Hi Five

by Joe Ide

  “Maybe,” Grace said. “But I still don’t understand it.”

  Harsh spotlights lit up Angus’s massive concrete house. Add some gun slits and it could have been a bunker above Normandy beach. Isaiah parked in the driveway. Some of the Starks were milling around, Hugo and Sidero among them. Isaiah didn’t ask Grace if she’d be all right because he knew she would be.

  “Good luck,” she said as he got out of the car.

  “Howya doin’, asshole?” Sidero said. He eyed Grace. “A white chick, huh? Why don’t you stay with your own kind?”

  “Why don’t you stay with yours?” Isaiah said, as he walked past him. “You know, stupid people.”

  Grace got out of the car to stretch, the Starks looking her over.

  “What is it about white girls and niggers?” Hugo said. “Can’t get enough of that black meat?”

  “You’re right,” Grace said. “I should have settled for a pea-brain Nazi asshole like you.”

  “Fuck you,” he replied.

  “‘Fuck you’?” she said. “That’s the best you can do? Say, haven’t I seen you before? Sure, it was in a movie. You were retarded and playing the banjo for Burt Reynolds.”

  “Shut up, bitch.”

  “I’ll never shut up, dickhead, and unless you’ve got the balls to kill me right now, go home and fuck your cousin.”

  Grace wondered why she was here, trading zingers with a bunch of bottom-feeders. She wasn’t exactly swimming with them, but she was down in the muck. She didn’t need this. If she’d never seen, heard or spoken with them she wouldn’t have been the lesser for it.

  She got back in the car and wished Isaiah would hurry up. A woman came out of the house, a redhead in shorts and cowboy boots. She put her arm around Sidero and whispered something in his ear. Grace couldn’t believe it. That moron actually had a girlfriend? The redhead could do better picking somebody out of a drunk tank or a soup kitchen.

  “Another alt?” Angus said. “That’s ridiculous.” His eyes were red and puffy.

  “No, it’s not,” Isaiah said. “I met her. Her name is Angie. I think she had Tyler killed.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “There are no other suspects, Angus.”

  “That’s insane!” the old man shouted. “You’re off your goddamn rocker. That’s not fucking possible!”

  “She worked for you,” Isaiah said.

  “No, she didn’t. It was Jasper. I gave him the job because I thought it would be good for him.”

  “Would Jasper kick your dog?” Isaiah said. “He knows you’d be pissed. Marlene is a bitch but would she stab somebody? Bertrand calls himself the protector but would he hit somebody with a golf club and fracture their jaw? If Christiana was attacked, Bertrand’s more likely to give the guy a stern talking-to.”

  Angus looked stumped and then stern and then angry and then exasperated. Voices in his head, arguing. “But how would she make contact with hired killers?” he said. “Those people aren’t just anybody. They’re hard to get to.”

  “Ever leave your computer on?” Isaiah said. “A file drawer open? Ever been on the phone with someone who might know a contractor? Has an alter ever been around when your associates came over? Did she meet any of them? Talk to them? Angie had access. She knew who you knew. It wouldn’t be hard. She makes a call to someone with connections, says it’s on your behalf and who wouldn’t want to get in good with the Top Gun’s daughter?”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Angus said. “Christiana is still in danger and it’s your fucking fault!”

  “No, it isn’t,” Isaiah said. “It’s her father’s fault. The one who tortured her, the one who—”

  “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!” Angus screamed. “DO YOU HEAR ME? I—DIDN’T—DO—ANYTHING!” An unseen hand clawed the old man’s eyes, distorting them beyond insanity. He was muttering and shaking his head, his gaze moving wildly as if he was trying to see in a blacked-out room. His liver spots were darker, his sweaty scalp shining through his meager hair, his stoop more curved. He was in agony, his mouth open, bestial and crazed, a grimace like a branding iron searing his heart, in as much emotional pain as Isaiah had ever witnessed. How terrible a conscience can be. Angus quieted down, his breathing ragged as he morphed into a crone, cruel and unyielding, his voice so low and ghostly it might have been coming from an air vent or a darkening sky. “Get her out of it, Isaiah,” he said. “Get her out of it or I’ll kill you and everyone you love.”

  Angus sent the Starks away. He took a Valium, sat on the sofa with Weiner in his lap. Since Isaiah left, he’d settled down some. He was too exhausted to deal with Sidero but he would. In a way it was a good thing. The betrayal freed him from his promise and that little fuck was going to get it. Maybe not killed. But close.

  The doorbell rang. He was overjoyed to see Christiana but it wasn’t her. It was the new one, Angie. Slovenly, scornful, a poisonous look that could have killed Angus all by itself. She looked twenty pounds heavier than Christiana.

  “Hello,” he said with a weak smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Oh, we’ve met, motherfucker. We met a long time ago.”

  She meandered around the study, eyeing things disdainfully. She picked up an antique vase from Italy and dropped it on the floor. Weiner yipped and scrabbled under the desk. She kicked over a side table, toppling the porcelain lamp, the bronze stag a customer had given him and an ivory bust of Napoleon he’d bought at an auction. She pulled books off the shelves, upturned the ottoman, tipped over chairs and with one violent sweep of her arm, cleared the photos off the mantel. She stood there in the mess, looking at him, waiting for him to challenge her.

  “I, um, I’ve always wanted to apologize,” Angus said. Her presence made him feel more fragile than his age.

  “Shut up,” she said. “Just shut the fuck up, you fucking coward. You goddamn fucking pig.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  The words seemed to enrage her even more. She picked up the bust of Napoleon and hurled it, hitting him on his forehead. He cried out, staggered back, his hand over his face, blood running through his fingers.

  She strode over to him and hit him with a backhand, hard. “Pig, you fucking pig!” She snarled like a beast, her eyes strobing. She slapped him again and again and on and on, her invective in one long unintelligible stream.

  He didn’t try to protect himself. He stood there and took it. He would always take it. He welcomed it. Now she was hitting him with her fists, blow upon blow, a boxer pounding the heavy bag. It was almost a relief to feel his guilt as physical pain. Finally, she stopped. She was keening with her mouth open, drool hanging from her lips, the blood from his nose and torn lip splattered on her face. And those eyes. Bludgeoning, slashing, demolishing.

  “I should kill you right fucking now!” she said. He hoped she’d do it. He’d give her the gun in the desk drawer and wait impatiently for the bullet to end his torment.

  He heard someone running down the front stairs, no attempt at stealth. “Who the hell is that?” It was two people, not one. They reached the foyer. How the fuck did they get in? Swing from a tree? Angus knew instantly it was danger. He went to his desk and found the gun.

  “What’s the matter?” Angie said.

  Angus heard them coming up the hallway toward the study. He fired into the wall. BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM BLAM!

  “Get back, Annie!” one of them shouted. Women? Not that it mattered. They fired back, the silenced rounds punching through the wall, chipping fragments off the fireplace and tearing holes in the furniture. Who are they? Angus thought. Why are they here? Why are they shooting at him? He grabbed Angie’s hand, pulled her into the den and shut the door. She was terrified.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  “Shit!” he spat. He turned, opened the door again, fired off a few more rounds, then hurried to his desk. He reached underneath and picked up his shivering dog. “It’s okay, Weiner,” he said. More rounds blew through the w
all. He went back into the den and led Angie into the billiard room. He slid the heavy door closed and stopped.

  He was wheezing, sticky with his own blood, his heart thumping—but he wasn’t panicked. His body was old but his ferocity and fearlessness were still present and accounted for. Angie was looking at him, a scared little kid. It warmed him for a moment.

  “Who are they?” she said. “What do they want?”

  Angus said nothing, enjoying his brief omniscience. He knew what the shooters would do. One would stay on the chase. The other would circle around to the back and cut them off. The house was huge. It would take her a while to get there.

  He led Angie down a hallway, through the dining room to the kitchen and up a narrow back stairway. Where was his private security? he wondered. What the fuck was he paying them for? The dog was getting heavier. Angus was shaky, his chest heaving. Angie helped him up the rest of the way, an arm around his waist, a hand on his elbow. Even under the circumstances it felt wonderful. They reached the second floor. Angus had to stop again, catch his breath.

  If he’d calculated correctly, the front door was unguarded. He and Angie hurried down the main hallway and started down the long curving staircase that ended in the foyer. They were halfway to the bottom when gunfire erupted, the ejected shells clinking on the marble steps. One of the women was at the top of the stairs, shooting down at them. They made it around the curve out of view but were stuck there. By the time they reached the foyer, they’d be shot in the back. They had to hurry, the other shooter no doubt on her way.

  “Angie, go on,” Angus said. “The front door. Go!” He gave her a shove.

  She bounded down the rest of the stairs and out the front door. Angus had to make a break for it, but the shooter was right around the corner and he was old and creaky. Clutching Weiner with one arm, he circled the other around the curve, shot three quick rounds, then stumbled down the rest of the stairs. The front door was open but he didn’t want them to go after Angie. He closed it and heard sirens. It’s about fucking time! If he could hold off the killers for another two minutes, he’d be okay. He hurried into the hall and cut through his office and the den, panting, bleeding, his head ringing from Angie’s blows. He opened the door to the billiard room and met a tiny woman dressed in black and aiming a gun that was too big for her hand. Someone else came up behind him and pressed a barrel into his back. “Drop the gun,” she said. He obeyed. “Now move, Angus.”

  They tried to make him leave the dog but he wouldn’t. Now he was in the backseat of a car, the tiny one sitting next to him jamming her gun into his ribs. The bigger one was driving one-handed, the other arm in a sling. They weren’t ugly but weren’t pretty, either. The tiny one was okay if you liked titless dwarves.

  “What the hell is this?” he said. “What do you want?”

  “First of all, we want you to shut up,” the driver said.

  “You’re them, aren’t you?” Angus said. “The contractors that work as a team.” They didn’t answer. “Why would you want to kill me, for fuck’s sake? What did I do?”

  “Like you don’t know,” Tiny said.

  “I don’t, goddammit. Tell me.”

  “You hired us to kill Tyler and then you sent IQ to track us down,” she said. “You double-crossed us.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Angus said. “I didn’t hire you! Why would I want to off Tyler? That makes no sense. He was the only guy I trusted. He practically ran the business. I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted to clone him!” That gave the women pause. “Who did you talk to?” Angus continued. “Who gave you the job? Because it wasn’t me.”

  “Your daughter,” the driver said. Angus’s insides froze. Angie. Isaiah was right. The driver said, “She told us Tyler was stealing and you wanted to take him out. We wanted to talk to you directly but she said you don’t do that anymore.”

  “She said it was an emergency,” Tiny said. “She said you’d pay double and you’d send the money up front.”

  “More bullshit,” Angus retorted, “and you know what else? The police think Christiana did it. You guys left no evidence, unless you spit on the floor or took a piss and forgot to flush. I don’t know how you did it, but the cameras didn’t catch you and the only witness was my daughter and she couldn’t recognize you because you wore masks and gloves, didn’t you? The police don’t know you exist.” That put the women back on their heels.

  “What do we do about IQ?” Tiny said.

  Angus was loving it, browbeating these two assholes. The excitement was bringing him back to life. He felt like he did forty years ago. A slippery, conniving, ferocious motherfucker from the coal mines of West Virginia who mowed down his rivals and robbed them blind while he did it.

  “What am I, your manager?” he said. “Leave town for a while. Isaiah’s not the police. He’s one guy from the fucking ghetto. If you don’t knock on his door and confess, you’ll never see him again.”

  Tiny was looking at the dog, a slight smile on her face.

  Angus thought a moment. If they thought he’d hired Isaiah, why hadn’t they killed him back at the house? Taking him along only slowed them down. When the answer came to him, he suppressed a smile of his own. Amateurs. They didn’t know who they were fooling with.

  “Could we stop a minute?” he said. “Weiner’s gotta pee.”

  “Who the hell is—you mean the dog?” the driver said. “Forget it.”

  “It’ll only take a minute,” he said. “And if the car smells like dog piss, I might not feel like talking.”

  “Talking about what?”

  “Paying you off.”

  They pulled over behind a gas station. Angus let the dog go and it wandered around, sniffing and sniffing and sniffing.

  “Hurry up, Weiner,” Angus said. “What are you looking for, a urinal?”

  Tiny’s eyes were riveted on the dog, like she was hoping it would find a suitable place.

  “We want five hundred thousand,” the driver said.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Angus scoffed. “I can’t get five hundred thousand dollars. Who has that kind of cash lying around?”

  “Stop bullshitting,” Tiny said. “We know who you are. Don’t tell us you’re not loaded.”

  “You’re damn right, I am loaded,” Angus said. “Loaded to the goddamn gills. Now let’s go find an ATM that’ll cough up five hundred grand. Look, you dummies, I don’t have a goddamn savings account at Wells Fargo. My money’s offshore. It’s in Panama and Cyprus, and it’s not in cash. It’s invested in equities and bonds and real estate. I’m not a goddamn drug dealer.” The women looked at each other. Angus sighed. “What are you, fucking hayseeds? Do I seem like the kind of guy who’s gonna keep his money under a floorboard? I’m a businessman. Use your goddamn brains, will you?”

  “How much can you get now?” Tiny said. The driver sighed and shook her head. Inwardly, Angus sneered. Look at them. Tiny wants a deal but the driver doesn’t want to back down. Divide and conquer.

  “Right now?” Angus said, scratching his head. “I’ve got what, a hundred grand or so in an ETF.” Like they know what that means. “Are you guys set up to receive a wire transfer? No? Well, that’s stupid. Some pros you are.”

  Tiny was bent down, holding her hand out to the dog and making kissing noises. The dog ignored her and walked through a puddle.

  “For fuck’s sake, Weiner,” Angus said.

  “When can you get it?” the driver said.

  A mistake. Now they’re committed to a hundred grand. Keep them on defense. “What is it, Saturday?” he said. “I can have it for you in cash by the end of next week.”

  “No, Monday,” the driver said.

  “Don’t be a moron,” he said. “Do you know how an ETF works? It’s a mutual fund. If you want cash, you have to sell shares, which means I have to talk to my broker and he doesn’t work weekends. Monday I’ll tell him what I need, he’ll make the order, but the transaction has to be confirmed. That’ll take two or three days, and
when the shares are sold, the money has to be transferred into my account and there’s another day before it posts. Once it’s there, I still have to go down to the bank and wait for them to gather up a hundred K in cash while the manager gives me the stink eye. It’s the best I can do—are you done, Weiner? Jesus, it took you long enough.”

  The dog waddled over to him and he picked it up. Tiny looked disappointed, like she’d wanted Weiner to come to her.

  “How do we know you’ll pay?” the driver said.

  Angus smiled. The clincher. “Because if I don’t, you’ll come back and kill me.”

  The driver huffed. “No. That gives you time to kill us.”

  She’s not completely stupid, Angus thought. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he said, getting loud. “Will you clowns get it together? Don’t you want to go home? We have a deal, okay? A hundred thousand dollars in cash! Are we agreed?”

  “No,” the driver said stubbornly. “That requires trust and we don’t have any.”

  Tiny reached out tentatively and patted the dog. Angus turned it away from her. “What the fuck do you want me to do?” he said. “Get the lawyers involved? Draw up a goddamn contract? You want to follow me around all week with a gun to my head?” The driver was stumped.

  Tiny looked wistfully at Weiner. “He’ll give us the money,” she said.

  “How do you know?” the driver said.

  “Because if he doesn’t, we’ll kill the dog.”

  Sal drove away, Angus in the rearview mirror, yelling something about taking care of the dog. Sal thought, this is it. This is our life. Leaving a vicious old man at a gas station, a man they’d tried to kill and extort for money. This is our life. Annie in the backseat, snuggling with a kidnapped dachshund named Weiner as they drove back to their fucked-up house three blocks from Long Beach Gas and Oil, smelling of sweat, gun smoke and wet dog. This is our life. They were hired killers on the brink of sanity who’d murdered a long list of people and there was no way they could be anything else and there was no chance anyone else would have them.