Dynamite Road

by Andrew Klavan

  “All right, all right. Ha ha ha.”

  “Now I’m turning my back, okay? Don’t go disappearing on me.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Off he rambled into his office. He left the door open and I could hear him in there. I heard him sigh heavily, heard him plunk heavily into his chair. I began to clear my desk for the work before me, smiling to myself. I heard his computer come on, the boops and beeps, the musical phrase. Then the three-note chime that meant he had e-mail. Bishop, I thought.

  There was a pause. He must’ve been reading. I picked up the phone to call Sissy Truitt, to tell her she had a new op on the Strawberry trial.

  Then Weiss’s growl reached me from his office.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I heard him say. And I heard what I guess was his hand coming down hard on his desktop.

  Weiss. Situation here’s unstable. Chris Wannamaker’s coming apart. He and I had it out and Hirschorn definitely got the word on it. A lot of unknowable stuff: when Kathleen will crack and spill to her husband, how he’ll react, which way Hirschorn will break. But I can’t see another way in. From talks with Kathleen, my guess is Chris himself doesn’t even know what the hell’s happening. Only Hirschorn, if I can get close enough. Whatever they’re planning, it’s going down soon. Time’s short, I’m doing my best. JB.

  Twenty-Seven

  In Driscoll that morning, the light was pale and clear. It was early on, the heat of day had not yet risen. The neighborhood was quiet, the men gone off to work, some of the women too, the kids were at camp or wherever. A dog was barking. Lawn sprinklers made their chiggering sound from here and there. A mourning dove perched on a telephone wire sang its plaintive four-note song: teroo-hoo-hoo.

  Bishop sat at his bedroom window and watched Chris Wannamaker hit Kathleen. The couple was downstairs in the living room of their house next door. They’d been arguing for ten minutes and now Chris flathanded his wife along the side of her head.

  “Ow! God damn it,” she shouted. And she threw a fist right back at him, right for his face. He brushed the punch away with one hand. Then he was even angrier and he hit her again. This time, he connected so hard she tumbled sideways and went to the floor. The top of her head bounced against the padded edge of the sofa.

  The corner of Bishop’s mouth twitched when he saw that—which I guess coming from him was as good as a wince. But he went on sitting there, very still in the chair by his desk, watching, smoking a cigarette in the shadows. He had his bedroom light off. He had his window cracked open. He could see the Wannamakers very clearly and hear their voices too, the sounds of them and the words as well when they shouted loudly enough.

  “I want him the fuck out of there! Now!” Chris screamed down at his fallen wife.

  She screamed back up at him from the floor, screamed through her tears. “It’s my goddamned house! I’ll rent it to whoever the fuck I want!”

  Chris’s eyes were white with fury. He paced back and forth above her. Even at this distance, Bishop could see how banged up he was. A red and purple bruise covered one whole cheek—that was where Bishop’s elbow had caught him in their fight two nights before in the Clover Leaf. The bruise made Chris look twisted and monstrous, especially with him pacing there like a caged, hungry animal. Shaking his finger at his fallen wife. Snarling and snapping down at her.

  He’d lowered his voice now but some words still reached Bishop: “…sniffing around you,” he said.

  Kathleen answered back. Bishop couldn’t hear what she said but it must’ve been more sass because Chris lashed out at her with his foot. The tip of his boot caught the back of her thigh. She cried out and rolled away from him. She lay curled on her side, clutching herself through her jeans, gasping. Chris went on pacing over her, snarling at her. At some point, he shouted, “Whore!” Bishop could see Kathleen’s body shaking with her sobs.

  He took a drag on his Marlboro. His pale eyes, flat and cold, narrowed as the smoke drifted up around them.

  Then his phone rang, loud and suddenly. Bishop grabbed it with one hand, crushed his cigarette in the ashtray with his other.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Am I speaking to Frank Kennedy?”

  Bishop straightened in his chair. He didn’t recognize the fine, clipped voice on the other end of the line but he guessed who it must be. He turned his back to the window so the scene below wouldn’t distract him. “Yeah, this is Kennedy.”

  “Mr. Kennedy, my name is Alex Wellman. I’m Bernard Hirschorn’s personal assistant.”

  “Okay. What can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Hirschorn has asked me to arrange a meeting with you, if possible.”

  Bishop smiled tightly to himself, answered coolly, “Sure. When would he like to meet?”

  “Noon today, his office at the Driscoll Foundation.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Excellent. Thank you very much.” There was a click. A dial tone. That was it.

  Bishop laid the phone back in its cradle. He sat forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. Thinking it over, taking the situation in. It was good, he thought, the situation was good. Hirschorn wanted to see him. That meant that maybe his plan had worked. Maybe when news of the brawl at the Clover Leaf had reached him, Hirschorn had started having second thoughts about Chris as a pilot. Maybe he was considering Bishop as a replacement too. This is good, he thought. This could be good.

  Bishop sat up. Turned back to the window, glanced out again at the house across the way.

  The shouting had stopped over there now. Chris had gotten down on his knees. Kathleen was lying on her back on the floor, her legs bent in self-defense. Chris was talking to her softly. His face was contorted and Bishop thought he might be crying. He moved his hands up and down as if he were trying to explain something to her or maybe pleading with her. Then he put one hand on her leg, on her calf. She drew away from his touch, but he followed after her. He moved his hand up onto her thigh and then into her crotch. He worked his body between her knees, forcing them apart. He tried to lower himself on top of her.

  At first, Kathleen put her hand against his chest to hold him off. She turned her face away. But he kept on gently pressing down, talking quietly, trying to explain, pleading with her. Soon, her arm relaxed, her hand slipped up onto his shoulder. She had her face turned away but he kissed her cheek and her hair and then she turned and let him kiss her mouth and she reached up and touched the bruised side of his face. It was a sympathetic touch, even tender. She lay still for him as he moved down to work her pants off her.

  Bishop went on watching them. He found himself wondering what would happen to Chris if Hirschorn did decide to replace him. He found himself wondering if Hirschorn would kill Chris to make sure he kept his mouth shut. He decided: Yeah. Probably Hirschorn would kill him. If the operation was big enough, if Chris’s silence was important enough, that was probably exactly what Hirschorn would do.

  Kathleen continued to lie still on the floor and Chris came into her. He pressed his face close against the side of hers. She put her hand on his shoulder gently and held him like that. But she turned her head to look out through the window as if she were distracted, thinking other thoughts while he went on. She seemed to be looking up at Bishop’s window, in fact, right up at the window where Bishop was sitting. She seemed to be looking right at Bishop himself, in fact, as Chris pumped in and out of her. With his lights off, and with the sun stationed where it was in the morning, Bishop doubted she could actually see him. He decided she was probably just thinking about him, that’s all.

  He went on watching. He thought about the phone call from Hirschorn’s secretary. He thought about how Hirschorn would probably kill Chris if he replaced him. He looked down at Kathleen who, in turn, looked up at him. Chris heaved a final time and lay still on top of her.

  Bishop looked down and wondered if Hirschorn would want to kill her too.

  Twenty-Eight

  The motorcycle jigged beneath him as he rode ov
er the long dirt road. It was dark and cool here under an arcade of oaks. Then the oaks were gone and the hot sun beat down on him and the land opened up in front of him and on either side. It was green, rolling land, like nothing else around it. Sprinklers showered it everywhere. Gardeners—there must’ve been eight or ten of them—stooped among violet flower beds or knelt on stretches of lawn. Ponds lay still and peaceful in the cruxes between hills and valleys. Some of the ponds burned blinding with the noonday glare, some reflected the mellow sky or the surrounding mountains. The mountains half ringed the place, smoky peaks against the big clouds, and even a few higher snowcaps etched flat and sharp against the distant blue. Hirschorn’s buildings—the buildings of the Driscoll Foundation—the ranch house, the barn, the stables and so on—clustered in the piedmont plain, shaded by trees. It was, Bishop thought, quite a spread. Not just a local gangster’s hangout. More like a big-time bad guy’s piece of the good life.

  The dirt road curled right. Bishop’s Road King curled along with it and headed for the ranch house. The house came up before him, haughty and grand. It was yellow with white trim. It had three fanlit gables on the slanting roof above. Below, under the eave of the roof, a row of arching French doors opened onto a wraparound porch. There were pillars at the edge of the porch. Brick stairs led down between them to the edge of the road.

  Bishop pulled up at the base of the stairs. As he killed the motor, the front door opened. A small, slender man stood stiffly in the entrance, waiting. He was haughty like the house but not so grand. His lips were pursed, his nose wrinkled as if he smelled something bad. The personal assistant, Bishop thought, Alex Wellman.

  Bishop swung his leg over the bike’s seat. He looped off his helmet and hung it from the handlebars. He climbed the stairs to meet the man.

  Wellman led Bishop through the main room of the house. With all the French doors and with the picture window looking out on the mountains, the place was very bright. There were Spanish-style rugs. There was heavy oakwood furniture. There were small bronzes of horses and buffalo on the end tables and shelves. A Mexican maid knelt on the enormous stone fireplace, cleaning the cracks between the stones. Bishop’s motorcycle boots clumped loudly as he walked by her.

  They reached the library door.

  “Mr. Hirschorn. Mr. Kennedy is here for your meeting,” said Wellman stiffly.

  Hirschorn was coming around the broad expanse of his desk, his hand extended, a smile on his tanned, moustachioed face. He was in shirtsleeves and slacks. He must’ve been nearly sixty, but he still looked very solid, very strong.

  “Mr. Kennedy!” he said. He shook Bishop’s hand vigorously. Looked him over and nodded, still smiling, as if he saw something in him particularly fine. “Come in. Come in. Please.”

  Bishop stepped over the threshold. Now he could see the goons. There were two of them standing side by side against one wall: the ape-armed, hatchet-faced monster from the Clover Leaf and another one, a little one, wired and jittery, all sinew and eyes.

  Hirschorn lifted a hand at them, at the big one first. “You’ve met my chauffeur, Mr. Goldmunsen,” he said. Then he indicated the smaller one, who was bouncing on his toes as if he couldn’t contain himself, as if he might lift off through the ceiling any minute like a rocket. “And this is his associate, Mr. Flake.”

  Wellman, meanwhile, evaporated. He edged back into the shadows, then became a shadow, then was gone. The door to the library swung in mysteriously and clicked shut.

  Hirschorn strode to one side of his desk, enthroned himself there in a hard, studded leather armchair. He didn’t offer Bishop a seat and Bishop stood where he was in the middle of the room. The two goons stared at him.

  “I’ll offer you a seat in a few moments,” said Hirschorn. “But first, Mr. Goldmunsen here is going to step forward and punch you very hard in the stomach. After that, you’ll probably lie curled up on the floor and retch and gasp for a while.”

  Bishop smiled slightly. It was not a smile that came from his heart. He glanced at the grinning ape Goldmunsen and then back at Hirschorn. “You think so,” he said tersely.

  “Oh yes.” The silver-haired gentleman laughed shortly. “I do think so. He will come forward and you’ll stand there while he punches you. Otherwise, I’ll ask Mr. Flake to draw his pistol and shoot you in the testicles. I’m sure you’d prefer the punch.”

  Bishop stopped smiling. Goldmunsen stepped forward. Bishop’s eyes flicked to Flake. The little bouncing goon didn’t actually draw his gun but Bishop took it on faith that he had one and that he’d use it if Hirschorn told him to. Goldmunsen stood in front of him. He grinned.

  Bishop had to fight not to raise his arms to protect himself. He tightened his stomach muscles but it was no good. The fist at the end of Goldmunsen’s gorilla arm was like a wrecking ball. The next moment, Bishop was lying curled up on the floor retching and gasping pretty much as Hirschorn had predicted.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all,” Hirschorn said to the goons.

  After a while, Bishop became aware that Goldmunsen and Flake had left the room.

  After another while, Hirschorn said, “Now you can have a seat, Mr. Kennedy.”

  Bishop crawled slowly to the sofa. He pulled himself onto it. It was leather like Hirschorn’s armchair but soft. He sank into it deep. Leaning against its arm, clutching his stomach, he had to look way up to see where Hirschorn sat enthroned above him.

  “That dustup in the Clover Leaf the other night,” Hirschorn said. “You understand: Chris Wannamaker is my employee. More than that, his father was my friend, we went all through school together, he worked for me until he died last year.” He held up a hand as if Bishop were about to speak and he wanted to stop him. But Bishop was still in no condition to speak. “I understand that personal matters come up from time to time. These things have to be dealt with. We’re all men. We all know the rules.” He smiled and his blue eyes twinkled. But the twinkle did not seem to suggest that life was a merry cavalcade of mirth. It seemed instead to indicate that Hirschorn could easily have Bishop rubbed out as if he were a shit stain on his underwear. Bishop, half-lying there, gasping for breath, experienced the twinkle as if it were a slimy thing that had crawled up his spine.

  “All the same,” Hirschorn went on, “in this town—in my town—things are dealt with in a certain way—my way. And if you have a score to settle with one of my employees, personal or not, you clear it with me first. Because, as we’ve now learned, there are far worse things than a punch in the stomach. And if you annoy me, Mr. Kennedy, I’ll have any number of those things done to you without batting an eyelash. Do we understand each other?”

  Bishop dragged the heel of his palm across his chin, wiping away the drool. He managed to sit up straighter. He managed to nod. “Yeah,” he whispered.

  “Good.” Hirschorn placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself standing. He went on in a brisker tone: down to business. “Now let’s talk about what we can do for each other.”

  Hirschorn walked to the window behind his desk. He planted himself there with his hands clasped behind him. He looked out over his hills and valleys. He had his back turned toward Bishop and Bishop knew it was a message, a way of telling Bishop that he was now under Hirschorn’s control, that he was not worth fearing. But Bishop didn’t need to be told that. He already knew that he was not worth fearing—not at the moment anyway. He collapsed back into the deep sofa. He sat there hollow-eyed, breathing hard, holding his stomach, waiting.

  Hirschorn turned to face him. With the sunlight coming through the window behind him, his features were impossible to make out. He was just a silhouette surrounded by a glow. “A few weeks ago I took on an assignment from a…an associate of mine. A very big assignment from a very important associate. The assignment required a very well trained and experienced pilot.”

  “Chris,” Bishop croaked. He put as much disdain into the syllable as he could.

  Hirschorn lowered his chin. Bishop thought he migh
t be smiling but he wasn’t sure. “Chris, yes. Chris was my pilot. I was very pressed for time and, well, as I say, Chris was the son of an old friend who, frankly, needed a break. So I brought him on board.” He spread his hands. “You try to be generous, you try to be faithful to your old buddies, am I right? Unfortunately, it doesn’t always work out. As you seem to have noticed, Chris can be a little careless in his dealings with people. Especially when he’s drunk. Which, it turns out, is a good deal of the time. So. The situation now is: I need a new pilot. In a hurry.” He came forward, out of the light. Looking down at Bishop. “You said you wanted the job.”

  “Yeah…” Bishop drew a breath. “That’s right.”

  “Well, that’s good. Because your training and your background happen to make you perfect for it.” Hirschorn moved away, sat down at his desk. He opened a folder that lay on the blotter. “Frank Kennedy. Born in Santa Maria, California, to Steve and Marcy. One younger sister, Susan. You were an Army brat. Moved around a lot, Texas, Louisiana. Blah, blah, blah. So on and so forth. Cut to the chase: You flew with Bravo Company in the Middle East. Awarded the DFC and the Silver Star. You’ve been a bit of a drifter since then. A little trouble with the law here and there. Arrested for aggravated assault in…let’s see, Seattle…no, Phoenix. Charges dropped. Seattle was assault with a deadly weapon, reduced to a misdemeanor. Three months served. Your parole officer should be getting just a little annoyed by your absence right about this time.” He looked up. Flashed his white, charmer smile. “I hope I’m impressing you with our intelligence-gathering operation here.”

  “Yeah,” Bishop said more evenly. But the only thing that impressed him just then was Weiss. It was one of those moments when he felt a fierce, warm admiration for his employer. Weiss had a genius for creating these identities, for making them just right, just what was needed. And somehow he always managed to place the records of them into the system in such a way that other investigators would feel they had dug them up. Here was Hirschorn, rich and smart and powerful. With all kinds of resources at his disposal to do any kind of background check he wanted. And Weiss had fooled him. Bishop looked at Hirschorn and thought about what an arrogant ratbag he was and how Weiss had fooled him and how he, Bishop, was going to nail his arrogant ratbag hide to a wall and bring his head home to Weiss as a trophy. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m impressed.”