Макс Коллинз - Road to Paradise

He began with the bedroom on the far end, Mike’s, which after their son left for the army, Pat had said she intended to keep “just as it was.” But of course first she had cleaned it, so now it was nothing like when Mike lived in it, when you’d have found a floor scattered with LP covers (Hendrix and Joplin) and books (Heinlein and Asimov) and of course dirty clothes, his bed rarely made; for all his young Republican talk, and despite his skill with weapons, Mike had not been a likely candidate for the military life — the posters of Mr. Spock, cavegirl Raquel Welch, and Clint Eastwood from For a Few Dollars More would not be welcome at a barracks, nor could these quarters have stood up under inspection, before Mike’s mother had tidied them up, anyway...

The only place to hide was the closet, but it was empty save for Mike’s clothes and the shelf where the kid had stacked the Playboy s his parents weren’t supposed to know he collected.

Anna’s room — which the girl kept tidy without prompting from her mother — was likewise empty of intruders, though the closet provided considerably more clothes for someone to hide behind, and checking without making rustling noises was no small feat.

In the hall again, he listened carefully. No sounds other than the electronic pulse of any modern home; and yet he could swear someone was here. Was he so out of shape that he was prey to paranoia, now? Just because he’d maintained his fighting weight, that didn’t mean his instincts might not’ve gone flabby on him...

He continued on, with the bathroom.

Handgun at the ready, he nudged open the glass door on the shower stall — nobody, not even Janet Leigh, jumped out.

Starting to feel foolish, Michael pressed forward, their bedroom next, the master bedroom.

Which had plenty of places to hide — under the antique four-poster bed, for example; Pat’s walk-in closets; behind the black-and-red oriental dressing screen (a rare holdover from an earlier interior decorating scheme); and their large bathroom connecting from the bedroom, with the double shower stall...

No one.

Nothing.

Nobody.

Finally he came to his study, and opened the door quickly, to find a stocky man in a dark business suit sitting at his desk; the man — bald with black-rimmed glasses that magnified dark eyes — smiled pleasantly, as if Michael had finally showed up for his appointment.

And when Michael thrust the .45 forward, a hand came from behind the door and locked onto his wrist, and twisted.

The .45 popped from Michael’s hand, clunked onto the carpeted floor (not discharging, thankfully); and Michael spun to meet his attacker, an athletic-looking tanned guy with a somber face cut by Apache cheekbones. Even in the heat of the moment, Michael was taken by the strange calmness of the intruder’s sky-blue eyes.

An automatic — nine millimeter? — was in the intruder’s other hand, and he shoved the snout in Michael’s belly and shook his head as if advising a naughty child to reconsider that cookie jar.

Because the man did not immediately fire the weapon, Michael knew this was not a hit — not unless someone had decided to take him and torture him and then kill him, always a possibility in the Outfit life — and acting upon this assumption, kneed the son of a bitch in the balls, at the same time gripping the intruder’s wrist and shoving the snout of the automatic down, to where it was pointing at the floor.

Apparently the pain was enough — Michael’s knee had come up with speed and force — to cause a reflexive loosening of the man’s grip on the weapon, and then Michael had the gun in his own hand... it was a nine mil, a Browning... and in one fluid motion retrieved the .45 from the floor, backing up into a corner between his bookshelf walls and pointing the nine mil in his left hand at the bent-over blue-eyed bastard, and the .45 at the bald-headed prick, who was still just sitting there at the desk smiling a smile made wolfish by prominent eyeteeth.

“Stand up,” Michael said to the irritatingly pleasant man. “Hands up, too. And get away from my goddamn desk... no, other way... closer to the wall. That’s it.”

He waved the nine mil at the other guy, who was bent over, hands on knees, breathing hard, motioned for him to stand nearer to his bald associate.

The blue-eyed guy managed to comply, and even straightened up and put his hands in the air. He was tall, maybe six two, perhaps thirty-five, certainly no older than forty; the other man was pushing fifty, and he still had that disquieting toothy smile going, as if he were the one holding a gun on Michael, the eyes behind the glasses magnified enough to give their bearer a buggy look.

What made this fucker think he held the cards here?

Their threads were off — the-rack, but not cheap. The tall younger one had a dark blue suit and blue paisley tie, and the bald guy wore undertaker black, though his tie was a cheerful shades-of-green striped number. They were conspicuously well-groomed, professional-looking.

“Daaaaamn,” the tall one said, and the reference seemed to be to his bruised balls, as he was hunkered over slightly. His expression was that of a man who’d been forced to stare at the sun.

“You’re not Outfit,” Michael said. “What are you? Federal?”

The bald one beamed and nodded, a professor pleased a backward student had provided a correct answer. “Yes, Mr. Satariano.”

Michael motioned with the .45. “Put your gun on my desk... Take it out slowly, and then hold it by the barrel.”

Now that goddamned smile turned sheepish. “I’d like to accommodate you, Mr. Satariano — but I don’t carry a weapon.”

“Hold open your jacket. Let’s see the lining — pretend you’re Merv Griffin.”

In the manner of that obsequious talk-show host, the bald man complied, saying, “We’re not breaking and entering. We do have a warrant. May I reach inside this pocket and get it for you?”

“Stop smiling,” Michael said, “and you can.”

The fed did his best to contain his happiness and carefully reached into his pocket and withdrew several folded sheets of paper.

“Toss it on the desk,” Michael said. “What’s the charge?”

“No charge — not yet. The document gives us the right to enter your home for a specific purpose. And it’s not to search the premises.”

“I believe that,” Michael granted, moving his gaze from man to man — the tall guy seemed to be recovering. “Or else you’re the tidiest damn cops I ever ran across.”

“We’re here to talk to you,” the bald fed said. “To you and your family.”

“My family?” Michael stepped forward, thrust the gun at the bastard. “What the fuck, my family...?”

The smile returned, and he patty-caked the air. “No reason to be concerned; in fact, quite the opposite. My name is Harold Shore — associate director of the OCRS. That’s the—”

“Organized Crime and Racketeering Section,” Michael said, backing up. “Justice Department. Let’s see your credentials.”

Shore nodded, and again gingerly withdrew something from an inside jacket pocket, a small wallet.

“Step forward,” Michael said, still training both guns on the two men, “and hold that up where I can see.”

Shore did so.

The credentials were Justice Department, all right; no badge, but a photo ID — the son of a bitch was even grinning in the picture!

“You can step back now,” Michael said. To the other intruder, he said, “What about you?”

“I’m with him.”

“Really? You didn’t just bump into him, in my study? Name.”

“Don Hughes. Donald.”

“Let’s confirm that, Donald.”

Hughes held up his photo ID — and a badge, this time. But the credentials weren’t what Michael expected.