The Steel Kiss

“Ten minutes. I’m not that far away…  How did you know I work here?”

I’m prepared. “Found some business cards on the floor of your place. It was ransacked.”

Such a great word.

“Okay. I’ll be right there. I’m leaving now.”

I disconnect and examine the sidewalk. Other companies and commercial operations squat here. One pathetic ad agency, striving to be cool. Sidewalks pretty deserted. I step into the loading dock of an abandoned warehouse. It’s no more than three minutes before a figure steams past, sixty-ish Edwin Boyle, eyes forward, concern on his face.

Stepping forward fast, I grab his collar and yank him into the shadows of the loading dock.

“Oh, Jesus… ” He turns toward me, eyes wide. “You! From up the hall! What the hell?”

We’re neighbors, two apartments away, or three, though we don’t say much to each other. Just a nod hello occasionally.

I don’t say anything now. What’s the point? No quips, no chance for last words. People can get snaky at times like that. I just bury the round end of the ball-peen hammer in Edwin’s temple. Like with Todd Williams while we were on our way to have a drink commemorating our joint venture in making the world safe from smart products too smart for our own good.

Crack, crack.

Bone separates. Blood appears.

On the ground, he’s squirming, eyes unfocused. Pull the hammer out—it’s not easy—and do the same thing again. And again.

The squirms stop.

I look onto the street. No pedestrians. A few cars but we were deep in obscuring shadow.

I drag poor Edwin to a supply cabinet of the abandoned warehouse’s abandoned loading dock and open the warped plywood door. Muscle him inside. Then crouch down and get his phone. It’s passcode-protected but that doesn’t matter. I recognize it from last night. Alicia and I were making love on the couch, beside the fish tank. I glanced up at the security monitor and saw Edwin, returning home drunk, like most nights, outside my door, recording the sounds. Didn’t tell her, didn’t say anything. It would upset her, a woman whose resting state is upset.

But I knew I’d have to crack Edwin’s bones for what he did. Just knew it. Not that there was any evidence that could be used to track me down. Just because doing that—recording us—was cruel. It was the act of a Shopper.

And that was reason enough for the man to die. Wish it had been with more nociceptive pain but you can’t have everything.

Crack the bones of his mobile too—can’t take the battery out very easily on these models—and I’ll dispose of it later.

I notice a few intrigued rats nearby. Cautious but sniffy. Nice way to eliminate evidence, it occurs to me, hungry rodents, digesting trace evidence from the corpse.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I inhale deeply. Air is a bit ripe, this part of town. But invigorating.

A good day…

And soon to get better. It’s time for the main event.

* * *

“Stand up,” Jon Perone said, smoothing his jet-black hair. Was a bottle involved? Probably.

Nick knew the drill. Pulled up his shirt and spun around slowly. Then dropped his pants too. And underwear. Perone glanced down. Impressed, dismayed? A lot of men were.

Nick buttoned and zipped and tucked.

“Shut your phone off. And battery out.”

Nick did this too. Set them on Perone’s desk.

He glanced at the door. The man in suspenders was there. Nick wondered how long he’d been present.

“It’s okay, Ralph. He’s clean.”

Nick stared into Ralph’s eyes until the man turned and left the room. Back to Perone. “Just to connect the dots, Jon. A friend of mine tracked down a friend of yours—Norman Ring, presently guest of the state, doing five to eight up in Hillside. He earned himself serious time because he agreed to keep quiet when he could’ve rolled over on you. I’ve got enough, though, to put you two together.”

“Jesus, man. Fuck.” Perone’s complexion, ruddy from weekend golf and vacationing, Nick guessed, grew ruddier yet under the painted hair.

“It’s all in a letter to my lawyer, to be opened in the event of my getting fucked. You know the rest of it, right? So let’s not get indignant here. Or blustery. Or trigger-happy. Let’s just talk business. Didn’t you ever wonder where the merch you stole came from?”

“Algonquin?” Perone was calmer now. “I kept waiting for somebody to come out of the woodwork. But nobody did. What was I gonna do, take out an ad? Found: two million bucks’ worth of Oxy and Perc and propofol. Call this number.”

“No harm done. But time for my money.”

“You didn’t need to come on like the fucking Godfather.”

Nick screwed up his face. “All respect, Jon. What happened to the owner of the warehouse where I stored the shit? Stan Redman?”

Perone hesitated. “Accident. Construction site.”

“I heard you buried him alive after he tried to move the merch himself.”

“I don’t recall any such occurrence.”

Nick shot him a wry glance. “Now the money. I earned it. I need it.”

“I’ll go six.”