Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

Gilpin made a mocking smile. “You’re real perceptive, pal. You must be a pro.”

“You know any of his friends? Anybody he’s close to?”

He barked a nasty laugh. “You think I know shit about his life? You think he’s had a goddamn thing to do with me since he went off to college? Christ, he barely had the time of day for me before then. Talk to his buddies on Wall Street if you want to know about him; talk to his dyke wife; talk to anybody but me.” Gilpin took another swallow of his coffee and made another wretched face.

“So you don’t know where he might go on vacation?”

The nasty laugh again. “I told you- I don’t know about Greg’s life, and I don’t want to. I got my own problems.” He gestured around the room and snorted. “I got my own fucking vacation to worry about, right here.” Gilpin picked up his coffee cup and arced it into the trash can in the corner. Coffee splashed on the wall and ran down the paneling; Gilpin didn’t seem to mind. He looked at me again.

“Greg’s missing?” he asked. “Is that what this is about?” Before I could answer, he screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his thick hands over his face. “Fuck it, I don’t want to know. Just do me a favor and get the hell out of here, will you?”

Gilpin slumped behind his desk, and I saw fatigue and chronic worry beneath his artificial tan. He was like a long-caged animal: exhausted and resigned, any fight left in him no more than reflex. He hadn’t said much, but it was all he had. I got up.

Nothing had changed in the big room when I passed through; the boys were still smoking and working the phones, and this time no one raised a head. Something had changed in the reception area, though.

The girl was gone. In her place behind the desk was a compact man, wearing a green waterproof field jacket just like mine. He had short blond hair and precise handsome features on a narrow white face. His eyes were gray and slightly upturned and reminded me of the eyes of the girl who wasn’t there. The TV was still on, but it was C-SPAN, not sheep, that he was watching. He looked at me briefly and impassively when I came through the door, and then his eyes went back to the screen. I paused for a moment, expecting him to say something, but he didn’t. I crossed the room, and his hand dipped into his jacket pocket and came out with a phone. I left the office and found the elevator waiting in the empty hallway.

They were outside, just beyond the lobby doors, and there were three of them. Two were big, and the third was bigger. The two big men held wide golf umbrellas. One man was around thirty, with dirty-blond hair, tied in a ponytail. He had a lot of rings on his umbrella hand, and his high cheekbones, pointed nose, and V-shaped mouth made him look something like a shark. He wore a long canvas duster, fastened to the throat. The other man was older, with short dark hair, a neat beard, and suspicious eyes. He wore work boots and khakis and an expensive waterproof shell over a plaid shirt, and in other circumstances I might have taken him for an engineer or a geologist. They had a couple of inches on me, each, and an easy twenty pounds. The third guy was a different story altogether.

He was six-foot-six, at least, and nearly three hundred pounds, and his bald bullet-shaped head was mostly covered by an intricate tattoo: two dragons locked in mortal combat, their red fangs clashing at the top of his skull. A hint, perhaps, of what went on underneath.

His face was fleshy and hairless and fish-belly white. A pale blue scar ran from temple to cheek down the left side, and met up with another that ran across his chin. His brow was a shelf of bone above small black eyes and a nose that had been rebuilt several times. His mouth was a lipless wrinkle, and his arms looked like two sacks of rocks. He was dressed in black motorcycle leathers, black gloves, and heavy black boots, all soaked through with rain. Rain beat down on his bare head, and each drop seemed to enrage him. He seemed to like the feeling. His eyes were locked on me.

The geologist nodded. “Let’s get out of the rain while we talk,” he said. He motioned me under his big umbrella. He had an accent, but it was slight and I couldn’t place it. My carry permit is no good in Jersey, my gun was safe at home, and my options were limited. I nodded back at him, rolled up my umbrella, and stepped under his. The shark stepped in beside us and Attila brought up the rear. They walked me into the parking structure next door.

Inside, the two big guys closed their umbrellas and led the way up a ramp to the second level. Attila walked behind me and made kissing noises. The only car on the second level was a massive black Hummer. It had smoked windows and a big chrome brush bar, and it glistened with beaded rainwater. The two big guys walked toward it but stopped when they were twenty yards away. I stopped too. They turned to face me. Attila paced behind me and made sniffing sounds. The big guys looked at me and I looked back, and we stood that way for a while.

“Shall we talk?” I said finally.

Attila came up close behind me and roared in my ear. “Shut up, bitch!” His voice was high- another steroid juicer, no doubt- and his accent was Eastern European. His breath had a burnt chemical odor, and the smell off his body was sour and powerful. He resumed his pacing and bumped me with his shoulder as he did. It was like getting sideswiped by a bus. I staggered forward a step but kept looking at the other two guys. A smile flickered across the shark’s face. He shook his head slowly and put a finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. We stood silently for another couple of minutes and then we heard footsteps.

It was the compact blond man from the reception desk. His field jacket was zipped against the rain, and his corduroy collar was turned up. His head was down and his hands were in his jacket pockets, and he didn’t look at us as he came slowly up the ramp. The two big guys shifted nervously as he approached and even Attila grew still.

He came to a halt between the two big men and opened his jacket and shook off the rain. Underneath he wore a black sweater over a gray shirt. He was about five-foot-seven, and he looked like he was made of rebar. He ran a small, strong-looking hand through his hair and flicked away the water. He looked at me.

“Are you Morgan or Lynch?” I asked. He ignored my question.

“What is your name and what is your business with Gilpin?” he asked. His voice was soft and flat and faintly accented.

“Didn’t Gilpin tell you?” The two big guys shifted, and Attila came around to yell down at me.

“Bitch! You answer the questions!” The chemical smell was overpowering. A meth smoker maybe. Steroids and meth- the breakfast of champions. Great. The compact man cleared his throat and made a gesture to Attila with his small hand. Attila went around behind me again.

“Gilpin tells me everything, which I think you will come to see as a sensible course of action.” He was quiet for a moment, and he tilted his head slightly as he looked at me. “What is your name, and what is your business with Gilpin?”

“I’m a PI, and I’m working a missing persons case. I thought Gilpin might have heard from the guy I’m looking for. Apparently he hasn’t.”

The small man pursed his narrow lips and gestured again to Attila, who came around in front of me. “Perhaps I have not made myself clear; perhaps that is why you have not answered my questions fully. Or perhaps you have not understood me.” The rain was falling harder, and the small man’s voice was nearly lost in the rushing sound of it. My heart was pounding. “I think Goran’s questions would be more clear to you.” Attila smiled hideously at me and made his kissing noise.

I looked at the small man and took a deep breath. “I’m happy to speak with you and maybe answer some questions too- and if you want to answer a few in return, I’ll even spring for the coffee. But lock your freak back in the attic, and let’s do this like civilized people.” Attila’s nostrils flared and his little black eyes got smaller and blacker. He took a step toward me and drew back his fist. He opened his mouth, to roar at me, but I interrupted.