“And you’re the fixer O’Rourke has asked to solve his problem.”
“Everybody needs a friend.”
“You’ve picked the wrong one,” she said, “but we can talk about that later. I want to talk about you, Mr. Wolf.”
“Just Wolf,” he said.
“Fine. You have all of the talent and experience, but where it came from I have no idea. Now all you do is waste away in your crappy apartment, live on the fringes, eat dinner at Gordy’s a few times a week, and play cards all night. It’s not much of a life.”
Wolf said: “I exist.”
“I could use a man like you. Things are turning around in this town. Out with the old and in with the new and all that. Come work for me. We’ll have a great time. You’ll make a ton of money.”
“A man you can buy cannot be trusted.”
“You don’t really know Gordy at all,” she said. “There’s a side to him I don’t think you’ll like.”
“I’ve known him since we were in diapers.”
She paused, then: “He hasn’t told you the whole story, has he?”
“Tell me what you want,” Wolf said.
Monica Frye fixed her eyes on Wolf; her mouth narrowed. She said: “I want to show Gordy what it’s like to have someone taken from him.”
“He’s already had someone taken from him.”
“But I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
Wolf kept his mouth shut. The woman watched him. When the driver pulled up in front of the club, Wolf turned to the fat man and held out his left hand. “My money.”
When the fat man hesitated, the woman said: “He can have the money but not his gun.”
“I didn’t ask for the gun.”
The fat man returned the envelope and Wolf stowed it inside his coat. He stepped out of the car, leaned back in. He said: “No.”
Her eyes widened. “You son of a bitch!” She flicked the cigarette at him but he was already out the door, slamming it shut. She screamed something; the Lincoln peeled off, the tires screeching.
WOLF WATCHED the Lincoln drive away and fished keys from his pocket. He looked up and down the street. The late hour meant little to no traffic; he neither heard nor saw any vehicles coming his way. Monica had to have expected that; a response wouldn’t be far away. She didn’t want her own hands bloodied, though. He climbed into the M3 and reached under the dash. Removing a plastic panel, he took his nine-millimeter Browning Hi-Power from the hidden compartment, placed it on the passenger seat. He started the car and drove off.
He spotted the single headlight behind him right away. A motorcycle. Wolf powered down his side window and grabbed the nine-millimeter. Air rushed in but he could hear a little of the motorcycle’s whine. A series of green lights allowed him to drive at the limit; when the motorcycle’s whine increased and the driver swung into the neighboring lane, Wolf braced his arms against the steering wheel and stomped the brakes.
The rider flashed by, firing a pistol into the space Wolf’s BMW had occupied, striking only asphalt. The rider increased speed, the bike weaving. The light ahead turned red but he didn’t slow. Wolf hopped out of his car, leveled the nine-millimeter, and fired once.
The rider hunched over his handlebars, the bike swerved, struck and sparked against the pavement. The rider’s body rolled curbside while the bike slid into the intersection. A trio of oncoming cars screeched to a stop.
Wolf jumped back into his car, executed a U-turn, and drove the other way.
GORDY ANSWERED on the first ring. Wolf said: “Where are you?”
“The restaurant.”
“Where’s Mike?”
“At the house.”
“Are you sure?”
“What’s happening, Wolf?”
Wolf filled him in and heard Gordy suck in a breath at the mention of Monica’s name. Wolf said: “What haven’t you told me?”
Gordy waited a moment; then said: “She thinks I’m her father. I never believed it and her mother could never prove it and Monica probably thinks I killed her.”
“You should have told me before tonight, Gordy.”
“I said probably. How could I know that note was from her?”
“Make sure Mike is where you think he is,” Wolf said, “because I’m on my way to the house.” He hung up.
THE GATE guard let Wolf pass and he drove up the curving driveway to the front of the house. The porch light made it impossible to see any of the surrounding acreage; darkness covered the grass, trees, the far stone wall. Wolf shook his head as he exited the car. Not even a guard in sight. The front door opened as he reached it. The house guard, a stocky man shorter than Wolf, said: “Just you?”
“Yes. Gordy on his way?”
“Should be.”
“Where’s the kid?”
The circular front room of the house had black-and-white checkerboard tiles from which a trio of hallways and a staircase branched. The guard hustled up the stairs with a slight rocking motion and the pistol on his hip rattled. Wolf followed. They reached the second floor, advanced down a hall, and when they reached the last room on the right, the house guard put a hairy hand on the doorknob. They could hear a television on the other side of the door. The house guard turned the knob, shoved his bulk inside.
Empty. The television, facing a double bed, played to no one. The room’s chill came from the fully open window from which a screen had been removed; Wolf left the gaping guard in the doorway and looked out the window. A rope had been fixed to one of the bedposts and led down to the ground.
“How many guys on duty tonight?” Wolf said.
“Twelve. Usual crew.”
“Well Mikey must have skipped between yard patrols.”
“Gordy isn’t going to like this.”
Wolf said: “No kidding?”
GORDY PACED his office. “Guys have been out for two hours and nothing,” he shouted.
“I’m right here, Gordy,” Wolf said from the couch, legs crossed, scotch in hand. “Try his cell again.”
Gordy pulled out his own cell and dialed, waited, flipped the phone closed. “Voicemail.”
Wolf nodded and sipped his drink.
Gordy dropped into the chair behind his desk. The flesh of his face seemed to sag further than the rest of his body. “I don’t want to lose Mike the way I lost Bobby,” he said.
Wolf blinked. He shook his glass and watched the scotch swish.
Gordy said: “I’m sorry, Wolf. I didn’t mean that for you.”
Wolf nodded.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want you-”
“Forget it.” Wolf sipped his drink.
Gordy’s cell rang. He snatched it up. “Mike?” Gordy listened a moment and his jaw slackened. “Don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want. Damnit, woman, I didn’t kill her!” He paused, then started scribbling on paper, then said: “On my way.” He flipped his phone closed and met Wolf’s gaze.
“Well?” Wolf said.
Gordy dropped his eyes. His body shook. “Will you drive?”
WOLF PULLED up in front of the address. His dash clock glowed 3:05 a.m.
“I want this over with,” Gordy said.
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
Gordy took a deep breath.
Wolf gave the house a look as he pulled out the ignition key. Wooden fence, one story, big yard. Neighboring houses spaced far enough apart that it wasn’t a home built within the last twenty years. He and Gordy exited the M3, walked up the stone pathway to the red double doors. Gordy kept his black briefcase close to his leg.
Wolf pressed the doorbell. The fat man, with a grimace, let them in. Monica Frye, red hair tied back, sat in the living room on a leather couch. Her driver, a blonde kid with chin fuzz, sat in a corner chair picking at his fingernails with clippers. He didn’t look up. He wore a shoulder holster and the pistol it contained dangled under his arm.
The fat man frisked Gordy first and removed a revolver; Wolf noted the fat man looked no further. Then he frisked Wolf and removed the nine-millimeter from the holster at his back. He didn’t check Wolf for a second weapon.