Show of Evil

'Give it a shot then. It gets sticky, we'll good-guy, bad-guy him. He already has you pegged as the negotiator, so you play the hero. Take Flaherty for the bad guy.'

'Flaherty?'

'I think he'll surprise you, Abel. Let him play it his way. When he takes over, stand back, let him do it.'

Flaherty looked tough enough to play a mean cop. He bordered on handsome with coal-black hair and dark brown eyes, but his rugged, brooding Irish features were marred by a slightly flattened nose and a scar over one eye.

In the fleabag hotel, Stenner sat talking to Bollinger, a grungy redhead with bad teeth and a worse attitude. Flaherty sat in a corner of the room watching the proceedings, wearing a .38 under his arm.

'Shit,' Bollinger snapped, 'I'm giving up everything, man. Friends, my place, my car, every fuckin' thing, and he's pissin' about one hundred grand a year and a car to replace my Vette!'

'I'll tell you what you're not giving up,' said Stenner.

'Oh yeah, what's that?'

'The rest of your life, Bobby. No parole. And when we do nail down this case, you'll be hauled in again for aiding and abetting. You won't see daylight until my son runs for president and my son hasn't been born yet.'

'This is great, just fuckin' great, man. I come to you with a reasonable — '

'A hundred grand a year and a new joy waggon is not reasonable. Sell your vehicle. Get something nice with the down payment.'

'What are you, my business manager?'

Stenner said, 'You could look at it that way.'

'I do this, I'm on the dodge the rest of my life.'

'Then it's Joliet. They'll pop you there - if not before. You're running. This way, we make the reservations and pick up the tab.'

'Well, then, I guess it boils down to how bad you want my information, huh?'

'No, it boils down to how bad you want to stay alive. You want to shoot craps with your life for a damn car?'

Bellinger's lips were getting dry. He licked them nervously. That fucking DA is calling my hand.

'How long's this gonna take?' he asked.

'As long as it takes. Could be a year before we put the case together and get into court.'

'A year! In this fuckin' funeral parlour!'

'Christ, why don't we find him a nice place out in the goddamn country,' Flaherty snarled.

Bellinger looked over at Flaherty, who was clipping his fingernails. Who the hell is this guy He looked back at Stenner.

'No pie for a fuckin' year?' he whined.

'Pie?'

'You know… the old ying-yang,' Bellinger said with a lascivious grin. 'I deserve that much.'

Flaherty suddenly exploded. He threw the fingernail clippers across the room and charged at Bollinger with such fury that he surprised even Stenner. He shoved past the detective and loomed over Bollinger.

'You don't deserve shit,' he snarled.

He slid an easy chair over with his foot and sat down in front of Bollinger, leaning forward with his face an inch from the mobster and spoke in a low, nasty monotone.

'I know all the tricks, Bobby. Know why? Because I've been there. I know what you're thinking right now. I know what you're gonna say before you say it. I'm hip, Bobby. Understand?'

Bellinger's eyes bulged with uncertainty.

'The major, here, tries to treat you like a decent human being, what'd we get? A cheap brand of grift. You been playin' us like a fiddle for two days. Well, I just took your goddamn bow away from you. Forget the fuckin' Corvette and the fuckin' one hundred grand job. You're off the goddamn sleeve. Do you understand? Am I getting through that fat head of yours?'

'I got myself—'