taxes and cancer and what to eat next. The next moment someone has shot you in the face and you’re dead. That’s the second-best-case scenario, really. What you don’t want is to be ambushed, captured and then tortured to death. All things being equal, a bullet to the brain is a far more humane way to die.
There exists, of course, a third possible result of an ambush, the first-best-case scenario, as it were: You’re taken by surprise but not injured beyond repair-physically or emotionally. The problem with this angle is that if someone didn’t want to hurt you physically or emotionally they wouldn’t ambush you in the first place.
Which is why I was somewhat surprised when Big Lumpy appeared at my loft later that evening. There was a knock on the door and when I looked out the window I saw Big Lumpy’s Escalade idling across the street, the glow from the nightclub on the street turning the bright white paint yellow, then pink, then blue.
I didn’t bother to look through the peephole to see if Big Lumpy was alone. If he had guts enough to show up at my door unannounced, he probably wasn’t here to kill me.
Plus, if you want to kill someone without ever touching them, the best way is to wait for them to stare at you through a peephole. A peephole is structurally the weakest portion of a door. It’s just a hole, bored through wood, with glass on either end. So if you want to stab someone in the brain, wait until you see light being interrupted on the other end of the hole and then shove a long-bladed-preferably serrated-knife through the hole with as much force as possible. A serrated knife will do far more damage, so it really is the weapon of choice.
Or just shoot a single bullet through the hole. That will also do the trick. If you’re any good, you won’t even leave a fingerprint.
Even still, you can’t be too careful these days, so I got my shotgun from under the sink, racked it and opened the door.
“Can I help you with something?” I said.
“Is this a bad time?” Big Lumpy said. He was still wearing that absurd white outfit, but now had a portable oxygen tank with him, too, as well as a slim laptop.
“I’m a formal guy,” I said. “You should have called first. I would have taken out the nice linens and china.”
“I would have, but you’re not listed. I looked all through the Yellow Pages under ‘burned spies’ and the only name that came up was a Jesse Something-or-Other.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Call him next time.” I stepped around Big Lumpy and swept my shotgun over the courtyard where I park my car. It was empty and the gate was closed. “Where’s your manservant?”
“In the car,” he said. “Where is yours?”
“I gave him the night off,” I said. “He had a near-death experience this afternoon.”
I put my shotgun down to my side and invited Big Lumpy inside my loft. He stepped in, pulling his oxygen tank behind him, and then stopped to survey his surroundings.
“Spartan,” he said.
“I didn’t intend to stay long,” I said.
“How long ago was that?”
“Longer than I thought,” I said.
“Longer than you deserved?”
“Depends on who you ask.” This answer seemed to satisfy Big Lumpy. He walked over to my kitchen counter and set his computer down and took a seat. “Make yourself at home,” I said to his back. I put my shotgun on my bed and went into the kitchen and stood across the counter from Big Lumpy and waited for him to say whatever he wanted to say.
“I don’t suppose the boy is here?”
“No,” I said.
“Good. Wouldn’t want him seeing me and being unimpressed.”
“You ever meet his father?”
“Once. He wasn’t aware of the fact that he was meeting me, however. I used a proxy. Better to convince him to pay. I watched from a distance. I’m a bit of a voyeur in that way.”
“He’s crazy,” I said.
“I don’t doubt that,” he said. “I put the fear of God into mortal men.”
“No,” I said, “I mean he’s nuts. Clinically.”
“You found him?”
“I’ve found evidence of him,” I said. I didn’t know what Big Lumpy was doing at my place, but the fact that he was there at all told me something was niggling at him, so I decided to take a few chances, see where they led. “And the evidence indicates to me that he’s had a break from reality. If he’s alive, he might be too far gone to matter.”
“This is my problem how?”
“I don’t think he knew what he was doing when he was betting with you,” I said. “Did you know he accidentally killed his wife?”
“I was his bookie, not his therapist,” Big Lumpy said.
I told him the story Brent had told me that afternoon, including the part about his personality changing. I even told him about the conspiracy books I found in Henry’s house, figuring the more evidence for madness I could provide, the more likely Big Lumpy might feel.. . something. I wasn’t sure what he was made of exactly, but I knew that his impending death had to have some effect on him, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
“Terrible story,” Big Lumpy said when I was done.
“Maybe Lifetime will make it into a movie that the whole family can enjoy.”
“Are you really that dead inside?” I asked.
“Do you think I’m stupid, Michael?”
“No.” And I didn’t.
“Then why are you trying to squeeze empathy out of me?”
“I’m just trying to see if you’re a human being.”
“There’s no empathy in my business,” he said.
“Or mine,” I said.
“That’s not true,” he said. “Look at you now. Helping the helpless. Friend to the great unwashed masses who embark on stupid criminal pursuits. You’re like Robin Hood in Armani.”
“This isn’t my business,” I said. “This is my life. I’ve been forced to separate the two. You might look into it.”
This got Big Lumpy to smile. “You’re an odd man,” he said.
“I’ve had an odd life,” I said.
“I know,” he said. He opened up his computer then and swung it my way. “I’ve been reading your file.”
“I don’t need to look at that,” I said. “I have my own copy.”
Big Lumpy nodded once and then made a few clicks on his keyboard. “Have you seen mine?”
On his screen was a series of documents that were largely redacted. “Impressive,” I said. “You’ve been a real black mark.”
Another smile. He still hadn’t told me what exactly he was doing at my house and I wasn’t going to ask. He seemed to be enjoying this cat-and-mouse game, showing me that he was in as deep as I was with the government, letting me know that the stakes of Henry’s life were small comparatively. I just didn’t know why yet.
“I spent some time looking at the InterMacron Web site,” Big Lumpy said. “Impressive.”
“I thought so.”
“How old is he?”
“Nineteen.”
“Only child?”
“Only child.”
“And his father, you say he’s crazy. His mother is dead. Grandparents?”
“I don’t know. Probably dead,” I said. “I think he has an aunt somewhere.”
“Texas,” Big Lumpy said.
“Right,” I said. “I forgot you’d threatened her life.”
“I only provided intel. I made no actual threats of my own. Outsourcing, Michael-you should look into it.”
