Damaged Goods (37 page)

He certainly didn't expect Rod to back off in a confrontation. Did the fact that the man tried to kill him justify using deadly force in return? There was also the matter of stealing from Hannibal's client. Bad, even evil, but not a capital offense. What about kidnapping? Hannibal had found Missy handcuffed to a bed. But it was clear that she had volunteered for that treatment. She might not even call her sexual encounter with Rod rape. And even if he killed Sarge, Rod would be able to make a case for self-defense.

Hannibal's mouth was dry and he tasted the dried blood in his mouth. Somehow that taste made a mental connection for him to Anita lying in her hospital bed. Then he pictured Marquita the first time he saw her, used up and well on her way to the bottom of a spiral from which few return. Ultimately, anything he did to Rod would be in their names.

Seven minutes later Hannibal stood across the street from Rod's house, breathing more deeply than he liked and smelling his own sweat. He had recognized enough landmarks to get straight to his objective, and he was sure it had in fact been little more than a mile. He owed Missy a big thank you. She had pointed him well. Too bad she couldn't tell him what to do now.

He stood with his hands on his thighs, feeling the weight of his P-226 at the small of his back. He was ready to charge the house and stage a rescue, guns blazing if necessary. He just wasn't sure if a rescue was needed. The blinds at the big front window were drawn tight, allowing only tiny drops of light to leak out. Was Sarge inside, or was he still en route? Or, was he in hiding someplace observing the house as Hannibal was? He might not even be headed this way. How was Hannibal to know?

Behind Hannibal, a heavily accented Hispanic voice said, “Don't move. This thing would wake up the whole neighborhood if it went off.”

The man who stepped in front of Hannibal wore a gray suit, white shirt and conservative tie. His hair was cut very short. His complexion was swarthy but not in the Mediterranean way. This was Central American skin, golden, thick and rough. When he smiled he displayed a gold tooth. Hannibal judged him at about five foot seven. His easy manner told Hannibal that a second man must have been standing out of Hannibal's sight.

“Tell me, what brings you out so late at night?”

“Jogging,” Hannibal said. “Just stopped to catch my breath. I can move on.”

“Jogging?” Gold Tooth rolled it around in his mouth as if trying it on for size. “You were expecting serious trouble in this neighborhood, eh?”

Hannibal felt his gun being lifted from his waistband. He stood erect, waiting for the next step.

“What you say, Ruiz?” Gold Tooth asked.

“Sig Sauer P229 in .40 caliber,” the voice behind Hannibal replied. “Serious shit, Manny.”

“Professional shit,” Manny said.

“Can't be too careful,” Hannibal said, wishing he had been a bit more careful. At that minute he felt careless and stupid, but why should he have expected guards to be posted across from Rod's house?

“Know what I think?” Manny asked. “I think you come looking for the big fellow we met earlier. He at least had the
guts to walk right up and knock on the door. You are maybe a little less bold. No smarter though.”

Well, now he had one answer anyway. Sarge had been here. Hannibal needed to know what had happened to him. These guys seemed professional, so he thought he'd try the direct approach.

“The big guy. What happened to him?”

“Well, he wasn't our problem, was he?” Manny said. “And we don't get paid to deal with other people's problems. So, we invited him inside. Why don't we go see him, eh? Follow me.”

Manny turned and, knowing that at least one gun would be trained on his back, Hannibal followed him across the street and onto Rod's porch. A third man sat on one of the wicker chairs holding a Tec 9 submachine gun with a casual air that could make an observer miss his heightened level of alertness. Manny rapped a knuckle on the door twice, then once, then twice again. After this simple code he pushed the door open and ushered Hannibal in ahead of himself.

“Found this guy wandering around outside, jefe,” Manny said. “Thought he might be another friend of your host here.”

All eyes were on Hannibal and he used the moment of silent appraisal to scan the room. The atmosphere in the living room was more cordial than he unexpected. Rod, in his own big chair, showed an unexpected degree of cool, although his eyes betrayed both surprise and anger at seeing Hannibal in his living room. Derek and Sheryl just looked stunned on the sofa. Hannibal looked for Sheryl's eyes, but she quickly pulled them away from him.

The man in the chair Hannibal had occupied a couple of days ago could have been Manny's older brother, but everything about him said that he was the boss. His half-smile was noncommittal, as if he was waiting to learn more about Hannibal before deciding whether they should welcome him, eject him or kill him. He wore a Breitling watch on his left wrist, diamond cufflinks and a stickpin in his tie that was probably worth more than the house around them.

Anything else Hannibal needed to know about the man he derived from the quality of his help. The man behind him watched Hannibal. The man across the room watched Rod. Neither of them looked to their boss for guidance. They would know what to do if things went wrong.

The last person Hannibal looked at was Sarge, sitting in the far corner with his hands behind him. Cuffed together, Hannibal assumed, or taped. He wore a black sleeveless tee, shorts and running shoes. Hannibal guessed it was what he had on when he heard Marquita was gone. Sarge turned his face away, probably to hide injuries, but it also served the purpose of hiding any look of recognition.

“All right, Mr. Mantooth, do you know this one?” the stranger asked.

“This son of a bitch is called Smoke, Mr…” The stranger raised a finger and Rod stopped. He didn't want his name dropped in front of strangers. And suddenly, Hannibal knew who he was.

“You're the Colombian buyer,” Hannibal said, taking a couple of steps forward and getting back into character. “Rod told me he had a big hot deal going down. Didn't think he was this well connected though.”

The stranger waved another finger, and the bodyguard on the left stepped forward. He reached into his jacket but instead of a gun he produced a flattened roll of duct tape. Hannibal sighed, nodded, and put his hands behind his back. Once his wrists were secured, the guard led him to the end of the sofa where he was lowered to the floor.

“You are too free with your business, Mr. Mantooth,” the stranger said.

Rod sat forward. “I never told this boy anything about you. But now I know he's a spy. Snuck in here to rip me off. Stole a couple of my girls.”

“You should have shut his mouth permanently.”

“I thought I did.” Rod's voice became harder, and Hannibal could see his control slipping.

“I prefer to do business with careful people.”

“You'll deal with me,” Rod said, standing, “because I got this.” He waved the computer disc in front of himself like bait to attract a shark. This was an opportunity that Hannibal could not pass up. He locked eyes with Rod, rose to his knees, pushed out his chest and forced a big grin.

“You a joke man. Your dreams are bigger than you are. You ain't no gangsta, at least, not on a level where you can deal with this guy. Look at him. He's money.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Rod was in front of Hannibal in two long strides with an arm raised to backhand him. Hannibal shifted his gaze to the stranger.

“You really want to work with this asshole?”

Rod spun to stare at his guest. The stranger's face was passive, showing the slightest hint of annoyance.

“Sorry, Smoke is it? Sorry but this man has something I very much want and I will work with him this one time. After which, I fear he will dispose of you.”

“So you really want this formula he's got?” Hannibal asked. “You want people to be able to get off their habits?”

Rage and surprise fought for dominance on Rod's face. The stranger betrayed only amusement.

“You are smarter than these others,” the stranger said, pulling out a silver cigarette case. “Of course, I would like for some of my senior staff to be able to sample our product without fear of addiction. But also, consider how much product some wealthy customers might purchase if they also did not have addiction to fear.”

“Yeah, I can see that, but is it really worth the pile of cash I know this slug is demanding?” Hannibal asked. While he spoke he twisted his wrists, feeling the tape pull hairs from his arm.

The stranger tapped the tip of his cigarette on the case before putting it into his mouth. His nearer bodyguard jumped to give him a light. He took a casual drag on what used to be called a regular length cigarette and spoke through the smoke.

“Like my product, the formula's value is set by the demands of the marketplace. More importantly, I must
control this formula in order to keep it out of the hands of those who might share it injudiciously, which could ruin my market. For this, I will pay this man a large sum indeed.”

Hannibal took in the briefcase on the stranger's right, probably full of cash. A smaller black case sat at his left. Then an unexpected backhand slap from Rod rocked Hannibal's entire body.

“Didn't I tell you nobody can stop me?” Rod said, his lips curled back into a snarl. “I got me a date with destiny.”

Hannibal tilted to his left, teetered on one knee, but managed to right himself without falling. “Yeah,” he said, spitting blood onto the carpet before looking up again. “But it's a blind date. When your destiny does show up, you won't recognize it. And it might just be uglier than you expect.”

The stranger barked one short laugh, and his bodyguard also grinned.

“If you continue to play with this one, he will eat you like a barracuda,” the stranger said in his oddly accented yet cultivated voice. “Besides, I have a plane to catch. Let us complete our business.”

That was the cue for the bodyguard on Hannibal's side of the room to cross to his boss and pick up the larger briefcase. He sat it on the coffee table and opened it, revealing the stacks of cash Hannibal expected. Derek sucked in a breath. The bodyguard looked to Rod. Rod nodded and handed him the disc.

Hannibal considered the rescue options to be slim. Sarge was bound and wedged into a corner where he would be slow getting into the action even if he somehow freed himself. Hannibal saw no possible allies he could turn in the room. The Colombian had what he had come for and would now leave Hannibal and Sarge to Rod's limited mercy. Hannibal though the police would be there by then if Missy had sent them. Perhaps she had decided to distance herself from the crash site before calling for help. After all, she believed Hannibal to be an underworld character. She might have decided not to have any more to do with him or Rod. Out of
respect for Hannibal's undercover status, Cindy would wait hours before raising a general alarm.

With rescue hours away, Hannibal realized how thin his hand was. He had only one card, and the time had come to play it.

“He's ripping you off, you know. The formula you're paying for isn't on that disc.”

Rod's face contorted into something akin to deep concentration. The stranger released another short, barking laugh.

“He's lying,” Rod shouted.

“That would be a foolish lie.”

“It ain't,” Hannibal said. “It's a scam. This cracker's just trying to trick you out of your cheddar.”

“That would be a foolish trick,” the stranger said, tapping his cigarette ash onto the floor. “We will know, very soon, which of you is the more foolish.”

The first bodyguard sat the smaller case on the coffee table beside the first. When he pulled a laptop computer out of it, Hannibal realized that his outburst had been unnecessary. He fought to maintain a straight face as the guard opened the computer, booted it up, and placed the disc into the CD-Rom drive.

Hannibal closed his eyes for a moment, sending a silent apology to Cindy. There was no way around what would come next. The Colombian would have to make a statement. Rod would resist. There would surely be a firefight. Barring exceptional luck, he and Sarge would die in the crossfire.

Unless he could bargain his way out of it. He still knew the location of the formula.

The bodyguard crouching at the computer tapped keys in silence. The smoke of a custom blend cigarette flared Hannibal's nostrils. Then the computer user's eyes flared as well.

“Boss, there's only one thing on this disc, but it's not a data file.”

“That's crazy,” Rod said. “You don't know what you're doing.” Despite his hubris, Rod was easing back toward his chair. The stranger raised a finger to his chin,

“Well, what is it?”

“It appears to be an audio file,” the guard said.

The stranger flashed a sly smile, glanced at Hannibal and said, “Well, play it.”

The guard tapped keys and what sounded like a hip-hop beat came out of the laptop. Derek's hand slid toward the space between the cushions. The move was subtle, but Hannibal was sure the guard behind him would have noticed it. He sat very still, trying hard to look harmless.

The audio track evolved into a rap performance. Sarge finally looked at Hannibal when the lyrics started: “She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean…”

The stranger's eyes hooked to Hannibal.

Sarge said, “Damn.”

Hannibal reached for the stranger's attention. “Look this doesn't have to end ugly. You still want the formula, right? I might be able to…”

Rod screamed, “You son of a bitch!” His hand thrust under his chair. “I'll fucking kill you!”

The stranger stayed still, composed. The man at the computer performed some sort of sleight of hand magic trick and a pistol appeared in his right fist, pointed toward Rod. Derek pulled a gun out of the sofa. Sheryl dived for the floor. A hand landed on Hannibal's shoulder, he guessed to hold him still as a shield. He heard a safety catch click off near his ear.