Duke City Hit (7 page)

Penny had trouble concentrating the rest of the day. She'd made light of Vic's sudden paternity, but it worried her. He didn't need the distraction. Not now.

Business had never been better. She got so many calls for Vic's services, she was forced to turn work away.

All her doing, of course. Yes, Vic was very good at his job, but it was Penny who built his reputation. She knew plenty of people in the underworld, thanks to her lifetime in the bail bond business, and they spread the word about her mythical hit man, the killer who never failed.

Vic kept his distance from the business end. All he did was set up the shot and pull the trigger. Penny was the one who dealt with the clients and collected the money. She provided Vic with guns and plane tickets and anything else he needed. Sure, she took 50 percent, but she earned every dime.

She needed that steady revenue stream to bolster her other businesses. She'd made some bad bets on bail bonds in the past few years—runners like that pervert John Francis—and it had cost big. She'd used income from Vic to fill the gaps, and she couldn't afford for him to get distracted now.

The secret to Vic's success was his cool profession
alism. Emotions never came into play. But what if he started thinking about his kid all the time? Worrying about the future. Getting overly careful. That's when a man hesitates. That's when it all can come tumbling down.

Even a master like Vic Walters could make a mistake. And one mistake could ruin everything.

Vic found Ryan waiting at the curb when he stopped in front of the neon-drenched motel that evening. The kid was dressed as before, the urban armor of leather and denim, but he looked rested and his dark hair was still wet from the shower.

Though he hadn't slept much, Vic felt better himself. Some coffee, a shave, a shower, a fresh suit of clothes—he was a new man.

Ryan opened the door and dropped into the passenger seat. “Look at you. Fresh as a daisy.”

“I got some rest,” Vic said. “You?”

“I'm great. I bounce back quickly.”

“Enjoy that while you can. It gets tougher with every passing year.”

Ryan held up a fat envelope. “I brought those pictures of Mom.”

“Ah, good. I want to see those. She's been on my mind a lot since you turned up. I was very fond of your mother. We had quite a passionate fling, but it ended abruptly. If I'd stopped to think about it at the time, I might've suspected she'd gone away pregnant.”

“But you didn't think about it.”

“I figured she found some other guy who was a better catch. My line of work doesn't lend itself to permanent entanglements. A wife, a girlfriend, they're just ways for the law to get at you.”

Ryan opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of whatever he'd been about to say. Vic put the Cadillac in gear and pulled into the street.

“There was never any question between us. Your mother understood I was just passing through.”

Ryan said nothing. He stared out the side window at the houses and storefronts that lined the street.

“I was still sowing my wild oats,” Vic said.

“You were in your thirties.”

“Some people grow up slower than others. My oats stayed wild a long time.”

“Then what happened?”

“The years caught up with me. Now, instead of wild oats, I've got oat bran for my cholesterol.”

“You make getting older sound like so much fun.”

“Like they say, it ain't for sissies.”

They drove in silence for a minute, then Ryan said, “So, you never got married or had kids?”

“No matrimony for me,” Vic said. “A couple of near-misses, but I got accustomed to living alone. It's a hard habit to break.”

He wheeled the Cadillac onto Lomas, headed west. Most of the houses along this stretch had been converted to law offices and were closed for the night.

“We going to Old Town?”

“Nah. We're going to Monroe's.”

“I thought we were having Mexican food.”

“That's right.”

“Waffles at Josefina's and enchiladas at a place called Monroe's.”

“That's New Mexico for you.”

Monroe's red-and-blue neon sign was the only bright spot on an otherwise dark block. Vic wedged the big car into a tight spot in the parking lot, and they squeezed out into the cool night air.

Inside, the restaurant was steamy and noisy, with waiters bustling among families gabbing around plain brown tables. A few old-timey photos, some fake plants and a few strings of Christmas lights were the only concessions to atmosphere. This place was all about the food.

Vic waved to an older man behind the cash register and said hello to one of the waitresses. A muscular guy about Ryan's age led them to a table.

Once they'd ordered, Ryan said, “You don't know our waiter?”

Vic smiled. “He must be new.”

Ryan slid the envelope across the table. “I don't know if you want to do this here—”

Vic opened the envelope and started flipping through the photographs. Lisa when she was a little girl. Lisa when she was a majorette. Lisa graduating from nursing school. Lisa leaning against a swarthy guy who had a Fu Manchu mustache. He held that photo out to show Ryan.

“Who's that guy?”

“I don't know. She never told me. For a long time, I thought
he
might be my father.”

“Good God.”

“I look at you and I look at him, and I think I might've gotten lucky in the genes department. You were there on the right night.”

“It wasn't like that,” Vic said. “I never got the impression your mother was one to sleep around. Even back then, when
everybody
was sleeping around. She was what they call a serial monogamist, looking for Mr. Right.”

“And you tried out for the role.”

“No, no. She knew from the start that I wasn't Mr. Right. But she took a shine to me. Let me be Mr. Right Now.”

Ryan looked away, his jaw tight.

“Come on, kid. It was a long time ago. A different era.”

Vic went back to thumbing through the photos. He got to one of Lisa in the Arizona desert. She wore jeans and boots and a gauzy shirt that let the sun shine through, outlining her slim figure. He held it up for Ryan to see.

“This is the way I remember her. When she was this age, her hair long like that. She was a beautiful woman.”

Ryan nodded.

The rest of the photos showed a Lisa that Vic had never known. Growing older, dandling Ryan on her knee, helping him ride a bike, waving on a beach. Then the more recent photos, the ones from the end of her life. The baldness, the hollows under her eyes. In her hospital bed, still smiling as the cancer ate her alive.

Vic felt a surprising sandpaper scratchiness in his throat. Hell, he'd hardly thought of Lisa Mobley in years. But watching her waste away in the photos still came as a blow.

“She never married?”

“No,” Ryan said. “She used to tell me, when I was little, that I was all the man she needed. Later, she had a long-term boyfriend, Dennis, but he vanished when she got diagnosed.”

Vic slipped the photos back into the envelope and slid it across the table.

“Thanks. I appreciate you sharing those.”

“Sure.” Ryan put the envelope in his pocket, and Vic was instantly sorry he'd handed it back so fast. He should've looked through the photos again, committed them to memory.

The waiter brought steaming platters of food, and Ryan dug into his enchiladas. The sad photos had taken the edge off Vic's appetite, and he sliced up his onion-smothered steak while he composed himself.

“Pretty handy with that knife,” Ryan said.

“It's all about leverage. See how I put my index finger on top of the blade? I control the knife better that way.”

Ryan picked up a butter knife and tested the grip. “I see what you mean.”

Vic forked a chunk of the moist steak into his mouth and chewed. It was cooked perfectly, and his appetite made an instant rebound.

“You ever use one of those on a job?”

“A knife?”

Ryan smiled, but Vic could tell he wanted a serious answer. He looked around to make sure no one in the clamorous restaurant could hear him.

“Couple of times, but only because I had no choice. Knives are quiet and that's good, but they're messy. Guy's blood gets on you, you've got to clean up before you can leave the scene. Small-caliber pistol leaves less evidence, less of a mess for somebody to clean up later.”

“Very considerate of you.”

They each took another bite. After he swallowed, Vic leaned closer and said, “Of course, sometimes the client
wants
it messy. Wants to make a point.”

“Then what do you use?”

“Depends. One time it was a chain saw.”

Ryan made a face.

“I wore sheets of plastic like a poncho, but I still had to throw away my clothes, my shoes. It wasn't worth it. Two in the head would've made the same statement.”

Ryan pointed at him with his fork. “How many contracts have you executed over the years? Do you even know?”

“I've lost track,” Vic lied. He knew the exact number, but he'd never say it out loud, not even in a noisy place like Monroe's. “Let's just say I've never had a dissatisfied customer.”

“Not many businesses can say that.”

“I take pride in my work. You give me a job to do, it gets done.”

Vic signaled the waiter for two more beers. Once the waiter was out of earshot, Ryan sprang his next question.

“Do you remember your first time?”

Vic hesitated. He was talking too much again. But what the hell, one more story wouldn't make things any worse.

“It was a biker from Tulsa, Oklahoma,” he said. “A renowned badass. The kind of guy I wanted to make sure never saw me coming.”

“How did you get the job?”

Vic snorted. “Not from an ad in the back of
Soldier of Fortune
magazine, I'll tell you that much. All those motherfuckers are undercover cops.”

He caught himself. Lowering his voice, he said, “I was already in the bail bond business, working for Penny's dad, Art Randall. I'd worked my way up until I was his number one bounty hunter.”

“A bounty hunter? For real?”

“Not as romantic as it sounds. Mostly, it's a matter of locating some lowlife, then calling the local cops to come pick him up.”

Ryan nodded.

“Anyway, this one time, Art sends me after this biker from Tulsa. He had a tip on where the guy was hiding out. I was about to leave and Art stops me and says, ‘You know, it would be better for everybody if Mr. Tulsa doesn't show up in court.' ”

“He was going to roll over on somebody,” Ryan guessed.

“Something like that. Anyway, I got the message. I found the guy in this motel outside Amarillo, just like the tipster promised. He'd been staying there for a month under another name.

“I watched the room until his light went out that night. I waited two hours more, letting him get fully asleep. The motel was quiet and dark. I go to the guy's door and slap it hard a couple of times and yell, ‘Police! Open up!' ”

“Isn't that about the last thing you want to yell to a fugitive?”

“Rookie mistake. I hear a window break on the far side of the motel. I sprint around the building and, sure enough, there's my man, running barefoot across a parking lot in his boxer shorts.”

Vic looked around, then said, “I emptied a whole clip at him from fifty feet away, making a lot of noise. He went down, but I couldn't go finish him because lights were coming on all over the motel and I needed to get out of there. I didn't know for sure the guy was dead until the next morning, when I saw it on the TV news.”

“Wow.”

“One of the longest nights of my life.”

“Yet you came back for more.”

“As bad as that first hit went, it was an epiphany.”

“A what?”

“An eye-opening moment in my life. I felt like I'd found myself.”

“Really?”

“I know it sounds hokey. But you know that feeling when something just clicks? And you go, ‘Oh, I should've known this all along.' ”

“Sure.”

“That's the way this was. No remorse. No questioning. Just
pop, pop, pop.
Job done. Money earned. On to the next.”

“You wanted to do it again.”

“I couldn't
wait
to do it again. Fortunately, Art always seemed to have a case or two like this one. Stool pigeons. Fugitives somebody doesn't want found. Art might be holding paper on them, but the client pays a higher price and, what the hell, we remove some traffic from the crowded judicial system.”

Ryan clinked bottles with him and they drank and came up for air and burped and drank some more. Their movements were so similar, Vic felt like he was looking in a mirror. A mirror that showed him as he was thirty years ago, not these insulting modern mirrors that showed a stooped senior citizen.

“Eventually, I quit doing bounty hunting altogether. I specialized. Art and I made a lot of money together. After he died, Penny took over the business. We've managed to make it work.”

“See?” Ryan said. “It
is
a family business.”

“Not your family. You really don't want anything to do with it. It's not for you. Trust me.”

“I think you're wrong there, Vic.” Ryan smiled. “Because that thing you felt the first time, the ‘epiphany'? I got the same feeling in Phoenix. At that swimming pool.”