Kim Oh 2: Real Dangerous Job (The Kim Oh Thrillers) (23 page)

“And you know what?” Donnie spoke softly. “If I’d had to come get you . . . I would’ve.”

I looked back at him for a long time, then nodded. “I know,” I said. “I know.”

We were both quiet for a while. The TV was turned down low, the voices from it just a murmur.

“What happens now?”

That, I didn’t know. Maybe at any moment there’d be police bursting in through the door and dragging me off. Or maybe I’d gotten away with it.

I didn’t even care. I felt really tired. But . . . happy. Oddly that way. Considering everything that’d happened. I must’ve gotten it out of my system.

“I don’t know.” I smiled at my little brother. “I just don’t know.”

“That’s okay, Kimmie.” He leaned over the side of the wheelchair and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.”

I closed my eyes and let him rock me back and forth. He was probably right.

It didn’t.

PART ONE

Trust everybody. To do exactly whatever it is that would screw you up the most.

– Cole’s Book of Wisdom

ONE

“You’re going out?”

“Yep –” I went on loading up my backpack. “Got things to do.”

My younger brother Donnie seemed a little dubious about the prospect. “But the race starts in half an hour.” He pointed over to our beat-up little TV, in the corner of our equally unglamorous apartment. “You’ll miss it.”

“Come on.” I opened up a box of ammo on the kitchenette table and began sliding the bullets into the .357. “It’s just the truck series.” For the most part, when I’m at home I like to keep the gun safely unloaded. “Not like it’s even Nationwide.”

For the last couple of weeks, Donnie and I had been spending some quality time together. The start of the NASCAR season was always a big deal for him. And of course, it’s not just the races. It’s the pre-race coverage, then the post-race analysis, plus all the other NASCAR shows leading up to the weekend. Which I was fine watching with him, even though I was just barely up to speed on telling one driver apart from another. The technical stuff – all that bump-drafting and track bar adjustments and restrictor plates, et cetera – all that was way beyond me, no matter how many times Donnie patiently explained it.

It didn’t bother me. After all, I was way better at killing people than he’d ever be. Just goes to show that everybody has their own area of expertise.

“It’s still racing,” Donnie pointed out. “And I’ve got bets down on it.”

“For real money?” I flipped the gun closed and looked over at him. “I’ve told you –”

“No – just bragging rights.”

I was okay with that. He’d done pretty well with the Fantasy League stuff last season, to the point that some NASCAR fan blog had interviewed him for handicapping tips – they’d probably figured they were talking to some deep redneck gearhead type, instead of a twelve-year-old Korean-American kid. But anything to do with money, I’d put a serious kibosh on. With what I was doing for a living these days, I didn’t exactly need some federal Internet police squad raiding us for illegal online gambling.

Correction, actually – what I was
hoping
to be doing for a living. Just like everything in this crummy economy. You can be really good at something – and I was at least okay at the killing thing – and you still got the problem of getting a paying gig. Let alone benefits. On second thought, maybe I should’ve let my brother put down some actual money bets. Our household account was getting a little on the thin side.

Everybody’s was, I supposed. Something that’d popped into my head, last time I’d gone shopping –

Groceries are the new cocaine
.

Seriously. You go to the corner, next thing you know all your money’s gone, and you’re holding a little bag with nothing in it. From an accountant’s viewpoint – and I used to be one – how is that not like doing drugs? I mean, at the celebrity level. Not that I had any actual first-hand knowledge about the subject, except what I read in the gossip magazines while standing in the checkout line, the few times I went to a real store.

“Okay –” Down to business. I tucked the .357 into my backpack. I’m always careful with that gun – partly for sentimental reasons. Somebody important in my life gave it to me. “I don’t know how late I’ll be. So when the race is over, fix yourself some real dinner. Don’t just finish off the Doritos and the rest of the junk.”

“Sure.” Sitting in his wheelchair in front of the TV, he gave me an absent nod. “No problem.”

Probably hadn’t heard a word I’d said. The screen was already full of mutant pickup trucks with sponsor endorsements all over them, zipping around an oval track. Obviously way more important than whatever I was up to.

As I headed down the apartment building hallway to the stairs, it struck me that maybe Donnie had gotten just a little
too
used to the notion of his sister going out and killing people.

TWO

While I’d been getting ready, there were other people who already were.

Matter of fact, they pretty much always were ready. For all sorts of unpleasant things. Just the nature of the business they were in.

In my mind’s eye, I could just see one of them trudging down the street, over in one of the city’s other genuinely crappy neighborhoods. This time of year, there was still dirty snow piled up in the gutters, with an equally gray and dismal sky overhead. It’d be the end of March before the wind stopped cutting through your clothes like razor blades that’d been stored in a deep freezer. That’d be why Foley had his hands dug deep into his overcoat pockets as he made his way toward the neon palm tree glistening on the damp sidewalk.

Well, partly glistening. Every time I saw the place, it was just a couple of the fronds that lit up on the overhead sign, plus one side of the curved trunk. The rest, including most of the letters that spelled out
Mae’s Diamondhead Lounge,
had burnt out a long time ago.

Somebody comes in off the street, in weather like this, there’s always a little ritual soon as you get inside the door. You have to unbutton your coat and grab its thick woolen lapels, then flap them back and forth to shake off any snow that might’ve drifted onto your shoulders. Plus stamp your feet on the worn tire-tread mat, to get the icy slush off your shoes. Small place like this, if you’re a regular, you try not to track a lot of thawing mud across the floor.

There were some others waiting for him, in one of the back booths. They weren’t drinking, not this early in the day, except for the stuff that was constantly simmering on the bar’s little one-ring hot plate, turning into something that tasted more like kerosene than coffee. If it’d ever actually ignited, it would have set fire to the thatched bamboo awning over the bar, incinerating the dusty coconuts and moth-eaten stuffed monkeys up there.

Foley went behind the bar – he had those privileges – poured himself a cup, then carried it over to the booth. The others made room for him as he slid in.

“So what’s the guy saying?” He took a sip – it not only tasted like coffee to him, but was actually the kind he preferred – and looked up at the vintage TV hanging in the nearest corner of the lounge.

“Beats the crap out of me.” That was Earl, sitting next to him. “Something about how everything’s going to get better.”

The figure barely visible on the screen – the TV was in the last wavery stages before fritzing out completely – was the president of the United States. Giving some kind of speech, maybe at one of those town hall-type meetings. The guys in the booth would’ve probably watched something else, if the TV had still gotten any other channel. At least that was what one of them told me, later on.

“Better, huh?” That was another of the guys in the booth, named Elton, chiming in. “Let me know when it happens.”

With his hands wrapped around his coffee cup, Foley went on watching the blurry screen. He nodded slowly, as though deep in some personal meditation.

“You know,” he spoke at last, “I remember seeing JFK on the TV. When I was just a little kid.”

“Who?”

“Kennedy. President Kennedy.”

“Oh.” Elton nodded. “Before my time, man.”

“Read a book, why don’t you?” Earl glanced over at him. “Learn something. Instead of being an ignorant dumb hillbilly your whole life.”

The remark slid over Elton’s head without causing any rancor. Given his background, it was more a simple statement of fact than any kind of pejorative.

“Actually,” said Foley, “you should know about JFK.”

“Yeah?” Elton raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Business. The boss talks about him. Big on the dude. You know, the way some important people are always reading up on Winston Churchill –”

“Don’t know him, either.”

“Not surprised.” Foley sipped at his coffee. “Ya moron.”

“He’s right,” said Earl. “Mr. Falcone said something about JFK just a coupla days ago. He said if the Kennedys could go legit, goes to show that anybody can.”

“It’s not ‘Fal-
cone
-ee’ anymore.” Foley let his irritation show. “It’s ‘Fal-
kun
.’ You know, like the car.”

“The Ford Falcon?” This much, Elton knew about. “Man, they haven’t made that car in years. Lotsa years.” He shook his head. “Hanging out with you senior citizens is like waking up inside a museum.”

The guy had a point there. If you hadn’t picked up on it already, then yeah, definitely, some of the people sitting in the booth were a little on the arthritic side. Still nobody you’d want to screw around with, though. I’ve dealt with them, so I can assure you – they might have been old, but they could hand some young punk’s ass back to him on a platter.

“Besides,” continued Elton. “That car was a piece of crap.”

“Okay –” Foley shrugged. “So it’s not like the car, then.”

“Will you guys knock it off?” That was Heinz, sitting on the other side of the booth. “Where’s Curt?”

“He’s going to meet us there,” said Foley.

Heinz nodded and pulled a snub-nose Police Special out of his overcoat pocket. None of the other men paid any attention as he set it on the table and began loading it up with ammo.

Foley looked over at Elton. And scowled. “What’s with the sideburns?”

“They’re muttonchops, man. They’re like fashionable.”