would instantly evaporate. Without controversy, and without callers, The Bitch would be just another disc jockey.
“Hell no,” she responded quickly. “You tell him that our telephone records are off limits. We’re talking a serious First Amendment issue here.”
“Well, I already told him that—at least the ‘hell no’ part—and he says he’s going to bring us up on obstruction of justice charges if we don’t cooperate.”
Denise recoiled at the thought. “Oh really? Well, patch him through to my board. We’ll put him on the air when we come out of commercials. What’s his name?”
“Thompkins.”
The current commercial ended fifteen seconds later, with Crazy Somebody-or-other screaming about thousands of dollars in savings at a local car dealership. At her cue from Enrique, Denise opened her microphone.
“Welcome back, America, to this most unusual show this morning. The interest spawned by my conversation with Nathan Bailey just continues to grow. On the line with us now is a police officer from Braddock County, Virginia, who’s threatening to send my staff and me to prison over all of this. Officer Thompkins, this is The Bitch, and you are on the air.” She stabbed his blinking light with her forefinger.
For a long moment, there was no sound from the other end. Finally, a tentative voice said, “Hello?”
“Officer Thompkins?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Denise cackled into the microphone. “Ma’am? Did you just call me ma’am? You must not listen to this show very often, or you’d know better than to call me ma’am. That word’s got the same letters as mama, and honey, I ain’t your mama. Now, I understand you want to throw me in jail. What gives?”
The voice stammered badly on the other end. Denise loved it. “Am… am I on the radio?”
“You called a radio station, mister. That generally gets you on the radio. So, why do you want to toss me in the hoosegow?”
“I’m sorry, but I think we need to discuss this in private. I didn’t call to get put on the air.”
Denise’s voice was suddenly devoid of all playfulness. “I’m sure you didn’t. According to my producer, you want to use this program’s telephone records to find out where Nathan Bailey was calling from this morning. Is this correct?”
“Look, ma’am, I don’t want…”
“Yes or no, Officer Thompkins. Is that why you called?”
“Well… uh… I suppose so.” He sounded deliciously evasive.
“You suppose so. I’ll interpret that as a yes. And now I’ll give you an answer that needs no interpretation. You can have those records when hell freezes over. Or when you have a court order. If I were to allow you access to our records, the effect would be to inhibit free speech. And free speech is protected by our Constitution. You’ve heard of the Constitution, right?”
Annoyance was beginning to show in Thompkins’s voice. “There’s really no need to be so—”
“Angry?” Denise interrupted again. She had no intention of letting Thompkins complete a thought. “Do you also suppose that you told my producer that if we didn’t let you rummage through our records you’d charge us with obstruction of justice?”
Thompkins sounded suddenly dejected, like he’d been caught in the act of doing something wrong. “I think I might have mentioned—”
“Oops, sorry to interrupt again, but that sounded like another yes. Let me get this straight, Officer Thompkins. You’re going to charge me with a crime for exercising my First Amendment rights. Does that seem reasonable to you? Or maybe you were just bluffing, using scare tactics to get what you want, so you don’t have to go through the proper channels mandated by law.”
Boy, they didn’t call her The Bitch for nothing. Without even completing a sentence, Thompkins had made a fool not only of himself, but of his entire department. In front of millions of people. A minute ago, this had seemed like a good plan. Now he wished he could just dissolve. He thought of two or three different angles to extricate himself, but none of them would work. He could see his career unraveling. before his eyes. With no options remaining, he abruptly hung up.
Denise heard the click and smiled slyly to Enrique. “He hung up.” She laughed into the mike. “Well, hanging up’s not really an answer, I guess. But I certainly think there’s a message there, don’t you?”
Chapter 13
Lyle Pointer liked to think of himself as the Hit Man. At five-eleven, 180 pounds, his appearance was anything but intimidating; not the brutish lout that Hollywood had cast as the stereotypical thumb-breaker. Good- looking, smart, and possessed of a sense of humor uncommon among people in his business, he had to struggle for the respect that his work deserved.
No one was more loyal to Mr. Slater, no one more efficient in carrying out his orders, yet people still assumed because of his size that he could be pushed around. Few made the assumption more than once. Boldly decisive and seemingly fearless, Pointer had slowly but surely earned the respect of the one person who mattered. And he had done that through sheer brutality.
His first job for Mr. Slater had been to deliver a message to a punk drug dealer who’d opened up shop on the wrong turf. It was the kind of message that couldn’t be written On paper. It was Pointer’s job to make sure that the young man would leave Washington forever. It was also important for other would-be intruders to know that gangs could have as much of the city as they wanted, so long as they never, ever set foot on Slater ground.
Pointer’s solution sent shock waves through the Washington underworld. Abducting the young man at gunpoint, Pointer handcuffed him to a Dumpster, beat him unconscious, and cut off his upper lip with a razor blade. When the dealer came to his senses, Pointer doused the teenager’s genitals with gasoline and struck a match. After letting the fire burn for half a minute, he extinguished it with a shovelful of dirt.
The notoriety that followed this job served Pointer well, and set a precedent for what was expected from him in the future. He was earning the kind of reputation he’d always sought. Proud of his ability to strike terror in some of the toughest people on earth, he was also acutely aware that with fear came jealousy. Each day was a new chance to prove himself, and each job was a new test of his resourcefulness. A single misstep could easily cost him everything he’d struggled so long to build. Including his life.
As appreciative as Mr. Slater was of a job well done, he wouldn’t tolerate a fuckup. Pointer often heard his boss say that every man deserved a second chance, but that no one deserved a third.
On this day, Pointer was grateful for the second chance. He needed it.
As he sped through the Virginia countryside en route to his meeting, Pointer could barely control his rage, which he expressed with a heavy foot on the Porsche’s throttle. Having driven out of civilization twenty miles ago, he was confident that no police would be around to annoy him. And even if they were, those heavy metal Chevys and Fords were no match for his own piece of German engineering. Despite the searing heat and drenching humidity, he drove with the top down, calves’-skin jacket and gloves in place. It was a look. And for this meeting, it was exactly the right look.
This whole business with Mark Bailey and his nephew was so fucking out of control that Pointer was ready to kill. He never should have listened to Bailey’s plan in the first place, let alone agree to it. But it was so simple! The elements were all there. An inside job, big man, little boy, small room. How the fuck could they screw it up? Well, he’d know in about fifteen minutes. By the clock on the dash, Bailey had already been waiting for a half-hour. Shitheads like Bailey were so much easier to communicate with after they’d been kept waiting for a while. Motherfucker had probably already wet his pants. If not, he would by the end of the meeting.
Only three hours before, Pointer had come perilously close to wetting his own trousers. He’d never seen Slater like that, his face beet red and trembling with rage. Humiliated was the word he used.
Pointer had humiliated Slater’s entire organization. You could live with the news that a hit on a politician or a dealer went sour. But Pointer had fucked up a hit on a boy in a cage! Once word leaked out, it would take years for
