Good Lord, Deliver Us (19 page)

Z had put the "piece" in one of the
elasticized pockets in his satchel.

If Smith owned a long-range zapper --
scope, night sight -- a quick toss of the place didn't turn it
up.

Taking a page from Jamie's book, Z had
then gone through Smith's billfold. But hadn't found anything that
could be called incriminating. Like Z, Smith didn't have credit
cards. What he did have was an "apartments for rent" realty card
and another business card saying Sunrise Refinish: collision,
spot/rust repair, color matching. An auto insurance card and a
Missouri driver's license. Fifteen dollars. And some engraved
business cards saying Smith worked at a supply store -- Theater
Supplies.

Nothing incriminating. At least, that
Z could see. If Z had been born with Jamie's "intuitive skills" ...
but he hadn't been.

Putting the billfold back in the man's
pocket, including the fifteen dollars -- Z was a detective, not a
thief -- Z took his time to tie up the hitter. Time, and a lot of
nylon cord.

First, he had to pick up the man and
get him seated on the one, heavy piece of furniture in the room: a
shabby divan. Z had then fastened the man's hands behind him, the
spare cord stretched under the back cushions and tied to a rear leg
of the sofa. Z had also looped the nylon cord around the bopper's
chest and waist, then 'round and 'round the divan back, cinching
the cord tight, the man held firmer than a three-point seatbelt
grips a beer-bellied boozer doing seventy into a passing
train.

Z had the man's left leg tied to the
front leg of the couch. Had the other leg propped on a shaky chair,
that leg secured through the chair to a leaky steam radiator near
the wall.

All this effort taking a lot of line,
Z always carrying plenty.

A piece of duct tape over the man's
mouth and Z was finished

Tied as he was, there seemed to be
nothing special about Mr. Smith: a thin man in a dark blue,
short-sleeved shirt, head lolled back on the divan, brown hair
thinning at the temples. No identifying marks.

Now that, the "immobilizing phase" was
over, Z was ready to give the Smith "digs" a closer
look.

One thing about the apartment that
would have surprised the Mrs. was that it was more than a temporary
hole to crawl into, Z having reason to believe Smith was actually
living here. Why? Because Smith had put up pictures on the walls.
(Though a woman might yearn to redecorate a public washroom, a man
didn't "fix up" a place unless he planned to stay
awhile.)

With nothing better to do
for the moment, Z looked at the pictures, several of them framed
collages, made up mostly of play bills from theatrical productions.
Finding one of the "paste-ups" to be of "artfully" torn theater
programs, Z ran his finger down one play list until he came to the
name Smith. Ah! Both a
Mr
. Samuel and a
Mrs
. Vivian I. Smith were listed as
being in the production.
Mousetrap.
An old standard.

In the same collage, Z
found the Smiths listed as actors in
other
program fragments,
including
Arsenic and Old
Lace
.

Interesting.

Alerted to the
Smith-theater connection, Z found
other
playbills used as decoration,
some just pinned to the wall with straight pins.
The Importance of Being Earnest.
Oklahoma.
Long Day's
Journey into Night.
Lysistrata
.
Bus Stop.
Z had heard of most of
them.

Z found big "glossies" on the walls
that were blow-ups of Smith himself -- in what looked like
costumes. No doubt, photos that were originally billboard
stills.

So -- the man was an actor, making him
good at "disappearing" into different characters, a useful skill
for any hit man.

All this interest in
theater gave credence to the possibility that Smith's "day
job"
was
in
theater supply. (On the other hand, given
Z's
mix of "business cards,"
unsupported identification never impressed him.)

Against the back wall was a hamper
exploding with dirty clothes, Z picking through the soiled items,
gingerly, before dumping them on the floor.

A small closet to the right contained
clean clothes, a quick check showing that Smith's apparel had the
same designer-labels as Z's clothes. J.C. Penney. Sears.
Wards.

The clothes were all men's garments:
short and long-sleeved shirts, light-weight slacks. (If Smith had
lived the life of a swinger since his marriage fell apart, there
was no evidence of it. A certainty, that there was no live-in
girlfriend.)

To the right front of what was hardly
more than a cramped, one-room apartment, was a white pine chest of
drawers -- stained brown -- the top drawer partially out and
sagging down.

Going through all four
drawers, Z found nothing but underwear and socks. (No rubbers,
colored
or
plain.)

Partially hidden between the side of
the bureau and the wall were three pairs of shoes. Neatly lined up.
Chinese imports.

The only interesting thing
all this "detecting" had told Z so far, was that Smith was not a
snappy dresser ... Z thinking this odd for someone in the
high-priced bopper business. Then again, maybe Smith wasn't that
good at killing people. (He'd told his wife he was the fastest gun
around -- but that didn't mean much.) The sad reality was
that
many
people
were stuck in the wrong profession.

Smith's bed was of the Murphy variety
-- currently swung up into the wall.

At the left was a hint of kitchen:
hardly more than a counter space and a couple of pull-out drawers
on either side of a chipped, enamel sink. Nothing but stamped-out,
beaten-up steel utensils in the drawers, "cafeteria-ware" that not
even a kleptomaniac would steal.

The place didn't have a stove,
providing an explanation for the hot plate on a counter.

Z opened the fridge, finding: beer,
olives, milk, fake orange juice, half a loaf of bread, small can of
mystery meat, tall bottle of maraschino cherries, eggs, and
margarine. (No peanut butter. No jelly. But then, there was no
accounting for taste.)

Beyond the "kitchen" was a draped
closet and a space that turned out to be a curtained-off
bathroom.

Parting the bathroom drapes, Z reached
inside and pulled the beaded chain that turned on an off-center
ceiling fixture; entered to find a rust-stained lavatory to the
left, backed by a small "travel" mirror somebody had nailed to the
wall. Plus a toilet.

Across from the stool were a couple of
scabrous-chrome towel bars, a damp towel and a wet wash cloth
draped over them. On a bare wood shelf to the left of the lavatory
was a piece of soap (soft) a toothbrush in a ceramic stand, an
electric razor, big bottle of cheap aspirin, and a partially-used
roll of Tums. No sign of drugs. Like other precision jobs --
watchmaker, bomb defuser, high-priced call girl -- boppers were
sober men with steady hands.

Beyond the stool was a shower curtain
of daisy-embossed plastic, bunched open on its dented ceiling
rod.

No tub.

The floor of the shower was damp, the
smell of the place, musty, the way most bathrooms
smelled.

At least Smith was
a
clean
killer.

Without regret, Z pulled
the light's rusty chain again and backtracked to the living room,
to be impressed again by the job he'd done on the hitter. If by
doing a job you meant having him trussed up like a Thanksgiving
turkey. (The gag in Smith's mouth
could
represent the
stuffing.)

Ah.

Signs that Smith was waking
up.

If there was one thing Z
prided himself on, it was his use of the sap. Done right, a sharp
tap just behind the ear put out any man's lights, effects
guaranteed to last long enough for Z to get the subject tied up.
Hardly a headache for the "
tapee
" upon awakening.

Yes.

Smith was wiggling around. Eyes
fluttering. About to open.

Not wanting to present himself until
Smith was in a receptive frame of mind, Z moved behind the divan to
wait for the man to do all the "coming to" things. Blinking. Moving
his head back and forth. Trying to say something, only to find that
a wad of cloth was stuffed in his mouth. After that -- again
predictably -- Smith tried to wrench himself free, only to discover
he wasn't going anywhere.

Time for that talk.

Z prowled around the divan to give
Smith his first look at Z, Z in his "night fighter" gear, the all
black outfit topped with a "terrorist's" hood.

Frightening. Menacing. ... At least, Z
hoped so.

"I'm a business associate," Z rasped,
following the principle of, "A lie in time, saves nine. "And the
situation with your wife is bad for business. You must stop
threatening her. Also your child." Z paused to let that sink in. "I
do not care, personally. It is that others in the organization --
do."

Z was trying to convey the impression
that some godfather, hearing of Smith's threats to kill Smith's
wife and child, had become annoyed. Better this approach than
something laughable like threatening Smith with the
police.

"My only wish," Z
continued, his voice hissing like a wounded snake, "is that you
allow the divorce and pay the proper sum. For a man to gain
respect, he must protect his family." Z hesitated again, but could
tell nothing from the man's staring brown eyes. Surely, the sheen
of sweat on the hitter's washed-out face was an indication Z was
having
some
effect.

"So I will do a small thing. To avoid
a greater violence." Z wondered if the man could hear at all, as
soft as Z's voice had become.

The speech delivered, Z reached down
to unfasten the satchel; stooped over in a way that prevented Smith
from seeing that Z's knee refused to bend as it should. (Z wanted
no personal detail about himself to give the man a clue to Z's
identity.)

From the case, took out a piece of
fireworks punk, the roll of white athletic tape, and a standard
six-ball Roman candle.

Letting the man watch, Z positioned
the punk parallel to the top end of the colorful, cardboard tube,
taping the "business end" of the punk a short distance above the
candle's fuse. After taping the bottom of the punk to the candle
tube, Z tore off another, smaller piece of tape that he used to
attach the candle's fuse to the side of the punk.

After that, fishing out his lighter, Z
fired up the end of the punk.

The punk end smoldering nicely, Z
pocketed his lighter, then blew on the punk's white ash until the
end glowed a dull, orange-red. Leaning down beside the man's leg,
the one Z had stretched out on the chair, Z pulled out the pant
leg.

Carefully following the in seam, Z
inserted the glowing punk and top of the Roman candle inside the
man's pants.

Z stood. Now, all business. "By the
time the punk burns down enough to light the fuse of the candle," Z
said matter-of-factly, "I'll be headed for the airport." A nice
touch, Z thought. Encouraging the man to believe Z was "out of
town" talent.

"When the punk burns down
enough to light the fuse, the candle will shoot six flaming balls
at
your
balls, so
to speak.

"Eventually, you'll free yourself and
seek treatment. I only wish I could hear your explanation of this
"accident."

Z allowed himself a pleasant
chuckle.

"I say again. This, I do to avoid
violence. It is my way of persuading you to mend your ways. Reform,
and we will never meet again. Persist, and our next encounter will
be ... brief." Z thought a bopper would appreciate that
threat.

With that, turning his back, stooping,
Z fumbled with his case as if preparing to make his
exit.

Meanwhile, there was considerable
wiggling on the couch behind him. Interesting humming sounds also
coming from that direction.

Z couldn't go yet, of course. Because
of the Zapolska code. The part requiring Z to give any man -- even
slime -- a chance to plead his case. (After all, having the
opportunity to defend yourself was the American way.) It didn't
hurt to let Smith sweat, however. Practically a prerequisite for a
change of heart in hardened criminals.

Z rose. Turned. "You have something to
say?" The man nodded frantically, sweat trickling down the man's
forehead. "You can say it quietly?" Again, the desperate
nod.

"I am nothing if not reasonable," Z
said, purring like a leopard on a branch above a watering hole. "My
only wish is that you agree with me that violence is to be avoided
whenever possible." The man nodded eagerly.

Stepping over to Smith, Z scratched up
an edge of tape on the side of Smith's face, then ripped the tape
from the man's mouth.