Joseph Finder - Power Play

He stopped in the middle of the room, looked around with beady dark eyes, then approached the dining table.

"Man oh man," he said. "What do we got here?" His teeth were tobacco-stained.

Lampack folded his arms. "Private party, friend. Sorry."

"Party?" the hunter said. "Jeez Louise, don't it look like a party, though. Ain't you gonna invite me in?"

He spoke with a Deep South accent so broad and drawling he sounded like a hillbilly, some backwoods rube. But there was something cold in his gaze.

He took a few steps toward the sideboard, where some of the serving dishes had been placed, his brown smile wider, greedy black eyes staring. "Christ, will you look at that spread."

"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to leave," Lampack said. "Let's not have any trouble."

"Chill, Bo," warned Bross quietly. "Guy's probably drunk."

The hunter approached the table, arms wide as if awed by the opulence of the spread. "Man, looky here. Christ on crutches, look at all this food."

He shoved Ron Slattery aside and grabbed a partridge right off his plate with grimy hands. Slattery's eyeglasses went flying. Then the intruder stuffed the partridge whole into his mouth and chewed openmouthed. "Damn, that game bird's good," he said, his words muffled by the food. "No buckshot in it, neither. Do I taste a hint of garlic?"

Grabbing Danziger's wineglass, he gulped it down like Kool-Aid, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Mmm-mmm! Even better than Thunderbird."

Hank Bodine said, "All right, fella. Why don't you just go back to your hunting party, okay? This is a private lodge."

Bo Lampack folded his arms across his chest. "If you're hungry, I'm sure we can get you some food from the kitchen."

The giant leaned over the table, reached for Cheryl's plate. He dug his soiled stubby fingers into the mound of porcini-potato gratin.

"Oh, God," Cheryl said in disgust, closing her eyes.

"Mashed potatoes, huh?" He made a shovel out of his forefingers, scooped up a wad, and eyed it suspiciously.

"The hell's all these black specks doing in it? I think the potato mush is rotten, folks. Don't eat it." He cackled, crammed it into his mouth. "Not half-bad, though. Dee-licious."

"Where the hell is the manager?" Cheryl said.

From the far end of the table, Clive Rylance said, "All right, mate, just get on your way, now there's a good fellow. This is a private dinner, and I'm afraid you're outnumbered."

Inwardly I groaned. Outnumbered. Not the right thing to say. The hunter gave Clive a stony look. Then a slow grin.

"You a Brit, huh? Limey?" He leaned over between me and Upton Barlow, jostling us aside. He smelled of chewing tobacco and rancid sweat. Grabbing a crepe from Barlow's plate, he said, "You folks eat flapjacks for supper, too? I love flapjacks for supper." Then he took a bite, immediately spit it out onto the tablecloth. "Nasty! Jee-zus, that ain't syrup, that for damned sure."

Barlow's face colored. He pursed his lips, exasperated.

"Will someone get the manager already?" Cheryl shouted. "My God, are you men just going to sit here?"

"You folks having fun? Celebrating something, maybe? Way out here, middle of nowhere?"

Another door slammed. It sounded like it came from somewhere in the back of the lodge.

A second man now entered the great room from a side hallway. This one was maybe ten years younger, also tall and bulky. He, too, wore a camouflage outfit, only the sleeves of his shirt had been sloppily ripped off, exposing biceps like ham hocks, covered in tattoos. His undersized head was shaved on the sides, a blond thatch on top. He had a big, blank face and a small, bristly blond mustache.

"Wayne," the first hunter called out, "you ain't gonna believe what kinda situation we just lucked into."

The second one smiled, his teeth tiny and pointed. His eyes scanned the table.

"Get your butt over here, Wayne, and try one of these here game birds. But stay away from the pancakes. They're nasty."

"Bo," Cheryl said, "would you please get Paul Fecher right this instant?" Cheryl said. "We've got the cast of Deliverance here, and the man's nowhere in sight."

Obviously she didn't see what it meant that the manager still hadn't emerged. When the waiter had spilled wine on Barlow, he'd popped out of the kitchen like a jack-in-the-box. He had to have heard this commotion; the fact that he wasn't here meant that something was very wrong.

"We don't need to shoot no deer," the goateed hunter said. "Never liked venison anyway."

Bo, relieved to get out of there, ran toward the kitchen.

"Hey!" the goateed guy shouted after him.

With a shrug, he turned to his comrade. "Wait'll he meets Verne."

The blond guy snickered.

Bodine rose slowly. "That's enough," he said.

I whispered, "Hank, don't."

The goateed giant looked up at Bodine, and said, "Sit down."

But Bodine didn't obey. He walked down the length of the table slowly, shaking his head: the big man in charge. He could have been running a staff meeting, that was how confidently he asserted his authority.

"Back to your seat, there, boss man."

As Bodine passed me I reached out and grabbed his knee. "Hank," I whispered, "don't mess with this guy."

Bodine slapped my hand away and kept going, a man on a mission.

Lummis muttered to Barlow, "Gotta be a hunting party that got lost in the woods."

"We're in a game preserve," Barlow replied, just as quietly. "Great Bear Preserve. Hunting's against the law."

"I don't think these guys care about the law," I said.

Bodine stood maybe six feet away from the black-haired guy, his feet planted wide apart, hands on his hips, obviously trying to intimidate him.

"All right, fella, fun's over," Bodine said. "Move on."

The goateed guy looked up from the food and snarled, mouth full, "Siddown."

"If you and your buddy aren't out of here in the next sixty seconds, we're going to call the police." Bodine glanced over at the rest of us. He was playing to the crowd. This was a man used to being obeyed, and there really was something about the sonorous authority of his voice that made most people want to do whatever he told them to do.

But the black-haired hunter just furrowed his heavy brow and gave Bodine a satanic smile. "The po-lice," he said, and he cackled. "That's a good one." Then he looked over at his comrade, potato mush on either side of his mouth. "You hear that, Wayne? He gonna call the po-lice."

The second intruder spoke for the first time. "Don't think so," he said in a strangely high voice. His eyes flitted back and forth. His arms dangled at his side, too short for his bulky torso.

Everyone had gone quiet, staring with frightened fascination, as if watching a horror movie. I said, "Hank, come on."

Without even looking at me, he extended his right arm and waggled his index finger dismissively in my direction, telling me without words, Stay out of this. None of your business.

From the kitchen came a cry. A man's voice.

I saw the realization dawn on people's faces.

Bodine moved just inches away from the goateed man. He was doing what he must have done hundreds of times: invading an adversary's personal space, intimidating him with his height, his stentorian voice, his commanding presence. It always worked, but right now it didn't seem to be working at all.

"Let me tell you something, friend," Bodine said. "You are making a serious mistake. Now, I'm going to do you a favor and pretend none of this happened. I'm giving you an opportunity to move on, and I suggest you take it. It's a no-brainer."

Suddenly the man pulled something shiny and metal from his vest: a stainless-steel revolver. The table erupted in panicked screams.

He took the weapon by the barrel, and slammed the grip against the side of Bodine's face. It made an audible crunch.