Marshall's Law Read online

  It was so fast and clean, Tol didn’t even move. Ludo stood there laughing as Perry lost his footing and hit the ground. He came upright holding his jaw, and now Dexter had the gun out, holding it loose by his leg.

  Perry said, ‘Christ. The fuck?’

  Sounding aggravated, but feeling more shocked than annoyed. There was an ache in his jaw where the needle went in, and he could feel his whole cheek beginning to prickle. Ludo was still laughing, holding Tol at arm’s length to keep him clear of Dexter. Not that Tol looked like much help: the way he was watching the gun told Perry he wouldn’t do a thing.

  Dexter said, ‘It’s just novocaine or lidocaine or whatever. I got it off the dentist.’ He inspected the empty syringe. ‘Only been used on me, so you won’t catch anything. You want a seat?’

  He used the gun and pointed at the leather armchair. ‘You can lie down if you want.’

  Perry stayed standing. He figured that was a better look.

  Dexter placed the hypodermic on the counter and grinned widely, moving his jaw around. ‘Can you feel it working? I said to the guy, Why don’t they invent an anaesthetic that doesn’t taste like shit? And he said, Well, because it’s basically poison. So I guess they’re sending the wrong message if they make it taste like Kool-Aid.’ He laughed hard, bending at the waist to give it a boost.

  Perry stepped forward and held the counter for balance, trying to seem casual about it.

  Dexter watched him and then sighed through his nose, like conveying massive disappointment. He said, ‘Ludo told me the story.’

  Perry didn’t answer. He was actually pleased Ludo had filled him in. He didn’t want to have to run through it a third time.

  Dexter said, ‘What were you doing talking to Henry Lee?’

  Perry gripped the counter. He didn’t want to faint and fall backward. He coughed and said, ‘Clearing things up. I got prison time for robbing him a few years back.’

  ‘So I heard. And what, you thought you could have a beer sometime, make it all OK?’

  That was basically it, but Perry didn’t think he should admit that. He said, ‘It was a, I dunno. Sort of complicated situation.’

  Dexter didn’t budge, just watched him.

  Perry looked at his hands, fingers on the top edge of the counter. He said, ‘I thought it’d be good just to see him, let him know it was water under the bridge, bygones be bygones, that kind of thing.’

  His hands were sweating. He clung on.

  Dexter waited a beat, letting them all know this was still deadly serious. He said, ‘And he happened to tell you where to find Marshall Grade.’

  ‘More or less. He was meeting him, said I could sit and watch.’ He was losing feeling fast: ‘watch’ came out as ‘wash.’

  Dexter said, ‘And you didn’t think it was a good idea to tell me about it.’

  Saying it soft and deadly, like a madman who calls at 3 A.M.

  Perry said, ‘Well, you know.’

  Dexter waited, eyebrows up.

  Perry said, ‘I thought it’d be easy enough.’

  ‘I would’ve, too. How difficult is it to shoot a man sitting in a car?’

  ‘There were people around.’

  Dexter tapped the gun barrel on his thigh, that simple motion riveting Perry.

  Dexter said, ‘I don’t think you get how fucking crucial this is to me. Finding the guy, doing it right. I’m not sure you’re getting that at all.’

  Perry didn’t answer.

  Dexter said, ‘Am I making sense?’

  Perry nodded. ‘Uh-huh. Yeah.’

  His voice had gone dry. He glanced at Tol, but Tol was watching Dexter.

  All this shit he could’ve avoided.

  Dexter said, ‘This Marshall guy isn’t an idiot. Which means he’ll know Henry set him up, which means he’s going to go back and ask him what the fuck was going on. Make sense?’

  Perry nodded, not wanting to risk talking with useless lips.

  Dexter said, ‘Which means you guys need to see Henry, too. Hopefully get there before Mr. Marshall does, or Henry’ll have to answer some questions under duress.’

  Perry didn’t answer, mute with relief. They had a job. Dexter wasn’t going to kill them.

  Dexter said, ‘You blew New Mexico, and now you’ve blown this. I’m worried you’re setting it up as a habit.’

  Perry licked his lips, checking he still had feeling, and said, ‘We got it under control.’

  Dexter let his mouth drop at the edges. ‘I’m not convinced.’ He came around the counter, moving sideways, keeping the gun behind him, out of range. He leaned forward and flicked Perry’s cheek. It hurt less than it should have, the flesh turning dull and rubbery.

  Dexter said, ‘I saw this trick before. You shoot the guy up with anaesthetic, and then you chop off all the bits that go numb. Like, I could take off your whole bottom jaw with a butter knife, and you wouldn’t feel a thing. Imagine that.’

  Perry didn’t answer. He could sense the cheek starting to hang.

  Dexter said, ‘So it’s easy, really. You bring me the guy, or we can run through this again, but we’ll take it a step further. It’s not that nice, but people get the message pretty fast. Sounds sort of like . . .’ He looked away and grimaced, searching for the right image. ‘It’s like cutting through wet cloth. Drives the dog crazy, too.’

  He pinched Perry’s cheek and shook gently, holding his gaze as Perry’s head moved.

  Dexter said, ‘Easy concept to remember. Things go wrong for me, then things go wrong for you. Remember this moment right now, next time you’re tempted to take a shortcut.’

  He stepped back and looked at the floor, like the threat was an effort to deliver. Then he gestured at the corridor with the gun and said, ‘Get them out of here.’

  Dexter Vine

  He watched from the foyer window as Ludo’s Caprice pulled away eastbound. The black Lexus was still parked across the street. Probably two guys in it, no doubt watching him right now, knowing he’d come to the door to see his visitors off. Eventually that’s how they’d get him, or so he figured: a shot from the car when he answered the door. Or an assault rifle burst at his front window, hoping he was standing there in the gloom. He kept seeing the aftermath: glass and chunks of wood everywhere, his body dumped there in a jumble. He’d make the papers though, surely. A murder in a good ZIP code, blood on the white cotton robe.

  The source of his trouble was a Chinese guy called Lee Feng, or more specifically, the five million dollars that Dexter owed him. It seemed like a good bet at first. Feng had cash to burn, and he wanted in on the nightclub market. Something like Ludo’s would be ideal: an easy outlet for drugs and girls. Dexter said he could make it happen. He took two and a half million from Feng and bought a place in Queens, and then another one over in Jersey. The rest of it went into a joint venture, procurement of a truckload of coke from Mexico.

  The drugs alone were supposed to net eight million, but the product never made it north of Texas, the supply intercepted by over-vigilant state police. The clubs could have saved him, but what he didn’t know was they came with surveillance, in this case the federal variety. The DEA shut down both places, and his club money was frozen on some kind of RICO bust. The only reason he wasn’t named on the paperwork was he’d made the purchase through a cutout. The one silver lining of the whole disaster.

  It was bad luck, but Feng didn’t care. The failure-to-deliver penalties kicked in, and they hit Dexter with an invoice for five million cold.

  He had until midnight tomorrow, and he had no way of paying. They knew that. The black Lexus had been scoping him for three weeks. It had done nothing but watch and follow, but it was a quiet reminder that nonpayment would incur big trouble.

  If they didn’t shoot him, the paranoia would floor him anyway. Constant vigilance was too stressful. His pulse hadn’t dipped below ninety in about a month. He carried the gun everywhere. It was under the pillow when he slept, it was in arm’s reach on the vanity when he s
howered, the stall door open for easy access. He rarely went outside, and he made Ludo fetch his groceries. Even the dentist was too great a risk: he’d tolerated a toothache for eight days before Ludo found a guy who did house calls. He’d done the work in the kitchen, Dexter in his leather chair with the gun pressed in on the doctor’s thigh. One slip and he’d blow his femoral.

  He moved away from the front door and walked back through to the kitchen. The goddamned dog was still yapping, but he didn’t let it out. A tab of Vicodin with a Glenfiddich, he might actually get some sleep.

  The only upside of life right now was the prospect of killing Marshall. He knew it was an odd predicament: potential murder the one hope he could cling to. Of course, it was the payoff that would be his saviour—kill Marshall, and use the bounty to pay back Feng.

  The sums were so perfect, it was like a challenge made in hell: the Marshall contract was five mil, his exact debt to the Chinese.

  But the timing would be everything, and this far down the line it all hinged on slim chances. Still, if he found the guy by tomorrow, it might change his luck just enough to save his life.

  TEN

  Ludo

  He didn’t get home until after four. He had a place up in Jackson Heights, in that last little segment between Astoria Boulevard and the Grand Central Parkway, where it curved in against LaGuardia. The real estate agent called it a traveller’s dream, only a short walk to catch your plane, the downside being you had to put putty in your windows to stop them from rattling.

  He parked in the driveway and let himself in the front door, his mother screaming, ‘Ludo, is that you?’ and the trash smelling ripe, even in this cold.

  He closed the door and slid the bolts across.

  ‘Ludo, is—’

  ‘Yeah, Mom, it’s me. Burglars are quieter.’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘It’s just me, I promise.’

  ‘You get my yarn?’

  ‘Yeah. I got your yarn.’

  He could hear her TV, the little spells of canned laughter. He went past the stairs into the kitchen and switched on the light. The dishes were still on the rack. He could smell burnt egg from the omelet he made her earlier, not as bad as the fetid trash.

  He took the packet of potato chips from the cupboard and ate them one at a time, watching his feet as he daydreamed, walking circuits of the table. Floor squeaking and the food crunching dully as he chewed.

  ‘What are you eating?’

  ‘Chips.’

  ‘You should be eating real dinner.’

  ‘This is just a snack.’

  ‘You get my yarn?’

  ‘Yeah. I got your yarn.’

  He hit his head on the bulb, and the shadows all leaned and swayed. He walked back through to the front room and stood looking at the floor a moment, still with his own thoughts, and then he opened the curtains to see the street. Apocalypse town at this hour, houses looking sullen with their dark windows. Someone’s car at the opposite kerb, an old Cadillac Seville, framed there so well it seemed composed, too perfect. Like the world knew he’d be looking. What a shame that’d be: the universe arranged in your favour, but it’s just a car in a window.

  He took the phone off the wall and stretched the cord over so he could keep watching the street. There was a cat on the hood of the Seville now, quite a nice touch. He dialled Dexter’s number and held the handset with his shoulder so he could keep going with the chips.

  Dexter said, ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Flat and low, like he didn’t need telling.

  Ludo dug around in the bag, found a biggie hiding with the shrapnel at the bottom. One of those small marvels. He looked around for a seat but there was paper everywhere, cuttings from his mother’s magazines. There’d be trouble if he creased anything. She had this thing about dogs, never saw a photo she couldn’t help saving. He said, ‘Forgot to ask you about this Henry Lee character.’

  Creaking and shuffling at the other end, Dexter probably rolling around in bed. ‘Henry, yeah. He ran some product through one of my other places for a while. Greasy shitbag, always trying to push something extra, you know?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Had this funny thing about white as well. White drugs, white suits, drives a white Escalade.’

  ‘Like he’s squeaky clean.’

  ‘Yeah. Be worth punching him in the mouth, just to see the mess. Hey, this is your home line, why aren’t you calling on a burner?’

  Ludo said, ‘Couldn’t be bothered.’

  Dexter said, ‘Great, real professional.’

  ‘Yeah, well. The cost adds up, you go through one a week. And I’m scraping the barrel here.’

  ‘Scraping barrels be the least of your worries, you end up inside.’

  Ludo said, ‘No one’s listening this end—so long as no one’s tapping in on your side, I think we’re good.’

  Dexter didn’t answer.

  Ludo said, ‘Tired of having to do things all furtive. This is America. Man should be able to stand in his living room and talk on the phone and not have to worry.’

  ‘Yeah, nice thought, isn’t it?’ Smirking, not sold on the principle.

  Ludo said, ‘I think so. But I’m gonna pull the pin when this is wrapped up. I’ll find your man, but then I’m out of here.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Not buying this one either.

  Ludo said, ‘Going to get an old RV or something, take my mother down South. Let her run the clock down on the beach somewhere.’

  ‘You gotta find my man first. Sweet lifestyles don’t come cheap.’

  Ludo said, ‘That’s the plan. I find your man, you pay me, and then I can blow Dodge.’ He chewed slowly, trying to sound thoughtful. ‘But how you know he’ll talk to Henry, and not go see Perry?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. He’s only got two leads. He’ll visit Henry eventually.’

  ‘And how do I find Henry?’

  ‘He’s got a place on the Upper East Side, Park and Sixty-something. Perry’ll know it. Apartment building.’

  ‘So he’s doing OK for himself.’

  ‘Yeah. Had a couple of divorces, too, so he must’ve had a bit hidden in the mattress.’

  Ludo found another whopper down the bottom, getting into miracle territory now. He said, ‘Can’t put it in the bed, or she’ll feel it when he’s banging her.’

  Dexter didn’t answer. A dog yapped, and Dexter said, ‘Fuck off.’

  Ludo said, ‘What’re his people like? He have guys with him?’

  A rumble on the line as Dexter hawked gently. He said, ‘Henry? Yeah, but I don’t think they’re Green Berets, put it that way. I never seen him with more than about two people, sometimes he’s just solo, so you might get lucky.’

  Ludo jiggled the chips on his hand, like weighing up the odds.

  Dexter said, ‘You going to be OK with Tol and Perry? Ah, fuck off. Sorry. Talking to the dog.’

  Ludo waited. He watched the cat flow down off the hood, didn’t speak until it had left the picture. He said, ‘Yeah. Perry’s soft, but he’s good fun. If you make him do stuff, I mean. Push him out of his comfort zone without him fainting.’

  ‘And Tol’s OK?’

  ‘Yeah. Tol’s OK. He can get funny when Perry’s there. I think he gets like a protection instinct or something. I dunno.’

  Dexter didn’t answer.

  Ludo swapped the phone to his other shoulder. ‘I think it’s like a sibling thing. Camaraderie, or whatever.’

  Dexter didn’t answer. Ludo had some chips, letting the crunch fill the quiet.

  ‘The fuck are you eating?’

  ‘Chips.’

  ‘You had dinner?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m just snacking.’

  Dexter listened to him chewing for a moment, like that was a new concept.

  Ludo said, ‘You want us going in heavy tomorrow, or what?’

  ‘Up to you. I don’t care if you go in heavy, light, doing pirouettes, whatever. I just need you
to find the guy.’

  ‘I’ll figure something out.’

  ‘Yeah, great. That’s what I like to hear.’

  He had other questions as well, but he wasn’t sure he should go there. He weighed it up for a moment, staring out at the world with his head on a lean, Dexter waiting like he knew there was something else. But in the end he just couldn’t quite get there.

  Ludo said, ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  He clicked off and hung the phone on the wall, kissed salt off his fingers as he walked back to the kitchen. He rolled up the bag and left it squeaking and clicking on the table, opened the cupboard under the sink and checked his supplies. He still had the carpet knife, and a fifty-inch cable lock that had been useful a few times. The duct tape was getting low. A spare roll wouldn’t be a bad idea.

  He gathered up the top of the trash bag, foul air wafting him as he cinched it. He raised the thing in one hand like some sick piñata and gave it a spin.

  ‘Who you talking with on the phone?’

  ‘Nobody. They’re gone.’

  The security light blinked on when he stepped out the back door. He saw his shadow cast massively across the dirt, a god-awful vision with the bag beside him. Like some psychopath, with his victim in pieces.

  He let the screen clack shut behind him and went down the step and dropped the trash in the can, the thing sighing faintly as it settled in. He made the lid clatter so she wouldn’t miss it, went back inside and locked up after himself.

  ‘Ludo, is that you?’ Screeching so loud her voice broke.

  ‘Yeah, Mom. It’s me.’

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Had to go outside.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just because.’

  The fridge was an old Kelvinator, waist-high with a big chrome handle on it, fairly rust-speckled now. He opened the door and leaned back with his chin ducked to see inside. The light putting a gold edge on his shins. He let one leg swing back like a metronome and reached down and took a bottle of chocolate milk off the bottom shelf. Still unopened. He cracked the seal and unscrewed the cap, let the door fall shut with a wet slap as he took a sip.