Assassin

Chapter Thirty-One

Miami

STOKELY JONES REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS IN ONE OF THE most spectacularly beautiful rooms he’d ever seen. Sitting in a plump upholstered chair that seemed to be made out of gold, he was slightly concerned, as his senses gradually returned, that this might be heaven. Last thing he remembered, he’d been standing at the entrance to Vizcaya, talking to Ross. Then somebody had swung the big door open and plunged a hypo into the side of his neck.

“Look up there, Ross,” he said to his fellow traveler. “All them golden angels. Looks like Paradise to me.”

The room was all white and gold. Ceilings had to be twenty feet high. Gold and marble statues and big crystal chandeliers and paintings up on the ceiling like out of some fancy picture book. Fireplace so big you could walk inside, invite folks over to supper inside it, and marble columns like in some kind of damn palace over in Europe somewhere.

There was even a pipe organ. Big gold pipes just like Radio City only maybe smaller. Yeah, a modest little place all right. Cozy.

“Well, we ain’t in Harlem anymore, Ross,” Stoke said. “Yo. Ross?”

Ross didn’t answer. His friend was ten feet away. He was sitting in a chair just like Stokely’s but his head was down, his chin resting on his chest. Taking a siesta, Stoke decided, definitely traveling in the land of Nod. Then he saw the preacher. The kid was sprawled face down on the marble floor. There was a large pool of liquid, spread out all around his head. Red liquid. Blood? Yeah. It was blood.

Aw, shit, Preacher.

He tried to stand up and couldn’t. Couldn’t move his arms or his legs. He was connected to the gold chair somehow. That’s why he couldn’t get up and go help the preacher. Maybe he should wake up Ross and get him to do it. Help Trevor. His throat was dry and he was still feeling dizzy, but his eyes weren’t so fuzzy anymore.

“Ross? Hey, Ross, you sleepin’? C’mon, my brother. Wake up, son, somebody got to help Preacher. I can’t seem to do it.”

No answer.

Any feeling he’d had about being in heaven was gone. He looked down at his arms and saw that they were taped to the damn chair. Legs, too. Ross? Yeah, same situation. And didn’t look like anybody could help the poor little preacher boy now, no how, no way. He looked around the room, seeing it clearly now. Oh, yeah. He remembered.

Vizcaya.

Used to be a museum. Now this guy—who was he?—Quixote Fox, owned it. Stoke knew a lot of rich folks, hanging around Alex Hawke all these years. There was money and there was money. This was one seriously rich cat, buy a museum and just move in. This was offshore money, saved for a rainy day. Hell, a cocaine cowboy who’d been tight with Fidel? Moved out all the cash he could while the getting was good.

Cop brain kicking back in. He could feel it. Little police peanut at the back of his skull. That was good, he was going to need his peanut just in case he had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out of this damn museum without becoming part of the permanent collection.

“Feeling well rested?” somebody asked him.

Tall, thin guy. Snazzy. Wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses. Voilà. Yeah, the guy who disappeared from the Fountainbleau, standing in the front of a group of ten or twelve Chinese guys, all wearing matching black pajamas and all pointing Chicom assault rifles at him and Ross.

Boss himself had on a pretty white linen suit, shiny white shoes, long black hair all slicked back. Had a skinny little black mustache on him, looked like an anchovy stuck on his upper lip. Big white teeth. Had the chick with him, Fancha. He walked across the terrazzo flooring, tapping his white cane in front of him, and stopped two feet short of Stokely.

“Who the fuck are you, kill my friend Preacher?” Stoke said.

“No, señor, who the fuck are you?”

“I asked you first, Slick.”

“Why did you follow my car?”

“I like Bentleys. That’s an Azure, right? Brand-new? What do those go for now? Two-fifty? Three?”

“You find yourself amusing?”

“Somebody got to.”

“It’s a small group.”

“Yeah? Why she smiling?”

“Maybe I just let her play with the big dog.”

“See. I knew it. Any man start to talk about his own dick size, you automatically know the underlying problem.”

“What problem?”

“The little dick problem.”

“Really? How about the no dick problem?”

Guy had pulled out a pair of silver scissors from inside his shirt. Wore them on a black ribbon around his neck. He took a few steps closer, stopped, and turned around, smiling at his squeeze. Stoke thinking, Yeah, you Scissorhands all right. Found your ass, Rodrigo. Man who goes around killing brides on church steps. Innocent young kids like that speedy English kid who stepped on your landmine in the churchyard. Or little Preacher over there, never hurt nobody. Had a heart of gold, you worthless piece of shit.

The scissors flashed and Stoke felt his cheek burn.

Yeah. Got you just where I want you now, Scissorhands, your ass is mine.

“Hey. You ain’t as blind as you make out, are you? You—”

“Silence! You want to do it, Chica?” the guy said to Fancha, snickering his shiny silver scissors, making a kind of whispery noise, “Or, you want to watch?”

Stoke gave him a big smile, catch his attention.

“What t’hell’s wrong with you? Seriously. Before you go cutting anybody’s private parts off, you got to know something, fool. You mess with my ass, you in a world of hurt.”

“Really? Why do I not believe you?”

“You stupid, that’s why. You don’t bother to ask for information, find out what’s going on. You think we just dropped by here for the package tour, me and my friend over there and that poor little Rastafari kid you killed? You think we just showed up ’cause we curious about lifestyles of the rich and famous?”

“I pretend curiosity about you for thirty seconds. Mr. Jones, sí? From New York.”

“You spend a lot of time in England?”

“No.”

“How ’bout Cuba?”

“No.”

“How ’bout South Beach? The Blue Moon Apartments over on Washington Avenue? Specifically apartment 3-A where that SWAT guy got himself whacked in his bed?”

“No.”

“Slip your mind, maybe. You stole his Leupold & Stevens sniper scope.”

“One more dead cop, what does it matter if I did?”

“See? That’s better. Won’t do you any good to lie. The truth set you free. Take them mirror glasses off, my man. Look me in the eye.”

“You want the truth? I’m going to enjoy killing you. Slowly, with my scissors, because you have insulted me. Then, I’m going to kill your friend over there. The same way. Three more bodies for the alligator fiesta out in the Everglades. End of story, señor.”

“Maybe for me. Ain’t the end for you, Scissorhands. We got folks expecting us. We don’t show up back home, your trouble is just beginning, if it isn’t bad enough already.”

“Where do you get this name?”

“Scissorhands? What your homeboys all call you, man, you know that. Back in the old country. Before you stuck your scissors in Fidel’s back and sided with them cocaine cowboy generals. You talk to Fidel lately? I imagine he’s pissed at your ass. Wouldn’t surprise me he wasn’t the one been trying to whack your ass lately. That’s what I’d do, I was him.”

“Shit! Guards!”

“See? Now you’re raising your voice. Means I got your attention. Take those glasses off, Slick. Let me see your eyes. Maybe you’re not even the guy we looking for. If not, we say we sorry, we’re out of here, no hard feelings. Come back when you open to the public.”

“You fuck now with the wrong man, señor.”

“My friend over there. One you drugged? Name is Ross. He’s Scotland Yard. You look in his pocket, you’ll see a warrant for your extradition and arrest.”

“Arrest? Ridiculous.” That’s when the guy flashed the scissors right under Stoke’s nose.

“Leaving a murder weapon stuck up in a tree at the crime scene, now that’s ridiculous—hey, get them scissors out my nose. You liable to do something you regret later, you—”

“You are under arrest for the murder of Lady Victoria Hawke,” Ross said suddenly. Sound of his voice, Stoke could tell he’d been awake for a while, just playing possum. “On the steps of the Church of St. John’s, Gloucestershire, at eleven o’clock on the morning of May 15th last. You bloody bastard.”

“See? Ross is back. That’s good. Now you got Scotland Yard plus a big-city homicide dick on your ass. Now the odds are better, traitor. Two against twelve, you don’t count Fancha. Look at her, girl be smiling at the old Stoke again.”

“Guards!” the Cuban guy shouted and he heard them all rack the bolts on their assault weapons.

“I’ll kill this one,” the Cuban guy said to the guards, “Just blow the other one away.”

Stokely felt a white-hot pain as the man slowly drove the razor sharp scissors upward inside his left nostril, headed no doubt for his brain. He tried to twist his head away, but the thing was too far up his nose. He thought he heard Ross yell something about getting down, and then he was sure he was going to black out from the unbelievable pain, and then all the windows and doors of Vizcaya exploded inward.

Stokely jerked his head back, planted his feet and rocked his chair backwards, getting away from the damn scissors, the flying shards of glass, the flash-bang and smoke grenades somebody was now lobbing in from outside the house, and all the wild bullets the panicked Chinese pajama guys were spraying all over.

That’s when the main explosion occurred, blowing all four walls apart to make room for the roof and chimneys and all kinds of damn shit to come down on top of them. Just before all his lights went out, Stokely had one last thought.

Hey, Stoke, guess what?

You one dead cat.