Darkman (6 page)

“I’m not that cheap.”

“Hundred?”

“Do you really think that man would sell his reputation for a hundred dollars?”

“I do.”

“Well, he did too.”

They laughed together. Louis’s father was already at the door, looking no less crabby than he had before the deal was clinched. Louis knew one thing for sure: The old man was getting grouchier and more senile every day. His idea of making money for Strack Industries dealt only with real estate. There was a fortune to be made out there with stocks, commodities, gold, silver, bonds, you name it. The old guy was a fossil, a detriment to the company he had founded so many years ago. If he would ever retire, Strack Industries could branch off in new directions, make bigger profits. Not that Louis needed the money. It was the power money could buy that he was interested in, though he had only vague ideas what to do with it once he got it.

He turned back to Julie. “Could I meet you for dinner tonight?” He looked at her left hand. “I don’t see a ring, so I hope you don’t mind me being brash like this.”

“You’re not brash at all,” she said. “But I already have plans.”

“What’s his name?”

“Peyton. Peyton Westlake.”

“Weird name.”

“Nice guy.”

He grinned. “All right, I fold. Maybe in a few weeks?”

“Doubtful.”

“Must be one hell of a man. Since you’re a lawyer, can I ask if you’re into his briefs?”

She drew back. “Now
that
was brash.”

They laughed again. At the doors, old Strack watched them sourly. A long white limousine drew up and he went out.

“Need a ride?” Louis asked.

She deliberated for a moment, then: “Probably better not. I might . . .”

He frowned amicably enough. “Don’t say it, Julie, because then I’ll get my hopes up. And I hate having my hopes dashed.”

She smiled. “Fine, then. I’ll take a cab.”

“Good enough. Can I, um, call you sometime?”

“For business?”

He raised his hands. “Strictly business, madame.”

“That would be fine.” She extended a hand. “Nice working with you, Louis.”

He shook her hand. “My pleasure.”

He opened the door for her and she went out. Louis watched her go, smiling a bit. If that guy with the funny first name ever let this one go, Louis would be there to catch her; he knew that as fact.

The limousine honked. Louis saw the old man poking the chauffeur on the shoulder, forcing him to honk like some damn taxi driver. He ground his teeth. God, but the doddering old coot was getting cranky lately. Louis made a mental note to buy him a bottle of Geritol, if the old man lived long enough to drink it. It was obvious to everyone that he was failing.

He got in the back with Pop and made himself a drink to wash the anger away. The limo pulled out smoothly, and when he finished his drink, Louis buried himself in a fresh copy of the
Wall Street Journal.
Strack Senior was studying financial reports. The silence between them grew long, but it was nothing new. They had had nothing to say to each other in years, except an occasional brief argument over financial this and financial that.

An article caught his eye. Krugerrands were on the rise again. He read it, almost drooling. Real estate could go to hell; here was
real
money. He lowered the paper. “Krugerrands are looking attractive, Dad.”

Strack snorted. “Krugerrands. Bah. Strack Industries will stick with real estate. You remember that, sonny.”

Sonny? How swell. Now Pop thought Louis was a kid again. It was a miracle his brains weren’t leaking out his ears.

The chauffeur drove into a small, run-down gas station. Strack craned forward. “What now?”

“Flat tire, sir.”

“Oh, goody. This will come out of your wages, you know. This vehicle is your responsibility. Got that?”

“Indeed, sir.”

The driver got out. He walked to the errant wheel and stooped down. He reached into his uniform pocket and withdrew an ice pick. He drove it into the tire, which was remarkably full of air for a flat tire, pulled it out, then went to the trunk and opened it. A minute later Strack got out, grumbling about his prostate being bigger than a bowling ball. He headed off to find a rest room, stopping long enough to examine the tire.

It was flat.

“Damn tires cost a billion bucks nowadays,” he muttered, blinking under the harsh sunlight. “Damn shitty driver.”

Off he went. Twenty yards away, a man wearing a stuffy-looking blue suit was hurrying toward the station. He held a rolled-up newspaper in his hand. Strack didn’t notice, and if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. Peeing in this fleabag of a gas station was his uppermost worry now. What if germs were floating around in the air?

The man in the suit came inexorably closer, not quite so fast now, pacing himself. He was grinning, showing plenty of white teeth. He hooked a cigar out of a pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He was five yards from old Strack now, on an intercept course. In the car, Louis sat daydreaming about Krugerrands.

The man aimed his newspaper, revealing a dark rod of sorts hidden inside. There was a brief orange flash and a small pop! Strack clutched his chest, staggering forward by force of inertia only. The man caught him. They danced a wobbling tango.

Still in the car, Louis looked up. His view was blocked by the station’s double pumps, and the driver, who was lugging the bad tire around the car. Louis looked back down to his newspaper, unconcerned.

The man dropped Strack, who landed on the cable of the electronic bell. It began to ring, about once every three seconds. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a gold-plated cigar trimmer, freshly washed now, sparkling clean. He bent over and clipped off the old man’s left index finger, squeezed the blood out of it, then stuck it and the trimmer back into his clothes. He ambled away and disappeared around the back of the station.

Louis looked up, irritated by the bell. Why couldn’t this dump have a rubber hose you drive over that rings the bell? Chalk one up to modern science: They finally had invented a better bell but, sadly, one that never shut up.

He got out, wincing as the hot September air enfolded him. He walked around the double pumps and saw his father lying facedown in the dust. Had the old jerk-off finally keeled over?

He went to him, knelt, and turned him over. There was a blot of blood on his chest, an ugly flower. Louis stared at it with large eyes.

Behind him, a midnight-blue Lincoln Continental pulled away, not in a hurry, almost soundless. The man behind the tinted windows had lit himself a cigar.

Louis saw none of this. Robert G. Durant and his vehicle disappeared unharmed and unseen.

Louis cradled his father in his arms, lifting him off the electronic cable. He clutched him tight.

The bell stopped ringing.

5

Julie

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
in Peyton’s apartment, Julie made two rather disturbing discoveries. The first was a short article in the morning newspaper that sketchily outlined what had happened to the elder Strack. The other was a single sheet of paper she found in her briefcase, along with hundreds of less interesting documents. It was obvious that it was not intended for her eyes.

Peyton came out of the bathroom wearing a robe, scrubbing his hair with a towel, while Julie pondered the meaning of this particular memo, the one not intended for her. It was the documentation of an obvious bribe paid by Strack Industries to a certain Claude Bellasarious, dated July twelfth of last year. It was not good news.

Peyton drew up behind her while she debated the pros and cons of spilling the beans or keeping her mouth shut. By spilling the beans, she would embarrass the surviving Louis Strack and most likely lose her position of trust—Pappas and Swain would be dumped out of Strack Industries like so much useless garbage. By keeping her mouth shut, she could expect to have a long and profitable relationship with the firm. Somewhere in between lay her own sense of decency and professional ethics.

“Coffee?” he asked.

She didn’t hear him. Christ, a woman busts her ass to make it big, compete with the boys, and then something this nasty chances along and ruins everything. To remain mum or not to? A hell of a question.

“Coffee?”

She nodded without hearing. Peyton shrugged and got her a cup. By then she had set the incriminating memo aside and had her chin propped on her hand, chagrined, bewildered, basically unhappy.

“Just like you like it,” he said, and set the cup on the coffee table, right on top of the memo.

“No!” she cried, but it was too late. She picked the cup up and saw the wet brown ring on the memo. It hadn’t ruined it by any means, but it would make weird evidence in court.

“You’re being eaten alive,” Peyton said, and sat beside her. “Inner demons?”

“Outer ones,” she said glumly. “Can you bring me the phone?”

He looked around. His apartment was a catastrophe, obviously the victim of a terrorist’s bomb, so piled with junk that the floor seemed about to collapse. He scouted around, tossing old newspapers and pizza boxes aside. His bare foot clunked against something that rang, and he carried it to her. “When the hell are you going to clean up this dump,” he growled at her. “Surely you don’t expect
me
to do it.”

She tried to smile but it wouldn’t work. She dialed Pappas and Swain, glad that she was already dressed and ready to go. It might be a long day.

The receptionist connected her directly to Pappas, whom Julie assumed was just on his way out and headed for court. He clicked on. “Pappas.”

“Yeah,” Julie said, thinking hard. “This is Julie Hastings, Mr. Pappas. I found a memo while I was researching the Von Hoffenstein deal I don’t think I was supposed to find. It’s from the late Mr. Strack to a guy named Claude Bellasarious. It’s a record of payments to various people on the zoning commission.”

His reply was curt. “Bribes.”

“Well, they do look like payoffs. What I’d like to do is talk to Strack’s son first, give him the benefit of the doubt. After that we’ll have to decide how to handle this.”

“Fine.”

Click!

She looked at the phone, chagrined. “Nice talking to you, too, fella.”

Peyton laughed. “Someday you’ll be a partner in the firm and you can fire old Pappas.”

She didn’t smile, simply put the phone back together and worked at closing her bulging briefcase. Peyton pressed on it to help. “A good-morning kiss, perhaps?” He turned his head and puckered up. “Just one for the obvious road you’re about to be on?”

She stood up, not even there anymore. Her eyes were vacuous, her face dark and set. She hefted her briefcase and made for the door. Peyton tagged along. “See you tonight? The proposal still stands, if you’ll have me.” He got the door slammed in his face for his trouble. He put his hands on his hips and regarded it, thinking that if he thought
his
job was tough, look at hers. He turned, shaking his head, then saw something that almost made him laugh.

The deadly memo with its coffee stain was still on the table.

He got dressed for another long day down at the river. Before he left, he folded the memo quite neatly and stuck it in his shirt pocket. Most likely Julie would show up at the shack looking for him and the memo, since the lab was closer. She would be pleased to know he was so thoughtful.

He polished off his coffee and went out, already debating whether he should have a sausage-and-mushroom pizza for breakfast, or go crazy and have them toss on some green peppers too.

Strack’s secretary allowed Julie in without hesitation, without even ringing Louis. She pointed to a door, a useless gesture because the words
LOUIS STRACK, JR.
were on an engraved nameplate, and said to go on in.

Julie shrugged to herself. This was better treatment than she got at Pappas and Swain. Louis was one considerate man. A crook, probably, but considerate as hell. She tapped on the door, anyway, got no response, and went in. Louis had his back to her, staring through the huge window to the city below. He was on the phone.

“Yes, that’s a buy on the Krugerrands. The price won’t get any better. And thank you for your kindness, Franz. It will be difficult to fill my father’s shoes.”

He turned as he hung up and saw Julie standing half in and half out of the door, looking pretty much like a crook herself. “Julie! What a pleasant surprise! Get on in here and let me look at you.”

She went in and clicked the door softly shut, then stood there, feeling awkward. He motioned to a chair in front of his huge executive’s desk. “Take a load off, Julie. And for God’s sake, let me see that smile again.”

She sat down, unable to smile. She put her briefcase on her lap and popped the latches.

“Can I get you something?” he asked. “Coffee? Brandy? Maison Rême 1987?”

Now she did smile. He seemed pleased. “No thanks, Louis,” she said. “I’ve been going over some documents and I came across something that puzzles me. It’s a memo from your office to a Mr. Claude Bellasarious. It carries your father’s signature. It details certain payments—”

“My father,” Louis repeated sadly. “Did you hear?”