Nathan's Run

Chapter 13

Lyle Pointer liked to think of himself as the Hit Man. At five-1_J eleven, 180 pounds, his appearance was anything but intimidating; not the brutish lout that Hollywood had cast as the stereotypical thumb-breaker. Good-looking, smart, and possessed of a sense of humor uncommon among people in his business, he had to struggle for the respect that his work deserved.

No one was more loyal to Mr. Slater, no one more efficient in carrying out his orders, yet people still assumed because of his size that he could be pushed around. Few made the assumption more than once. Boldly decisive and seemingly fearless, Pointer had slowly but surely earned the respect of the one person who mattered. And he had done that through sheer brutality.

His first job for Mr. Slater had been to deliver a message to a punk drug dealer who'd opened up shop on the wrong turf. It was the kind of message that couldn't be written On paper. It was Pointer's job to make sure that the young man would leave Washington forever. It was also important for other would-be intruders to know that gangs could have as much of the city as they wanted, so long as they never, ever set foot on Slater ground.

Pointer's solution sent shock waves through the Washington underworld. Abducting the young man at gunpoint, Pointer handcuffed him to a Dumpster, beat him unconscious, and cut off his upper lip with a razor blade. When the dealer came to his senses, Pointer doused the teenager's genitals with gasoline and struck a match. After letting the fire burn for half a minute, he extinguished it with a shovelful of dirt.

The notoriety that followed this job served Pointer well, and set a precedent for what was expected from him in the future. He was earning the kind of reputation he'd always sought. Proud of his ability to strike terror in some of the toughest people on earth, he was also acutely aware that with fear came jealousy. Each day was a new chance to prove himself, and each job was a new test of his resourcefulness. A single misstep could easily cost him everything he'd struggled so long to build. Including his life.

As appreciative as Mr. Slater was of a job well done, he wouldn't tolerate a fuckup. Pointer often heard his boss say that every man deserved a second chance, but that no one deserved a third.

On this day, Pointer was grateful for the second chance. He needed it.

As he sped through the Virginia countryside en route to his meeting, Pointer could barely control his rage, which he expressed with a heavy foot on the Porsche's throttle. Having driven out of civilization twenty miles ago, he was confident that no police would be around to annoy him. And even if they were, those heavy metal Chevys and Fords were no match for his own piece of German engineering. Despite the searing heat and drenching humidity, he drove with the top down, calves'-skin jacket and gloves in place. It was a look. And for this meeting, it was exactly the right look.

This whole business with Mark Bailey and his nephew was so fucking out of control that Pointer was ready to kill. He never should have listened to Bailey's plan in the first place, let alone agree to it. But it was so simple! The elements were all there. An inside job, big man, little boy, small room. How the fuck could they screw it up? Well, he'd know in about fifteen minutes. By the clock on the dash, Bailey had already been waiting for a half-hour. Shitheads like Bailey were so much easier to communicate with after they'd been kept waiting for a while. Motherfucker had probably already wet his pants. If not, he would by the end of the meeting.

Only three hours before, Pointer had come perilously close to wetting his own trousers. He'd never seen Slater like that, his face beet red and trembling with rage. Humiliated was the word he used.

Pointer had humiliated Slater's entire organization. You could live with the news that a hit on a politician or a dealer went sour. But Pointer had fucked up a hit on a boy in a cage! Once word leaked out, it would take years for the street punks to stop laughing. Laughter meant disrespect, and disrespect meant challenges to Slater's turf. Challenges, in turn, meant violence, and violence was bad for business.

Since when, Pointer had wondered as he endured Slater's wrath, did the old man hate violence? Then he realized that Slater had been listening to the cluckings of that old hen Sammy Bell, who no doubt talked the old man into turning pussy. Not that you could tell from the way he disciplined his employees.

It was only because of Pointer's loyalty and history of good work that Mr. Slater had granted him his second chance.

"By the time this is over," Mr. Slater had said with grave seriousness, "one of you will be dead, Lyle." Mr. Slater was not a man given to hyperbole.

So Pointer took control of this thing personally, effective this morning. His meeting with Mark Bailey was to extract his pound of flesh and gallon of blood. The son of a bitch needed to learn not to make promises he couldn't keep. The good news for Bailey was that he would live to see morning. The way the whole plan was put together required that much. Maybe he wasn't such an idiot after all.

Thirty minutes earlier, Mark Bailey had carefully eased his Bronco into a remote parking space at the Hillbilly Tavern. His was the only car in the lot, though three hard-ridden Harleys were parked along the front of the place, like so many horses at the hitching post. At just after noon, he was still too hung over to be moving, let alone driving. What Mark really needed was a wheelbarrow for his head. One day he was going to go on the wagon and stay there.

He paused for a long time after slipping the truck into Park, certain that at any second his window and his head would be shattered by a rifle bullet. He carefully scanned the area with his eyes. If there was a sniper, he was well hidden.

Come on, Mark, he told himself, they can't kill you. At least not yet. Without you, they've got nothing.

Ever since Pointer's call this morning, he'd been repeating this sentence over and over again, sometimes aloud, sometimes in his head. On the trip out to this Godforsaken hole in the wall, he'd even come to believe it. Now, though, at the end of the road, the logic seemed tragically flawed.

For an instant, he considered throwing the Bronco into reverse and just getting the hell out of Virginia-out of the country if he had to. But he knew that wasn't a solution. Pointer was not the kind of guy you said no to. With his connections, escape in the longer view was simply not possible. In his heart, Mark knew that he'd likely not survive this chapter in his life, but he took comfort in the hope that once the money was delivered and he'd kept his end of the bargain, Slater and his goons would make the end quick. He'd heard stories through the grapevine of horrendous tortures at the hands of Slater's men. He'd even heard of them burning off a guy's balls. Mark himself had never had the stones to ask who in the organization would do such a thing. He was pretty sure he knew, but there was solace to be found in shadows of doubt.

The Hillbilly Tavern was the kind of place that could only exist in the rural Virginia countryside. Home to thousands of unspeakable secrets and schemes, it was the kind of place where a person with the guts to enter could discuss anything with anyone, with the full knowledge that nothing said would ever be repeated. Unlike some of the more fashionable rat traps in the suburbs, this one was never frequented by passing sheriff's deputies, or by lost motorists in search of a bathroom. Sane tourists would piss all over their leather interiors before they would willingly cross the threshold of the Hillbilly Tavern.

The place didn't even have a telephone anymore. After it was busted up once in a brawl, the phone company sent a repair team out to fix the damage, but after they were relieved of their wallets and phone company equipment, no one ever tried to repair it again. One of the repairmen actually tried to put up a struggle, thus creating one of the longest and strangest workers' compensation claims in the company's history.

As he approached the door to the bar, Mark noticed the absence of windows. The panes had been boarded over and overlaid with a collage of neon signs, still burning in the bright sunshine. The wood siding bore countless coats of dark brown paint, which seemed to serve as the only support for the ancient structure. He was intrigued by a colorful bit of artwork painted on the stoop, but looked away when he saw it was a vomit splash, left uncleaned since God knew when.

Mark paused for a long moment before entering, once again checking over his shoulders for hidden snipers. It still wasn't too late for him to leave, he told himself, knowing even as the words formed in his brain that they were a lie. It had become too late for him the instant he'd turned to Pointer for help. But what the hell, he had taken a shot at the big leagues and he lost. In any other business, he could have taken pride in having the guts to try. On the other hand, in any other business, the financing arrangements would not have involved so much blood.

Taking a deep breath, Mark turned the knob on the door and entered the Hillbilly Tavern. The transition from searing sunshine to near darkness left him momentarily blind. He stood still in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

"Who the fuck are you?" a gravelly voice barked from behind the shadows.

"My name's Bailey," Mark replied, invoking a tone of voice he hadn't used since prison. "Who the fuck is asking?"

"I think you're in the wrong place," another voice said, this one from his right.

"I'm here to meet a man named Pointer. You heard of him?" The silence told him that they had.

"Goddammit," the first voice growled again, "either come in or get the fuck out. I don't like people standing in my doorway."

Mark shut the door behind him and edged his way toward a table in the corner. He ordered a beer, hoping that the hair of the dog would take the edge off his hangover. The tavern stank of cigarettes, sweat and countless spilled drinks. That rodents and insects roamed wild inside went without question.

Seated now, with his back against the corner, Mark allowed his vision to adjust to the darkness, and he scanned the room. Gravel Voice lumbered awkwardly behind the bar fulfilling his beer order, having difficulty maneuvering his three-hundred-plus pounds in the confined galley lined with off-brand liquor bottles. A huge, tangled beard sprouted from his cheeks and neck, resting like a furry bib on his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. His hair had last been trimmed during the same decade that the beard was last checked for mice and squirrels. He at least showed the courtesy to wear his mane in a tight ponytail that swung just below his shoulder blades. That way, it didn't dangle into the drinks as he prepared them. Mark assumed Gravel Voice was the owner, though for all he knew, that poor soul was just as likely dead in some meat freezer in the back.

Mark's beer was served in the bottle. By his count, in addition to himself and the bartender, there were three other people in the tavern, all of whom looked as though they had been there for a very long time. Conversations among the men varied from quiet to loud, sad to animated, but always punctuated with the slurred drawl of hill folk. Mark's mission now was simply to wait, and to avoid being caught in the act of staring at this collection of people fresh from Darwin's waiting room.

When Lyle Pointer finally entered the Hillbilly Tavern, the eyes of the regulars looked up just long enough to look away. No one said anything. The seam of sunlight created by Pointer's entrance disappeared quickly as he closed the door behind him. In the quick wash of light, Mark clearly saw the leather jacket, the open collar, and the gold baubles draped around his neck and his wrist. I'm in bed with a fucking gangster, Mark thought.

Either Pointer knew in advance where Mark was sitting, or his eyes adjusted awfully quickly to the change in lighting. Either way, he walked without hesitating directly over to Mark's table in the corner and took the seat immediately next to his host, not across from him as Mark had expected. It was the seating arrangement typical of a date, not of a business meeting. But then, Mark had no way of knowing just how intimate an act of true intimidation could be. In Pointer's presence, the fat bartender moved almost gracefully, bringing his new guest a drink-could it be water?-without even being asked.

For a long moment, Pointer stared at Mark, twice making him break eye contact. At length, he said, "You broke your promise to me." His voice had an odd quality to it, simultaneously quiet and angry. The effect was thoroughly frightening. "You promised me that you could handle this thing, and then you flicked it up."

Sweat beaded on Mark's forehead. He could feel perspiration soak his armpits and his back. He'd come to the meeting armed with excuses and explanations for Ricky's failure to perform, but he had suddenly lost the nerve to say anything. Instead, he just stared at his second empty beer bottle, spinning it slowly with his fingers in its own puddle of sweat.

"Look at me, Bailey," Pointer commanded softly.

Mark raised his eyes.

"I talked to Mr. Slater this morning, and he wasn't pleased. And do you know who he wasn't pleased with?"

Mark shook his head silently.

Pointer slammed the table with his fist, making the empty beer bottle jump almost as high as Mark. "Goddammit, you fucking answer me!"

For an instant, Mark forgot the question, then his mind cleared and he stammered, "N-no, I d-don't. Me, I suppose. I guess he's not pleased with me."

Pointer leaned forward, close enough for Mark to smell his chewing gum. Juicy Fruit. "No, Bailey, you're wrong again," he said measuredly, his voice once again menacingly smooth. "He wasn't mad at you. He was mad at me. Because I was stupid enough to believe that you could pull off a fool-proof plan to kill a kid inside a concrete fucking room." His voice boomed at the end, prompting Mark to glance nervously at the others seated in the tavern. None of them moved, though certainly all of them were listening. Clearly, that didn't matter to Pointer.

"Look, Pointer, I can explain," Mark attempted to say.

Pointer cut him off. "I don't want an explanation from you. Obviously, you weren't there. Let me guess. You poured yourself inside a bottle last night, didn't you?"

Mark looked away again.

"Didn't you!"

He nodded.

Pointer took a deep breath and let it out noisily. "So that's the thanks I get, huh? I go to bat for you, keep you from getting your throat cut, and the best you can do is subcontract your work to some incompetent prison guard so you can drown yourself in booze. Does that seem fair to you, Mark?"

Mark said, "No." What he didn't say, they both knew already. The only reason that Pointer had gone to bat for him was to protect the two hundred thousand dollars he stood to make in the deal, unbeknownst to the angry Mr. Slater.

"Well, Mark, we finally agree on something. It doesn't seem fair to me, either. But you know what? I did it for you again. Mr. Slater's first solution to this little problem was for me to cut out your liver and stuff it down your throat."

Mark felt his heart rate double, knowing without question that Pointer was reporting fact. He sweated like a marathon runner now. His hands trembled.

"But I talked him out of that for the time being. I told him that there was too much money in play just to kill you without at least another try. And you know what he said to me?"

Mark was looking away again. Pointer grabbed his face in the vise of his left hand and pulled him around so they were face-to-face, only inches separating them.

"He told me that he didn't care about the money. Imagine that. Imagine getting to that point in life where five hundred thousand dollars just doesn't mean anything any more. He told me that the honor and dignity of his name were at stake now, and that the only thing that mattered was killing you."

Mark's hangover flooded back into his brain. His stomach churned. It was entirely possible that he would barf on Pointer's shiny leather jacket.

Pointer let go of Mark's face and leaned back into his chair. "But I talked him out of it. I talked him into one more try. So here's where it stands, asshole. If your nephew dies and we get our money, you live. Otherwise, you're dead."

Mark saw a distant light on his horizon, the faintest glimmer of hope. "That's good, Pointer. Give me one more chance-"

Pointer cut him off again. "What, do I look crazy? You're not getting a second chance at anything but living. I'll take care of whacking the kid. Your job is to wait for the papers from your lawyer."

In the long pause that followed, Mark knew there was something else coming, but he chose to wait rather than asking.

"There's one more matter we need to discuss-two, actually.

First, you're a minority shareholder in your inheritance now. Mr. Slater's share went up to two million. That's the price of a fuckup these days. Plus, I'm gonna add another three hundred thousand to let you live. Add to that another two hundred thou that you already owe me personally, and that makes your total bill about two million five. What's left is yours."

An objection formed in Mark's throat, but he swallowed it quickly, before it could do any damage. The price of staying alive had suddenly become awfully steep. "I can live with that:' he said, wincing at the unintentional pun.

Pointer laughed. "I bet you can. Now, that leaves us with one more bit of business."

Sensing, incorrectly, that the worst was over for now, Mark sighed deeply and leaned forward to listen.

"You see, Mark," Pointer explained, "I have a reputation to consider, too. And the simple fact of the matter is that I can't afford to let you go on out of here without fucking you up." He smoothly and slowly withdrew a pistol from a holster somewhere beneath the slick leather jacket, thumbed the hammer back, and placed the muzzle an inch from Mark's right eye. He stood and pushed his chair back with his foot, giving himself some room to move around. Once standing, he shifted the gun from his right hand to his left, never moving the barrel from its perfect line to Mark's brain. "Are you right-handed or left-handed?" he asked.

"L-left," Mark stammered, in a whimpering tone that made Pointer feel sick to his stomach.

Pointer pulled a pen and a scrap of paper from an inside pocket and handed them over to Mark. "Here," he said. "Let me see your signature here."

Mark's shoulders sagged visibly as he realized that his lie was transparent. There were real tears in his eyes now, to go along with the very real fear. "I'm sorry, Pointer," he pleaded. "I made a mistake. Actually, I-I'm right-handed."

"Put your right hand on the table," Pointer commanded. As he spoke, something changed behind his eyes. Even in the darkness of the tavern Mark could see it. It was a chilling, calculating coldness. They were the eyes of evil.

Mark was vaguely aware that he had just pissed all over himself, adding yet another odor to the offensive bouquet that greeted him when he entered. He shook his head pitifully, not in defiance, but as a plea for leniency.

"Don't make me ask more than once," Pointer advised. "You need to remember that Mr. Slater and I don't need your money. The money's only important because it hurts you. And we owe you a lot of pain. Now, you make the choice. I can put a bullet in your eye right now, or you can put your hand on the table like I asked."

Mark's hand shook violently, out of control, as he complied with the orders and placed his hand on the table. His entire world consisted only of the huge circular void that was the muzzle of the cannon pointed at his face. He wondered morbidly if he'd actually be able to see the nose of the bullet as it cleared the opening on its way to kill him.

"These are the rules:' Pointer explained. "If you make a sound, I'll pull the trigger. No matter how bad it hurts, you just sit there quietly for once in your life and be a man. You understand?"

Mark was openly sobbing now, his. Facial features contorted like a small child's as tears cascaded down his cheeks. But there was no sound.

A look of amusement settled into Pointer's face as he wrapped his fist around the forefinger on Mark's right hand and pressed his thumb firmly at the digit's base, halfway between the second and third knuckle. Amusement turned to a wide grin as he steadily added more pressure with his thumb and leveraged upwards with the fingertip. His other hand remained firmly wrapped around the grip of his pistol.

After about five seconds, Mark's second knuckle dislocated with a soft pop, like the sound you'd get pinching bubble wrap. Lights danced before his eyes, and he felt his gorge rise in his throat, but he swallowed it back down. And he didn't make a sound. Ten seconds later, the finger broke midshaft, under Pointer's thumb. Mark's whole body jumped as pain shot like a spike all the way to his shoulder, causing him to bite through his lower lip.

When Pointer let go, Mark's finger stuck straight up at the break, like a fleshy flagpole. Proud that he had made no noise, and that he was still alive as a result, he recovered his mangled hand and cradled it like a baby in the crook of his left elbow. Then he noticed that the gun hadn't moved.

"I'm sorry, Mark," Pointer said, the grin still there, "but we're not done yet. The first finger was for fucking up. Now we've got to break one for telling me you were left-handed. We have to discover a basis for trust in our relationship. Now, put your hand back on the table:'

Mark's hand had already swollen to twice its normal size as blood poured internally from ruptured vessels. Movement of any sort was excruciating, but the mental agony of going through this one more time was almost more than he could bear. Without the gentle support of his other hand, the broken finger wobbled back and forth at the break line, grinding bone ends against each other. He hoped he would pass out, giving Pointer the option of ending this while he was unconscious. But of course, no such thing happened.

This time, Pointer made it easy, grabbing Mark's pinky even as he rested it on the table and wrenching it quickly backwards and sideways, nearly severing the finger at its root. This time Mark howled in agony, unable to control his voice, and he slipped from his chair down onto the filthy floor. Pointer considered shooting him on principle, but decided to ignore it. The son of a bitch had held out longer than he would have thought, anyway. He eased the hammer down and reholstered the Magnum. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Bailey. Write when you can. I'll call you when we need you."

As deliberately as he'd entered, Pointer strolled to the exit, telling the bartender as he passed, "My friend over there will pick up the tab. Be patient with him, though. Might take a few minutes for him to get the money out of his pocket."

In reply, the bartender nodded politely and studiously avoided making any eye contact. No one in the Hillbilly Tavern had seen a thing.