Firm Ambitions

by Michael A. Kahn

  The tape beeped twice and clicked off.

  Tommy Landau shook his head. “Come up to the top stair,” he ordered as he backed toward the kitchen counter.

  I obeyed.

  With the gun still trained on me, he pushed the eject button on the message machine and removed the cassette tape. He was wearing surgeon’s latex gloves.

  “Took you long enough to spot the basement light,” he said with irritation. “I was afraid I might have to do you up here.” He slipped the cassette into his front pocket. “Go downstairs,” he said.

  He followed me down to the basement. I heard him close the door behind him.

  “Over there.” He gestured with the gun. “By the washer.”

  I moved to the washer, which was in the corner to the right of the stairs. I stood with my back to the washer. Tommy had stopped at the foot of the stairs. There was a table along the wall between where he stood and I stood. My mother used it to sort and fold clothes from the dryer. The clothes had been pushed to the side to make room for a stack of papers.

  Tommy noticed that I was looking at the papers.

  “Interesting stuff,” he said. “All your notes and papers on your investigation. I found them up in the family room. I read them while I waited for you.” He sat on the edge of the table. “Charlie Kimball told me about your meeting at the zoo. He said you needed a fall guy for the murder. He said you’ve got incriminating evidence on him that gets released if anything happens to you. Is that so?”

  I nodded, my mind racing. The sole light was a naked bulb above the table where he sat.

  Tommy grinned. “I like that. I like that a lot. All we do is make sure something bad happens to you, and then—abracadabra—poor old Charlie become the perfect fall guy, doesn’t he? Case closed, eh?”

  “Assuming Kimball doesn’t turn on you,” I said.

  “That’s the beauty of it. Charlie Kimball doesn’t know enough to turn on me. He’s never known the whole story. Shit, you probably know more than he does. This is my operation, not his. All he did was put me in contact with some of his clients—the fences, the B-and-E boys. He got a cut of the action, but that’s it.”

  “Did you have them do your own house, too?”

  He shook his head. “Pure coincidence, the bastards. But it sure helps point the finger away from me, eh?”

  I had to keep him talking. “How far back did Kimball go? All the way to Arch Alarm Systems?”

  Landau whistled in admiration. “You have been digging, haven’t you? No, he got involved with the second one, after one of my guys got arrested. I asked Charlie for the name of a good B-and-E man. He gave me one of his clients. After that, I started using more and more of his clients. I paid Charlie a commission on each job. A couple years after I finally got rid of that fag interior decorator, Charlie brought me Andros. Talk about the perfect candidate. I had leverage out the wazoo on that camel jockey. He was scared shitless. Anyway, by then, Charlie was almost a full partner.”

  “Including the insurance end?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “No way. He didn’t know dick about that.”

  A plan was forming in my head. It might work. “So the mob didn’t kill Andros?”

  Tommy laughed. “Hell no. Charlie fed them that bullshit and they swallowed it whole.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why did you do it? You didn’t need the money.”

  He gave a snort of disbelief. “After you and my wife finished carving up my estate in divorce court? Deb Fletcher filled me in on you. I knew exactly what kind of bloodsucker you are. You’d have squeezed me for every penny.”

  “I still don’t get it. You made enough the first time. Why do it three times?”

  He thrust his chin forward defiantly. “Because I’m not a chump. My father’s a chump, and so was my grandfather—a pair of social-climbing schmucks. The only one who ever knew the score was my great-grandfather. He was one nasty motherfucker. But guess what? They named a grade school after him, for chrissakes. Treated him like one of the goddam founding fathers.” He stood up, his brows furrowed. “All the time my father spends brown-nosing important people, and you know what? I’ll be the one people remember.”

  “For killing Andros?”

  He laughed. “Like the world is any worse off without that piece of camel shit walking around.”

  “Why my sister?”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “What?”

  “Why pick on my sister?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Bad timing on her part. Her letter was perfect. I had them plant the cyanide and take those pages from her magazines during the burglary. Her letter was the icing on the cake.”

  Darkness was the key. It was the only way to even the odds. I knew the basement and he didn’t. I glanced around. There was a mop leaning against the wall to my right. It was long enough to reach the light bulb over his head. I needed to distract him long enough to get to the bulb.

  “Why me?” I asked suddenly.

  “Why you? You did it to yourself, you dumb bitch. You set Charlie up, and then you set yourself up. Nice going.”

  “Not this,” I said. “I mean back when he died. He was supposed to die with me, wasn’t he?”

  Tommy Landau’s stare turned icy. “What are you talking about?”

  I gave him a look of disgust. “You’re really twisted. You ordered him to schedule one of his home workouts with me, right? Even told him to set the appointment for three in the afternoon, didn’t you?”

  He feigned indifference. “So what?”

  “The session would last for forty-five minutes. Then he would take his vitamin pills. Every day at four o’clock, right?”

  Tommy said nothing.

  I shook my head, trying to seem cocky. “Andros didn’t have a clue, did he? He must have thought you actually wanted him to scope out my house, as if my parents had ever owned anything worth stealing. Why me, Tommy? Because I was your wife’s lawyer? That was your idea of revenge?”

  He grinned. “This is even better.”

  “Let me ask you something,” I said, improvising as I went along, trying to figure out a way to distract him long enough. “Who had the last laugh, you or Andros?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He was supposed to be with me when he died, right? But he was with your wife instead. Did you even know about them before that?”

  “It’s none of your goddam business, you cunt.” He took two steps toward me and raised the gun. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

  “Cunt?” I repeated, refusing to flinch. Time to bait the hook. “Nice, Tommy. So Andros had the last laugh with your money and your wife.”

  “My money? What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s right there in those papers you found.”

  “Where?”

  I gave him a look of disbelief. “You haven’t figured it out?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a two-step process. Start with three entries in the check ledger files I printed out of the computer.”

  “What are they?”

  I paused. “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

  “You’ll kill me if I do.”

  He took a step closer. “Maybe not. Believe me, cunt, you got no downside here.”

  I pretended to mull that over. “Okay. Start with the entry for Vogel Productions.”

  “And then what?”

  “Find that entry first. It’s easier to explain once you’re looking at it.”

  He frowned and then turned toward the table. I quickly glanced to my left. The closest cover was the water heater, which was just beyond the dryer. There was a foot or so of space between the water heater and the wall. He was looking down as he sorted thro
ugh the papers with his left hand. The gun was still in his right hand.

  The mop was upside down, leaning against the wall. “I think it’s back in March,” I said as I slowly reached for the mop. “Or maybe April.”

  I bent slightly and grabbed the mop midway down the handle. Then I took a quick step forward and jammed the mop head into the light bulb. The bulb shattered before Tommy Landau was able to react. He was still looking down when the basement went black.

  I stumbled backward and squeezed behind the water heater as he spun and fired at the sound. The gun roared. The bullet punched into the water heater waist-high. My ears were ringing. I couldn’t see a thing.

  “That was real stupid, cunt.”

  I could barely hear him over the reverberations in my ears. I scrunched down low behind the water heater, blind and still partially deaf from the gun blast. My only reality was the curve of the steel against my hands.

  I heard a gurgling noise close by. My hearing was coming back. Water. Hot water from the water heater was gurgling through the bullet hole and splattering onto the cement floor. It was absolutely pitch-black. I couldn’t even detect any outlines.

  “I thought you were smart,” he said. “There’s no other way out of this basement. Come out. You show me that stuff in his papers and maybe we’ll talk.”

  It was too dark to pinpoint Tommy’s location other than by sound. His voice had come from somewhere near the stairs. He probably hadn’t moved since the light went out. He probably was still standing against that table.

  Get to the back, I told myself as I crouched down. I reached around in the darkness, trying to find something, anything. My hand bumped a plastic water bucket. The splatter of the water masked the noise.

  My eyes had adjusted just a little. I could barely make out the shape of the stairway. I lifted the bucket as I slowly stood up behind the water heater.

  Get to the back. Get away from him.

  I inched to the left along the wall, holding the bucket in my left hand, using the noise of the splashing water as cover. When I was clear of the water heater I slowly took a deep breath and heaved the bucket toward the stairs. I tensed, waiting for it to hit, trying to visualize my path toward the back of the basement.

  The bucket hit the ground with a clonk. There was a startled grunt and then a spark of light and a thunderous roar as I scrambled toward the passageway that led into the back rooms of the basement.

  I leaned my back against the passageway hall, temporarily deaf from the gun blast. I tried to keep my breathing slow and quiet. I strained my ears, waiting for the ringing to subside, waiting for my hearing to return.

  I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t hear anything. Every few seconds I winced involuntarily, expecting another spark of light and another thunderous roar.

  Despite the pitch darkness, Tommy still had the crucial advantage: he had the gun. He also knew that my only avenue of escape was up the wooden staircase. The only two basement windows had been boarded up for years. Even if I were able to reach the staircase, how would I ever make it up alive? There was just enough light over there and the wooden steps creaked just enough to turn the staircase into an easy target range.

  My mind was racing as I edged slowly, slowly, down the passageway, toward the rear storage room. I didn’t realize my hearing had returned until there was a sudden scraping noise followed by a “Shit.” I stopped, trying to get my bearings. The sounds put him beyond the water heater. He must have been moving slowly along the wall, perhaps searching for a light switch. There wasn’t any, thank God. All the lights in the basement had pull cords.

  I continued down the passageway. With my back against the wall, I inched all the way to the last storage room and stepped inside. Using memory and touch as guides, I found the bag of softball equipment on the concrete floor. I paused, straining my ears, trying to hear over the hammering of my heart. Nothing but the distant splashing of water.

  Kneeling, I slowly, carefully unzipped the bag, slid my hand inside, found the bat handle. I was drenched in sweat. My arms were shaking as I carefully removed the aluminum bat, making sure not to scrape anything. I turned, still on my knees. He could be anywhere. He could be upstairs searching for a flashlight. He could be right outside this storage room waiting for me.

  “Hey!” His voice came from somewhere down the passageway back in the main area of the basement. “You wanna play, we can play. Just like that movie, eh? This is cool. Except you forgot your gun.” He snickered. “Clarice,” he crooned. “Clarice.”

  I got to my feet and stepped out of the storage area. When I reached the end of the passageway, I stopped against the wall and tried to scan the main basement area. My eyes had adjusted to the dark as much as they were likely to. All I could make out was vague outlines—the shape of the water heater located at a diagonal across the basement to my right, the shape of the washing machine and dryer beyond that, the slant of the stairway ahead on the left.

  I strained my eyes. I couldn’t detect a human shape anywhere. He could be under the stairs. He could be crouching by the table at the foot of the stairs. He could be standing behind the bags of winter coats hanging from the pipes somewhere on my left. He could be anywhere.

  Water was still splattering onto the floor. The stairway was my only option. The only option. I had to somehow get over there, and then charge up and pray he couldn’t hit a moving target. At least I had a chance that way. Otherwise it was only a matter of time. I had to reach the stairway.

  Gripping the bat with both hands, I edged forward and to my right.

  Little goals.

  One at a time.

  The first goal was the side wall. Then the water heater. If I made it that far, then I could worry about getting psyched for a dash up the stairs.

  I took one step and waited. Nothing. A step, a pause, a step, a pause.

  I winced. Any moment I expected to feel the jab of a cold, hard muzzle against my temple.

  I reached the wall. I strained my eyes. The outline of the water heater was barely visible ten feet away. That meant the metal tub sink had to be directly in front of me. I moved forward. My thigh made silent contact with the sink. I turned so that my backside was against the sink. Keeping myself in that position, the bat cocked in my hands, I worked my way around the rim of the sink until I was pressed back against the wall.

  My arms were shaking. The bat felt like a lead pipe. I lowered it. My entire body was slick with perspiration. Beads of sweat kept running into my eyes.

  The water heater was to my right. I held my breath. Creeping along the wall toward the sound of splashing water, I slid in behind the water heater.

  Yes.

  Slowly, I exhaled. The foot of the stairs was fifteen feet away. The distance seemed like the length of a football field. There was enough light from upstairs to faintly illuminate the top few stairs. I strained my eyes. There was no body shape near the stairs.

  He’s out there, I told myself. Be ready for him.

  I pressed the end of the bat against the top of my shoe. I didn’t want to let an accidental scrape of the bat give away my position.

  I stared at the foot of the stairs.

  You can do it.

  I took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and slowly exhaled.

  You can do it. Fly. Just fly.

  “Here, pussy, pussy.”

  Startled, I jerked my head back, thonking it against the cement wall. I grimaced, holding my breath. He was standing out front to my left, perhaps six feet away from the wall, somewhere between the tub sink to the left and the water heater.

  I peered into the dark. I couldn’t see a thing.

  He chuckled. “Come out, little pussy. Come out.”

  He was closer, moving toward the water heater. I took a deep breath and held it.

  “Here, pussy.”

  He was just a few feet a
way, on the other side of the water heater, moving slowly toward the stairs. He would pass in front of the water heater. Gripping the bat, I moved slowly to the right until I was standing in the clear, between the water heater and the dryer. I held the bat up, as if I were in the batter’s box.

  The gurgling and splattering water masked any sound.

  I could smell him. I could sense his position.

  Now, I told myself as I cocked the bat.

  Please, God, please.

  I aimed blind at what I hoped was knee level.

  Now, I said, and I swung as hard as I could.

  Thunk.

  The bat whacked into the side of his leg. I could hear the bone crack.

  He screamed in pain as he crumpled at my feet.

  Still moving blind, my ears buzzing, I raised the bat over my head like a club and swung down hard. It hit the cement floor. The metal vibrations through the bat handle felt like an electric shock.

  Gasping for breath, I raised the bat and swung down again. This time I made contact. The bat crunched into a soft part of his body. He howled. I swung again. Another howl.

  The world suddenly shifted into fast forward. Nearly hysterical, I dropped the bat and stumbled toward the staircase, lunging for the handrail. I bolted up the stairs, sobbing for breath. I slipped. There was a roar of gunfire as I grasped for the rail. A stair splintered behind me. I grabbed for the door handle and burst into the kitchen, slamming the door behind me.

  Moaning and wheezing, I grabbed the telephone with one hand and opened the knife drawer with the other. I punched in 911 and pulled out my mother’s meat cleaver. I backed out of the kitchen as far as the cord would stretch. I stared at the basement door, mumbling, “Answer it, goddammit. Come on come on come on come on.”

  A policewoman answered on the third ring.

  “There’s a killer in my basement,” I said, struggling to keep my voice coherent, remembering that these calls were taped. Give them enough. “His name is Tommy Landau. He’s killed others. He has a gun. He tried to kill me. I’m Rachel Gold. He’s Tommy Landau.” I gave her my address. “Hurry, goddammit! Hurry! Hurry!”