A Filthy Business [Kindle in Motion] Page 8

  I took hold of the document, gave it a cursory glance, grabbed a pen from the stand, and starting executing the thing.

  “With your lawyering experience we expected you would take a more careful look at the precise language.”

  “It says I can’t talk about you or this weekend.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Fine then,” I said. “I’m not a big talker.”

  “There’s a penalty section you might want to review.”

  “What will you do if I talk, hack out my tongue?”

  “Excellent. You must read quite quickly. Any regrets, Mr. Kubiak?”

  “Only that I didn’t smash Don’s nose all the way into his brainpan when I had the chance.”

  “Yes, that would have evened up the sides and taken away the advantage Tom Preston used for his win. So, why didn’t you?”

  I looked up from the document. Mr. Maambong’s beetle eyes were staring at me intently. “That could have killed him,” I said. “That would have been murder.”

  “Surely you might have found a way to take the lummox out without committing a homicide. Mr. Preston found a way with Mr. Johnstone. Taking out his leg gave Mr. Preston the numbers he needed to push you out the door. You could have done the same by breaking your opponent’s jaw, for instance. That would have neatly done the trick. What was it that stopped you?”

  I turned my attention back to the release. “It would have been counterproductive.”

  “How so?”

  I finished dating and signing, put down the pen, took hold of the envelope, leaned back in my chair.

  “I can tell when I go too far from the looks I get. It’s as if, in that moment, they see the truth about me and it horrifies them.”

  “So you were anxious to keep up appearances.”

  “I don’t get anxious and I don’t give a damn about appearances. But when I see those looks I know that I’m no longer trusted, which means I can’t fully trust either. Trust is a valuable tool; it’s not profitable to squander it. In those circumstances, I’ve learned to hold back.”

  “Are you telling us it wasn’t a matter of conscience?”

  “It’s an election year, Mr. Maambong. Since when is anything a matter of conscience?”

  He laughed with a touch too much determination. “Tell me then why it wasn’t counterproductive for Mr. Preston to take out his opponent like he did?”

  “Don’t pretend you weren’t watching the reactions as Tom Preston stood and received your benediction as the top negotiator. That’s why you made him stand, wasn’t it? So you could get a better gauge. You know exactly what you saw.”

  “Yes, maybe we do.”

  “Tom Preston should never have made any kind of offer to me, even an offer he assumed I would reject. His fight with Gordon had already weakened the trust his so-called teammates felt for him. And then he let me maneuver him into taking the whole thousand from our negotiation, weakening that trust even further. By winning the negotiation game he showed quite clearly he isn’t smart enough. We’ll see how he fares through the rest of your little competition, but it doesn’t concern me. I’ll just take the cash and be gone.”

  “Oh, Mr. Kubiak, don’t be in such a rush. Spend another night at the hotel, please. On us. Relax by the house pool tomorrow as the others are scavenging, get some sun, enjoy yourself. We’re having a party in the evening to celebrate the end of the contest. Caviar, champagne, all kinds of delicious entertainments. You won’t want to miss it.”

  I was in bed with Cassandra the next day when Mr. Maambong and Bert barged into her room.

  It had been waiting to happen, Cassandra and me. When the candidates went off on their scavenger hunt, we played our little games of seduction, first in the kitchen, then by the pool. But it didn’t take much playing from either of us, since we both knew where it would end and were both ready and willing to end there. At first we had gone at it hard and fast, with the due violence of untapped desire, and then, a second time slowly and coldly, with one of my hands bracing her arm above her head and the other around her neck. The first bout felt like a couple of horny teenagers playacting sex, the second felt like truth itself. We were sitting up in her bed after, sharing a cigarette, when the two men entered.

  Mr. Maambong took a chair from the vanity, placed it at the foot of the bed, and sat. Bert stood behind him. There was a gun in Bert’s hand. Cassandra’s breasts were bared and she made no effort to cover them. I extracted the cigarette from between her fingers and took a drag.

  “What did we tell you, Mr. Kubiak, about sleeping with Cassandra?” said Mr. Maambong.

  “Oops,” I said.

  Cassandra took the cigarette back from me and placed it between her lips, bruised and smeared red.

  “It wasn’t a jealous possessiveness that prompted our warning,” said Mr. Maambong. “We don’t have relations with employees—it is bad form. As shocking as it may seem, our warning was for your own benefit. You see, Cassandra, due to some childhood trauma, has serious issues with intimacy. There is a mantis quality to her lovemaking, if you catch our drift. Those who sleep with her invariably end up dead, one way or the other. Sometimes it is her way.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I said.

  “Others have thought the very same thing. Still, around here she is known as the black widow. Where is it, Cassandra?”

  Cassandra shrugged and smoked and then petulantly reached beneath her pillow, pulling out a buck knife, shiny and fat. She offered it handle first, and Bert, gun in hand, stepped from behind the chair to take hold of it.

  “It’s for protection,” she said to me.

  “If I had only known,” I said to her, “I would have brought a piece of wood and we could have whittled a duck.”

  Cassandra laughed out a couple gulps of smoke.

  “We have been thinking over what you said about holding back in your fight to save the trust of others,” said Mr. Maambong. “And about why you gave Mr. Preston a free thousand dollars in your negotiation. We wondered if everything you told us was merely a rationalization for weakness, and if giving Mr. Preston the extra thousand was a flailing piece of frustration just to take money from our pockets. But something happened that has changed our opinion of you.”

  “It happened twice,” I said.

  Cassandra laughed again.

  “There was an accident today,” said Mr. Maambong. “A hit-and-run in the streets of Miami. Imagine that. There are no suspects. The police are baffled. We’ll save you the suspense. It was Mr. Preston. He was off on his own to get hold of the most valuable piece on the scavenger hunt. We would have suspected you of being the driver, Mr. Kubiak, except you were here risking life and limb with dear Cassandra. But still, it makes one wonder.”

  “I trust he’ll be all right.”

  “He is currently in the hospital. The same hospital, it turns out, that is caring for your Mr. Johnstone.”

  “Maybe they’ll visit each other’s rooms, play patty-cake together.”

  “It might be difficult for Mr. Preston. So many of his bones are broken he is like a bowl of Jell-O.”

  “I’ll send him a spoon,” I said.

  “You made him a target.”

  “He made himself a target.”

  “His recovery will take quite a while. In such circumstances we will not be able to offer him an immediate position with our firm.”

  “Forget about the frat-boy twins, they’re both chumps, but I’m sure Riley or Kief or even Angela will do a fine job.”

  “We’re not looking for fine. We have had fine before and as Cassandra could tell you, all it brought us was grief. Instead we are looking for a unique talent. What do you think, Cassandra?”

  “He’s a talent all right,” she said.

  “You’re making me blush,” I said.

  “We think you, Mr. Kubiak, provided you can survive Cassandra on this sunny afternoon, are exactly what we are looking for. We thought so from our first meeting in Las Vegas
, and your performance here, though unorthodox, has confirmed our suspicions. It will require much work, complete obedience, and mutual trust. How do you like that? Trust. You seem to have a talent for gaining it, less a talent for deserving it, if your past is any indication. But you appear to be worth the gamble of a probationary period. What do you say, Mr. Kubiak? Are you ready to take your rightful place in the new economy?”

  “Suit me up.”

  “Excellent,” said Mr. Maambong, a broad smile breaking out across his cold face. Even his glasses seemed to glint with promise. “Welcome aboard. It is time to build your team.”

  II

  HENCHMAN

  11. A Japanese Scotch

  The magazine writer looked nervously into the outlaw’s eye. His physical condition had been a rude shock to her when he first came into the bar, but that was no longer the most disconcerting aspect of his presence. She had driven to this desert shack to find a hero; she had seen enough movies to know what that word meant. Even the most world-weary of heroes had something inside that you could latch on to, some sense of higher purpose. But the outlaw’s story so far had given no such sense at all. The disappointment she was feeling was palpable.

  Or was that just dehydration?

  “You’ve barely touched your beer,” said the outlaw. “Not thirsty even in this heat, or a stickler for quality? I would guess the latter. Good for you. Then why don’t we try something else?”

  He pushed himself out of his chair and limped toward the bar, speaking softly to the grizzled barkeep. When he dragged his useless leg back to the table, he was smiling.

  “I keep a rare bottle of Scotch under the counter here. I asked Ginsberg to bring it out, along with two glasses and some ice. Believe it or not, Ginsberg has some ice squirreled away in this rat hole, mostly frozen urine just to keep the squirrel meat cold. But he also has a batch of ice made from branch water I bring up from Kentucky. This whiskey is good enough to deserve the best.”

  The barkeep walked slowly toward the table carrying a dusty black box and two glasses, each with one large cube of ice. He put down the box and the two glasses, pulled a rag from his back pocket, and proceeded to smear the small puddles of spat and spilled beer across the tabletop. As the outlaw examined the box, the magazine writer asked the barkeep for some water.

  “And nothing from the well,” said the outlaw. “Her stomach couldn’t handle that radioactive sludge. Something bottled, and cold.”

  Ginsberg stopped his wiping and stared at the outlaw for a moment before walking slowly back to the bar. When he returned, he brought a small plastic water bottle, not quite cold, but colder than the hot air being pushed to and fro by the fans. The magazine writer thanked him and twisted the top. The cool felt like a kiss to the inside of her throat. She downed the bottle with a just a few quick gulps, but when she looked up to ask for another, Ginsberg was already behind the bar with his back turned.

  “Ta-da,” said the outlaw as he opened the black box with a ceremonial flourish. Inside was a glass bottle, a third full, with a sketch of a Japanese man holding a sword on the label. The outlaw took the bottle out of the box, pulled off the top with a thwack, and tipped a bit of the Scotch over the ice in each of the glasses.

  “Look at the color in your glass,” he said as he handed her one of the drinks. “Like an exquisite piece of amber. Now I’ll have you know this is not just any run-of-the-mill Scotch, but a Japanese-crafted whiskey that is older than you and quite rare. I first came across this Scotch in Cabo San Lucas, of all places, and I’ve been hooked on it ever since.

  “Cheers.”

  As the outlaw stared expectantly, the magazine writer took a sip. The liquor was dark and sweet, a thing made of tangerine and smoke that filled her mouth with the flavor of an extravagant life so distant from this desert shack it seemed to belong on another planet. A life of grace and ease and money. The life she had always wanted and, to be honest, expected. She couldn’t help but smile.

  “Nice, right?” said the outlaw. “I could tell you that you’re drinking it all wrong, but then I’d be like those assholes who tell me not to use ice in my Scotch. I like ice in my Scotch, so they can suck it. Anyway, try swirling it in your glass and taking a sniff before you swallow. Notes of toffee, bacon rind, flint. Yum. Good enough to gulp. One added benefit is that the distiller went out of business years ago, and so there’s an ever-dwindling supply. That makes it obscenely expensive, true, but it also doubles the delight. Every sip we take is one sip less available to the other sons of bitches who want it for their own. These days even my joys are heartless.

  “Sorry for all the blabbing. Me, me, me. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy, with or without a psychiatrist in the room. So for a moment, let’s talk about you.

  “You’re quite the writer. Oh, don’t be modest, I’ve read some of your work. Let me see, there was ‘Turn Him on from across the Room.’ And then, the brilliantly titled ‘Orgasm Virgins: How They Went from “Um, Not Yet” to “OMG Yes!”’ But my favorite, I have to say, and the one I’ve been following assiduously ever since I read it in the magazine, was ‘Best Foundations for a Natural You.’ Doesn’t my skin look natural? Oh my God, yes.”

  The magazine writer felt a blush rise. She had been caught out in something. She didn’t belong here, in this bar, with this man; she was out of her depth. And she thought, suddenly, of the gun in her bag.

  “But here’s the thing that I found most peculiar about your oeuvre,” continued the outlaw. “You’re a writer of puff pieces, of lifestyle tips and celebrity gossip, yet for some reason you braved desert and danger to find me even though there is no way in hell a story about the likes of me would ever be assigned to you by one of the glossies you write for.”

  She began to speak, trying to defend her interest in the interview as her heart started racing, trying to deny any ulterior motive, even though she knew the outlaw would see right through her denial to the lie. But he took her off the hook.

  “Don’t bother,” he said with a smile. “It doesn’t matter. The one thing we know about every encounter with the press is there is always a hidden agenda. We’ll get to all your reasons for being here eventually, and the roots of the disappointment that flooded your eyes when you saw me drag my crippled carcass into the room, but first you need to hear the story you came for. When I’m done, you might decide the best course of action is to stand up and step out that door and run, to run away as if running from damnation itself. And I wouldn’t blame you one bit.

  “I’d run the hell away from myself, too, if I still could—but you’ve seen my leg.

  “So back to Mr. Maambong, back to the Hyena Squad. I had passed the tests, survived the contests. I was in. You would think what would follow would be an intensive bout of training. Cue the music, build the montage. Phil Kubiak skipping rope, Phil Kubiak working the heavy bag, Phil Kubiak running in gray sweats through the Italian market. Well, sister, let me tell you: wrong movie. You weren’t hired for the Hyena Squad with the hope that you could be turned into the kind of predator they needed. You were hired because you were a fully formed specimen, ready to be turned loose. All you needed was an overlord to wave the greenbacks in front of your nose and then yell fetch.”

  12. The Case of the Missing Heiress

  The motel was a desolate little structure in the middle of a desert. It might seem like I was back where I started before I first heard the name Maambong, but it wasn’t the same at all.

  I was a new man, with new prospects, wearing a new blue suit, tight around the chest and leg, the pants short enough to flash a shock of red sock. My polka-dot tie was fastened to my dark shirt with a gold clip. Brown shoes? You bet. Brown to match the briefcase I was holding with the documents and the cash. With my hair brushed insolently high, I looked like a hip young man fresh out of Brooklyn, trying to sell real estate. When I Skyped him that morning, Mr. Maambong approved the getup with a spurt of hearty laughter. In my new business, appearances mattered, and sometimes it
helped to appear a little ridiculous.

  Room 232, upper level, door facing northeast. The air conditioner sticking out above the door growled into the still, hot air. It was only morning, but already the sun was a burning eye staring over my shoulder. I slid to the side of the door, putting cinder block between me and the room’s inhabitants, sucked my teeth to ready my mind, and then knocked loudly, once, twice.

  “Who the hell?” came the response, guttural and slow with a Texas twist.

  “Management,” I said.

  “What you want?”

  “There was a problem with your reservation, sir.”

  “Reservation?” I heard footsteps, bare feet on bare wood, the turning of the bolt. “What the hell you talking about reser—”

  Before he could finish I kicked open the door.

  Gordon ducked slightly as he stiff-legged his way through the doorway, his sunglasses on, his scowl firm enough on its own to tone down any danger. He wore a black suit, white shirt, thin black tie—he had purposely gone all Tarantino for this play—and he pointed the long barrel of his black gun down at the face of the man now sprawled naked on the floor.

  “Don’t,” Gordon said in his startlingly deep voice.

  Whatever the man on the floor was thinking, he stopped thinking it.

  I slipped a shit-eating grin onto my face and strode into the room like I had paid for it. The man on the floor was lean and hard, with the requisite thug tattoos on his chest: a skull with a pirate bandanna on one breast, a bottle of Colt 45 and a pistol on the other. Not bad, actually. The face behind the beard was handsome in a long-jawed way, and his pale-gray eyes were fixated on Gordon’s gun. I walked right past him to the woman propped up by pillows on the bed.