Serial Uncut - J. A. Konrath [61]
The hitman falls into step behind the butcher, his soft-soled shoes silent on the walkway. He trails Brotsky, close as a shadow, for several steps and then jams the Ruger against the fat man’s back. Brotsky stops cold.
“This is a gun, Victor Brotsky. Try to run and I’ll fire. The bullet will blow your heart out the front of your chest. Neither of us want that to happen. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Brotsky says. “Can I put down these bags? They’re heavy.”
Brotsky doesn’t seem frightened, or even surprised. Dalton is impressed. Perhaps the man is more of a pro than Dalton guessed.
“No. We’re going to walk, slowly, out to the alley. My car is parked there. You’re going to put the pieces of the hooker in the trunk.”
Brotsky does as he’s told. Dalton’s black 1989 El Dorado Roadster is parked alongside Brotsky’s garage. The car isn’t as anonymous as Dalton would prefer, but he needs to keep up appearances. The wiseguys he works for like Caddys, and driving the latest model somewhat compensates for the fact that Dalton isn’t Italian.
“Trunk is open. Put the bags inside, and take out the red folder.”
Brotsky hefts the bags into the trunk, and they land with a solid thump. The alley smells like garbage, and the summer heat makes the odor cling. Dalton moves the gun from the man’s back to his neck.
“Take the folder,” Dalton says.
The light from the trunk is enough. Brotsky opens the folder, begins to page through several 8x10 photos of his two previous victims. He lingers on one where he’s grinning, holding up a severed leg. It’s Dalton’s personal favorite. Black and white really is the only way to go.
“I’m a teacher,” Brotsky says. He has the barest trace of a Russian accent. “I don’t have much money.”
Dalton allows himself a small grin. He likes how Brotsky thinks. Maybe this will work out after all.
“I don’t want to blackmail you,” Dalton says. “My employer is a very important Chicago businessman.”
Brotsky sighs. “Let me guess. I slaughtered one of his whores, and now you’re going to teach me a lesson.”
“Wrong again, Victor Brotsky. See the lunch box in the corner of the trunk? Open it up.”
Brotsky follows instructions. The box is filled with several stacks of twenty dollar bills. Three thousand dollars total.
“What is this?” Brotsky asks.
“Consider it a retainer,” Dalton says. “My employer wants to hire you.”
“Hire me for what?”
“To do what you’re doing for free.” Dalton leans forward, whispers in Brotsky’s plump, hairy ear. “He wants you to kill some prostitutes.”
Brotsky turns around slowly, and his lips part in a smile. His breath is meaty, and he has a tiny bit of hooker caught in his teeth.
“This employer of yours,” Brotsky says. “I think I’m going to like working for him.”
2010, August 10
The rope secured my wrists behind my back and snaked a figure eight pattern through my arms up to my elbows. Houdini with a hacksaw wouldn’t have been able to get free. The best I could do was flex and wiggle my fingers to keep my circulation going.
My legs were similarly secured, the braided nylon line cris-crossing from my ankles to my knees, pinching my skin so tight I wished I’d worn pantyhose. And I hate pantyhose.
I was lying on my side, the concrete floor cool against my cheek and ear, the only light a sliver that came through a crack at the bottom of the far wall. A hard rubber ball had been crammed into my mouth. I was unable to dislodge it—a strap around my head held it in place. I probed the curved surface and winced when my tongue met with little indentations. Teeth marks. This ball gag had been used many times before.
My sense of time was sketchy, but I guessed I’d been awake for about fifteen minutes. The first few were spent struggling against the ropes,