Mustache laughed at his suggestion. Fedora did not. He stepped back, aiming the gun at Myron’s back. Myron turned to face him. They were separated by about six feet. Myron was against the back wall. There was no avenue of escape. The nearest window was at least twelve feet off the ground. No room to move at all.
Fedora raised the gun so that it stared Myron right in the face. Myron did not blink. He looked into Fedora’s eyes.
And then they were gone. Fedora’s eyes were gone. Along with half his head.
The bullet had ripped off the skull at the midway point, splitting Fedora’s head open like a coconut. He slid to the ground, the fedora floating down after him.
A dum-dum bullet.
Mustache cried out and dropped the gun. He held his hands up. “I surrender!”
Myron ran forward. “Don’t! He’s surren—”
But the gun exploded again. Mustache’s face disappeared in a spray of red mist. Myron stopped, closed his eyes. Mustache joined Fedora on the filthy cement. Esperanza came over and wrapped her arms around Myron. They both turned toward the alley’s entrance.
Win stepped into view, studying his handiwork as though it were a statue he wasn’t sure he liked. He was dressed in a gray suit, his red tie still in a perfect Windsor knot. His blond hair was neat, conservative, parted as always on the left. The .44 was in his right hand. His cheeks were rosy, and there was just a hint of a smile on his face.
“Good evening,” Win said.
“How long have you been here?” Myron asked. He hadn’t spotted. Win when they exited the photography studio. But he had known he was there. With Win you just knew. One of life’s constants.
“I arrived as you entered the dwelling of ill repute,” Win answered. He smiled. “But I wanted my appearance to have that flair of drama.”
Myron let go of Esperanza.
“We better get moving,” Win said. “Before the authorities arrive.”
They walked away from the corpses in silence. Esperanza was shaking. Myron did not feel so hot either. Only Win seemed completely unaffected by what had transpired. As they approached the car, the same fat young prostitute clad in sausage casing approached Win.
“Hey, yo, want a blow job? Fifty bucks.”
Win looked at her. “I would rather have my semen sucked out with a catheter.”
“Okay,” the girl said. “Forty bucks.”
Win laughed and walked away.
Chapter 26
“All units. One-eighteen Acre Street. All units One-eighteen Acre Street.”
Paul Duncan heard the call on his police scanner. He was only a few blocks from the scene, but this was not his district. Far from it. He could certainly not answer the call. That would only draw attention and questions. Questions like what was he doing here.
Pieces were starting to come together. Fred Nickler, the publisher of those sleazy rags, had called him earlier in the day. What he had told Paul explained a lot. Not everything. Not by a long shot. But he now understood Jessica’s behavior the other night. She had learned about Kathy’s picture. Myron Bolitar must have told her.
But how had Myron gotten a copy of it?
Not important. Not really. What was important was that Myron Bolitar was involved. He could not be underestimated. Jessica was a big enough pain in the ass on her own. But now she had Myron on her side and probably that Win Lockwood, Myron’s psychotic Tonto. Paul knew something about their past work for the feds. Not a lot. Myron and Win had answered only to top government officials. Their work was almost always classified. But Paul knew their reputations. That was enough.
A police car sped past Paul, sirens screaming. They were probably on their way to 118 Acre Street. Paul turned up his scanner. He wanted to hear every word that was said.
He debated calling Carol, but what could he tell her? She hadn’t been specific on the phone, just telling him about the phone message from Nancy to Jessica. So what did Jessica know? How had she found out?
And what would Carol ultimately be pressured into saying?
Two ambulances flew by him. They too had their sirens on full blast. Paul swallowed. He wanted to pull over, but he wanted more to drive as far away as possible.
Once again Paul Duncan thought of his friend Adam Culver. Dead. Murdered. With everything that had happened, there had been no time for Paul to mourn.
Yes, mourn.
That might sound strange—Paul Duncan mourning Adam Culver. Especially if anyone knew how Adam had spent the last precious hours of his life.
Win and Myron dropped Esperanza off at the apartment she shared with her sister and cousin in the east part of Greenwich Village. Myron escorted her to the door.
“You okay?”
She nodded. Her face was deathly pale. She had not spoken a word since the shooting. “Win—” She stopped, shook her head. It took her a full minute to pull herself together. “He saved us. I guess that’s what counts.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
Myron returned to the car. He called Jessica. She wasn’t home yet, but Myron did manage to wake her mother. They drove to a twenty-four-hour diner on Sixth Avenue—one of those Greek diners with a menu the approximate length of a Tolstoy novel. Win was a vegetarian. He ordered a salad and french fries. Myron ordered a Diet Coke. He couldn’t eat.
After they were settled in, Myron asked, “What happened with Chaz?”
Win was picking at a basket of stale bread. His face registered displeasure, but he settled on a small packet of Saltines. “Mr Landreaux hurried straight from our esteemed offices to a building at 466 Fifth Avenue,” he began. “He took the elevator to the eighth floor, which is rented by Roy O’Connor and TruPro Enterprises. When Landreaux entered the elevator, he had your contract tightly clutched in his paw. When he exited, the contract was no longer visible. He had no pockets that could hold such a document. Conclusion: Mr Landreaux gave the contract to someone at TruPro Enterprises.”
“Your powers of deduction,” Myron said. “In a word: uncanny.”
Win smiled. “I assume you are feeling better.”
Myron shrugged.
“We are not the same, you and I,” Win added. “You call it execution, what I did to that vermin. I call it extermination.”
“You didn’t have to kill him.”
“I wanted to kill him,” Win said with flat inflection. “And I doubt any of us will mourn his death for very long.”
True enough, but the argument did not ease Myron’s mind. He wanted to drop the subject. “Where did Chaz go after he left TruPro?”