Authors: Janey Mack

Time's Up (26 page)

BOOK: Time's Up

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Chapter 37

Wednesday morning Hank came into the kitchen with damp hair and a towel wrapped around his waist. He set the keys to the Super Bee on the counter. “Let me take you to lunch.”

“Aren't you sweet?”
Odds of you bargaining your way onto my photo shoot of ultimate humiliation? Zilch.
“I'll take a rain check.”

He crossed the room to the sideboard, opened a cabinet door, and removed a Glock. He came back and set it on the counter next to the keys. “What's the second biggest mistake gun owners make?”

“You're kidding, right? I'm not carrying concealed to a photo shoot with Chicago's anti-gun mayor.” I picked up the piece, hefted it, and laid it back down. “There will be PR people, the photographer and crew, Coles will have his staff and bodyguards. . .”

Hank looked mulish. “Coles is as dirty as they come.”

“Anyway,” I said, trying to be funny, “I'm armed with situational awareness.”

He strode into the kitchen, opened a drawer under the microwave and waited. Instead of the assorted kitchen junk, it held a small arsenal of semi-lethal weapons.

An awfully diplomatic way to say I have the situational awareness of a dead bird.

I looked over the array. Taser, stun gun, batons, animal repellent, sap gloves, brass knuckles, Kubotans, nylon cable-tie cuffs, handcuffs, a flat sap, blackjacks, and blades of every shape and size.

The cable-ties and flat-grip sap were the most innocuous items to hand. I slipped the ties into my cargo pants and picked up the illegal-to-carry leather-wrapped flat sap.

“You sure about that?” Hank said. “The grip's too big for you.”

That may be, but at least if I get caught with it I can pawn it off as one of those chichi architectural weighted bookmarks.
“It'll be fine.”

“You ever use one?”

“No, darling,” I said.
“
I haven't, actually.”

He slid the leather loop over my fingers and closed my hand on the grip. “Strike flat. Target elbow joint, collarbone, groin slap. Swing through the target.”

I bit back a smile and nodded soberly.

He twisted the sap in my hand. “Don't let your hand roll on the grip. You'll edge your target. Laceration's not as effective.”

“Got it, chief,” I said.

“Sure you do.”

Negative Werks was a top-dollar photo studio in a gigantic brownstone. I entered through the blackened glass doors and was stopped by two of Talbott Cottle Coles's bodyguards.

Before I had a chance to get nervy I was carrying the illegal sap in my handbag, Sterling Black's leggy brunette stepped between them. “Let her through.” She gave me the once-over. “Good. You wore your âbefore' uniform.”

She led me down an exposed brick hallway, chattering nonstop, “There will be seven mini-shoots. The first two with His Honor. We're budgeting a couple hours including breaks. The next five will be you, solo, in each potential meter-maid costume for the City's Choice campaign. Two hours for that, tops. I'm guessing you've never modeled?”

“Nope.”

“Of course not.” She puffed a long-suffering sigh. “Just stand where they tell you, do what they say, and every so often say something out loud like âhello' so your smile doesn't get tight. And don't giggle.”

Gee, that'll be tough. This is gonna be a laugh riot.

“Hair and makeup right after Sterling's apex nexus.”

“Come again?” I said.

“His spearheaded effort geared to achieve amalgamation of multilevel goals.”

Corporate-speak. How many ways can a man say “meeting”?

She opened one of the double metal stage doors and I entered a hive of activity.

A dozen people in black pants, black ball caps, and black Negative Werks T-shirts were positioning lights and fans, taping down cords, clicking light meters, and testing flashes in front of a billboard-sized white wall that curved down into a spotless section of white floor.

The far wall of the studio was floor to ceiling semitruck-sized garage doors that opened out onto the waist-high chain-linked parking lot behind the building. Two men wrestled a parking meter box through the open doors.

Proof Coles's bodyguards were just for show. Only complete no-loads would leave that kind of access unattended. So where was the man of the hour?

In a screened-off section to my left, a group of Brooks Brothers suits raced for repetitive stress injuries on their Droids. Farther down, a flock of women surrounded Coles at a salon station in the corner, working on his hair and makeup while he flirted with a production assistant.

“Maisie McGrane!” Sterling Black strode across the giant cement-floored room to give me a showy hug. “How you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” He adjusted his cuff and rotated the silver Superman
S
cuff link to its upright position.

“So, am I next after Coles for hair and makeup?”

“Those are his own people.” Sterling smirked as we watched another layer of hair spray applied to Coles's coif and patted reverently into place. “You'll get yours done off-set while we're taking some head shots of Coles.”

“Where's Bliss?”

“Still touring with Leticia and your brother. Lord, the ratings have been off the charts! Unbelievable market potential.” He put an arm around my shoulder and said, “C'mon. Let me introduce you to Talbott.”

The production assistant saw us coming and alerted Coles. He raised his hands in surrender. “Enough, ladies. No matter how much magic you work, there's no turning this ugly phiz into George Clooney.”

The hair and makeup staff giggled and gooed all over him.

There are always women desperate enough to misinterpret slime for allure.

Talbott Cottle Coles rose, waiting for the production assistant to remove the paper makeup bib from his collar and straighten his tie. He walked out into the center of the room and waited for us to come to him. “Well, well, well. Maisie McGrane.” He put out his hand. “Where do we begin?”

I could start by kicking you in the shins and work my way up.

I took his hand. A perfect political handshake, dry, firm with two pumps, while maintaining eye contact the length of the shake. “Please, call me Talbott. I believe I may owe you an apology. I lost my temper at our first meeting, and for that I'm sorry.”

But not for the felonious assault?

I smiled. I'd die before I'd say “water under the bridge.”

Sterling did it for me, clapping us each on the back. “Bygones and bullydogs. All in the past. And now? Symbiosis, baby.” He stepped away from us and held up his hands. “People! Can you give us fifteen?”

The photog and his assistants were wise to Sterling's SOP and hit the bricks. The guys struggling with the parking machine set it down and left. Coles's staffers naturally thought they were exempt, so Sterling went over to remind them of their inferiority.

Coles reached in his pocket and pulled out a gold cigarette case. He took a cigarette out, closed the case, tapped it on top, and replaced the case in his jacket pocket. Next came a gold Colibri lighter. “I
almost
ought to thank you.” He lit the cigarette. “Except Sterling's the one who spun it my way.” He blew a cloud of smoke in my face.

“You know they make electronic ones now,” I said, flexing my fingers, itching to pop him.

“Yeah. For all the little law-abiding lambs holding their little law-abiding balls.”

What I wouldn't give to have that on tape.

His lips rolled back in a leer, showing teeth so unnaturally white they looked like dentures. “My polling numbers are through the roof, campaign contributions rolling in.”

Then why are you trying to sell off the Local #56?

“Good for you,” I said.

“It is.” He exhaled a column of smoke toward the ceiling in exultation.

Having cleared the shoot bay, Sterling joined us.

A thin guy in black jeans, tee, and cap walked toward us from the open garage doors.

“Hey, buddy! You can't be in here now.” Sterling threw a thumb toward the steel stage doors. “Beat it.”

Instead of veering toward the doors, the guy came closer. He ripped the black ball cap from his head and pulled a double-edged serrated blade from behind his back. “I have a message for Coles.”

The first reaction to evil is confusion.

And we were all freaking confused.

There are only two directives when confronted with a knife. Distance and mobility. I dropped into a defensive stance.

He was five-nine, one-hundred-fifty, late thirties. Black hair turning gray, with a weird little half-beard, half-mustache that accentuated his ferrety features. There was a fanatical look in his brown eyes, but he wasn't buzzing with crazy.

Not good. Not good at all.

He moved in close to Coles. “You think you can screw with the Local #56? Sell them out to the Traffic Sheik Bureau like you did the meter maids?”

“Let's calm down,” Sterling said, hands up. “Talk about this.”

Ferret pressed the tip of the knife beneath Coles's chin. “The Transit Union's never gonna let that happen.”

“Then why are you here?” Coles scoffed.

Unsure, Ferret lowered the knife.

Coles slapped him. Hard, open-palmed.

Whoa. Didn't see that coming.

Neither did Ferret.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Coles followed up with a backhanded return that echoed through the studio. “Threatening meâthe goddamn mayor of Chicagoâwith a goddamn blade?”

Ferret fingered the blood at the corner of his mouth, straightened, and spat. He waved the knife in my direction. “You think beating up a meter maid makes you tough?”

Sterling took a step closer to me. To protect or for protection, I wasn't sure. I turned into him, reached across my body into my purse, and eased the sap out. Gripping it in my right hand, I hid it along my side.

Coles eyed Ferret like a maggot in a baby crib. “No. What makes me tough is that I fucking own Chicago Labor. And selling a small-potatoes bullshit sub-union of overpaid bus drivers to private industry is going to make me a goddamn national hero.”

Ferret's face went white with fury. “You'll burn for killing Nawisko.”

“Who?” Coles scoffed. “The Amalgamated Transit Union doesn't give a mouse's shit about that blue-jacket asshole.” Coles's eyes glittered. He leaned down and put his face close to Ferret's. “So you can go fuck yourself on the bus you rode in on.”

The knife flashed.

Coles's jacket split apart over his left breast. His face crinkled in confusion.

Sterling's hands went to his head. “Holyâ”

Ferret whirled from Coles and thrust the knife at Sterling, who lurched backwards.

Collarbone.
I stepped up and swung the sap. Ferret turned, my grip rolled, and I landed an edge blow against the side of his head.

It was like hitting a flower pot full of pudding.

His knees buckled. The knife fell from his fingers and bounced away on the cement floor. He wobbled for a moment, then fell facedown, landing with a wet and awful-sounding
thunk
.

I had the cable ties out of my cargo pocket and between my teeth before the air left Ferret's lungs. I dug my knee into the middle of his back, jerked his deadweight arms behind him, and secured the cables on his wrists. The
thwip
of the zip tie sweeter than a tiger's purr.

Wristed. In less than forty seconds.

I stood up.

Sterling stared at me with eyes as wide as a couple of silver-dollar pancakes. “Holy Mother of God!”

Coles stood looking down at his immobilized and unconscious attacker, fingering the sliced breast of his suit coat, directly above his heart. A dark mottled red crept up his neck. “You come here and threaten me in my house, you insignificant fuck?”

Coles shrugged off the jacket, wadded it up in a ball, and threw it on the floor. “I'm gonna burn your house to the ground!” He drove a black Bruno Magli into Ferret's belly. “And piss on your goddamn ashes!” Coles planted his foot and drew back for Ferret's head.

“Enough already.” I grabbed Coles by the back of his shirt and yanked him back hard. He stumbled backwards and landed on his can, sweating and swearing and shaking.

The puddle of blood beneath Ferret's head was spreading at an alarming rate.

Oh my God, oh my God.

I got the iPhone out of my bag. “I'm calling an ambulance.”
And Flynn.

“Stop!” Sterling raised a finger. “I need a minute.” He walked in circles, talking to himself.

I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
Of course they're going to want to “handle” this.

Coles got to his feet and leaned against the parking meter box, breathing heavily. Still pacing, Sterling pressed his fingertips to his eyes. “Christ, I need a drink.”

“I'm buying,” Coles said.

“Hello?” I waved my hand in front of their faces. “No cops, no ambulance? What do you want to do here, guys? You got some secret magical band of cleanup elves waiting in the wings?”

“Right,” Sterling said, and dragged a hand over his face. “We gotta get him out of here. On the QT.”

Both men looked at me expectantly.

BOOK: Time's Up

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