John Locke - Lethal People

I noticed that he noticed my limp as I took a step toward him.

“I’m Double X,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Quinn and I exchanged looks again.

“You carve that in your head when you turned twenty?” asked Quinn.

Double X frowned. “It’s my nickname. On the circuit.”

“The circuit,” I said.

Double X sighed. “Hello-o, the UFW circuit? Ultimate Fighting Warriors?”

“Oh, that circuit,” I said.

I took another gimpy step toward him. He shifted his weight into a fighting stance and said, “I’m the former heavyweight world champion.” He said that part with a healthy measure of pride. “How nice for you,” I said. “Maybe we can talk about it after I see Mr. Unger. Would you be a good little warrior and take us to him?” Double X sneered.

I’ve had tough guys sneer at me lots of times, but I was pretty sure not many had sneered at Quinn. I glanced at my monster. He didn’t appear to be offended.

Addressing me, but pointing at Augustus, Double X said, “I don’t know your boyfriend, Mr. Ass Face, but I know who you are. You’re the guy who kidnapped Monica Childers.”

Quinn said, “Ass Face?”

To me, Double X said, “You’re pretty tough when it comes to assaulting skinny, middle-aged women, but in me you’ll find an unbeatable foe.”

I said, “They teach you to talk like that in the UHF?”

“That’s UFW, asshole.” He appraised me as if he were sniffng an onion. “You got some size on you, and you may have kicked some untrained butt in your day, but you can’t fathom the stuff I’ve seen. You wouldn’t last thirty seconds in the quad.”

“Quad?”

“That’s right. They stick you in a cage with a world contender and you don’t walk out until one of you is basically dead.”

He let that comment sit in the air a minute, then added, “You guys are going to stay right here till I say you can move.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Mr. Unger’s secretary is at this very moment talking to a member of organized crime about you. You guys are already dead; you just don’t know it yet.”

A good martial artist will always attack your weakness, and Double X didn’t disappoint, rushing me the way I knew he would, leading with his right leg to sweep my gimpy leg out from under me.

Unfortunately for Double X, I didn’t have a gimpy leg, and I easily moved inside his kick before it could do any damage. Double X suddenly found himself in a strange position, slightly off -balance, vulnerable, his leg still rising toward a target that wasn’t there.

Before he had a chance to regroup, I punched the former quad cage heavyweight champion of the world in the neck, with full leverage behind the blow. I followed it up with a left hook to the other side of his neck, and his eyes went white. He tried to fall, but I caught his Adam’s apple between my thumb and index knuckle and crushed it until his mouth formed a perfect O shape. When I released my grip, Double X fell in a heap and grabbed his throat. He made an attempt to speak, but the effort proved too great. He rolled onto his side, and his legs began twitching involuntarily, like a sleeping dog dreaming about chasing a rabbit.

I looked at Quinn. “Just before I crushed his larynx, he patted my shoulder several times. Why do you suppose he did that?”

“I think he was tapping out. It’s what they do in the quad cage when they’ve had enough.”

“Oh. He should have said.”

I stepped over him and went through the door from which Double X had appeared a moment earlier.

Quinn found Double X’s gun and put it in his duffel. Then he grabbed Double X by the collar and dragged him and his twitchy legs through the door and down the hall until he saw me enter Chris Unger’s suite.

First thing I noticed going in, Chris Unger was at his desk, his back to the windows. Three client chairs faced him. The first was occupied by Chris’s brother, Garrett. The second chair was empty. Sitting in the third chair was my favorite crime boss, Sal Bonadello.

Sal nodded in my direction and said, “Hey, this is—whatcha call—serendipity. We was just talking about you!”

I recognized Sal’s bodyguard, leaning against the far wall.

“I guess Joe said it’s okay to bring Big Bad.”

Sal nodded. “I was takin’ a leak just before you got here. Takin’ a leak always makes me think of Joe. So I called him.”

Big Bad had his hand inside his jacket.

“You still use the 357?” I asked.

Without changing the expression on his face, Big Bad glanced at Sal through reptilian eyes. Sal said, “It’s okay; they’re with me.”

Both Ungers gave him a look. Then they looked at each other. Garrett seemed more nervous than his older brother.

All eyes suddenly turned to the doorway as Quinn entered, dragging Double X behind him. Double X continued to hold his neck with one hand while pawing the air with the other. Still trying to tap out, I figured. Quinn released his prey, and Double X hit the floor face first. Quinn locked the door behind him.

Sal jumped to his feet, suddenly excited. “Wait a minute!” he said. “I seen this before! At the movies, right? Weekend at Bernie’s , right?” He pointed at Double X. “You’re the guy! You’re Bernie!”

From his post across the office, Big Bad watched with amused ambivalence.

By contrast, Chris Unger was outraged. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded. Unger stood tall, assuming the defiant stance befitting his status of legal heavyweight. His hair was silver and gelled, and he wore it combed straight back. He had on a navy Armani suit, a crisp white broadcloth shirt, and a bright red silk tie.

Those who fear attorneys would have been shaking in their boots at the sight of him, but this was a different crowd. Unable to get the reaction he’d expected, Unger sat back down at his desk, which probably cost more than the house I grew up in. It wasn’t just the desk that was intimidating—everything in his office exuded power, from the dark cherry paneling to the trophy wall littered with photos of Unger posing with presidents past and present, not to mention the Hollywood elite. Clearly, this was a man willing to pay the extra fee at fundraising events to secure the vanity shot.

“I need to speak with your brother,” I said. “It’ll just take a minute.”

Chris Unger opened his mouth to protest, but saw Double X trying to tap out and changed his mind.

Chris obviously spent a lot of time admiring Double X’s fighting ability on the circuit in the quad cage, because he was visibly shaken to see the former baddest man on the planet reduced to his current state.

Double X must have caught a glimpse of the disappointment in his employer’s face, because he tried to form the words “sucker punch.” It sounded more like “suction pump.”

Chris Unger suddenly found his voice. “Garrett, don’t say a word. I’m calling Joe DeMeo.” He reached for the phone.

“Augustus?” I said.

Quinn picked up the unoccupied chair and used it as a battering ram to smash the window. He put the chair down and picked Chris Unger up like a rag doll and carried him to the window.

Garrett Unger jumped to his feet.

“Put him down!” Garrett yelled.

Chris waved his brother off , tried to keep the calm in his voice. “Let’s all just relax,” he said. “Look, gentlemen, we’ve all seen this a hundred times in the movies. You can threaten me all you want, but in the final analysis, we all know you’re bluffng. You have no intention of throwing me out the window, so let’s just sit down and—”

Quinn threw Chris Unger out the window.

CHAPTER 40

Sal raised his eyebrows and said, “Holy shit!”

I addressed Sal while keeping my eyes glued to Big Bad. “Are we going to have a problem with you over this?” I asked.

“Fuck no,” said Sal. “Tell him to toss Bernie, too!”

Double X’s eyes went wide. He stopped gasping and lay perfectly still, trying to make himself as small as possible in the room. I wondered if this type of behavior was acceptable in the quad cage.

Garrett Unger, Greg and Melanie’s former attorney, remained where he stood, ashen-faced, dumbstruck. He grabbed the corner of Chris’s desk for support and stared at the window, his mouth agape. This was a man whose source of power derived from thoughts and words—which might explain why his lips and mouth were moving a hundred miles an hour as he mumbled sentences none of us could understand.

Garrett Unger slowly eased himself down. Though his body quickly conformed to the contours of the chair, I wasn’t convinced his mind was suitably focused.

Quinn turned to face him.

“Wh-wh-what do you want to know?” Garrett asked.

“Think about it,” I said.

“B-But … I c-c-can’t.”

I looked at Quinn. “Augustus?”

Quinn took a photograph out of his pocket and tossed it into Unger’s lap. The picture had yesterday’s date stamped on the lower right-hand corner, along with the time the photo had been taken. It was a simple photograph, depicting a typical family scene: an afternoon lunch at Denny’s, a small boy sitting at the table playing Nintendo DS while his older sister sat beside him, lost in her teenage thoughts, their mother talking to the waitress.

In other words, Garrett Unger’s wife and children.

“Wait!” said Garrett Unger. He’d just lost his older brother, but the photograph helped him understand he was a brother second, a husband and father first. He began collecting himself. He took a couple of deep breaths and said, “This information doesn’t leave the room, okay?”

I don’t know what type of people Unger was used to dealing with, but I hoped to hell they occupied a higher rung on the honesty ladder than Sal, Big Bad, Quinn, and me.

“You have my solemn word.” I said, solemnly.

Big Bad laughed out loud.

Quinn said, “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”

Sal said, “Talk or fly.”

Unger nodded. “Okay, okay. I can give you his name.”

That comment surprised me. “Whose name?” I said.

“Arthur Patelli.”

“Who?”

“The guy who set fire to the house. That’s what you’re after, right?”

I shook my head. “You can’t be this stupid, even for a lawyer. But I don’t have the time to straighten you out right now.”

I looked at Sal. He held up his hands and said, “Lawyers, Christ Almighty. What you gonna do, huh?”

I said, “Garrett, look at me.”

He did.

“You want to save Joe DeMeo or your family?”

“What?”

“DeMeo or your family. Which one?”

He looked down at the picture in his lap. “How can you even ask that question?” he said.

“Well, you’re an attorney.”

He nodded. “I’ll do anything to save my family. Please don’t hurt them. Just tell me what you want.”

Sal said, “Guys, I don’t wanna—whatcha call—eat and run, but you just tossed a law partner out the window, and even if no one in this fancy shithole saw it, someone on the street did.”

I looked at him. “Good point. We’ll take Garrett with us and trust you to come up with a cover story for DeMeo.”

Sal asked, “You brought a car?”

I shook my head. “We’ll take Chris’s car.”

Sal said, “If you had his car keys you could.” He laughed. “Who’s gonna jump out the window and get the keys?”

“My guess, they’re in his desk drawer,” I said. “In my experience, a man who wears an Armani suit doesn’t want bulging pockets.”