Internecine

by David J. Schow

  “We’re going to have to adjust this to reach your belt,” he said.

  “Wait a minute—”

  “That one’s yours,” he said, indicating another of the guns on the table. It was a matte-finish SIG SAUER, exactly like the ones I’d seen in the Halliburton case from the airport. “It’s chambered for Smith and Wesson .40s. With twelve rounds, that means we’re hanging about two pounds under your arm. You should find that manageable.”

  “You mean I’m packing real, live heat that I might have to shoot people with?” I was sweating already.

  “It’s mostly for show,” he conceded. Then he grinned. “Just in case. You are now an official fake NORCO agent. Congratulations.”

  “Does this have one of those explody-rocket things in it?”

  “Last round. Just in case you need to call it a day.”

  “You mean go out with a bang . . . or commit suicide?”

  “Your call.” He was having too much fun at this. He pulled the gun out of my hand. “Jesus, Connie, don’t fall too in love with this thing. You don’t get to wear it, yet.”

  Damn, but he was right. My hand almost refused to release the weapon; I stared at it as though mortified at one of those possessed, monster hands from some horror movie. I didn’t want to turn loose of the gun because it made me feel safe. Good. More in control.

  “Guns aren’t the answer,” Dandine said, as if reading my mind (again!). “They’re just tools.”

  “You seem comfy enough with them.”

  “No. I’m afraid of them. Say it, They’re just tools.”

  He wasn’t ribbing me. “They are just tools,” I said, like a dutiful student.”

  “Now remember it. And remember this, if I close both my eyes and nod at you like this—” he demonstrated “—you follow my lead, no matter what I do, no matter how weird it seems. Copy?”

  “Roger that.”

  “I’m not fucking around, Connie. You buckle now, and we might as well use these guns on ourselves.”

  “I understand,” I said, a bit testy. “What’s next?”

  “Get yourself some coffee, because it’s going to be a very trying Monday.”

  He might as well have said, snipers are standing by to fill your order.

  I found a breakfast tray—apparently Rook was a full-service host, or did this a lot—and had a cigarette afterward. It raced my heart and shortened my breath. I was a complete phony, now. A nonexistent human named Mr. Lamb, who smoked and consorted with guns, threatened strangers guilelessly, and occasionally hastened the injury, or death, of others; a man whose most potent currency was not the lie, but the half-truth. Substitute “ad budget” for “guns,” and I was taken aback by how little I had changed. Same game, new players. I can do this, I thought, prevaricating even to myself. I can do this.

  “I don’t think we should do this,” I said, eyeing the handcuffs. We were in our stolen Audi, headed downtown, trying to cope with the spilled-marble chaos of the southbound 101. Destination: Park Towers, per the third name on the list given to me by the presumed-dead Sisters.

  Dandine had performed another license plate switcheroo. Right now, he was sucking on a wintergreen Life Saver. “What part of this—exactly—do you not understand?”

  “The part where you throw me to the wolves in handcuffs; that’s a fair start.”

  “The cuffs are just for show. I might not go that way. It depends on what we find downtown.”

  “Indulge me and detail the ‘maybe’ scenario,” I said. I already felt trapped by the locked door, the seat belt, and hints of worse, to come.

  “If it’s a stone wall, I walk you in as my prisoner,” Dandine said. He was using that too-patient parent tone with me again. “If it’s permeable, we improvise. That’s why Rook made you the backup NORCO ID.”

  “Why don’t we just march in and bullshit them?” I sulked. I liked the second plan better. It meant I’d get to carry a gun. Right now my snappy shoulder holster hung empty, as useful as a ventilated condom. It, too, was strapping me down, holding me back, preconfining me.

  “Because Jenks will know your face, especially if he’s as tight with NORCO as I suspect he is.”

  I was getting hysterical. “Suspect? You don’t know?”

  “Connie, what is this thing with you and planning? Is this some psychological block I should know about?”

  That threw me. It was no doubt intended to derail my irritation, but sounded of pure non sequitur. “Okay, okay—peace. Pretend I’m an idiot child and tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Well, you seem to want the whole menu laid out in absolute black and white before we do anything. Understand that rigid plans, if they’re too rigid, shatter and cave in on you. We need flexibility. I don’t know exactly what I am going to do, or precisely when I am going to do it, and that drives you nuts, doesn’t it?”

  Ruefully, I recalled instructions I had once given to my assistant, Danielle, regarding appointments made by telephone. Pencil them in, I had said. Don’t ink them. Writing in ink curses it to change. We all have our little superstitions.

  It was hopeless, but I said, “I just want to know the plan.”

  “The plan has to have the flexibility to totally change at a moment’s notice. One option is we fake our way in. One option is I present you as my prisoner to gain special-circumstances access to Jenks. There might be other paths. It all depends on force of opposing numbers, what doors are open or locked, hell, which way the wind is blowing. That’s why I asked you to follow my lead, and you agreed.”

  All the armament I had seen back at Rook’s was stashed in the black Halliburton . . . which he had left behind, save for one piece—the monster Beretta—nestled under Dandine’s left arm, the arm I thought was still recuperating. He had ceased making any noises that indicated his arm still bothered him, and I knew it hadn’t had time to heal . . . much.

  I had wanted a bull session, a confab, but clearly Dandine was still in charge, and my job was to duck if somebody started shooting. This was not a democracy. Precious few things were, anymore.

  The abrasive notion was that I—like many of you—naturally assumed I knew how things worked. There’s the lie and the lip service, then there’s the coexistent truth. We all accept this; we joke about it constantly. We think we all know what’s really going on, but this never expresses as anything other than a distant, dunning idea that we’re all being eternally hoodwinked. Rarely do people have to stick their snoots into the messy details, and risk the ripe, rotten taste of what has been bothering and handicapping them all along.

  The bastille of G. Johnson Jenks (the former Garrett Stradling) was taller than City Hall but shorter than Library Tower, shunted into the huddle of overpriced apartment and condo skyscrapers mere blocks from downtown’s own version of skid row. Park Tower had no park attached. It was more accurately a layover roost for executives on the company tit, who needed to be in town for, say, a month at a time, and required more amenities than most hotels offered. If there had been a “park,” there would have been homeless people making a tent city out of it. The front cul-de-sac featured a sloping scab of turf—the sole greenery—in front of an imposing fountain that was all minimalist metal angles and cultured rust. The main entry was inch-thick tinted glass two stories tall. Reception desk, waiting area, and uniformed staff with badgelike medallions embroidered onto their jackets, over the left breast. I had never been in this building in my life, but knew some Kroeger clients who had sworn by its security. Great. They could probably flood the air filtration system with knockout gas if anything untoward happened.

  One of the staff, smoking outside, pitched his butt and stood right in the path of our car as Dandine turned in. This Hitler Youth poster child unbuttoned his jacket as he stepped over to the driver’s window. Faster cross-draw, that way. He had neon-blue eyes and colorless hair cropped so short you could almost hear it screaming.

  Dandine flashed his NORCO jacket. “Here for Jenks.”

/>   The guy pointed with a finger knotty from extreme weight lifting. “Park in the red.”

  Point: NORCO ID gets you access. I wish Dandine had mentioned that, but I guess he was counting on my powers of observation, as retarded as they can sometimes be.

  The lobby was library-quiet, and the whine in my right ear seemed to amp up, as though from a change in pressure. Maybe it was my sunglasses—my “disguise”—pinching my head. I could hear every fabric movement of the deskman’s suit. His gaze ricocheted from Dandine’s ID to his jacket, which he was holding open to display his gun.

  “I understand,” the deskman said. “But I can’t allow you to take a weapon up the elevator. Mr. Jenks is on his way down to the garage. I’ll call his people and advise?”

  “Yes,” said Dandine. “Quickly. This is a Class Three situation and I don’t want it to get complicated.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Point: Class Three was NORCO double-talk for urgency, or no bullshit, now. God, I was learning new things left and right.

  The deskman punched a line and spoke with his head turned aside. “They acknowledge and will be stopping the car outside the lobby.”

  I saw Dandine take stock of the available manpower. Two men near the elevators. Two near the desk. Nazi-Boy, outside. Plus whatever brutes Jenks had flanking his every move. Remember when politicians actually went out in public without bulletproof shields?

  Yeah—me neither.

  Dandine motioned me away from the desk and put the car keys in my hand. He nodded and closed his eyes. Like this. “Garage,” he said. “Block the exit. Do it now.” He moved off to a midway point between the lobby desk and the elevators. If he went farther, the guards there would prick up.

  I was glad no one could see my eyes. I experienced that gut-plunge of exploded time you feel when your body knows the dam is about to bust. Nazi-Boy watched me like a falcon as I got into the Audi and gunned the motor, thinking that the sunroof would be shit for stopping bullets.

  I pulled smoothly and nonobviously (I hoped) to the slanted concrete ramp that fed into the dim garage, noting that I’d have to drive around the perimeter to get to the exit, which was on the opposite side of the building. I had a little trouble with the stick shift, and wished I had grilled Zetts (or even Dandine) for pointers. The clutch didn’t clutch, and I almost stalled out. A black stretch limo was on hold near the elevator bank. Liveried driver at the wheel, and one bodyguard on standby at the open rear door. I decided to wait until someone emerged from the elevator before zooming forth to barricade the exit ramp.

  Ding.

  The burnished aluminum doors calved and a big guy in an ill-fitting black suit tumbled out like a falling tree, stiff-legged, his mouth open, as though he had been unplugged in midthought. He crashed bonelessly to the floor and I saw another pair of sprawled feet inside the elevator. Then Dandine bulled out, holding Jenks by the scruff of the neck and using the larger man’s shoulder to balance his pistol as he took the guard by the limo door dead bang, a burst of three slugs from his Adam’s apple up through the “vermilion line,” the sure-stop zone between his chin and eyebrows. The hollow acoustics of the garage made the single shot– barrage sound like a blown tire. The guard gobbled thickly, hit his knees, and then unfolded forward onto his face, his own half-drawn weapon skittering free.

  Two minds, one thought: The limo driver tried to goose his big ride toward the exit, but I was closer. I gave him my starboard side, cutting off the ramp in a squeal of tires that made my back teeth hurt. He trod his brake so hard the limo nosed down and the trunk lid seesawed open. The back door flapped like a broken wing and rebounded shut.

  Jenks did not have a face. Then I realized the man’s toupee had come unmoored and was hanging the wrong way, fringing everything above his nose in a curtain of brown hair that looked dyed, anyway. Blood threaded from his nose as bright, fresh, red punctuation.

  Still collaring Jenks, Dandine drew down on the driver. “Out.”

  The driver scrambled, hands up, just an employee, not an operative. He tried to babble assorted reasons why he should be allowed to live.

  “Quiet,” said Dandine. “Leave the cap.”

  The driver doffed his hat, pitched it into the limo, and backed away, hands high. Thinking passionately, no doubt, about Jesus.

  “Clear the ramp!” Dandine shouted at me. He shoved the wayward-haired Jenks into the back of the limousine, not really caring whether he banged his head on the jamb, then stood with one foot out the door as I tried to catch up. I didn’t have a chance to ask about our “plan.” What about fingerprints in the Audi? What about the cameras in the lobby, covering the elevator and garage? What about—?

  “You’re driving,” he said, slamming his door behind him.

  Now I realized why he’d gotten me the tie.

  I let gravity and momentum drop me into the driver’s seat; acceleration threw my door shut. Good thing, too: Nazi-Boy was already at the head of the exit ramp, pointing a gun in an excellent, two-handed “profile” firing stance. Firing at me.

  So much for my second theoretical question. The spear-carriers of Park Tower had (possibly) witnessed the nasty action in the elevator (unless Dandine had killed the lens there) and responded in about twenty seconds, during which time Dandine had cleared the lift (to avoid a remote lockdown), isolated his principal (by “maximally demoting” all three of his security men), and captured the limousine (with my help, I should point out).

  Nazi-Boy’s first triple-tap skinned off the windshield right in front of my face, making hard white scratches, but not fracturing the glass. I ducked down anyway, inadvertently jerking my foot off the pedal. Dandine would not approve. Dandine would say, mow the fucker down. Dandine was unavailable for consultation. There was quite a bit of thumping noise coming from the limo cabin behind me, beyond the barrier of the privacy shutter. I don’t know in what order the truths sifted through my brain; all I knew was: (1) the car was armored, naturally, (2) escape was imperative, before the garage could be compromised, and (3) that dipshit, Nazi-Boy, had just tried to cancel my ticket.

  The rearview revealed more guys with more guns, spilling out of the stairway behind us, near the elevators. The crash-proof, latticed gate was already rolling to batten down the exit. More shooting.

  Nazi-Boy’s expression unscrewed satisfyingly when I reappeared at the wheel. The limo lunged forward like a cigarette boat in choppy water, and it became a race to see if he could empty his magazine before I made him eat the grille. No contest. He tried to vault free but my wing mirror caught him right in the kidneys; it was a narrow egress. He twirled and dropped out of sight; I might have run over his foot (I never found out). Vehicular assault; another first for me. The limousine catapulted over the ramp lip with all the grace of a falling safe. I felt the undercarriage bang against pavement, and all of a sudden I was fighting the wheel, cutting off a number of honking cars. I didn’t know it at the time, but Park Tower security had also sprung the tire-cutters below the gate. I didn’t know that because the limo was outfitted with solid rubber tires, and as soon as I straightened the monster out to fit inside a lane, the race was on.

  “Sorry!” I blurted out, for the benefit of the lady whose Toyota biffed my rear bumper. She lost a headlight, at least. Dare I admit that I’d never driven a limousine before? Another first. Probably a nice lady, whose day had just been tossed into the hellpit of insurance claims. Probably shaking her fist, right now, at all luxury cars, everywhere, while very important phone calls were being exchanged between Park Tower, NORCO, and the police.

  Whatever our clock was, it didn’t leave much wiggle room.

  The privacy shutter was keyed down from the other side. I saw Jenks, balled on the floor with his jacket yanked over his head, snuffing nasally, abused into paralysis.

  “Where?!” I yelled at the mirror.

  “You know where,” said Dandine, coming up in the viewport, inches from my face. “Turn for Sunset, right here. The old Firs
t Interstate Bank building. Put on the goddamned hat.”

  Okay—Sunset and Vine. We had maybe a fifteen-minute drive if the traffic was merciful.

  The limo driver’s cap fit, more or less. Dandine mopped his face with a paper napkin from the traveling bar and kicked Jenks in the ribs, rolling him over like a turtle as he tried to rise. His hairpiece was clinging to the carpet near the back door. He started to say something and Dandine punctuated him on the jawbone with the muzzle of the Beretta. Clank!—an almost porcelain sound.

  “No more,” Jenks gasped. “Stop. No more. Please.”

  Dandine double-wound Jenks’s tie in his fist and rousted him into a window seat. Jenks’s legs were akimbo, displaying pale, bony calves and drooping socks, and he sucked air like an asthmatic, blearily battling for composure. His teeth were outlined in blood and he tried to grab for a napkin, which Dandine slapped out of his hand.

  “Leave it,” Dandine said. “You piece of shit.”

  Somehow, I thought, this savage mistreatment of a highly placed public figure might not weigh in our favor, later. Dandine read my mind again. “Shut up, Connie, and watch the fucking road. Don’t waste any sympathy on this asshole. In fact, just on general principle . . .” Dandine lunged, pressing the muzzle of his gun into Jenks’s forehead hard enough to leave a keyhole dent. He cocked the hammer and Jenks braced for an inglorious finish.

  “Don’t! Don’t! Just . . . stop . . . please, don’t!”

  “I need a better speech than that,” said Dandine. “C’mon, G. Johnson, make something up.”

  “What the hell do you want with me?!”

  Dandine’s tactics had rendered his captive submissive; cueing flight instead of fight. “You called NORCO and sent home delivery to scoop us.”

  “No! No! Just Ripkin! Ripkin and Alicia!”

  “Nigga please,” said Dandine. “Spare us the histrionics, because you have all the warmth and compassion of a Gila monster.”

  I had to assemble my impression of Jenks in chapters, via snippets from the rearview. He was a tall, broad man (bigger than Dandine, as I had noticed) with a sunlamp tan and a facial topography that limned him as top-drawer executive material. His slightly bulbed nose and the worry lines etched into his strong forehead would confer a sense of stability and character. With his wig in place, he would seem craggy and solid, a workingman’s friend, a man of the people. I had seen photos of him, but the genuine article exuded the cocksure manner of a boardroom veteran . . . even though right now he was about to piss himself in fear. If Dandine let this man regain his center, we’d both have a fight on our hands.