Brian Freeman - Stripped

“Give it to me,” Boni said.

Stride extended a hand, and Boni snatched it away. He stuthed the envelope, which was yellowed and looked to be more than a decade old. It bore the logo from Rucci’s quicklube business. Boni yanked the letter out from inside and unfolded it.

“This is a copy,” he said.

“The original is in a lawyer’s office outside the city,” Stride said. “Just in case.”

Boni started reading it. Stride knew how it began.

Gino ,

If you’re reading this, it means Yve croaked. Hope it was quick, you know? Bullet to the brain, that’s the way to go. Or maybe a heart attack while I was doing some blonde. Listen, kid, Yve got a few secrets from the old days. When me and Boni were on top of the world. You share any of this to anybody, so help me God, I’llcome back from the grave and kick your ass. If you get into trouble, call Boni. He’ll help you, no questions asked. But if Boni’s not around, there’s somebody else to call. His name’s Mickey …

They waited while Bonifinishedthe letter. Stride saw his hand was trembling. The rosy flush in his old face drained away until he looked fragile and pale. When he was done, he looked up, his eyes vacant, his mind hard at work. Looking for a way out. An escape. A way to turn it back.

“This won’t ever stand up in court,” he said. “You can’t touch either of us.”

Stride nodded. “True enough. But it’s plenty for the press. And the voters.”

Boni chewed on this thought. He knew they were right.

“You’ll go down, too,” Boni said. “The information about Rachel Deese will come out. It will be war. You’ll be destroyed.”

“We’ll take thatrisk,”Serena said.

“We’re a lot closer to the ground, so it doesn’t hurt as much when we fall,” Stride added.

He watched Boni taking their measure, assessing the steel in their eyes. It was a game of poker, and both of them stared back without blinking, daring him to call. This was the moment where it all rose or fell, Stride knew. He knew Boni couldn’t believe that he had been outsmarted, that he might actually play and lose. He had built his empire for half a century, and just like that, in the space of a few seconds, it would be gone.

Stride realized he was holding his breath. Waiting.

There was only one thing Boni could do. Fight. That was the nuclear option. Destroy all of them on the way down. Stride hoped the old man was too shrewd for mutual annihilation.

“What do you want?” Boni asked quietly.

Stride kept the relief off his face. His expression was stone. “The governor resigns. You give up control of your company.”

“Give up control? To who?”

“To Claire,” Serena said.

Stride hoped that Serena was right and Claire would agree to take over.

“The empire stays in the family,” Stride explained. “You’re out, Claire’s in.”

“This is bullshit,” Durand burst out from across the room. “Kill them, Boni. They disappear, this goes away.”

Stride shook his head. “If we disappear, this letter goes to the press.”

Boni had a look of admiration on his face, as if he appreciated how they had played the game. “Nicely done, Detectives. It’s a good plan. You’re not suggesting I go in the Black Book, are you?”

“No, not at all. This is clean and simple. You’re giving up the Orient project to someone younger, who can see it all the way through. Someone you trust. It may not be justice, but it’s closer than we’d get in court. And if you live long enough, you still get to see your last dream realized.” He hoped Boni didn’t realize that the whole point was not to make any of this public. To get it all done in private. Before questions started getting asked.

To get Durand out of office. That was the main thing.

Durand saw it, too. “Boni, you’re not buying this, are you? These two are nothing. We can beat them.”

“Shut up, Mickey.”

Durand’s tan face grew red with rage. “Don’t you talk to me like that, old man. I could have brought you down any time I wanted. We are not going to give in to these fucking cops.”

“You’ve forgotten who’s really got the power, Mickey. I pull the strings. You dance.”

“No, we both dance. I’m not resigning.”

“The only reason you stay alive is because I want you where you are. Think about that.”

“You need me,” Durand shouted. “You’re nothing without me.”

“Tomorrow you’ll release a statement,” Boni replied calmly. “You’re resigning immediately and quitting the campaign because of a serious knee injury. It’s left you incapacitated and unable to perform your duties.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Durand said. “What knee injury?”

Boni reached into the right-hand pocket of his coat and extracted a gun barely larger than his hand. In one smooth motion, he aimed and fired perfectly, not flinching at the explosion, drilling a bullet through the ball of Durand’s kneecap. “That one,” he said.

Durand screeched in agony and lurched forward, toppling to the ground.

Boni held up his hand and stopped Stride, who was reaching for his own gun. “It’s over, Detective.” He slid the gun back into his pocket. “That was for Claire and Amira.”

Stride and Serena both recoiled as Durand wailed, rolling on the floor, grabbing his leg and crying like a baby animal caught in the claws of a crow. Blood seeped through his fingers. The pain was monstrous, and the horrible look in the man’s eyes begged for unconsciousness. For death. For any-thing that would make it stop.

Stride felt frozen, as if he should do something to intervene. He looked for a phone to dial 911 but realized there was no phone in the room. He glanced at Serena, who was looking back at him. The seconds stretched out. Their hearts hardened. He realized he had no sympathy at all for Mickey Durand.

Violence was part of the city, Stride realized. Part of the immoral world.

Boni didn’t even look at Durand. “Don’t worry, I’ll get my doctor here in a few minutes. He’ll live.”

He reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. He handed the paper to Serena. “This is Claire’s number in St. Thomas. You can tell her she’s in charge if she wants it. I won’t go to the ceremony next week, but I figure you won’t mind if I watch from up here as she blows up my hotel.”

When they visited Nicholas Humphrey the next morning, the retired detective was in a deck chair on his lawn, still wearing his green terrycloth robe. He had furry slippers lying near him in the grass. His decades-long lover, Harvey Washington, was in a matching chair next to him. The two men were holding hands. It was strangely sweet.

Their little Westie was a blur of white motion, running around the chairs and stopping long enough to roll over to be petted. Humphrey and Washington took turns rubbing the dog’s belly with their feet. The noon sun made the shabby neighborhood around them look bright. A small airplane whined overhead, floatingthrough the blue sky.

Humphrey waved as Stride and Serena climbed the driveway. The sour detective looked happy this morning, as if a long-overdue debt had been paid.

“Heard it on the radio,” he called to them. “I can’t believe you actually pulled it off.”

Stride nodded. “It may not be prison, but for Boni, it may even be worse not to be calling the shots anymore.”

“And our governor? How did he take the news?”

“He wasn’t kidding about a knee injury.” Stride explained what had happened in Boni’s suite, and both older men winced, hearing how Boni had calmly shot Durand.