John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

Execution-style.

Those were the words the newscaster had used. Execution-style. What did that mean, anyway? That wasn’t the kind of term adlibbed by a good reporter. Terms like that come from police sources, sometimes before they’ve had a chance to develop the “approved” line on their statements to the press.

Denise tried to picture Nathan—whom she featured in her mind’s eye as much smaller than any real-life twelve-year-old—ordering two burly police officers up against some wall, their hands in the air, as he calmly and methodically shot them down like dogs. The image was so absurd as to be funny.

Even if he successfully shot one, how could he control the other? Handcuffs? Okay, so how does a kid get two grown men to sit still long enough to put cuffs on their wrists? For that matter, how could he get a gun away from a cop in the first place?

Something was terribly wrong with this picture. She picked up the phone and speed-dialed Enrique, who answered on the first ring.

“I just heard,” he said.

J. Daniel Petrelli heard the news before most, delivered by a Washington Post reporter looking for a juicy quote from a sleep-dumb prosecutor. Now, as he sped north in a state police helicopter, he couldn’t remember his exact reply, but he knew from the reporter’s voice that it had been disappointing, properly sprinkled with the right words and expressions. Politician that he was, Petrelli wielded words like “tragic” and “untimely” with consummate skill.

In the air, Petrelli made no effort to conceal his joy at this recent turn of events. After making him look like an idiot for the past two days, the media would finally see the wisdom of what he had been saying all along. In one swift act of amazing violence, the boy who had single-handedly threatened to scuttle his senatorial campaign now stood to make him look like the truly sage philosopher that he was.

Whoever this hayseed Murphy was, he jumped at Petrelli’s offer to provide assistance for the investigation. “I’ll take whatever help you can give me to put that demon back in his cage,” Murphy had said. Country lawmen, with their colorful language, always amused Petrelli. They said what was on their minds in the most direct and efficient language they could muster, no matter whose feelings were trampled. It was exactly the kind of venue he needed to rebuild his senatorial image.

Sammy Bell turned the knob so there’d be no noise as he closed the door to Mr. Slater’s office. He stood quietly, waiting to be recognized. In time, the old man looked up from his papers, but Sammy knew that he hadn’t been reading at all, just collecting his thoughts. They both knew what had to be said. For Mr. Slater, it would be a difficult thing, but for Sammy, it was a moment for which he’d been waiting a long time.

For nearly forty years, the old man had leaned on Sammy for everything, depended on him to enforce the rules on the street. If someone stepped out of line, Sammy would set them straight. Loyal lieutenant that he was, Sammy had even buried a few bodies along the way.

Mr. Slater had run the drug, protection, banking and prostitution trades in his chunk of D. C. for over four decades. Back in the fifties, the Schillaci family tried to muscle him out, but Mr. Slater had been able to negotiate an amicable treaty with the Italians by taking temporary custody of Schillaci’s daughter. The deal was finalized twenty minutes before Sammy was to have removed one of the girl’s ears and have it delivered to the Don’s headquarters.

Personally, Sammy had little patience for the Italians. Damn wops were a greasy, sleazy lot. But at least they had honor, and he admired that. So did Mr. Slater. In the years since their initial confrontation, Schillaci and Mr. Slater had run into each other quite a few times—inaugural balls, that sort of thing—and they’d become so civil over time that some observers thought they might actually have become friends.

Though separated in age by less than ten years, Sammy had always shown a paternal deference to Mr. Slater, who in turn doled out praise and criticism in the manner of a caring father. As the business grew and competitors came and went, only Sammy had chosen to stick exclusively with the old man, never once even dreaming about selling out. There was no such thing as loyalty anymore. Not even when the penalty was death.

They’d both hoped that Pointer would work out. He’d certainly shown the right signs, sticking in there and getting the job done despite his size and his girlish looks—the traits that led Sammy to turn the youngster away at first. But Pointer had begged and he made promises; looked like he might cry if Sammy didn’t give him a chance. In the end, Sammy caved in, and right away, things started to go to hell.

Pointer wasn’t content making deliveries and shuttling money. He wanted to be a hit man. That was the term he used—hit man. Like some dago thumb-breaker. When Sammy told him to quit watching movies and just do his job, Pointer went to Mr. Slater and delivered the same “please just give me a chance” speech. Like Sammy had done before, Mr. Slater bought it.

The day Lyle Pointer began collecting debts, he became the Hit Man, calling himself that on the street, and Mr. Slater loved it.

But Sammy saw through it right away. He couldn’t stand the son of a bitch. Pointer dressed like a pimp; like a fucking wop, all leather and gold. And his shoes. Half the time, Sammy swore the punk wore women’s shoes, barely as thick as a sheet of paper, and always made from the hide of some exotic reptile.

Think what he might, though, Sammy was more loyal than a seeing-eye dog, and if Mr. Slater wanted that sleazy punk representing him on the street—Lyle, for Chrissakes; who the fuck would name their child Lyle—well, then that’s what Mr. Slater would have.

Sammy hated the mean streak worst of all. Pointer’s love of plain cruelty—the pleasure he took from it—had gotten entirely out of hand the last couple of years, starting with that Donny Jackson fiasco. The nigger was just another punk; didn’t know the rules yet. You don’t slice off a kid’s face and burn his balls off for a fucking mistake. That shit was just sick. Scary sick shit.

But Mr. Slater liked it. He said it made him feel like the old days, when the city was afraid of him. The respect had always been there, but it made him feel good to be feared again. Made him feel young.

To Sammy, respect was just fine. After all, he was the one who’d earned that respect for the old man. But Sammy was getting too old to be looking over his shoulder every day. Plus he had grandkids now, and it was about time for him to start enjoying what was left of his life.

Too old. That really summed it all up. His business had always been about violence, but there used to be rules. Killing was a part of the business, but in the old days it was always a last resort, used to deliver a particular message to a particular person. These days, killing was just sport. The niggers on the street—hell, even the kids in the high schools—were just popping each other for grins. It never used to be like that.

And this business of killing kids for money, that was just plain fucking wrong. Made them look like animals; bumbling, incompetent animals at that. Sooner or later, the word would leak out that Mr. Slater was tied to this Nathan Bailey mess. When that happened, even the respect would be gone. They had to put a stop to this shit. They had to put a stop to Pointer.

Presently, as Mr. Slater looked up from his papers, he motioned Sammy into one of the well-padded guest chairs in front of the desk. As he accepted the offer and settled into the cushions, Sammy wondered just how many hours—no, how many years—of his life had been spent in one of these chairs.