XXX Shamus (9 page)

“What?” Hopper said.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said, her face blank of all emotion. “I’m off the pill.”

Outside Burt Figg’s condo at three in the morning, Hopper threw up as quietly as he could. He had held in the bile and acid after his sister mentioned she was off birth control, asking her, “But you’re keeping track, right? This was…okay?”

She shrugged. “I can’t exactly remember. Colin used a condom this morning. I made him. I should have made you, too.”

“You never make me.”

“Feels better. I forgot. No biggie.”

“No biggie?”

Sister shrugged again. Was she joking? A big practical joke? She’d done it before, usually talking about other men who’d fucked her better in whatever position they were grinding. Hopper did the math in his head—maybe three, four fucks while she was off the pill. Almost intentional.

“So, what if—”

“I don’t want to talk about this. Why do you always have to ruin the moment like that? You think I’m
stupid
? You think I’d keep it?”

Yeah
, Hopper thought.
That’s exactly what I think you’d do.

When Hopper could swallow again after emptying his guts on the shrubs outside Figg’s window, he gave the baseball bat he was carrying a good two-handed shake. Blood had browned up and down the wood like a bad varnish job, splotchy and uneven.

It was always a bat instead of a gun in the old days. Wounds by bat healed, but the victims rarely snitched, usually because they were involved in some bad shit in the first place, which was why they got the beat-down.

Hopper had used it five times. Four men, all scum. Once on a woman pointing a .22 at him. Shattered her hand and the gun fell to pieces.

Tonight was number six. A pleasure.

Once he had checked out the windows, made sure it was nice and dark and no one with insomnia was watching infomercials, Hopper crept around the front door. Modern technology was a pisser. Hopper was aware of surveillance cameras, so he hid his face with a Hornets cap. He had parked far enough away that no one would connect his car to the mysterious stranger sneaking outside Figg’s building. The condo probably had an alarm rigged, too. If he set off a wail, he’d probably run for it and hunker down, wait for another chance in the daylight while Figg was out and about.

If not, though…

If he picked the lock and the door swung open to absolute silence…

If God answered Hopper’s prayers…

Then Figg would have trouble walking and speaking come sunrise.

Even if the man gave up information on Yasmin’s whereabouts, Hopper was going to perform some dis-cosmetic surgery. Half his reasons didn’t have anything to do with Figg himself.

The lock was simple, a DIY store standard bolt-action, tough to break but mass-produced enough that Hopper had figured out a master key design that had worked on more than half the locks he tried. Better to try that first instead of the clumsy picks.

He slid the key in easily, felt it catch, pulled out halfway, tried again. He thought it was like sex, took a deep breath and chased that away. He didn’t want images of his naked sister riding him. He didn’t need the distraction of Divinity bent over the loveseat in the office asking him to “pick her lock.” One more try with the key. Fully in. Turned it clockwise. It spun a full twelve hours. Open sesame.

Inside, closing softly, trying to keep squeaks down, Hopper let his eyes adjust to the dark. The living room, minimal and futuristic, furniture facing a huge flat-screen TV, empty of people. A buzz of light from the doorway leading to the kitchen. Probably over the stove, always on. At the end of the hall, two dark open doorways—Hopper guessed bathroom and bedroom.

He had changed into black suede Hush Puppy shoes, like walking on air. The trip down the hall was stealthy, all ninja, the way it is in movies but never in real life. His palm was slick on the bat. It had been a while since he’d pounded someone with the plank, but he was more than ready. The sweat was pure calorie-burning energy, quietly spent.

Looked like two figures in the bed under the comforter. That might be a problem. Hopper had a plan—after busting Figg’s kneecap, he would find a belt, bind the lover’s hands and tie her to the clothes rod in the closet. Too many plans at once. He was going to get caught if there were more than one person here. No way would this be a fair fight between two men. Shit.

Turn back? Try again tomorrow?

Not after coming this far. I don’t have time to waste.

Bedside. No limbs stuck out from under the comforter, a bit much for the middle of summer. Still, lumpy and generally the right size. Hopper guessed where the knee might be. Windmilled his bat a couple times, then brought it high over his head, tense, tense. A grin. Couldn’t wait for the sound of it. He brought it down
hard
.

And didn’t hear popping cracking breaking bones. Didn’t feel the bat shake his whole body on contact.

It was all mushy. Like…a marshmallow.

The lights blinded him, the whooping noise coming from behind, scrabbling footsteps, but before Hopper could turn around, something banged his head and sickened him and he thought to himself while he still had a chance,
I’ve never been knocked unconscious before
.

Hopper woke up strapped to one of the futuristic chairs in the living room. His skull throbbed. His eye socket hurt, but he couldn’t remember why. Then a remote control flew towards his face, smacked him in the teeth. Across from him, three college-aged men sat in the couch, all fully dressed, throwing things at Hopper—the remote, a paperback, an orange, an X-Box controller. One swigged from a can of beer and then sent it flying. Hopper ducked his head. The can sailed over and exploded frothy on the carpet.

“Jesus, what the hell?” A Scottish accent for certain. It was coming from Hopper’s left. “All over my carpet!”

The bland-eyed kid on the sofa slurred a sentence together. “Well, blame him, he moved, you know?”

“You threw a full can at ‘im. Even if it had hit…never mind.” A strained sigh.

Hopper turned his head and saw the thin, angular Burt Figg standing with his arms crossed, a phone in one hand. He wasn’t dialing it so much as considering it. He wore silk pajamas.

When Figg caught Hopper’s stare, he said, “Your new friend, Ivana? She tipped me off. One of my best customers these days. Figured you’d do something like this.”

Hopper cleared his throat, said, “What if I hadn’t?”

“Then I guess I’d have let my guard slip and you would have broken my leg in a few days. Then I would’ve been angry. Now I’m just annoyed.”

A coaster twirled like a throwing star and hit Hopper’s cheek. The couch-sitters erupted in cheers and high-fives. All three pretty muscled, short-haired. Hopper had seen their vacant stares on too many college students. He wondered if they would show up on the disc Ivana had given him. Figg barked “Enough” and gave two of the guys an errand to run. Hopper thought he told them to go buy some beer and tacos.

Once they were gone, Figg sat on the couch, sank into the leather cushions, while the guy next to him stared Hopper down. The biggest of the three guys, of course. The one who made Figg feel safe. Hopper’s bat was leaning against the guy’s leg.

Figg pointed at the bat. “Let me see that.”

Hopper strained against the electrical tape holding his torso to the chair. Wrists, too. He needed them loose, not broken. Figg took the bat as he watched the struggle, a smile lighting up his face.

“I wonder if it hurts worse when you’re expecting it. Asleep, well, can’t be
the
worst, can it? Perhaps disorienting. But if you’re wide awake…”

He stood and gave the bat a lazy swing before waggling it with two hands. Hopper flinched.

“This doesn’t do you any good,” Hopper said. “You’re still in trouble no matter what. I’ve made arrangements so that the cops get what I know if I don’t come back tonight.”

“What, you mean arrangements with your secretary? The Asian bird? That’s no problem. We’ve an eye on her. Face it. We’ve been ahead of you the whole way on this.”

“I don’t want to bring you down. I just want to find Yasmin.”

A quick swing and stop, wood inches from Hopper’s face. He sucked in air and closed his eyes, pulled hard left. Figg and the bodyguard laughed. Figg tapped the bat on Hopper’s head. “This tool tells me otherwise. You wanted to make me
pay
for what I’ve done to your poor sainted Yasmin. Abused and used and manipulated. That’s what you’re thinking. You wanted to crack my bones.”

Hopper opened his eyes. “I needed some leverage. Call it protection.”

“Call it vigilantism. Going all Batman, that’s your plan.”

“Can you blame me? Doesn’t matter how you justify it. You’re still fucking around with children. Yasmin was a child.”

“Are you mad? She was pregnant when she came to me. Look, I do the best check I can on age, but when they fake licenses like pros with these laser printers, all I can do is trust them. I make sure they know the consequences—could put me out of business, send me to jail, embarrass the girl and ruin their reputations.”

Hopper leaned forward. The tape whined as he stretched. “You mean selling their naked asses to whoever lays down cash somehow
enhances
their reps?”

Figg touched Hopper’s chest with the end of the bat, spun it slowly. It burned. “The girls change their names. The guys change their names. It’s all about secret identities and double-lives. The closest they’ll get to James Bond, all the sex but without the guns. Much less dangerous.”

“Still Russian roulette.”

Got a laugh. “What? Diseases? It’s not like I’m calling in the crackheads and faggots. Jesus.”

Fuck the moral debate. Like talking to a fundamentalist—same hard head, different side of the brick wall. Hopper tried, “I’m only here to find Yasmin, report back to her sister. Some idea she’s all right, even if it’s in the porn world. The baby and all.”

Figg nodded. Then he shrugged. “No clue. Sorry, mate. I can sympathize, but I don’t have the answer.”

“What about him?” Hopper pointed his chin towards the bruiser on the couch.

The guy shifted, looked away, said, “I liked her. Wish she’d come back.”

“You fuck her?” Hopper asked.

The bat smacked his ear hard and fast. He hadn’t expected it, nearly tipped the chair over. Caught himself with his foot. They hadn’t tied his feet.

“Have respect for my employees. They’re like family,” Figg said.

“What’s wrong with ‘fuck’? That’s the word.”

“It was the tone. Gary over here starred in a couple of scenes with Yasmin, yes. He treated her sweetly, protected her all chivalrous, a knight and a gentleman. They had good chemistry, but offscreen it was pure. You don’t see that often. It gets all confused.”

Gary said, “I was hoping she’d ask me to her prom.”

Hopper relaxed his straining to see if he’d made progress on stretching the tape enough to scoot out. Not yet. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“A few days before she disappeared. She showed me a sonogram. Happy as could be.”

“Have you been looking for her?”

Gary’s face blanked again. The thought hadn’t occurred to him. Thoughts must not have occurred to him much anyway. Hopper had either hit a dead end or Figg was a big phony liar. Worth checking into later, but he’d screwed up the interrogation tonight. No upper hand. No reason for these two to tell him the truth about anything. Time to retreat and regroup.

“I got it. That’s all I needed. Look, keep the bat if you want, but let’s forget everything else that happened tonight. All’s fair, you know.”

Figg got into a Mickey Mantle pose and pretended to grand slam a ball. “You really believe I’d let you up and go without a bit of punishment? I need to protect myself, and that means a strong offense
and
defense. I never got the swing of baseball. Guess you had to grow up with it.”

“You willing to beat me down and see if I don’t try to get revenge?”

“Beat you? Maybe this once.” Figg swung the bat and clipped the top of Hopper’s head, near the first impact, still throbbing. Hopper cried out and hunched down. Spasmed his shoulders. Figg kept talking. “—won’t do at all. I need to do something that will keep you at bay for a long long time. Some sort of double-blackmail, you dig?”

Hopper shook his head, but that hurt so he stopped.

“Now, I’m in the movie business, so that’s my best bet. I’m willing to wager that if I film Gary here fucking your arse, and I mean some rough and tumble hard arsefucking, understand, and I lock that tape away with instructions to release it if anything happens to me because of you, then that might be stronger than a bulletproof vest.”

Gary stood. He said, “Just so you know, I’m not gay. This would be more like prison sex or something.”

“It’s really a shame,” Figg said. “to hold this one back. Would be a big seller in the homo-bondage genre. Of course, that limits your position options.”

“Can I use the bat one time?” Gary said.