face.
The kicks came in a nonstop flurry. Myron curled into a fetal position and tried to ride it out. The kicks hurt like hell, but they were too rushed to do serious damage. One landed near his eye. He’d have a shiner for sure.
Then a voice shouted, “What the hell-Stop this moment!”
The kicks halted immediately.
“Get away from him!”
The men backed off. “Sorry, Mr. Ache.”
Myron rolled onto his back. With some effort he managed to sit up. Herman Ache stood by an open door. “Are you okay, Myron?”
Myron winced. “Never better, Herman.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Herman Ache said. Then glaring at his men. “But some people will be even sorrier.”
The men cowered away from the older man. Myron almost rolled his eyes. This was all an act. Herman Ache’s men did not beat up men in Herman’s corridor without permission. This had been a setup. Now Myron supposedly owed Herman, even before the negotiating started. Not to mention the fact that pain is a great fear-inducer, the perfect prenegotiation cocktail.
Aaron came down the hall. He helped Myron to his feet and sort of half-shrugged as if to say Cheap move, but what can you do?
“Come,” Herman beckoned. “Let’s talk in my office.”
Myron moved tentatively into the office. He had not been here in several years, but not much had changed. Golf was still the theme. LeRoy Neiman painting of some golf course on the main wall. Lots of those stupid cartoon/artworks of old-fashioned golfers. Aerial photographs of golf courses. In one corner of the office was a movie screen showing a shot of a fairway. In front of the screen was a golf tee. The player hits the ball against the screen. A computer then calculates where it would have landed and changes the image on the screen to match that. Then the player takes his second shot Fun city.
“Nice office,” Win said.
Figures.
“Thank you, son.” Herman Ache smiled. Capped teeth. He was in his early sixties, tan, fit, wearing white pants and a yellow golf shirt with a Nicklaus golden bear where an alligator normally went-as if he were on his way to a gin tournament in Miami Beach. Herman Ache had gray hair. Not his own. A toupee or one of those Hair Club systems, a good one, one most people would probably not spot. He had liver spots on his hands. His face was wrinkle free, probably from collagen shots or a face-lift. The neck gave him away. The flesh was baggy and Reaganesque. Looked like a big scrotum.
“Please, gentlemen, have a seat.”
They did so. The door was closed behind them. Aaron, two new hoods, and Herman Ache. Nausea’s grip on Myron’s stomach began to slacken.
Herman picked up a golf club and sat on the edge of his desk. “I understand,” he said, “that you and Frank are having a misunderstanding, Myron.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Herman nodded. “Frank?”
The door opened. Frank entered. You could tell that they were brothers, both having almost identical facial features, but that was where the similarities ended. Frank had at least twenty pounds on his older brother. He was pear-shaped with small Paul Schaefer shoulders and a rubber tire that would be the envy of the Michelin Man. Frank was completely bald, forgoing the hair weave. His teeth were black with spaces between them. His face was permanently set on angry scowl.
Both brothers had grown up on the streets. Both had started out as small-time hoods and worked their way up. Both had seen their own children gunned down over the years. Both had gunned down plenty of other people’s children. Herman liked to pretend that he dwelled on a loftier plane than his coarse younger brother-a plane of fine books, the arts, golf. But the escape was not that easy. Two sides of the same coin. Frank gratingly reminded Herman of his origins and perhaps true nature. But Frank was comfortable and accepted in his world. Herman was not.
Frank was dressed in a powder blue sweat suit with neon yellow trim. The jacket was unzippered and-taking a fashion tip from Yves St. Aaron-he wore no shirt. His chest hairs were matted with either some type of oil or sweat. Quite a turn-on. The form-fitting pants were a few sizes too small, outlining a bulge in his crotch. Myron started feeling nauseous again.
Frank did not speak. He sat at his brother’s desk and waited.
“Now, Myron,” Herman continued, “I understand this is all about some black boy who plays basketball.”
“Chaz Landreaux,” Myron said. “And I’m not sure he’d be crazy about being called ‘boy.’ ”
“Pardon an old man who is not up on all the politically correct terms. I meant no disrespect.”
Win sat quietly, studying his surroundings.
“Let me tell you how I see it,” Herman continued. “And I’m trying to be objective here. Your Mr. Landreaux made a deal. He took the money. For four years he helped his family with that money. Then when it was time to pay up, he reneged.”
“That’s objective? Chaz Landreaux is just a kid-”
“Spare me the lecture,” Herman interrupted gently. “We’re not social workers here. You know that. We are businessmen. We made an investment in this young man. We risked several thousand dollars on him. The investment was finally about to pay dividends when you interfered.”
“I didn’t interfere. He came to me. He’s a scared kid. O’Connor got his hooks in him when he was eighteen. There are rules against approaching kids that young for a reason. Now the kid’s trying to get out before he slides in too deep.”
Herman looked skeptical. “Oh, come on now, Myron. Kids grow up fast nowadays. He knew exactly what he was doing. So it was against the rules-big deal. The kid knew the rules. He wanted the money anyway.”
“He’ll pay it back.”
Frank Ache spoke for the first time. “Fuck he will.”
Myron waved. “Hi, Frank. Boss threads.”
“And fuck you too, bug shit. Deal’s a deal.”
Myron turned to Win. “Bug shit?”
Win shrugged.
“The deal,” Myron continued, “was that Chaz could back out at any time and pay back the money. Roy O’Connor told him that.”
“I don’t give a fuck what O’Connor said.”
Herman said, “Please, Frank, we don’t need to get hostile.”
“Ah, fuck him, Herman. This asshole wants to fuck me over. He wants to steal food off my fucking table. Not just this Landreaux nigger. That’s just the start. We got dozens of prospects signed like this. We lose one, we lose them all. I say we let the other agents know we ain’t to be messed with. I say we waste Bolitar right now.”
Myron said, “I don’t like that idea.”
“Who the fuck asked you?”
“Just giving my opinion.”
“Please, Frank, this isn’t helping. You promised to let me handle this.”
“Handle what? Kill the son of a bitch. End of story.”
“Wait in the other room. I’ll take care of it, I promise.”
Frank glared at Myron. Myron did not bother glaring back. He knew this was part of the act. He knew that they were trying to intimidate him in much the same way Otto Burke and Larry Hanson had. But for some odd reason, the air of death gave the Mutt and Jeff routine a whole new dynamic.
Win, however, remained pensive.
“Come on, Aaron,” Frank growled. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He stood. “But the contract is still on.”
“Fine,” Herman said. “If you want to kill him, I won’t get in the way.”
“He’s as good as dead.”
Frank and Aaron left. Frank slammed the door. Overacting, Myron thought, but an effective cameo
