When I was a small child,Ii lived in a home poor in money but rich in love. What my parents were unable to provide in tne food and modern conveniences, they made up for with hugs and kisses and quality time spent with their only child. I don't miss having little in the way of material belongings, but I do miss my dad.
After my dad died and my mother remarried, things changed. I still didn't possess the treasures children yearn for, but I did get a little brother. But then it was my brother who got more of the hugs and kisses. And I looked elsewhere for comfort.
My father instilled in me a love of books. Where other kids got stereo record players and portable TVs in their bedrooms, I had a collection of dog-eared novels passed down to me by my dad. Poe, Lovecraft, and R. E. Howard were my favorites. Next in line came the comic book superheroes that I grew into when a newspaper delivery route gave me the pocket money to spend on treats. Sometimes I wonder if the books taught me about the horrors of our world, while the superheroes taught me how to deal with them. Whatever, they did give me a fertile imagination.
Probably explained why I envisioned myself as the Incredible Hulk when I erupted through the wall. The Hulk had an extraordinary strength he used against his enemies, but I didn't have that luxury. I came out shooting in a spray of dust and plaster particles.
I didn't aim to hit anyone and?red above their heads. Combined with my Hulk act, it was enough to startle everyone into immobility. Only the dogs responded with panic, circling and ensnaring their handlers with their leashes as they spun.
"No one move or the next bullet will kill you," I shouted. In reality, if all of them had turned on me at once, I wouldn't have stood a chance. The thing was, without exception, everyone thought I was shouting directly at him. No one wants to be a dead hero.
"Guns on the?oor," I shouted as I took a half-dozen paces into the room. The three men nearest me weren't armed. They thrust their hands toward the ceiling.
The dog handlers were too busy trying to untangle themselves to pay me immediate attention. Stuck between me and Rink, who approached the opposite door at a gallop, the?ve guards at the far end quickly dropped their weapons and kicked them away.
"Inside the room, boys," I heard Rink shout. His voice jostled them like bowling pins.
My unorthodox entrance, not to mention the demanding muzzle of my SIG, commanded compliance. The three men by the?ghting arena moved quickly toward the plastic-shrouded wall, their hands seeking heaven.
A shadow in the doorway morphed into Rink. It was good to see the big guy again. He shot me a wink as he ushered the?ve goons before him.
"Get your butts in the ring and sit on your hands," Rink told them. They crowded into the center of the?ghting area. Space was at a premium as they jostled to be farthest away from the 12-gauge. Rink turned to the two dog handlers. "You, too."
One of the handlers, a skinny youth with a huge nose covered in acne, twisted his face at Rink. He was uglier than his mutt. At least the dog had an excuse; it had already gone a couple of rounds.
"Got a problem with your hearing?" Rink demanded.
"The dogs will fight," he said.
"Then it's your job to stop them, Zit Boy," Rink said. "Now get the hell in there. One of you at either end."
The big-nosed youth entered the ring?rst, pulling his struggling dog to him. When he was as settled as he could be, the second dog handler entered. Rink pushed the gate to,?ipped a catch in place. No one moved in the arena. The tough guys huddled together. Dogs' teeth and a 12-gauge shotgun made the proverbial rock and hard place.
Harvey's surveillance shots of Sigmund Petoskey came in handy. He looked like a typical wealthy businessman. Shirt, tie, suit, and shiny shoes. Well groomed and manicured. He looked out of place in this setting. Even if I'd never viewed a photo of him, I'd have picked him out by the contempt that radiated from him.
"Hi, Siggy!" I said. "Like to bring your ass over here?"
Petoskey's eyebrows rose and he lifted a?nger to his chest.
"Yeah," I con?rmed. "I want a word with you."
Pointing my SIG at his chest, I indicated the bulge in his breast pocket where ordinary businessmen would carry a notebook.
"Lose the piece."
Petoskey pulled a Berretta out of the shoulder rig. Two?ngers; like he'd done it before. He placed the gun on the?oor at his feet, kicked it away from him.
"Okay. Get over here."
He stood his ground.
"You are making one hell of a mistake, you goddamn asshole," he directed at me. With his Eastern European name, you'd half expect him to have the stilted accent of a villain from a James Bond movie. You would be wrong. Just as Rink is a contradiction of his ancestry, so is Sigmund Petoskey. He spoke with the cultured tones of an Ivy Leaguer with top honors.
Admittedly, his?rst words weren't anything you'd expect from one of such a background. Then again, you only have to recall Rink's summing up of Siggy's childhood to imagine where the gutter language came from.
"No," I told him. "You're the one making the mistake." "Who the hell are you, coming here and shooting up my place? My personal friend the mayor will have something to say about this!" "I don't give a damn what the mayor says," I told him. "He'll have your job for this," Petoskey said. He rounded on Rink.
"And yours."
"Like I said," I told him, "you're the one making the mistake. We aren't police officers, Siggy. For all I care, your friend the mayor can kiss my ass."
For a second time Petoskey's eyebrows sought the top of his head. "Not the police?" "Not the police," I echoed. "Then you're with Hendrickson. I should have known…" His words faltered at the shake of my head. "I don't know Hendrickson from Jimmy Hendrix," I told him. "So who the blazes are you?" "Someone who needs answers. And I want them quickly." Petoskey looked at his feet, gave a slow shake of his two-hundred dollar haircut. Something dawned on him and he slowly raised his face to look at me. A scowl broke across his features. "This is about John Telfer, isn't it?"
John was indeed why I was there, but I'd expected to have to draw the information from him like rusty nails from a knotty plank. "Where is he?" I demanded. "If you've hurt him I'll-" Petoskey sneered. "You think I have him?"
"Maybe not here, but I believe you know where he is."
"Look," he said, stepping toward me in de?ance, "I already told your friends I don't know where he is. The son of a bitch took off owing me a substantial sum of money. Do you think if I knew where he was, I wouldn't have brought him back by now? Jesus Christ, how many times have I got to tell you people the same damn thing?"
I didn't answer.
This wasn't a put-on. Petoskey's words rang true. He really didn't know where my brother was. So it was pointless questioning him any further regarding John's whereabouts. Time for a change of tack.
"You've already spoken to my friends?" I asked.
"Twice!" he said. Full of impotent fury, he held out his hands. An expansive gesture, taking in the entire room. "And now this?"
"Okay, Siggy. Just cool it," I told him.
"I'll do no such thing." He lifted a stubby?nger toward me. "You come in here shooting and making demands. Now you want me to act reasonably toward you?"
"Unless you want me to start shooting again, you will," Rink drawled from across the room. For emphasis, he aimed the shotgun directly at the group of men in the dog-?ghting pit.
Petoskey wore righteous anger like a dead man's suit. He folded his arms across his chest. Challenged Rink with a sneer. Then he turned it on me. It faltered when I shoved my SIG into the dimple on his chin.
"Tell me," I said. "Who are these friends that you're talking about?"
"You should know," Petoskey said.
"Indulge me," I said.
"Your friends from the government. Who else?"
It was a war to keep my features?at, but this was a surprise, and it probably showed. Petoskey misread me. Maybe it was the way I allowed my gun to drop from his chin.
"See. I knew it," he announced. His two friends nodded along with him. One of them opened his mouth to say something. I shot him a warning look. The man clammed up immediately.
To Petoskey I said, "You're saying that CIA agents have spoken to you about John Telfer?"
"Aren't you listening to me? Twice they've been at my of?ce. Twice they've demanded to know the location of John Telfer. I wish I'd never seen Telfer's goddamn face!"
"These agents actually said they were CIA?" I asked.
"They didn't need to. I can smell a spook a mile off."
"So you're only guessing?" I said, with not a little hope.
Petoskey shook his head. "They didn't exactly introduce themselves, if that's what you mean. One of them flashed a badge the first time they came around; they didn't bother the second time. Pretty much the way you haven't now, eh?"
Again I didn't answer. CIA agents, by virtue of their secretive trade, aren't in the habit of fashing badges or announcing their identities. Petoskey had to be confused, must have misread the acronym on the badge. It would be easily done, I suppose, though I doubted that the Child Support Agency would go to such lengths to trace an absent father.
Judging my silence to be guilt, he said, "You can go back and tell your bosses that they're barking up the wrong tree. For the third time, I do not know where John Telfer is. Have you got that?"
We had lost a major advantage, and unless we started shooting again, it was an unsalvageable situation.
On the same wavelength, Rink moved toward me. His shotgun still menaced the men in the arena. No one moved. It wasn't so much the fear of being shot as that they thought we were CIA. Worse than going up against the police, they weren't prepared to risk the ire of the government. They wouldn't make a move. Apparently, neither would we. Not now that we'd been uncloaked as government agents.
Petoskey was wearing a smug look on his face.
"Quite a mess, eh?" he crowed.
Yeah, it was a mess, but not for the reason he thought. We backed toward the demolition job I'd done on the wall.
"Oh, for pity's sake. Use the door, will you?" Petoskey said.
"We'll leave as we came," I said as we continued to back out.
"Do me a favor," Petoskey called as we stepped through the hole into the abandoned of?ce. "When you do find Telfer, tell him I want my ten grand. Plus thirty percent interest. And you can tell him not to show his face around any of my places again. He's not welcome. Tell him he can post the money to me."
If he'd let it lie at that, I don't know where the hunt would've taken us next. As it was, like many self-righteous punks, he loved the sound of his own voice too much. "And tell him my car had better have a full tank of gas when he drops it off."
I stepped back into the opening. What a difference a couple of seconds had made. Tough guys all, the goons in the ring were already?ghting their way past one of the dogs in an effort to get out. To win face with their boss, and without exception, they offered to chase us down. Petoskey and the other two suits had moved toward them, and Siggy wasn't a happy puppy.
My SIG rapped a sharp command, shattering the light?xture above their heads.
Did you ever play the children's game called Statues? You stand with your back to an advancing group, you turn around sharply, and the group has to become petri?ed in place, as though under a gorgon's stare. Anyone who moves is out of the game. Well, that's what it felt like then.
My gun was now a useless threat, but I aimed it anyway.
"Telfer took one of your cars?" I demanded.
"Yes," Petoskey snapped. "If you'd taken the time to read your friends' reports you would already know that."
"Must've missed it," I said. "What car are we talking about?"
"Read the damn report," Petoskey said.
I took three steps, my anger level rising with each one. Grabbing Petoskey by his lapels, I jammed the SIG under his chin with my other hand.
Petoskey's eyes went wide. That a government agent would actually have the balls to shoot him with all these witnesses standing around was now a de?nite possibility. Maybe I should have shot him. Undoubtedly, the world would've been a better place with one less scumbag in it.
"Just tell me what damn car you're talking about or I swear to God I'll kill you," I said.
"Pontiac," Petoskey snapped. "It's a goddamn Pontiac. Okay?"
"Write down the license number," I ordered.
"I haven't got a pen," Petoskey said.
"Find one." I pushed him away from me. Petoskey's face was scarlet. He actually stepped back toward me.
"Here," one of the other suits said quickly, pulling an expensive-looking gold-plated pen from a jacket pocket. Petoskey snatched it out of his hand, then glanced around looking for paper. Again the suit came to the rescue, tearing a page from an equally expensive pocket diary. Petoskey quickly scribbled down a number, then thrust it at me.
"Satisfied?" he asked.
I snatched the paper out of his hand.
"Thank you," I said.
"You're welcome," Petoskey said. Not that I believed him. My spite was reflected by his bilious glare. We were rival wolves meeting on a forest trail. We edged backward, neither wanting to be seen to be giving ground, but each recognizing the prudence of doing so.
Rink was at my shoulder. He made a cautious noise in the back of his throat, Rinkese for "We've outstayed our welcome, Hunter."
How could I possibly disagree? It was de?nitely time to leave if the clamor of reinforcements charging up the far staircase was anything to go by.
We played it cool as we stepped through the hole in the wall. Then we ran like hell.