Christopher Smith - Running of the bulls

The man was tall, thirtyish, masculine, built. Like the rest of them, he also was wearing a black suit because that’s how Carra rolled. In this case, he agreed with her. He loved a man in a suit. He loved it when he used to wear one. Wear the right clothes by the right designer and, if you could pull them off, doors opened for you.

“I’m going out for the night,” Wolfhagen said.

“No, you’re not.”

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out four checks he’d retrieved earlier from the checkbook buried deep in one of his bags. The goons drew closer. “Yes, I am.”

The hot one looked down at the checks. “You can’t bribe us, Mr. Wolfhagen.”

Wolfhagen knew better. “But I have $1 million for each of you.”

The hot one cocked an eyebrow at him. “Mrs. Wolfhagen pays us well. She offers nice, steady employment. Why don’t we just take the checks and shut the fuckin’ door in your face?”

“Because that would be cheating yourselves out of more,” Wolfhagen said. “And everyone wants more. It’s what the world is made of-craving more. Dying for more. Wanting to be more. And besides, I just want to go out for two hours. That’s all. Carra won’t know. I’ll be quick. When I return, each of you will receive another million for your trouble. And the secret stays with us.”

“Why do you need to go out?”

“Can’t say. Sorry. Lot’s of secrets, some going to my grave. But time is running out. Carra is a late night kind of gal, but let’s face it, she’s putting on the years and I doubt she can go as deeply into the night as she used to. So, to minimize risk, I need to leave now so I’m back here before she returns.”

He held out his hands and, as he did so, each man glanced down at the unsigned checks. Then, they looked at him. “All I need is one of your cars, a cell phone and two hours. That’s it. If you agree, I sign these checks alone in the car, give them to you and then I’m off.”

They all looked at each other.

And Wolfhagen’s shoulders sagged in frustration. “Oh, stop looking so tense, you big lugs-you’ll see me again. It’s all part of the goddamn plan.”

The car they offered was surprisingly sweet-a black Audi TT. He felt a little rush as he slipped into it. Snug yet comfortable. Beautifully appointed and made specifically for one’s lost youth. He couldn’t be sure yet, but he bet it was fast, which was perfect for his needs.

“Do you have a pen?” he asked.

The goons were waiting outside the car. The hot one reached into his jacket to retrieve a pen and, when he did, Wolfhagen saw his gun resting inside its holster beneath the folds of fabric.

“Can I borrow that?”

“Borrow what?”

“Your gun.”

“You’re not borrowing my gun.”

Wolfhagen started signing the checks on the steering wheel. “What are your names?”

They told him.

“Make sure they’re your real names.”

“They are.”

He signed each name with a flourish, then stopped at the last check. He looked at the hot one and wished he could reach out a hand to see if he was really packing. But that wouldn’t be good form. “$500,000 for the gun. That’s $250,000 per hour, plus the million I’m giving you now. Good money, if you ask me. It’ll put your kids through college.”

“I don’t have kids.”

“Then think of your wife.”

“I don’t have one of those, either.”

“Then you and I need to talk. Later. My bedroom. When it’s just the two of us and a harness.”

The man screwed up his face and the goons looked at each other. The tallest of them said in a low voice to the hot one, “If you don’t do it, I will.”

“Okay,” the hot one said. “Write the check for one five.”

“Of course.” He winked at him. “And what a business sense. You’ve got a head on your shoulders. I like that.” Wolfhagen filled out the amount and then, turning slightly to the window, he said: “First the gun.”

The man hesitated, but then he handed to him.

No stranger to a gun, Wolfhagen checked to see if it was loaded. It was. He gave the men their checks, rolled up the window so they couldn’t pull anything on him, cut into traffic and roared off to the very place he knew Carra would be.

It was Saturday night. She’d be at her version of The Bull Pen. The club he created all those years ago was back in operation and apparently thriving-the few people who remained friends with him during his awful fallout with the world were members of it. They told him that Carra and Lasker were there once per month on a Saturday night. Though they’d moved the club to a new building after the federal crack down, Carra and Lasker had kept it going in his absence, obviously for the money it brought in, but more likely for the connections it offered.

He wondered if they videotaped the crowd as he used to do. If they did, he wondered how many favors they were sitting on now.

The address he was given would take him to West 83rd Street, which told him all he needed to know. While the location had changed, what was happening inside that club hadn’t. These people needed their playtime, but they also needed to play in a location that was safe, upscale, unsuspecting and in which they could do anything they wished in complete privacy. Whether the club was extreme as it was when he ran it was doubtful-Carra was a conservative little cunt. But she also was bright and he knew she wouldn’t be stupid enough to tamper with what once had worked so well.

The Bull Pen offered certain expectations.

Tonight, it would see those expectations lifted when he himself murdered Carra and Lasker in front of those who were there. Some would get off on it. Others would wonder why they did. And a few would be repelled.

That is, of course, if anyone was there. It wasn’t even 11 p.m. yet. It might be that only a few stragglers would enjoy the show, because like most of the darker clubs in New York, few got started before 3 a.m., which was just fine with Wolfhagen. In this case, the fewer people, the better.

To pull this off, he needed help. And so he took the cell phone the goons had given him and tapped out a number. As the line rang, he rolled down the window and sped uptown, the warm breeze stirring his hair. In the distance, he could see the orange, fiery glow hovering above the city’s Upper East Side.

When it came to murder, Wolfhagen had the best help in the city.

10:42 p.m.

For Carmen and Spocatti, time was smashed by the chaos of what they’d created.

With the clock running against them, they now needed to beat the media, who soon would go public with connections that had become so obvious, it would start what they feared all along-a running of the bulls as Wolfhagen’s former bulls left the city.

And when that happened, it would prevent them from finishing their job and collecting the millions in bonuses that came along with it.

And so they moved. They had their distraction. There were people to kill. No time to lose.

They were now four blocks east of 75th and Fifth, where the Escalade ignited and leveled the buildings surrounding it. With only a fleeting exception, they hadn’t stopped running until now, when Spocatti slowed beside a car Carmen didn’t recognize and popped the trunk.

Sirens sounded everywhere. The night was so heavy with humidity, the smoke from the explosions hung low, choking the air.

Carmen looked at the end of 75th and Fifth, where buildings had fallen into the streets. Fires were burning. Helicopters circling. People were rushing past her and toward the damage in an effort to help those likely trapped beneath the rubble.

She was aware of people screaming. She was aware of her own heart racing. She kept hearing the word “terrorists” being shouted in a cacophony of fear and outrage. She watched Spocatti click the cap off his video camera and offer Wolfhagen a final shot of the devastation. Right now, he was everything she wasn’t. He was an automaton. He was cool. He was composed.