bound to the center stem of the chair.
I had a dim memory of being dragged somewhere, trussed upright, cursed at. Hell, maybe waterboarded for good measure. I wondered how long I’d been slumped in this chair.
At the far end of the table, peering at me curiously, was David Schechter. He was wearing a bright yellow V-neck sweater and gave me an owlish look behind his round horn-rimmed glasses. I half expected him to start speaking in the voice of Dr. Evil, pinkie extended, demanding one million dollars for my release.
But I spoke first. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve called you here today.”
Schechter gave what was apparently his rendition of a smile. The corners of his nearly lipless mouth turned down into a perfect inverted arch, like a frog’s, tugged downward by dozens of vertical wrinkles. It looked like smiling was hard work for him and something he rarely practiced.
“Did you know,” he said, “that breaking and entering at night with intent to commit felony can land you in prison for twenty years?”
“I knew I should have gone to law school.”
“And that doing so with an unregistered dangerous weapon can get you life behind bars? There’s not a judge in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts who wouldn’t give you at least ten years. Oh, and there’s the matter of your private investigator’s license. That’s as good as revoked.”
“I assume the police are on the way.”
“I see no reason why we can’t settle this man to man without the police.”
I couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t going to call the police. “I find it hard to think clearly when I’m losing circulation in my lower extremities.”
A slight motion in my peripheral vision. Skulking on either side of me were a couple of wide-bodied thugs. Security guards, probably. Or bodyguards. Each held a Glock at his side. One of them was blond with no neck and a vacant face with a steroid-ravaged complexion.
The other one I recognized.
He had a black crew cut and a muscle-bound physique even more extreme than the blond guy’s. It was one of the two men who’d broken into my loft. Over his left eye just below the brow was a thin white bandage. A much bigger one was plastered next to his left ear. I remembered throwing an electric shaver into his face and drawing blood.
Schechter looked at me for a few seconds, blinked slowly like an old iguana, and nodded. “Cut the man free.”
Mongo threw his employer a look of protest but fished a yellow-handled strap cutter from a pocket of his ambush jacket. He approached me cautiously like he was a bomb disposal expert, I was an armed nuclear weapon, and he was about ten seconds too late.
Silently, sullenly, he jabbed his cutters at the nylon loop that held my wrist to the chair’s right arm, while his moon-faced colleague fixed me with a beady vacant stare, his pistol leveled.
As Mongo worked, he leaned close and muttered under his breath, through clenched teeth, “How’s George Devlin doing?”
I stayed very still.
He took his time. He was enjoying the chance to taunt me. Almost inaudibly, he went on, “I caught a glimpse of Scarface on one of our surveillance cams. Broke the lens.”
He gave me a furtive smile, met my cold stare.
“Gotta be tough looking like a monster.” He snipped the other loop, freeing my hands from the arms of the chair but still leaving them cuffed together. “One day every girl you meet wants to get into your pants, next day you couldn’t pay a skank to get near y—”
With one quick upward thrust I slammed my fists under his chin, shutting his jaw so violently I could hear his molars crack. Then, as he reeled, I smashed down on the bridge of his nose. There wasn’t much room to maneuver, but I put a lot of force into it.
Something snapped loudly. The gout of blood from his nostrils indicated I’d probably broken his nose. He roared in pain and rage.
Schechter rose from his chair and said something quick and sharp to the other guard, who racked the slide on his pistol to chamber a round. Bad form. His weapon should have been loaded already.
“Heller, for God’s sake,” Schechter said, exasperated.
Mongo reared back and took a wild swing at me, which I easily dodged. When Schechter shouted, “That’s enough, Garrett,” he stopped short like a well-trained Doberman.
“Now, please finish cutting him loose,” Schechter said. “And keep your mouth shut while you’re doing it.”
Garrett, or Mongo, as I