Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

“Which means they’re fucking stupid.” Nina snorted. “Nes, you can’t seriously believe this crap?”

Ines was silent.

“It won’t take long to find out if I’m wrong,” I said.

“It won’t take any time at all,” Nina said quickly, “because it’s not going to happen.”

Ines looked up, and she and Nina stared at each other. “Nina-”

Nina put her hands on Ines’s knees. Her voice fell to a whisper. “Forget it, Nes. I’ve had enough of this guy- enough of this whole thing. I don’t want people snooping on us and scaring Billy. It’s just not going to happen.” She turned to me, and her tone sharpened.

“Are you clear on that, March? It’s not going to happen. Now take your conspiracies and your friends and clear the fuck out of here. I’m sorry I ever hired you, and if you don’t leave us alone my lawyer will make you sorry too.” Nina stubbed out her cigarette. Red patches of anger flared on her cheeks. “Clear out, I said. What’s the matter- you have nothing else to do? You have nothing else to fill your time?”

Ines sat still and very straight and stared hard at nothing. I stood and rolled my shoulders to work out the stiffness, but it didn’t help. I walked away.

My building was quiet when I got home, and I was wet and angry. I toweled off my hair and changed my clothes, and then I was just angry. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee and sat in the dark and watched the night come on, and the rain turn into thunderstorms, and the storms engulf the city. After a while I switched on a light and picked up my phone and called Tom Neary.

Peter Spiegelman

JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home

By Sunday morning, the storms were east of Cape Cod, the sky was empty and blue, and I was downtown, following Tom Neary through the darkened halls of Brill Associates. He led me through the high-rent client district, past mahogany-clad conference rooms, and down corridors lined with gilt-framed paintings, to a pair of metal doors. We went through and came out on the other side of the tracks: fluorescent lighting, dingy walls, threadbare carpeting, shabby cubicles, and- as a general rule- no clients allowed. Neary’s office was in a corner.

It was a good-sized room but spartan in its fittings, which consisted mainly of metal furniture and unsteady piles of paper. His office artwork was a whiteboard, covered by the faded arrows and boxes of an unintelligible diagram. I sat in a straight-backed chair in a big square of sunlight. Neary sat at his metal desk and put his sneakered feet up. He took the lid from a cup of coffee and blew the steam away.

“Getting fired twice in three days and by the same client- that’s impressive, even for you.” He sipped his coffee. “You may have hosed my weekend, but at least you’re entertaining.”

“Happy to oblige,” I said. “But I’m not sure the second time really constitutes a firing. It was more like a validation of her original decision.”

“I won’t split hairs,” he said. “Did Irene Pratt ever call you back?”

“Last night, to say she’d spent a couple of hours telling her story to the Pace security people and again to Turpin- who jumped to the same conclusions about the breakin that she had.”

“She see anything at her apartment?”

“Nope. No sign of the Grand Prix or the guy with the mustache.”

“Which doesn’t mean there wasn’t someone there.” Neary looked into his cup and then at me. “You hear from Turpin?”

“No.”

“You will.”

“You don’t think they’ll just call the cops?”

“Not over this,” Neary said. “They call the cops and they have to tell the whole Danes story. No way his management wants that attention- from the cops or the press.” He upended his coffee cup to get the last few drops, and looked at me. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.

“I’m sure.”

Neary shook his head and smiled. “People who work for a living don’t do this shit, no matter how curious they are.” I nodded. “This is how people get the idea you’re a dilettante, you know? Not me, mind you. I don’t make a habit of turning away business, and I’d never bad-mouth a client- at least not to his face.”

“That’s where you and I differ,” I said. “That, and the fact that my professional discount is better.” I looked at my watch. “Think they’ll be here soon?” As I spoke, two men appeared at the office door. I recognized them both.

Juan Pritchard was about my height and half again as wide, with coffee-colored skin and black hair cut short. He had a broad friendly face, a square chin, and a mouth always set in a half smile. The impression of affability was tempered by his large calloused knuckles and by the scar that ran from his left temple to below his collar line and was dissipated completely by the look in his stony black eyes. He wore khaki gabardines, a black linen shirt, and sleek rimless glasses, and he nodded at me as he came through the door.

Eddie Sikes came in behind him, wearing wilted pants and a long-sleeved brown shirt. He was five-nine and wiry, and his black hair was long and unkempt. There was a gold hoop in his right ear and a day’s gray growth on his lean face. His pale eyes gave away nothing.

“Hey,” he said to Neary. His voice was a scratchy whisper. Sikes carried a white paper bag, and from it he produced two cups of coffee. He handed one to Pritchard and the two of them sat on Neary’s sofa.

“Got a couple more of those?” It was a woman’s voice and it was full of the Bronx. Lorna DiLillo was tall and dark and limber-looking. Her full lips were glossy, and there was a skeptical light in her brown eyes. She swept a wave of shiny black hair from her shoulder and took off her denim jacket. There was a black automatic holstered butt forward at her hip.

Victor Colonna was with her. He was small, fine-featured, and grave, and his smooth hair was precisely cut and combed. His white shirt was immaculate and bright against his skin. His eyes moved quickly around the room.

“Always got your back,” Sikes rasped, and he drew two more coffees from his paper bag. DiLillo and Colonna crossed the room to collect them. Pritchard held out a massive fist and DiLillo bumped it lightly with her own as she passed. Colonna sat next to Sikes and DiLillo leaned on Neary’s cluttered windowsill. She sipped her coffee and looked at me and then at Neary.

“Thanks for coming in,” Neary said, and he folded his hands on his desk. “You all remember March?” They nodded. “Well, he’s Mister March now, because now he’s a client, and actually paying for the privilege of fucking up your Sunday.” DiLillo snorted.

“For now, the job is surveillance, at four different sites. I’ve got fact sheets for you here.” Neary tapped a thin stack of paper on his desk. “But the short story is, John wants to know if anybody’s got these sites- these people- staked out. And if so, he wants to know who. So we want photos, names, plates, and affiliations if you can get them.”

“That’s for now,” Sikes whispered. “What comes after?”

“Can’t say at this point,” Neary answered. “We just have to wait and see. Read and react.”

DiLillo pushed herself off the sill and took the sheets from Neary’s desk. She handed copies to Colonna, Sikes, and Pritchard and started reading her own.

DiLillo looked at me. “You’ve got vehicle descriptions here, and something sketchy on one guy. Does this mean you’ve seen them?”

“I’ve seen some cars and a van, and one of their subjects- Irene Pratt- has seen the mustache guy.”

DiLillo scowled. “Which answers my question about how good they are.”

“Some of them clearly suck; maybe all of them do. And maybe there are some I haven’t seen that don’t.”