The Gentlemen's Hour Page 0,104
ours who believe that bad things simply cannot happen to them, so when the blade first went in, his scream was as much from indignation as physical suffering. Of course, that didn’t last, not throughout the amputation, much less the cauterization, which led the man to suffer through the agony in the belief that we had done with him—a belief I did nothing to discourage, I’m afraid. He screamed and sobbed and lost consciousness, but when we brought him around he thanked me for sparing his life. Then I started in on the other hand.
“I think the sheer disappointment quite crushed him, even when I assured him that ‘this was it,’ his punishment was almost over, if he could live through it, and that many men have lived useful lives, et cetera. He was quite shocked when the dirt was shoved into his mouth—another mandate from my Mexican employers—but I think somewhat relieved when I shot him.
“Which brings us to you, Mr. Daniels,” Jones says.
“How foolish, how careless of you, to allow yourself to become somehow enmeshed with people who would cost the Baja Cartel multiple millions of dollars. Mr. Daniels, I have inflicted unspeakable agony on people who have cost them petty change. Do you have any idea what I have in my imagination for you?”
Jones reaches down and tears the tape from around Boone’s eyes.
Boone blinks, momentarily blinded, then sees the spectacled eyes looking down at him. Pale blue, bright, and alive with ferocious sexual energy. Jones is a man in late middle age, light brown hair thin at the top, wrinkles around his eyes. He’s close-shaven, and even in this August heat wears a knotted knit tie, button-down white shirt, and a linen sports coat.
A real gentleman.
“You look at me oddly,” Jones says. “Why?”
Maybe because he has a bright red dot on his forehead.
147
Johnny is looking through the documents when he hears something in the hallway.
“You have a bathtub?” he asks Petra.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Go lie down in it,” Johnny says as he unlatches the holster at his waist.
“I will not.”
The doorbell rings.
A man’s voice says, “Petra? Boone sent me to see if you’re okay.”
“One second,” she says. “I’m just getting dressed.”
Johnny juts his chin toward the bathroom. She gets up from the sofa and starts to go. The door comes in. There are three of them.
Los Niños Locos.
Crazy Boys.
The first one through the door sees Johnny, the badge he’s holding up, and the pistol he has in his other hand, and makes a snap decision.
He raises the gun in his hand and fires. Johnny fires back—two shots in rapid succession—and the Crazy Boy goes down. The other two come in over him.
148
The right lens of the spectacles shatters, one bright blue eye disappears in a spray of red, and then Jones drops from Boone’s view.
Two more shots follow, each into the brain of one of the narcothugs. The driver slumps dead over the wheel. The last thug reaches for his gun, but the bullet catches him in midmotion, and then it’s quiet.
The van door slides open.
“You good, bruddah?”
“Good, bruddah.”
149
Johnny’s next two shots take out the Crazy Boy who comes in first, but the next one—the one they call Chainsaw—hits the floor, rolls to the right, and comes up shooting.
Diving to the floor himself, Johnny tips the coffee table in front of him, but it’s not much cover, and the little machine pistol blasts a swath across the top, sending splinters of glass and wood spraying across the room.
When Johnny comes up, he can’t find the shooter.
Chainsaw finds him, though, and is about to squeeze off another burst when his heart blows up instead.
Petra stands against the wall.
Pistol gripped in both hands.
150
Boone asks for a phone, and Rabbit gives him one. “Who you calling, the Brittita?”
“He’s calling the Brittita.”
“Boone’s in love.”
“In looooooove.”
She answers on the first ring.
“Pete?” Boone says. “Get out of there. Now.”
“It’s all right, Boone,” she says. “Johnny’s here. Just, please, meet me at the police precinct. I need you, please.”
Boone hears sirens in the background.
151
Boone stands beside the van.
Three bodies inside—two Crazy Boys and Jones.
Rabbit tosses Boone a set of sweats. “You should get out of those wet clothes, bruddah.”
“Wet clothes.”
“Eddie wouldn’t want you catching cold, da kine,” Rabbit says.
“Da kine.”
Boone peels off the wet clothes and crawls into the sweatsuit. It fits—Red Eddie is a big-on-the-details, Triple-A-personality, micromanager kind of guy. Which is all the more impressive given the quantities of dope he smokes.
“You’re slipping, Boone,” Rabbit says, “walking easy into your crib