Suckers. Part 6

I took a nap.

When I awoke a few hours later, I went to the bank, cashed Mrs. Garbonzo's check, and went to start earning my money.

My first instinct was to dive head-first into the belly of the beast and confront Mrs. Garbonzo's hired hitman help. My second instinct was to get some nachos, maybe a beer or two.

I went with my second instinct. The nachos were good, spicy but not so much that all you tasted was peppers. After the third beer I hopped in my ride and headed for the a.s.sa.s.sin's headquarters, which turned out to be in a well-to-do suburb of Chicago called Barrington. The development I pulled into boasted some amazingly huge houses, complete with big lawns and swimming pools and trimmed bushes that looked like corkscrews and lollipops. I double-checked the address I'd scribbled down, then pulled into a long circular driveway and up to a home that was bigger than the public school I attended, and I came from the city where they grew schools big.

The hitman biz must be booming.

I half expected some sort of maid or butler to answer the door, but instead I was greeted by a fifty-something woman, her facelift sporting a deep tan. I appraised her.

"If you stay out in the sun, the wrinkles will come back."

"Then I'll just have more work done." Her voice was steady, cultured. "Are you here to clean the pool?"

"I'm here to speak to William Johansenn."

"Billy? Sure, he's in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

She let me in. Perhaps all rich suburban women were fearless and let strange guys into their homes. Or perhaps this one simply didn't care. I didn't get a chance to ask, because she walked off just as I entered.

"Lady? Where's the bas.e.m.e.nt?"

"Down the hall, stairs to the right," she said without turning around.

I took a long, tiled hallway past a powder room, a den, and a door that opened to a descending staircase. Heavy metal music blared up at me.

"Billy!" I called down.

My effort was fruitless-with the noise, I couldn't even hear myself. The lights were off, and squinting did nothing to penetrate the darkness.

Surprising a paid a.s.sa.s.sin in his own lair wasn't on the list of 100 things I longed to do before I die, but I didn't see much of a choice. I beer-belched, then went down the stairs.

The bas.e.m.e.nt was furnished, though furnished didn't seem to be the right word. The floor had carpet, and the walls had paint, and there seemed to be furniture, but I couldn't really tell because everything was covered with food wrappers, pop cans, dirty clothing, and discarded magazines. It looked like a 7-Eleven exploded.

William "Billy" Johansenn was asleep on a waterbed, a copy of Creem open on his chest. He had a galaxy of pimples dotting his forehead and six curly hairs sprouting from his chin.

He couldn't have been a day over sixteen.

I killed the stereo. Billy continued to snore. Among the clutter on the floor were several issues of Famous Soldier, along with various gun and hunting magazines. I poked through his drawers and found a cheap Rambo knife, a CO2 powered BB gun, and a dog-eared copy of the infamous How to be a Hitman book from Paladin Press.

I gave the kid a shake, then another. The third shake got him to open his eyes.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" he said, defiant.

"I'm your wake-up call."

I slapped the kid, making his eyes cross.

"Hey! You hit me!"

"A woman hired you to kill her husband."

"I don't know what you're-"

He got another smack. "That's for lying."

"You can't hit me," he whined. "I'll sue you."

I hit him twice more; once because I didn't like being threatened by punk kids, and once because I didn't like lawyers. When I pulled my palm back for threesies, the kid broke.

"Please! Stop it! I admit it!"

I released his t-s.h.i.+rt and let him blubber for a minute. His blue eyes matched those of the woman upstairs. Not many professional killers lived in their mother's bas.e.m.e.nt, and I wondered how Marietta Garbonzo could have been this naive.

"I'm guessing you never met Mrs. Garbonzo in person."

"I only talked to her on the phone. She sent the money to a P.O. Box. That's how the pros do it."

"So how did she get your home address?"

"She wouldn't give me the money without my address. She said if I didn't trust her, why should she trust me?"

Here was my proof that each new generation of teenagers was stupider than the last. I blame MTV.

"How much did she give you?"

He smiled, showing me a mouth full of braces. "Fifty large."

"And how were you going to do it? With your BB gun?"

"I was going to follow him around and then...you know...shove him."

"Shove him?"

"He's an old guy. I was thinking I'd shove him down some stairs, or into traffic. I dunno."

"Have you shoved a lot of old people into traffic, Billy boy?"

He must not have liked the look in my eyes, because he shrunk two sizes.

"No! Never! I never killed anybody!"

"So why put an ad in the magazine?"

"I dunno. Something to do."

I considered hitting him again, but didn't know what purpose it would serve.

I hit him anyway.

"Ow! My lip's caught in my braces!"

"You pimple-faced little moron. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you're in right now? Not only did you accept money to commit a felony, but now you've got a price on your head. Did Mrs. Garbonzo tell you about the guy her husband hired to kill you?"

He nodded, his Adam's apple wiggling like a fish.

"Are-are you here to kill me?"

"No."

"But you've got a gun." He pointed to the b.u.t.t of my Magnum, jutting out of my shoulder holster.

"I'm a private detective."

"Is that a real gun?"

"Yes."

"Can I touch it?"

"No."

"Come on. Lemme touch it."

This is what happens when you spare the rod and spoil the child.

"Look kid, I know that you're a loser that n.o.body likes, and that you're a virgin and will probably stay one for the next ten years, but do you want to die?"

"Ten years?"

"Answer the question."

"No. I don't want to die."

I sighed. "That's a start. Where's the money?"

"I've got a secret place. In the wall."

He rolled off the bed, eager, and pried a piece of paneling away from the plaster in a less-cluttered corner of the room. His hand reached in, and came out with a brown paper shopping bag.

"Is it all there?"

Billy shook his head. "I spent three hundred on a wicked MP3 player."

"Hand over the money. And the MP3 player."

Billy showed a bit of reluctance, so I smacked him again to help with his motivation.

It helped. He also gave me fresh batteries for the player.

"Now what?" he sniffled.

"Now we tell your parents."

"Do we have to?"

"You'd prefer the cops?"

He shook his head. "No. No cops."

"That blonde upstairs with the face like a snare drum, that your mom?"

"Yeah."

"Let's go have a talk with her."

Mrs. Johansenn was perched in front of a sixty inch television, watching a soap.

"Nice TV. High definition?"

"Plasma."

"Nice. Billy has something he wants to tell you."

Billy stared at his shoes. "Mom, I bought an ad in the back of Famous Soldier Magazine, and some lady gave me fifty thousand dollars to kill her husband."

Mrs. Johansenn hit the mute b.u.t.ton on the remote, shaking her head in obvious disappointment.

"Billy, dammit, this is too much. You're a hired killer?"

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"You're father is going to have a stroke when he hears this."

"Do we have to tell Dad?"

"Are you kidding?"

"I gave the money back."

"Who are you?" Billy's mom squinted at me.

"I'm Harry McGlade. I'm a private eye. I was hired to find Billy. Someone is trying to kill him."

Mrs. Johansenn rolled her eyes. "Oh, this gets better and better. I need to call Sal."

"You husband?"