Joe Haldeman - The Coming

“By all means,” Rabin said. “We have to send it to Jacksonville for an FBI check. That’s a federal law, and his change of venue doesn’t mean anything with them.”

“Why do you want to talk to him?” Eakins asked Norman.

“I don’t know. As you say, he probably didn’t walk in off the street. Maybe I can find out what’s going on.”

“We’re paid to do that, sir,” Eakins said. “If you really don’t need the money, let us take him downtown. He’s a felon now, and we can use drugs to make him talk.”

That would be really great. “He’s a felon but he’s a human being. If I decide to change the venue back—”

Solo came back up the hall and handed Norm the telephone. “We done a direct credit exchange,” he said. “Check your amount at the credit union. You’re twenty grand richer.”

“Thought you didn’t believe in banks,” Eakins said.

“Got friends who do.”

Norman took out his wallet and thumbed his bank card. He didn’t actually remember how much had been in his liquid account, but $38,000 did seem like a lot. It was there; he held up the phone to the police. “Any trouble, I’ll call you guys. Thanks.”

“I wish you’d reconsider,” Eakins said, but they both headed for the door.

“What about my gun?” Solo said.

“You’ll get it back eventually,” Rabin said. “Just come by the station next week.” He gave Norman one long look as they left.

When the door clicked, Norman said, “House, we want privacy. Turn yourself off for thirty minutes, or until I push an alarm button.”

“Very well.”

Norman went to a sideboard and poured himself a glass of red wine. “You have a lot to explain. You can start with Sergeant Rabin.”

“Somebody else did that. Or else it was an accident. Surprised me, that’s for sure.”

“I wonder. I saw him earlier today, myself.”

“Small town.”

“Not that small.” He picked up the glass with his left hand and took a sip, staring at the man. “Did Willy Joe send you here to intimidate me?”

“No more questions,” Solo said, and stepped toward him. He froze when Norman pulled out the big revolver.

“Just a few.” He pointed the muzzle to the left. “Out in the garage.”

Solo had his hands up, walking slowly backward. “What’s in the garage?”

“Just easier to clean up. This is loaded with crab rounds, the kind that spin like a drill and pop out tiny claws when they hit. I think they make an awful mess.”

“Jesus! Hold on. What I do to you? I mean, the window, yeah, but—”

“Open the door there.” The garage was large and neat, two bicycles hanging from ceiling hooks, an orderly wall of tools over a workbench.

“It’s not what you did to me, or even what you intended to do to me. Have a seat.”

The only chair was a stool by the workbench. Solo climbed up on it.

“When I was a young man I killed twenty-five other young men, just because they wore a uniform different from mine. Slightly darker skin. Whereas you broke into my house with the intention of terrorizing me, and destroyed a work of art that was dear to me.

“I’m sorry about that. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s hard for me to express how unimportant your feelings are in this matter. I’m just weighing practicalities.”

“It sure as hell wouldn’t be practical for you to kill me.” Sweat was popping out on his face. “You don’t fuck with Willy Joe.”

“You may overestimate your importance to him. You haven’t demonstrated a high degree of competence in this matter.” Norman set down the wine and propped both elbows on the workbench, holding the pistol with two hands, steady on Solo’s heart. “And don’t even bring up the police. They’d thank me.”

“Now that isn’t so. You’d go to trial, and they’d find out about…” Norman pulled the hammer back with a loud click.

“You’re in an unenviable situation right now. You know I’m a homosexual, and could ruin my life with a word. You’re of no value to me, alive. Dead, you would be a powerful warning to Willy Joe.”

“You don’t know him. He’s crazy. He’d come kill you.”

“He might try. I’d still have five crab rounds left.”

Solo looked right and left, head jerking, about to flee. Norman’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Solo stared at the tool rack. “Wait. I got a good idea.”

“It’s about time.”

He reached slowly toward the tools. “Con permiso. I take this hatchet and—”

“Stop it!”

“Okay, okay!” He froze in position. “I was gonna say, like I chop off one of my fingers. Tell him you made me do it, at gunpoint.”

“You’d do that?” Of course it could be grown back, for a price.

“I just want to walk outta here, man.”

Norman considered it. “Use the hammer.” He pointed with the pistol. “The iron mallet there. Break your gun hand, the right one.”

“I’m left-handed.”

“Then I’m doing you a favor. Do the right.” He’d reached for the tools with his right hand.

He slowly removed the hammer from the hook and hefted it, not looking at Norman.

“Don’t even think of throwing it at me. Bullet’s a lot faster.” He raised his point of aim to the man’s face. “Now put the mallet in your left hand and put your right hand on the anvil—”

He’d already put his right hand on the table, fingers splayed, and with his eyes closed, chopped down with the mallet. It smashed the knuckles of the first and second finger. The mallet clattered across the table, and for a moment he cradled the broken hand silently. Then he sank to the concrete floor, keening, and rolled into a ball.

Norman cringed, but kept the gun pointed at him. Then an old and remorseless feeling crawled over him. Go on. One round. Simplify your life.

The phone on his belt beeped. He stepped back into the kitchen, closing the door, keeping an eye on Solo through the window.

He clumsily extricated the phone with his left hand. “Buenas.”

“Sweetheart, what’s going on there?” Rory said. “I got back from lunch and there was a message from the police. We were broken into?”

“It’s more complicated than that. The burglar was actually a blackmailer. He knew about Rabin.”

“Rabin?” She put two fingers over the speaking end of the wand. “Would you excuse me? This is personal.”

“Of course. I can get back to you later.” The man who’d been waiting for her got up and left. A local politician, she’d thought, or some kind of lawyer, holding a business card.

“It’s not something we should talk about over the phone,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“The situation’s more or less under control.”

“You paid?”

“Not exactly. Check our balance. I’ll explain when you get home. Right now I have to fix a broken window, before the bugs get in.”

“Broken… okay, later. I’m on camera in ten minutes. Adios.”

Pepe was leaning on the door. “Who was that?”

“On the phone? Norman.”

“No, no. The suit who was in that chair and just now left without saying anything.”

“He didn’t say who he was?”

“That’s why I’m asking you, Hawking. He must have walked in while I was in the john.”

She waved it away. “Probably some studio guy. You ready for this?”

“I’m ready, yeah. You could use some makeup, though. You’re bright pink.”

“Just let me get my breath.” She crossed the room and got a cup of ice water, then sat back down and tried to breathe normally. Break-in, blackmail.