“Is this Kyle Byrne?” came the voice, a female voice, old and tremulous, but with a brutal self-possession.
“Yes, this is Kyle Byrne.”
“You just had a meeting with Senator Truscott, and the senator just left, isn’t that correct?”
“That’s right. Who is this?”
“And in that meeting you discussed with the senator a certain file that you found in your old house, even as it was burning down around you.”
“Maybe,” said Kyle slowly.
“Dear, don’t try to play games with me. You don’t have the testicles for it.”
Kyle couldn’t keep himself from laughing.
“What was decided in your meeting?” said the voice.
“None of your business.”
“But it is, you see. Nothing could be more my business. You wanted to sell the file to him, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, actually.”
“And is he buying?”
“No. He refused. He told me to do with it as I wished.”
“The truculent fool. So then the file is still for sale, I presume.”
Kyle thought for a moment and laughed again. This time he laughed because, even though he had never heard the voice before, he realized exactly whom he was talking to. “Yes, it’s still for sale.” “Do you have a price in mind?”
“Half a mil.”
“You are an ambitious guttersnipe, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Yes, I suppose. But it’s important we each remember our respective stations. That’s something your father frequently forgot.” She gave him an address in Chestnut Hill, among the toniest old-line neighborhoods in the city. “Can you find it?”
“Probably.”
“You will come tonight, you will bring the file, we will discuss your price.”
“There won’t be any discussion,” said Kyle. “And no checks. Cash.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. And of course you will come alone.”
“Don’t worry about that, I’m not into sharing.”
“Just like your father.”
“You’ll have the money when I show?”
“Of course I will, dear. I’ll keep up my end, I always do. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late. Ciao.”
Kyle shook his head for a bit, listened some more to make sure the line was actually dead, and then tossed the handset back to Bubba Jr.
“Who was that?” said Bubba Jr.
“That,” said Kyle, with a smile both broad and dangerous, “was a cold-blooded killer. And I am next on her list.”
CHAPTER 48
EVEN WITH HIS BLACK BAG on the passenger seat beside him, Bobby Spangler felt under-armed.
Parked in the alley he’d found that faced Bubba’s almost head-on, he had the uncontrollable urge to ram his car straight through the bar’s front door. And he was ready to do it, too, because just then he had that potent combination of aggrieved self-righteousness and sexual frustration that was detonating murderous explosions all over the globe. If only he had a swill of fertilizer and nitromethane in his trunk, or a huge sack of hand grenades. If only he had something devastatingly powerful that would crater that bar and obliterate everyone inside, including Kyle Byrne, who had dismissed his help, and Senator Francis Truscott IV, who had been the bane of Robert’s existence for pretty much his entire life.
He wondered what they were talking about in there, Kyle and Francis. Of course there was the file to discuss. Kyle had found it, that clever boy, and Francis wanted it, and an agreement would be made, because that was the way Francis worked: give them everything they wanted so long as Francis got more. It was what the O’Malley file was all about in the first place: take a girl against her will and buy off the rape charge, the whole time maintaining the loving support of the mother who provided him everything.
But they were taking too long a time. This had gone beyond “How much do you want?” and “We have a deal.” Maybe they were laughing together, telling jokes. Maybe they were laughing about him.
He wanted a bomb, he needed a bomb. Bobby slapped the steering wheel in frustration. One bomb and he’d destroy the Truscotts’ fondest hopes once and for all, obliterate Kyle Byrne, and end his own torment at the same time. A bundle of dynamite, tied tight like a fasces, or an empty fifth of vodka filled with nitroglycerin, or a half ton of Semtex sculpted into a ten-foot phallus. He closed his eyes and imagined the sensation of the car engine coming to life, revving higher and higher until he punched it into gear and plunged it into the bar’s cheap doorway, shattering brick and wood as he rammed through. And then being lifted by the fire and force, by the sheer power of his unleashed anger, rising ecstatically through the flame and blood as his will consumed everything about him until he felt himself all-powerful, all-knowing, the creator.
But he had no bomb, no grand instrument of destruction. He wondered what would happen if he set his car on fire and then, with flames shooting out the rear, barreled into the heart of that bar. Would they all be exploded into the sky, or would only he flame out, screaming horribly as he burned, while they laughed at him once again? No, he couldn’t allow that. He had to stick with his plan.
The door of the bar opened, and he spied once more the chief antagonist of his life, Francis Truscott IV. Francis was dressed down, jeans and leather and a silly ball cap, but it was still the same old prig who looked around guiltily and then made his way down the street. Bobby fought the urge to pick up the shotgun right then and there. Francis had gotten everything from her, while Robert had gotten nothing. Francis had been groomed for greatness by her, while Robert had been forced lower and lower until there was nothing left of him but the lowing beast inside. And what was the difference between the two in her eyes? Simple. Francis was half a Truscott, while Robert was all Spangler. But she underestimated her birth family. She thought she could outrun it and create something new, but there was no running from blood. He would prove that soon enough. First, though, there was business.
“He just left,” said Bobby into his cell.
“Thank you, dear. I might need you tonight.”
“I’m busy.”
“Not too busy for this.”
“What kind of job is it this time?”
“Your specialty, you naughty boy. If things in that bar went as
I expected, and go as I expect, young Byrne will be coming to the house tonight at nine. I want him to come but not leave, do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“You don’t sound enthused.”
“I’m tired of taking your orders.”
“It’s not an order, it’s an offer. Anything he has on him is yours.
And there will be plenty, trust me. One more job, Bobby, and then it’s over and my promises will finally be fulfilled.”