Enforcer (7 page)

“Good, good. Once he is caught up, you will continue to see him once per week, when you are home.”

Connor’s mood dropped. He didn’t mind having to threaten some of Mr. Ojacarcu’s clients, whether it was with his fists or just his presence beside Petre or Vadim. He hated having to collect from Larry, having to see the skinny little greaser who lacked manners or hygiene. He hated seeing Jera even more, wondering if the leather collar ever left her neck, whether or not the little shit was the one leaving bruises on her face and body.

She hated Connor’s guts. The feeling was mutual, except for the hint of desire that he always felt around her, even through her stench and vulgar insults that she bombarded him with at every opportunity in her screeching, nails-on-chalkboard voice. He could have his pick of the girls at the arena or at any of the downtown establishments. He rarely had to pay for drinks or food, and he never had to go home alone if he didn’t want to.

Something stirred within him every time he saw Jera. He hated himself for wanting to know what it felt like to run his hands across her dark skin, for wanting to know what she sounded like when she wasn’t screaming at him. He wanted to know what it would feel like to remove the collar from her neck, to feel her lips on his. He fantasized once in a while about taking her in the shower, washing off the filth of not just the sweat and dirt, but the corruption of her lifestyle.

“You don’t like our friend?” his boss asked, waving the serving girl over to order another drink.

“He’s disgusting, and he keeps some woman around, beating on her, forcing her to wear a collar around her neck,” Connor said after the waitress walked away.

“Such is life, I’m afraid,” Ojacarcu said with a wave of his hand. “I do not like the man myself, but he earns well, and trouble doesn’t follow him back to me. What he does with his girls is not my business, nor is it yours. As long as he pays, you shouldn’t worry about what he and
his kind
do.”

“I know,” Connor said, understanding his boss’ meaning of “his kind.” Junkies. Meth heads. Dopers. Thieves, murderers, rapists, whatever bad things people like Larry did to sell drugs, get drugs, do drugs, or while on drugs.

“Good, then. Let him be a piece of shit. You have more important things to worry about, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Connor answered.

“I’m glad we agree,” Costache said, pulling out a piece of paper and handing it to Connor. “Since the coach has given you the rest of the week off, I need you to take care of a few things for me.”

Connor looked at the paper. Four names were on it, none he recognized. Two of the names had a single handwritten star next to them, the code for roughing up just enough to scare the person. One of the names had a bar with a slash through it. Connor would have to break a finger, maybe an arm. The last name had a cross next to it.

“Mr. Ojacarcu, I am not trying to question you,” Connor said carefully, “but I can’t help you with this last one.”

“Why not?” Ojacarcu said. He paused, his drink halfway to his lips.

Connor showed his boss the piece of paper, pointing to the cross next to the name
Travis Benkula
.

“Oh, that.” Ojacarcu took a drink. “Dracul will handle that. I need you there to… keep things in check. Keep them smooth, keep Dracul out of trouble.”

“But—”

“Please do not tell me you are going to refuse,” Connor’s boss said, his face growing hard.

“No, sir,” Connor said, folding the paper and putting it in his pants pocket.

His guts churned, and soon his mind was unable to focus on anything else. He hated Dracul, but he hated that Ojacarcu was sending him along to make sure nothing went wrong when Dracul killed Travis Benkula.

*****

Dracul eased the Lincoln onto Fairview Avenue, the stop-and-go traffic that was considered rush hour in Boise moving slowly. Connor watched the wind whip up powdery snow and send it across the parking lot of a muffler shop, white turning to flashing silver as it caught the streetlight at just the right angle. Kenny Malone was yammering on through the car’s radio, angrily denouncing the officiating at the Patriots - Bears game. Dracul loved the sports radio channel for some reason that Connor couldn’t figure out. As far as he knew, the man hated sports.

He glanced over at Dracul, the hulking Romanian’s bald head shining from the streetlights and the Lincoln’s dash lights. Dracul noticed him, and Connor imagined rusty hinges squealing as the thick neck turned slowly to him, then back toward the front of the car. He caught a glimpse of the pistol in a shoulder holster.

“We going to see this Travis guy first?” Connor asked him.

Dracul remained silent. The usual plan was to do these kinds of jobs with Petre or Vadim, except the killing ones. Those were the jobs that Connor didn’t want to know about, and never asked about. He’d never had to do his usual bit of roughing up or looking intimidating with anyone but Petre or Vadim. Connor had figured he’d do the other three jobs with Petre, and this Benkula job later.

“Are you and I going to take care of the whole list together?” he asked the Romanian.

“Yes.”

Connor waited for him to say something else, but the only one still talking was Kenny Malone, this time bitching about the Miami Heat. He wished the sports channels in America gave a damn about hockey. He could listen to the same bitching and moaning for hours when it was about hockey. The only time it seemed hockey got any air time in cities other than those with NHL teams was during the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Other than that six week span, even soccer was more popular.

As the Lincoln moved along Fairview, he tried to steel himself for what was coming. He’d never seen a dead body before, other than at a funeral. Hockey was a violent sport, and he had plenty of experience with even the ugliest sides, his lifeblood forming a lake around his body was a testament to that. But once the final horn blew, the game was over and everyone went home, more than a little sore, but alive, and pumped up to play again the next day.

This job was going to have an end of the game moment, but Travis Benkula wasn’t going to go home bruised and exhausted, ready to jump back up the next day and get back to his life. The thought was frightening, and he had to will himself to not start shaking like a leaf as the adrenaline surged through him, his fear giving the hormone the taint of flight instead of fight.

Connor tried to imagine how Dracul would kill the man. The gun was the obvious choice, but pistols made extremely loud noises, left forensic evidence, and generally a hell of a lot of blood. Not to mention the fact that Dracul was almost six and a half feet tall and built like a lumberjack. He stood out in any crowd, his bald head and slick three-piece suit not helping him blend in at all.

Maybe they’d take the man out to the desert, make him dig his own grave, then Dracul would flash a straight razor and draw it across Travis’ throat. That scenario almost made him gag, and it took all of his willpower to stop himself from unlatching his seat belt and escaping from the Lincoln even as it moved through traffic. Connor felt trapped, unable to think of a way out as the panic in him grew.

Dracul looked over at him, watching Connor fidget as the scenarios played through his head. When he noticed, Dracul gave him a wide smile before turning his attention back to the road.
The bastard enjoys this
, Connor thought. He focused his attention on the radio, the announcer going through the scores of the day. Pittsburgh 27, NY Giants 20. Redskins 14, Panthers 10. Orlando Magic 108, Knicks 101.

The Lincoln turned right on Eagle Road, and Connor kept his attention on the radio as they drove north. Ten minutes later, they turned into the Eagle Highlands Shopping Center. Dracul drove around for a few minutes as if looking for a parking spot. He settled on a parking spot far away from the Winkler’s Market, away from any of the parking lot light towers. He shifted into Park and left the engine idling so they could have heat.

Ten minutes passed in silence, until finally a white Acura pulled up next to them. Dracul’s left hand held the button for the window while his right wrapped around the butt of his pistol. Connor tried not to tense up, wanting to raise his fingers to his ears so he wouldn’t go deaf from the explosion as the bullet left the barrel and made a hole in Travis Benkula’s face.

“What’s this about?” the man in the Acura said.

“Mr. Ojacarcu would like you to be aware that you are behind,” Dracul said to the man.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. Tell Mr. Ojacarcu that I will make good on it by Friday. I swear. He knows I’m good for it,” the man said, the fear in his voice evident.

“See that you do,” Dracul said, pulling his hand from his pistol.

For a moment, Connor was sure the Romanian had drawn the pistol and was about to shoot the man in his face. Instead, Dracul rolled up his window and looked at Connor.

“Paper,” he said.

Connor blinked, not understanding. Dracul held out his hand and curled his fingers toward himself twice in a
gimme
motion. Connor finally understood and reached into his pants pocket to retrieve the paper his boss had given him at the game the night before. He handed it to the driver, who pulled a pen from his front pocket and scratched a line through one of the names before handing it back to Connor. The name that had been scratched out had a star next to it. James Roberts.

CHAPTER 7

They rode in silence as the Lincoln cut through traffic on the way to the next name on the list. Kenny Malone was back on the radio, shouting about golf not being anywhere near as exciting as NASCAR. Connor had focused on it for a while, but now he just wanted to reach through the radio and strangle Kenny Malone, silencing his big mouth forever.

That thought brought him back to reality and his situation, riding in a car with a killer. Dracul drove east on State Street toward downtown, as silent as ever. Connor thought he’d caught the big man grinning at him after the Acura pulled away, but the light was poor, and he’d been too scared to pay much attention to anything other than not pissing himself in fear that his partner was going to kill a man in a parking lot.

The Lincoln turned down 34th, heading north toward the foothills. A few blocks later the car pulled into the driveway of a small house. Tall hedges lined both sides of the driveway, giving Connor another bout of fear that this was the place he’d be witness to a man losing his life. Dracul touched the butt of his pistol before turning the car off and opening the door. Connor followed him up the steps of the house.

“Hey, Dracul,” the bearded hipster said to the Romanian after opening the door. “Who’s your friend?”

Dracul looked down at Connor. When he didn’t say anything, Connor stepped forward and put out his hand.

“Connor,” he said, shaking hands.

“Sweet,” the man said. “Gimme a sec to grab my coat.”

Dracul turned and went back to the car, leaving Connor on the porch. When the man came out, shrugging on his winter coat, both of them walked to the car.

“He doesn’t say much, does he?” the bearded man asked Connor.

“Less than a dead man,” Connor joked, getting a laugh.

The man got in the back seat, Connor in the front. Connor had no idea who the man was, but he figured the guy was going to help them with another name on the list. He stared through the windshield as Dracul took a right on State Street and headed west.

“Hey, Drac, wanna change that to something that doesn’t make me want to kill myself?” the man asked.

Dracul reached toward the radio and hit a button. Instantly the sports jocks were replaced with what sounded like Celine Dion.

“Come on, man…”

Dracul punched another button, this time the classic rock station.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” the man in the back seat said, leaning back.

They rode in silence for half an hour as Dracul took them north along Gary Lane and then across the base of the foothills. They turned again on Seaman’s Gulch Road, the city behind and below them as they continued north. The Lincoln pulled off at the road that led into the landfill and Dracul got out to unlock the gate.

“Hey, I know where I’ve seen you before now,” the man in the back seat said as he leaned forward to be heard over the radio. “You’re the hockey player, right? The dude who’s always fighting.”

“Yeah,” Connor said, not happy at being recognized.

“Awesome,” the man said. “I’m Travis, by the way.”

Connor’s blood froze and the adrenaline began to go into overdrive again. He wanted to tell Travis to run, get out of the car and run as fast as he could. He wanted to slide over into the driver’s seat and gun the engine, run down Dracul, and then drop Travis off wherever he wanted with the warning of impending doom. He did none of those things, and Dracul climbed back into the car.

“Hey Drac, you didn’t tell me this guy was The Cannon!” Travis said.

Dracul glanced into the rearview mirror, giving the man a rare smile before turning it on Connor. The bastard definitely enjoyed it, especially now that Connor knew who the man was.

“Shit, man, I went to a game like two years ago and watched you pound some asshole into the ice,” Travis chattered on, happy to have something to talk about, and someone other than the Romanian to talk to. “You guys lost, but
damn
you fucked that guy up, all bleeding and shit.” Travis laughed, reaching forward to clap Connor on the shoulder over the seat.