Carla Neggers - Cut and Run

She tucked the scrawled address in her pocket and called for a cab.

With one of his men posted on the street, Phillip Bloch grinned at his former platoon leader from the front stoop of his elegant townhouse. “Morning, Sam.”

“Bloch- what are you doing here? ” Ryder went pale. “I thought we had an understanding that you would never come to Washington. For God’s sake, get inside quickly.”

“Calm down, Sam.” Bloch entered the quiet foyer. He had a plastic container of fresh fruit salad in one hand, and with a plastic fork, he stuck a hung of cantaloupe into his mouth. At one time he’d smoked cigarettes incessantly. Now he received his oral gratification from various fruits and seeds. Sometimes he felt like a goddamn squirrel. He went on pleasantly, “I love D.C. Christ, I could buy a whole case of melons for what I pay for one stinking salad here.”

Ryder bristled. “We can talk in the study, but I hardly think we should prolong this meeting, Sergeant.”

“That’s okay by me.”

Bloch followed the senator into the study at the back of the house, passing an elegant dining room done in Queen Anne. The sergeant knew it was Queen Anne because for years his mother had kept a picture of a dining set-an Ethan Allen reproduction-taped on the refrigerator. It was what she wanted some day for her dining room, which was pretty much a wreck. Nobody in their household could afford it or even gave two shits whether or not she ever got it. Losers, his mother had called them; you’re all a bunch of losers. She was an old lady now, but she probably still had that goddamn picture on her refrigerator.

The study didn’t remind Bloch of anything he’d ever known, except maybe a whorehouse or two. Oriental carpet on the hardwood floor, cherry from the looks of it, leather club chairs and sofa, brass lamps, masculine ornaments, paintings of horses. A framed picture of Sammy as a decorated first lieutenant in the U.S. Army stood on an antique secretary, but about the only thing he’d done that entitled him to be decorated, in Bloch’s estimation, was not getting any more people killed than he had. The frame, the sergeant noted, was silver, probably sterling.

“Fancy, fancy,” he said, looking around the room. “About what I expected.”

“Let’s get on with this.”

Ryder gestured nervously to the leather chairs, and they both sat. Bloch finished his salad.

“Two things,” Bloch said, still amiable. His men were feeding him nice, timely reports. He felt in control. “First, one of my men spotted Hendrik de Geer outside Catharina Fall’s bakery this morning. He ain’t out of this. We tried to take him out last night, but-”

“For God’s sake, don’t tell me anything!”

“What, the place bugged or something? Sammy, Sammy, relax. Anyway, I figure de Geer’s trying to get the diamond on his own. Not good. Second, as you well know, Matt Stark ain’t lying down on this one. My man says he was here-”

“What?”

“Listen, Lieutenant, I’ve got to keep my finger on things.”

“You’ve had me watched? ”

“Don’t be such a wimp. Yeah, I’ve had you watched-for your own protection as well as mine. Will you quit interrupting? I’ll assume for now you didn’t tell Stark anything, but if he keeps digging around, you won’t need me to ruin you-he’ll be glad to do the job.”

“De Geer’s a drunk, and Stark doesn’t have a thing he can use. Just ignore them both. Sergeant, I think it’s time you accepted reality: the Minstrel’s Rough was a good idea, but it didn’t pan out. Let it go.”

“Sammy, Sammy,” Bloch said, shaking his head with feigned disappointment. “You give up too easily. We ain’t even started to look for this stone yet.”

“Not we, Sergeant.” Ryder leaned forward, looking more terrified than determined. “I’m no longer involved. I told you, I can’t be.”

“I know, you’re a United States senator. Bully, bully. Well, look, I just figured I’d be nice and let you know what’s on my mind, okay? You get this diamond before I get it myself or you give me something else I can use to pin it down, we’re square. I got commitments, you know, creditors barking up my ass. You don’t want me sitting down in Florida forever, do you? Well, help me out.” He grinned, setting his plastic container and fork on a butler’s table. “But if you can’t, I guess you might have my bones rattling around in your closet for a long, long time.”

“Sergeant, you’re not being fair.” Ryder was close to hyperventilating. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even know about the Minstrel. And as I told you, there’s absolutely no guarantee it even exists. It’s not worth the risk to you or to me-”

“I want the stone,” Bloch said. “And I’ll get it, with your help, Lieutenant, or without.”

Ryder was panting, obviously horrified by what the sergeant proposed. Bloch watched the former platoon leader try to figure a way out, to distance himself from the very events he’d put into motion so that later on he could deny any involvement on his part. He’d seen that look a thousand times over the years.

“I can’t help you,” the senator said.

“Sure you can.” Bloch rose, feeling full and confident. “You’re the Golden Boy, Sammy. You can do anything.”

Matthew’s Federal townhouse, simple but elegant, was a surprise, until Juliana remembered LZ. It was easy to forget that the dark, cynical reporter had produced a bestselling novel, and she made a mental note to stop at a bookstore as soon as she could and buy a copy. After all, he’d been to one of her concerts. Because of Samuel Ryder, she reminded herself, not because of you.

She slowed as she came to the front stoop. There was no front yard, and the steps ended on the brick sidewalk. The street was tree-lined and narrow, very picturesque and European; Juliana thought Aunt Willie might actually approve. Over breakfast that morning she’d complained about her niece’s German coffee maker, and Juliana had lectured her about West German democracy, the wrongness of collective guilt, the countless wonderful Germans she’d met over the years. Aunt Willie had merely grunted and said, “What do you know of the world?”

What indeed. She’d had no comeback.

As she mounted the steps, two men came up behind her, and she stiffened, turning and looking madly for a place to run. There was none, except inside. But the polished wood door was shut tightly. She paused on the second step and felt the breath go out of her. One of the men was dark-skinned and stocky, powerful, young; the other was curly-haired and very thin, also young. They wore heavy sweaters rather than coats, and no hats or gloves.

“Excuse me,” Juliana said, “I must have the wrong address-”

“What’s your name?” the darker one asked.

“J.J.”

“J.J. what?”

“Pepper.” She wished Len were here, or even Shuji with one of his short swords. “But I must be going.”

“You looking for Matt Stark?”

“Who?”

“I’ll bet he’s the type who goes for a hot number like you.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea-”

She stopped, and the darker one smiled. But he wasn’t the one who’d pulled out the gun. The curly-haired one had. Juliana didn’t know anything about guns except that she didn’t want one aimed at her.

“We want you to give Matt a message.”

The darker one was still talking. She focused on him so she wouldn’t have to look at the gun. “Okay,” she said, and hated how small her voice sounded.

He bent down close to her face, and she could feel the heat of his breath and see the tiny red veins in his eyes. “Tell him to back off,” he said, each word distinct. “Tell him Phil Bloch says so.”