The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [55]
High Top’s eyes moved from one to the other of them fearfully. He was clearly at a loss.
“Okay,” he said cautiously.
“Why you been stealing radios?” Mel asked.
A split second of calculation crossed High Top’s face, virtually unnoticeable, before he smiled and said, “For money, duh.”
But Mel had seen it clearly. His hands moved in, closer to the small man’s throat.
“You sure you want to stick with that?” he asked, adding, “Duh?”
“Maybe some drugs, too,” High Top conceded.
Mel swiveled his shaggy head toward Ellis. “Maybe some drugs, too, he says.”
Ellis didn’t respond, still watching. Waiting. Unsure of what was happening, as confused as their victim about exactly why they were doing this.
Mel returned to High Top. “Who’re you getting these drugs from, little man?”
Again that tiny crafty glimmer, instantly suppressed. “You know—people. Around.”
Mel’s thumbs caressed High Top’s carotids. “Let me tell you what I heard. How ’bout that?”
The smallest of nods, followed by an almost inaudible “Sure.”
“I heard there was a new pipeline in town. A coupla guys from New York—cousins. That they take in trade and money, both.”
High Top looked up at him, expecting more.
So did Ellis, surprised by this new intelligence, but Mel merely asked, “So?”
High Top hesitated. “So what? I don’t know.”
“They’re not why you’re stealing radios? A freak like you? How many radios you steal so far?”
The question caught the kid off guard. “Fifty, maybe.”
Mel laughed. “You’re a one-man crime wave. Jesus, man. What’re their names?”
High Top scowled. “Who?”
For the first time, Mel applied his thumbs where they’d been simply poised. High Top’s eyes snapped open, and he struggled under Mel’s considerable weight.
Mel let off and let the boy gasp for a few seconds before saying, “You get what’s going on here, you little shit? This is not a conversation. This is where you answer what I ask you. You got that?”
He was met with a silent nod, and Ellis saw in the addict’s face that his appreciation of the situation had sharpened.
As had Ellis’s. He looked around nervously, as if hoping a staircase might appear from the night sky to give him a way out.
“Okay,” Mel said. “Let’s try it again. Who’re the two guys?”
“What’re you gonna do?” was the response.
Mel straightened, his surprise obvious. “What d’you give a fuck what I’m gonna do?”
“You don’t wanna mess with them.”
Mel leaned forward again, applying pressure to High Top’s throat. “You stupid goofball, I don’t need a guardian angel. Give me the goddamn names.”
He held on longer than last time, until it looked as though his victim might pass out. Ellis was pacing back and forth, shoving his fists in and out of his pockets, gripped equally by panic and indecision.
Once more, Mel let go. High Top’s recovery was slower, more measured. His hands, which before had thrashed against Mel’s brawny forearms, merely fluttered to both sides, as if following commands radioed in from far away.
“I only know one,” he finally said in a whisper all but swept away by the passing water. “Name’s Bob.”
“Bob what?”
“Don’t know—funny last name . . . sounds like Nemo or something.”
“Where’s he live?”
“Benmont.” High Top gave the number.
“What’s the routine?” Mel demanded. “How do they check you out?”
“They got people they trust.”
“Who are they? You must’ve passed muster.”
Ellis didn’t know how the young man managed it, but he actually sneered up at Mel. “You gotta know them, dummy,” he said.
Ellis never knew what prompted the remark. It seemed like such a foolish thing, to gamble everything on a one-liner.
But without a doubt, High Top had made a choice, as was clear from his final expression. As Ellis stared in horror and Mel, in disgust, bore down one last time with both thumbs, the look in the kid’s eyes, just before they dilated and went lifeless, was triumphant.
Mel grunted afterward, placed one hand flat against the body’s chest, and used it to shove himself back up to a standing position.
Ellis had to remember to breathe. “Mel. You killed him.