Brian Haig - President's assassin

"Well, that's not good."

She stopped laughing. "What ain't good?"

"You have to understand, the law gives idiots all the breaks. Like, the stupider you are, the less guilt you bear. You've got to balance that out."

"Yeah? How?"

"Maybe show you had a stab of conscience. Do something good to outweigh the bad. Remember, you only have to look slightly better in comparison to them." I added, quite sincerely, "That's not hard, is it?"

She studied me a moment. She said, "Like I should let you live? That's what yer edgin' at, right?"

"Not at all." After a moment, I added, "Well, obviously it wouldn't hurt."

"Uh-huh. And you'd say nice things about me?"

"It's a little late to make you sound like a saint. I'd be as complimentary as circumstances allow."

She said, "Go back to that turn I showed you."

"Sure." I asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"Don't know yet. Gotta think about it."

Neither she nor I said a word the rest of our way. I had planted the seed, and either it would sprout or I was screwed.

I made the turn into the complex, then two rights and then a left, and we ended up in a tight cul-de-sac, where I pulled into a space right beside Hank's red pickup. Clyde's black pickup was nowhere in sight.

MaryLou hung a cloth over her pistol and ordered me out of the truck. We looked a little suspicious walking up the sidewalk, me in my underpants, her three paces behind me with her right arm locked. But the neighborhood was run-down and decrepit, and neighbors probably tended to mind their own business.

We entered a two-floored colonial-style townhouse, and I was directed down a narrow hallway that led into the sparsely furnished living room. I observed a small TV, a foldable card table, and some plastic outdoor furniture; otherwise, the place was bare. Martha Stewart would have a fit.

Hank stood off to our left, in the efficiency kitchen. He was a bit older than I expected, maybe fifty, dark-haired, slack-jawed, sugar-sabotaged teeth, and there was sullen dullness in his dark eyes, like somebody forgot to turn on the lights inside his skull. He was just knocking off a Bud; he tipped, it at MaryLou and said, "Hey"

"Hey," she replied.

"Him?" he commented, directing the beer can at me.

"Him," replied MaryLou, which seemed to end their monosyllabic discussion.

Incidentally, seated in a chair in the middle of the living room was a guy with his hands tied behind his back, with a black gag taped around his mouth, and with a face I instantly recognized: Jason Barnes.

Hank put down his beer, grabbed a knife and coil of rope off the counter, approached me, and swiftly tied my hands behind my back. Next he drew black tape across my lips, as MaryLou pushed another outdoor chair into the center of the living room. Without a hint of gentleness, Hank shoved me toward and then into it. He then tied the rope around my hands to a rear chair leg, and my feet to a front leg.

Hank was quick and strong, with a sailor's dexterity with knots. Probably he had worked with cattle at some point in his life, and it showed. The bonds were so tight I would have gangrene within the hour.

But it was interesting, I thought, that MaryLou failed to inform him that their identities were now known to the cops, or that her, his, and Clyde's asses might be a little exposed.

Maybe she was worried that Hank might fly off the handle. Or maybe she didn't care what Hank thought. Or maybe Mary-Lou did care and was preserving her edge.

I noted Jason's gray eyes following me throughout this drill. I was surprised to observe that he did not look at all like a crazed dog or even a schizoid nut. In fact, he looked like a perfectly ordinary guy in an utterly helpless state, a little afraid, monumentally befuddled, and more than a little curious about the new guest.

It further struck me that Jennie had been right about what was happening here-as she had been right about so many other matters in this convoluted case.

As they are wont to do, the thieves had had a falling-out. The Texans wanted their money now, Jason still frothed for blood, and the odd man found himself out, with a mutiny on his hands. I wondered, though, why the captain of this ship hadn't been forced to walk the gangplank in the venerable tradition. Why keep this guy alive? The Texans had the money, the killing was over-or nearly over, I reminded myself-and I couldn't see how Jason was still useful to them.

Then I recalled MaryLou informing me that her cut was about twelve million. Divide fifty million four ways, and it sounded like Jason was still getting his share. Honor among thieves? Why was I having trouble believing that?

MaryLou said to Hank, "C'mon, let's git packed and ready to split."

"Okay."

For the next fifteen minutes I could hear the sounds of Hank and MaryLou opening closets and drawers and throwing clothes into suitcases. Jason sat quietly beside me, breathing easily, apparently bored out of his mind.

Then the front door opened and a guy walked in. He was about my size, dark hair sprinkled with gray a broad, hard-looking face, thick nose, and mean eyes.

He looked at Jason, then at me, and yelled, "Hey, what the hell we got here? MaryLou, you sneakin' men in here behind my back?"

From the bedroom, MaryLou yelled, "Damn it, Big Daddy, you took yer damned time."

"Traffic," he yelled. "Seems like some crooked people did a bad thing somewheres, and the cops shut down a buncha roads." He laughed. "Ain't that some bullshit?"

Dressed in only her panties and bra, MaryLou came traipsing down the hallway, straight toward Clyde, then into his arms. He lifted her off the floor with his hands on her butt and they kissed for a long time. Uh-oh. Maybe she and Clyde were closer than she'd let on.

Clyde said to her, "Well, baby, you'n me are now rich as shit. What'd I’d tellya, huh?"

"You said it jus' right, Big Daddy."

He laughed. "Tol' you we should take the deal."

She leaned away from him and said, "Only we got a big problem we din't figure on."

"How's that?"

She pointed at me and said, "That asshole there. Said the cops got you ID'd already Said they know all about the weapons we stole." Shit. I was hearing the sounds of my best-laid plans falling apart. Actually, my only plans.

Clyde asked, "He said that?"

"Yep. Also said a buncha cops are runnin' 'round Killeen dig-gin' up our histories."

Clyde stared at her a moment. He appeared at first astonished, then his mood shifted and his face turned dark. He looked at me. "Yer sure he wasn't jus' bullshittin' ya? MaryLou-y'know all them lawyers lie."

She laughed.

He said, "Seriously, baby."

"It ain't bullshit, Clyde. He knew way too much."

Clyde crossed the floor. He ended up directly to my front, sort of looking down and studying me. He said to MaryLou, "I don't like the sound of this, baby. We shoulda learned about that"

She crossed her arms and said, "You got it. That's what I'm wonderin'."

I was really interested in this conversation, and Clyde had his lips open to say something I was sure was going to be really interesting, but before he got a word out, the front door blew right off the hinges with a loud boom. At almost the same instant, the glass doors to the porch exploded inward, showering us with glass.

MaryLou screamed. For a fraction of an instant, she and Clyde stared at each other, mesmerized. Then they came to their senses and immediately spun and dashed for the bedrooms.

Instinctively I tipped my chair sideways and toppled over, ending up on the floor. The room filled with smoke and dust and stunk of cordite. Then, through the smoke I saw a squad of men in dark pants, dark shirts, bulletproof armor, and black helmets rushing from the front door, and more pouring through the now gaping rear porch entrance. Hopefully somebody had remembered to brief the cavalry that we weren't all Indians in here.