Peril

MORTIMER

Brandenberg handed him the envelope. “Tell your man he did a good job.”

Mortimer tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket.

They were sitting in the lounge of the St. Regis Hotel, a place whose sumptuous decor made Mortimer feel poor and ragged. Glancing about, he wished he’d met Brandenberg in the park, where there were guys digging soda cans and scrapes of food out of the garbage. Instead, he had only the plush carpet and the thick, luxurious curtains and the well-dressed gentleman at the table to the right, some actor he vaguely recognized, though he couldn’t recall the name.

Brandenberg sipped his brandy, then said, “You want a drink?”

Mortimer shook his head. “You need anything else? Some other job?”

Brandenberg considered Mortimer’s questions for a few seconds, then said, “Not for myself. But I have an associate. A businessman from Saudi-”

“No.” Mortimer shook his head. “Two types he don’t work for. Foreigners is one of them.”

“And the other?”

“Mob guys.”

“I see.” Brandenberg took another sip. “And why does he draw this line?”

“He got fucked. Years ago, but he don’t forget.”

“So you screen his clients?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then it could be kept strictly between us. I mean, as regards this associate of mine. Which is strictly a business matter, by the way. A question of internal security. Nothing… messy. And as far as payment is concerned, the money could come through me. So in a situation like that, how would your man know if-”

“It ain’t his job to know,” Mortimer interrupted.

“Fine,” Brandenberg said in the crisp, cold tone of a man unaccustomed to being refused. “I suppose I admire your… honesty,” he added grudgingly. He brought his finger to his lips, and the polished nail gave off a glint of light.

To be dolled up like that, Mortimer thought, to be all elegant and refined that way, what would that feel like? “So, I guess we’re done,” he said.

“It would appear so.”

“Okay,” Mortimer said, and on that word got to his feet and made his way out into the cheerless light.

On the street he sucked in a quick breath, felt a searing ache in his abdomen, and remembered that he was dying. He’d been close to death only once before, that day in the war when they’d come under attack from all directions. He’d felt the ground tremble, the whizzing bullets, the heat from the burning hutches, and finally the shell that had torn into his side. If it hadn’t been for Stark, he’d have died right then, he thought, and suddenly the prospect of that earlier death appealed to him as few things ever had. To die abruptly, without waiting. To die owing nothing. To die young and stupid and before you’d fucked yourself over and fucked other people over, and married the first woman who’d have you, and accumulated nothing but a string of useless days. Before you’d learned just how goddamn worthless the future was. That, Mortimer decided, was a good death, and the only regret he felt as he turned and headed down the street was that he’d managed to escape it.