Phillip Margolin - Ties That Bind

"Glee club."

"Yeah, glee club." He turned back to the boys. "You all in a glee club?"

He shifted his attention back to Pedro. "Did I fuck up, Pedro? Word I had was that you're selling dope where you ain't supposed to, stealin' my customers, but I apologize if I messed up here. Was you all getting ready to sing 'Old Black Joe'?"

Pedro didn't answer.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. You motherfuckers ain't a glee club." He pointed his gun at Pedro. "I think you're a dope dealer who's dealin' dope in my territory." He shifted the gun muzzle so it pointed at the college boys. "And you're customers giving this spic motherfucker my money. Which means, you all got to die."

"Please, sir," the kid with the horn-rimmed glasses stuttered. "Can't you let us go? We won't tell anyone. I swear."

The leader looked as if he was considering the proposal.

"You swear, huh?'

"Yes, sir. We didn't know this was your territory. We can buy our dope from you. We have plenty of money."

The black man grinned and nodded. "That sounds reasonable." He turned his head. "That sound reasonable to you, Abdul?"

"They do look like upstanding white boys," Abdul answered.

"You are upstanding, ain't you?" the leader asked.

"Yes, sir," said the kid with the glasses, nodding his head vigorously. "We all have very good grades."

"That right? Well then, Abdul, I think we can take their word that they won't tell the police that we blew away a house full of people and stole their money, don't you?"

"Definitely," Abdul said, flashing an evil smile at the boys.

"You will promise, won't you? Scout's honor?"

His light tone disappeared as he slowly raised the muzzle of his gun so it was pointing at the gold emblem that was sown on the blazer directly over the quaking boy's heart.

"I have money," the kid pleaded. "Lots of money."

As he reached behind him toward his wallet pocket, a wet stain spread across the front of the kid's chinos and a yellow puddle formed on the floor at his feet. The gang leader stared, then started to laugh. The eyes of the black invaders focused on the skinny kid's pee-stained crotch.

"You see that? He pissed himself."

They were all laughing when the kid whipped out the pistol concealed beneath his blazer and started blasting. The gangsters froze, then tried to react as the Light Heavy and Baby Fat pumped shots into them. Glass shattered, and chunks of the wall flew in all directions. Pedro dove for the AK-47. A shot blew out plaster where he'd been standing. He grabbed the gun, rolled behind a couch, and came up shooting as two men rushed out of the back room. The automatic sprayed shots across their chests, and they crumpled to the floor.

"Stop," the Light Heavy shouted, pressing the hot muzzle of his gun against Pedro's temple. "Put it down, Pedro. Be cool. I just want to be sure I don't get shot in the confusion."

Pedro weighed his chances. The gun screwed tighter into his skull, twisting the skin. He dropped his weapon.

"Okay," the Light Heavy said as he stepped back. Pedro looked around. Everyone was dead except him, the three schoolboys, and the leader of the black gang, who was gut-shot and rolling back and forth on the floor.

"Man, that was something," the kid with the horn-rimmed glasses said in an awed whisper.

"That was fucking-A great," Baby Fat agreed, "especially when you peed yourself."

"Hey, it got their attention, didn't it?" the kid asked with a grin.

Baby Fat sniffed as he waved a hand in front of his nose. "It's getting mine now."

"Screw you," the kid laughed, and he and Baby Fat traded high fives while Pedro stared in amazement. Then the kid walked over to the wounded black man, who was moaning in pain. The preppie grinned.

"Golly, I bet that hurts."

"Fuck you," the wounded man managed.

"Frankly, sir, I don't think you could get it up in your condition."

Baby Fat laughed.

"Finish him," the Light Heavy said, his voice tight. "We gotta get out of here."

"Be cool," the kid said as he circled his prey, pointing his gun at various parts of the man's anatomy while chanting, "Eeny meeny miny mo."

"Stop being a jerk," the Light Heavy told him.

"Gosh, you're no fun," the kid answered as he blew out the wounded man's kneecap, eliciting a hideous scream.

The kid laughed. "You can really hit those high notes." Then the smile left his lips and he looked the screaming man in the eyes. "Were you in your high school glee club, asshole?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," the Light Heavy said, emptying two shots into the screaming man's head. "Now cut the shit and let's move."

Pedro tried to contain his fear. If he was going to die, he wanted to die like a man.

The Light Heavy turned to him. "Grab your dope."

Pedro wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

"We gotta go. The cops will be here any minute."

They weren't going to kill him! Pedro's legs suddenly worked. He ran to the back room. Benny lay sprawled on the floor, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. His bodyguard lay crumpled in a corner. Pedro tore his eyes away and stuffed his stash into a suitcase, then headed back to the front room.

"The goodies!" Baby Fat shouted.

"We got your money," the kid told Pedro. "We can still do this."

Pedro hesitated, confused.

"You owe us, amigo," Baby Fat told him. "You'd be dead if we weren't so fucking lethal."

Pedro stared at the Jaguar outside. "I don't know, man. You're gonna be hot. The cops will trace your car."

The preppies looked at each other and broke out laughing.

"Not to worry, bro," the kid assured him. "It's stolen."

Pedro thought he was beyond surprise, but these guys were from outer space. Then Baby Fat wrapped an arm around Pedro's shoulders. One look at his face told Pedro that everything that had happened here and at The Penthouse had been an act. He was suddenly more frightened than he'd been when he was facing certain death.

"We could kill you and steal your drugs," the fat boy told him in a quiet and confident tone, "but that would be short-sighted. What we want is a mutually beneficial partnership that will make us all a lot of money."

The kid shrugged. "If you're not interested, take off and Godspeed."

"What do you say, Pedro?" the Light Heavy asked. "Do you want to make some money?"

Pedro thought about the woman in his dream and the clean white beach.

"Let's go someplace and talk," he said.

*

Part One

THE FLASH

Chapter One.

The Present

United States Senator Chester Whipple, Republican from South Carolina, a staunch soldier of God, did not drink, a fact he regretted as he paced back and forth across the front room of his Georgetown town house. It was two in the morning; his investigator, Jerry Freemont, was three hours late, and prayer alone was not calming his nerves.

The doorbell rang. Whipple rushed into the foyer, but he did not find his investigator standing on his front stoop when he opened the door. Instead, an elegantly dressed man, wearing an old school tie from Whipple's alma mater, smiled at him. The senator's visitor was of medium build and height. He wore his sandy hair slicked down; wire-rimmed glasses perched on a Roman nose. Whipple, a scholarship boy from a rural public school, disliked most of his privileged Harvard classmates, but they did not threaten him. In truth, Chester Whipple was a difficult man to frighten: He had the physical strength of a man who worked the land and the spiritual fortitude of one who never wavered in his faith.

"Senator, I apologize for the intrusion at this late hour," the man said, handing Whipple his card. It announced that J. Stanton Northwood II was a partner in a prominent D.C. firm. Later that week, Whipple would discover that the firm employed no one by that name.