Drop Shot (Myron Bolitar 2)

Fishnet’s eyes popped. He looked inside, placed his hand on the inside, and screamed. The scream was deafening. It was so loud, the parking lot attendant almost stirred.

Myron looked at Win. “Maple syrup?”

“Log Cabin.”

“I’ve always been an Aunt Jemima man myself,” Myron said.

“To each his own.”

“You find anything inside the car?”

“Not very much,” Win said. “In the glove compartment were several parking stubs.” He handed them to Myron. Myron took a quick glance.

“So,” Myron called out, “who are you guys working for?”

Fishnet started walking over. “My car!” he shouted, his face red. “You … my car! My car!”

Win sighed. “Can we get past this, please? Très dull.”

“You motherfucker! You …” Fishnet’s hands were fists again. He stepped closer, smiling now at Win. It was an ugly smile in every way. “I’m going to break your fucking face, pretty boy.”

Win looked at Myron. “Pretty boy?”

Myron shrugged.

Jim stood next to Fishnet. Neither one was armed with a gun, Myron could tell. They might have a blade hidden somewhere, but he wasn’t worried.

Fishnet moved to within a yard of Win. Nothing unusual there. The bad guys always honed in on Win. He was smaller than Myron by nearly six inches and thirty-five pounds. Best of all, Win looked like a wimpy rich boy who raised his finger only to call for the butler—everything the discerning bully could want in a punching bag.

Fishnet took one more step and cocked his fist. Whoever had hired these guys had not briefed them well.

The punch whizzed toward Win’s nose. He sidestepped it. Sometimes Myron thought Win moved like a cat. But that wasn’t accurate. It was more ghostlike. One nanosecond he was there, the next he was two feet to the left. Fishnet tried again. Win blocked it this time. He grabbed Fishnet’s fist with one hand and connected with a knife-hand strike to Fishnet’s neck. Fishnet backed off, woozy. Jim stepped forward.

“Don’t even think about it,” Myron said.

Jim ran.

Myron Bolitar. The Intimidator.

Fishnet regained his footing. He charged Win, head lowered, attempting a tackle. Big mistake. Win hated it when an opponent tried to use superior size against him. Win had introduced Myron to tae kwon do during their freshman year at Duke, but he’d been studying it himself since he was five years old. He’d even spent three years in the Far East studying under some of the world’s greatest masters.

“Aaaarrrrghhh!” Fishnet shouted.

Again Win stepped to the side, like the smoothest matador against the clumsiest bull. Win connected on a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus and followed up with a palm strike to the nose. There was a sharp crack and blood flowed. Fishnet screamed and went down. He did not get up again.

Win bent down. “Who are you working for?”

Fishnet looked at the blood in his hand. “You broke my nose!” His voice was nasally.

“Wrong answer,” Win said. “Let me repeat the question. Who are you working for?”

“I ain’t saying nothing!”

Win reached down, gripped the broken nose with two fingers. Fishnet’s eyes bulged.

“Don’t,” Myron said.

Win looked up at him. “If you can’t take it, leave.” He turned his attention back to Fishnet. “Last chance. Then I start twisting. Who hired you?”

Fishnet said nothing. Win gave the nose a quick squeeze. The small bones grated against one another, making a sound like rain on a skylight. Fishnet bucked in agony. Win stifled his scream with his free hand.

“Enough,” Myron said.

“He hasn’t said anything yet.”

“We’re the good guys, remember?”

Win made a face. “You sound like an ACLU lawyer.”

“He doesn’t have to say anything.”

“What?”

“He’s a two-bit scum. He’d sell out his mother for a nickel.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he’s more terrified of opening his mouth than the pain.”

Win smiled. “I can change him.”

Myron held up one of the parking lot stubs. “This lot is at Fifty-fourth and Madison. It’s under TruPro’s building. Our pal here is working for the Ache brothers. They’re the only ones who could put that kind of scare into a guy.” Fishnet’s face was pure white.

“Or Aaron,” Win said.

Aaron.

“What about him?” Myron asked.

“The Aches could be using Aaron. He could put that kind of scare into a guy.”

Aaron.

“He isn’t working for Frank Ache anymore,” Myron said. “At least, that’s what I heard.”

Win looked down at Fishnet. “The name Aaron mean anything to you?”

“No,” he shouted. Quickly. Too quickly.

Myron lowered his head toward Fishnet. “Start talking or I’ll tell Frank Ache you told us all about it.”

“I didn’t say nothing about no Frank Ache!”

“Triple negative,” Win said. “Very impressive.”

There were two Ache brothers. Herman and Frank. Herman, the elder, was the boss, a sociopath responsible for countless murders and misery. But next to his whacked-out brother Frank, Herman Ache was Mary Poppins. Unfortunately, Frank ran TruPro.

“I didn’t say nothing,” Fishnet repeated. He was petting his nose like it was an abused dog. “Not a goddamn word.”

“But how’s Frank to know?” Myron asked. “You see, I’ll tell Frank you sang like the tastiest of stool pigeons. And you know what? He’ll believe me. How else would I know Frank hired you?”

Fishnet’s face went from pale-white to a sort of seaweed-green.

“But if you cooperate,” Myron said, “we’ll all pretend this never happened. That I never spotted your tail. You’ll be safe. Frank will never have to know about your little screwup.”

Fishnet didn’t have to think too long. “What do you want?”

“One of Ache’s men hired you?”

“Yeah.”

“Aaron?”

“No. Just some guy.”

“What were you hired to do?”

“Follow you. Report wherever you went.”

“For what reason?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you get hired?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”