Gun Work

Honest confusion drained further color from Carl’s face. He had no idea what Barney was talking about. Score another point for Erica.

“Are you talking about a... a... hit man?”

“Yes, Carl. The kind of man you hire to do the sort of things you are too much of a coward to do. Like the way you lie to old friends so they’ll stop a bullet you’ve earned — a warm body to throw to the wolves so you can skate and pretend you’re innocent.”

Carl’s lips worked dryly against each other. He was taking his medicine like a punished child who thought the word sorry could set him free.

“If Erica is the heartless criminal mastermind you made her out to be, how did she get the money away from you?”

“We left Mexico on separate flights. When I landed I found out she’d flown to a different city.”

“Why didn’t Felix go after her?”

“What for? His deal was with me, period.”

“Where is Erica now?”

“I wish I could tell you. I don’t know. I really have no idea, for almost a year, now.” Carl mustered a bit of gall, enough to add, “But what about you? How did you —?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Barney interposed.

Barney had steered him between Eighth and Ninth, on 35th Street, walking west toward the Javits Convention Center.

“I’m telling you, you can shoot me, torture me, whatever, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

They stopped. Cabs soared by. It was dark now.

“I know this sounds stupid,” said Carl, “but I’m glad you made it.” Right about now, Carl would say anything or perform any abasement just to keep breathing. He tried to play the buddy-buddy card. “You know that little piece of the GPS you stashed in my coat? I didn’t find out about it until they stopped me at the airport. I set off the damned alarm. That was pretty slick. I should have listened to you more...”

Barney put his hand on Carl’s shoulder in a comradely gesture. This was supposed to be the part where all was forgiven in gruff camaraderie. “Okay, Carl, I believe you. But you shouldn’t have left me twisting. Just shouldn’t have.”

Before Carl could respond, Barney jammed the SIG into his chest and fired two rounds completely through him. Before Carl could slump, Barney jammed the SIG under his jaw and blew the top of his head — and whatever else Carl was thinking — upward into the westerly breeze in a fine red spray.

The killing had begun.

Barney did not get a single drop on him. He was clean.

Action is transient. Context takes the rest of forever.

You’ve really lost it now, Barney thought. Let your anger boil over and get the better of you.

Shooting Carl Ledbetter on a public street in the middle of New York City was almost a reflex action. It freighted no pang of guilt or remorse. It was what needed to be done. Barney could tell by the way Carl was losing his wits and trying to dissemble that he was attempting to buy talking time to forge fresh lies, to con him, to excuse what he had done by saying it was just business, not personal. That was how Carl’s death had been — impersonal.

Strategically it was a matter of sheer gut sense. It was time. But Barney still felt played. He had done exactly what Felix Rainer had wanted, like a puppet or a robot. A hit man.

You’ve ignored gunshots, even though their sudden sound attracted your attention. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, you dismissed or rationalized it: That’s not really gunfire. It’s a backfire. It’s construction noise. It’s always something else. That was how Barney could shoot a man three times and walk away. He was just another pedestrian who chose not to notice. Less than a block away, a gunshot made even less difference. Citizens ignored these sounds. They kept their noses down and minded their own damned business... although usually making sure to travel away from wherever the distressing sound originated. The same thing happened when someone screamed in the night. People shut their windows, turned their backs, cranked up the TV.

In seconds, Barney became just another person hurrying away from something potentially nasty, focused on doing the Manhattan shuffle, hands in pockets, eyes down. Had he lingered, he would have seen several other New Yorkers gingerly step around the fallen man on the sooty sidewalk. He’s a bum, a drunk, that’s not really blood, that’s not half his head gone; I’m just seeing things.

Barney walked north along the Hudson, disassembling the SIG, dumping the parts and ammo. His gun hand had begun trickling threads of blood.

He flew back to Los Angeles that night, using a standby scheme that was a fringe benefit of Sirius’ airline connections.

By the time Felix Rainer recovered his senses, he had nobody to look for and nobody to consult, since Carl was no longer talking.

Karlov asked, “How was the gun?”

“Perfect,” Barney told him.

Armand asked, “How was the ammo?”