Fun and Games

At first everyone said he was a hero. A “Philadelphia-style hero,” some columnist said. Hardie had tried his best and lost—just like Rocky. That didn’t mean he didn’t give it his all. And that was something to be commended.

Soon, though, the tide turned, as it is wont to do. Some city council members questioned Hardie’s role with the Philly PD—was he a consultant or a hired thug? What had he done to piss off the Albanians so badly? Rumors of double-dealing and corruption spread through local papers and blogs. Hardie refused to comment; so did the Philly PD.

After that… the coverage pretty much died. Hardie spent six months recuperating, then went into exile.

Factboy had to admit, the story hit home. Turns out Hardie had a wife and kid, too, and luckily they weren’t home when the gunmen paid a visit. Factboy had a hard time thinking about something like this happening to him— to his wife and kids. It’s the kind of thing that went through his head in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. This chosen profession of his.

Which made what he had to do next more than a little creepy.

But hey, it was his job.

O’Neal gave Mann the highlights as she finished repatching her eyes. He knew better than to try to persuade her to visit a hospital—or even the mobile doc they kept on retainer. She’d want to stay, finish the job. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to talk a little sense into her. Maybe propose a viable alternative.

“What about the team—on the other job?”

She pressed tape to her brow. “What about them?”

“They’re not on until tonight, and I know they’re in the area. Why not bring them over and have them finish these two off?”

“No.”

O’Neal ran his tongue along his teeth, looked down at the floor, tried again.

“It could be a home-invasion scenario. Simple enough. She holes up here, at her boyfriend’s place. Only somebody’s robbing the place at the same time. Things go south, she mouths off, gets shot…”

“Way too coincidental. And the minute you involve guns is the minute everybody and their mothers start picking apart the narrative. With guns, it’s almost never an accident, unless you’ve got a ten-year-old kid, inattentive parents, and an unlocked cabinet.”

Right. The narrative. With Mann everything was about the narrative. And she was so anti-gun, you’d think you’d find her out on weekends, arms linked with Oprah Winfrey and George Clooney, singing “Kumbaya” at a rally.

“This could be over in twenty minutes,” O’Neal. “Don’t dismiss it.”

“We can’t use the first team.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re already busy.”

O’Neal knew there were two jobs this weekend, and he had to admit, he was bummed to be in a backup role for the second. For some reason, Mann had wanted two completely different primary teams. He knew little about the other job, other than that it was “on the other side of the mountain” and set for that night. Making this a kind of twilight doubleheader for Mann.

“What about a fire? We can light it from the bottom. It’s L.A., and it is the season. Completely plausible. We can even figure out a way to pin it on her.”

“It’s sloppy. The actress and Hardie could make it out. And too hard to control. Once a fire breaks out, it could wipe out dozens of homes before the fire department makes it up here. The arson investigators would have a field day.”

Yeah, O’Neal thought. But they’d be dead, wouldn’t they?

He held his tongue. This was why she was the director and he was the deputy. Not for lacking of trying, though. Maybe someday he’d earn a top spot on the production team. He’d put in the hours, certainly.

Mann finished up by running a wet wipe over her eyes to remove the dried blood and dirt. She pulled a black dress over her bikini, and applied lipstick as best she could without a mirror. She could pass for an aging Hollywood Hills trophy wife who’d endured a particularly rough crow’s-feet plastic surgery session.

“I’m going back down to the other vantage point. I’ll check in with A.D. Make sure he’s still functional.”

A.D. was indeed still functional.

He’d passed through shock and come through it okay, all things considered.

Now he was directly under the bottom floor, keeping watch. If they were going to bolt, they’d most likely try it from the windows closest to the ground. The drop wasn’t too crazy; you could survive. Hell, he survived being kicked in the balls and falling from the top floor. A drop off the bottom floor? No problem at all.

“You sure you’re okay?” Mann asked, crouching down next to him. “You can still see and hear?”

“Yeah. You know, I’m kind of surprised about it myself… but I’m still in this. Don’t count me out, boss.”

“I won’t.”

“How’s your eye? You can’t even tell with those glasses on.”

“I need you to focus.”

“Okay, I can focus. What do you want me to do?”

“How far do you think you can crawl?”

Mann knew O’Neal was impatient to finish this. So was she. But you don’t go this far and make a mistake at the very end. The narrative was everything. Now that she knew a little more about Hardie, she’d figured out the perfect way to eliminate him.

He wouldn’t even know it was coming.

15

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

—Movie cliche

THE FIRST hour slid by Hardie and Lane on the second floor, taking up a position in the hallway between the bathroom and the stairway to the lower level. Their weapons: a corkscrew and a slightly used mic stand. Hardie wanted to make a run for it right away. The Indians were wounded; this was the time for the cowboys to make their getaway. But Lane refused—no way, no how—and reminded Hardie of what happened the last time he tried to walk out the front door. Hardie had no choice but to concede her point. Didn’t mean he had to like it.

They didn’t say too much to each other. Lane had either sobered up or had descended into a deeper level of shock. She complained about her eye hurting and stared at the soundproofed walls, breathing slowly, blinking every so often. Clearly, it hurt when she blinked.

Hardie cracked his knuckles, bending each finger and pressing it with his thumb until his joint popped. Then he continued pressing down with his thumb, even when his joints had nothing left to give.

“Will you stop that,” Lane said.

“Sorry.”

The waiting killed Hardie. He didn’t want to spend the day sitting in the hallway. He wanted Them to make the next move NOW. Show themselves. Reveal some weakness. At least give him a sense of how many were out there. At least three, with one possibly incapacitated. But there could easily be more. Topless could have called in reinforcements. Hardie would have.

Hardie was reminded of zombie movies. He wasn’t into them, but his son loved them. A few lone human beings vs. insurmountable odds. Wave after wave of dead people coming after you, ripping apart drywall, busting through windows, trying to snack on your brains…

But these motherfuckers weren’t zombies. They were smart. They were determined. They had gear. They had plans. They had ambitions. They had huge breasts. And they had all the time in the world.