“How about this weather?” he said.

The man from Chicago didn’t seem interested in chatting about the weather or anything else. He just wanted his boss’s money. The money Russell was supposed to have transported days ago. He stood on the other side of the desk with a long wool coat draped over his arm: expensive suit, dark turtleneck sweater, a classy-looking watch on his wrist.

Eddie was surprised the Poles had sent a black guy. For some reason he’d thought the old-country types were prejudiced.

“I hope Mr. Plaski understands that this isn’t the way Eddie Tice normally does business.”

He turned the case, lid open, and nudged it across the desk. It was at least 40K more than Russell had stolen, but Eddie wanted to express his contrition over the whole goddamned sorry bullshit situation.

Tony had advised him against it. You don’t volunteer to pay somebody more than you owe, Uncle Eddie. It sends all the wrong signals.

But Tony wasn’t a businessman. And Eddie wasn’t trying to get some broad in the sack. He was making a good-faith investment in a business partnership. A partnership between reasonable men.

The man from Chicago stepped forward. He closed the case with one hand, snapping the latches one at a time.

“I’m sorry you had to make the trip,” Eddie said. “This is a one-time adjustment, believe me. I’ve addressed the problem, I can promise you.”

The man nodded. “You’ve addressed the problem?”

“Mr. Plaski can be assured of that.”

“What is the problem, in your view?”

“Well, obviously there was…”

“How have you addressed it?”

Eddie closed his mouth.

“Mr. Plaski has concerns,” the man said.

“I can understand that.” Eddie nodded to show that he understood completely. “Whatever I can do to reassure…”

While Eddie was talking, the man from Chicago put his hand beneath his overcoat and casually produced an automatic pistol. Eddie was so busy planning what he was going to say next that he didn’t even notice at first.

All at once, everything changed. It was as if the office began to hum all around him. Eddie took one look at the gun pointed at his stomach and felt his scrotum shrink.

“Hey, no, look. Listen.”

“Which?”

“Jesus,” Eddie said. “Which what?”

“Do you want me to look? Or do you want me to listen?”

“I just…Jesus, wait.”

“Wait? You’re being indecisive, Mr. Tice.”

The gun had a long, fat cylinder attached to the barrel. Eddie had seen that shit in the movies. Professional killers used it when they wanted to shoot you so nobody could hear.

“Just wait.” Eddie held up his palms. “I think Ican…”

He heard a quick splurt of air, and something burst in his leg. For a split second, it felt like he’d been hit in the knee with a hammer. His whole leg went numb.

Then there was pain.

A whole big world of pain.

Eddie didn’t realize he’d buckled until he found himself sitting in his chair. He heard screaming. For a moment, based on the roar in his head, he assumed the screams were his.

Then he saw Darla. She stood in the doorway, holding a feather duster, eyes wide and swimming with fear. Her hands flew to her mouth; the feather duster fell to the floor.

No.

What was she doing here? They’d agreed to meet at the hotel. She’d left an hour ago, with the other employees.

But now here she was, back again. She’d transformed from Snow White into a slutty, sexy maid. Garters, stockings, cleavage and lace, a frilly apron the size of a handkerchief.

Eddie whispered, “Please don’t.”

The man from Chicago had already turned. Eddie heard the same sound a second time—just a little puff of air. Like a whisper.

A small hole appeared in the bridge of Darla’s nose. Something splattered the door frame behind her head. Her eyes went dull, and she stood there a moment, half naked, seeming confused.

Then she sagged.

Oh, no.

No, no, no.

Eddie’s hands were slick. His pants leg was slippery with blood. What was happening? What had happened here?

“Please,” he said. He looked at the man from Chicago. What more did he want? It was all in the case, the whole wad. With interest. “Tell me what I—Jesus, why are you doing this?”

The man from Chicago put on his coat. He took the case from the desk. Case in one hand, gun in the other, he looked at Eddie.

He said, “‘Put a bullet in his knee. If he spits in your face and tells you to fuck yourself, put him on the phone and I’ll speak with him further.’ Those were Mr. Plaski’s words.”

How could this be happening? Eddie wished he could start over. Do something different. He couldn’t find any words to say.

“‘If he begs or tries to bargain, just blow his stupid brains out and come home.’” The man from Chicago shrugged. “Mr. Plaski’s words. Not mine.”

It felt as though his knee were being crushed in a vice. The pain crawled up his ribs; cold sweat trickled down his spine.

He looked into the man’s eyes. “But why?”

“This was a mess.” The man from Chicago looked at his watch. “A small mess, all in all. But even a small mess creates a trust issue. Trust issues create liabilities. Mr. Plaski doesn’t believe in liabilities. I’m sorry about your maid.”

Eddie looked at Darla on the floor. She’d fallen on her knees, facedown on the carpet, arms bent beneath her, bare rump exposed. Just for him, she’d dressed that way. For fun. It wasn’t really Darla’s personality at all.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, just let me…”

The man from Chicago said, “You’re still doing it.”

Eddie saw the little puff from the hole in the cylinder, but this time he didn’t hear the sound.

3.

PROTECT AND SERVE

24

Vargas had an office on the main floor. Dark walls and deep pile carpet, golf clubs in the corner and a humidor on the desk. He had some black leather furniture and a television. Even with the tension and hostility, there was enough room left over for a putting carpet, a speed bag, and an elliptical machine.

“Nothing was stolen,” Worth said.

Vargas sat with his arms folded, listening.

“Television, stereo, nothing touched. Four hundred cash in a bank envelope, still in the top drawer of the nightstand.”

“Nothing stolen,” Vargas said. “Your neighbor interrupted, took a knot on the head. I get it.”

Worth pulled a Ziploc bag from the brown kraft envelope he’d brought inside from the truck. He handed the bag to Vargas.

A stroke of genius. Or the stone dumbest thing he’d ever done. Either way, he’d done it. There was no undoing it now.

He said, “I found that under my bed this morning.”

Vargas held up the bag and looked at Russell James’s wallet through the clear plastic.

Originally, Worth had been thinking of using the credit cards to create a trail; in a few days, he’d book a motel room somewhere. Nobody would show up for the reservation, but the activity would be there just the same. At least enough to help solidify Gwen’s story. Their story.

“Last Friday, I took a battery call on a store employee,” he said. “Suspect, boyfriend, was code four at the apartment. Girl spent the weekend at Clarkson, released to a DVCC safe house near Creighton University yesterday afternoon. Boyfriend hasn’t been located.”

“What’s one thing got to do with the other?”

“That wallet,” Worth said.

He reached back into the envelope and pulled out a latex glove. Vargas humored him. He put on the glove and broke open the bag. He opened the wallet by the edges and looked at the driver’s license. “Russell T. James.”