Born Bad Page 9

  "They think I'm already on my way to the Bahamas."

  I watched his hands. Waiting.

  "I have the money. Right here," tapping his breast pocket. "All in fifties, no sequential serial numbers."

  I watched his eyes.

  "I know the way you guys work. We have a deal. I'm paying good money for this. It's still a lot cheaper than a divorce, but I still expect value received."

  I nodded.

  "It has to happen before midnight tonight."

  "It will."

  "Make it happen slow, okay? I want that fucking little cunt

  to hurt first."

  "I don't do that."

  "I'm paying you…"

  "You're paying me for a body. You'll get a body. On time."

  His face played with a sneer. "You're supposed to be the best. Like my car. Like my clothes. I pay for the best."

  I watched him.

  "You're a machine, right? A death machine. And you work for whoever pays you."

  "Whoever pays me first."

  Head Case

  1

  The woman was so impossibly beautiful it hurt to look at her. The old man did it anyway–it was his job.

  "Nobody named Cross here, lady," he said, glancing up from behind the counter at the entrance to the basement poolroom.

  "Is that right?" the woman challenged. "Then maybe I'll just play some pool."

  "There's no tables available," the old man said.

  The woman shot a glorious hip, her orange silk sheath rippling in appreciation. She swiveled on spike heels, taking in the scene behind her. Most of the room was in shadow, broken up by low–hanging shaded bulbs over the tables. Only a few of the bulbs were lit, and even those were shrouded in a thick haze of yellowing smoke.

  "I see plenty of empties," she said, her voice fiat.

  "Those ones are broken, lady."

  "I guess I'll just wait, then," she said, walking away from the counter to an old–fashioned red–and–white Coke machine. She perched on a nearby stool, crossed her marriage–wrecker legs, and took out a cigarette.

  A wooden match flared just past her cheek. She leaned forward, caught the light. She leaned back, took a deep drag, her breasts threatening the silk. She looked up at the man holding the match, veiling her eyes under butterfly lashes. His head was shaved, sitting on a thick, corded neck. The earring in his right ear was a long chain attached to a ball, like a convict's shackles. His upper body was grotesque: so outrageously ripped and heavily veined it looked artificial. The flesh sculpture was barely covered with a pale purple tank top.

  "Thank you," the woman whispered, photographing his face with her turquoise eyes, recording the mascara and eyeliner, the thin coating of lip gloss.

  "Can I help you with something?" the massive creature asked her.

  'You're not femme," the woman said. It wasn't a question. "Why all the makeup?"

  "It helps get me into fights," the man said.

  The woman nodded like she'd just heard common sense. "I want to see Cross."

  "Not here," the bodybuilder said, leaning forward as his voice dropped. The woman cocked her head, listening. Finally, she nodded.

  The ivory balls seemed to click along with the rhythm of her hips as she walked out.

  2

  The woman on the street corner was all in black, a deeper, darker shade than the surrounding night. A big sedan slid to a stop–it was gunmetal gray with darkened windows, generic and anonymous. The front door opened and the bodybuilder stepped out, nodded to her, opened the back door like an usher. She climbed inside. The door closed behind her. Another door slammed, and the car was in motion.

  "You wanted to talk to me?" A voice from the far recesses of the back seat.

  "What I want to do is hire you," the woman said, aiming her voice at a pool of blackness.

  "Tell me," the voice said, as the car turned a corner.

  3

  The top floor of the luxury apartment building looked more greenhouse than penthouse–the exterior walls were all glass. Past the glass, a railed balcony ran the length of the apartment, wide enough to accommodate a substantial outdoor garden. Three men sat in the living room, widely separated, on different points of a white horseshoe–shaped sofa. Another occupied a black leather lounger. The fifth man was standing, talking. A computer sat in one corner, its double–width screen a mass of paper–white emptiness. Against the windows, a matched pair of high–power telescopes on tripods, one fitted with a 35mm camera instead of a conventional eyepiece.

  In the alley behind the building, a man carefully shaped a claylike substance around the edges of a door marked SERVICE ENTRANCE. When he was done, a string dangled from the lower edge of the substance.

  Around the front of the building, a razor–thin black man walked soundlessly across the carpet runner toward the security guard on duty behind a marble–topped desk. The black man was wearing a Zorro hat and a calf–length black leather coat, black gloves on his pianist's hands. The security guard, a burly black man with a round, friendly face, looked up from the bank of video monitors behind him.

  "Can I…?' But before he could finish his challenge, the intruder was two feet from his face, the gap bridged by a sawed–off shotgun.

  "What's the haps, home?" the slim black man whispered, holding the scattergun as casually as a cigarette.

  "Ace…"

  "You remember me from the 'hood? Good. Let's you and me talk, okay?" The slim black man slid behind the front desk and sat down, slouching so that he was invisible from the front. "Just be calm, brother. Don't be reaching for the piece, okay? You know me, you know what I do. Good news is…it ain't you. Understand?"

  "I got it."

  "Here's the deal. Real simple. Lady's gonna come in. With another guy. You don't know her. You don't say nothing to her. Just watch the little TVs here, do your job, all right? Some time's gonna pass. You and me, we gonna pass it together, see? Talk about old times. When the lady leaves, I'll be right behind her. That's all she wrote. Nothing's gonna happen. Not to you, not to nobody. Unless you gotta be stupid. You gonna be stupid, brother?"

  "No."

  "Good. We got a contract. Now grab hold of this." The slim black man handed over a thick white envelope. "It was 303 today. Remember it, bro'…that's your lucky number from now on. You had a dime on it, straight up. With Spanish Phil's bank, South side, do or die. This here's your payoff, case anybody asks you where it come from. Six grand, ain't that sweet?"

  "Sure is."

  "Okay. Let's chill, now. Nothing more to do. Ain't gonna be no po–leece in this. No reports, no phone calls, no nothing. But listen up, homey: I got a contract of my own. Contract says you don't do nothing. You try it, I got to leave you here, right?"

  "I'm not…"

  "Right?"

  "Right."

  "Righteous. Now, which one of these little TV things covers the front door?"

  4

  The woman walked in, the bodybuilder at her side, carrying an attaché case. The man behind the desk didn't look up. They strolled leisurely over to the elevator bank, Their image didn't register on the TV screens, two of which were dark.

  The couple got on the elevator. The man took out a small plastic box about the size of a cigarette pack. He pressed a button on the side of the box and a tiny red light glowed next to his finger.

  The man in the alley was holding a similar transmitter. When his own red light blinked, he struck a match and held it to the string dangling from the door. There was a brief spark, then a flash followed by a muffled whoompf! as the door popped off its hinges, swinging free.

  The man stepped through the door. As he did so, the shadow cast by an enormous dumpster moved with him. The shadow was human. Three hundred and fifty pounds of human, moving with a delicacy and grace that belied its bulk.

  Both men huddled in the darkness. "Princess is inside with her now, Rhino. I figure we got a clean shot up on the service elevator. If they open the door, that'll mean I got
in from the balcony. You roll in behind Princess. If the door doesn't open from the inside, it means I couldn't reach it like we planned. Let the woman ring the bell, then. The people inside, they'll probably crack the door on the chain. Just take it down, then come get me. Got it?"

  "Yeah. If Princess don't jump the gun."

  "He's not that stupid, Rhino."

  "Yeah he is."

  The two men boarded the Service Elevator, pushed the button marked 44. The car engaged smoothly, silently.

  "Cross?"

  "What?"

  "You really think the broad's going through with it?" "We already got paid." Cross shrugged.

  5

  Inside the passenger car, Princess inserted a plastic card into a slot next to PH on the wall of the elevator. The letters lit up in recognition.

  The service car stopped on 44. Both men got off. A seamless window was at the end of the corridor. Working quickly, Cross duct–taped the glass, working in an X pattern until it was completely covered. He stepped back. Rhino placed his gigantic hand against the glass, moving it delicately like he was feeling for a pulse. The tip of one finger was missing. The huge man nodded, then he slapped the fiat of his hand against the glass. Again and again. Cross peeled the duct tape toward him, pulling the glass along for the ride. He brushed away shards from the window sill and perched, facing Rhino, who held him around the waist.

  Cross took a grappling hook from his coat. The hook was heavily taped except for the very tip, attached to a length of black Perlon climbing line.

  "I think we got a shot," he said. "Ready?"

  "Go," Rhino said.

  Cross leaned completely out the window so his back was parallel to the ground below and heaved the grappling hook in an overhand motion. It caught. Cross pulled on it.

  "That'll hold," he said. "I must have snagged it right."

  Rhino took the line from Cross. "Let me see," he said, giving a mighty pull. "Yeah," he said.

  Cross swung out the window, soles of his boots against the building, pulling himself toward the balcony. Rhino watched, looking up.

  6

  Cross levered himself over the balcony railing carefully, watching the activity inside. He crouched behind a potted tree, watching. The men were animated, focusing on their conversation. Cross slipped the black ski mask over his face, unslung the Uzi from inside his jumpsuit, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Then he quietly slid back the glass door to the balcony and stepped into the living room.

  "One man screams, everybody dies!" he spat out, sweeping the Uzi in short, menacing circles.

  The five men were frozen, mouths open.

  "You!" Cross barked, pointing a black gloved finger at the chubby blond man closest to the front door. "Open the door! Now!"

  The chubby man got up on shaky legs and did it.

  The woman walked in. A sharp intake of breath from the dark–haired man who had been standing when Cross came in. Princess followed, his mask in place, a chrome .44 magnum in his fist. Then Rhino, also masked, turning sideways to get in the door. His hands were empty. He shut the door behind him, gently.

  "Everybody on the couch," Cross said, gesturing with the Uzi. The men sat together, hunched, trembling. Cross pointed, and Rhino stepped behind the couch, looming over the seated figures. Princess stood to the left, his feet braced in a shooter's posture. Cross held his place on the right.

  The woman stepped into the middle of the v. "You," she whispered, pointing a long, lacquered nail at the man who had been standing. "Look at me. You've been doing it for months–do it now." The man blanched.

  Cross nodded at Rhino. The huge man walked out from behind the couch to the other side of the room. He picked up a marble coffee table like it was a book, carried it to a place in front of the couch. Then he picked up a straight–backed chair in each hand, fussily arranged them so that one was on either side of the coffee table. He took his place behind the couch again. The woman took one of the chairs. "Sit," she said to the dark–haired man, pointing at the other. He did.

  The woman nodded at Cross.

  "Here it is," Cross told the men. "We got paid to do a job. The job is, you all sit quiet. The lady wants to play a game. We got paid to make sure she gets to play it. We were going to kill you, we wouldn't be wearing the masks. You let the lady play her game, then we all leave. That's it. No violence, no robbery. You do something real wrong, you're going to get dead."

  The woman took a deep, harsh breath. It was the only sound in the room.

  "So this is the Stalkers' Club," she said. "How long have you been doing it?"

  Nobody answered.

  "Take the one on the end and break his arm," Cross said to Rhino.

  "Two years." the one on the end squeaked. "Two years, this June."

  "Don't you talk again," the woman said. "You"–pointing at the dark–haired man–"you do all the talking, understand?"

  "Yes," the man said.

  "You take pictures?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "Video too?"

  "Yes."

  "You use the computers? Get information from the data banks on the women you stalk?"

  "Yes."

  "It's all in fun, right?"

  "It is. We never…"

  "You're a rapist, aren't you?"

  "No!"

  "You have me, don't you? All of you? Captured on your dirty little pictures. It's no fun after a while…unless they know, yes? I could feel you on me after a while. You like that, don't you?"

  "It doesn't hurt…"

  "Yes it does. And you know it. And you like it."

  "I never…"

  "Sex, it's all in the mind, isn't it? You have me in your minds."

  "No!"

  "Yes. I can prove it. Here's the game we're going to play. I bet I can make you come. In ten minutes. Without touching you. Just touching your mind. I'll bet a hundred thousand dollars I can do that. You want to bet?"

  "What if I don't?" A trace of sulkiness in his reedy voice.

  "Then these men take off their masks, understand?"

  "Yes."

  "You want to bet?"

  "Yes."

  The woman nodded at Princess. He walked over to the coffee table, opened the attaché case. It was full of money, banded bills, clean and new. He carefully stacked the cash on a corner of the table, stepped back.

  "There's my stake. One hundred thousand. You ready to play?"

  "I don't have that kind of money…."

  "You want to put up something else' Like your right hand–the one you use on me when you're alone with your dirty pictures?"

  "Are you crazy! I won't…"

  "Stop lying," the woman said. "I don't have time. You have a safe here. Go and get it."

  The dark–haired man got to his feet. Cross stepped next to him, the Uzi between them. They left the room.

  They were back in two minutes. Cross dropped a double handful of wealth on the coffee table. Unmounted jewels, cash, gold coins, bearer certificates.

  "There's more than a hundred…" the man said.

  "Shut up, liar. What's there is what you're playing for. You ready?"

  Princess shifted his weight. "Yes," the man said.

  The woman stood up. Took off her coat. Under it she wore black fishnet stockings anchored by thick bands around the top of each perfect thigh. Her long legs ended in black spike heels. She turned slowly. A black silk thong divided her buttocks. She was nude from the waist up. The woman turned again, one full turn. Then she sat down on the straight–backed chair, nodded to Princess again. The bodybuilder holstered his huge pistol, took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket, and cuffed the woman's hands behind her. Then he wrapped a pair of thin black leather straps across her chest, separating her breasts bandolier style. He pulled the straps under the chair and around her thighs, securing her in place. Princess knelt, quickly wrapping two more straps around the woman's ankles. She squirmed against the bonds, unable to move.

  "Ten minutes," the woman
said. "Start counting."

  Princess held another leather strap. The woman licked her lips, opened her mouth. Princess fitted the gag, tied it at the back of her head. The woman's eyes bored into the man facing her. Then Princess fitted the black blindfold in place.

  Breathing was the only sound. The woman writhed under the bonds, an oily sheen popping out across her ivory–cream skin.

  Dots of white flowered on the dark–haired man's cheeks.

  Cross walked over to the computer, tapped a couple of keys. He inserted a floppy disk, hit the Return key. The screen went crazy. The hard disk whirred.

  Nobody's eyes left the woman.

  Cross prowled the apartment until he found the video library. He pulled a glass bottle from his coat, poured the clear contents over the stacked videotapes. A faint hissing sound filled the small room as the acid went to work. He stepped back inside. The woman's head was back, a throaty moan bubbling past her lips–her sweat mingled with a heavy perfume, choking the room.

  The dark–haired man hadn't moved his eyes. His hands were clenched into fists at his side.

  A tiny beep sounded from Cross's watch. "Time," he said.

  Princess untied the woman. She put on her coat. Stood over the man, hands in her pockets.

  "You get one answer," she said. "Did I prove my point? Did you come ?"

  "Yes," the man said. Not looking at her.

  The woman stepped around the coffee table, holding the man with her eyes. She took a cork–tipped ice pick from the folds of her coat. He was rooted. She snapped the cork tip off the ice pick with a fingernail.

  "You can rape with your eyes, can't you?" she whispered.

  "I…"

  "Can't you?" Her voice was a whipcrack.

  "Yes," he mumbled, not looking up.

  "And you never know who's watching–don't forget," she said. The woman nodded to Princess. He scooped everything on the table into the attaché case, popping the sides so it expanded to hold it all. Then he handed her something that looked like a fiat disk with elastic straps. She slipped it over her nose and mouth as Rhino sprayed a canister of some greenish gas over the seated men. They all went down, swooning.