Out for Blood

by S. J. Rozan

  High walls, grimy with ancient coal dust, rising on one side to high strip windows. The door I’d been pulled into, on my right; the small, sealed one behind me.

  Across the room, eyes blazing, standing, but mouth taped, hands cuffed behind her, and locked to the wall by a short chain at her waist: Lydia.

  In front of me, just out of reach, with an automatic and a huge grin: Kevin Cavanaugh.

  “Well!” he drawled as I fought to stay standing. “Well, well, fucking well. Prince Asshole. Nice of you to drop by. Call them.”

  “What?” My head still buzzed; I was having trouble following.

  “That army brigade you have outside, all your bench, your B-team, whoever the fuck they are. Little Chop Suey, is he there? Call them, tell them to cease and desist or everyone in here is d-e-a-d dead as a doornail. What the hell’s a doornail, anyway? Who gives a shit? Call them right now, asshole. That gas, it ain’t very nice, I’m told.” He pointed to the floor behind me. A canister like a fire extinguisher stood on end, wired up—one set of wires ran to the small door—and not seeming too stable. “Do it now. Because if I hear one fucking word from any of them, that damn megaphone blasting or some shit-eating sweet-talker telling me everything’s gonna be okay, I’ll shoot us all. And then set off the gas,” he added as an afterthought.

  My vision was double and wouldn’t clear. I blinked, shook my head, almost caved in under a wave of nausea. I turned to Lydia, met her eyes. Kevin saw the look that passed between us and his grin grew. Without taking his gaze off me, he swiveled the gun to her. “Now? Asshole?”

  “Okay,” I rasped. “All right.” I fumbled for my phone. I forced myself to stand straight, which wasn’t any harder than climbing Everest. Slowly, I grinned, too. As I dialed Mary, I said, “Finally.”

  Uncertainty clouded Kevin’s smile but I didn’t give him a chance to speak.

  “Mary?”

  “Bill?”

  “Back off. It’s Kevin. He’s in here with Lydia. He says back off or he’ll trigger the gas.”

  “Is she all right?”

  I threw another quick look Lydia’s way. Even with my vision off, I could see: blood on her cheek, a bruise on her arm, her face drawn and streaked with coal dust. But she was standing and her eyes burned. “Yes.”

  “Is he listening?”

  “No. Back off, Mary. All of you. Kennison’s door is wired to the gas.”

  “We have a hostage negotiator. He’ll call your number. Put Kevin on.”

  “No.”

  “Bill—”

  “No. It’ll be okay. Unless you guys screw it up.” I thumbed off, lowered the phone, looked Kevin in the eye, smiled. I tossed the phone to the floor. Reaching in my pockets, I pulled out my prepaid and Kevin’s own phone, chucked them away, too.

  “Wow, asshole. You’re really wired up, huh? Hey, that looks like mine!”

  “It is yours.”

  “Woo-hoo! Damn, your team’s good, bro, I’ll give ya that.”

  “They are. But I don’t need them anymore. Now that I have what I want.”

  The confusion again; then the smile. “You have what you want? What would that be?”

  “You and me,” I said. “Face to face. I’ve been telling you all day, Kevin, that’s all I wanted.”

  “Oh, sure. That’s all, besides me cutting your girlfriend loose.” He turned, made exaggerated kissing noises at Lydia. Her face darkened and she pulled against the chain.

  “And you sure fell for that.”

  Kevin whipped back to me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on, Kevin, you don’t really think I give a shit what happens to her? She’s fun, but for Christ’s sake, there are a billion of them. From the beginning, I said: You and me, face to face. And you said, no, I had to do all this bullshit about finding Lydia. Obviously there was no way to stop you from hiding behind her, so I did what you wanted. I knew it would bring us together in the end.”

  He took a step toward me. Lydia’s eyes widened. I knew what she was seeing: a swaying, beat-to-shit veteran whose head was ringing, taunting a younger, hate-filled, drug-stoked iron man.

  “Hiding behind her?” Kevin sneered. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What part don’t you understand? Her? Behind? Or, hiding? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all day?”

  “What I’ve been doing? I’ve been setting you up! I’ve been jerking you around by the balls!”

  “You believe anything you want. You know I’m right.”

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  “You still playing? Well, suit yourself. Kevin Cavanaugh, big scary psycho killer. Bullshit, Kevin. You’re a punk. A loser, a wannabe. You were scared of me so you came up with this crappy game. What a waste of time.”

  “Me? Scared of you? You’re the one who’s scared! Scared all day I’d hurt your precious girlfriend.”

  “A punk, and stupid besides. How the hell else was I going to get up close and personal with you? Since you wouldn’t step up like a man. I played you, Kevin, and it worked. Now we’re face to face in a locked room. What I’ve wanted for years.”

  “Years? What years?”

  “You think you’re the only one’s been obsessing since way back then? I’ve thought about you a lot, Kevin. Every fucking day, in fact. Every fucking day of my life.”

  “Bullshit! It took you hours to even figure out it was me. You said you didn’t remember!”

  “You bought that? Shit, you really are a jerk. I knew it was you right away, of course I did. It’s been eating at me for ten years, how that shitbrain Hal Ross got you a soft, cushy sentence. I had you all set up to do some serious hard time, until he fucked it up.”

  “Hard time? You don’t know what hard time is, asshole! You’d have been crying for your mama, you did a day of the time I did.”

  “Crap. In those country clubs? I had you bound for Attica, you candy-ass. Until Hal came along.”

  “No. No.” He shook his head. “This was all my idea. This is my game.”

  “See, that’s your problem right there. ‘Game.’ You’re a punk and you think like a punk. When you started with that bullshit, when you insisted on this ‘game’ and wouldn’t cut to the chase, I finally caught on that you were too chicken to meet me. So I played along. I stage-managed it all. So it would end up like this.”

  “Oh, that is such bullshit!” Sweat gleamed on his forehead.

  I grinned. “Then why would I be in here? The cops are outside. Why didn’t I let them save Lydia, now that we have you cornered, instead of making like a hero and ending up locked in here with you?” Damn good question, Smith, but it’s too late now. “No. I did it because it was what I wanted. Now we’re here. Now we can have it out. I was worried you really were on your way out of town when you said you were, but I thought no, not Kevin, he won’t be able to resist.”

  Kevin stared. “I was! But you fucked me up. You stole my first prize! Or I’d have left. I wouldn’t have come back here.”

  My grin widened. “I know that, Kevin. That’s why I did it.”

  His eyes jumped and darted. A bead of sweat rolled down his jawline. Then his smile turned crafty. “Well. Well, if that’s the case, then you won’t mind if I, say, blow her away. Your pretty girlfriend.” He pivoted the gun to Lydia again.

  “Go ahead. If you think you can afford to waste your strength like that.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Kevin. You get off on it, right? You got off when you killed the Lin girl, and each one of those girls today, you felt it in your pants. You shoot Lydia now, you won’t be able to lift a finger when I come at you. Girls sap your strength, Kev. Didn’t they teach you that in high school? Pull that trigger, pull your own trigger at the same time, right? Think you can fight me then?”

  He stared, then laughed, filled the room with that funhouse cackle. “Fight you? You’re not serious, Grandpa. You want to fight?”

  “Bring it
on.”

  “You’re fucking kidding. Look at you. Look at me.” He turned to Lydia as though to a judge. “You believe this? He can hardly stand up, and he thinks he can fight me.”

  Lydia’s eyes flared and once more she pulled against the chain. I spoke to her, also. “He never took me, not once. I broke him down one-on-one every time. Every time. On offense I scored on his sorry ass over and over. On D, I moved him around, powered him right into the double-team. Whatever he says, that’s what happened.”

  Kevin spun back to me, face crimson. “You lying sack of shit! I used to muscle you, I used to—”

  “Oh, Christ. Talk, talk, talk. You want to weasel out, you’re scared to fight me, come on, just say so.”

  Kevin looked at the gun, at Lydia, at me. “Well. Well, asshole. If that’s what you want.”

  “You know it is.”

  “Okay. Why not? You want a beat-down, you got it. Then you can watch me and your girlfriend have that party we’ve been waiting on.”

  “Kevin? You’re still talking.”

  He hesitated another moment, then knelt to put the gun on the floor behind him. But he stopped. “Oh. Wait. That was almost a mistake. You’d have liked that, huh? You’d have cheated and gone for the gun. Maybe that’s your plan?”

  It had occurred to me. I tried to keep that off my face but standing was hard enough.

  “Haha! Oh, poor asshole. No, you said fight, now you’re gonna have to fight.” With a smile and a cold click, he pulled the magazine from the gun. He emptied the chambered round, put the bullet and the magazine in his pocket, then skidded the gun across the floor. He crouched, spread his arms, twitched his fingers. “Okay, Grandpa. Show me what you got.”

  What I had was a head that rang, eyes that couldn’t see straight, ribs that ached with every breath, rubbery legs that had lost a step long ago.

  What he had was youth, drugs, muscles, and hate.

  We circled each other. I feinted at him. He didn’t bite. A few steps later I did it again. Same thing. The third time he couldn’t hold out, not Kevin: he rushed me, threw a right. I saw him cock it and I ducked, nearly avoided it, just barely got my ear clipped by a blow that would’ve knocked me over if it had connected. I jabbed up with my left while his arm was still out. I caught his chin and followed with my right, a hammer to his nose. But he jumped back and I didn’t make much contact. Good sense would have told me to jump back, too, especially since the shot he’d landed, weak as it was, seemed to have made my vision not just double, but now blurred. I stood against another wave of nausea. Good sense would have told me not to fight him in the first place. I charged, throwing everything I had at his head, gut, ribs. He grabbed me in a clinch, laughing. His iron arms pinned mine. I couldn’t hit but neither could he, or so I thought until he let go to pound the back of my head where he’d clobbered me when I came through the door. I saw fireworks, sparks; I heard myself howl. I dug my feet in, lowered my head like a bull, and tried to get my legs to work. Tightening his grip again, Kevin wrapped me like a steel band. I pushed hard on the concrete floor, moved us a few steps, but Kevin didn’t care, just laughed and took a big step back in the direction I was pushing, dropping me off balance.

  “God, Grandpa! This all you’ve got?”

  Taking my weight on my left leg, I swept my right forward and in, hooking his ankle. It would have been a miracle if I’d unbalanced him and I managed only to pull his foot over a few inches, opening his stance. He stayed firmly upright, and he laughed. Another blow to the back of my head, another burst of lights. Then another howl.

  His.

  The iron grip slacked. I’d been waiting for that. I pulled away, then threw a roundhouse to his jaw and a hammer that this time found his nose. Both were pretty feeble but that was okay; they were more icing than cake. One more to the stomach and he went down. He moaned as I kicked him in the chin. I went for his stomach again. It was all available, all open to me. The hands that should have been protecting him, should have been pounding me, were between his legs, where, after I’d moved him around, powered him right into the double-team, Lydia had kicked him in the balls.

  29

  IN A HAZE, I stared at Kevin on the concrete floor, bleeding and moaning. Then I dropped to my knees and started to hammer him. I pumped my arm like a pile driver, though an increasingly weak one. I didn’t have much left but everything I had I poured onto Kevin. Over and over, I pounded: his face, his kidneys, whatever his writhing brought under my fist. I kept going after he stopped moving. I could’ve gone on forever but a pain in my ribs interrupted me. When it happened a second time I stopped punching, pulled back. The pain came again. I looked up: Lydia was kicking me.

  I blinked, stared at Kevin motionless on the floor. I rose onto rubbery legs, pulled the tape from Lydia’s mouth. She drew a deep breath and rasped, “What the hell took you so long?”

  I had no idea what to say.

  So I kissed her.

  It all vanished: the room, the lights, the coal dust. Lydia’s chain, the battered lunatic on the floor, the shakiness in my legs. No, not the shakiness. That kept going, but now it came from a different source.

  After—what? an hour? a day? ten seconds?—Lydia pulled away. “I know,” she whispered. “But we’re not done yet. Don’t you think you need to let them in before that thing goes off?”

  I didn’t think anything; I was beyond thinking. She nodded toward the gas canister. I looked at it dumbly.

  “Bill,” she said. “The door. Go unbolt it. Then you can fall down.”

  Falling down seemed like such a good idea that I staggered over and unbolted the door.

  After that, for a while, jumbled sounds and images, like a highlight reel: some slow-motion, some still, some jerky fast.

  Mary, Sweeney, lots of other cops bursting through the door, guns sweeping in all directions, voices yelling. “Police!” “Hands up!” “On the floor!” I complied easily, though involuntarily, with that last one.

  Then everyone out in a fast-receding tide. One of Kennison’s men, with bolt-cutters, clipping Lydia’s chain; two cops dragging Kevin; Mary and someone else helping me up. Left behind: Kennison in a Darth Vader mask, examining the canister. Soon after: Darth Vader in the crowded corridor, bowing to applause.

  Fading orange sunlight, deep blue sky. Blue-and-white police cars, white-and-orange ambulances. Kevin, dazed, disbelieving, on a gurney, loaded into one ambulance. Lydia, IV in her arm, squeezing my hand as she’s rolled to another. Me, last because I said so.

  Mary’s friend Patino: “Just FYI, Smith, you’re off the hook for the homicide. From what went on here, and what your buddy Lu tells us, chances are you’ll be free and clear for the cops you assaulted, too. I don’t suppose”—hopefully—“you want to press charges against Lu? Kidnapping, assault? Because otherwise, after all this, I still don’t have anything I can use on Lu.”

  Me, shaking my head, thinking about the Chinatown tunnels, and the ledge, the flagpole.

  “Didn’t think so. Well, I’ll nail his ass some other time. Meanwhile, like I say, you’re good to go. Maybe even for the Sanitation guy, if I get my playoff tickets.”

  Me, lifting the oxygen mask to croak: “Courtside. Can I come?”

  Patino, considering: “If I have to be seen with you, you’re buying the beer, too.”

  “Done.”

  “And listen, just between us, from what I hear, if I were you I’d send a crew to clean Kee’s living room floor. As a goodwill gesture.”

  “You think that’ll work?”

  Patino, glancing at Mary giving orders, confering with her captain: “It’s a start. Oh, and Lu wants Linus Wong’s phone number. For some girl—Jasmine?”

  Me, lying: “I don’t have it.” Me, smiling innocently: “But go ask Trella.”

  Linus, holding Woof’s leash, sticking his face in the ambulance’s rear doors.

  “Dude! You okay?”

  Oxygen mask off again. “Hey, Linus. She said you were good.” />
  Linus’s brow wrinkling. “What are you talking about?”

  “Mary. Told another cop. Said you were damn good.”

  Blanket wrapping me in case of shock. After the blaze of Linus’s grin, though, I didn’t need it.

  The next words I heard from Lydia came late the next afternoon, and were the same as the first ones she’d said when I’d ripped the tape from her mouth.

  “What the hell took you so long?”

  This time, though, she wasn’t talking about saving her life. She was talking about answering the phone.

  I was in my darkened apartment, befuddled with painkillers, aching all over. Lydia and I had each spent the night in the hospital, she because Mary had demanded it to be on the safe side, I because the neurologist wanted to see if my concussion would develop into anything more exciting. It didn’t, and they’d let me out once I promised to go back for a checkup later in the week and not to engage in any strenuous physical activity in the meantime. I’d come home, slept most of the day, gotten up, and was considering breaking the strenuous activity rule to make a pot of coffee. I thought I’d better work my way up to that, though, so I was sitting on the couch smoking, an arduous warmup.

  I’d been knocking the ash off my cigarette, which involved more movement than I was happy about, when my phone rang. I sat looking at it, knowing it already held three messages from Lydia. Just before voicemail kicked in, I surprised myself and answered it.

  “Oh, you’re there? You’re alive? You’re not going to make me leave another message?”

  “You sound good,” I said. “Are you home?”

  “Home, alive and fine, thanks to you.”

  “Not me. Linus. Trella. Mary. A piece-of-work pimp and his boys. And don’t forget Woof, canine superhero.”

  “And you.”

  “No.” I brought the cigarette to my lips, an impressive achievement. “The opposite. I was the reason you needed all of them.”

  “Don’t start that.”

  “You know it’s true. Kevin didn’t have anything against you. Or any of those hookers, either, except they were Chinese. And that was to get to me. If it hadn’t been for me—”