Stuart Woods: Heat

Dinner was served, and Coldwater waxed eloquent about the wines, while Jesse ate and drank little.

“Jesse,” Coldwater said suddenly, “you’re not drinking my wine; what’s the matter?”

Jesse placed a hand on his belly. “Some kind of bug, I think; my stomach’s a little unsettled.”

“Can we get you something for it?” Coldwater asked solicitously.

“Thank you, no; I think I’ll be fine, if I take it easy.”

“Sure you wouldn’t like to go and lie down for a few minutes?”

This was a tempting possibility, but Jesse had to record the conversation in this room.

“Really, I’ll be fine,” he said.

“As you wish,” Coldwater said. “Let me know if you take a turn for the worse.”

“Thank you, sir; I’ll do that.”

Dessert and coffee were served, and a large decanter of brandy was placed on the table. Kurt Ruger, who was sitting near the opposite end of the table from Coldwater, got up and left the room.

Coldwater poured himself a brandy and passed the decanter. Jesse took none. Ruger came back into the room, but, instead of sitting down again, he leaned against the wall at that end of the table, his hands behind him.

When everyone had been served brandy, Coldwater tapped on the edge of his glass with a knife; the crowd grew quiet. “Before we proceed with our presentation,” he said, “there is a little security matter we must deal with.” The room was deadly quiet now.

Jesse pretended to scratch his forearm, while switching on the recorder. Wait a minute, he thought; did he say security?

Coldwater continued. “It seems a member of our party has not been entirely candid with us. When he was a prisoner in the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, he seems to have been led astray.”

Jesse’s breath grew short. He was a long way from the door, and he didn’t like the way Kurt Ruger was standing, with his hands behind him. In order to get out of the room, he’d have to go through Ruger at one end or Coldwater at the other. He stared down at the table. A trickle of fear ran through his bowels.

“Tell us, my friend,” Coldwater said, staring down the table, “Just what did you do to get put into prison?”

Jesse swallowed hard and tried to take a deep breath. He would have to keep this as close to the truth as possible. He opened his mouth to speak.

“I was in for armed robbery and second degree murder,” a voice said.

Jesse looked up. Charley Bottoms had spoken; Charley was sitting at the foot of the table.

“And what was your sentence?” Coldwater asked.

Jesse discovered that he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a rush. Across the table, Pat Casey glanced sharply at him, but Coldwater didn’t seem to notice.

“I got twenty-five to life,” Charley said. He was beginning to look ill at ease.

“Which means you would ordinarily serve, let’s see, twelve and a half years?” Coldwater asked.

Charley said nothing.

“And how long did you serve, Mr. Bottoms?”

“Three years and two months.”

“Three years and two months,” Coldwater repeated. “Your behavior inside must have been awfully good.”

Charley shrugged. “I got lucky, I guess.”

“I guess you did, Mr. Bottoms. Out in three years and two months. What luck!”

Jesse placed his hands on the dining table, the more to get the microphone out in front of him.

“I’m going to ask you just once, Mr. Bottoms,” Coldwater said. “Who got you out, and why?”

Charley continued to play dumb, which turned out to be a big mistake. He shrugged. “The parole board.”

Coldwater looked up at Ruger. “Kurt, please escort Mr. Bottoms downstairs and put the question to him a little more firmly.”

Ruger pushed himself off the wall and put an automatic pistol to the back of Charley’s head. “Easy, now, Bottoms; let’s not put your brains on the table.”

“Jesse,” Coldwater said.

Jesse’s head jerked around toward Coldwater. “Yes, sir?”

“Give Kurt a hand.” He reached inside his jacket, produced a 9mm automatic and handed it to Jesse.

Jesse took the gun. The evening was not going at all the way he had planned. He stood up and followed Charley and Ruger out of the dining room. They entered the kitchen; two young women were washing dishes at a double sink; they looked up then quickly down again.

“Jesse, open the cellar door,” Ruger said.

Jesse looked around and spotted the door; he opened it and stood back.

“Right down the stairs,” Ruger said to Bottoms. “Come on down, Jesse.” He switched on a light.

Jesse followed the two men down the stairs. As they walked down, Jesse considered his position, and he didn’t like it at all.

“Right over there,” Ruger said, shoving Charley.

Jesse saw a heavy wooden chair, and it was bolted to the floor.

“There’s some cord attached to the back of the chair; tie his hands behind him.”

Jesse followed Ruger’s instructions, but he didn’t tie Charley’s hands too tightly.

Ruger tucked his pistol into his belt, picked up a length of pipe from the floor, then squared off before Charley Bottoms. “I know you’re not going to answer my questions right away,” he said, “so why don’t we just skip that part,” He struck Bottoms across the face with the pipe.

The sound was like a football being kicked, Jesse thought.

Ruger turned away for a moment, as if to take a deep breath. Charley Bottoms turned toward Jesse, his face bloody, and silently mouthed, “Shoot me.”

Jesse looked away. If he helped Charley he’d give himself away, and they’d both be shot. Charley had just told him, in effect, that he expected to be killed and that Jesse should save himself.

Ruger had been at it for half an hour, and Charley Bottoms was no longer recognizable. He was alive, though, and occasionally, he spat out some blood.

Jesse stood, the gun dangling at his side, and tried not to watch. Ruger drew the pipe back again, and as he did, the door at the top of the stairs opened, and Ruger and Jesse both turned to look. Coldwater’s feet appeared on the stairs, and at that moment, Charley’s right hand shot out. He grabbed the pistol from Ruger’s belt and fired two rounds into his tormentor’s head. Then, without hesitating, he flipped the gun around, got his thumb on the trigger and stuck the barrel into his mouth.

Jesse’s shot went off simultaneously with Charley’s. Charley lurched backwards and sideways, leaving blood and brains on the wall behind him. Without thinking, Jesse fired a second shot into the body.

Just as Jesse’s knees buckled, Coldwater reached out and took the pistol from him, and he sagged into Pat Casey’s arms.

Jesse sat on the sofa in Coldwater’s study, his face in his hands.

“Feeling better?” Coldwater asked.

“I should have been faster,” Jesse said.

“I saw it all; you couldn’t have done better,” Coldwater replied. “He might have gotten me.”

Pat Casey handed Jesse a damp face cloth. “Here,” he said, “maybe this will help.”

“Poor Jesse,” Coldwater said. “And you weren’t feeling well to begin with. Why don’t you stretch out on the sofa for a while? I have a business negotiation to complete.” He turned to Casey. “Pat, see that the mess downstairs gets cleaned up.”

“Right,” Casey replied, then left the room.

“Are you really better?” Coldwater asked, concern in his voice.

“Thank you, sir,” Jesse muttered. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”

Coldwater clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You stay here; I’ll check on you later.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Jesse gave them fifteen seconds by his watch before he moved, then he got up, went to the bookcase and moved back the facade, exposing the safe. He put an ear to it and starting moving the tumblers. He couldn’t hear well enough, so he went to the bar, got an empty glass, pressed it against the steel, put his ear to the glass and tried again. Better. He glanced at his watch.