The Ethical Assassin_ A Novel Part 13

"I don't know." The Gambler kept his voice devoid of content. "Right now it's missing."

"Missing? Jesus Christ. Where's, um, the guy who is supposed to have it?"

"He's gone. Gone in a permanent and messy way, if you know what I'm saying."

"What the h.e.l.l is going on there? Who caused him to get gone?"

"No idea," the Gambler said. "We're working on it."

"Yeah, you working on getting me my stuff, too?"

"We're working on it, but right now we don't have a whole lot to go on."

"Am I going to have to come out there?" B.B. asked.

"I don't think that's necessary," the Gambler said. "We can take care of everything. I'll keep you updated."

B.B. hung up the phone. He'd keep them updated. Great, with their little "I spy with my little eye" games?

He turned to Desiree. "Get dressed. We're going to Jacksonville," he said.

She scrunched up her nose. "I hate Jacksonville."

"Of course you hate Jacksonville. Everyone hates Jacksonville. No one goes to Jacksonville because they like it."

"Then why do people go to Jacksonville?"

"To find their money," B.B. said, "and to make sure their people aren't trying to rip them off." And maybe, he thought, to take care of the Gambler. If he'd lost the payment, then there was a pretty good chance he'd outlived his usefulness. Maybe even if he could find the money.

The Gambler hung up the phone. The a.s.shole was going to come up here; he just knew it. The last thing he needed was B.B. and his freak-show girlfriend messing around with the business. Technically, of course, it was B.B.'s business, but that struck the Gambler as more a matter of happenstance than anything else. He'd stumbled into this deal. Met some people. Formed some alliances. Whatever. The money came in not because B.B. was so smart, but because people were willing to buy crank, crank was cheap to make, there wasn't much compet.i.tion for the market, and the cops were too busy chasing after cocaine cowboys to pay much mind to homemade meth. They could sell it out of ice-cream trucks-h.e.l.l, they practically did-without the feds or local law taking notice. They had bigger fish to fry than some homemade bulls.h.i.+t that you could cook up out of over-the-counter asthma medicine.

The truth was that there was a lot more money to be made, and the Gambler was sick and f.u.c.king tired of baby-sitting this encyclopedia zoo. He wasn't going to have the strength for it much longer, and he was ready to move on, to help expand the empire. He needed something less physically taxing, something that would enable him to sit and think. And make money. He'd told B.B. as much, though he left out the part about worrying about his strength. B.B. hadn't been interested.

"Right now," he'd said, "we're all making money, the cops are oblivious, and everything is just fine. We get greedy, everything could fall apart."

It was easy for B.B. to be happy with the status quo. He didn't have to hang out with these door-to-door f.u.c.kos and a.s.sholes like Jim Doe. He didn't have to perform for the sales monkeys twice a day. And he didn't have to worry about the day coming-and it could be in a couple of years, maybe even next year-when he wouldn't be able to do it anymore, when the medical bills would begin to pile in, when he would need the cash to make sure someone was taking care of him so he didn't end up with psychopathic orderlies who would stick pins in his eyeb.a.l.l.s just for the fun of it.

The Gambler had never been anything but effective and loyal, and he was getting sick of B.B.'s ingrat.i.tude. Not just ingrat.i.tude-there was something else. B.B.'s new residence in the land of oblivion. He was checked out. On another planet. That was no way to run this kind of operation. The Gambler had worked with guys in Vegas who could run six operations at one time, have three phone conversations, and handicap a weekend's worth of football games-and give them all their full attention. f.u.c.king B.B. couldn't figure out if a yellow light meant speed up or slow down without f.u.c.king Desiree to tell him.

And sure, the money was good, but it wasn't going to be enough-not when he began to decline.

He'd been forced to leave off working for the Greek in Vegas when the freezing started. He probably ought to have gone to a doctor right away. You're in the middle of kicking someone's a.s.s and you just freeze, bat over your head, like you've turned into an action figure-that's usually a sign to head for the doctor. But it was an isolated incident, a freak thing, so he forgot about it. Then it happened again three or four months later, out on a date with a showgirl. Ruined the whole thing. Then three months after that, this time while playing golf. Midswing-and frozen, just like that.

He'd been with the Greek that time, and the Greek had wanted to know, reasonably enough, what the f.u.c.k was going on.

Five doctors later, it was confirmed. ALS: amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Lou Gehrig's disease. A form of muscular dystrophy. He was now one of Jerry Lewis's f.u.c.king kids. It could start in any number of ways-muscle spasms, loss of coordination, slurring of speech, clumsiness, and the Gambler's own freakish freezes. It would progress until he was a complete physical nothing, unable to move, even to breathe or swallow on his own, while his mind, meanwhile, remained in perfect working order.

It could happen slowly or it could happen quickly. No one knew. In the Gambler's case, the progress appeared to be slow, so that gave him time to get his s.h.i.+t in order. It wasn't the death he feared. He knew that death wasn't the end; he'd seen those pictures of ghosts, heard the recordings of voices from the other side, even been to a medium who let him speak to his dead mother. Knowing that the body was but a sh.e.l.l and the soul lived on had helped him in his enforcement work in Vegas. It's not so hard to beat someone to death if you know you're not doing any permanent damage. What scared him was the time leading up to death, when he was alone and helpless, and the only thing that was going to keep him from being abused and tormented was money. He needed money.

If he told B.B. the truth, B.B. would be sympathetic, understanding, and he would send him on his way. Maybe with a nice little bonus, but not nearly enough. The Gambler needed money, piles and piles of money, enough money to pay for the bills, to pay for a personal nurse and pay the nurse so well that she would do anything to keep him happy and healthy.

The way things were going, the cause was in trouble. In the last six months, B.B. had been more distracted than ever. Business was falling off, and he didn't seem to care. And Desiree, that sneaky b.i.t.c.h, was up to something. He was sure of it. Maybe she was planning a takeover, to cut out the Gambler entirely. But there was no way he was going to work for her, and he sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going to let her get rid of him. If anyone was going to take over for B.B., it would be the Gambler.

Desiree kept her eyes straight ahead. Next to her, in the pa.s.senger seat, B.B. sat quietly, his head tilted slightly away from her. She couldn't tell if he was asleep or not or maybe pretending. His tape of Randy Newman's Little Criminals Little Criminals had finished playing a minute ago, and now there was only the hissing silence of the radio. She wanted more music, the radio, anything to help keep her awake. Her fatigue, the darkness of the highway, the glare of oncoming traffic, lulled her into a hypnotic stupor. had finished playing a minute ago, and now there was only the hissing silence of the radio. She wanted more music, the radio, anything to help keep her awake. Her fatigue, the darkness of the highway, the glare of oncoming traffic, lulled her into a hypnotic stupor.

"You had a good time with Chuck?" she asked at last.

B.B. stirred. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, did you have a good time?"

"We had a productive dinner," he said. "He's a good kid. Bright. Ready for mentoring. Could be more if, you know, he's willing to open himself up."

She let that hang there. "Okay."

They said nothing for a few more minutes. Desiree winced when they pa.s.sed a pair of squashed racc.o.o.ns in the roadside.

"I never wanted to be like this," B.B. said.

Desiree felt herself suck in her breath. In a way, she'd been waiting for this, the big confession, and she'd been dreading it. Once he told her of his shame, of how his desires controlled him, of how he had been victimized as a boy-whatever it was that he would say-she was afraid she would feel pity and sympathy, and the will to leave would be lost in a tangle of guilt and obligation.

"I never wanted to be in this business, you know. It just happened to me."

Relief pa.s.sed over her. He didn't want to talk about his thing for boys, he wanted to talk about being a supplier. "I'm in no position to judge anyone, B.B."

"I never wanted to do this," he said again. "I don't like it. I'd live off the hogs if I could, except I've gotten used to the money now. But it's like a stain on my soul, you know? It's a blackness. I keep thinking that I want to get rid of it."

"So walk away," she said. "Just walk away. No one is stopping you."

"I was thinking something else," he said. "I was thinking that maybe someone could take over for me. That you you could take over for me. I'd cut you in on the profits, and I could retire from it all, work at the Young Men's Foundation full-time. Live a decent life." could take over for me. I'd cut you in on the profits, and I could retire from it all, work at the Young Men's Foundation full-time. Live a decent life."

"That's very flattering," she said. "It's really incredible that you trust me so much, B.B. But I need to think about it."

"Okay," he said. And he fell into silence again.

Desiree had no desire to think about it. B.B.'s idea of cleaning the stain off his soul was to hand the dirty work to someone else and just take the profits. Ever so slightly, she shook her head. She didn't want him to see it, but she felt she needed to offer the universe a gesture. Her decisions were getting easier all the time.

Chapter 15.

THE ALARM WENT OFF AT SEVEN A.M. Normally, after hanging out by the pool, people would begin to drift off to sleep between one and two, and hardly anyone was left by three. That meant you could get four hours of sleep easy, which Bobby said was all you needed. He ought to know. He was always among the last to leave the pool area, and he never once looked tired. I couldn't remember ever having seen him yawn. Normally, after hanging out by the pool, people would begin to drift off to sleep between one and two, and hardly anyone was left by three. That meant you could get four hours of sleep easy, which Bobby said was all you needed. He ought to know. He was always among the last to leave the pool area, and he never once looked tired. I couldn't remember ever having seen him yawn.

I had grown used to the fatigue in the way you might grow used to having a tumor on the side of your face-you never forgot about it, but not forgetting about it didn't mean you were actually thinking about it. I woke up each morning exhausted, fuzzy, slightly dizzy, and the feeling never quite went away.

Bobby tended to breeze into our room about twenty after seven, swinging the door wide and bounding in like a character in a musical about to break into song. He would make sure everyone was awake and chitchat with whoever had been the first to shower and was by then usually dressed, since they had to rush if four people were going to get showered and have breakfast in time for the prep meeting at nine.

As it turned out, I was the first to hit the showers, though I was the last to go to bed-bed being a euphemism for a spot on the floor. I'd crawled into the room just before five in the morning, undressed quietly, and gone to sleep in the s.p.a.ce between the television and the doorless closet, resting my head on a dirty unders.h.i.+rt. No one had left me a spare pillow.

I'd slept, I was almost certain of it, but it had been a fitful sleep in which I dreamed, mostly, of lying awake on the floor and trying to sleep. At least I hadn't dreamed about selling books, and it was the first time in weeks that I could say that. And I hadn't dreamed about b.a.s.t.a.r.d's and Karen's bodies, which was some kind of mercy.

When the alarm went off, I jumped up as only someone who's had chronically little sleep can, and headed for the bathroom. By the time I showered and put on my other pair of khaki pants, a light blue b.u.t.ton-down and a narrow tie, noontime sun yellow, I was feeling almost like myself again. I could forget what happened in the trailer, the evening with Melford, and the events back at the trailer. I could almost forget that I had been involved in a double murder, a third murder implicating a crooked cop and the head of the company for which I worked.

I sat on the bed, staring at my vaguely trembling hands, trying to summon the desire for breakfast, when the door opened and Bobby came bobbing in.

"Up first, and I'm not surprised," he said. "Glad to see it, Lemmy. I scoped out today's area already, and I have a moochie spot for you. But you've got to promise me a double. You're getting out there by eleven this morning. You'll have twelve hours. You think you can promise me a double? At least, that is. A double at least."

"I can try," I said lamely.

"h.e.l.l, he's too tired," Scott said. He was lying on the bed, s.h.i.+rtless, and his pale gut and pale t.i.ts were hanging out at us. "I don't know how much sleep he got last night. Maybe you should give that moochie area to someone else, Bobby. Someone who ain't gonna let it go."

Bobby grinned at him as though Scott had just told him that he liked his haircut. "Lemmy here has earned the mooch. You produce like Lemmy, you'll share the spoils like Lemmy."

"Now, how's that gonna happen if you're every time giving him the best areas?"

Bobby shook his head. "A good bookman can sell anywhere. And when Lemmy came up, he didn't get the cream, just like none of the green guys get the cream. You didn't get any special treatment when you came up."

"And I still don't," he mumbled.

"That's where Lemmy proved himself. You want a share of the mooch, you have to show me you deserve the mooch."

"All he done was get lucky," Scott said. "Ain't nothing but a rich Jew that wants more money for hisself."

"C'mon, Scottie," Bobby said. "Lemmy's a good guy."

"Yeah, good at what? b.u.t.t f.u.c.king, I guess," said Ronny Neil, lying still on the other bed, his arms and legs out as if he were making a snow angel. "You good at b.u.t.t f.u.c.king?" he asked me.

"Define 'good,' " I said.

"Holy bananas, you guys are cranky this morning," Bobby said. "But I'm glad you're dressed, Lemmy. The Gambler wants to see you."

Ronny Neil, who had been sprawled out dreamily, suddenly shot upright. Like Scott, he slept s.h.i.+rtless, but unlike Scott, Ronny Neil had a tightly muscled body. He had small but hard pecs, and his back muscles shot out like wings. On his left shoulder he had a cross tattoo-it had been done by hand and in ink, the kind prisoners give each other.

"What's the Gambler want with him?" Ronny Neil demanded.

Bobby shrugged. "I guess you'll have to take that up with the boss yourself, Ron-o."

Ronny Neil narrowed his gaze at Bobby. "He don't have nothing to do with the Gambler. I ain't gonna stand for the Gambler bringing him in."

"Bringing him in to what what?" Bobby demanded.

"I don't want him talking to the Gambler," Ronny Neil said. It wasn't quite sulky, more like a growl.

The fact that I didn't want to talk to the Gambler either didn't seem to count for much. I felt a wave of dizzying panic. Had the Gambler somehow learned that Melford and I had been hiding in the closet? He had the checkbook, which meant they knew someone from the company had been there, and by now he'd probably figured out that the someone in question was me.

"Let's go, Lemmy," Bobby said. "Don't want to keep the big boss man waiting."

"He gets too cozy with the boss," Ronny Neil said, "I'll stick a knife up his a.s.s."

"Does that count as being good or bad at b.u.t.t f.u.c.king?" I asked.

"Oh, don't be that way, Ronster." Bobby put a hand to my shoulder and led me out the door.

I couldn't believe he was going to leave it at that. Maybe he thought that if he came down harsher on them, it would be worse for me. Maybe he thought that leaving it alone wouldn't affect how many books were sold. Maybe he was off on Planet Bobby and didn't understand that Ronny Neil was a scary a.s.shole and Scott was a scary and pathetic a.s.shole.

Was such a thing possible? Had Bobby skated so blithely through life with his salesman grin and good cheer that he didn't know what it meant to be picked on, to be humiliated by bigger or meaner guys who got their rocks off by reminding you that you walked around unscathed at their pleasure? Was Bobby like Chitra, insulated from the cruelty of the world, not by his looks but by an impenetrable armor of optimism and generosity?

If that was the case, it meant that Bobby and I lived in entirely different places-the same to an outside viewer, but utterly unalike to our particular perspectives. Where I saw danger and menace, Bobby saw only innocent ribbing-a little on the harsh side, perhaps, but still innocent.

What if Bobby lived in this wondrous world precisely because he believed in it? I had seen how Melford had defused a certain whumping the night before in the bar, but he'd done it consciously. What if Bobby did that sort of thing all the time, only he didn't know he was doing it? He a.s.sumed the best in people, and he got kindness and leeway in return.

If that was true, it meant that I was in some way responsible for Ronny Neil and Scott hating me so much. I a.s.sumed the worst about a couple of ignorant rednecks, they picked up on it, responded to it, acted on it. Did it work that way?

What troubled me about this idea, truly troubled me, was not so much that I had to shoulder the blame for Ronny Neil threatening to stick a knife up my a.s.s-though that was undeniably distasteful-as that it seemed to be too much like what Melford had been talking about last night. We all see the world through a veil of ideology, he'd said. Melford thought that the veil came from outside of us, the system or something, but maybe it was more complicated. Maybe we made our own veils. Maybe the world made us, and we, in turn, made the world.

Surely Melford couldn't be the only person thinking about this stuff. He'd mentioned Marx and Marxists, but there had to be others-philosophers and psychologists and who knew what. If I had been on my way to Columbia, instead of being on my way to see the Gambler, the dead-body-hiding and evidence-concealing Gambler, I might have a hope of finding out someday. But unless the sample volume of the Champion Encyclopedias Champion Encyclopedias I carried around with me took up the issue, I'd probably not find out anytime soon. I carried around with me took up the issue, I'd probably not find out anytime soon.

Chapter 16.

WE WALKED ALONG the motel balcony as if it were the corridor to the electric chair. At least I did. The morning was bright and sunny, with only a few wispy streaks of white in the sky, and the extreme, mind-numbing heat hadn't started to get going yet, so Bobby appeared to be in a good mood. He had his hands thrust into the pockets of his khaki chinos and his lips pursed in a soft whistle. Maybe something by Air Supply. the motel balcony as if it were the corridor to the electric chair. At least I did. The morning was bright and sunny, with only a few wispy streaks of white in the sky, and the extreme, mind-numbing heat hadn't started to get going yet, so Bobby appeared to be in a good mood. He had his hands thrust into the pockets of his khaki chinos and his lips pursed in a soft whistle. Maybe something by Air Supply.

"So, what does the Gambler want with me?" I ventured.

"I guess you'll find out soon enough," Bobby said. "I sort of figured you'd know."

Fat chance. I was about to ask something paranoid and foolish: Did he seem angry when he asked you to get me? Did he say that he found something, perhaps? Something in a checkbook he took from a dead person's trailer? I choked back all those questions. What would Melford do? I wondered. Melford, I decided, would tell himself that the Gambler was not about to kill me, not when there were half a dozen people who knew I was going into his room. Melford would figure that the Gambler was looking for information. Melford would see this as an opportunity to get some information for himself.

We were only about four doors down from the Gambler's room, so I stopped. "What's the Gambler's deal, anyhow?"

Bobby stopped, too, but reluctantly. He looked at me and looked at the Gambler's door, as though he couldn't believe I was in one place and not the other. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, he works for this company Educational Advantage Media, right? But they're not part of Champion Encyclopedias. How does all of this work?"

"There's no time for a civics lesson, Lemmy. The boss man is waiting."

"Come on," I said, trying to sound relaxed. "I just want to know how all of this works."

"You want to know now now?" But he must have decided it would be more expedient to answer than argue, so he pursed his lips and emptied his lungs. "Educational Advantage Media contracts with Champion, okay? They contract for various cities and their surrounding areas, and in Florida, they contract for Fort Lauderdale, Miami, Tampa, Jacksonville, and Gainesville. That's why we go to those places over and over again."