Kim Oh 3: Real Dangerous People (The Kim Oh Thrillers)

by K. W. Jeter

  “Oh, I do.” Her expression brightened. “You know what we should do? Just you and me. You come along here by yourself sometime. And we’ll have lunch out on the patio. And just talk. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  Like that was ever going to happen.

  “It sure would, Mrs. Falcone. We’ll do that.”

  She actually took my arm and walked a few steps with me, toward the living room.

  “Believe me,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  What’d she heard? Maybe she was sharper than she let on.

  “I’ve been thinking that my husband’s business needs more of a . . . more of a female touch to it. Don’t you agree?”

  I could see the rest of the crew glancing in Falcon’s direction. He didn’t even seem to notice them, as he knocked back the contents of his glass.

  * * *

  A little while later, I was with Curt, out in front of the mansion. Mrs. Falcon had finally gone back upstairs to take a nap, leaving us to go about our job.

  Foley and Elton came around the corner, their shoes crunching on the decorative white-washed gravel.

  “How’s it look?”

  Elton glanced across the landscaped grounds, then turned back to Curt.

  “Pretty good –” He and Foley had been checking out the territory, looking for weak points, places where someone might get in. Someone like the guy who had turned up unexpectedly at the restaurant, where Heinz had gotten killed. “Couldn’t really see any traces of somebody casing the place.”

  “Should do something about that ivy.” Foley pointed to the distance behind the mansion. “It’s gotten pretty thick on one of the back garden walls. Stripping it off would be a good idea.”

  “Okay.” Curt nodded. “I’ll get the gardeners out, have ’em take care of it. Come on.”

  He led us back up the steps to the front door.

  Falcon, with Earl hovering nearby, was waiting for us inside.

  “So how does it look, gentlemen?” Looking over his half-frame reading glasses, he tossed a folded copy of The Wall Street Journal onto one of the end tables. “Any issues that need to be addressed?”

  “There’s a couple,” said Curt. “Nothing major. I’m pretty sure we got a little time before anything else happens. Whoever we’re up against, he’ll need a while to regroup –”

  “How long’s a little time?”

  Curt shrugged. “Couple days. But we’ll have everything tightened up before then.”

  “You’d better.”

  Falcon didn’t have to say anything more than that. This might’ve been the first time for me, but the old guys had been in this kind of situation before. Somebody was gunning for their boss. That was the takeaway from all that mess at the restaurant. Just like my old boss McIntyre, Falcon wanted to go legit. People like him always do. For a lot of reasons. If they make it, they not only got less hassle from the feds, but they also tended to live a lot longer. The way Cole had explained it to me once, you saw a lot more retired businessmen sunning on some beach in Florida than you ever saw retired criminal types. That was because people like McIntyre and Falcon were usually in boxes under the turf by then. It was just something that came with the territory. So going legit made a lot of sense, both from the business and personal standpoint – the problem, though, was getting there. Sometimes there were other people who didn’t want you to. It’d been somebody like that who’d set up the hit at the restaurant. They wouldn’t stop just because they had nailed Heinz –

  So we had to make sure they didn’t get another chance at our boss.

  “I want you two here tonight.” Curt pointed to Foley and Earl. “Spell each other. I want at least one of you awake all the time. Got it?”

  Foley nodded. “No problem.”

  “Oh, good –”

  We glanced over at the doorway. Mrs. Falcon had reappeared. Sweet as ever, but her nap hadn’t made her any less wobbly.

  “I was hoping you would all still be here.” She pointed a lacquered fingernail at Curt. “Of course, I see you here all the time. But I was just mentioning to Kathy here –” She came over and took my arm again, using it to keep herself upright. “What a good idea it is, to have a woman working with you. This way, my husband and I could go to the opera. And we could take her with us.” Her smile turned mischievous. “And I think you’d have to admit, she’d fit in better than any of you gentlemen would.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Foley nudge Elton in the ribs. “See?” He whispered close to Elton’s ear. “Told you we should put you in a dress.”

  Elton smiled but didn’t say anything.

  “Muriel . . .” Mr. Falcon attempted to look regretful. “I’m afraid we’ll have to put off going to the opera for a little while. Just until things settle down a little bit.”

  “Pity.” She looked around at me again. “Now, dear, don’t let any of these ruffians get away with anything. If one of them starts talking out of line when you’re with them, you just let me know. All right?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But I don’t think we’ll have any problem.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you folks to talk about your business. If there’s anything you need . . . anything at all . . .”

  Mrs. Falcon drifted back toward the stairs. We watched her go. When she was finally out of sight, her husband let out a weary sigh.

  “Opera,” he said. “Somehow, if you’re Italian, you’re supposed to love that stuff. I mean, it’s all right. But I’m not going to go out and get myself killed just to listen to it.”

  “Don’t worry.” Curt smiled at him. “We’ll get this all cleared up. Then you can go every night, if you want to.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  When the crew headed outside, Curt gestured to me. “We need to talk.”

  As I followed him toward the Chevy, we heard Elton shout from the mansion’s front door.

  “Hey! Can you drop me off downtown?”

  Curt looked back at him. “Yeah – come on.”

  The two of us sat up front, with Elton in the back seat. As Curt drove the Chevy past the gates and onto the street, he glanced up at the mirror. “Where you want?”

  “You know the White Hawk?” Elton met his gaze. “Over on Hammond –”

  “That dump? Why’re you going there?”

  “Personal business. I got some folks there I need to talk to.”

  I laid my arm across the top of the seat and looked back at him. “Anything to do with the job?”

  “Not this one.” Elton shook his head. “Just some private matters I got to take care of.”

  “Oh. I thought maybe you had some contacts. Like somebody who’d have a lead on who’s gunning for Mr. Falcon –”

  “Nope. You want contacts, Curt there’s your man. He knows everybody.”

  I glanced over at him behind the wheel, then back to Elton.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’re right about that.”

  “After all – he knew you.”

  “That’s because we had a mutual friend once.”

  “Do tell.” Elton was just making conversation. “What happened to him? Your friend, I mean.”

  “He died,” said Curt. Not looking away from the view out the windshield.

  “That happens.” Elton gave a nod. “All the time.”

  A little later, we were in a part of the city that made the area around Mae’s place look positively scrubbed by comparison. The White Hawk didn’t even have a sign except for its stenciled name fading on a wall, and it was the only place for blocks around that might have been open.

  “Thanks, man.” Elton leaned forward and patted Curt’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

  He got of the car and started across the sidewalk.

  “Hey, Elton –”

  He stopped and looked at me leaning out the side window.

  “Looking forward to it,” I said. “Working with you, I mean.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He nodded. “Should be okay.”


  “Heard a lot of good things about you.”

  Elton raised an eyebrow.

  “Okay,” he said. “See you around.”

  He turned and walked into the bar.

  Curt put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. After a minute or so, he spoke up. “Making friends, I see.”

  “Got a problem with that?”

  “Couldn’t care less.” He shrugged. “Do what you want.”

  I smiled. “I will.”

  By that time, Elton was already meeting up with the people he’d gone to the White Hawk to meet. He told me all about it a day or so later, when we’d been shooting the breeze, covering our shift back at Falcon’s mansion.

  The place was even shabbier than the crew’s Diamondhead Lounge hangout, but it had an actual stage at one end, with most of the floor cleared for dancing. Right at the time when Curt and I had dropped him off, there wasn’t any of that going on. Just a few grizzled regulars hunched over at the bar, nursing their watered-down beers.

  “Yo, Elton –” The bartender called over to him as he walked into the dim space. “Long time, no see.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Been busy.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Sammy been in lately?” Elton leaned onto the end of the bar.

  “Yeah, some.” The bartender set a beer in front of him.

  “That so?” Elton opened his wallet, extracted a twenty and slid it across the bar. “Sure would like to talk to ol’ Sammy.”

  The bartender put his hand down on one end of the twenty. “It could happen.”

  “Tonight?” Elton didn’t let go of the other end. “Like I said, I’m a busy man.”

  The bartender nodded. Elton lifted his hand from the bar. The twenty disappeared behind the bartender’s apron.

  * * *

  Early evening, with the sun starting to go down. But we weren’t in the city anymore. Curt steered the Chevy down some bumpy, rutted road on the outskirts.

  I looked at the skeletal trees creeping by, then over at him. “Just where the hell are we going?”

  “Like I said, back at Falcon’s place. We’ve got some business to take care of.”

  “The business is back there in town.” I pointed behind us with my thumb. “Or have you already forgotten we’re supposed to be watching over Mr. Falcon?”

  “He’ll be fine,” said Curt. “Earl and Foley can take care of things for tonight.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t going to argue with him. “You’re the boss.”

  He glanced over at me. “That’s right,” he said.

  Then he went back to his driving.

  * * *

  Right about that time, Earl and Foley were in their shirtsleeves, kicking back on the couch in one of the less formal rooms in Falcon’s mansion. They had the TV on, probably one of those stupid game shows. Mrs. Falcon was being a gracious hostess, setting a tray with soft drinks and a little bowl of mixed nuts on the little table in front of them.

  “Now, if there’s anything else you boys want, you just go on into the kitchen and help yourselves.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” That was Earl.

  “Yeah, thanks,” added Foley.

  She headed out of the room, then looked back at them. “And I’ve told Maria that she’ll need to fix you breakfast in the morning. Bacon and eggs all right?”

  “Just toast would be fine, ma’am. And coffee.”

  “The idea!” She pretended to be shocked. “You’ll get a proper breakfast in this house.”

  “Okay.” Earl admitted defeat. “That’d be great.”

  “Good night, then.”

  Past the doorway, she could be seen heading up the stairs. Earl and Foley turned back toward the TV.

  “Nice lady,” said Foley.

  Earl shrugged. “Drinks like a fish. Curt had me go out and pick her up a coupla times, at the clinic where Falcon sends her to dry out.”

  “Still a nice lady.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I mean – it’d be sad if something happened to her old man.”

  Earl looked over at him. “Like what?”

  “Like him getting killed or something.”

  “Okay . . .” Earl gave Foley a hard look. “So we make sure he doesn’t get killed.”

  They both watched the TV for a couple of minutes.

  “I just wish it were that easy.”

  Earl sighed. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What do you think it means?” Foley turned snappish. “I’m talking about Curt.”

  “What about him?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Earl! You’ve seen him. You know what’s going on. Curt’s losing it!”

  “What I know –” Earl slouched down where he sat. “Is that you’re full of shit.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m not just talking about his hands –”

  “Curt’s hands are fine.”

  “The hell they are. You’ve seen the way they’ve started to shake. He’s got tremors like an old man.”

  “Well, he’s not exactly young, is he? Neither are you, for that matter.”

  “I mean,” said Foley, “like a sick old man. There’s a difference. And it’s not just his hands. That’s bad enough.”

  “So what else?”

  “I’m talking about up here.” Foley tapped the side of his head. “That’s where Curt’s really losing it. Face it, Earl. He’s just not as sharp as he used to be.”

  Earl stared sullenly at the TV. “He’s fine.”

  “Bullshit. That whole business at the restaurant should never’ve happened. He not only nearly got Mr. Falcon killed, he nearly got us killed.”

  “Whatever.” Earl shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “He’s doing the best he can.”

  “That’s the point,” said Foley. “His best isn’t good enough. Not anymore. Curt used to be able to plan ahead for stuff. Like he knew what was going to happen. But this time, we wound up walking right into that crap.”

  “Yeah. And he got us out of it, too.”

  “He didn’t get Heinz out of it.” Foley’s voice went low. “Heinz is dead.”

  A moment passed before Foley spoke again.

  “Face it, Earl. We need somebody else running the crew.”

  Earl slowly turned and looked at the other man. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “Now I see what you’re talking about.” He turned back to the TV. “Well, you can just kiss off that idea, pal. If it’s a choice between you or Curt running things, I’ll stick with the way things are.”

  “Come on –”

  “Will you shut up?” Earl gestured at the TV. “I’m trying to watch this.”

  Foley glared at Earl, then got up from the couch. He picked up his jacket and dug into his pockets for his keys.

  Earl glanced over his shoulder at him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Out for a while.” Foley pulled on his jacket. “I got things to do.”

  “Curt said he wanted you here tonight.”

  “Screw Curt.”

  Foley headed for the door.

  * * *

  Upstairs, Falcon and his wife had already turned in for the night. They were one of those couples where she fell asleep watching television, while he went on reading beside her in bed. He had a stack of business books on the table with the lamp, mainly whatever stuff had been on the New York Times nonfiction list. They all had a page about a quarter or at the most a third of the way through, with a corner turned down. That was about as far as he got with any of them before he moved on to the next one.

  Leaning back on the pillows propped up against the headboard, he was slogging through the first chapter of something that promised to make him the next Winston Churchill of the business world. In general – he told me this once – he liked those books better than the ones that gassed on about Ronald Reagan, since he figured some punk actor never fired off a real gun in his life. That kind of thing mattered to him.

  He heard something outside.
Looking over the top of his half-rims, he turned toward the window and listened. Then he got out of bed, went over, and pulled the curtain back. Just a little window, keeping himself well to the side. Just in case.

  “What’s the matter, dear?” His wife raised her head from her pillow.

  Falcon went on gazing out the window. He saw Foley below, walking down the driveway toward the gates.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

  She closed her eyes and turned her face back against the pillow. He let the curtain fall back in place, then went to the closet and rummaged through the pockets of one of his suits. He found a scrap of paper and stood looking at it for a while, then tossed it on top of the bedroom dresser. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he picked up the phone from behind the stack of books and started to dial.

  * * *

  Over at the White Hawk, things were finally livening up.

  Still sitting at the bar, nursing a beer, Elton watched as a minimal combo – nothing but a drum kit and a weirdly skinny guy with a beat-up Telecaster knock-off – set up on the little stage.

  “Hey – it’s freezing in here!” The guitarist called over to the bartender. “How the hell are people supposed to dance, have some fun, they got icicles hanging off ’em?”

  The bartender came out from behind the bar, carrying a battered gasoline can with him. In the middle of the room was a fifty-five-gallon metal drum, lidless. He topped up the drum contents from the gas can, then stood back and tossed a lit match into it. Blue flames licked up from the top of the drum. The place was so cold that even a minimal heat source like that was enough to bring the temperature up a couple of degrees.

  Elton had seen that kind of thing before. He told me that where he came from, there were plenty of places where an arrangement like that was pretty much considered to be central heating. If you were in a dancing mood, you just wanted to make sure that you didn’t get so drunk that you were in danger of bumping into it.

  “That’s more like it.” The guitarist went back to conferring with his drummer about the set list. Which mainly consisted of deciding which of a half-dozen three-chord standards – the usual bar band repertoire – they’d play first.

  Still working on his beer, Elton didn’t turn around when he heard the door open and close. Two big guys, harder and uglier-looking than anyone else there, slid in at the bar on either side of him.