Callous

Close to the old docklands, there is what appears to be a huge gray container.

If you were to have a closer look, you’d realize it’s been converted into some kind of office/living space.

That’s as much as you’d see due to two burly security guards with savage mastiffs straining on their chain leashes.

The Block, as it’s been nicknamed, was once home/recording studio to a band named

Callous

The band had some minor hits, then descended into diva hysterics.

Dio was the current tenant and he’d tricked it out to resemble Hitler’s lair.

Why?

Because he was a fucking psychopath.

A large swastika flag lined one wall, and the other had a massive mural of Maria Callas. He had all her recordings lovingly built into a steel case. Touch those and lose your freaking hand, for openers.

Dio was presently in a torrent of bile and rage, directed at Keegan.

A large German shepherd lay in front of a blazing fire with its eyes following Dio. The dog, of course, was named Blondie.

A small framed photo of Kate Mitchell stood beside the air mattress Dio infrequently used. In his madness, he’d lovingly written with a Sharpie,

   To the love of my life from Kate

Dio roared at Keegan,

“You fucked up double. You failed to kill the marine, and the other brother is strolling around without a care in the world.”

Keegan tried to explain.

Dio nearly grabbed him, but even Dio in his most monstrous episodes knew better than to lay a hand on his second in command. They had been together a long time, endured all kinds of weird and wonderful events, but there was a side of Keegan that Dio had never seen. He knew it was there, and, so far, he hadn’t crossed that unknown line.

Dio was dressed in an all-white karate outfit, but he had never studied the art. He just liked the feel of the garment and it gave the impression(maybe) that he had karate skills.

Keegan, as usual, was in his semi-biker mode. Black battered leathers, with a Hells Angels badge on the front, a chapter out of Oakland. Those you didn’t pretend to have — those you got with blood.

He had boots with steel-toe caps and inside the jacket he carried a Blackhawk Magnum. These suckers weighed a ton but seemed to fit smoothly with the lie and fall of the leather jacket.

Keegan took Dio’s tongue lashing in stride, stood rock-still, no expression.

Dio demanded,

“What are you planning to do about this now?”

Keegan seemed to give it serious consideration, then said,

“Nothing.”

Dio thought at first he’d misheard. Nobody said

No

Or

Nothing

To him,

And was still around.

Keegan had been the one constant, the fixed loyalty, utter devotedness.

But,

And here was a big but,

Lately, cracks were showing in their way of handling things. Keegan was more than vocal in his disapproval of the whole meth plan, had even gone on to say,

“Patron, we have mountains of cash; let’s chill, enjoy it.”

This, a sentence fraught with peril.

Dio picked up a heavy black rosary. It seemed to fall forward with sheer weight on the solid gold cross. He fingered the beads like a garotte.

He stared at Keegan, who by ill luck or just dazedness had a T-shirt that said

   Guns

    N

      Rosaries.

Dio said in, a quiet, measured tone,

“You were sent on a simple assignment: shoot the American brothers. But what do you do?”

Keegan said nothing, feeling Dio was about to lay it out.

He did.

Like this.

“You shoot the marine with most powerful handgun on the planet, and he lives.

“Lives!

“And the other brother, un-fucking-touched, is strutting ’round the city getting liquored up and screwing the local gals.

“Lest any of the above escape the cops, you gild the fucking gig by killing a five-year-old kid.”

Keegan felt a nigh-unyielding urge to slap Dio, hard and fast across the face. Just drop the fucker. He said,

“I’ll finish the job by the end of the week.”

Dio swirled ’round to face the portrait of Maria Callas, implored,

“Get me some decent help, my darling.”

More and more, Dio was talking to the portrait, and this was becoming a liability. Keegan had no problem with madness/craziness in a boss. Most times it was actually a bonus, but this shit?

He ran a Guns N’ Roses song in his head, and it is nigh impossible to get that tone of menace without the band screeching wild on a stage.

Dio now said,

“Kill the brother who is still walking around and kill him today, then you might...”

Pause.

“Might.”

Pause.

“Be on my cool list again.”

Then he waved a hand in dismissal.

Keegan thought how fine it would be to slash that hand with his well-worn machete.

   Mason had an edge he didn’t share with Kate Mitchell.

An informant.

A rat.

An asset?

A snitch.

What-the fuck-ever.

It was getting him the juice on Dio and precisely how nuts Dio was becoming.

Mason had suggested they meet in McSwiggan’s. Where else do you get a tree growing in the center of the bar? Mason was lingering over a pint. He’d noticed that these pints of dark fire were giving him a pot. Fuck, a U.S. Marshal couldn’t have a beer belly.

He did ask the bar guy,

“You got any, like, Guinness Lite?”

The bar guy gave him the look, said,

“They tried it a few years ago.”

His tone suggested he’d rarely encountered such idiocy. Irish contempt works on two levels: you feel as if you got a pat on the head and a shoe in the hole.

Mason, still feeling the glow, asked,

“How’d that work out?”

The bar guy leaned back, asked,

“How’d that New Coke go?”

Touché.

Mason had half the pint gone when his snitch arrived, looking furtive.

He spotted Mason, strolled over as if this were no biggie.

Mason said,

“How’s it going, Keegan?”

Keegan immediately hit panic, snarled,

“Stop using my fucking name.”

Mason was amused. Here was the right-hand man to America’s most wanted, and his own name spooked him.

Mason said,

“How are things at the meth factory?”

Keegan was sweating, said,

“We’ve got a problem; I’m supposed to off the two brothers today.”

Mason said,

“No problem, use a Glock; it’s mostly reliable.”

Keegan hated Mason, hated that he was at this fucker’s beck and call. A year ago, he’d been swept up in a major DEA bust, threatened with twenty in supermax.

Or

Join the home team.

A straightforward deal.

Fuck Dio, and the charges disappeared.

Mason decided to ease up, said,

“Colin, the shot brother, is well protected, and we’ll grab the ex-priest, keep him for a few days.”

Keegan, a bigger-picture kind of guy, asked,

“You fucking think my boss will buy that?”

Mason smiled, asked,

“You got a better idea?”