Russell Andrews - Hades

And then Bruno said, "Wait a second. Go back to that golf thing. The club he plays at, it's in Westchester?"

Justin flipped through the papers on his desk. "Yup. In Westchester. Every afternoon at four."

"What's the name of the club?"

"Tilden," Justin said, glancing down to make sure he had it right.

"Tilden," Bruno repeated. And then he said, "I think we got our in."

"You want to explain this?" Justin said.

"The caddy master at Tilden. Good guy, nice guy. Name is Eddy Braniff. Never met a football spread he didn't like. Same for college hoops."

"Okay, so you know the caddy master, good for you."

"Hey, it's not like I go around socializin' with the guy. We don't go out for fuckin' high tea. The guy owes. And he owes big."

"How big?" Justin asked.

"Thirty-five grand."

Justin smiled and nodded. "I think we've got our in," he agreed.

H. R. Harmon was always surprised that golf was considered a morning game. What could be better than heading out on the links on a summer afternoon? The weather had usually cooled off; deer would flit across some of the expansive fairways; the timing was perfect, at the end of the round, to have an ice cold beer or, better yet, a tall gin and tonic. As usual, he thought, people had it all wrong. They did things backward. They went out when it was the hottest and most crowded because they were sheep. They were afraid to go against the norm. Frightened people making bad decisions. Even about something as simple and pleasurable as a game of golf.

H. R. smiled at the thought. And he realized his caddy thought he was smiling at him. Which wasn't the case. The caddy was kind of a screwup: couldn't find a ball on the second hole, told him to play a seven iron when he needed a six, was way off on the yardage on the fourth hole.

"You're new here," H. R. said.

"Yes, sir," the caddy said.

"Caddied around the area before?"

"Not so much," the caddy said. "It's kind of a new profession for me."

H. R. looked the caddy up and down. "A little old to be starting life as a caddy, don't you think?"

"Well, sir, it takes some people longer than others to find their lot in life."

Some lot, H. R. thought. Spend your whole life trying to figure out what to do and this is what you come up with-carrying around someone else's golf bag.

Frightened sheep, he thought.

H. R. teed off from the blue tees on the fifth hole. His Pro VI went about 220 yards down the right side of the fairway. H. R. still had good eyes, and he thought he saw the ball trickle into the right short rough. If he had a decent lie, he'd be in good shape. A solid rescue club knocked up toward the front of the green, a chip, and a one or two putt for a par or bogey. Easy. Except the caddy wasn't heading for his ball. The idiot was steering the cart off to the left, over toward the woods on that side.

"You gotta get yourself some glasses, son," H. R. said. "You're heading to the wrong side."

The caddy didn't respond, other than to step harder on the golf cart's accelerator. H. R. spoke louder, saying, "I'm on the other side of the fairway. You're going the wrong way!"

The caddy turned his head to look at his passenger.

"I don't think so," he said.

The woods were thick and shielded them from the open expanse of the rest of the golf course. Justin knew they couldn't stay there forever; at some point someone would come by. They had to move quickly.

As he slowed the golf cart to a stop, he saw H. R. Harmon's eyes widen as he saw the size of the man who was waiting for them in the woods.

"Thirty-five grand this cost me," Bruno said to Justin. "I can't fuckin' believe I let that little weasel skip out on the whole thirty-five grand."

"It's for a good cause," Justin said. "It'll help keep you from going to prison."

"Let's get this over with," Bruno said, "before I lose my temper."

"Whatever it is you boys are doing," H. R. said, "you're making a very big mistake. You're not going to get any money out of me. And people will be here very soon to see what's going on over here."

"We've got plenty of time, Senator," Justin said. "More than enough time, in fact. And we're not looking for money."

He saw H. R. flinch a bit at the word "senator." He realizes we know who he is, Justin thought. Always a little unnerving.

"Here's a cell phone," Justin said to H. R. "Call Lincoln Berdon and tell him you need to get together right away."

"What is this all about?" H. R. said gruffly. "I'm not going to do any such thing. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'll repeat it one more time," Justin said. "Call Lincon Berdon and set up a meeting for this evening. Tell him it's important."

"Go to hell," H. R. Harmon said and he began to yell out for help. Before a syllable could escape from his lips, Justin swung his elbow as hard as he could swing it into the aging ex-politician's mouth. A tooth flew out. And Harmon went down hard.

From his seat on the ground, a dazed Harmon spit out some blood, looked up and said, "You just made a big mistake."

"I'm afraid you're the one who made the mistake," Justin said. "My associate is not nearly as easygoing as I am."

Bruno now stepped over to the man on the ground and said, "Take one shoe off."

Harmon looked up, confused. "What?"

"Take one shoe off. It'll be a lot worse if I have to do it for you 'cause I'm already in a bad mood and I might take your whole fuckin' foot with it. Now take your goddamn shoe off."

Harmon reached down and untied his left, all-white golf shoe.

"Take your sock off," Bruno said.

Harmon did as he was told.

"Stand up," Bruno said, and Harmon pushed himself off the ground and stood up.

Bruno pulled out a pistol with a silencer on it. And now Justin could see that Harmon was afraid.

"He asked you twice, so I'm not gonna ask. I'm telling you. I'm gonna shoot one of your toes off. Then he's gonna ask you again. Each time you don't do what he says, I'll blow another one of your toes away. You won't die. But it'll hurt like hell. And I hope you don't mind the sight of blood."

"Wait," Harmon said.

"Too late," Bruno told him. He bent down, and before Harmon could react, Bruno put the end of the barrel against H. R. Harmon's pinky toe and pulled the trigger. There was a quiet pop and the toe disappeared in a spray of blood. The old man fell back down, in shock and enormous pain. Blood poured out of the end of his foot.

"Ask him again, Jay," Bruno said.

Justin stood over the onetime politician and said, "Call Lincoln Berdon and set up a meeting. Set it up for right now. Please." He held his cell phone down toward Harmon, who had, in the past five seconds, aged twenty years. His face had gone slack and his skin had turned pale.

"My foot," he groaned. "My foot…"

"Stand up again," Bruno told him.

"Give me the phone, give me the phone," Harmon said quickly. He reached up to grab it out of Justin's hand. He punched in the required numbers as quickly as he could manage. He was so rattled it took him three tries to get the sequence right.

Harmon reached Lincoln Berdon immediately, said there was an emergency and they had to meet. Said he couldn't discuss it over the phone. His voice was shaky but over the phone must have just sounded urgent. It worked. He hung up and nodded. He stared up at Justin and Bruno, overwhelmed by pain and the stunning realization that he was in a situation over which he had absolutely no control.

Bruno tossed a handkerchief in the air and it fluttered down to the dirt by Harmon's shaking hand. "Here," the big man said, "tie somethin' around that before you bleed to death." He looked over at Justin, saw the look Justin was giving him. "What?" Bruno said. "You got what you wanted, right? Now you think I gotta start touchin' people's feet? Fugettaboutit. He can fix his own fuckin' foot."