Shoot 'Em Up

by Janey Mack

  I flexed my fingers and he returned his hand to the steering wheel.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Declan told me you want to meet about Keck’s case.”

  “Not tonight. You’ve had enough.”

  We drove the rest of the way to Hank’s in silence. He pulled up close to the sidewalk. I opened the car door.

  “Maisie?” he said. “Cry about it tonight. Fix it tomorrow.”

  “I just might.”

  He waited until I was in the house before driving away. I pressed my forehead against the transom window, watching his taillights disappear into the night.

  Crying was for babies.

  I opted for Vanilla Swiss Almond Häagen-Dazs, Oxy, and Gunga Din with Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

  Definitely.

  Chapter 24

  A yellow Post-it waited on my desk chair at the Sentinel:

  Pay up.

  Sweet. Lennon had finished my research.

  Twenty hours—because no way was Lennon the kind of guy who was going to finish early—at $60 an hour. I counted twelve hundreds from my wallet and put them in an envelope. Time to go see what he’d found out about the scourge of the Grieco cartel, The Weeping Beast. I was banking it’d be a good deal more than Nyx’s puppet, Wes.

  I stowed my messenger bag in the file drawer, jammed the envelope in the back pocket of my jeans, and went to meet the human rake.

  Lennon rocked behind his desk on a bright red yoga ball chair, typing. His shoulder blades poked painfully from his thin wool sweater. So scrawny, he could use ChapStick for deodorant.

  I rapped on the open office door. “Got your note.”

  Lennon jerked his head toward his old desk chair in the corner and kept typing.

  Thanks, but I can do without my clothes reeking of vape.

  I walked over to the small window. “Hi,” I said to Grey Gardens, who was wearing a mustard- and mud-colored tie-dyed outfit that a roadie for Phish would have rejected.

  Grey Gardens wrinkled her nose as if I smelled far worse than the trash can filled to overflowing with fast food wrappers. “I’ll get us a Starbucks, ya?”

  “Tall Caffè Misto with soy milk,” Lennon said still typing.

  “Geez, I know, I know,” she fawned. “You have the same thing every day!”

  If there was anything sadder than a chubby, middle-aged woman crushing on a snobbish hipster, I couldn’t think of it.

  Grey Gardens wafted out on a cloud of Febreze, housecat, and White Diamonds perfume.

  Lennon took his time before spinning around on the clown nose yoga chair. He held a manila folder tight to his thin chest and thrust out his palm. “Cash?”

  Taking a Saf-T-Pop from a toddler would have been more challenging. I sucked in my lips, stifling a mouthful of snark, and handed him the envelope.

  Awkwardly, he opened it with one hand and riffled the bills with his thumb. Satisfied, he wedged the envelope beneath his keyboard. “Now,” he said, “we’re going to get something straight.”

  “Ooo-kay.”

  “What are you planning to do with this research?”

  “Not really your concern, is it?”

  A shrewd, unpleasant look settled over his face. “What story exactly?”

  “I don’t feel comfortable sharing that with you.”

  “This report contains information you would never have been able to find, much less access and—”

  Jaysus, let’s get this show on the road.

  “Yes, thank you. Which is why”—I pointed at the keyboard—“payment for services rendered.”

  His ears lit up like traffic flares. “I’m clarifying, for the record, that we had an agreement for research, not content. Background for a story? You use one sentence in its entirety, and I want co-writing credit.”

  Seriously? “A little cart before the horse, don’t you think? You’re assuming what you’ve done is useful to me.” I held out my hand for the folder.

  “It will be.” His concave chest puffed out almost all the way to normal human. “Pro tip: Plagiarism is a journalistic career-ender.”

  Ignoring my hand, he tossed the folder onto his desk return, bounced back on his ball to the keyboard, and started typing.

  “Thanks. I’ll take that under advisement.”

  * * *

  I forced myself to wait until I was back in my office with the door closed before opening the file. I paged quickly through the atrocities of the three other hitters, Chilo, Kah, and Águila, before getting to The Weeping Beast.

  Naturally, it was the shortest report.

  Aside from a two-page collage of gruesome victim photos, there was only a single picture of “The Beast.” A grainy, pixelated three-inch-by-two-inch square. The bridge of the man’s nose was warped and flattened. A strange sort of round scar the size of a dime sat at the corner of his left eye, while a finger-width weal descended from the scar past the corner of his mouth, off his chin.

  Lennon had roughly translated scans of an ER and police report:

  Iago García Falto aka The Weeping Beast (La Bestia Que Llora) was approximately fourteen years old when he was presented at ER by police with his nose crushed by length of pipe. Blow apparently administered by father.

  Due to prior damage, perforated nasal septum due to daily cocaine use, this injury resulted in permanent blockage of his nasolacrimal (tear) ducts. While these would ordinarily drain through the nose, he now has only his left eye as a point of discharge. Hence the nickname The Weeping Beast.

  “Ergh.” I turned the page.

  The police report was worse.

  Iago apparently returned to the apartment to discover his infant sister unconscious and mother beaten to death by his father. Iago attacked his father, knocking him unconscious with a chair, and for unknown reasons tried to resuscitate his battered sister, María Fernanda, in the bath.

  At some point, his father regained consciousness, and hit Iago repeatedly with a lead pipe. Iago retaliated, stabbing his father multiple times with a kitchen knife, killing him, but not before his father crushed his nose with the lead pipe.

  Neighbors found Iago barely alive, the rest of the family dead, María Fernanda having drowned in the bath.

  After his release from the hospital, Iago García Falto began working for El Eje as a low-level gang enforcer, followed by what can only be termed as a meteoric rise as a contract torturer for hire.

  A horrible and par-for-the-course sadist’s history.

  Easy pickings for the El Eje cartel.

  The rest of the report focused on Iago’s favored techniques. Of moderate intelligence, he had an unusually high aptitude for keeping his victims alive. His modus operandi was to make them suffer for days, sometimes even weeks, before death.

  Nauseated, I shut the file and stowed it in my bag. Lennon’s information was stronger than I’d hoped. I owed Juice dinner for middle-manning. Somewhere great.

  Heck, maybe I’ll give her a thrill and ask Lee to come along.

  Reaching for the Sentinel’s directory, my phone went off. “Tank!” by the band Seatbelts.

  Walt Saywer.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” I answered.

  “I received your message and I’ve a short break in my schedule. Where are you, Maisie?”

  “The Sentinel.”

  “Excellent. Meet me outside in twenty minutes.” He hung up.

  * * *

  A young man in a suit waved at me as I stepped out of the Sentinel. He stood in front of a sleek, short BMW 550i 30 limousine and opened the door as I approached.

  The black leather interior and ultra-dark windows gave it the sophisticated chic of a vampire lair. I slid into the seat, waited for the door to close, and brought Sawyer up to speed.

  He listened intently to the news about Christo Keck and Declan and Daicen’s representational woes from ASA Avirett. “An unpleasant development, yes,” Sawyer said, nodding, “But not unexpected. Coles’s temper is nothing if not unforgiving.”

  “Keck is a cri
tical player to Stannis’s chop-shop operation. Without him overseeing the garages, I’m not sure how to proceed. I’m not even certain he’ll go into business with me without direct contact with Renko.”

  “Leave the ASA and Keck to me,” Sawyer said. “And you’ll be the first to know when Renko makes contact with his men or the Srpska Mafija.”

  My iPhone buzzed. Inside the vacuum-sealed BMW it sounded like a hive of hornets.

  Idiot.

  I’d turned it to vibrate, not all the way off. “I apologize, sir.” I dug my phone out of my messenger bag.

  AJ Rodriguez.

  “It’s El Cid, sir.”

  “Take it.” Sawyer removed a report from his briefcase and started reading. I hit Speaker.

  “Hey, girl,” AJ said, his voice honey-sweet.

  “Hello, handsome,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?” He chuckled. “Listen, Carlos is throwing a party next weekend. It’d be a really good idea if you were there. Not to mention, looks like a cold front is moving into the Windy City. A little sun might set you right up.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Sawyer took a pen from inside his breast pocket, twisted it open, scribbled on the back of a report page, and held it up:

  +1

  “AJ, I’m afraid I’ll be a plus-one. Will that be a problem?”

  “Did you go all Beverly Hills and get a fucking Chihuahua? Or are you bringing down your twin sister? ’Cause I know you’re smart enough not to mess around on Renko.”

  “Aww, aren’t you sweet to worry,” I teased. “Let’s just say that while the dark angel was pleased as punch at the effort I went to for his operation, in his infinite wisdom, he now believes a minder would be . . . prudent.”

  “And our latest business arrangement?”

  “Under wraps.”

  “Easier to bend the iron will once he sees what a lucrative partner I can be, is that it?”

  I let my voice go husky. “Let’s just say that asking for forgiveness falls within my skill set.”

  “I’ll bet it does.” AJ paused. “Carlos wants to meet you.”

  Sawyer’s head snapped up.

  “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  “You saved my life, Maisie. Technically, at least. Who’s to say I wouldn’t have opened the cooler? Carlos is going all out. Limo, jet, the works. What’s your address?”

  Uh-oh.

  Sawyer wrote beneath the number 1:

  Renko’s Apt.

  I gave AJ the address.

  “I’ll text you with the deets.”

  “I’ll be waiting. With bells on.” I switched the phone off.

  “Well done, Maisie,” Sawyer said. “Well done, indeed.”

  My cheeks got warm. “Thank you, sir.”

  “An excellent head start toward cementing a cohesive backstory for Veteratti and the NY Syndicate. People will get used to seeing Sharpe as not only your shadow but as your subordinate.” He cocked his head. “Obviously, Renko’s apartment is the most natural place of residence during Operation Summit. It bolsters your legitimate claim to Renko’s holdings, as well.”

  Oh God.

  Other than using acid for eye drops, I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do than explain to the clan how I was moving out of Hank’s and into Renko’s extravagant penthouse apartment.

  Which I couldn’t possibly afford on my fictitious Sentinel pay. Not without dipping into my trust fund.

  Feck.

  At least Hank would understand. Sort of.

  “Yessir.”

  “Well then.” He pressed a button on the armrest. “It appears as though you and Mr. Sharpe have some packing to do.”

  Before I could close my gaping mouth, the driver opened my door.

  Chapter 25

  Coin toss of awesomeness.

  What to do first? Kick Cash out or tell Lee we were moving in together?

  Whee.

  I stepped into the foyer. “Goddammit! What the feck?” Cash shouted.

  I came around the corner into the great room. H1Z1 was on the TV screen.

  “Seriously, man. What the feck?” He tossed the controller onto the coffee table. “Yeah? Well, take your head outta your ass next time, Koji. I’m out.” Cash jerked the wireless headset off and dropped it on the couch.

  “Cash?” I said.

  He rolled his eyes at me. “Jaysus, everybody knows you can’t friggin’ multi-play with a girl sitting on your lap. I mean, what the hell is he thinking?”

  Maybe you should rewind the last five seconds and figure it out yourself.

  I went to the fridge and got out a Coke. “We’ve gotta talk.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “That ol’ highway’s a callin’. You need to move home.”

  “Did I piss you off or something?” His face crinkled in confusion. “This is, like, the most fun we’ve had in a long time.”

  “Yeah, it’s been great and all, but . . .” I hedged.

  “Is Hank coming home?”

  “No.” I walked over, sat on the couch, and opened the box of Maisie-brand Whoppers. “Lee asked me to go away for a couple of days with him.”

  Cash’s eyes went the size of silver dollars. “What did you say?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shit,” he breathed. “I can’t believe he didn’t ask me first.”

  “Ask you to go?”

  He snorted. “For permission.”

  Response to this level of self-aggrandizement is impossible.

  My brother got up and strode over to the wet bar. Without another word, he took out a bottle of Bud, twisted off the cap, and drank a third of it in one go. He came back to the couch and flopped down next to me. “What’s Wilhelm gonna do without me?”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s just that he makes my meals, runs my errands . . . You know, any ones that don’t require direct contact. I mean, he’s gotten pretty attached to me.”

  Really? You can’t understand your best friend choosing a live girlfriend over a video game and you, a guy he spends twelve hours a day with every day, but yet you’re completely in psychological sync with Hank’s reclusive valet.

  “I’m sure he has,” I said. “But even you, Captain Sensitive, has to see that you staying at Hank’s while I take a trip with Lee is nowhere near close to appropriate.”

  Cash scratched behind his ear. “How is this even happening?”

  “You threw him at me over and over again. What did you think would happen?”

  “Maisie . . .” He shook his head.

  “Lee invited me as a friend.”

  “Like hell.” He rubbed his hands on his thighs. “I’m supposed to go back to work on Thursday. Would it bum you out if I left tonight?”

  Yeah, as much as a free phone to a welfare mother.

  “I think I can handle it.”

  Cash grabbed me around the neck and ground his knuckles into my head. “We’ll see, Snap.”

  Roughhousing aside, I was feeling more Why me? than Try me to man up and call Lee.

  After all, Cash needed help hauling his gear to the car. He’d accumulated a surprisingly large amount, considering his only activity here had consisted of being waited on hand and foot.

  Sawyer beat me to the punch.

  Lee Sharpe flashed on my phone screen as Cash drove away. “Hello?”

  “One night with me,” Lee teased, “and you’re pulling out all the stops to get me under the same roof.”

  “A live-in secretary is essential for a girl in my position. I never know when I might feel the need to give dictation.”

  His chuckle was warm and intimate. “All you have to do is whistle.”

  I’ll keep that in mind.

  “So,” Lee said. “How do you wanna play this?”

  “Smart. I’ll finish up here, swing by, and help you pack.”

  “Uhhh . . . You wanna roll my socks, Bae?” he kidded, uncertain.

  N
ice to have him on the defensive for once.

  “You’re employed by Mr. Renko now. And Mr. Renko likes things just so.”

  * * *

  Lee swung open the door. He was wearing jeans, a black tee, and square-toed Harley-Davidson boots. He gave me a slow wolf whistle.

  “Gee, thanks,” I said and stepped inside and around the three duffel bags of gear. “How long until you’re ready to go?”

  “Now.”

  “Not like that, you’re not.” His couch had returned to “handy storage” mode. I tossed a sweatshirt to one side and moved enough newspapers to sit down.

  “Since when does moving in require a jacket?”

  “See this?” I smoothed the hip of my ancient red Misook sheath. “This is my moving outfit. We’re not leaving until you change.”

  “Quit jerking my chain.”

  “Mr. Renko requires every member of his team properly attired at all times.”

  Lee looked mulish.

  I folded my arms and crossed my legs. “Go put on a suit.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  I tapped Stannis’s Philippe Patek. “Ticktock, darling.”

  For five minutes I fought the urge to tidy up Lee’s living room. Normally I would’ve, because we’re partners and I’m helpful like that. But he was going to be my bodyguard, and he was going to have to start treating me like an employer, whether he wanted to or not.

  Lee returned to the living room in a navy Brooks Brothers suit with enough room in front to hide a pregnant panda. “You work that hard to have a flat belly and you actually wear that?”

  “Easy to hide the piece.” He flashed his palms at me. “Christ, it was for a wedding. I never wear a suit. Ever. I have two dress uniforms.”

  “Open the jacket.”

  Inside, he was wearing a shoulder holster and another custom-made dress shirt.

  “How in God’s name does one purchase custom-made dress shirts and then cover them up with an off-the-rack suit made for a man who weighs at least a hundred pounds more than you?”