But Varnos still seemed to be out when I hauled him into his room and from there into the bathroom, where I dumped him gently on the floor.
I felt like leaning against something to catch my breath, but even though I would have a chance to tidy up after, leaving fingerprints remained a concern. Why make work for myself? So I just stood there heaving, hands on my hips, the nine millimeter in my waistband.
That was when he woke up.
Varnos had no idea what was going on. He had never seen me before. He had no clue what had happened, his lights had gone out, and now they were back on, and he was on a bathroom floor, as far as he knew the bathroom in Stockwell’s room, but that was irrelevant, it was all irrelevant, because he was a killer for hire who had just woken up.
And that meant he would be up and on me before I could even draw my weapon, and anyway I didn’t want to use my weapon on him, this needed to go down a whole other way.
So when he tackled me, I had to take it. Then he was on top of me, halfway out in the room’s entryway, and his hands were on my throat, which is where I would have put my hands in his place, but as badly as he wanted to be alert, he was still groggy, and as much as he wanted the advantage, I still had thirty pounds on him, and when my right fist jabbed him in the nuts, reflex made his hands loosen, and it was my turn to drive him back, through the open doorway into the bathroom, where I was on top of him and he was flailing, the punched-in-the-nuts pain an impossible thing to shrug off, and his eyes were wide, not with hate or hysteria, but with the knowledge that he was about to die, as I grabbed his head like it was a melon with ears and bashed his skull into the rim of the porcelain crapper with as much force as I could muster.
The crack of bone was unmistakable and the life went out of his eyes almost instantly-at least his ball-sack pain was over, hell, everything was over now that you mention it, and I rose and let him slide to the floor naturally, leaving a smeary dripping red trail along the edge of the bowl till the porcelain downslope gave way.
He lay on his back with lifeless eyes staring up into death but without recognition, his arms spread Christ-like, which I would bet was about the only Christ-like thing about the bastard.
I paused for a moment to catch my breath again, then I took a damp towel from where it had been hung on a metal rod to dry and I put it under his feet, giving the reasonable impression that the moist towel had been down there on the bathroom floor where he’d slipped on it and-tragically-fell backward and hit his head. More accidental deaths in the bathroom than anywhere else, I hear.
I regarded the scene with some satisfaction. Staging accidental deaths was hardly my specialty, but I’d pulled this one off under fairly difficult circumstances. I hadn’t touched much at all, but used a handkerchief I’d brought along to wipe anything it seemed remotely possible my fingers had met.
Such as the key to room 319 that I’d taken off him, which I put back in his pocket. And the inside knob, which I then turned with the hanky-in-hand to crack the door.
Lady Luck-alive and well in Boot Heel, it seemed-dealt me an empty hallway.
I had to take the time to wipe down the outer knob as well, of course. Varnos had already hung a DO NOT DISTURB card there, and that would aid in his body not being found right away. Although when it was found didn’t concern me much. No need to wipe the little plastic hanger of my prints because I had never touched the thing.
Anyway, I slipped down to my own room, just catty-corner across the way, and ducked inside, where the first thing I did was open the little envelope I’d liberated from the late Nick Varnos.
Its contents looked like Percodan. Very possibly the twenty or so little tablets were Percodan, but if so, they were either poisoned or bore a much higher dosage than Stockwell could have handled.
Swap these out for whatever pills remained in the director’s prescription bottle, and my ex’s current hubby would ease his back pain once and for all. Just another Hollywood type, dead of a drug overdose.
Which struck me as pretty slick work on the part of the late Nick Varnos, if some pretty cold-blooded shit.
The world wouldn’t miss this prick.
EIGHT
I went back to Stockwell’s room to make sure no tidying up was needed. None was. As noted before, my knock-out blow had not bloodied the back of Nick Varnos’ head, though I did give the carpet a good close look-more out of habit than necessity.
In the bathroom, where I’d sat watch, I’d left behind my paperback, and retrieved it. Flushed the doctored Percodans. Didn’t bother wiping anything down for fingerprints. Who’d be checking room 313 for those?
Back in my room, I took the time to shower again-it had been a long morning and I’d worked up some sweat with all that scuffling-and I was a little tense, a little tight in the shoulders. The hot water helped, but not enough, and I decided to go down for an early afternoon swim. It was the weekend now, meaning families with kids were around, lots of running and screaming and splashing, and cuffing children is frowned upon these days. Not that relaxing, so I cut it short.
Up in my room again, I got into a fresh polo shirt and some black jeans and running shoes and threw the sport coat on, too, though it was another warm dry sunny day out there. But the nine millimeter was in my waistband for now. I skipped lunch. It’s not that killing some fuck freaked me out or anything, but neither did I work up an appetite.
I did take time to look at local newspapers in the lobby, although sitting in that mini-casino with the nine mil digging in my belly was not exactly the most comfy or peaceful reading experience. Most of the slots and poker machines had worshipers making offerings. The Spur on a Saturday, probably any place in Boot Heel on a Saturday, was way too populated for my tastes.
Anyway, the papers-both the local one and the Las Vegas Review-Journal — had nothing about a body with a smashed head being found on a country road. Though I’d just removed the Active half of the hit team, I was more concerned at the moment with the Passive half. It always took the media a day or so to catch up.
I had checked the papers yesterday, too, and listened to a couple of local newscasts on the car radio and the TV in my room, and Jerry just wasn’t making the news. Which I found gratifying. Driving his ass out of the county had been worth it.
That dirt road fatality would be tough to I.D. and the same would be true of the accident victim on the bathroom floor of room 319. The former had his wallet stripped off him, and the latter would have checked into the Spur under a false name supported by a credit card or two. The Buick Century in the parking lot was a vehicle Nick had purchased for cash. Very likely its registration would be in whatever fake name he’d checked in under.
Of course, the vehicle might have yet another name on it-I always make sure the collars and the cuffs match, when I’m using one of my eight sets of I.D. (credit cards, driver’s license, social security). This precaution dated back to Broker days. But Varnos had been his own man, so he might be sloppier than me…or less so-who could say?
Since I was the one still alive, I would vote for sloppier.
Anyway, all of this would send the authorities down a blind alley or two for at least forty-eight hours, and nothing they might find would likely lead to me or for that matter my client, Arthur Stockwell, and his movie shoot.
Nonetheless, when you have dumped two dead bodies in the same general area within a couple of days-and those dead bodies are fucking hit men-hanging around indefinitely is not the greatest plan. I had removed my client’s immediate threat-Jerry and Nick-but now, to earn my bonus before getting out of Dodge, I needed to quickly remove whoever had commissioned those two.