Nobody Dies For Free

by Pro Se Press

  “Stunning,” he said just above a whisper.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Winter Willows said. “This is the crown of the Crown, a room where only the most important guests will get to look out over the city.”

  “But who,” Monroe asked, “gets to decide which guests are important enough for that privilege?”

  “Certainly not you, and not even me,” Winter said. “Those privileges are reserved for the kings of the city.”

  “And here I thought we lived in a democracy,” Monroe quipped.

  “You should know that’s only an illusion, Richard.”

  “I do, I suppose,” Monroe said, catching himself in a moment of honesty with Winter despite the rest of his act, “but I can’t help dreaming of a better world now and then. So tell me, how do you know so much about illusions and corruption?”

  “No,” Winter said. “Tell me something: what are you fishing for anyway? You know more than you’ve admitted and you’re either looking to get between my legs or you’re trying to hook yourself up with a job. Which is it?”

  “You appreciate brutal honesty then, it seems?”

  “Lay your cards on the table, Mr. Monroe.”

  “Well why can’t I be after both, Ms. Willows?”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Winter said. The ice had come back into her voice. “It’s one or the other. Choose.”

  “Are you saying I can actually win on one front?” Monroe asked.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Winter answered, “but you have to decide, right here and right now, if tonight is about business or about pleasure. It’s your call, Richard, and I promise not to slap you unless you really deserve it.”

  Monroe took a step closer to her, looked down and straight into her eyes. “If it’s a choice between the money and the lady, it’s not such a difficult one. After all, I’ve already got a little something in my bank account…”

  He kissed her and she did not back away. It was a warm kiss as Winter Willows let her icy defenses drop away. Their lips locked for a long time and Monroe ran his hands through the long white hair that seemed so incongruous, yet so enchanting, on so young a woman.

  Winter was the first to speak when the kiss finally ended.

  “I happen to know that the Crown management will be making an announcement toward the end of the party tonight.”

  “And what announcement would that be?” Monroe asked.

  “Any invited guests at the party,” Winter answered, “who want to can have a room here tonight, free of charge. I suppose it’s their way of breaking in the place and also avoiding any scandals that might come out of anyone leaving a bit too lit up to drive. Will you be spending the night, Richard?”

  “That depends how economically responsible I get to be,” Monroe said.

  “What do you mean?” Winter asked.

  “I mean,” Monroe answered, “that we’d be saving the hotel a handful of money if we used one room tonight instead of two. We wouldn’t want to bankrupt the Crown before it’s even officially open, now would we, Winter?”

  “No, Richard, I suppose we wouldn’t.” Winter smiled. “You’re lucky it’s free, since you seem to have chosen the lady over the money.”

  ***

  They put in another appearance at the ballroom. They separated for a while and Monroe had another scotch. The reporter he had sat with at dinner came scurrying over like a curious puppy.

  “Where did you two run off to?”

  “Never mind where I went,” Monroe said. “Suffice it to say that I’m having an excellent evening.”

  “But I smell a story,” the press rat said. “I think you’ve picked up more information on that little vanilla-frosted cupcake of a woman than I have in several years of trying. Come on, Monroe, just give me something.”

  “Give me your card,” Monroe said, “and maybe I’ll call you. Now get out of here. I have a woman to get back to, not a cupcake.”

  While the conversation with the media man had been going on, Monroe had watched Winter peripherally, seeing her stop by the mayor’s dais and say a few words to the city’s leader and to Cyril Benson. He had tried to read the lips, but had not quite caught what was being said. The hotel owner stood up then and made the announcement that Winter had predicted.

  “As a courtesy to any of our guests who are too tired or too…otherwise affected by this wonderful gathering, the Boston Crown Hotel is pleased to offer rooms tonight to any of you who wish to stay. Please see any of the clerks who will now be making the rounds of the ballroom and giving out room numbers and the pass cards needed to get into those rooms. And thank you all for coming and making this night such a success.”

  Moments later, Winter had started back in Monroe’s direction. She reached him, gently took the glass, almost empty now, from his hand and placed it on the bar. She slipped her hand into his and they walked out of the ballroom together.

  “Room 707,” she said as they reached the corridor. “One of the first-class suites, they tell me.”

  As they rose in the elevator, Monroe was hit by a sharp realization. He was about to spend the night with a woman, and she would be the first since Genevieve. He was not quite sure how he felt about that. He reminded himself that only the mission mattered now, and he willed his emotions to crawl back into their closet just as firmly as he had told the reporter to get out of his way.

  ***

  Winter’s information was accurate: 707 was indeed a first-rate suite and it lived up to its classification. The pair took full advantage of the privacy. Monroe pushed away thoughts of Genevieve and acted as though Winter Willows was the only beautiful woman in the world. He satisfied her and she did the same for him and they finally fell asleep in the afterglow of much pleasure.

  In the morning, they showered together and parted ways with another long kiss.

  “We really must do this again…and soon,” Monroe said in the lobby of the Boston Crown.

  They programmed each others’ numbers into their phones and parted. Monroe went outside and had the valet on morning duty bring the Lexus around. He got in and drove away, but he stopped six blocks from the hotel and pulled over to the side of the street. He reached under the seat and found the Glock still where he had concealed it. Then he searched for something else.

  “Amateurs,” he muttered. The bug was exactly where he expected it to be. So he knew he was being listened to and would not communicate with Mr. Nine while driving. No big deal, he decided, and no reason to let them know that he knew. He turned the radio up loud, thankful for the Bee Gees, for the listeners might find them annoying.

  When he arrived home, he checked the apartment thoroughly but found nothing to indicate that the place had been broken into or bugged while he had been away. Good. That meant that someone in the Boston food chain was curious enough to do the car but he was not yet considered to be a serious threat worthy of home surveillance.

  He spent the remainder of the day at rest, reading, eating a light lunch and a filling supper, and thought about how to proceed now that he had made contact, in so many interesting ways, with the woman who he suspected held the key to the information he needed. He still was not sure exactly where Winter Willows connected to the Boston underworld and to the bigger ocean where swam the shark, Garrett Khan, but he thought he was well on the way to finding out.

  Chapter 11: Slip of the Tongue

  Monroe waited three days before calling Winter Willows. Over-eager chasing had never been his way, not with woman he was after for informational purposes and not for woman he wanted otherwise. Even with Genevieve he had proceeded cautiously at first. But now it was time to get on with it.

  She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello, Richard.”

  “How are you, Winter?”

  “Tired, to be honest; it’s been a busy few days.”

  “Why? What’s been happening?”

  “Just business and I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

  “You sound like you nee
d some down time, Winter. Why don’t you come over tonight? My place is no Boston Crown, but I like to think it’s quite adequate. I’ll make us dinner.”

  “You cook?”

  “On my better days,” Monroe said. “How’s eight thirty sound?”

  “I suppose so,” Winter answered, “if you don’t mind a more casual version of me. I won’t be dressed like I was for the Crown event.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Monroe said, hoping his next line would not be too much, “I liked what you didn’t wear for our post-Crown event just as well.”

  “Eight thirty then,” Winter agreed. “Send the address by text.”

  ***

  The call ended and the promise made, Monroe hurried out to shop. It had been a long time since he had made dinner and he had to do it right. An hour at the market should do it, he thought, and was on his way.

  He decided on Italian: not too exotic since he was not quite sure of Winter’s food preferences, and not too difficult to prepare but could look impressive if done artistically. He arrived home with bags full of veal, pasta, vegetables, capers, sauces, and the best bottle of wine he could find on short notice. Feeling a bit silly about the whole thing, he reminded himself that it was all part of the job. Monroe tied on his apron and started humming the Mission: Impossible theme as he diced the tomatoes.

  Several hours later, just as Monroe had emerged from the bathroom, freshly shaved and dressed and long since finished with his culinary mission, the doorbell rang. It was precisely eight-thirty. Winter Willows was a punctual creature.

  ***

  “Richard, you outdid yourself. That was excellent,” Winter said as she finished her meal and poured more wine. “Maybe you missed your calling, marketing consultant who could have been a chef!”

  “Flattery won’t work on me,” Monroe said as he got up, walked around to Winter’s side of the table, and leaned down to kiss her. “I prefer action over mere words.”

  “Then give me a minute,” Winter said, standing up too, “and let me freshen up.”

  Monroe watched her walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. She had shown up, as promised on the phone, in attire that was much more casual than the dress from the Boston Crown. Knee-high winter boots came up over jeans that were just tight enough to accent all the right places. A purple sweater that matched the color of the other night’s evening gown was just as suitably tight as the jeans. The unique hair in all its snowy glory was tied back in a ponytail that made her look even younger than she had at the Crown, which made the contrast between face and hair color all the more striking.

  While Winter was in the bathroom, Monroe went into the bedroom, took his gun out of the drawer where he kept it hidden, and slipped it under one of the bed’s pillows, just in case. Finished with his one little bit of cautious preparation, he strolled back into the living room with a relaxed smile on his face just in time for his companion to emerge from her freshening.

  The door opened and Winter walked out, heap of boots and jeans and sweater held up in front of her body with long legs ending in bare feet showing below. She smiled, giggled, and tossed the empty clothes aside, standing there in just a red bra and panties.

  Monroe very much liked what he saw, and he smiled back at her. They approached each other, kissed again, and he led her into the bedroom. But even as they walked, something nagged at his instincts. It felt too easy and the way she had laughed, like a flirty schoolgirl, seemed out of character for the woman who had shown herself to be capable of such guarded coldness when first they had met.

  In the bedroom, the lamp still lit, Winter jumped onto the bed, laughing again, gesturing with a finger for Monroe to come and get her. Monroe stood there for a moment admiring her and took off his shirt, casting it away. He stepped out of his shoes, unbuckled his belt, opened the button of his pants, and approached her. He knelt at the edge of the bed as she unhooked her bra and tossed it away. He crawled to her, grabbed onto the edge of her one remaining piece of clothing, and slid the red silk away from her body, down along her legs, and over her feet and off, letting it fall to the floor beside the bed. His hands landed on her legs and began to work up, passing the knees, running up the thighs. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other. Winter’s breathing grew louder, more intense, and Monroe could feel his arousal deepening. He dropped his head down between her thighs, intending to bring her pleasure up to the highest level he could manage before he sought to satisfy his own desires. His body over hers made shadows on the pale surface of her thighs, but he could see enough to navigate his way to where she seemed to want him to go.

  That was when he saw it. He stopped moving for a second and then raised his head to let in just a bit more light. He stared down at Winter’s right thigh for an instant, making certain he was correct, and then moved quickly and decisively.

  He straightened his back, balanced on his knees, leaned forward, and slapped Winter hard across the face with his open palm. Her head swung to the side and she cried out. Monroe rolled over the side of the bed, gained his footing, fished the Glock out from under the pillow, and backed up against the bedroom wall.

  By the time Winter had recovered her senses and sat there with a hand held up to her aching cheek and a shocked, frightened look on her face, Monroe had his gun trained on her and a cold look in his blue eyes.

  “You stupid bitch,” Monroe said, “did you really think it would be that easy? I have eyes, you know, and they connect very well to my brain. That birthmark on your leg wasn’t there when I first explored the territory the other night, and I can see—as any man who knows how to look would—that the skin around it isn’t quite the same as the rest of that lovely thigh of yours. A patch of false flesh with a spot of something hidden in the dark part, isn’t it? What’s it rigged with, Winter, cyanide maybe, or something equally deadly? Set to be released by the touch of a moist tongue, I suppose? Did you just put that on while you were freshening up?”

  “Do you intend to shoot me, Richard?” Winter asked. There were no tears now, no frightened little girl eyes, just the cold tone she had used on him when they had first flirted at the Boston Crown.

  “Get up!” Monroe growled, and Winter did as she was told.

  “Walk,” Monroe said, and he followed two feet behind her. “Try anything and I’ll blow a hole in your spine. Walk into the living room. Good. Now grab a tissue from that box on the coffee table and use it to peel that silly thing off your leg. Good girl. Now drop it on the floor and get dressed.”

  Winter was fully clothed in a minute. Monroe never let the gun drop during the whole process.

  “Now turn toward me and sit down on the couch. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  She did. Monroe sat too, in his favorite chair, angled to the left of Winter’s position, the Glock still locked on target.

  “Now you’re going to tell me exactly what it is that you do for the mayor and others, Ms. Willows.”

  Winter saw no use in resisting now. She understood the ice in Monroe’s eyes. There was no pity there and he would kill her if she gave him a good enough excuse.

  “I keep things connected,” she said. “I run the lines of communication between the mayor and certain other men in Boston. I make sure everyone understands their proper place.”

  “Who’s your real boss?” Monroe demanded. “Is it the mayor or is it Cyril Benson? Or is it somebody else?”

  “Benson mostly,” Winter admitted. “He’s the one who really runs the show. The mayor thinks I’m his, but Benson pays better and gets more from me than that gullible twit in City Hall.”

  “And who does Benson work for?”

  “He works for himself. He takes orders from nobody.”

  “Bullshit!” Monroe roared. “I don’t have to kill you, Winter. I know where to put the bullet to cripple you or disfigure you without death. Don’t tempt me. Benson might be the local boss, but somebody else pulls his strings from the shadows, somebody who knows who I really am. Otherw
ise, I didn’t do anything that would come close to giving Benson a reason for telling you to come here tonight and poison me. Last chance, Winter! Give me a name.”

  “Khan,” she finally said. “Garrett Khan. Who’d you think it was? That man has his hands on every city to one extent or another. But he doesn’t control Benson; he just skims a little off the profits in exchange for not taking a more active role here.”

  “Have you ever met Khan? Do you know where he is now?”

  “No,” Winter said, “and I swear, Richard, that I’m telling you the truth. I don’t deal with him directly.”

  “Who does?”

  “Only Benson ever talks to him as far as I know.”

  “I do believe you,” Monroe said. “Now stay right there. I’m going to step into the bedroom for a second and grab my shirt and shoes. If you move, I’ll be back around the corner firing before you can make it out that door. Don’t bet your life that I can’t move that fast.”

  Winter did not make that foolish bet. She stayed put and Monroe returned, dressed, in well under a minute, in the process of pulling on a jacket. All with the Glock never leaving his person.

  “Get up,” Monroe said. “And stop trembling. For one thing, it doesn’t suit you, and for another, you’ll need steady hands to drive. We’re taking your car, just in case they rigged mine with explosives as a back-up plan. Let’s go…and don’t even think about screaming.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To make a deal with your boss,” Monroe said as he concealed the gun in his jacket pocket, finger still on the trigger.