is forwarded, and phone messages are passed on to him. He and his third wife have been living with his father in Greenwich ever since Mr. Delaney got sick.”

  “Okay, I get it. There anything else you want to tell me about him?”

  “No. Except that we’re all gratified he’s no longer active here.”

  “I’ll bet. Thanks for filling me in.”

  “I hope you’ll honor your promise to keep our talk confidential.”

  “I will.” Barker turned to leave.

  “Excuse me for asking this,” Norbert said, “but does your coming here have to do with the investigation into the death of the sister?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Terrible thing. Mr. Delaney was always so proud of her. Mr. Delaney Senior, I mean.”

  The remark brought Barker up short. “Proud of her?”

  “Oh yes. He kept scrapbooks filled with stories of her career, and he owned copies of every film she appeared in. He loved to talk about her.”

  So Roger had lied about that, too. Everything he’d said about the old man disapproving of Catherine’s work in show business was bullshit.

  “Her father must have been devastated,” Norbert said, “when she was murdered.”

  If he even knew about it, Barker thought. He thanked Norbert and left the office, and as the elevator took him back down to the street he tried to sort out what he’d learned. Realization of how far he’d been misled produced a spark of anger. And disgust with himself.

  He pushed those feelings aside. Somehow he had to get Dana out of that huge old mansion.

  Before Internal Affairs put him out of action altogether.

  60.

  Mongo was booked on a 10 a.m. Delta flight to New York. But first there was a piece of business he had to take care of.

  As he approached the house he held the handle of the fish knife in his right hand, keeping the knife low and close to his leg. The blade was a foot long, and he’d honed it to razor sharpness.

  Knowing what he was about to do gave his senses an edge as keen as that of the knife. The feeling was sexual, and as always in such a situation he had an erection. His pulse quickened, and he drew breath deep into his lungs.

  The house wasn’t showing a glimmer of light anywhere. If he didn’t know better, he might have thought it was deserted. Other homes in the neighborhood had lamps along the walks leading to the entries, but not this one.

  He went up the steps and for a moment stood motionless before the door. The luminous dial on his watch read ten minutes to four, and the sky had not yet begun to turn from black to predawn gray. It was the perfect time for this.

  There was an illuminated button in the wall beside the door. He pressed it and heard chimes sound softly from within the house. He waited a beat and pressed the button again. Then he pounded on the door with his left fist.

  Now he heard a different sound: footsteps clomping on a floor and coming toward the door. A slot opened, and eyes stared out at him. The owner of the eyes said, “Beat it, we’re closed.”

  Mongo slurred his speech
a little, pretending to be drunk. “Hey, open the fucking door, goddamn it!”

  The eyes narrowed. “I said we’re closed. Now get the hell away before I come out there and kick your ass.”

  “Fuck you,” Mongo said. “You monkey-faced cocksucker!”

  It had the desired effect. The slot slammed shut, locks were undone, and the door swung open.

  The guy standing there wore nothing but white boxer shorts. He was slope shouldered and husky, and there was hair on every part of his body except his head, which had been shaved completely bald. His teeth were bared in anger. He raised a fist and stepped forward.

  Mongo plunged the knife into the man’s belly. The blade sank all the way to the handle at a point just below his breastbone, angled upward to pierce his heart. Mongo then twisted the slender steel shaft.

  The reaction was one Mongo had seen before, on other victims. This one’s mouth popped open and his eyes showed shocked surprise, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening to him. He stared down at Mongo’s hand, which continued to turn the knife, and a gurgle bubbled from his lips. He shuddered, and the color drained from his face.

  Mongo grinned and withdrew the blade, and blood spurted from the wound. The bald man staggered backward, clutching at the hole in his gut, until he bumped into a wall. He slumped slowly to the floor, ending up in a sitting position with blood running down over his hands and creating scarlet blotches on his shorts. After a few moments he stopped breathing and his eyes closed halfway, resembling shards of opaque glass.

  Mongo stepped past him and went from the foyer into what apparently was the living room. The only light came from a single small lamp, but there was enough for him to take in his surroundings.

  The area was large and elegantly furnished, and yet it had an oddly dated look. There were deeply upholstered sofas and chairs that were covered in different shades of velvet, and a grand piano, light from the lamp reflecting from its ebony surfaces. And at the far end of the room was a bar.

  So why not, he thought. He went over there and checked the bottles that were stacked on glass shelves. All of them contained good stuff: Wild Turkey and Jack Daniel’s and Johnnie Walker Black and Hennessy VSOP and several single-malt scotch whiskeys, as well as various cordials. He laid the knife on the bar and poured himself a glass of Glenlivet and tossed it down.

  From somewhere on an upper floor a woman’s voice yelled, “Eddie? What the hell are you doing down there? Was somebody at the door? Tell ’em to go away.”

  Mongo poured himself another drink. It had been quite a while since he’d heard that voice, but there was no mistaking it.

  “Eddie?” the woman yelled again. “Come back to bed, will you? It’s four o’clock, for Christ’s sake.”

  The whiskey had great flavor. Mongo leaned his elbows on the bar and sipped it this time, enjoying the distinctive smokiness and the smooth way it slid down his gullet. They said you had to acquire a taste for scotch, especially single-malt, but he’d liked it from the outset.

  Again he heard footsteps, coming down a flight of stairs. A moment later the woman appeared in a doorway. She had on a flimsy nightgown, and her eyes were puffy from sleep. When she saw Mongo, she stopped short, peering at him in the dim light.

  “Hello, Juanita,” he said.

  She tensed, and her jaw dropped. “You.”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Come on over and have a drink.”

  “How’d you get in here?”

  “Walked in, obviously.”

  “Where’s Eddie?”

  “He’s resting.” In peace, he thought.

  “You bastard.”

  Mongo could see that she was trembling. “Relax,” he said. “Be sociable.”

  “Sociable my ass. Get the fuck out of this house.”

  He chuckled. “That any way to act after all this time? I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

  “I said get out!”

  “Sure. After we have a little talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Oh, but there is. A lot, in fact.”

  She took a step back, her gaze flickering from side to side.

  “Don’t do anything dumb,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to have to chase you.”

  She stopped.

  “That’s better. Now how about a drink? For old times’ sake.”

  She remained motionless, and he knew she was thinking the situation over. Trying to figure out her best move. After a moment, she came toward him slowly, as if keeping an eye on a rattlesnake that had suddenly appeared in her path.

  “What’ll you have?” Mongo asked. “I’m drinking some of this good scotch, myself.”

  “Same for me.”

  He reached for another glass and poured whiskey into it. As he handed her the drink he saw that she’d caught sight of the fish knife, its blade mottled by streaks of blood. But she didn’t flinch.

  “Here’s to you, baby,” Mongo said. He raised his glass and downed more whiskey.

  Juanita raised hers as well and swallowed a little of the amber liquid.

  He waved a hand. “Nice place you got here. Done all right for yourself, huh?”

  Her voice was steady now. “I’m okay.”

  “Like your hair,” he said. “Looks great, red. Used to be black, as I remember. Face looks a little different, though. Nips and tucks, right?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Since you’re flush, how about sharing some of the wealth?”

  “So it’s money.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  He could see she was thinking that over, too. In fact money wasn’t his top priority, but as long as he was here, might as well get what he could. “Well?”

  “I can let you have some,” she said.

  “That’s nice. I’ll bet you got plenty of cash. On account of your customers wouldn’t want to use credit cards, true?”

  “No, they wouldn’t. So why don’t I give you some money, and then you leave, all right? We’ll call it square. I’ll never report this to anybody.”

  He finished his drink. “Sounds good to me. Let’s go.”

  She turned and walked back the way she’d come, with Mongo following close behind. They went down a hallway, and she led him into what obviously was her office. Unlike the living room, this space was strictly business: plain metal desk and a swivel chair, filing cabinets, two straight-backed chairs, heavy drapes obscuring the window, a ratty brown rug on the floor.

  Hanging on the wall behind the desk was a framed watercolor of a landscape with rolling hills and a stand of eucalyptus trees. Juanita swung the frame aside, revealing a safe. She flipped the dial back and forth rapidly and opened the door. Reaching inside, she withdrew a stack of bills and put it on the desk.

  “Keep going,” Mongo said.

  “Look, this is—”

  “You heard me. Keep going.”

  She hesitated and then went back into the safe. The next stack was larger than the first. She put that one on the desk as well.

  “That’s all of it,” she said. “All the cash I have.”

  “You got anything to put it in?”

  For an answer she opened a drawer in the desk and took out a canvas bag with the Wells Fargo logo on it. She stuffed the money into the bag and handed it to him.

  “Now let’s go finish our drinks,” he said.

  They went back to the bar. Mongo laid the bag beside the knife and topped off their glasses. He drank more scotch, relishing the way it spread warmth through his body. Juanita sipped hers, watching him as she did.

  “You believe in loyalty?” he asked her.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Me too.”

  “Really? That why you dumped me, after I peddled my ass on the street so you’d have money while you were in the jo
int?”

  “You got that all wrong. I was gonna come back to you, after I got a payoff from a business deal.”

  “Sure you were.”

  He ignored the sarcasm. “That’s what I meant about loyalty. Goes both ways. So I was surprised when you tipped off the cops about me.”

  Now there was no mistaking her expression. Her eyes were wide and filled with fear. “I didn’t,” she said.

  “No? You never talked to a detective, guy named Barker?”

  “He came here asking about you. I told him I didn’t know you, didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “That so?”

  “I swear it.”

  He picked up the knife and looked at the blood-streaked blade, as if he’d never seen it before. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? If you did, I’d have to cut your throat.”

  Juanita moved so quickly her hand was a blur. She smashed her glass on the surface of the bar and swung the jagged edge at his face.

  He pulled back, and the broken glass missed him by a fraction of an inch. Grabbing her wrist in a powerful grip, Mongo shook the shattered glass loose. Then he spun her around so that he was behind her. He pinned both her hands to her sides with his left arm, his other hand still holding the knife. She struggled and kicked wildly as he lifted her off her feet.

  There was a large mirror on the wall opposite the bar. Mongo carried her over to it, chuckling as she screamed and thrashed and tried unsuccessfully to bite him.

  He held her up so that she could see their images in the mirror. “You’re in for a treat,” he said. “Gonna get to watch yourself die.”

  She went on kicking, but her struggles had no effect. He punched the blade into the left side of her neck and drew it across in one swift motion, the razor-sharp steel slicing through flesh and tendons and severing both her carotid artery and jugular. Jets of blood sprang from her throat and splashed against the mirror.

  She stared in horror as her life ran out of her. She gave a final kick, and he surmised that was probably a reflex. Seconds later she grew limp, and he dropped her onto the growing pool of blood on the floor.

  Christ, he thought, what a mess. On top of everything else he’d had an orgasm, and his crotch was warm and wet.

  It would take him a long time to clean up. Not the house, which he wouldn’t bother with, but himself.