Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

“Do you know what damn time it is?” Jeffers sounded groggy and annoyed.

“Mr. Jeffers, this is Charlie Swift.”

“Swift.” He was putting the name through his brain, and I heard him suck in a big gulp of breath when he figured it out. “Holy shit, pal. Where’ve you been?”

“I got held up. When can I bring over the stuff you wanted?”

“Now. Bring them now.”

“Can’t. How about noon?”

“For crying out loud, Swift. Beggar’s having a shit fit.”

“Sorry. Noon?”

“Noon. Yeah. Okay, noon. You know where I live?”

“I know.” I hung up before he could figure out a way to give me trouble.

I drove to Heathrow and parked about half a block down from Jeffers’s place, close enough to watch. Nobody came or went. Good. Jeffers wasn’t expecting me until noon, so I was pretty sure I could catch him with his panties down at the breakfast table. I didn’t want to give him time to arrange a reception for me.

I had a dim, feeble notion of the bare bones of a plan knocking around in my head. I’d get ahold of Jeffers and make him tell me about those ledgers, about Beggar, about Stan and Jimmy Hoffa and Bigfoot and anything else I could get out of him. I didn’t have the time or the temperament to be subtle.

I explored my side with my fingers. It was tender, but I didn’t think it was infected. I’d need to change the bandage the next time I had a chance. I checked my.38, then slipped it back in the belly holster. And I still had the listening equipment Stan had wanted me to use to eavesdrop on his meeting with Beggar.

Now I just had to wait for the sun.

I snapped awake. The glow of morning spread orange over Heathrow, reflected brightly in the windows of the houses up and down the street. My stomach was coffee sour, so I fished one of Marcie’s rolls out of my pocket and ate it.

I got out of my car, rubbed my eyes, and headed for Jeffers’s front door. It occurred to me as I knocked that I wasn’t nervous. Maybe I was too tired, too sore from sleeping in the car, too God damn wrung out to be nervous.

A woman answered. She was lean, black hair bobbed at the ears, thick dark lips, nose pointed and predatory. She held a white cotton robe together with one hand and looked at me like I had a lot of nerve knocking her awake at the crack of dawn.

“Yes?”

“I’m here to see Jeffers.” I pushed past her into the house.

“Wait, you can’t just-” She padded after me, bare feet slapping against tile. “Alan!”

She shouted toward the kitchen, so that’s where I went.

Jeffers was at the kitchen table, a half-eaten slice of toast in his fingers. “Tina, it’s too early to be screaming all over the house for- oh, hell.”

He saw me and froze.

“I’m Charlie Swift.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve busting in here like this. I have a good mind to-”

“Shut up. We need to talk.”

He huffed and puffed a little. Tina stood in the doorway behind me, waiting to see what happened.

“You weren’t supposed to be here until noon,” said Jeffers. “I’m not ready for you yet.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Do you have the ledgers?”

“No.”

Jeffers frowned, then just looked confused. “What the hell’s the point then?”

“Is there someplace we can talk?” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder at the woman. “Without your wife listening?”

“That’s not my wife. My wife lives in Boca.” He looked past me to her. “Tina, go get dressed why don’t you?” He stood, motioned for me to follow. “We can talk in my office, Swift.”

His office was a big, modern glass and mirrors room with electronic everything and a view of his pool in the backyard. It glittered crystal blue in the cool morning air. He sat behind the metallic bunker he called a desk, steepled his hands like he was considering my loan application, and waited for me to speak.

“I need some answers, Jeffers. And I need them without a lot of smart-guy double talk.”

Jeffers raised an eyebrow. “I think you have it backwards, pal. It’s you who’d better start explaining.”

I started feeling all hot up through my face.

“Beggar’s not happy,” continued Jeffers. “He wants to know where his ledgers are and why they weren’t delivered on time. He’s not a patient man.”

“I’m not so patient myself these days.”

“Now, really, Swift, I don’t think you understand who you’re dealing with here.”

I was across the desk quick and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, hauled him out of his seat. His eyes bulged. A little yelp of terror got stuck in his throat. I yanked him about halfway across. Pens and pencils scattered. A calculating machine flew to the floor. My teeth and jaw were set. I tried to make sure I looked like I felt. Mad.

“Are you crazy?” said Jeffers. He pried feebly at my hands, trying to pull away, trying to get back behind the safety of his desk.

“Maybe.”

“You’re digging your own grave, you fool. I work for Beggar Johnson.”

“I’m getting a little sick of everybody saying that name like he’s Jehovah. I want to know where my boss is right now. What happened to him?”

“Who?”

“Stan, you fucking pencil-neck. Where is he?”

“How the hell should I know?” Jeffers was too scared to lie. “I’m not involved with that end of Beggar’s operation.”

“You are now. You’re down in the dirt with the rest of us.”

“Please,” Jeffers whined. “Let me go, will you? Let me go, and I’ll explain.”

I held him with a hard stare for a moment, nailed him to the desk with my eyes. I let him go, but I remained standing and close to the desk.

He was shaking a little. He opened a cabinet behind the desk, and my hand drifted into my coat and hovered over the revolver in case he was reaching for something dangerous. He came out with a bottle of Ballentine’s and a tumbler. He held up the glass and cocked an eyebrow.

I shook my head.

He filled the glass three fingers’ full, shot it back, and filled the glass again. He exhaled raggedly, calmed down some. He contemplated the bottom of his glass like he might find some answers there.

“You said you’d explain,” I reminded him. “Start talking.”

“Okay. Right.” He nodded. “Sure.” He looked back at the bottle of booze, thought about it a second, then shook his head.

“Like I told you, I don’t see the nasty end of the business. I handle the money. I happen to be president of the Exchange Bank in Longwood. I make sure nobody looks too closely at Beggar’s deposits, and I supervise the smooth flow of monies to various offshore accounts. I take it you’ve figured out Beggar’s taking over Stan’s territory.”

“You take it just right.”

Jeffers shrugged. “Then you must understand. Beggar needs somebody like me who looks like an upright citizen, who has legitimate contacts in the business community. Stan’s still running things like it’s 1955. He couldn’t modernize, so he’s out.”

“None of that answers my question,” I said.

“You’re not listening. I don’t know where Stan is. That’s not my job. I don’t rub anyone out or give them cement overshoes or any of those other wonderful things you film-noir types do. Beggar’s got a guy named Lloyd Mercury for all that.”

“Then where do I find him?”

Jeffers snorted and looked at me like I was trying to push a truck uphill with a wet noodle. “I hope you don’t think you can bust in on Lloyd Mercury like you did here with me. He’d kill you. It’s that simple. I’ve never seen the man operate, but I’ve heard enough to know I don’t want to hear any more. He’s a cold-blooded professional right down to the bone.”