Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

“I was trying to take him out of the fight as quietly as possible,” Evan said. “Whether that killed him or not was secondary.”

A flash of disgust in Andre’s eyes. Fear, too. “The fuck are you, man?”

Evan grabbed his arm, urging him forward, their shadows thrown before them, two irreconcilable parts of an imperfect whole.

They half jogged toward the front gate, Andre turning to take in the rest of the bloody aftermath. “Jesus God.” He was crying quietly.

“I’m gonna get you back to your place, okay?”

Andre looked glazed, descending into shock.

They got into the truck, Evan dropping the gearshift into drive. Andre looked wrecked.

“I told you not to come,” Evan said, a hard edge beneath the words. Guilt?

Andre’s lips barely moved. “I’m sorry.”

“This is why you’re not coming to talk to the sensor operator either. Understand?”

Andre’s nod looked like a tremor. “Okay. Okay.”

Evan peeled out, drove forward a quarter block, and screeched to a halt just before the lonely stall of the First Union Bank ATM. “Open your door.”

Andre obeyed.

“Lean back and cover your ears.”

Andre did as asked, closing his eyes for good measure.

Evan drew the ARES 1911, aimed it across Andre’s chest, and shot out the ATM’s surveillance camera.

He peeled away, the passenger door slamming shut from the thrust.

Ten blocks later Andre still hadn’t opened his eyes.

35Science for Two Hundred

Queenie splayed her fingers atop the steering wheel and applied another coat of Her Majesty’s Red, a high-shine polish from Butter London. Declan climbed out of the passenger seat, slotted a third tranche of quarters into the parking meter, and got back in. The meters in El Sereno took credit cards, which would make matters easier, but of course that would memorialize their being here, parked outside the All Saints Catholic Church.

The gasoline scent of nail polish laced the air, heady and keen. He watched his sister lean forward, purse her glossy scarlet lips, and blow across her fingertips. She regarded them approvingly, then flipped down the visor and checked her hair.

“Queenie,” Declan said. “Relax. You look beautiful.”

“Yeah?” she breathed.

“Yeah.”

“Remember Mom…” She bared her teeth and squeaked a finger back and forth across her incisors, though there was no lipstick smudge. “‘All that glitters isn’t gold. But if it doesn’t glitter, it’s got no shot.’”

Declan felt the familiar twitch tugging at his right eye. He scrunched his eyes shut hard to overpower it, then looked down and picked lint from his lapel. He realized what he was doing, Queenie’s words still hanging in the air, and stopped himself.

“We might not get to feel good,” Queenie said. “But we can look good.”

“Why are you talking like that?”

She shrugged. “Coming up on thirty, baby brother. Means I’m starting to see beneath the surface.”

“Maybe what’s beneath the surface isn’t worth looking at.”

Across the street the meeting spilled out of the church onto the sidewalk. Ragged folks huddled close, sucking on cigarettes and sipping coffee out of Styrofoam cups. Declan scanned the crowd, but they were the same faces as the night before and the night before that. No Andrew Duran.

A stout lady in a pink pantsuit walked over from her parked car bearing a bakery box. She lifted the lid and tilted it to show off a cake to the onlookers. Even from here Declan could make out the white lettering across the dark chocolate frosting: HAPPY TWO YEAR BIRTHDAY. KEEP COMING BACK!!

The burner phone in the cup holder animated. Queenie had Bluetoothed it to her Corvette, her custom ringtone issuing through the speakers: “99 Red Balloons” in German.

Careful not to smear her nail polish, she pressed a button on the steering wheel to answer.

Declan said, “Yes, sir.”

“Six dead.”

Declan said, “Excuse me?”

“Six dead,” the doctor repeated. “I’m considering it an R ‘n’ D expenditure. This many lost assets make clear that someone’s helping Duran.”

“Who?”

“I’m looking into it. This elevates the priority level, the urgency. I need you to produce results.”

“We’re almost ready to move on the second target.”

“No,” the doctor said. “Duran first. He actually saw it.”

Queenie flipped the visor back up, dropped the car into gear, and crept out from the curb. We’re doing everything we can .

“We’re doing everything we can,” Declan said. “Right now we’re staking out—”

“Maybe you have a different understanding of what ‘results’ means,” the doctor said, calm as ever. “Do you need me to acquaint you with my definition of the word?”

Declan clenched his teeth, his neck cording, and let the silent scream vibrate his whole head.

Queenie reached over, stroked his thigh. No. No, sir .

Declan exhaled until he felt the purple leave his face. “No. No, sir.”

“I have teams watching the ex’s place and the child’s school. They’ve been alerted to the escalation. If he rears his head, they’ll take it clean off. In the meantime you’d better figure out another approach. Friends, co-workers, distant family.”

“We’ve looked at everyone and everything,” Declan said.

Queenie banked hard onto the freeway ramp and opened up the 650 horses. Don’t argue with him. He wants blood. We need to give it to him .

Declan looked at her. We already took that one guy apart top to bottom .

Then we’ll take another apart. And send pictures .

That won’t get us anywhere .

You’re being too literal. It’s not about getting somewhere right now. It’s about satisfying the doctor .

The doctor had said nothing. Not a pleasant silence.

Declan said, “We have another person we can talk to.”

“Good,” the doctor said. “Because you won’t like it if I run out of patience.”

He hung up.

A few minutes later, Queenie exited the freeway and crawled through a dark neighborhood. Prefab houses set imprecisely down on plots of dead weed. Flaking paint. Rusted mailboxes. Disgust curdled in Declan’s chest. As hideous as their childhood had been, Mom had always made sure the house was a place of pride. Spit-shined counters. Beds made with boot-camp precision. Kitchen floor you could eat off.

These people lived like animals.

Queenie coasted up on a double-wide positioned crookedly at the far edge of a dirt lot. Vinyl siding splayed up at intervals, exposing rotting wood-chip board sheathing beneath. A decrepit BMW at the curb.

As Declan climbed out, Queenie popped the trunk. He slid off his Brioni jacket, gave it a dead-man’s fold to avoid wrinkles, and laid it precisely across the leather backseats. The trunk held his fine-leather kit. He’d sterilized the tools and the nails since their last use. It was a matter of professionalism.

A surgeon had to keep his implements pristine.

Queenie had her personal phone out, the iPhone case studded with crusted faux rubies. Its camera had an array of filters and HDR that really brought a tableau to life.

She handed it off. “I’ll wait out here. Whistle if you need me.”

“You know we won’t get any answers.” His voice came high and wheezy, irritating even to his own ears.

“I know, baby brother. But sometime you just gotta feed the beast.”

Declan took the phone and crossed the dirt lot, cautious not to scuff his Ferragamos. He removed his cuff links and rolled his sleeves above the forearms.

The front door was open to vent the heat of the stovetop—something reheated and preservative-intensive. A TV murmured calmingly inside, a game show with lots of applause: I’ll take Science for two hundred, Alex . The screen yawned open with the groan of a rusty coil.