Gun Work

“There were a couple of bad choices in between,” she said. “But I knew enough to put Carl and Felix in the same room together. Their scheme hatched itself. It was just as likely to implode as succeed, but in the process a lot of cash would be floating around. One day Carl said he had known a fellow in Iraq, a brother in arms, the kind of guy about whom you say, ‘Gee, I wish he was here; he could solve everything.’ The kind of man who would make a good enforcer, and in the process, increase the odds of a scam actually working to everybody’s profit. That would be you. All I had to do was encourage Carl to phone you up. But a polite social cocktail-party solicitation was not the way. From what Carl said, I guessed you would respond to a crisis, and I guessed correctly, didn’t I? The late Mr. Tannenhauser was the first to see the potential cash-flow possibilities as a satellite to his kidnapping racket, which was already thriving. When you surprised everybody by surviving, it became clear that the whole chain-of-title could be erased, which is always nice when great gobs of money are concerned. That bloodbath in Mexico? I didn’t do that. You did it. Case fucking closed.” She seemed to deflate at the possibility it was all beyond Barney. “Look, do I have to drag a blackboard and a pointer in here?”

“The only thing left,” said Barney, “is money. Enough to fight over. Enough to cause problems later. How much did Tannenhauser have when he left Mexico?”

“Oh, a second ago you wanted to kill me and now you want to talk money.”

“You put me and my friends in harm’s way, and right now I am the only one left standing. I got shot. Mutilated. Hospitalized. My friends died around me.”

“Please. Who recruited them? You did. Hence, they are dead because of what you did — your little revenge mission. Feel better, yes or no? Besides, I think your hands are rather elegant.” She fingered an expensive jade choker on her equally expensive neck. “May I see them without those gloves?”

“No. What happened to the money?”

She exhaled nasally, piqued at this talk of money when she would rather be involved in a seduction. “Five million, in three cases, in the bedroom. That works out to a bit more than a million and a half per case, and change. Take any one of them. And go, if you’re going to be dull. Take one for your trouble, and consider yourself fortunate.” She flitted her hands at him. “Go on; they’re not short-count or booby-trapped or anything.”

Barney did not move.

A tiny line of frustration creased her brow. “Oh, come on,” she said. “Don’t tell me you haven’t fantasized about fucking me. Especially if I am so goddamned dangerous. Men like you are addicted to risk, and risking your life makes you horny, don’t bother to deny it. You and I are survivors; we are the last people standing. That’s why I wanted to meet you. That’s why we have all the time in the world. The war is over, lover. You could forget the gun-waving and penetrate me with something better than a bullet, and it would be worth it. I guarantee it. I’ve been looking forward to it as much as you have.” She was stimulating herself with her own speech, going lubricious right there in the chair. “Or you can be a bore and just take your little suitcase of money and split... and wonder for the rest of your life what it would have been like.”

She really was a consummate businesswoman, except for one infinitesimal detail.

“What’s to stop me from taking them all?” said Barney.

In response, she laughed. It was a fluting sound, rich and sonorous, the kind of laugh that could make royalty sacrifice a kingdom. “Oh, doll...”

Then from out of nowhere she leveled a Charter Arms Bulldog at him and smooched a quartet of .44-caliber rounds right into his chest.

Part Five

Blowback

She was leaning over him to check for blood when he grabbed her by the throat. She was so shocked she actually dropped the Bulldog revolver, which had one round left in its cylinder.

They were all here, Barney thought. Karlov, Armand, Sirius. He was wearing Karlov’s gloves and special neck strap. The ammo in his gun’s magazine had been manufactured by Armand. And Sirius had supplied the floppy green body armor he wore under his clothing, which had just spared his life.

He felt as though he had been kicked in the solar plexus by a Clydesdale, then run over by a semi, then dragged. His vision was aswim and he was unable to sit up yet. But he’d managed a lock on her beautiful neck, and he’d die before he’d let go.

She clawed his face open with lacquered nails, white foam actually accreting at the corners of her mouth. This was her real face, the face nobody ever saw, the visage beneath the human mask, her cunning mimic of human behavior.