Suicide Squeeze

35

Conner had dried and changed into his Gap clothes. He felt clean and human again.

Rocky drove them back to the office in the golf cart and explained how fencing the DiMaggio card would go. Rocky was half-apologetic. The deal had to go through a few layers of handlers and finders. Everyone wanted his or her cut, including Rocky himself. When all was said and done, Conner might clear $350,000. Give or take a few thousand.

“At least it’s all tax-free,” Rocky said.

“Yeah.” Conner felt light-headed. It was more money than he’d expected to see his whole life.

And then Conner’s elation shifted to dread. At first, he couldn’t understand the sudden anxious knot in his stomach. Why shouldn’t he be glad? But he wasn’t glad; he was afraid. And it was a familiar fear, something that had gnawed him more than once, and in a moment of jarring clarity, he understood. He’d always used his bad luck as an excuse. If he lost a bet, it was just bad luck that the team’s star player was on the injury list. If Conner botched a repo job, it was just plain old bad luck the car had run out of gas. If Conner lost his baseball scholarship, it was just more bad luck that he hadn’t kept his grades up, didn’t happen to study the right chapter an hour before his final exams, happened to get into a class where the professor took an irrational dislike to him. And if the Bay Bears didn’t want him, or he was always broke, or Tyranny didn’t love him, it was all because of bad luck, bad breaks, the dice just never came up in his favor.

But luck had nothing to do with it. He knew that now, had really always known it deep down. Conner had made his own messes, and it had been easier to pretend it was bad luck than to take responsibility for himself. Things had been so easy for so long. High school had been no problem. He’d lucked into a college scholarship. He was a popular athlete and women wanted him, and he’d been invited to parties and life seemed a thing that had been invented for Conner Samson’s amusement. At some point, things had stopped being handed to him. Life became hard. And instead of facing up to the challenge, Conner had pouted like a spoiled kid and invented the myth of bad luck.

Conner had convinced himself that Tyranny could not leave Professor Dan and his money. Could Conner blame her? She’d become accustomed to a comfortable lifestyle. What if Conner had money? What if he could keep her as secure and as comfortable and as happy as Professor Dan could? Conner had clung to that excuse, the belief that only Dan’s money made Tyranny choose him over Conner. Now that Conner had money, what if she still preferred Professor Dan? If Tyranny rejected Conner now, it was because Conner wasn’t good enough. And that was the fear. The possibility that if he peeled away all the excuses, Conner Samson simply wasn’t good enough, not worthy of love, no good to anyone for anything. Useless.

At the Dybek reception, Conner had drunkenly resolved to make himself new. Not to be a bottom-feeder anymore. But he had no idea how to be anything other than what he was.

“You look like somebody crapped in your breakfast cereal,” Rocky said.

“It’s been a long day.”

“This’ll cheer you up.” Rocky pulled a cedar box out of a bottom desk drawer, slid it across to Conner, and opened the lid. Cigars. “Otis asked me to save a box for you.”

Conner lifted an eyebrow, grabbed one, sniffed it. “Nice. What kind?”

“Hell if I know,” Rocky said. “You’ve seen the place. We have all kinds of stuff around here. I thought maybe you’d know since you enjoyed-” Rocky jerked his head up, cocked an ear toward the door. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Conner lit the cigar with a lighter shaped like a cowboy boot. He puffed, inhaled deeply, and held it a second before tilting his head back and blowing smoke at the ceiling. It surprised him that something as simple as a good smoke could brighten his mood, albeit only slightly. “Not bad. Maybe they’re Cuban or-”

“Be quiet, please.” Rocky jerked open another desk drawer. His hand dipped in and came out again with a nickel-plated.45 automatic. His hands shook. “God, I hate this thing.” He fumbled in the magazine, cocked the pistol. Rocky didn’t look at Conner. He stared at the door, still listening. “Are you sure you didn’t hear-”

Conner sat up. Worried now. “What is it?”

“I just thought… Maybe I’m imagining things.”

And then Conner heard it too. The distant pop pop pop faint and muffled. A short pause. Conner almost spoke again, but Rocky waved him quiet. Immediately another rapid-fire series of pops. Rocky reached for the phone, but it rang first.

He answered. “What’s going on? What? Damn! Yes, do it. Do it now!” Rocky slammed the phone down. “Jesus!” He opened his desk drawer again, came out with another, smaller automatic, slid it across the desk to Conner. “Take this, Conner.”

Conner looked at the gun without picking it up. “What?”

Pops again. Gunfire.

“Somebody’s here. I don’t understand. Nothing like this has ever- Christ, they’re getting closer,” Rocky said. “Pick up that pistol. Check the clip.”

“Who’s getting closer?”

“I said check your fucking weapon,” Rocky yelled. “I don’t know who they are. They just busted in and started shooting up the place. We got five dead men out there and-”

The phone rang. Rocky grabbed it. “Talk.”

Conner saw Rocky go pale.

“Well, stop them. What do I pay you for?” Rocky slammed the phone down again. “They’re through the strip club.”

Conner detected a tremor in Rocky’s voice, and that scared Conner more than anything else. He grabbed the pistol. Checked the load. His palms were sweaty on the grips. “What is this?” He meant the gun.

“A.380. Point and squeeze.”

Gunshots exploded alarmingly close. Conner’s mouth went dry.

The phone rang again.

Rocky grabbed it. “What the hell’s going on out there? Jesus, it sounds like they’re right on top of us.” Another flurry of shots. “In the warehouse? Get them out of there. Get everyone.” His voice rose as he spoke, squeaky and panicked. “Don’t let them get back here. You understand what- Hello? Hello?”

He threw the phone down. “Goddammit!”

Conner stood, headed for the office door. “I think it’s time to go, Rocky.”

“Don’t go out there!”

“I’m getting out of here.”

“I’m telling you my men will handle it.” Rocky didn’t sound like he believed it. “Stay put. Don’t go to pieces.”

Screams on the other side of the door. Back-and-forth shouting. More gunshots. Conner jumped back from the door. If he’d ever had a chance to run for it, it was too late now. If the racket was any indication, all hell was breaking loose just outside of Rocky’s office. The jagged rattle of a submachine gun.

Conner felt the urge to pee.

Rocky stuck his pistol in his waistband, grabbed the edge of his desk. “Grab the other end. Help me move it against the door.”

Conner grabbed the other side of the desk and froze. The world on the other side of Rocky’s office door had suddenly gone quiet. They looked at the door, at each other, back at the door again.

Rocky picked up the phone, listened, put it down again. “Dead.”

Footsteps. Coming toward the office.

Rocky pulled the automatic from his waistband, swallowed hard. “I wish Otis were here,” he whispered.

Conner thumbed off the safety, lifted his pistol toward the door. His knees were water, his spine cold jelly. The doorknob rattled and Conner felt his sphincter twitch. “Shoot through the door!”

“Can’t.” Rocky crouched behind his desk. “I had it made special. Bulletproof.”

The door swung open, and Conner nearly started jerking the trigger, but Rocky told him to hold fire. Pete stumbled into the room, slammed the door shut again behind him. He held the submachine gun, the barrel hot and smoking.

Pete tilted on his feet. He didn’t look good. “I think… I think maybe…” He teetered sideways, hit the wall and slid into a sitting position. He dropped the machine gun, both hands going to his gut, the bloodstain widening, making his shirt stick to his belly. “Oh… no.”

Rocky ran to him. “Hang on, Pete. Oh, Christ. Conner, lock the door.”

Conner bolted for the lock, hand outstretched. Whoever was on the other side of the door, Conner wanted them to stay there. A little bit of his brain realized he was locking himself in as well as the attackers out. Trapped. He’d have to worry about that later.

His fingers had just touched the knob when the door flew open. The heavy door smashed Conner’s head. Bells went off in his ears. He reeled, fell back, legs rubbery. Next thing he knew, he was on the floor.

Gunshots.

He opened his eyes, blinked away the colored lights. He glimpsed Rocky for a split second, firing his automatic. Bodies fell. Then bullets tore into Rocky. His body twitched, red blossoms across his chest. He hunched over, fell to the floor. His face turned to Conner, eyes rolled back, blood on his lips.

Conner tried to make his arms and legs work. The buzzing in his ears. He fought to keep his eyes open. The men swarmed the room, stepped over Conner and Pete and Rocky.

Japanese men.

One took the DiMaggio card from Rocky’s desk. He showed the others. They smiled, nodded, talked gibberish. Conner tried to reach for the pistol Rocky had given him, tried to lift his head. He felt so heavy.

One of the Japanese saw him struggling. He was lean, wicked, mouth curling in contempt. Sideburns. He said something to his pals, and they all laughed.

He pointed his pistol at Conner’s head. Conner tensed.

Click.

The Japanese guy shrugged at his gun, ejected the empty clip, shook his head as he looked down at Conner with waning interest. The heel of his shoe came down hard on Conner’s temple.

Darkness.