William Bernhardt - Murder One

“No, no.”

“Superman? Long John? Sex Machine?”

“No dirty stuff, old man.”

He pushed himself to his feet. “What the hell is wrong with you, anyway? People come in here, they usually know what they want.”

“What’s it to you, you geezer? Just pick something.”

“I’m an artist, goddamn it.” He pounded his needles down on the table. “I take pride in my work!”

“An artist!” Kirk laughed. “You’re a criminal, is what you are, you old crow. You’re breaking the law, remember?”

“Get out of here,” the man growled.

“No way, you old asshole. You took my money, now you’ll give me what I want or I’ll create such a stink you’ll be shut down for a year.”

“Who do you think—”

“I told you what to do!” Kirk bellowed. “Now do it !”

The old man’s eyes fairly bulged out of their sockets. His fists clenched together so tightly Kirk thought those feeble bones might snap.

“Fine,” the old man creaked, finally. He removed a bottle from a nearby shelf and poured something pungent onto a handkerchief. “I’ll have to put you out for this.”

“No!” Kirk shouted. “I want to feel this. I want to feel every—”

“Too damn bad.” An instant later, the chloroformed cloth was over Kirk’s mouth, and not ten seconds later, he was fast asleep.

Kirk awoke coughing. He was sitting in an uncomfortable chair in the main section of the Rainbow Boutique. The fat man was sitting opposite him, smoking a cigarillo. His nose was buried in yet another slick magazine with glossy photos of naked women in degrading poses.

“Where’s the tattoo artist?” Kirk said, as soon as he could get his mouth to work.

“Tattoos are illegal,” the man replied, not looking up.

“Okay, the body illustrator then.”

“Gone. Won’t be back any time soon.”

“Son of a bitch.” Kirk was beginning to feel a distinct itching on his chest. “Did he do it?”

The man shrugged. “You tell me.”

The itching intensified. In fact, it was starting to ache. “My chest hurts.”

“Wimp.” A small smile played on his lips. “Mirror’s over there.” He nodded toward the nearest wall.

Kirk walked to the full-length mirror. He unbuttoned his shirt and opened it wide. DICKLESS, it said, in big bold multicolored letters. Permanently.

He heard a wheezy laughing behind him. The fat man was watching, howling his head off. The two addicts in the corner were having a pretty good time, too.

“You know what the best part is,” the immense man said, still chortling his heart out. “That little insult is going to hurt you for days.”

Kirk gave him a look. “You got a tattoo?”

“Tattoos are for wimps. You want to feel something intense, go to the Body Beautiful, down The Stroll by Lewis.”

Kirk glanced toward the beaded passageway. “Maybe after I have a word with your body illustrator.”

The man rose up, blocking his path. “That isn’t going to happen.”

“Let me through, big boy.”

The man placed his meaty fists firmly on his hips. “Aren’t you hurting enough already, asshole? “

Kirk considered. He was, actually. Hurting pretty damn bad. The old creep probably did whatever he could to make it agonizing. Maybe even infected needles, who knew? His chest was burning like it was on fire. He was in serious pain.

He turned back toward the mirror and gazed at his reflection. The agony was washing over him, overwhelming him. But it wasn’t enough.

Bad as it hurt, it still wasn’t enough. Not for what he’d done.

18

MATTHEWS LEFT HIS OFFICE just after five and walked to his car in the underground parking garage behind police headquarters. He was meeting some of the boys at Scene of the Crime; they were going to plan out what to do next. So his mind was somewhat distracted when, all at once, a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound hurricane swept down out of nowhere and pinned him against his Toyota Celica.

“Wha—wha—” Matthews’s eyes peeled open, wide and frightened. “What the hell is going on? Hel—”

A thick strong hand clamped down over his mouth. “Try that again, you little pissant, and I’ll rip your tongue out. That’s a promise.”

Matthews’s eyes lighted on the face. The hand on his mouth eased up just enough for him to talk.

It was the investigator, Loving. And he was mad.

“What are you doing here?” Matthews sputtered.

“I’m on my way to a baseball game, you schmuck. What do you think I’m doing here? “

“I guess your boss went home crying that I was mean to him. So he sent his enforcer out to fight his battles.”

“As a matter of fact, I found out from someone else. Ben didn’t mention it, and probably never will. And let me give you another clue, schmuck. Fighting his battles is my job. And I’m very good at my job.” Loving lifted Matthews’s body up into the air, then slammed it back down against the car.

Matthews was hurting, but he wasn’t letting it show. “What is it you want, Loving?”

“I want you to back off, Matthews. Got it? What took place today on the fourth floor was totally unacceptable.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“There is no opinion. Except mine.” Loving lifted him up and slammed him down again. “Kincaid is the man, understand? And no one touches the man.”

“What’s going on?” The loud echo of footsteps in the parking garage told them both they were no longer alone. Soon three other officers were crowding behind them—Dodds, Callery, The Hulk—most of them men Loving had seen at the bar a few days before.

Loving released Matthews. “We were just having a little chat, boys. That’s all.”

Matthews’s lips curled. “He snuck up behind me and tried to jump me. Let’s show him what happens to people who mess with the force!”

Loving didn’t look scared. “You know, Matthews, you’re a lot braver now that you’ve got three other guys backing you up. A minute ago, you looked as if you were gonna piss your pants. In fact, I think maybe you did.”

“He was trying to rough me up,” Matthews informed his friends. “Scare me off.”

Loving rolled his eyes. “The only thing I’m tryin’ to do is investigate. Which technically is the job of the police. But since you didn’t do it, I have to.”

Matthews was incensed. “Are we gonna put up with this kinda talk? Are we? ”

Loving turned toward the others. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to Joe McNaughton. What really happened. I’d think you boys might be interested in that, being friends of Joe’s and all. But I guess you’re more interested in railroading some little teenage girl. Or her attorney.”

“That attorney tried to make us look like idiots,” Callery said.

“That attorney just did what he’s supposed to do. This business of puttin’ the Squeeze on him is idiotic. Just because you’ve got one angry moron over here doesn’t mean you all have to be angry morons.”

“Are we gonna listen to this?” Matthews bellowed. “Are we gonna let this scumbag talk to us this way?”

“You’re, really desperate for a fight, aren’t you?” Loving lowered his voice a notch. “Well, I tell you what, you little twerp. Maybe, just maybe, you’re gonna get your wish. Except it ain’t gonna be you and three buddies. It’s gonna be you and me. Period.” He smiled broadly. “Now that’ll give you something to dream about at bedtime, won’t it?”

Loving turned his attention to the others. “What I said before still goes. I know you know what’s been goin’ down. You ought to come clean. It’s the right thing to do, and some of you owe it to Ben to do the right thing.”