Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [60]
I set up the meeting table in the side room while Max removed his disguise—he changed into a pair of chinos, sweatshirt, and black leather shoes so thin they could have been ballet slippers. While I sat at the table with the light behind me and waited, Max faded out the side door to bring on the clowns. If they had split the scene, Max wouldn’t bother to look for them. Unless they got out of the area real fast, one of the roving packs of kids would take them quickly enough.
It was about twenty minutes before they came back. Max led them inside to the table, ushering them over to a pair of chairs facing me, then floated over and took the chair to my left.
Two men. One beefy-faced and bulky, close-cropped hair, a thick drinker’s nose, steel-frame glasses. A fringe of whitish hair poked out of the top of a white sportshirt worn outside his pants. Omega chronograph on his left wrist, dial facing out, short, fat hands, flat-cut nails. Expressionless face, piggy eyes. The other, taller with a heavy shock of blond hair parted on the side, suede sportcoat, mobile clean-shaven face, two thin gold chains around his neck, hands clean and well-cared for, a metal case protruding just slightly from his breast pocket.
We looked at each other for a moment or so, then the taller one spoke. “Are you Mr. Burke?”
“Yes.”
“I’m James. This is my associate, Mr. Gunther.”
Gunther leaned forward so I could see his little eyes and clenched one of his hands into a fist. The heavy. “Who’s this?” He pointed a fat finger at Max.
“This is my silent partner.”
“We’re just dealing with you. Nobody else.”
I looked back at him pleasantly. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you. My driver will be happy to take you back to where he picked you up—”
James broke in. “Mr. Burke, you will have to pardon my friend. He’s a soldier, not a businessman. There’s no reason why your partner can’t sit in if you wish.”
I said nothing. Max said nothing. Before James could continue, Gunther spoke up again. “He’s a gook. I don’t like fucking gooks—I saw enough of them. What kind of white man has a gook for a partner?”
“Look, asshole,” I told him, “I’m not buying any master-race stock this week, okay? You got business, talk—you don’t, walk.” I was pleased at the rhyme.
“You do all the talking for the two of you?”
“Yep.”
“What’s the matter with the gook, he don’t talk?”
“He doesn’t do any talking. And so far neither have you.”
James put his hand lightly on his pal’s clenched fist and patted him. A tender gesture. “Mr. Burke, I must again apologize for my friend here. His family was killed by terrorists back home. They were blacks, of course, but we later learned that they had Chinese leadership. You understand . . .”
“You think my partner was one of the terrorists?”
“Don’t be silly. I just mean—”
“I’m not silly, just confused. Are you people cops, journalists, businessmen, or just a couple of thrill-seeking faggots?”
Gunther was on his feet, opened his mouth to say something, then focused his eyes sufficiently to notice the double-barreled sawed-off I had leveled at his face. He closed his mouth and sat down. James hadn’t moved. I turned the shotgun sideways so they could see it didn’t have a stock. It didn’t have much of a barrel either, just about enough to sheath the shells waiting inside. I moved it lightly from one to the other.
“You call and pressure me until I finally agree to meet with you. I send a cab for you, bring you to this place I had to rent for the evening. You cost my partner and me a lot of time and some money too. Then you come here and talk a lot of garbage—now you want to threaten me too? You have business or not?”
“We have business, Mr. Burke, serious business. Business that could make you a rich man, if you’ll just allow me to speak.”
“Speak. First, you carrying, either of you?”
James said no, but Gunther reached in his pocket and took out a pair of brass knuckles. Laying them on the table in front of me, he said, “That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
Gunther wasn’t finished with his heavy act yet. “That’s all