Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

“You should mostly just sit there.”

“Sure.”

“And not say much.”

“Uh-huh.”

Neary looked at me and sighed. Five minutes later the conference room door opened and Pflug walked in.

He was a lanky six-two, and there was a lot of elbow and knee in his gait as he shut the door and moved to the head of the table. His khaki shirt had epaulets and many pockets, and his olive-drab pants were held in place by a wide leather belt, adorned near the buckle with the brass end of a shotgun shell. His long head was topped by a brush of salt-and-pepper hair, and his sunburned face was meaty, and acne-scarred on one side. He pulled out a chair and folded his long arms and legs and sat. He looked at us with pale eyes and showed a lot of horsy teeth when he smiled.

“Tom, John, what can I do for you gentlemen today?” His voice was deep and theatrically haughty, like a bad Bill Buckley impersonation. He tapped at the side of his pockmarked nose. Neary looked at me and I said nothing.

“Mr. March is my client, and he would like to know why you’ve hired people to have him watched.”

Pflug turned to me and grinned and shook his head. “Where does this come from, John? What could I possibly know about this?” He spread his large hands in staged confusion. I said nothing.

“He’d also like to know what your interest is in Gregory Danes,” Neary said.

Pflug’s toothy smile got larger and more disingenuous. Again he turned to me. “As a matter of professional curiosity, John, do you discuss your cases with just anyone who comes in off the street? Not that I know anything about this Danes, mind you, or about people following people; I’m just curious. Is that all it takes for you to bend over, John- just someone asking?” His pale eyes locked on mine and sparkled like broken glass. I stayed quiet.

Neary cleared his throat. “Mr. March recently received some photographs of a threatening nature. We have reason to believe you sent them, and we’d like to know why.”

Pflug’s smile stayed wide, and he didn’t take his eyes off me. “Well, I guess everyone’s got a right to their beliefs, even here in godless New York City. But belief is one thing and fact is quite another. Now, what was in these photographs that could be so threatening to a strapping fellow like you, John? Or are you just the nervous kind, perhaps, the kind that scares easily? I suppose that’s no surprise, considering what you’ve been through, upstate and all. I suppose that’s enough to leave anyone a little… skittish.”

Neary rapped on the table. “Hey, squire, over here,” he said.

Pflug turned his head slowly and smiled at Neary, but when he spoke it was to me. “Is that why Tom has come along today- because you’re easily frightened?”

“Those photos could constitute harassment, Pflug,” Neary said. “Maybe worse, with a sympathetic prosecutor. And this little display doesn’t help. But we know you’re just a hired man. Let’s talk about who put you up to this.”

Pflug smirked. “That was probably more effective when you were with the Bureau, wasn’t it? It’s easier when you’ve got a badge.” He turned back to me. “So what was in those frightening photos?” I took another deep breath and let it out very slowly. I pursed my lips but kept quiet.

Neary shook his head and changed tack. “What are you doing in New York, anyway? From what I heard, you work out of Virginia- in your garage or something.”

Pflug didn’t like that. His brow wrinkled momentarily and his thin lips curled in a scowl, but he recovered quickly.

“You know, I ask myself the same question: What are you doing in this city, Jeremy? Between the foreigners and all the domestic whiners and complainers, I feel as if I’m in another country when I come here. Lord, I feel as if I’m on another planet. I don’t know how you stand it. But hang on- you’re actually from here, aren’t you, John? You actually grew up here. Well, maybe that explains it.” He showed me more teeth, and his eyes found mine again.

“You don’t like leaving the country?” Neary asked. “Then what’s with all the foreign-correspondent CIA bullshit on your Web site? Or is this Long Island lockjaw routine the bullshit part?”

Pflug’s eyes narrowed and his face clouded with brief irritation. “Your friend is taking us away from our conversation, John. Let’s get back to those photographs. Maybe if you’d tell me what was in them, it would stir some memories.”

I nodded slowly.

Neary rapped on the table again. “Look. We know you’re interested in Danes, and you know we are, too. Maybe we can cooperate here.”

Pflug laughed. It was loud and braying, and it went on too long. “Well, that’s very generous,” he said finally. “But I don’t think I could hold up my end of the bargain. I’ve got nothing to say about this Danes, and- truth be told- I’m not really a very cooperative fellow. At any rate, I don’t think John here has his mind on that business anymore. I think he’s got his mind on those photographs.” He turned to me again. “Now, how about telling me a little about what was in those pictures. There was nothing of a personal nature, was there? No pictures of you and that Chinese girl of yours? Because from where I sit, that would be rude.”

I looked at Neary. “This is pointless.” I sighed. “He isn’t going to help himself.” I shook my head and got up from my seat. Pflug laughed loudly and stood up too, and as he did I whipped my right forearm into the side of his head. He went backward over the top of his chair and came down loud and hard, and before I could do anything else Neary had his hand on my chest. I leaned against it for a moment and then stepped back. My heart was pounding and adrenaline was careening through my veins.

Pflug rolled to his feet. He came up quickly and gracefully, a step out of my range and with his hands in front of him. His eyes were unfocused for a moment, but he shook it off and bent his legs and balanced nicely. A red welt was growing along the left side of his face. He touched it with his fingertips.

“Now we’re getting to the point,” he whispered.

Neary turned to him and put out his other hand. “Right there is fine,” he said softly. He turned back to me. “You done now?” His voice was calm. “You satisfy your inner idiot?” I looked beyond him, at Pflug, and nodded minutely. Neary followed my gaze. “And you?” he asked. Pflug grinned. I was pleased to see there was blood in his mouth.

“I’m just fine,” he said. He was breathing hard and fighting to control it.

“Then I think we’re done here,” Neary said to me. I nodded. He moved to the door and Pflug opened it. He stepped aside and made a little bow and started tucking in his shirt. Neary went through and I followed, and as I passed him, Pflug twisted his hips and his left arm snapped out and up at my face. I was looking for it but not at that speed, and he tagged me hard under the eye with the back of his fist. My head jerked sideways and filled with flares of pain and light and I shuffled back. I heard rather than saw him closing and I brought my hands up and tucked my chin down. I turned my body and his boot smacked my right arm, just above the elbow. It was like a brick shot from a cannon, and I staggered back. Numbness spread up to my shoulder and into my hand. I shook my head and my vision cleared and I saw Neary holding Pflug, one-handed, against the conference room wall.

“I thought we were done, Jer,” he said softly.

Pflug managed a little smile. “We are now,” he said.

Neary shook his head and took his hand from Pflug’s throat. “Let’s go,” he said to me.

I looked at Pflug and didn’t move. My knees were twitchy and so were my arms, and I could barely hear Neary over the rushing sound that filled my ears.