Scott Nicholson - Liquid fear

“So she started screwing for money?”

“You don’t understand. This isn’t about sex or pleasure or reward of any kind. In her pornography work, she doesn’t display any enthusiasm.”

Kleingarten recalled the disgusting scene in Patti Cake Patti Cake where two men and a woman had rubbed chocolate batter all over Anita’s body and licked half of it off while plugging every hole in her body with different kitchen implements. Anita had uttered a few grunts and groans, although she might just as well have been complaining about a headache. But she went through the motions just fine and everybody got their money shots.

“No, Mr. Drummond, to Anita, it’s all about acceptance. She is an exhibitionist because she expects to be rejected. She was a model who took her clothes off because her body was the one thing that no one rejected.”

“She’s sweet stuff, all right,” Kleingarten said, then laid out his bait: “But the Sla-I mean, Wendy Leng-she’s a lot hotter.”

Briggs glared at him, and then glanced at the nude charcoal drawing. “Wendy’s beauty radiates from the inside. She has the soul of an artist.”

Kleingarten wondered why Briggs simply didn’t have him just kidnap the Slant, drug her, and then tie her up in one of those cells where he could work his magic.

This game was getting way more complicated than the pay was worth. Still, it was tax-free, and if not for this gig, Kleingarten would probably be working as a bodyguard for some rich-kid drug dealer.

Movement on one of the corner monitors caught his eye. “What’s that?”

Briggs huddled over the keyboard and clacked until the camera zoomed in. The monitor showed the outside perimeter of the lot, and a guy in a jogging suit was huffing and blowing, moving through the pine trees on a narrow trail that followed a creek.

“Penetration,” Briggs said.

“Is that one of your people?”

“I don’t have any ‘people.’ Except you.”

Kleingarten wanted to lecture the egghead for a change, tell him that you didn’t go engaging in double-crosses and setups unless you had a few layers of insulation. Instead, he touched the 9mm in his shoulder holster. “Guy must not be able to read. He just ran past a ‘No Trespassing’ sign.”

“And the gate closed after you came through?”

“That’s what you told me to check, right?”

“It’s probably nothing.”

Some egghead. The way Kleingarten did math, probability was measured on a scale between “Dead certainty” and “Don’t take the chance.”

“Want me to check it out for you?”

“Okay, but act like you’re a security guard patrolling the property. Don’t make him suspicious. I’ll unlock the back door.”

Briggs bent over his series of switches and buttons, hitting a couple.

Kleingarten wended through a series of wenches with hooked cables, once used for lifting motors, until he came to the emergency exit. The inside of the door had no handle, which probably worked great at keeping factory workers from playing hooky back in the old days.

He oriented himself to determine the location of the jogger and began strolling as if he were a bored plainclothes guard. Most real security guards wore little uniforms to make them feel good and to intimidate those who equated a brass badge with authority. Kleingarten had a few like the campus-cop uniform hanging in his closet back home, but today he’d just have to fake it.

The spring air was crisp but not cold, and pine needles squeaked under his new leather shoes. He reached the creek, which was little more than a drainage ditch with a slimy green trickle of fluid ruining through it. A path meandered parallel to it, probably used by the wildlife that was fenced in on the twenty-acre compound, unaware they were imprisoned.

Kleingarten transferred the 9mm to his jacket pocket in case he needed a quick response. By his calculations, the jogger should be visible between the corrugated brown tree trunks any moment now.

After an enforced casual stroll of more than a minute, Kleingarten was antsy. Ease up. The guy probably was winded and needed to catch his breath.

Yeah, and he also accidentally climbed over a ten-foot fence topped with barbed wire.

Kleingarten gave it another minute, picking up his pace, before he decided to hustle back to the Monkey House. He reconstructed the image of the jogger in his mind, searching for possible clues. The man wore one of those hooded gray tops, a little baggy, so he could be packing. His jogging pants were the faggoty, snug sateen kind with no bulges in the wrong places, so no weapons were stuffed in there.

He was a little out of breath by the time he’d looped back through the trees, leaving the path so he could take cover. The jogger was standing outside the back door, running in place, the way those adrenaline junkies did when they were punishing themselves for taking a little break.

Kleingarten wasn’t sure how to play it. If he let the guy run away, then Kleingarten would have to give chase, and his feet were already killing him. Best-case scenario, he’d get the guy’s car tags, but if the jogger was a pro, the plate would be stolen or forged anyway.

Option Two was to see if the guy tried to break in, which meant he knew a little something, but probably not enough, or else he would have taken a different avenue into the factory. Like maybe getting a job like Kleingarten did, asking around, doing a little research.

No, this guy knew just enough to be dumb. And therefore he was dangerous.

On the other hand, the guy could be on the Home Team, paid by the same handlers as Kleingarten, except without Briggs’s knowledge. That made the most sense, because somebody obviously had a lot invested in the Monkey House. And if that investment was riding on a wild card like Briggs, it was good business to see which other cards were in the hand or up the sleeve.

Okay, so we play it “pro to pro.” That will cut the bullshit about me having to pretend to be a security guard and him having to pretend to be a lost jogger.

Kleingarten emerged from the woods. “Howdy,” he said, trying to sound like a dumb-ass Southerner instead of a California ex-con.

The jogger quit with the leg-pumping-in-place and let out an exhausted pant. “Hey. I was running through the woods and saw this old building. What was it, a school?”

Yeah, right, a school that only has windows thirty feet above the ground.

“Nah.” Kleingarten kept approaching, steadily, the nine in his palm but still tucked into the jacket pocket. “It’s a secret research lab.”

The jogger gave a “just guys” grin and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Ha, that’s a good one. Like on that TV show, Twenty-Four, right? Kiefer Sutherland?”

“Yeah, just like that.” Kleingarten had never seen the show, but it sounded stupid as shit.

A drop of sweat slid down the jogger’s nose and dangled at the tip. “Nice day to be outside, huh?”

“Nice day to be on private property.”

The jogger frowned. “CRO?”

“Hell, no,” Kleingarten lied. “I’m with the Feds.”

“Then you shouldn’t know this is a secret research lab.”

“And neither should you, I reckon.”

The man made his move then-or maybe he was just reaching up to wipe that itchy drop of sweat from his nose-and Kleingarten reacted at the first twitch. If he was a Fed, he was poorly trained, and if he was a lone op like Kleingarten, he wasn’t cut out for the job anyway.

Kleingarten had his nine out and smoking in less than a second, and the jogger gave a girlish squeal as blooms of red erupted on his chest.

Kleingarten knelt over the corpse, wondering what sort of gun the amateur was carrying in the pouch of his hoodie. Probably a. 357 Magnum. That’s what guys pack when they watch too much TV.