Linwood Barclay - Bad Guys

Trimble shook his head, bemused. He looked over at me. “Sometimes you just have to play the hand you’re dealt.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that.

We were heading down Wyndham, Bullock’s house half a block away. “What about it, Trimble?” I asked. “How’s this going to play out? I’d kind of like to have some idea before we go in there.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said. His gun appeared in his lap, gripped tightly in his right hand. “Park the car and get out.”

We opened the doors at the same time, and I was half out of the front seat as Trimble was coming around the back of the car.

“Shit,” I said. “I dropped my wallet.”

And I leaned back into the car, reached up by the accelerator, and slipped my hand around the cold metal of the gun grip. Quickly, before Trimble was around my side of the car, I slipped the gun into the pocket of my jacket. I’d already been patted down once. The odds were that I wouldn’t be again.

Together, we walked into the house.

Angie was still on the couch, but, I was relieved to see, more alert this time. As I entered the Hall of Barbies she jumped up and ran to me and I took her into my arms and hugged her, burying my face in her hair.

“Hey,” I said softly, patting her back. “You okay?”

She looked up at me, her eyes red, and nodded. “They haven’t hurt you?” I asked. She shook her head.

“What about you?” she asked, reaching up to touch the left side of my face, which I’d forgotten had a good-size lump on it from much earlier that evening. “Did they hit you?”

“No,” I said, not able to keep myself from smiling. “That was from someone else.”

Angie blinked, like maybe she had an inkling for an instant, then dismissed the idea.

“She’s been a perfect guest,” Bullock said, standing behind his desk as Blondie and Pockmark took up positions just inside the door. “Your Angie was telling me that one Christmas when she was a little girl you assembled her a Barbie house. With a little swing attached to one side, and a spiral staircase on the other?”

“I remember,” I said. “It took me hours.”

“I have that one,” Bullock said. “But not here. It’s a little too big for the shelves.”

I squeezed Angie into me. “We’re going to be okay,” I whispered to her. “I promise you.”

Bullock snorted, smiled. Trimble stepped around me and Angie so he could face Bullock head-on.

“Where’s Eddie?” Bullock asked. “You said on the phone that you didn’t have him with you. I specifically told you to bring him back here. I’m running this show now, so when I say jump, you’re supposed to jump. Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right, boss,” said Pockmark. “You’re the man.”

Bullock looked at his underling with the bad complexion and said, “Why don’t you go outside, do a walk of the place, make sure there’s no one around.”

Pockmark, almost cheerful, said, “Yeah, sure, I could do that.”

“Eddie was unable to join us,” Trimble said. “He figured he’d get treated better taking a leap down ten stories, rather than come here and face you.”

Bullock was stone-faced. “What are you telling me?”

“He jumped. He’s dead.”

Bullock leaned forward. “Jesus Christ on a saltine, are you shitting me?”

“No.”

“But you got the stuff, right? Before he jumped? You got the stuff?”

“There is no stuff. He sold it.”

Bullock was starting to hyperventilate, which sent him into a coughing fit. He drank a few sips from the nearly empty water bottle.

“Then you got the money. Tell me you got the fucking money.”

Trimble said, “Not exactly. He sold the shipment for a handful of magic beans to the Jamaicans. A hundred and fifty thou.”

“A hundred fifty?” Bullock was stone-faced no more. He was stunned. “He sold that for a hundred fifty? That would have kept half the junkies in this city happy for a year. A hundred fifty?”

“Yeah.”

Bullock made a fist and slammed it so hard onto the table that we all jumped, even Blondie. A pink display box featuring Malibu Barbie slipped off the shelf and hit the floor.

“Fuck!” Bullock screamed. And that set off yet another coughing fit. When he was done, he finished off the water bottle and tossed it into the garbage. Another guy who didn’t know how to recycle.

Somewhat calmed now, he said to Trimble, “So, you came back with the hundred fifty?”

Trimble paused. “No. I came back with around seven thousand, maybe not even that. I haven’t had a chance to count it yet.” He dug the envelope out of his pocket and tossed it onto Bullock’s desk.

Bullock stared at Trimble, apparently unable to believe what he was hearing. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“He put it in envelopes and mailed it to Rio. Some in the regular mail, some by courier.”

“He put the cash in the mail,” Bullock said. Even Blondie looked surprised.

Trimble nodded. “I guess he had a lot of faith in the postal system. Sent it to a bunch of five-star hotels in Rio, planned to go down there and pick it up. At least it could have been worse.”

Bullock cocked his head. “How do you think it could be worse?”

“Could have been you who paid nearly nine grand for that car at auction. At least it was Walker’s money that did that.” He glanced over at me, like maybe he thought he was scoring me a brownie point.

It didn’t appear as though Bullock saw this as any sort of silver lining. He didn’t look at me or Angie, but settled himself into his chair behind the desk, then glanced down and saw the Barbie box on the floor. He eyed it curiously, as if seeing it for the first time.

“I’m guessing Mr. Indigo’s not going to be very pleased about this,” Trimble said.

“Not pleased,” Bullock repeated. “Not pleased, you say? That’s very astute of you. Not pleased. Mr. Indigo will be disappointed, perhaps even miffed. But you know what he’ll be mostly?”

Trimble’s eyebrows went up a notch.

“He’ll be fucking apoplectic, that’s what he’ll be! And he’ll have someone else running this organization before daylight, that’s what he’ll do.”

Bullock shook his head with rage, and then his eyes landed on the Barbie box that had dropped to the floor. “Steve,” he said to Detective Trimble, his voice dripping with politeness, “would you please put that Barbie back up where it belongs?”

“Excuse me?” Trimble said.

“My Barbie box. Would you please put it back up on the shelf? I guess it fell when I lost my temper a moment ago.”

“You want me to put your Barbie back on the shelf.”

“That’s correct. I want to see if you’re good for anything this evening.”

I held on to Angie. This had a very bad feel to it.

“I think you’re closer,” Trimble told him. “Why don’t you do it.”

Blondie was looking very ill at ease, and wanted to try to defuse the situation. “I’ll get it,” he said.

“No!” Bullock shouted, and Blondie jumped back. “Did I ask you?”

“I was just trying to help.”

Pockmark strolled back into the room, quipped, “All quiet,” and, spotting the Malibu Barbie on the floor, quickly scooped it up and put it back on the shelf before Bullock could scream at him not to.

“Fuck,” said Bullock, and Pockmark looked at him, baffled, wondering why his action hadn’t rated a thank-you.

“What do you want from me?” Trimble said. “I help you out, I tip you off to things, I run your fucking errands. And you’ve done right by me, I’ll grant you that. And I’ve even stood by and done nothing when I find out you put my old partner in the hospital.”