Recoil (30 page)

Homer said, “I'm going to put some drops in your eyes; it won't hurt you. Hold your head back now.”

“Fuckin' bastards.” But he was still in terrible pain and he didn't fight it when Homer shoved his head back and squeezed fluid from the little plastic bottle into the inside corners of his eyes.

“Now blink. Wash them out.”

Ramiro straightened slowly, blinking like a fish. He squinted, watery-eyed, trying to hold them open, lids fluttering like moths' wings.

“Settle down, George, just take it easy. We'll wait while you get your wind.”

“Jesus. Jesus God that hurts. Oh God you son of a bitches.”

“Just let them wash themselves out now, that's a good boy.”

The inside of the car smelled of the stale sweat of habitual garlic eaters. Ramiro's breath was like the panting of an overheated dog. Mathieson shifted his grip on the heavy Magnum. If it were fired inside the car it would deafen them all. He had no intention of firing it but it made an impressive prop—especially to Ramiro who doubtless had seen the results it could effect.

Ramiro threw his head back along the rear-window platform. He took in a deep breath that swelled his chest and stomach; he let it out and shook his head violently as if to clear it. He wiped at his eyes again and began to peer narrowly through his trembling inflamed lids. “Yeah. OK, OK. I still can't see too good.”

“It'll come back.”

“What the hell you guys want?”

Homer said, “It could have been acid, George. It was supposed to be acid.”

“Supposed to be.” Ramiro still wasn't tracking too well.

“Put your hands in your lap and keep them there. It won't do your eyes any good to keep rubbing them.”

“Aagh.” Ramiro clawed at his face again.

Homer batted his arms down. “Now keep them in your lap. Do as you're told, George. You might live a little longer.”

Ramiro blinked at the Magnum. Mathieson curled his thumb over its hammer and drew it back slowly. The series of sharp clicks seemed very loud.

“Jesus. Take it easy with that thing.”

“You paying attention now, George?”

“What the fuck do you want?”

Mathieson showed him a slow cold smile. The gun in his hand was trained motionlessly on Ramiro.

Homer said, “You listening now?”

“I'm listening. Who the fuck are you guys? Do I know you?”

“No. We're imported. You don't know us.”

“Imported by who? For what?”

“To waste you, George.”

“To what?”

“A job of work. A hit, you know how it goes.”

“Me?”

“You're George Ramiro, ain't you?”

“You must have the wrong George Ramiro, man.”

“No, I guess not. It's supposed to be an acid job, George.”

“What the fuck for?”

“Don't ask me.”

“Who's paying you guys?”

“Even if we knew that, we'd hardly tell you. Would we.”

“Well what the fuck do you want?”

“A few kays. Money, man. You know.”

Ramiro's face was screwed up; he kept trying to look at them but his eyes kept squinting shut.

“See if you can follow this, George. You listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“The man gives us a down payment on you. You follow?”

“Yeah——”

“We finish the job, we're supposed to get another five kay. Between us. Twenty-five hundred apiece. Capish?”

“I hear you.”

“There's talk you're a pretty rich guy, George.”

“I ain't poor.”

“No, I wouldn't think so. What'd this car set you back? And that boat out on the Island—fifty-two-foot power cruiser, right? Now a guy like you, comes from some foreign country someplace, he probably don't trust banks a whole lot. Probably keeps a good stash someplace. In cash. I'm right, George?”

“What do you want from me?”

“Well, here's the thing. George, you're worth five kay to us dead. Now we figure maybe you want to tell us how much you're worth to us alive.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe you scratch up enough cash, George, we let you live. You understand what I'm saying?”

Ramiro peered at him through the slits of his swollen eyes. In his lap his square fingers were at war. He had been in pain; now he was afraid. Mathieson could smell the rank sweat of it.

Homer said, “We're offering you a rare opportunity, George. All we're asking in return is a little grease. We're asking for your help, see?”

“You got a strange way of asking.” Ramiro glanced at the Magnum.

Homer reached out suddenly, grabbed the middle finger of Ramiro's hand and bent it back hard. Ramiro shouted and reared back in pain, clutching his hand protectively.

Mathieson moved the revolver slightly—just enough movement to draw Ramiro's eye. When Ramiro looked balefully at him, Mathieson smiled.

Homer picked at his scalp and studied his fingernail. “You see how it is, George.”

“How much you want?”

“Twenty-five kay.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars?”

“Apiece, George. Each. Per person. Capish? Adds up to fifty kay if you got a slow head for figures. Fifty kay, George. You think your life's worth that much?”

“Where the fuck you think I'm going to lay my hands on fifty thousand cash this time of night?”

“You got a stash, ain't you?”

“Well I——”

“You take us to the stash, George. Easy.”

“And I hand it over to you and then you turn me loose? Yeah, sure.”

“George, we might be lying about that. We might knock over your stash and then waste you anyway. That's what you're thinking, isn't it.” Homer turned his cold smile toward Mathieson. “You see, Al, you see how he's thinking.”

Mathieson neither smiled nor spoke. He dropped the muzzle of the Magnum half an inch and centered it on Ramiro's heart.

Ramiro swallowed spasmically. Homer said, “The thing you can know for sure is we'll waste you right here if you don't turn the stash. You die here for certain or you take a chance we're straight. What do you want, George?”

“Look, how do I know——”

“George, I'll spell it out crystal clear. Now you pay attention. Al and me, we're supposed to come into town tomorrow night and waste you with acid and a knife. That's what the contract says. Tomorrow night. So we got into New York a day, two days earlier than we're supposed to. We noodged around a little, we find out George Ramiro's a big important rich guy. We can use a side profit on this deal. You see how it goes? What we do, we go with you to your stash tonight. We take our fifty kay. Anything over fifty kay you got in that stash, that's yours to keep. You take it with you. We all three of us go straight from your stash to the John F. Kennedy Airport. You following this, George?”

“I hear you talking.”

“We don't care where you go. Just so it's a long way out of this country. Europe, Africa, Hong Kong. That's up to you. You pick your spot, you buy the ticket. You got a passport?”

“Yeah.”

“With your stash?”

“Where else?”

“OK, OK. We walk you to the airplane and we watch you take off. Then tomorrow night Al and me, we pretend like we've just arrived, you know, in New York to take care of this contract on you, and we ask around and we find out, Jesus Christ, the guy left town. So we snoop around a little, we play private eye, we find out you bought a ticket to Europe. We report back to our contact. I mean the man didn't pay us to go all the way to Europe or Africa or Hong Kong, did he.”

“What man? Who's the man?”

“Somebody very high up. That's all we know. Now maybe the man tells us the contract is off, or maybe the man hires somebody else to chase you around Europe, or maybe the man pays us extra bread to go find you and waste you. I can't say what'll happen, George. It'll be up to you to keep your head down because God knows who might come looking for you. We ain't writing guarantees on you—this ain't the Prudential Life Insurance Company. We're just giving you a head start.”

“I see that.”

“For fifty kay.”

“I ain't got no fifty kay in my stash.”

“What've you got in it?”

Ramiro rubbed his eyes and finally said with infinite disgust, “Short of forty. About thirty-eight five.”

“Thirty-eight five. Al, what do you say?”

Mathieson lifted one shoulder—a shrug of contempt.

“I think maybe Al wants to waste you, George.”

“Then go ahead and shoot. I knew it wasn't my night. Took a bath in poker. You want to turn my pockets out? I got maybe fifty dollars left.”

“Thirty-eight five, that's a funny number. How come, George?”

“I figured I'd build it up to forty and leave it at that. I had to borrow fifteen centuries from it last week for something.”

“Al, what do you say we settle for thirty-five kay. We leave the man thirty-five hundred for his airplane ticket and expenses. What do you say?”

Mathieson repeated the shrug. The adrenaline was pumping through him, making him shake; he kept the Magnum braced against the headrest so Ramiro wouldn't see the tremor.

“That's the deal, George. You want it?”

“For thirty-five thousand dollars I ought to at least get a name. One name. Who put out this contract?”

“It's not for you to make terms, George. It's for you to accept them.”

“Yeah I know. But you guys seem to be in a mood to do favors tonight. I just figured, you know.”

“The contract came down through channels, George. That's all we know.”

“Yeah, all right, but what channels?”

“The same channels that put paper on those guys in Oklahoma and California. The same guy on the phone who called Deffeldorf and Tyrone. More than that I can't tell you because more than that I don't know. You figure that's worth your thirty-five kay?”

Ramiro kept blinking. His eyes were filled with tears. It didn't mean anything; they'd been that way ever since they'd got into the car; but Mathieson thought he could see the ponderous slow brain working behind the ravaged face. Ramiro said bitterly, “Oh Jesus H. Christ. What the fuck. What the fuck did I do?”

“You stepped on somebody's sore corn, I guess.”

Mathieson wiggled the Magnum. It was his entire contribution to the discussion but it drew Ramiro's attention.

“I got a wife, what about my wife?”

“You got your life, George. You worry about that first.”

“But I——”

“Maybe two, three months go by and the heat cools. Maybe then you call your wife on the transoceanic cable and you arrange for her to come join you somewhere. How's that sound?”

Ramiro bit his lower lip. “Can I just call' her, tell her she shouldn't worry?”

That was when Mathieson knew they had him hooked.

Homer said, “Think, George, use your head. No phone calls. You can understand that, can't you?”

Mathieson wiggled the Magnum again. Homer said, “Now where's the stash?”

“I guess I ain't got much to lose.”

“I guess you don't.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, well those are the breaks sometimes, George. You could've been dead, you know. You still can be if you try anything humorous.” He glanced at Mathieson and winked. “And with your own piece at that. Nice piece of iron. What do you use for target practice, George? Six-inch armor plate?”

There was no resistance left in Ramiro. “Look, suppose the man finds out you crossed him. The man that put out the contract on me.”

“He won't find out, will he, George.” Homer tapped Ramiro's sore finger. It jerked away and Homer smiled. “Where's the stash?”

Ramiro pursed his mouth and blew air through his lips. “Shit. It's right here.”

“Here?”

“Where I go, this car goes. I want my stash where I can get it in a hurry, right? It stays in the car.”

“Here? In the
car
for Christ's sake? You never heard of a Cadillac Fleetwood getting ripped off, George? You're
that
stupid?”

“Look, why do you care if I'm stupid or not? Shit, the organizations know whose car this is, they know the license plates. The amateurs, shit, anybody busts into this car without the right key, he gets a faceful of cyanide gas.”

Homer grinned at Mathieson. “It's a good thing we used the man's own key, ain't it, Al.”

“Ain't nobody going to fuck with George Ramiro's car,” Ramiro said, but it was only a faint dying echo of bluster. “Anyway the stash, nobody ever finds the stash. I welded it myself. Nobody'd ever spot it.”

“Where is it?”

Ramiro's raw eyes swiveled painfully toward the Magnum. “Shit. I open it and you kill me.”

“It's your choice, George.”

Ramiro didn't speak. Homer said, “Now we know it's in the car we could spend the next two years taking this car apart screw by screw. We know it's in the car but we ain't wasted you yet, have we? That ought to mean something.”

Totally deflated Ramiro jerked his head reluctantly toward the dashboard. “Under the radio. The whole thing. You look close, you'll see two keyholes. Takes two Schlage keys to get into it.”

“Let's see them.”

“My shirt pocket.”

Homer fished in it. Mathieson watched him extract two small brass keys and bounce them in his palm.

“Take it easy when you open it up. Everything falls out on the floor it'll take you all night to get it picked up and sorted out. You slide it out easy, it comes right out like a drawer.”

Homer passed Mathieson the keys and took the Magnum from him. “Open it up, Al.”

Mathieson turned around in the seat and found the keyholes low in the metal of the dashboard, deep in shadow. He turned both locks and looked for a handle. In the back seat Ramiro said, “You leave the key in the lock. You pull with the key until it comes open enough to grab the edge.”