The Good Guy with a Gun (Jim McGill series Book 6)

by Joseph Flynn

  “Have a little faith in yourself, too.”

  “You think Patti is going to advocate for that idea Putnam and I came up with? The one to make schools safer for kids with responsible parents.”

  McGill said, “I haven’t heard of a definite decision, but Patti told me if she were in your position, she’d want to do it. So I think there’s a pretty good chance she will.”

  Sweetie nodded, and let some of the tension she felt drain away.

  “You hear about Hugh Collier getting shot last night?” she asked.

  McGill nodded and was about to say something when his phone’s ring tone sounded. He saw it was Carolyn calling and it was his turn to feel anxious. Had anything bad happened to any of his children?

  His ex-wife said, “Hello, Jim. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

  “The kids are okay? You and Lars, too?”

  “Everybody’s fine.”

  McGill’s shoulders sagged in relief.

  “But all three of our children are causing some big ripples.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We all saw your interview on WWN. Kenny was inspired by your spinoff of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.”

  “In what way?” McGill asked. “You mean, how most people would need only —”

  “Four degrees of knowing someone who has gotten shot. He thought that was a brilliant idea for making people realize just how bad gun violence is in our country. So he and some friends from school who are good at math, computers and animation created an app for mobile phones.”

  McGill was stunned. “They’re calling it what, four degrees of getting shot?”

  “Exactly. One of the friends’ mom is an attorney. She filed for a copyright on the name.”

  “Oh, God. Tell me, please, Carolyn, that nobody’s trying to make money off this.”

  “Actually, yes, they are, but not for themselves. Every penny will go to either aid gunshot victims and their families or to help groups advocating for more responsible gun ownership.”

  McGill felt his heart swell with paternal pride. God bless Kenny and his friends.

  “Well, then, let’s hope they bring in some big money.”

  “They’re already starting to. That’s where Abbie and Caitie come in. Abbie’s publicizing the app through college social media. Word is spreading fast. And Caitie —”

  “Is talking to her movie friends?”

  “Right again. She’s gotten an overwhelming response. In fact, she’s going to do a segment on Showbiz Tonight this evening.”

  McGill’s thoughts moved beyond good feelings for his children.

  “Jim, are you still there?”

  “Yes. Carolyn, why didn’t any of the kids call me about this?”

  “They were unsure how you’d feel. I got elected. You’re okay with it, aren’t you?”

  “More than that. I’m at a loss for words, but awe in its original sense comes to mind.”

  “But?” Carolyn always knew when the other shoe was about to drop.

  “But they are all raising their public profiles. They’ll need extra security. For a while anyway.”

  “Damn, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You and Lars, too, just to be safe.”

  “Goddamnit, none of that is right.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “But you’ll arrange it?”

  “I will. Tell the kids I love them and I think they’re great. You and Lars, too.”

  “I will, and thanks for the compliment. Give our love to Patti.”

  McGill clicked off. They’d arrived at Dikki’s P Street building. The others were waiting for him to exit the Chevy. Before McGill could do that, he had another call.

  Ellie Booker.

  She said, “Hugh Collier changed his mind. WWN is going to start broadcasting gun deaths on the evening national news, daily.”

  McGill replied by telling Ellie about the four degrees of getting shot.

  The discussion about guns, at least, was about to change.

  Four Seasons Hotel — Washington, DC

  Maxi took a look around the hotel lobby, turned to look up at Putnam and asked, “Are you and Margaret rich?”

  Maxi’s bookbag was slung over Putnam’s shoulder. He’d put it there when he’d picked her up from school. He could have left it in his car; he trusted that the hotel staff wouldn’t filch it, but he liked carrying it, the weight of it. An anchor that held him fast to being a dad.

  He sometimes still had trouble believing he’d become one, a father.

  Both Margaret and Maxi gave him a sense of fulfillment he’d never known.

  The old Putnam wouldn’t recognize the new model.

  He told Maxi, “Rich is a word that keeps changing.”

  Putnam pressed the button to call an elevator car.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, a hundred years ago a hundred dollars was big money.”

  “That’s still big money to me,” Maxi said.

  “You’re right, and that’s a good point. What was big money a long time ago is still big money to some people, but it’s not so big to other people.”

  “Because if you have a lot of money one little bit isn’t so much, but if the little bit is all you have, then it’s important.”

  Putnam beamed. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

  The elevator came and they stepped inside. Maxi looked back out at the lobby.

  “You and Margaret have more than a little bit,” she said.

  “Yes, we do, but not nearly as much as some people, and there’s one more thing for you to remember.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever Margaret and I have is yours, too. Not all of it and not right away, but maybe by the time you have your own children or even grandchildren, then it will be all yours.”

  “If you mean when you and Margaret die, I want you to live forever.”

  “The way you and Margaret make me feel, I think that’s a fine idea.”

  The two of them got off the elevator and saw the door to one of the hotel’s Capital Suites was open and Jerry Nerón was waiting to greet them. Putnam anyway. He looked surprised to see Maxi.

  He recovered nicely, bending from the waist and extending his hand to Maxi.

  She looked at Putnam and receiving a nod took Jerry’s hand.

  “I’m Maxi Shady,” she said.

  “And I am Jeronimo Nerón, but my friends call me Jerry.”

  Maxi grinned and told him, “I like Jeronimo.”

  She trilled the “r” in his first name.

  “And you never need call me anything else.” He gave Putnam a wink and and extended an arm to Maxi. The little girl took his arm without checking for approval. Putnam followed them inside and closed the door behind him.

  Jerry was far from feeling courtly earlier that day. He’d caught the news report on TV that Abel Mays had died of a heart attack before he’d shot the cabrón. That made Jerry an imbécil. Mays hadn’t pulled to the curb behind his car to take a nap after the strain of his murderous labors. He’d probably felt chest pains and thought it best for his own safety to stop driving.

  He’d managed that and then he died.

  No wonder he hadn’t so much as looked up when Jerry had opened the door to his SUV. And Jerry hadn’t noticed his intended victim had already stopped breathing. Some assassin he was. It was a damn good thing he was retiring. Well, had only one target left at any rate.

  Jerry’s Google Alert on Auric Ludwig advised him that the man was being interviewed on a talk radio show. He seethed when he heard that sonofabitch had raised the bounty on him to $2 million. This was intolerable. There was a handful of men in Little Havana who knew he’d killed Galtero Blanco, and some of them had hinted to him from time to time that they suspected Jerry of using the lethal skills he’d been taught to dispose of other objectionable pendejos.

  Jerry had always laughed off such suggestions.

  But $2 million was a l
ot of money and some of the old ones only just got by.

  Their loyalty to him might be overcome by greed.

  They had no way of knowing for sure that he’d killed either Abel Mays or Jordan Gilford, but some of them did know he’d been in Washington when Mays was killed. His name might be suggested to Ludwig purely as a matter of chance, like buying a lottery ticket. In this case, they wouldn’t even have to pay a dollar for an opportunity to win.

  Jerry was getting very anxious, an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling.

  He had to move quickly. When Jerry met with a tailoring client, he offered him the choice of having his measurements taken either at a place of the client’s choosing, the client’s office or home, or at the hotel suite where Jerry was staying. Now, Jerry had to get together with Ludwig, just the two of them, ideally at Ludwig’s office, with the man’s home or Jerry’s suite as fallback locations.

  If Jerry could manage that, and he’d damn well better, he would slit Ludwig’s throat as he’d done with Galtero Blanco. If he had the luck to visit Ludwig’s office or home, he’d leave the body there. If he had to kill the man in his hotel suite, he’d have to be careful to leave no blood behind and find a way to move the body elsewhere.

  As to how he could arrange the meeting in the first place, Ludwig’s own troubles provided that opening. The man was in deep trouble with the police; his arrest had been shown on television. Jerry would call him at his office. Say friends of Ludwig’s who chose to remain anonymous had hired him to make new suits for Ludwig’s court appearances. All expenses had been paid for.

  Jerry felt optimistic that playing on the man’s vanity in a time of need would work.

  If not, he’d have to do something desperate. Just what, he didn’t yet know.

  In the meantime, he needed to complete his cover obligation, the reason he would give for returning to Washington, should anyone ask.

  Asking was just what Putnam Shady did.

  “So what was the reason you wanted to look at my new suit?”

  Putnam was wearing the first of three suits he’d ordered from Jerry.

  Maxi was sipping on a ginger ale Jerry had provided and doing homework on her iPad at the suite’s wet bar.

  “I was working in my shop after delivering your suit,” Jerry said, “and my vision got blurry. I couldn’t even clearly read a trade publication. I thought I might be ill or at least that my eyesight might be changing. I went to my doctor, and asked whether I should go to an ophthalmologist. My doctor said I was simply working too hard, get a good night’s rest, take a day off and make sure I had adequate lighting in my workspace.”

  Putnam nodded, following along with the story.

  Jerry shrugged. “I did as I was told. My vision cleared and I resolved to ease up on my workload.”

  “You check your lighting, too?” Putnam asked.

  “Yes, of course. I was greatly relieved, but one thing bothered me. Did I make your suit properly? Were my measurements, cutting and sewing all as precise as I demand of myself?”

  “You might have called. I love this new suit.”

  Jerry placed a hand on his chest. “You warm my heart. I feel better already. And it does look good on you. You have become very fit and the suit compliments that.”

  Putnam knew he was being flattered. Still, he felt he’d earned it.

  “What I’d like to see,” Jerry continued, “is whether the stitching is up to my standards. Examining the coat will be enough, if you would be so kind.”

  Putnam obliged, after removing his cell phone.

  Jerry took the garment to a window. The sun had finally broken through the overcast and provided more than adequate light. As the tailor studied his work, Putnam observed him. For all his moral reclamation, Putnam was still the son of two con artists.

  He also continued to work in the politics of Washington.

  He knew when someone was trying to put one over on him. He also knew not to let on when he caught wise to someone else’s play. He didn’t know what Jerry’s game was, but he was sure there was one. He didn’t think it had anything to do with money. Jerry had a long list of prominent clients and his suits were not cheap.

  The tailor had to have another reason to come back to DC and —

  Jerry stepped away from the window and held the suit coat out to Putnam, slipping it on his client with practiced ease.

  “I’m happy to say my work is exquisite as always,” Jerry said. “I apologize for taking up your time, but I am so happy to have met Maxi.”

  Hearing her name, Maxi slid off the barstool with her iPad.

  “Are we going?” she asked Putnam.

  He looked at Jerry. “We’re done?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The two men exchanged a handshake.

  Maxi shook Jerry’s hand, too. “Thank you for the ginger ale.”

  “My pleasure. If you ever come to Miami with Mr. Shady, I will have to take you both to lunch.”

  “And Margaret, too?”

  “Yes, of course, anyone you like.”

  Jerry ushered them out of the suite and said goodbye at the elevator bank.

  After the doors closed, Maxi said, “I like Jeronimo. He was nice.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Polite to a fault, Putnam thought. Everything the tailor had told him had been plausible. Or at least beyond disproof. Nevertheless, Putnam was absolutely certain he’d just been used.

  Now, he just had to figure out for what purpose.

  In the suite adjacent to Jerry Nerón’s, Arturo Gonzales, the pilot who had flown Jerry to Washington and would take him home, lounged on a sofa with a drink in hand. The weather outside was too cold for him and the sun, after it finally appeared, was too pale, a poor substitute for the warmth and brightness it radiated in Miami.

  A Spanish-language edition of People Magazine lay on Arturo’s lap. His attention, though, was on the radio broadcast coming from the suite’s audio system. As with many Cuban-Americans of his generation, Arturo’s political views were staunchly conservative. He liked listening to right-wing talk radio. These were his kind of people.

  The ones who would free his homeland someday.

  By the grace of God while he was still alive.

  Today, clips of an interview with Auric Ludwig were being replayed constantly. Ludwig was offering $2 million to anyone who could tell him the name of the man who shot Abel Mays. The first time Arturo had heard the offer he’d smiled and thought to himself, “I know someone who could have done it.”

  Arturo could still remember helping to carry off the staggering dead weight of Galtero Blanco. Bastardo gordo.

  Given the frequent repetition of the reward offer, Arturo came to wonder, “Did Jerry kill this Abel Mays?” There had been whispers on Calle Ocho that Blanco had been only the first man Jerry Nerón had killed. Following Blanco, there had been many others.

  Of course, that was the kind of thing it was best not to examine too closely.

  At least, Arturo had never done so — before now.

  He looked closely at the furnishings of his suite. Whatever the defects of Washington’s climate, this hotel was far nicer than his humble home. He was a man who flew a Gulfstream jet but not a man who owned one. Arturo began to think it would be nice to have more money in his remaining years. Two million dollars would make life so much sweeter.

  If Jerry really was the man Auric Ludwig wanted.

  Well, that would be for Ludwig to determine, wouldn’t it?

  What Arturo needed to figure out was how to make an anonymous tip and still get paid.

  The answer came quickly. He called the radio station with his suggestion.

  Chapter 26

  Rayburn House Office Building — Washington, DC

  Representative Philip Brock sat in his office, alone with his thoughts. He’d left instructions with his chief of staff he was not to be disturbed — with one exception. If a call came in from Columbus, Ohio, it was to be put through immediately.
/>
  While waiting for that hoped for message, he reviewed his meeting with Auric Ludwig and two-thirds of the State of Alaska’s Congressional delegation: Senator Tom Hale and Representative Lorna Dalton. It was a rare thing for a sitting Senator to visit a House office building. Something akin to a college student deigning to return to his old high school.

  But the two Republicans from Alaska were hopping mad at the president and eager to plot some sort of reprisal. Even at the cost of meeting with a Democrat, albeit a maverick member of the opposition party. The big draw, of course, was Auric Ludwig. Besides getting even with the president and Galia Mindel, Hale and Dalton had to make clear to him that they were not part of this wicked plan the administration had hatched.

  Working the other half of the equation, Brock had persuaded Ludwig that if the House members from Virginia with whom he usually worked were proving faint-hearted, he could do worse than to team up with two tough pols from The Last Frontier. Ludwig had liked that characterization, as Brock knew he would.

  As neatly as Brock had schemed, though, Hale and Dalton were still suspicious of meeting in a Democrat’s office, even if he was a DINO. Democrat in name only. They entertained a natural suspicion that Brock might be working for Galia Mindel, having hatched some underhanded deal with the White House.

  Brock had smiled when Hale had gone so far as to voice that possibility.

  “Senator, I’m just trying to be helpful here on an otherwise slow day for me. If you think I’m up to no good, Representative Dalton’s office is just over in the Cannon Building. If you’d care to stretch your legs a bit more, you can walk over to your office on the Senate side of the Capitol.”

  That suggestion, of course, pitted one Alaskan against the other as to who might host the meeting. Brock tossed in another consideration. “If it’s just the three of you, though, you’ll have no one to play the devil’s advocate. No one to test the soundness of any plan you might devise.”

  That was when Ludwig decided the matter. “Let’s do it right here, right now.”