Текст книги "Known Devil"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“Me?” She snorted. “Not hardly. But tell me – them little bastards aren’t back on the street, are they?”

“Nope. They didn’t make bail, neither one of them. They’ll be in County until trial, which won’t be for three, maybe four months.”

At arraignment, the judge had set bail for Thor and his buddy Car at $10,000 each. A bail bondsman could have got them released for ten percent of that, but neither elf could come up with the deposit. I guess if one of them had a thousand bucks to spare, he wouldn’t have had to stick up diners.

“I was about to ask where’s Karl,” Donna said, “but then I realized…” She made a head gesture toward the nearest window and the sunlight streaming in through it.

“Yeah, he’s home by now,” I said. “I had to stay a little later at work and talk to some people. Then I was heading home myself, but I realized that I’d probably sleep better with one of Jerry’s omelets in my stomach.”

“I never can get to sleep on a full stomach, myself,” she said. “But if it works for you, enjoy.”

So I had my omelet with ham, cheddar, and mushrooms, and liked it just fine. Then it was time to go home, so I went around back to where I’d parked my car – and found that I had somebody waiting for me.

It was a couple of bodies, actually – two guys who were leaning against my car. That pissed me off, a little. I mean, the Lycan’s nothing special, but it’s mine, dammit, and I resented these two treating it like a fucking park bench.

One was tall and broad in a blue suit, and the other one was average height and broad in a gray suit. The suits weren’t handmade, but they hadn’t been bought off the rack at JC Penney, either.

“You’re Markowski, right?” gray suit said.

That pissed me off some more. I try not to get all self-important, but I’m kind of fussy about respect. Other cops get to call me “Markowski”, and friends call me “Stan”. As far as I’m concerned, civilians can use “Detective”, “Sergeant”, or “officer” until I tell them different. I figured the chances of these two being cops were almost as good as the odds of us ever being friends.

“You know who I am,” I said. “Congratulations. Who’re you?”

“Just a couple of fans,” blue suit said, with a smile that was close to a nasty grin. They both pushed themselves off the car and slowly walked toward me.

“If you want me to pose for pictures, I’m gonna have to say no.” I unbuttoned my sport coat and pushed it open, for quick access to the Beretta on my hip. “But I’ll give you guys an autograph, if you want.” These two weren’t vampires – not standing in the light of the morning sun like that. But a silver bullet will drop a human as quick as it will a vamp – and cold iron will, too.

Blue suit’s laugh was as nasty as his smile. “Autograph – that’s pretty good. Dontcha think, Joey?”

Gray suit, whose name appeared to be Joey, said, “You don’t need the gun, Sarge. We just want to talk a little.”

Sarge. That’s three.

“So, talk,” I said. “And stand there while we do it, your hands in plain sight.”

They stopped walking forward. “No, problem, Sarge,” blue suit said.

“OK,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Well, we hear you’ve got an interest in this new stuff that’s on the street,” Joey said.

“What stuff is that?” I wanted to hear him say the name.

“They call it by different names,” he said. “Some people call it HG, or so I–”

That was when I heard the small sound from behind me. It was nothing much, probably the sound of loose gravel moving under somebody’s shoe, but it was enough to tell me that I was in serious trouble.

I started to turn, very fast, my right hand pulling the Beretta from its holster. But I wasn’t fast enough to avoid the impact of something hard on the back of my skull, and the next thing I knew the ground rose up to smash me in the face. Then somebody’s knee, with the weight of a good-sized body behind it, came down on my spine. I would have screamed aloud if I’d been capable of any sound at all.

I heard voices, coming as if from a long way off.

“Get his wallet, and don’t forget the watch, too,” one of them said. “They said make it look like a robbery.”

Rough hands went through my pockets. I was vaguely aware when they found and removed my wallet and unbuckled the watch from my wrist. Then I felt a tug as the Beretta came out of its holster.

“Use his own gun,” a voice said. “And hurry the fuck up, before somebody comes.”

I thought I heard the hammer go back on the Beretta, but I might have imagined it. But I didn’t imagine the sound of the shot that followed, or the two more shots that came almost immediately afterward. Shooting me three times did seem kind of excessive – overkill, even.

Wait – I’m supposed to be dead. So why am I making dumb jokes? If this is what the afterlife’s like, it really sucks.

I was still trying to figure it all out when the dim light in my head slowly narrowed to a pinpoint and then went out completely.

The pain woke me up. Or maybe the pain had been there all along, patiently waiting for me to become aware of it. My head hurt, my nose throbbed, and my back felt like a company of Irish clog dancers had been using it for a practice stage.

“I think he’s coming around,” somebody said. The voice was female, but not familiar.

No sense making a liar out of her, so I opened my eyes – or tried to. The lids felt like they were stuck together with Super Glue. Finally I got them separated, but a second later I was closing them against the light. I tried again, opening my lids slowly to let the eyes adjust. After a few seconds, I was actually able to see my surroundings. The first thing I was able to make out was a pleasant-faced woman – mid-forties, black, very thin, wearing green hospital scrubs – standing at the foot of my bed.

No, it wasn’t a bed. I was on one of those hospital gurneys with steel rails along the sides. Half of it had been raised, to put me in a seated, upright position. I saw that I was in one of the treatment bays in Mercy Hospital’s ER. I’d been here plenty of times – sometimes as a visitor, and other times, like now, as a reluctant guest.

“Welcome back to the world, Stanley,” the woman in scrubs said. “Or do you prefer Stan?”

“Stan’s fine,” I said. My voice sounded like I’d been gargling with drain cleaner. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Nurse Jenkins,” she said. “You’re at Mercy Hospital. How are you feeling?”

“Tell you the truth, I hurt like hell.”

“Where’s your pain located?”

“Back of my head’s pounding like a motherfu… uh, I mean it’s really pretty bad.”

She gave me a gentle smile. “You can say ‘motherfucker’ if you want, Stan. I’ve heard the word before – in this job, I hear it quite frequently.”

“Good to know.”

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad would you say the head pain is?”

“Hard to be objective, when you’re a tough guy like me,” I said. “But I’d give it about a six.”

“OK,” she said, and made a note on the clipboard she was holding. “Do you have pain anywhere else?”

I moved around a little, and winced. “My back hurts some, too. Not as bad as the head, though.”

“How bad is it?”

“About a four, I guess.”

Another notation. “We’ll have that checked out. What’s the last thing you remember?”

I thought for a few seconds. “Somebody with his knee in my back, going through my pockets. Oh, and shots. Three shots. Seems like none of them got me, though.”

“No, you’re not exhibiting any gunshot injuries.” She looked at me for a moment. “You’re a police officer, is that right?”

“Uh-huh. Detective Sergeant Stanley Markowski, at your service,” I said. “Well, I could be at your service, if my head didn’t hurt so much.”

She gave me another half-smile and wrote on the clipboard some more. “No retrograde amnesia,” she said. “That’s a good sign – probably means you’re not concussed.”

She flipped through the papers on the clipboard and paused at one. “The head X-ray that was performed when you were brought in shows no damage to the skull. You’re a lucky man.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“Any dizziness?”

“No.”

“Ringing in the ears?”

“No.”

“Try not to blink for a second.” She produced a penlight and shined it in one of my eyes, then the other.

“OK, good.” She turned the penlight off, then asked me, “What day is it?”

“Um… Sunday . I think. At least, it was, last I remember.”

“What’s your mother’s first name?”

“Eleanor.”

“Who’s President of the United States?”

I told her, then added, “Don’t blame me, though – I didn’t vote for him.”

She smiled at my feeble joke and said, “I’ll let Doctor Reynolds know you’re awake. He should be in to see you shortly.”

Nurse Jenkins walked away, her tread muffled by what looked like expensive running shoes. She slid the privacy curtain open a few feet, slipped through the gap, and closed it behind her.

I thought I was alone now. But then I remembered that Nurse Jenkins had said something like “He’s awake now.” Who had she been talking to? That was when I turned my head to the left, which hurt like hell, and saw Lieutenant McGuire sitting in the corner.

He was sprawled in a low-slung armchair that had seen better days, holding a tattered copy of Reader’s Digest. As I watched, he tossed the magazine onto a table and stood up.

“I just finished the ‘Increase Your Word Power’ quiz,” he said. “Only got seven out of ten.”

“That’s better than I usually do.”

“Do you know what a fucking ‘clowder’ is?”

“Sounds like something you’d order in a seafood restaurant,” I said.

He tossed the magazine aside, stood up, and came over to stand a few feet from my gurney. “It’s the term they use for a bunch of cats,” he said.

“Yeah? I’ll try to work that into conversation, next time I’m talking to Karl. He’ll be impressed.” My voice sounded better now.

McGuire looked at me for a few seconds. “Your guardian angel’s been putting in some overtime.”

“You mean, because I’m not dead?”

“Because you’re not dead, and because three other guys are.”

“The ones who jumped me? I only saw two of them, but the third guy left me a souvenir.” I gently touched the back of my head and found it covered with a thick bandage that had been taped in place.

“They were all carrying ID that turned out to be fake, but we ran their prints, and the State Police got back to us pretty quick.” He took a notebook from his pocket and flipped through some pages. “Avery Dalton, Peter Amico, and Steven ‘Thumbs’ Milbrand. All three of them leg-breakers from downstate, each one with a rap sheet as long as my arm.”

I looked at McGuire. “How far downstate are we talking about?”

“Philadelphia.”

I nodded, and then the pain taught me that I shouldn’t do that. “Wiseguys?”

Even though the Delatasso family was headed by a vampire, that wouldn’t prevent them from having some “warm” members. A lot of vampire gangs had humans on the payroll, to guard their resting places during the day.

“Uh-uh,” McGuire said. “Day labor. The kind of muscle loan sharks hire to beat up on some guy who’s a couple of weeks behind on the vig.”

“All the way from Philly? Shit, they could’ve hired somebody local and saved themselves some money.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “Even the dumbest scumbag in town is smart enough not to kill a cop, except out of desperation. They know the kind of heat that brings – every cop in Scranton would be on the case, whether assigned or not. And we’d never stop looking.”

“On the other hand, if they use imported labor…”

“Exactly,” McGuire said. “They blow into town, do the job, then go back to whatever shithole they crawled out of. None of the locals can snitch on them, because nobody knew they were even here.”

“Except it didn’t work out that way.”

“Not this time. At the sound of the shots, some of Jerry’s customers came running out to see what was going on.”

“That’s either very brave or extremely stupid.”

“Whatever it was, they went around back and found four guys on the ground. Turned out the only one still breathing was you. The other three each had a bullet in the head.”

“Three shots, three kills,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. Whoever was back there knew how to use a gun. Had steady hands, too.”

“Are you about to ask me if I was the shooter?”

McGuire gave me a thin smile. “Don’t need to. Your weapon hadn’t been fired.”

“Good to know.”

“Besides,” he said, “the clip in your Beretta was your usual load of silver, alternating with cold iron – I know, because I checked.”

“So…?”

“So while I was waiting for you to come to, I got an email on my phone from Homer Jordan at the Coroner’s Office. Must be a slow day, because he’s finished the autopsy on one of the Philly boys already. The slug that killed the bastard was lead.”

“Which explains why you started out talking about my guardian angel.”

“Somebody nailed those three goons before they could kill you. At least, I’m assuming that was their plan. Can’t see them coming all the way up here from Philly just to lift your wallet – although one of them did that anyway. We found it in his coat pocket, along with your watch.”

“They wanted it to look like a mugging,” I said. “I vaguely remember one of them saying that. They were gonna shoot me with my own gun, too – make it look spontaneous, I guess.”

“You heard them talking?”

“Yeah – they must’ve assumed I was out cold. Or maybe they figured it didn’t matter what I heard, since they were about to put a bullet in my head.”

“Instead, somebody put a bullet in their heads,” McGuire said. “You see anything, hear anything, that’ll give us a lead on the shooter?”

I shook my head – another painful mistake. “All I remember is the sound of the shots and wondering why I wasn’t dead – the second time that’s happened to me recently.”

“You’re thinking about those vamps who were trying to kill Calabrese the other night – especially the one who got behind you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Somebody got that guy in the head, too.”

“We’ll compare the slug from the vamp with the ones they dig out of today’s casualties,” McGuire said. “Although the first time, the shooter used silver – for obvious reasons.”

“Won’t matter,” I said. “The striations will still be identical – assuming it was the same gun, both times.”

“And if there’s no match, what does that prove? Diddly-fuck. Your guardian angel could have more than one gun. Maybe he carries one with lead, and another one loaded with silver. That way, he’s ready for everything – or she is.”

“Question is, who’s doing this – and why? Not that I’m complaining, you understand.”

“If we had the ‘who’, we’d have the ‘why’,” he said. “Or if we figured out the ‘why’, it’d probably give us the ‘who’.”

“Stop,” I said. “You’re making my head hurt worse than it already does, and that’s saying something.”

“Don’t complain,” McGuire said. “If it weren’t for whoever’s been watching your back, you wouldn’t be feeling anything right about now.”

They decided to keep me overnight, “for observation.” What they wanted to observe wasn’t exactly clear. Maybe they were afraid I’d develop subdural hematoma – a term I picked up from doctor shows on TV.

McGuire made it very clear that he didn’t want me going all TV-detective-hero on him and checking myself out of the hospital prematurely because the Forces of Evil were on the march, and only I could stop them.

“The Forces of fucking Evil are always on the march,” he said. “They’ll still be there, day after tomorrow. In the meantime, you’re gonna stay here until the docs are sure you’re not about to fucking die on me. Got it?”

McGuire’s the only guy I know who can make compassion sound like he’s threatening your life. He went on. “I’ll ask the Captain to put a uniform on the door to your room, once they get you settled.”

“You figure the Delatassos have a ‘B’ team waiting in the wings?”

“Could be,” he said. “If not, he can at least keep the reporters away – unless you’ve decided you like giving interviews to the media?”

“Fuck that shit,” I said.

“That’s kinda what I figured.”

While I was waiting for the people in Admissions to process my paperwork and assign me a room, I called Christine. It was just past 2 in the afternoon, and I knew that she was still resting. But I wanted to leave a message on her voicemail so she wouldn’t panic when she came upstairs at sunset and found that I’d never made it home from work.

Hi, honey – this is your old man. Listen, do not freak over what I’m about to tell you, OK? I’m in Mercy Hospital, but only for observation. I’ll be out tomorrow. I ran into a little trouble and got whacked upside the head. But you know what a thick Polack skull I have – there’s been no damage, apart from a lump that feels like it’s the size of a billiard ball. No skull fracture, no concussion, no subdural hematoma. In other words: nothing to worry about. But apparently it’s SOP to keep head injury cases for twenty-four hours, and that’s what they’re doing with me.

So, listen, on your way to work tonight, could you drop off my toilet kit? It’s in the big suitcase in my closet. And bring a change of clothes, too, will you? Nothing too dashing – I’ll have to go to work in them.

I appreciate it, kiddo. I’ll see you sometime tonight. Love ya. Bye.

I don’t think I own an article of clothing that anybody would call “dashing”, but I wanted her to understand that I needed work clothes, not jeans and a T-shirt.

Before the orderly wheeled me upstairs – I told him that I could walk OK, but apparently the wheelchair was SOP, too – I stopped at the hospital gift shop and picked up a paperback book, along with a copy of the Times-Tribune. When the lady in Admissions had told me the cost of getting TV service in my room, and that insurance wouldn’t cover it, I decided that reading would pass the time just as well, and cheaper.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in a private room, sitting up in bed and wearing one of those idiotic hospital gowns that are cleverly designed to rob you of any dignity you might have left after getting poked and prodded downstairs.

McGuire had said that the ER nurse in charge of Intake had taken my gun when I’d first arrived and given it so someone for safekeeping. He’d found out who had it, and waved his badge around until they gave my Beretta to him. He’d slipped it to me when no one was looking, just before the orderly came to wheel me up to my room. “You never know,” he’d said. “You might get a visitor who isn’t the friendly type.”

My clothes were now hung up in the little locker they have in each room, but the Beretta was under the sheet next to my right leg. Just in case.

The book I’d bought was Sematary Danse, the new exposé of the funeral industry by that true-crime writer, Stephen King. I’d been wanting to read it for a while, but I decided to look at the paper first, in case anything important had gone down while I’d getting beaten up by hired thugs.

There was no story about all the excitement that had taken place behind Jerry’s Diner, and I hadn’t expected one in this issue. The Times-Tribune is a morning paper.

But it would be front-page news tomorrow unless a war broke out, and my luck never runs that good. Three Dead in Attack on Police Officer, the headline would read. And the local networks would have the story for their evening broadcasts.

I was glad that McGuire was going to have somebody on the door to keep the media jackals away. The last thing I needed right now was some asshole with a hundred-dollar haircut sticking a microphone in my face.

The Patriot Party had a full-page ad on page three, reminding me that the election was about a month away. The tone hadn’t mellowed any since I’d last seen their advertising. They were still attacking Mayor D’Agostino without mercy, although it looked like they’d found a new horse to ride: crime in the streets.

LAW AND ORDER?

GANG WARFARE THROUGHOUT THE CITY

TERRORIST BOMBS DESTROYING LIFE AND PROPERTY

DRUG-ADDICTED “SUPES” RUNNING RAMPANT

IS THIS THE MAYOR’S IDEA OF

LAW AND ORDER?

All of this was in what looked like thirty-point type.

As far as I knew, the only life that the “terrorist bomb” had taken belonged to one of those supes that the Patriot Party disapproved of, but my experience has been that political advertising and the truth have a nodding acquaintance at best.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember was a tapping noise that turned out to be somebody knocking on the door of my room.

“Yeah – who is it?”

The door opened just wide enough to admit the head and shoulders of a uniformed cop who I vaguely recognized.

“You got a visitor, Sarge,” he said. “Says she’s your daughter.”

I glanced toward the window and saw that night had fallen. “It’s OK, officer,” I said. “Let her through.”

A moment later, Christine was in the doorway, bearing both a suitcase and a worried expression. I wondered why she was just standing there, but then I remembered.

“Hi, honey,” I said. “Come on in.”

She set the suitcase down at the foot of the bed. “I’d run over there and throw my arms around you, like a good daughter should,” she said. “But my guess is that it might hurt like hell.”

“You’re right – it probably would,” I told her. “Apart from this goose egg here, my back is sore from where some bastard dropped to his knees on me while I was down. There’s no permanent damage – just lots of colorful bruises that are very sensitive to pressure.”

She bent over the bed and kissed me carefully on the cheek. “I’d offer to have a few words with the assholes who did this you,” she said as she stepped back. “But my guess is, right about now, they’re just finding out that Hell doesn’t have cable TV.”

“I’ve heard that it does,” I said, “but all they get down there is reruns of Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo.”

When she finished laughing at my dumb joke, I asked her, “How come you know about all that? Did McGuire call you?”

She picked up a chair from the corner, put it next to the bed, and sat down.

“Nobody called me,” she said. “But the Times-Tribune’s web page is updated on a regular basis, remember? You’re the front-page story right now”

“Shit, I forgot about the digital edition.”

“I noticed that the story didn’t have any quotes from you,” she said.

“That’s the main reason that uniform is at the door,” I said. “To keep the goddamn media out of my face.”

“I figured that would be your attitude, and I managed to help out a little.”

“Really?”

“Really. I shared an elevator with a reporter and camera guy from Channel 22,” she said. “When I realized who they were coming to see, I, uh, convinced them that there was no story here, and they might as well leave. They took the same elevator car back down.”

“That’s my girl.”

“I figured that cop was outside in case whoever sent those three guys after you decided to send a few more.”

“Well, yeah – that, too.”

“That’s why I used some vacation time and took tonight off,” she said. “I’ll be right here, in case something happens. Unless you’ve got some hot babe coming over later to cheer you up. If that’s the case, I can wait in the hall with your brother officer while the cheering-up is going on.”

“Even if I knew where to find a hot babe,” I said, “the way I feel right now, anything she did would probably finish the job those guys started behind Jerry’s.”

“You don’t know any hot babes?” she asked with a half-smile. “What about what’s-her-name, that blonde cop from Wilkes-Barre?”

“Lacey Brennan.”

“Yeah, that’s her name. What about her? I thought you guys had a thing going.”

“That’s kind of up in the air right now,” I said. “Anyway, she’s in Wisconsin, visiting her sister.”

“That doesn’t sound too good.”

“We’ll see,” I said.

“Well, once you’re feeling better, let me know if you’re in the market. I bet I could fix you up with one of the warm girls at work.” She gave me a full-on smile, complete with fangs. “I know a couple of cute vamps, too, if you feel like a walk on the wild side.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, and decided to change the subject. “McGuire says that the three guys who jumped me are muscle-for-hire up from Philly.”

She gave me a look. “Philly. The Delatassos?”

“Seems like,” I said. “I can’t think of anybody else in Philly I might’ve pissed off recently.”

She chewed her lower lip for a few seconds. “Why humans? If they waited until dark, they could’ve sent vamps after you.”

“Misdirection, maybe. Killing a cop brings down a lot of heat. Maybe the Delatassos didn’t want it focused on them.”

“You’re sure killing you was the objective – they weren’t there just to rough you up or something?”

“No, it was a hit.” I told her what I’d heard the goons say to each other while I was semiconscious.

She nodded slowly when I was done. “So they intended to take you out. Sounds like they would’ve succeeded, too, if not for – who?”

“That’s a question I’ve been giving a lot of thought to,” I said. “The answer’s been pretty fuckin’ elusive. I can’t think of–”

Another knock sounded on the door. The uniformed cop stuck his head in and said, “Your partner’s here, Sarge.”

“OK, thanks,” I said – then, in a louder voice I called, “Come on in, Karl.”

Karl Renfer had brought me a small plastic baggie that turned out to contain a Reese’s Cup, two Snickers bars, and a pack of Lance cheese crackers. “Just in case the food in this place is as bad as I hear,” he said, then looked toward my other visitor. “Hey, Christine.”

“Hey, Karl.” A look passed between them, and I wasn’t sure how to read it. Then I remembered that Karl had, out of necessity, spent a day in my basement with Christine a few months back. He’d been working until almost sunrise, and hadn’t had time to make it home.

During the daylight hours, a vampire is literally a corpse. But neither Karl or Christine had ever mentioned how much time they’d spent together downstairs once the night had returned. They’d never brought it up, and I’d never asked.

And I sure as shit wasn’t going to ask now.

Instead, I said to Karl, “Is this an official visit, officer, or are you just here on a goodie run? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Nothing official,” he said. “Once I found out what had gone down this morning, I took a couple hours’ personal time. McGuire said you weren’t in bad shape, considering, but I decided to see for myself.”

“I’ve been worse,” I told him.

“Yeah, I can tell,” he said. “But there is one thing that’s been bothering me a little since I got here, though.”

“What’s that?”

He looked down at the bed. “Is that a gun under your blanket, or are you just glad to see me?”

“McGuire got my Beretta back for me,” I said. “A little extra firepower never hurts.”

“Speaking of firepower,” Karl said, “I had an interesting email waiting when I got in to work tonight. From one of my snitches.”

“Do tell,” I said.

“Is this secret stuff?” Christine asked. “Should I go out in the hall?”

Karl gave her a smile and a shrug. “Don’t see why. Your old man’s gonna tell you all about it later, anyway.” He looked at me. “Right?”

“Yeah, most likely,” I said.

“Since he trusts you, I trust you,” he told Christine. “You might as well stick around. Besides, you’re the only one in here who’s easy on the eyes.”

They exchanged that look again, and I made myself stop wondering what it might mean. Christine’s love life is none of my damn business, as she’d be the first one to tell me. Neither is Karl’s.

But – my daughter and my partner. Dear sweet merciful Jesus.

“So you got this email…” I said to Karl.

“Yeah, from a guy who’s kinda on the fringes of the Calabrese organization. He picks up interesting gossip once in a while. He trades it for small favors, or just the chance to bank some goodwill.” He paused.

“Come on, Karl,” I said. “Stop milking it. What’s the guy say?”

“He tells me that Calabrese has brought in some out-of-town talent to help in this war with the Delatassos.”

“Philadelphia?” I asked. “Don’t tell me we’ve got more thugs from Philly in town.”

“No, this one’s from Boston. And he’s no run-of-the mill thug. Word is, Calabrese hired John Wesley Harding.”

There was silence in my little room until Christine broke it by saying, “John Wesley Harding? Wasn’t he some desperado in the Old West?”

“Hardin,” Karl said. “You’re thinking of John Wesley Hardin. This guy’s name is the same, except for the ‘g’ at the end.”

“Desperado’s not a bad description, though, from the stories I heard,” I said. “Dude’s supposed to’ve killed more people than the Black Death, although that’s an exaggeration. Probably.”

“Is he warm?” Christine asked.

“He was,” I said. “Still is, as far as I know. Maybe that’s why Calabrese hired him. Could be he wants somebody who’s as deadly in daylight as he is at night. That’d be pretty useful in the kind of war Calabrese is fighting.”

“Wonder if one of Harding’s parents was a Bob Dylan fan?” Karl said.

“Well, what I’m wondering,” Christine said, “is whether he’s Daddy’s ‘guardian angel’.”

Karl looked at her. “You mean whoever iced those three guys this morning?”

“Them, as well as the one who took out the Delatasso fangster who got behind me, that night Calabrese got cornered,” I said. “I agree with McGuire – it seems pretty unlikely that I’ve got two guardian angels. I think it’s pretty amazing that I have even one.”

“Well, whoever he is, it’s probably not Mister Harding,” Karl said. “My source says that Calabrese just hired him, and the dude hasn’t even hit town yet.”

“Your source could be wrong,” Christine said. “That ever happen to you?”

“Sure, all the time,” Karl said. “And if his information was off by just a few hours, then, yeah, it could put Harding behind Jerry’s Diner this morning, in time to save Stan’s ass. But it still doesn’t explain the Delatasso guy who got nailed in the street last week.”

“Why not?” Christine asked.

“Because if somebody on Calabrese’s payroll had killed that shooter who’d got behind me,” I said, “Calabrese wouldn’t have been shy about saying so. In fact, he’d probably have told me that it wipes out whatever obligation he might have incurred when I saved his ass.”

Christine frowned. “So, we’re back to square one,” she said. “Either there are two different ‘guardian angels’ involved here–”

“Which seems unlikely,” I said.

“Which seems unlikely,” she agreed. “Or it wasn’t this Harding guy at all. So we still don’t know who’s doing it.”

“Yeah, I can’t even send him a ‘Thank You’ card,” I said. “Too bad. I had a nice one all picked out.”