When The Bough Breaks

"Ancient history," he said. "Yeah, I made the call. Setting it up in your office was Hayden's idea of a joke. He's a mean little mother. Sick sense of humor. But like I told you before, I didn't kill anybody. For the Hickle thing I wasn't even there. That was all Hayden and Cousin Will. They - and Gus - decided to shut him up - same old story, I guess. Hickle was a member of the Brigade, one of the originals. But he free - lanced with the kids at his wife's school.

"I remember after he got busted, the three of them were talking about it. Gus was ranting. "Damned stupid shithead!" he was yelling, "I furnish that fool with enough hairless pussy to keep him smiling for the rest of his life and he goes and does a dumbshit thing like this!" The way I figured it Hickle'd always been regarded as weak and stupid, easily influenced. They bet that once he started confessing the school stuff he'd open his yap and bring it all down around them. They had to put him away.

"The way they did it was for Hayden to call him and tell him he had good news. Hickle'd asked Hayden to pull strings downtown with the DA., which just goes to show you how stupid he was. I mean at that time Hickle was page one. Just knowing him was the kiss of death. But he called Hayden, asked him anyway. Hayden faked it like he was going to try to help. Couple days later he called him, said yeah, there was good news, he could help. They met at Hayden's house, very hush - hush, no one around. From what I gather Will slipped something in his tea - the guy didn't drink booze. Something you could time precisely and that wore off, so traces were hard to find unless you were looking for something specifically. Will fixed the dosage - he's good at that. When Hickle was out they moved him to your place. Hayden picked the lock - he's good with his hands, does magic shows for the kids at La Casa. Dresses up like a clown - Blimbo the Clown - and does magic tricks."

"Forget magic. Go on about Hickle."

"That's it. They got him up there, faked the suicide I don't know who pulled the trigger. I wasn't there. The only reason I know anything about it is I did the Bill Roberts bit and a few days later Gus told me what it was all about. He was in one of those dark moods when he talks like a megalomaniac. "Don't think your cousin the doctor is all that noble, my boy," he was saying. "I can fry his ass and the asses of lots of noble men with one phone call." He gets that way - anti - rich, after he thinks back to how he was poor and all us rich folk mistreated him. That night, after they killed Hickle, we were sitting in his office. He was drinking gin and he started to reminisce about how he used to work for Mr. Hickle - Hickle's father - from the time he was a little kid. He was an orphan and some agency basically sold him to the Hickles, like a slave. He said old Hickle had been a monster. Vicious temper, liked to kick the help around. He told me how he took it, kept his eyes open, learned all the nasty family secrets - like Stuart's kinks, other stuff - saved it all up and used it to get off Brindamoor, to get the job at Jedson. I remember him smiling at me, half - drunk, looking crazy. "I learned early," he said, 'that knowledge is power." Then he talked about Earl, how the guy was damaged goods, but would do anything for him. "He'd eat my shit and call it caviar," he said. "That's power." "

Kruger had arched his back, picking his head up, stiff - necked, as he talked. Now exhausted, he sank back down.

"I guess," he said, "he's getting back at all of us." He lay in the ochre stain of dried urine, pitiful. "Anything else you want to tell me, Tim?" "I can't think of anything. You ask, I'll tell." I saw a tension travel up and down his bound limbs like a handcar on a twisted track and kept my distance.

There was a phone on the floor several feet away. I brought it near, stayed away from his arms and laid the speaker near his mouth. Holding the gun to his brow I punched in Towle's office number and stepped back.

"Make it good."

He did. I would have been convinced. I hoped Towle was. He signaled me the conversation was through by moving his eyes back and forth. I hung up and had him make a second call, to the security desk at La Casa to set up the doctor's visit.

"How was that?" he asked when he was through.

"Rave review."

Oddly enough that seemed to please him.

"Tell me, Tim, how are your sinuses?"

The question didn't throw him. "Great," he blurted out, "I'm never sick." He said it with the bravado of the habitual athlete who believes exercise and firm muscles are guarantees of immortality.

"Good. Then this shouldn't bother you." I crammed a towel into his mouth while he made enraged, muffled noises through the terrycloth. Carefully I dragged him to the bedroom, emptied the closet of anything that resembled a tool or weapon and shoved him inside, molding him to the confines of the tiny space.