Payback (23 page)

Mitchell moved out, jumping softly from his tree and then walking his perimeter, getting the lay of the land. Approaching from the left, he came up in a wide dark circle through the trees. The moat got wider; a frail blue moonlight was bouncing off the snow. In the forest it was black. There was no trail where he was and he moved carefully, stopping in the trees to get an angle on the house. He looked at the goons again (hi; still bored?). He saw cameras on the house—a couple of dull red eyes doing robot maneuvers, going snowblind, he thought.

He continued through the trees, black on black. He used the binoculars to plot out a course—looking for traps, things that could trip him, places where the snow might have frozen into ice and could skid him into trouble. Out past the houseline he stopped, took another close look across the field and then whistled, a soft inadvertent whee-whoo through his teeth.

He was looking at Tahiti. In a huge two-story glass-walled wing that extended from the house. Tahiti in a bottle. From where he was standing he could look at a waterfall that jumped down a jagged pyramid of rocks and then landed in a pool. It was August in there. It was two o'clock in the afternoon on a hot, sexy day and there were two dozen ladies playing Last One into the Pool with maybe half a dozen men. There was an orgy going on. Everything at once. Almost everything you could think of and a few things you wouldn't dream of and Mitchell stood observing it, not thinking for a moment and—

—wham! He got suddenly collared from behind. He felt an elbow like a steel nutcracker close around his throat and he kicked back violently, boot meeting bone as he jerked against the arm. Another good kick and the arm slackened and he jerked at it again till he was free enough to move, about to fracture that elbow as he pivoted to strike … and then the guy was all over him—another black sweatsuit with lampblack on his face doing triple-defense karate.

Mitchell caught it all. A hard knee exploded savagely in his gut and he whistled out his air. He fell, went down to his haunches on the ground and then sprung himself up again and smashed out a good right zap to the jaw that sent the guy against a tree.

The man seemed to bounce. Then he bounced back, came barreling out. It was one of those broadside flying tackles that can rally an incredible impact as it comes and the force of it carried them twenty feet back along a corridor of trees and sent them rolling to the field. For a time they fought silently, clashed on the ground, wrestled, face to panting face. Two shadows in the dark.

And then the lights came on. The whole fucking rim of the treeline was brilliant with a carnival of watts. They stopped, froze cold, locked eyes, took the whole thing in and went diving into cover.

For a time they just lay there, panting, breath coming out of them like smoke signals in the cold. They were belly-down on the ground, heads ducked behind a log, ears cocked … strained … alert for disaster in whatever form it came, a soft crackle in the trees, or the loud dry spluttering of automatic fire, or a blow from each other. Nothing. Zip.

Mack said, “They saw us.”

Mitchell said, “Hold it.—Are we on the same
team
?”

Mack just stared at him. “I don't know what the fuck you're doing here, man, but you want Jackie's testicles we're on the same team.”

Mitchell said nothing. He could put that together when he had a little time. Right now he had potentially terminal problems. He crawled forward about a yard and tried to look for what they were.

They were landing lights for one thing. About a dozen of them in a wide circle illuminating the field into hot white glare. He could look straight across, about four hundred meters, whatever it was, to the opposite cover of the trees. And then over at the house. There was nothing moving. Not yet.

He turned, and felt a bone-biting spasm in his leg, like a built-in bear trap.

Mack said, “Anything?”

Mitchell shook his head. “How many has he got?”

“I think six,” Mack said. “Needless to mention, I thought you were the seventh.”

“A defensive attack.”

Mack looked at him. “You save your defenses for de
fend
ing, man, you're already dead.—They've got dogs.”

“Oh swell.”

“Pitbulls. Relax.”

“Why do I think pitbulls and relax don't belong in the same sentence?”

“Cuz you're chicken,” Mack said. He was reaching for a knife. He got ahold of a low snapped branch and started whacking off the fir. He did the work with his right hand and Mitchell saw for the first time that the left hand was a claw, half-cupped, half-useless, an object in a glove.

There was humming in the air.

Mitchell reached for the Terrier that was still in his belt. It was better than a sharp stick. It had five lucky shots. Dog eat dog.

“If I'm holding you up …” Mack said.

“Not me. I can't move.” He was trying to bend his leg and it wouldn't go.

“Fuckin cripple,” Mack said; he kept whittling his stick. Mitchell kept his eyes locked firmly on the field. Lying on his side, he started working on his leg, moving it with his hands, easing it, lifting it.

“Fuckin Jane Fonda of the tundra,” Mack said, and Mitchell almost laughed and then both of them froze again, going alert, hearing WOP-WOP-WOP, the unmistakable vibe-shake of a chopper. They ducked as it came, scattering a payload of overhead light and then,
plop
. It kicked a wide wake in the snow and then settled on its skis, the dragonfly rotors still punishing the air.

Ramp doors open … ramp coming down … nothing coming out.

Mitchell let his gaze zip quickly to the house: Suddenly, a guy moving out from Tahiti. A guy with an Uzi submachine gun slung around his left shoulder … and a Vuitton duffle bag slung around his right. A dark-haired guy with a Magnum mustache. And a white sheepskin jacket and white pants tucked neatly into high white boots. Jackie: ready either for the cover of
Uomo
or
Soldier of Fortune
, he couldn't make up his mind.

Mitchell looked at Mack who confirmed it with a slow, fatalistic waggling of his head.

Okay; that was Jackie.

Jackie on the ramp now.

Mitchell looked at Mack again and hand-signaled
out
. His leg had unkinked and he could trust it for a while.

Mack didn't move. He looked sullen and tired, his face illuminated briefly in reflections from the field. He looked at the ship again, raised an imaginary M-16 and shot Jackie in the back as he was going through the hatch. Then he grabbed his stick and they got the hell out.

***

They moved noisily at first against the cover of the rotors, using the extra light, gaining yardage in seconds that might have taken minutes. When the chopper was gone, they moved silently again. Mitchell found the binoculars he'd dropped, scooped them up, and looked around him at the woods: dark, unreadable shapes came to life but it was vegetable life; there was nothing in pursuit.

They moved around the house, giving it a wide berth and then angling in, coming up beside the road.

Mitchell turned around and got one final image of the muscles on the porch. Still yawning; still bored.

25

“I tell you what I wanted to do,” Mack said. “When we got to the car before? I thought I'd say, Bye. You know what I mean? Just, Bye. Fuck it. Walk off.”

They were driving through the woods. Mitchell had his brights on, trying to see around the trees. He said, “That'd be—what? Poetic?”

“Oriental, man. Just … let it go. Buy into the fact that everything's inexplicable and don't waste your breath.”

Mitchell thought it over. “Charlie Chan, for example.”

“Yeah. Okay. Or shut up and drive, for example.”

There was silence for a time.

Mitchell made the turn onto the main road and started heading down the curve. He said, “Not that it matters …”

“Then forget it, okay?”

He nodded. “Okay.”

Mack said indifferently, “You thought I was dead.”

“I said it didn't matter.”

“But it gets you through the night.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Good,” Mack said. No angle in his voice. “I'm for anything that works. Meanwhile, let me tell you what
matters
around here is I lost my cigarettes.”

“Try the glove box.”

Mack lit a cigarette and dragged. “I'm a pragmatist,” he said. “I trust nothing I can't eat.”

Mitchell laughed.

“I'm serious.”

“I know it,” Mitchell said.

“Good. Because in that case you know it,” Mack said. “If I want to get to somebody, I get to somebody. I don't get to nine other people, hope he reads about it in the papers.” He turned, flicked a smile; his teeth flashed white against the black shoe polish on his face. He shrugged, spread his hands. “Just a jackknife has MacHeath, dear.”

“Yeah. Okay. It's where I started,” Mitchell said.

“And what happened to it?”

“Things.”

“Oh,” Mack said. “Them.” He laughed.

Mitchell glanced at him easily and rode another curve. They were riding on the cliff again, the lights of St. Moritz in the valley down below.

“You had a reason,” Mack said. “I mean considering my dazzling performance at Disneyland.… Shit. Okay, you had every right to think it. I
thought
you might think it. Only why do you think I called you? Why do you think I left you Maid Marian's number? In Spanish. Area code—dos. Uno. Dos.” He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned against the seat. “Come on,” he said. “Think. I'd've done it, man, you think I'd be dumb enough—”

“No. That occurred to me.”

“Good.—Then
what
? Psychotic?”

Mitchell let it ride.

“
Diddy mao
,” Mack said.

He could ride with that too. It was a long time since he'd heard fuck off in Vietnamese. “You want to tell me why you called?”

“No.”

There was dead-on silence for a time.

“So I
called
you,” Mack said, “to give you Jackie and his separated organs on a plate. Little cocksucker tried to pull me into this shit. He came to me about a month ago. ‘Man, here's the plan.' He looked me in the eye and said the poison wasn't fatal. Said all I had to do was put a couple of packages in a couple of restaurants, I could make a little bread, I could get my rocks off at the same time.”

“Wait a second—”

“Why? I'm in a hurry,” Mack said.

“You mean Jackie came to you?”

“You mean me-of-all-people? Listen—he knew I had it
in
for you, buddy. I was celled with the fucker. A couple of years ago, your name was in the papers. First time I actually knew what you were doing and I got a little riled. We got to talking.”

“Okay. Keep going,” Mitchell said. “Last month …”

“He came on. I told him he was sick, he seemed to back right away. He says, ‘Hey man, forget it. I thought it was a funny idea but if you don't like it, we won't do it.' That was that,” Mack said. “So imagine my surprise.”

“And annoyance.”

“So to speak. Little cocksucker tried to set me up for the worst disaster of my life. Which is no small task. Anyway—”

“So anyway, you called,” Mitchell said.

“For emotional satisfaction but instead I got the maid.”

It was clicking now. “And then you got the
Post
,” Mitchell said, “and saw the half-mil reward.”

Mack smiled again. He tapped out another cigarette and then rolled it on his lip.

“Still … you could've tipped it on the phone,” Mitchell said.

“Sure. Okay. And you'd've tipped it to the cops.”

“Sure. Okay.”

“And some dildo'd start reading me the Carmen Miranda. ‘You have a right to wear hats with bananas, okay? You have a right to be a klutz.'—No thanks,” Mack said. “I'd rather wing it on my own.” He looked up at Mitchell. “What else's on your mind?”

“I guess Eva,” Mitchell said.

“Who knows … what Eva … lurks …” Mack grinned. He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, unlit, and leaned back against the seat. “Eva,” Mack said, “got tempted by the snake, and by a cut of the reward. Eva was made to see that in the general scheme of things, fifty thousand bucks could be sexier than Jackie.”

“Ah,” Mitchell said.

“You remember that story? ‘The woman said, The serpent beguiled me and I ate'?”

“How was it?” Mitchell said.

“Pretty lousy, for a fact. She's about as spontaneous as acute appendicitis.”

“Ze body is a temple.”

“And ze mouth,” Mack said, “is a drill sergeant. Christ. I never got so many fucking directions in my life. If they tried me at Nuremberg, I'd cop. I'd tell 'em, Hey man, I'm cool. I was just following orders.”

Mitchell laughed. “However …”

“However,” Mack said, “vork, vork, vork, I got ze keys to his apartment.” He looked up at Mitchell. “How did you get 'em?”

“How'd you know I did?” Mitchell said.

“Fuckin Terrier, man. I guess I beat you to the Mag.”

“And what else?” Mitchell said.

“Well … let's see. Eva's twat … Jackie's Mag …”

“St. Moritz,” Mitchell said. “How'd you figure it?”

“Me? I never figure,” Mack said. “As a pragmatist, I happen to deal with what's around. Like an answering machine. I heard a message from Frangie kind of spelled it all out. Then I scrounged around, I found Jackie's address book and I boosted it.”

“Ah.”

Mack looked at him. “Ah.—You do that very well, you know. ‘Ah.' You do that at board meetings a lot? Ah?”

“I don't know.—You want to come to a board meeting and find out?”

“Not even
dead
do I want to come to a board meeting. No.”