Live Wire
“Very much. But right now time is short, so I’ll just have my boys here hold a gun on your friend while I pop you one. Just a little payback.”
“Mr. Ache gave specific instructions,” Beefy said. “No damaging the goods until he talks to them. Follow me.”
Beefy led the way. Myron and Win were first. Crisp and the two goons took the back. Up ahead Myron could see the dark baronial mansion that one old mobster described as “Transylvania Classic.” It fit. Man, Myron thought, it had been a big night for huge, creepy homes. As they walked, Myron swore he could hear the long-dead call out a warning.
Beefy took them through the back entrance into a mudroom. He had them walk through a metal detector, then he double-checked them with a security wand. Myron tried to remain calm, wondering where Win had hidden the weapon. There was no way he would go into this situation without one.
When he was done with the wand, Beefy did a rough handsearch on Myron. Then he moved on to Win, taking longer.
Win said, “Thorough as promised. Is there a tip jar?”
“Funny guy,” Beefy said. When he was done, Beefy took a step back and opened a closet door. He took out two gray sweat suits. “Strip down to nothing. Then you can put these on.”
“Are those one-hundred-percent cotton?” Win asked. “I have very sensitive skin, not to mention a reputation for haute couture.”
“Funny guy,” Beefy said again.
“And gray totally doesn’t work with my complexion. It completely washes me out.” But now, even Win sounded a little strained by where this was going. His tone had a whistling-in-the-dark quality to it. The other two goons snickered and took out their guns. Myron looked over to Win. Win shrugged. Not much choice now. They both stripped down to their underwear. Beefy made them take that off too. The, uh, probe was thankfully brief. Win’s homophobic jokes had worried them into not being overly meticulous.
When they finished, Beefy handed one of the sweat suits to Myron, the other to Win. “Put them on.”
They did so in silence.
“Mr. Ache is waiting in the library,” Beefy said.
Crisp led the way with a hint of a smile on his face. Beefy and the Boys stayed behind. No surprise. The Gabriel Wire situation had to be top secret. Myron guessed that no one knew about it but Ache, Crisp, and maybe an attorney on retainer. Even the security guards who worked the property didn’t know. “Maybe I should do the talking,” Myron said.
“Okay.”
“You’re right. Herman Ache will want to do what’s in his best interest. We have his golden goose.”
“Agreed.”
When they entered the library, Herman Ache was waiting with a snifter of brandy. He stood by one of those antique-globe wet bars. Win had one too. In fact, the entire room looked as though Win had done the decorating. Bookshelves lined the walls, three stories high, with a sliding ladder so that you could reach the higher volumes. The leather club chairs were burgundy. There was an oriental carpet and deep wainscoting on the ceilings.
Herman Ache’s gray toupee was a little too shiny tonight. He wore a polo shirt with a V-neck sweater underneath it. There was a logo for a golf club on the chest.
Herman pointed at Win. “I told you to leave this alone.”
Win nodded. “You did indeed.” Then Win reached into the waistband of the sweatpants, pulled out a gun, and shot Herman Ache right between the eyes. Herman Ache crumbled in a ragged heap. Myron actually gasped out loud. He turned to Win, who already had the weapon pointed at Evan Crisp.
“Don’t,” Win said to Crisp. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead too. Don’t force my hand.”
Crisp froze.
Myron just stared. Herman Ache was dead. No question about it.
Myron said, “Win?”
Win kept his eye trained on Crisp. “Search him, Myron.”
In something of a daze, Myron did as Win asked. There was no weapon. Win told Crisp to get on his knees and lace his hands behind his head. Crisp did so. Win kept the gun pointed at Crisp’s head.
“Win?”
“We had no choice, Myron. Mr. Crisp here was correct. Herman would have killed everyone dear to us.”
“What about all that talk about his business interest? What about détente?”
“Herman may have agreed for a little while, but not in the long run. You know that. The moment we discovered Wire was dead it became us or him. He would never let us live, holding that over his head.”
“But killing Herman Ache”—Myron shook his head, trying to clear it—“even you don’t just walk away from that.”
“Don’t worry about that right now.”
Crisp stayed statue-still on his knees, hands on his head.
“So what now?” Myron asked.
“Perhaps,” Win said, “I’ll kill our friend Mr. Crisp here. In for a penny, in for a pound.”
Crisp closed his eyes. Myron said, “Win?”
“Ah, don’t worry,” Win said, keeping the gun trained on Crisp’s head. “Mr. Crisp is merely a hired hand. You have no loyalty to Herman Ache, do you?”
Crisp finally broke his silence. “I don’t, no.”
“There then.” Win looked at Myron. “Go ahead. Ask him.”
Myron moved in front of Evan Crisp. Crisp looked up and met his eye.
“How did you do it?” Myron asked.
“Do what?”
“How did you kill Suzze?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well,” Win said. “Now we’re both lying.”
Crisp said, “What?”
“You’re lying about not killing Suzze,” Win said. “And I was lying about not killing you.”
Somewhere in the distance a grandfather clock started chiming. Herman Ache continued to bleed out on the floor, an almost perfect circular puddle of blood surrounding his head.
“My theory,” Win said, “is that you were not merely a hired hand on this but more likely a full partner. It doesn’t matter, really. You’re a very dangerous man. You don’t like that I got the better of you. If our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t like it either. So you know already. I can’t let you survive to fight another day.”
Crisp turned his head to look up at Win. He tried to meet Win’s eyes, as though that would help. It wouldn’t. But Myron could smell the fear on Crisp now. You could be tough. You could be the hardest guy around. But when you stare death in the face, only one thought comes to mind: I don’t want to die. The world becomes very simple. Survive. We don’t pray in foxholes because we are ready to meet our Maker. We pray because we don’t want to.