The Hidden Man

to the assailant and increasing their chances of survival.

I got as close to his face as circumstances allowed, adding some body weight to the force of the revolver pressing into his nose. “I don’t want your fucking dope, J.D.”

“The fuck did you find me?”

That had been surprisingly easy. I figured that a drug dealer who’s already had to leave his day job wouldn’t stop his late-night occupation, no matter how well he was being paid to lay low. He’d want the cash and he wouldn’t want his customers to find new suppliers in his absence. So I figured he’d be using that cell phone of his, the number to which I got from Pete. Then it was a small matter of having my high-tech private investigator, Joel Lightner, “ping” the cell phone, triangulating the signals sent off by the phone while in use, to pinpoint a location.

But I didn’t feel the need to share this with Mr. Dixon. Better I remained something of a mystery to him. Instead, I emphasized the gun, jammed into his nostril. “I’m supposed to kill you,” I said. “But I’m having second thoughts.”

“Why you-why you gonna kill me?” he pleaded. “Why you gonna do that?” The downpour made it hard for him to talk, spurting out words as rain assaulted his mouth. Breathing was no small chore, either. This was like a cheap imitation of waterboarding. I’d have to remember to vote Republican next time.

“You think he’s gonna let you live?” I said. “You’re a witness, asshole. You’re a liability.”

“Man, I don’t know nothin’, man.” He shook his head furiously, side to side, as best he could with my tight grip on his hair. “Don’t even know the guy’s name.”

I didn’t know who he was talking about. I was bluffing.

“Tell me everything you do know,” I said evenly. “Fast, J.D.”

“Man, the guy says-guy says deliver the kid to Mace.”

“Yeah? What’s in it for you?”

J.D. seemed reluctant to answer. Gentle encouragement was in order, and J.D. already had a gash on the right cheek, so a little symmetry seemed appropriate, courtesy of the butt of my revolver. He let out a noise that was drowned out by the rain. “That’s me being nice, J.D.,” I said. “What was in it for you?”

He took some time to recover. It’s hard to take a blow when you can’t move your head or arms to absorb the impact. Finally, he said, “They let me live. That’s what was in it for me.”

“Threw you some, too?”

“Maybe. A dime, a dime,” he elaborated, when I raised my gun again. “They gave me ten thousand and told me, they won’t come back. I just had to deliver the kid, is all.”

“What kid?” Here I showed how clever I am, pretending not to know of Pete, thus hopefully concealing my identity should J.D. get around to pondering such things later.

“Pete.”

“Pete who?”

He coughed out a mouthful of rain. “Pete Kolarich,” he said. “Okay?”

I considered popping him one, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to leave this guy’s face in a pulp. J.D. seemed on board with that sentiment and, instead of trying my patience, kept going. “That’s all I know, man. They said take him to Mace. Be ready to run.”

Right. They knew Pete would get picked up by the police-that was the whole point-but they didn’t want J.D. on an arrest report.

“Tell me about the cop,” I said, again bluffing.

“The cop?” He moaned as his eyes filled with rainwater. “What cop? Man, I got out before the cops.”

My gut said he was telling the truth. That didn’t mean that Detective DePrizio was clean, only that if the detective was in on this thing, J.D. hadn’t been informed.

“So who made you do this, J.D.? Describe them.”

“Four white guys, is all. Four big, bad-ass white dudes. Same as you, man, they jumped me like that.”

Not Smith. But that made sense. Someone else would handle the wet work, not Smith. I assumed these four thugs were the same ones who jumped Pete in the alley.

“Where’s Mace?” I asked. The way J.D. was telling it, he might not have known Mace at all before this encounter. But I said it like I knew otherwise.

“Man, you want no part a that dude.”

“Oh, but I do.” I reminded him of the gun in his nostril.

“Guy’s Tenth Street. C’mon now, man.”

“His full name, J.D.”

He seemed to be thinking about it. It could be, he was weighing some options, too. But I thought he was really trying to come up with the name.

“Mason’s the last name,” he finally answered. “I think Marcus?”

Marcus Mason. Finally, I had the name of Mace.

“Man, why they wanna kill me? I did like they said.”

I shook my head. “They wanted me to test you, to see if you’d break,” I said. “If you did, I was supposed to kill you.”

“Oh, now, listen-”

“You listen, shithead. I’m not going to waste a bullet on your ass. I’ll tell ’em you held up under questioning. And you-you pretend this never happened.”

“Never happened,” he readily agreed.

“If I were you,” I told him, “I’d sit tight like they said. You run, J.D., they’ll wonder why. And you know I’ll find you.” I let go of his hair. The rain had subsided to a light shower, but too late for John Dixon. His clothes were plastered against his body. He had twin bruises on his cheeks and a bloody ear.

“Businessman can’t run no business no more,” he complained, sitting up, wincing, taking inventory of the damage.

“Yeah, what’s the world coming to?” I stuffed the gun in the back of my pants. “Get out of the business,” I suggested. “Stick to the mail room job.” I nodded to him, started to walk away, then turned back and kicked him hard in the ribs. That was for Pete. J.D. had gotten off light, all things considered. It remained to be seen how Marcus Mason would fare.

33

I LEFT THE HOUSE Wednesday morning alone. A Chrysler sedan followed me from a comfortable length. After I left, Shauna Tasker, who had spent the night at my place, left out the back door and walked to her car, parked on the street over. She’d known that I might be taking a spin with her car last night, but I told her I hadn’t, after all, without elaborating. She probably knew I’d gone somewhere last night, but she didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell.

What did I have to show for last night, other than a cold? At least I had locked down that Smith hadn’t been bluffing-he’d been behind Pete’s arrest. It had gone down like I would have expected. They put a little scare into J.D. and stuffed some money in his pocket, and he made sure that when Pete came to find him to buy some powder, he’d be in the company of Mr. Marcus Mason.

Smith had money, and he had, at least, a small gang of people. Four white guys, J.D. had said. Probably the same four guys who had jumped Pete. Probably the same four guys who, as a team, were keeping tabs on me.

I caught myself nodding off at a stoplight. I hadn’t slept in two days. I’d been relying on anxiety to prop me up. My vision was spotty and my hands were shaky. I asked myself for the umpteenth time whether I could handle what I was doing. But I kept coming back to two things: one, I had no choice, I had to represent Sammy; and two, I still