The Ethical Assassin

by David Liss

  “I haven’t told you anything about anything,” I said. “We’ve never spoken.”

  “Let’s be honest,” Melford said. “There’s no point in lying.”

  I had no idea what I was supposed to do. Should I go along with him or not, though not going along with him would have involved exposing my connection to the murders. But there was something encouraging in Melford’s eye, and I was almost certain he wanted me to keep going the way I had been.

  “Look, I’m sure you’re very good at your job,” I said, “but there’s some fundamental mistake here. I’ve never spoken to you about my work. I’ve never spoken to you about selling encyclopedias. And I’ve never spoken to you on the phone.”

  Melford shook his head. “I’m sorry I got you in trouble, but denying it isn’t going to help. I think maybe you should tell us why you called me in the first place. Maybe we can hash out some of your complaints in front of these guys. In any case,” he offered with a self-satisfied smile, “I’d like to hear how they respond to what you have to say.”

  I was floundering. I didn’t know what Melford expected of me. Should I keep denying the charges? Would that be enough? And why the hell would he do this to me without giving me a heads-up?

  “You need to listen to me,” I said. “There’s been a mistake.”

  “Jesus fucking dick,” the Gambler snapped. “B.B., what do you want to do with this asshole?”

  The man in the linen suit looked up. “I don’t really know. I’m waiting for Desiree to call me back. I want to talk to her before I make any decisions.”

  The Gambler snorted at me. “I’m getting sick of hearing you deny it. You’ve spoken to him, and we know it. Now, say whatever it is you want to say so we can tell him what bullshit it is.”

  “Well, I think maybe we should go a little more gently with Mr. Altick,” Melford suggested. “The fact is, he was shy enough about talking to me in the first place that he disguised his voice on the phone.”

  I suddenly felt like I was being prompted. “Disguised my voice?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it was a pretty good job. You sounded totally different with your southern accent and all. It was very convincing. And your lisp.”

  And that’s when I almost got it. I hadn’t realized that Melford had overheard enough of my encounter with Ronny Neil and Scott to have picked up on it, but clearly he had. I still had no idea why he was doing this, but at least the what was clear. “I don’t have a lisp.”

  “I can see that now.”

  “Hold on one second,” Bobby said. “The guy who called you had a lisp.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did he have kind of a high-pitched voice?”

  Melford nodded. “Now that you mention it.”

  “Fuck,” Bobby said.

  “Scott Garland, that piece of shit,” the Gambler said.

  “I don’t get it.” Melford looked at them blankly.

  “You fucking asshole.” The Gambler slammed his palm down hard on the table and then jabbed a finger in my direction. “Did you have to piss him off so much that he’d do something like this to get back at you?”

  “I think,” Bobby proposed, “that you may be taking this out on the wrong person.” He looked at me. “I owe you an apology, Lemmy. I should have known you wouldn’t do something like this.”

  “Give me a fucking break,” the Gambler groaned. “Get out of here,” he told me.

  “Wait,” B.B. said. “I don’t get it.”

  “If I could suggest something else about Scott and Ronny Neil-,” I began, but I didn’t get any further.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” the Gambler shouted again. And I did.

  ***

  From the railings I could see Chitra down at the pool, drinking a tall boy and laughing at something that Yvette from Jacksonville was saying. No sign of Ronny Neil or Scott, and I had a feeling that the two of them would be disappearing pretty soon. The Gambler wasn’t going to take this lightly.

  Melford’s ruse had been brilliant. He’d taken the heat off me while putting it onto my enemy. Granted, this would have been a lot better if he had warned me. But maybe not. Maybe Melford could tell that I wasn’t built for this kind of deception and that preparation would only have made things seem false.

  None of that explained why he would bother to show up at all. To help me exact petty revenge against Ronny Neil and Scott because he’d seen them picking on me? It didn’t ring true.

  I glanced down at Chitra once more. I wanted to get that room with her, more than ever. But first I needed to make a call.

  Back in my room, I dialed the number and a weary-sounding Miami Herald operator picked up. I asked if there was such a thing as a night desk editor. I hadn’t known that I was aware of any such position, but there clearly was, because without responding the operator put me through to a ringing line.

  In a second, a woman picked up the phone and mumbled her name with a fatigued slur. Something McSomething.

  “I don’t know if you can answer this,” I said, “but I’m calling from outside of Jacksonville, and I’m wondering if you have a reporter named Melford Kean on staff.”

  The woman laughed. “Kean, huh? What’s the trouble?”

  My stomach did little loops. I was on to something. “No trouble. I’m just wondering is all.”

  “Kean,” she said again. “Is he bothering you? Please tell me he’s bothering you.”

  “He’s not bothering me. Just confusing me a little.”

  “Yeah, he’s good at that.”

  I thought for a second. What exactly did I hope to learn? “What story is he working on?”

  She laughed again. “What is he working on, or what is he supposed to be working on? Anything is possible with that guy.”

  “But he is a reporter at your paper?”

  “Yes, like it or not, he is.”

  “And you don’t like it?”

  “Nah,” she said, moderating her tone. “The kid’s great. Just a little weird. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t do a decent job, when he puts his mind to it. Or goes after the story he’s assigned. Or makes deadline.”

  “That bad?” I tried to sound sympathetic, like the kind of person to whom she would want to open up. “How does he keep his job?”

  “This is where being a pampered, overeducated rich kid comes in handy for him. He’s the son of Houston Kean, a big shot in the business community here. The guy owns about a million car dealerships and he advertises a ton with us. A ton. So if the publisher wants this big advertiser’s son to remain employed…” She paused for a few seconds. “It’s late and I’m cranky. Forget I said any of that.”

  “Sure. No problem. But can you tell me what story he’s working on?”

  “I guess so. I mean, why not, right? There are two things. One I can’t tell you about except that we got a tip from another reporter, one who didn’t want to take the story herself. A woman who works for one of the local TV stations, but her beat is supermarket openings and celebrity visits, so she passed it along. There’s some funny business going on in a trailer park near Jacksonville. But that happened after Kean already left for Jacksonville, and it’s about as much as I can tell you.”

  “And the other story?”

  “Get this,” she said, as though we were old friends. “Pets. There’s been a string of dog and cat disappearances in the area, and he went down to investigate. Pets. A hot piece of investigative journalism. He’s been working on the story for three weeks, and he’s yet to file a single paragraph. It’s like he wants to get fired. I don’t get this guy.”

  I got him. I got him with no trouble, because suddenly everything started to make sense. Well, not everything. But some things, and that was an improvement.

  ***

  I was not about to waste any time. I ran down the stairs and found Chitra still in midchatter with a small cluster of friends. She looked happy and radiant, as though the business with Ronny Neil had never happened. That was bad. I wa
nted her to be afraid.

  I took her hand. “Come on,” I said as I yanked her up. “We have to go.” I pulled her by the hand into the little building with the registration desk. “I need a room,” I told Sameen, who appeared very disturbed that I was still holding on to Chitra.

  “Yes, certainly,” he mumbled.

  “Sameen, I need it to be on the far side, by the parking lot. As far away from the Educational Advantage Media group as possible.” I took out my wallet and put three twenties on the desk. It was half the money I had on me, and I hoped I wouldn’t need it later. “This is a secret. You understand, sir? There’s a man in our group who tried to hurt this young lady tonight. I’m trying to put her somewhere she’ll be safe.”

  The look on his face changed considerably. He slid the money back toward me. “I do not need to be bribed to do the right thing,” he said softly. “You are a good boy to help her.”

  I blushed, since I didn’t feel like an especially good boy. “Thanks.”

  I grabbed the key and, still holding her hand, half jogged around to the back of the motel, where we found the room. I opened the room, led Chitra inside, and shut the door softly, as though afraid to alert anyone.

  “That’s some story,” Chitra said. She turned on the light and began to look around, as though the room might somehow be different from the one she was already staying in. The one with all her clothes, I thought.

  I took her hand again and kissed her swiftly on the lips. “Listen, Chitra, there’s a lot going on and more than I have time to tell you. I need to go somewhere, and it is a little dangerous. I don’t want you to open the door for anyone but me. And if I’m not back by meeting time tomorrow morning, don’t wait for them to come looking for you. Call a cab and get out of here. Go to the bus station. Just go home.”

  “What is this about? Ronny Neil can’t be that dangerous, can he?”

  I shook my head. “It’s not about Ronny Neil. Not the way you mean. I think this whole operation, Educational Advantage Media- all of it- is a front for something else. I don’t know what, exactly, but it involves drugs, and there are some pretty high-powered guys involved, and people have already been hurt. Don’t trust any of the bookmen, especially not the Gambler. Bobby might be okay, but I’m not sure enough to tell you to trust him.”

  “Are you serious about all of this?”

  I nodded. “I wish I weren’t.”

  “Let me come with you,” she said.

  I laughed, a stupid guffaw of air. “It’s not a movie, Chitra. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I don’t want to take you along for the fun of watching me try to figure it out. I just want you to be safe, that’s all. That’s how you can help, by being safe.”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  “Remember, don’t let them come looking for you. If I’m not back by nine tomorrow morning, call a cab and go.”

  “Okay.”

  “And give me your home phone number,” I said. “In case I’m not dead, I want to call you.”

  Chapter 31

  THE REPORTER WAS GONE, convinced that the story was all a hoax. He’d seemed reluctant at first, but a few hundred dollars had set him straight. The Gambler knew those guys liked to act all high and mighty, but they were no better than anyone else.

  Now it was just him and B.B. He dumped some Seagram’s vodka into a plastic bathroom cup and then pulled the wet carton of orange juice from the ice bucket. Little disks of ice scattered over the brown carpet, and he idly kicked them under the dresser while he mixed the drink.

  “You want?” he asked B.B., bracing himself for rejection, since B.B. generally wouldn’t drink anything but his fancy bullshit wine. Screwdrivers were beneath contempt.

  B.B. shook his head. “Nah.”

  “We’ve got things to discuss,” the Gambler said. “Big, strategic things that always work better with drinks. You want to get some wine and then sit down to hash it out?”

  “Nah, I’m okay.”

  Jesus, what was wrong with this guy? Another bombshell dropped, and he sat there looking like a retard. The screwdriver was too vodka heavy, but he drank it down because… why the hell not. He then sat at the foot of the bed and looked at B.B.

  “Well, let’s do it. What do you think about the kid?”

  “The kid?” B.B. asked. “Which one? The older one?”

  Holy hell. He was still thinking about those boys outside. His little empire was falling down around him, and he was still thinking about sticking it to those boys outside.

  “Altick.” The Gambler tried to rein in his impatience. “You think he’s probably okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “What did Desiree say about him?”

  “She didn’t see anything weird with him,” he said, and then turned to look at the window, even though the heavy cloth curtains had been drawn closed. “She said he seemed okay.”

  The Gambler got the distinct impression that B.B. hadn’t even talked to Desiree. Not that it mattered. Altick was clearly a red herring in all this, a poor asshole who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not that it meant his troubles were over. The way the Gambler saw it, Doe was beyond corrupt, they had a reporter snooping around, the boss was coming undone by boy buggery, and they had three dead bodies floating in a pit of pig shit. And Scott, one of his own boys, had been the one to tip off the reporter. Scott was going to have to go down for this.

  Why would Scott do it? The Gambler had always taken care of him and Ronny Neil. A sellout for big money he could understand, but talking to a reporter? Out of some sort of resentment toward Altick, no doubt. It was a bonehead move, there could be no denying it, but maybe the problem was that he hadn’t given those boys enough to do. Maybe he needed to give them more responsibility in order to motivate them, find a way to channel Scott’s rage.

  “So, what’s your next move?” he asked.

  B.B. appeared suddenly to come awake. “I need to get my money, Gamb. I can’t have money like this just falling off the face of the earth.”

  “We’ve got to face the real possibility that Doe is bent, and if he took the money, we’re not getting it back without some serious violence. You want to risk that?”

  “I got the DevilDogs in Gainesville,” B.B. said. “We know for a fact that it was Doe, we have them ride down here and beat it out of him.”

  The Gambler shook his head. B.B. was supposed to be the mastermind, but he’d become like a body without a head when his freaky bitch wasn’t around. “The county has made life hell for motorcycle gangs here. You know that. The DevilDogs come riding in, the sheriff’s department is going to be all over them. If a mayor and police chief get worked over and killed, even a bullshit one like Doe, it’s going to mean a big investigation. And we’re fucked if one of those numbnuts gets nailed by the cops. You think they’re going to keep their traps shut? Next thing you know, we’ve got the DEA involved, which means they’ll find something or someone who will tell them about the lab, and that’s going to ultimately lead them back to us.”

  “Okay,” B.B. said quietly. “What do we do, then? How do we get the money?”

  “I guess we have to figure out a way to get Doe to ‘find’ it, to make him realize that it doesn’t make any sense to rip us off.”

  “How do we do that?”

  The Gambler said nothing.

  B.B. took this as a sign that the Gambler, too, was out of ideas. He stood up and walked to the door, rested one hand on the knob. “Let’s wait until Desiree gets back. She’ll figure something out.”

  “So, that’s it?” the Gambler asked.

  “For now, yeah. That’s it for now.” Then, all at once, his face grew bright with a private joke. “There’ll be more later, though.” And he was gone.

  ***

  Two drinks later, his head filled with muted vodka clarity, the Gambler answered a knock at his door. It was Doe, leaning against the doorjamb, dressed in uniform, bottle of Yoo-hoo dangling in one hand.

 
; “I got a noise complaint,” he said. “Neighbors say there’s a sound of vibrating bullshit coming from your room.”

  The Gambler stood aside to let him in and then quickly shut the door. “You want a drink?” he asked, holding up his cloudy plastic cup.

  Doe held up his bottle. “I don’t leave home without it.”

  The Gambler sat in his chair by the window. “So, what do you want?”

  “I got a noise complaint,” he said. “Neighbors say there’s a sound of vibrating bullshit.”

  “It wasn’t funny the first time.”

  “How about the second?”

  “Doe, this isn’t the tryouts for MAD magazine, so how about you tell me why you’re taking up my time.”

  Doe took a swig and flashed his crooked teeth. “I hate to bother you when you’re sitting in a cheap motel drinking vodka by yourself, and normally I wouldn’t, but hell, Gamb, I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

  “Then say it.”

  “First of all, let’s cut the bull-fucking-shit, okay?” He walked over to the dresser and slammed the bottle down hard. A crack appeared in the particleboard. “I know that you and B.B. are full of little ideas about how I ripped you off, is that right? That maybe I killed Bastard and took the money, and now I’m trying to pin it on this fucking hapless kid to get myself off the hook. Does that about cover it?”

  The Gambler tried hard to look impassive. This, he knew, was a showdown. Doe was there either to get himself off the hook for what he’d done or to set the record straight. Fine. Either way, it didn’t much matter in the end, since there were more important things than the $40,000. The continuity of the operation, for example. And power. When this little duel was over, the Gambler needed Doe to think of him as tough, decisive, and in charge. Everything else, even that chunk of cash, was secondary.

  He took a sip of his drink. “That pretty much covers it.”

  “And you want me to come up with cash or face consequences, I suppose.”

  “I’ve had thoughts along those lines, yes.”