Dead Men's Dust

    'What the—' was all he got out before I hit him.

    I aimed for the carotid sinus and struck the bull's-eye. Such a blow could prove fatal. Call me compassionate—I chopped him just hard enough to knock him out.

    Leaning over him, I grabbed at the seat belt. It made a good noose. The remainder of the belt looped around the headrest and jammed into the door frame made it even better.

    I caught up with the other two before they'd reached the apartments.

    With a bent back, a cap pulled down over my hair, I moved toward them. I might as well have been invisible.

    I straightened up and thrust the V of my thumb and index finger into the bald man's windpipe. As his hands went to his damaged throat, I slammed my clenched fist into his solar plexus and he folded over my arm. Breath exploded from his lungs as he performed a slow dive, meeting my lifted knee midway. He hit the floor hard, but it didn't matter: he was already oblivious.

    There was no time for taking satisfaction from my work: Skinny was already going for something inside his jacket. Could be a gun.

    Grasping his wrist and tugging his hand out of his jacket, I saw that he held a knife.

    'Now isn't that just typical of you, Shank?' I flexed his wrist, hearing bone grating on bone. Made it easy to pluck the knife from his fingers.

    His name was Peter Ramsey, an idiot who began his criminal career stealing lunch money from the other kids at school. But—like all third-rate gangsters—he loved his nickname. He favored a knife when threatening desperate mothers. Shank should be a scary handle for someone wielding a blade. I thought it was pathetic.

    I took a fistful of Shank's hair and pressed my knuckles against his skull.

    'Listen closely,' I growled. 'One thing, and one thing only.' I snatched his head forward, meeting him eye to eye. 'Jennifer Telfer is off your books. Permanently. You hear that?'

    'Jennifer Telfer? Who the—'

    I slapped him hard.

    'You know who I mean.'

    Wagging the knife at him, I said, 'Tell me you weren't thinking of cutting her.' I lifted the blade. Sharp edge beneath his nose. His breath misted the steel. 'You know something, Shank? Just thinking of that makes my blood run cold.'

    'I wasn't gonna cut anybody,' Shank said.

    'Good. You won't be wanting this back then.' I dropped the knife into my coat pocket. 'If I see you around here again, I'll hurt you bad.'

'What have I ever done to you?'

'Messed with the wrong person,' I told him. 'That's what.'

    To punctuate the point I backhanded him across the face. 'When you walk out of here, you keep on going. If you as much as look back, I'll be all over you like a bad case of hives. You got that?'

    'Yeah, man, I get you.'

    'See you, then.'

    'Not if I see you first,' he said, turning quickly away. 'Psycho!'

    'Believe me,' I said, 'if there is a next time, you won't see me coming.'

2

'come in, joe. quick.'

           Jack and Beatrice huddled in front of a television. A cartoon vied for their attention and they barely gave me a glance.

    In a hurry, Jennifer shut the door. Behind me came the clink of a security chain, the ratchet of a dead bolt.

    'You won't need as many locks in the future, Jenny.' I pulled off the hat and jacket. 'Shank won't be paying you any more visits.'

    Jennifer hugged herself. Barely above a whisper, she said, 'There's worse out there than Shank to worry about.'

    Fourteen years working as a counterterrorism agent had already convinced me of that. If I required reminding, all I had to do was look at the kids. Only six and four years old, they already had the look of the infinitely wise about them. 'Hi, kids, what're you watching? Cartoons?'

    'SpongeBob,' Jack said matter-of-factly.

    'He's got square pants,' Beatrice added.

    'Interesting,' I said. I gave her a lifted eyebrow. She was too young to know who The Rock was, but she appreciated the effort. Her giggle was like soft music. A baby again. The resilience of children never fails to amaze the cynic in me.

    Her mother wasn't so easily calmed. My hand on her shoulder was waved off with a gesture. Jenny took my coat and hat, abandoned them on the arm of a settee, then walked across the room. Perched on a chair next to a battle-scarred table, she had the look of a condemned prisoner.

    'You can quit worrying. I guarantee you, Shank'll look somewhere else for his cash.'

    She plucked at a pack of cigarettes next to an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked butts. The ashtray was testament to prolonged worry.