“I know what it means. Mr. Roach taught that in freshman-year English.”
“Gee. I didn’t learn that until drama school.”
“And now you’re changing the subject, trying to distract me from your previous serving of bullshit.”
“You thought I was lying before about people trying to kill me. And look who turned out to be telling the truth.”
“There’s probably a Latin term for that, too, what you’re doing, but I can’t think of it. Look, I don’t give a shit about your personal life. I’m not going to sell your secrets to the tabloids. And I don’t care what your boyfriend Andrew—”
“I don’t know the owner of this house! Whoever the fuck he is!”
“—was into, I really don’t. But if you do know, you probably know what he keeps in this house. Like, for instance, maybe something useful like a gun.”
Lane blinked.
“There are no guns in the house. I checked when I first broke in here. Do you think I’m an idiot? You’re lucky I didn’t find a gun, because if I had, I probably would have shot you in the head.”
Hardie had to concede that one. Though he wouldn’t go so far as to call himself lucky. If he had any kind of luck, it was the get-hit-by-a-car-and-discover-you-have-cancer kind of luck.
But still, Hardie thought about the magical secret closet and the stash of pot. Maybe Lowenbruck did a little dealing on the side.
And if so, just maybe he kept a piece with his stash.
Hardie helped Lane to her feet, then brought her into the bathroom. Her eye was swelling up pretty good. He hoped she didn’t go looking in the mirror, because she might decide to come after him with the mic stand again.
“Lock yourself in here,” Hardie said. “Don’t open the door for anyone but me. I’ll be right back.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Check your magical secret closet. Maybe help myself to some grass.”
Lane giggled, despite herself. She was probably still reeling from the punch to her face. But even as he spoke the words, Hardie heard the shrill voice in the back of his head.
Downstairs, in the bedroom closet, was the secret room, as promised. And, yes indeedy, there was pot— three tightly packed bricks of it, as well as a box full of loose pot in tiny Ziploc bags. No guns. Not even a knife. What did this guy use to cut into the bricks of pot? His ninety-nine-cent corkscrew?
The pot was essentially useless to him—unless he could use it to barter with Topless. Maybe she could toke up, ease the pain in her eye. Hardie’s mother had been a stoner, so to rebel he became a drinker. Why couldn’t Lowenbruck have kept a wet bar or something down here? Why couldn’t this have been Prohibition, and there’d be a jug of brown lightning hidden away?
For that matter, why couldn’t this be just another gig?
Hardie wanted so badly to pop awake on a comfortable leather couch, half-empty bottle of Knob Creek resting against his crotch, and realize he was having a seriously
—Rumored original final line of Roger Corman’s
THE TWO OF THEM—Mann and O’Neal—briefly reconvened in the back of the van on top of the hill. O’Neal was shocked when he saw Mann. She had blood streaked down her cheeks and seemed to be wearing her bikini top upside down. Then again, O’Neal was sure he’d looked better, too. He’d self-administered the adrenaline in enough time to counter the heart-attack special, but he felt like 160 pounds of wet shit. His skin was clammy yet warm. Sweating out of every single pore of his body. Head pounding. If this was what a heart attack felt like, then O’Neal swore to eat a bullet the moment his primary doc told him his cholesterol was looking a little high. He’d fucking mainline oatmeal if it kept his arteries clean.
“What’s our plan?” O’Neal asked.
Mann sat down on a crate, ripped open a first-aid kit, started squeezing some antiseptic into a patch of gauze.
“I want to know more about who we’re dealing with. Get Fact boy on the line and tell him I want everything in ten minutes. If he gives you an excuse, tell him we’re severing our business relationship.”
O’Neal watched Mann work on her face. More blood trickled down her cheek. The eye wounds looked hideously painful. He waited for Mann to flinch. She didn’t. Her fingers moved around her eye, flicking pieces of plastic away from the corners of her eye. Which was not easy with compromised vision and no mirror.
“Can I help?” O’Neal asked.
“Yeah. By calling Factboy.”
Factboy sat on the toilet and read about the death and life of Charles Hardie.
He didn’t need to file an electronic National Security Letter this time. The story had been all over the local paper three years ago. (He didn’t think he should mention that little tidbit to Mann just yet.) Seems Hardie had worked with a detective named Nate Parish—who, in turn, was part of a joint Philly PD–FBI task force dedicated to cleaning up Philadelphia at all costs. (Factboy had visited Philly once. Good fucking luck with that.)
Albanian gangsters had broken into Nate Parish’s suburban home and shot the detective and his family— thirty-eight-year-old wife, ten-and six-year-old daughters—to death, execution-style. Also at the scene was Hardie, who had been
But the strange thing wasn’t that Hardie survived; it was that Hardie had survived
The first time was at his own home, which the gunmen had visited before they hit the Parish house. The Albanians sprayed heavy artillery all over Hardie’s place, with him inside. One reporter compared the scene to something out of Kabul. Broken windows, chopped-up woodwork, severed plants, exploded chunks of brick.
But Hardie survived the attack, even though he took anywhere from one to three bullets. (See, the Philly PD couldn’t really tell because he received more bullets from the same guns during the
Anyway, badass Charlie Hardie not only survived but was able to rouse his bleeding self, make his way to the garage, start up his car, and race to his friend and partner’s house to warn him the Albanians might be coming for him, too.
But it was the worst thing he could have done.
Oh, if only he could take that back…
The gunmen arrived not long after Hardie did, giving them a second opportunity to kill him. They even stopped to reload, according to one account, and continued the execution. This time, Hardie didn’t get up and chase after them.
But he also didn’t die.
A local columnist dubbed him “Unkillable Chuck.”
