smile widened a little. “Maybe while we talk you want me to throw in some tips on running a tail, huh? I mean-no offense, buddy-but you were fucking terrible. You might as well have been riding in the car with me.” I smiled but didn’t say anything. Trautmann held his hands up. “Hey-I’m just busting balls. It’s a bitch to do with just one guy, I know. Who’d you say you’re working for?”
“I didn’t,” I answered and kept on smiling. Trautmann laughed. We stood there for a while, looking at each other and smiling, a couple of smart guys, wise to the world. Then I told him my story about the writer. He nodded while I told it, like it was the most reasonable thing he’d ever heard.
“A writer… that’s cool. I’m a big reader-love reading the way I love talking. Maybe I read some of this guy’s books. What’s his name?”
“You’d probably know it, Bernie. He’s a pretty well-known guy. And that’s the thing-until he decides he’s going to take on this project, he doesn’t want his name mentioned. Afraid it might get too many other people interested-kind of muddy the waters.” He nodded again, like this was just getting more and more reasonable.
“Muddy waters… yeah, I hate that shit too. And you want to talk about the bad old days, huh? Well, I’ll tell you… you got a first name there, March?”
“John.”
“I’ll tell you, Johnny, I spent about a million hours under the hot lights, talking to Uncle about the bad old days-everything about ’em, down to what socks I wore and when-and I’m pretty fucking talked out on that subject. Know what I mean? But, shit, I tell you what-you go down to Federal Plaza, and tell the boys down there they have my okay to tell you everything I said to them. You tell ’em Bernie sent you. They’ll fix you right up.” He laughed deeply. Then he put his hands up again. “Hey-I’m just busting balls again, Johnny. I can’t help myself, I swear. I need like a twelve-step or something. Seriously, you want to talk a little? You got some questions? I’ll see if I can help you out.” It was my turn to nod, like I believed every word. “Come on, let’s go grab some coffee. Or you want something stronger?” he asked.
“Coffee’s good,” I said.
“There’s a Starbucks up the street. Hop in; I’ll bring you back here after.”
I shook my head. “Right here is fine with me. I want to try one of those pretzel things.”
“Whatever,” Trautmann said, shrugging. He shut his car door and locked it with an electronic key. He walked around the car toward me. I stepped back a few paces and gestured for him to go first through the glass doors, into the mall. He smiled some more and walked ahead of me.
“Business must suck, huh, if the best you can do is that fucking rent-a-ride,” he said, walking ahead of me and chuckling. “Shit, there I go again. I told you, I can’t help it.” He reached for the doors, and an alarm exploded behind me.
He was fast-very fast. I was looking for it-waiting for it-and all the same he nearly cleaned my clock. I started when the alarm blaredmy eyes flickered involuntarily to the Audi, and my attention wavered for a half second-less. But it was enough for him. Trautmann pivoted into a high, fast, spinning kick, and if I hadn’t been already tensed and waiting it would’ve taken my head clean off.
I leaned away and tried to block it with my right arm, but his boot tagged me on the shoulder and slid off and grazed my head above the ear. My arm went numb, and I heard the muffled whump before I felt the impact and saw the stars. I rolled with it, then bent and pivoted on my right foot and threw a kick backward at him with my left. I don’t know what I was aiming at or if I was aiming, but I caught him on the hip as he was setting up another kick. It threw him off balance and sent him skidding backward into the doors. I followed fast and covered up with my right arm, which was still mostly useless, and caught him once with my left fist in the kidneys and again with my forearm in the face. It was like hitting a sandbag.
Trautmann grunted, and tagged me hard in the ribs with a short left. Then he grabbed a massive handful of my sweatshirt and dragged me in close and brought down two big, fast overhand rights. I caught some of them on my left arm, but not enough. His fist was like a sack full of cobblestones, and now my left arm was numb. A few more of those would send me down. I stepped in closer to him and jammed my left thumb at his eye. He saw it coming and turned his head, but he didn’t see my right thumb. It caught him in the soft part of the throat, under his Adam’s apple, and I dug in hard. He gagged and drew back a little, and when he did I slammed my head down on his nose. I heard a liquid crunch.
“Fuck!” he roared, and I pushed him away and my shirt tore and he stumbled backward, holding a hunk of it. “Motherfucker!” he yelled. He scrabbled upright and had his hand on his gun and stopped when he saw the Glock in mine.
He stood there, coiled in a half crouch, breathing hard, his hand on the butt of his gun, looking at me. His nose was bleeding and it was pulpy looking and might have been broken. There was an angry purple patch at the base of his throat, and a welt on his cheek. But there was no hatred in his eyes and no anger-no emotion at all-just cold appraisal.
My heart was pounding, and it was tough to hold the gun steady. Feeling was coming back in my right arm, but I didn’t know how it’d take the recoil if I had to shoot him. Then he dropped his hand and put his palms out and stood up, relaxed and smiling. I took a deep breath and stepped back a couple of paces.
“I guess we’re not going to have that talk, huh?” I said, after a while. Trautmann snorted.
“Oh, we’ll talk, Johnny,” he said, chuckling. His voice was raspy. “I’ll do a little homework, and then we’ll have a long talk. See, I know something about you now. I know you’re not just a pussy PI like I thought. I know you’re quick, and you take a punch pretty good. And next time we talk, I’ll know even more. We’ll have a great fucking conversation.” He blew his nose onto the pavement, and a lot of blood came out. He looked at it and shook his head and smiled. “That’s a promise,” he said, and he went through the doors into the mall, laughing to himself.
I walked back to my Taurus and leaned against it and took some deep breaths. I looked around. The lot was quiet. The traffic on Roslyn Road was sparse and distant. It was a quiet, cold, gray day. It was barely nine-thirty. The adrenaline was starting to ebb, and my arms and legs were shaking. Pain was starting to register. The cut above my right ear was bleeding down the right side of my face. The other side was tender and starting to swell, and the inside of my mouth was cut. I was pretty sure I had a busted rib, and my arms would soon be a purple mess. I got in the car and drank some water and breathed some more. I put my gun on the seat next to me, and then I left Roslyn Meadows, and drove slowly and carefully back into the city.
Chapter Seventeen
“Ai-yah,” Jane Lu gasped, “what happened to you?” She was getting off the elevator as I was getting on. She was dressed in an orange turtleneck, khaki pants, and a black leather jacket. Her perfect brow was knit with concern, and her mouth was set in a small frown.
“I’d smile insouciantly, but my face hurts too much. What are you doing home now? I thought you had a real job.” It was Friday afternoon, and I was just back from the St. Vincent’s emergency room, where I’d been poked, prodded, scanned, and pronounced more or less fit. Rest, ibuprofen, call if I started seeing things, lay off running for a couple of weeks. The pills they’d given me hadn’t fully kicked in, and I was still enveloped in a thin haze of pain.
“I’m the boss, I just pretend to work,” Jane said, distractedly. She was looking at the bruising along the side of my face and the cut above my ear. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said.
“Have you seen a doctor?” she repeated.
“Yes, and I got a clean bill of health,” I answered. “No broken bones, no concussion, didn’t even need any stitches. Just a cracked rib. Not bad, all things considered.”
“What happened?” she asked, still examining my face. She reached up and, very lightly, touched my left cheek. It was an unconscious gesture on her part and completely unexpected. I felt the delicate contact of her fingertips like an electrical surge, and I flinched in surprise. She withdrew them quickly. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.”
“No… no, it’s okay.” I shook my head. That hurt.
“So, what happened?” she asked again.
