Deal Breaker (Myron Bolitar 1)

“I asked you not to curse,” Win said.

It took Horty nearly half a minute to recover. When he did, the lips started flapping again. “Fucking cheap-shot motherfucker,” he said rising. “I gonna tear you a brand-new asshole.”

He charged Win, his arms outstretched as though tackling a fullback. Win sidestepped him and delivered a quick roundhouse kick, again hitting the solar plexus. Horty folded and went down. His face was a mixture of fury, pain, surprise, and of course, embarrassment. He looked around to make sure nobody was watching. He was, after all, getting his butt whipped by Mr. Wonderbread.

“There are two hundred and six bones in the body,” Win said evenly. “Next time I break one.”

But Horty wasn’t listening. His eyes bulged. Rage twisted his face—not to mention his limited ability to reason. Horty stood, stumbling, pretending he was more hurt than he was. The element of surprise. When Horty was close enough, he made his move.

He must have been really coked up, Myron mused. Or really stupid. Probably both.

Win leaned away and snapped a sidekick toward Horty’s lower leg. There was a cracking sound, like stepping on a dry twig. Horty screamed and went down. Win raised his leg for an ax kick, but Myron stopped him with a shake of his head.

“Two hundred five,” Win said, lowering his foot gently, “and counting.”

“You broke my f—” He stopped, holding his leg and rolling back and forth. “You broke my leg!”

“Your right tibia,” Win corrected.

“Who the—who are you?”

Myron said, “We’re going to ask you a few questions. You’re going to answer them.”

“My leg, man. I need a doctor.”

“When we’re finished.”

“Look, I just work for Terrell. He gave me this territory. You gotta a problem with that, you speak to him, okay?”

“We don’t want to talk to you about that.”

“Please, man, I’m begging you. My leg.”

“You used to attend Reston University.”

A surprised look replaced the pained one. “Yeah, so? You want my résumé?”

“You knew Kathy Culver.”

Panic now. “You guys cops?”

“No.”

Silence.

“You knew Kathy Culver.”

“Kathy who?”

Win said, “Number two-oh-five. The left femur. The femur is the largest bone in the body—”

“Okay, I knew her. So what?”

“How did you meet?” Myron asked.

“At a party. Her first week of school.”

“Did you ever date?”

“Date?” Horty laughed at that one. “No. She wasn’t the kind you date.”

“What kind was she?”

“The kind who sucked off my Johnson first night. Willie’s too.”

“Who is Willie?”

“My roomie.”

“He play football?”

“Yeah.” Then he added, “But only special teams,” as if that made him a lower species of being.

“Go on.”

“Man, why you want to hear this?”

“Go on.”

Horty shrugged. The leg was swelling badly, but the coke was numbing the pain enough to keep him going. “You see, we had this party. At Moore House. Where all the brothers lived. Kathy, she was like the only white chick there. So she comes in dressed like a prime-time ho. I mean, she was all that, you know? We start rapping and shit, you know. Did a little nose-candy like a Hoover vac. She liked the stuff. Then we start slow-dancing.” The grin returned with the memory. “Grinding, you know. She put her hand on the Black Blade right there on the dance floor. Starts rubbing it and shit. So I take her upstairs, and she sucks me off. But that ain’t all. She takes a camera—a fucking camera!—out of her bag and asks me to take pictures. No shit! Close-ups, she wants, of her and the Black Blade.”

Myron’s stomach began to churn again. Win looked on with his usual noninterest.

Horty continued. “Next night, she come back. Takes on me and Willie at the same time. We take more pictures, have a good old time. ’Cept this time I had my camera too.”

“So you took some pictures of your own.”

“Shit, yeah.”

“Did you and Kathy have any more, uh, encounters?”

“Nope. She moved on to other dudes, though. Primelooking babe for such a ho. All blond and built and shit.”

“You talk to her after that?”

He shrugged. “Little. Not much. But once she started up with Christian, man, it was a whole other story.”

“What do you mean?”

“She be all nose up in the air, like her shit don’t stink no more. Two of them all lovey-dovey and shit, like they was going steady on a TV show. All of a sudden the slut thinks she’s some fucking pure-ass cherry. I mean, the ho been riding the Blade like a fucking bronco, and now she don’t even say how-do. That ain’t right. That just ain’t right.”

Mr. Etiquette.

“So you decided to blackmail her,” Myron said.

“No way. Unh-unh.”

“We know about it, Horty. We know she paid you for the pictures.”

Horty made a snorting sound. “Aw, shit, that ain’t blackmail. That’s a business transaction. I just called her one day and told her I might have to knock her down a few pegs. And then I said a picture was worth a thousand words. She kinda agreed with all that and said she’d be willing to pay for such wonderful pictures. I told her they was real valuable to me. Had a lot of sentimental value and shit. But we finally reached an agreement. A mutually beneficial agreement,” he stressed, “not blackmail.” He took hold of his leg and winced. “End of story, man.”

“You left something out.”

“What?”

“The gang-rape in the locker room.”

He did not seem surprised. He half-smiled and said, “Rape? Man, you ain’t listening. This woman had Horty’s Three H’s: Hot, Horny, Ho. Shit, she’d jump naked into a rock pile if she thought there’d be a snake in it. She loved it. We all had a good time.”

Win looked at Myron. The look said Keep your cool.

“How many of you?” Myron asked.

“Six.”

“Why,” he said in a low voice, “didn’t you just take the money, Horty? Why did you have to rape her?”

“I just told you, man—”