Peter Spiegelman - Black Maps

“Not exactly street legal,” he said. “It cranks way higher than what the cops can use. Really eats up the batteries, though. But don’t worry, I got plenty on hand.” Then he made a sudden, grunting noise and feinted at my chest with the stun gun. I didn’t move, but only because I was processing things too slowly to be startled. Trautmann laughed massively.

“Who’re you working for, anyway-the widow Welch, maybe? Pierro? I think it’s Ricky, but Millie doesn’t buy it. Tell me I’m right, Johnny.” I looked at him but said nothing. Trautmann smiled. “Any friends of yours out there now?” he asked. “Your buddy, Neary, maybe? I’m betting no. I didn’t see anybody, and I’m pretty careful. And you’ve been in here long enough that anybody outside would be good and worried by now. Would’ve come to take a look maybe, or called the cops. But it’s all quiet out there. I figure you for the lone wolf type, anyway. Am I right?” I kept looking at him, and kept quiet.

“See,” he turned to Mills, “you can take a lesson from this guy. He’s a prep school faggot like you, but he doesn’t piss his pants. In fact, I was reading up on Johnny, and it turns out he’s a real trip.” Trautmann drained his glass and went to the kitchen counter to fill it again. He poured liberally from the vodka bottle. He was putting it away pretty quick, and I thought maybe he was drunk, but he was such a head case it was hard to tell. Mills gnawed his lower lip and looked at Trautmann.

“You should see his press clippings, Millie. Next to naked pictures, it’s some of the best shit I’ve found on the Internet-a fucking hoot. It turns out Johnny used to be a cop, somewhere up in North Bumfuck, New York. About three years back, he’s carrying water for the feds and the state cops, who’re in his neighborhood working a serial killer.” Trautmann looked at me. “Dead broads in New York, Vermont, up in Canada. What, eight or ten stiffs in all?”

“Twelve,” I said. Trautmann whistled. He flipped the stun gun and caught it one-handed.

“Busy boy. So, Washington’s finest are on the job, sweating every fucking bear in the forest, I bet, and getting nowhere. But Johnny, here, he’s got a theory-some local guy he likes for the killings. So, he goes to the feds and the state boys, and he tells them all about it. And what happens? They blow him off. Think he’s full of shit, I guess, just some weird rich kid playing cops in the woods. Told him to shut up and stay out of the way. Which must’ve pissed Johnny off something fierce, ’cause he decided to become his own one-man task force, and he gets in this guy’s shit in a big way.” Trautmann swirled his drink around.

“But this woodchuck was even more of a psycho than anybody figured. After a couple months of having Johnny in his drawers, the guy flips out-flips out some more, I guess. And what does he do? He fucking offs Johnny’s wife, for chrissakes!” He chuckled and took another swallow.

“It was real neat. No knives, no sex, nothing like his usual act, just one in the eye with a. 22 target pistol. But he made damn sure Johnny knew who’d done it. Left a shell casing with a nice clean print, palm print on a window, tire tracks, everything. And then he goes home and writes it all down, full confession with names and dates and stuff nobody but him could’ve known. And then he sits and waits for the cops to come and take him away.” Trautmann chuckled and went to the back door. He raised the shade and peered into the dark for a moment. Then he returned. He flipped the stun gun and caught it again.

“Except it didn’t quite work out that way, ’cause the first cop on scene was Johnny.” Trautmann laughed and emptied his glass. He set it on the kitchen counter. “I guess there were some… questions about what happened next. Some different versions of what went down. I know how that goes, pal, believe me. Anyway, the upshot is that when the cavalry arrives, they find Johnny and this crazy bastard. The guy’s dead, of course. Got like ten holes blown in him, and he’s got a gun in his hand, some cheap piece of shit with the numbers missing. Not too suspicious, huh?” Trautmann fished an ice cube out of his glass and put it in his mouth and crunched loudly.

“Johnny caught all kinds of shit for a while, most of it from that fat bastard Pell. Small world, ain’t it? But did he get all jumpy and start crying like a baby? No. He just shut his mouth and toughed it out. Held his water, til it was declared a righteous shoot. See, that’s a lesson for you, Millie. To keep your fucking mouth shut.” Trautmann laughed again and punched Mills not so lightly on the shoulder. Mills rocked back and steadied himself on the refrigerator.

I didn’t pay much attention to Trautmann’s story; it was basically the official version, and I’d heard it all before. Instead, I watched Mills. He was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, making a distracted box step over a small parcel of floor, and staring at Trautmann. Fear, anger, and disgust played unhidden across his face. And something else was going on too, something concentrated and furious, as if he were working elaborate formulas in his head. Trautmann checked his watch.

“Time flies, Johnny, and I got a little more cleaning up to do before I split. But don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time to talk once we’re on the road.” A chill ran through my belly. Going anywhere with Trautmann was a bad idea, fatally bad. I needed some time to clear my head, some time for Neary to get there.

“Where are you meeting him?” I asked. They looked at me, puzzled. “Where are you meeting Nassouli?” Mills’s puzzled look grew. Trautmann smiled.

“What the fuck are you talking about? You think that rat bastard Gerry is in this?” he said, with a sour laugh.

“Everyone thinks he’s pulling the strings,” I said. My voice sounded brittle and unfamiliar in my ears. “And that you two are the errand boys.” Trautmann guffawed.

“Hey, that’s nice. I like that. That motherfucker skips on me, he ought to make up for it somehow. Let that prick do me some good for once-let him take the heat on this. But between you and me, I don’t need fucking Gerry’s help, not when I got my boy here.” Trautmann laid a massive hand on Mills’s shoulder and looked at him, smiling large.

“That’s one thing about Mr. Mills, John, he does know his shit. Yep, it was a lucky fucking day when you found me going through those files, Evan.” Mills shrank away, as if he didn’t like being touched or having Trautmann say his name. Trautmann ignored him and looked at his watch again.

“You cool your jets, Johnny, I’ll be back in a sec,” Trautmann said, and he touched my arm with the stun gun.

Fireworks went off in my head, and my body wrenched fiercely, back and out of the chair. I was on the floor, twitching. There was blood in my mouth, and I realized I’d bitten my tongue. I was facedown again, but not out this time. Through half-closed, shaking eyes I saw Mills looking at me, expressionless.

“Come on, bud,” Trautmann said, “I got one more thing in the basement you can help with.” He guided Mills toward the hallway. Mr. Friendly. His hand was on Mills’s shoulder again, and I thought of Brian, the luckless guard at the Roslyn Meadows mall. And I knew suddenly that Mills was not coming out of that basement alive. Trautmann pulled open a door in the hallway and flicked a switch and a square of yellow light was thrown on the wall. He stood aside to let Mills pass and followed him down, closing the door behind him.

Shit. It was time to go. It was past time. I tried working my wrists around. I felt the hard bite of the plastic cuffs. They were cinched tight enough that my hands were cold and going numb. I got my knees under me and stood, too fast. The room took a tilt, and a heavy wave of nausea hit me. I squeezed my eyes shut until it passed. I went to the kitchen counter, moving quietly. My gun was gone, and so was my phone. Shit.