The Resurrection (Unlawful Men)

“Shopping.”

“For what?” I slam the glass down and face him, eyebrows high in expectation. His hesitance is a sign that he is unsure whether to lie. I can answer that for him. I look at James, who immediately circles behind our prisoner and slips his hand under his chin, yanking it back to expose his throat. “For what?” I ask again, calm and collected.

“Keys,” he breathes.

Another look at James, and I just know he’s thinking what I’m thinking. And I’m thinking: Why would the manager of a vault where safety deposit boxes are kept be having keys cut? “Tell me, Kenny. Did you take a peek at the contents of the box before you delivered it to the beach?”

“No. Of course not.”

I look at James, who quickly places the blade on his throat. “You sure?”

“I didn’t, I swear! I don’t hold keys for the boxes.” His entire body stiffens, his arms ramrod straight against the arms of the chair, his body pressed into the back.

“I believe you.” That’s why he’s having keys cut now. I take my place back on the desk. “And after you kindly supplied the safety deposit box, were any further demands made?” I see his Adam’s apple push into the blade from his swallow.

“Yes.”

“And let me guess, it’s for storage, am I right?”

A nod.

“And you decided you didn’t want to be at the mercy of the unknown, so you decided to sneakily change company policy and hold two keys for every box. One to give to your customer, and one for you to keep. You know, as security. A backup policy in case you needed an out. But, of course,” I go on, standing and wandering the room, hands in my pockets, “the money’s good, isn’t it, Kenny? Hard to say no to.” He’s just another greedy fucker with no morals. This town is full of them. “Lots of cash for little work.” I purse my lips. “But don’t tell me the Minute Key Kiosk cut the kind of keys you need,” I say, regarding him carefully.

“I know the guy who runs it.” He all but sighs. “He takes them away to his workshop to cut.”

“So tell me about the arrangements you have with these criminals.”

“I work late. I turn off the security cameras. They come, they go. That’s it. That’s all I know.”

I nod. I think we’ve just found where they’re storing their drugs and guns. James scowls, obviously reaching the same conclusion as me, as does everyone else in the room. At least, everyone who’s here of their own free will. Speaking of which . . . “How is your father, by the way?”

“He’s left town. I . . . it’s—”

“Too much to handle?” I ask. “Dog eat dog? A man’s world?” I bend and rest my palms on his knees, getting so close he tries to retreat as best he can with his head restrained. “You’re playing a big boy’s game, Kenny. And I’m about to tell you the rules.” I give his knees a squeeze. “Listen carefully.” I push off and sit on the desk. “Your father’s dead.”

“What?” he blurts, horrified. “How do you know that?”

“Because I killed him.”

He jerks, his mouth open. “No.”

“Afraid so. I’m sorry, I know there were”—I flap a hand in the air casually—“plans to move out of state and live his retirement with pot loads of blood money and no remorse for betraying endless people.”

“Why’d you kill him?” he whispers.

“Your father was a bad man, Kenny. He betrayed me and, as a consequence, he’s dead.” I crouch. “He made the mistake of thinking another criminal’s bed was comfier than mine. Safer than mine.” I tilt my head. “Like father like son?”

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head. “I’m nothing like my father.”

That’s fucking debatable, but for the sake of our end game . . . “That’s great to hear,” I say, getting one more celebratory Scotch and finding the photo of Spittle and his family, waving it under Kenny’s nose. “Your mum and wife are still alive. I assume you want to keep it that way.”

Another nod.

“How’s your new bed, Kenny?”

“Really comfortable.”

I smile.

* * *

I stand on the steps of the house with James, watching Ringo and Otto bundle Kenny Spittle into the back of one of the Mercs. The sky is dark, overcast, the air heavy. Typical Miami. “Do you feel like enlightenment has hit hard?” James asks quietly, still holding the letter opener. The barbaric fucker is probably hanging on to hope that I might change my mind on letting Kenny live.

“Very hard.” We’ve learned quite a few things, thanks to Spittle’s equally greedy son. First, Beau’s dead, bent cop uncle is the only way The Bear could have known Beau’s mother was keeping a safety deposit box at Mid Bank. Second, The Bear has got himself an unrivaled storage facility for what he’s bringing into the country. Third, he no longer has any pawns to use against Kenny Spittle, since his father is dead and we’ve sent his wife and mother away on an all-expenses-paid holiday. Fourth, the end is near. “I need to talk to you about something,” I say to James, facing him.