Arturas kicked his foot, jerking him awake.
“When you track down that whore, then you can sleep.” Arturas paced the room. “I haven’t slept either. You don’t hear me complaining.”
Herkus straightened in the chair. “Of course you haven’t slept. You’ve snorted enough of that stuff to keep an army on its feet. You know, you should—”
“You should remember who pays your wages,” Arturas said, stabbing a finger at him.
Herkus considered countering the argument, but the fog across his mind made it seem like too much effort. Instead, he held his hands up in acquiescence.
“Give me some,” he said, rising from the chair.
Arturas laid out a line, and Herkus leaned over the desk. It blasted the murk from behind his eyes, left a chill at the back of his throat. He coughed.
Herkus recognized addict behavior: encouraging others to join in your weakness. He shouldn’t have indulged, but the weariness had been chipping away at him all day long.
Arturas smiled.
Herkus didn’t know why, but he straightened and returned the gesture anyway.
“I don’t miss Tomas,” Arturas said.
Unsure how to answer, Herkus said, “Oh?”
“I think …”
“You think what?”
“I think I’m glad he’s gone,” Arturas said. His eyes made darting movements, like insects trapped in a jar.
“You don’t mean that,” Herkus said.
“I think I do,” Arturas said. “Tomas was … a problem.”
Herkus took a step away. “Well, he kept things interesting.”
Arturas snorted with laughter. “He was a fucking chain around my neck, choking me.”
“You feeling all right, boss?” Herkus asked.
“No,” Arturas said. “My brother’s dead. How the hell do you think I feel?”
“You said—”
“Shut up.” Arturas pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Forget what I said.”
Herkus shrugged. “Okay.”
“Good,” Arturas said. “Now get out of here and do what I asked you. Don’t come back until you’ve found that whore.”
“Fine,” Herkus said. “But lay off that stuff. Get some rest.”
“Just go,” Arturas said.
Herkus stretched, walked to the door, and let himself out without saying good-bye to Arturas. He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes as he made his way to the lifts.
Arturas had been a good boss for a long time, and Herkus had been glad of the work. But lately, maybe the last year or so, the cracks had been appearing. Had the decline coincided with the boss’s advance into Belfast? Herkus believed so. There was something about this place, the gray and the rain and the hate, that got under your skin. Made you resent the very air you breathed.
He hit the elevator’s down button and waited.
What could he do now? Nothing but wait for Gordie Maxwell to phone with some information. Until then, he’d go down to the car and sleep. He stepped into the lift and hit the G button. The doors swished closed. He leaned against the mirrored wall and let his mind drift.
The phone chimed just as his eyelids sagged closed.
47
STRAZDAS WATCHED THE closed door as he listened to his own blood in his ears.
He knew Herkus was right. He’d die before he’d ever admit it out loud, but he knew the hulking mass of knuckle and belly spoke the truth.
“Fucking peasant,” he said, not caring that he was alone. “I gave him everything. If it wasn’t for me, he’d still be rolling around Vilnius, making a pittance from the loan sharks for beating the shit out of any poor bastard that was a day behind.”
He caught the metallic edge to his voice, like a blunt and rusted knife, and bit down on the back of his hand to silence himself. Once the pain had flushed the madness from his head, he returned to pacing.
Could he rely on Herkus to do what was necessary?
Up until a day ago, Strazdas would have thought yes, absolutely. But then everything went to hell and Tomas died. Herkus’s fists could only get him so far. But there was still one other who could help.
Strazdas retrieved his phone from the desk, blew away the white powder that dusted it, and dialed.
“Who is this?” the contact asked.
“Me,” he said in English. “Arturas.”
“Why are you calling me? You don’t call me. I call you. Understand?”
“Have you found the whore I’m looking for?” he asked.
“No,” the contact said. “I’ve got better things to do. But Jack Lennon knows about her, and he’s working on it. If he comes up with anything, and I get wind of it, I’ll let you know.”
“Do I pay you well?”
“What?”
“Do I pay you well?”
“Yes, but I give you good service.”
“Give better service,” Strazdas said. “Find this girl, or you will not be my friend.”
“I’ve never been your friend,” the contact said. “If I hear anything, I’ll pass it on. That’s the best I can do for you. Now fuck off and don’t call me again.”
The phone died. Strazdas dropped it back on the desk, letting it clatter and bounce on the glass, scattering the powder. He pointed at it.
“I will not be your friend,” he said.
48
THE THING UPSTAIRS had been howling for an hour or more when Billy Crawford finally climbed the stairs to quiet it. His preparations were done and he was ready to start, but the incessant crying from above could not be tolerated while he set about his work. No, not at all. So he climbed to its room and opened the door.
It gaped at him from the bed, its pale and wizened face raised to him.
“Quiet, now,” he said as he approached it.
Still, it wailed.
“If you won’t be quiet, then I’ll make you quiet,” he said. No good, it would not listen to reason, so he took the syringe from his pocket. The thing shook its head, tried to shrink from his grasp, but it could not. He gripped its hair and pressed the needleless syringe between its lips. With no teeth to block its path, the plastic point slipped between the gums. He pushed until he felt the thing try to resist with its tongue, then he pushed harder. It gagged as the syringe reached the back of its throat.
He depressed the plunger and listened to the gargle of the liquid in the thing’s throat. When the syringe was empty, he dropped it on the pillow and placed his hand over the thing’s mouth. Its body bucked, claws dragging across his shoulders, but eventually it weakened. Its pupils dilated, eyelids fluttering as its body went soft and pliant.
He returned its head to the pillow and wiped the drool from his hand onto the blankets. The silence slipped over him like a cloak, and he relished it for a few seconds before leaving the thing to its slumber.
He knew that one day the thing would not wake, that its body would no longer be able to cope with the
