The 24th Letter

SIXTY-THREE

As O’Brien left Barbie’s room, he picked up a clipboard on the nightstand. When the elevator doors opened to the eleventh floor, O’Brien stepped out. He casually looked right and left. He could see a man dressed in a tropical shirt near the end of the hall. O’Brien walked in that direction. He paused at every other door, glanced at the clipboard, and pretended to look at the patient’s name on the door.

A few feet from room 1103, the man in the tropical shirt looked out a window at the parking lot. O’Brien approached him and said, “Is Mr. Russo resting comfortably?”

Tropical shirt’s face was so bloated his eyes squinted. His breathing sounded labored. O’Brien could smell the stink of dried sweat, beer, and cigarette smoke on the man’s clothes. He looked at O’Brien suspiciously and said, “He’d be better if you people would let him sleep. You don’t look like no doctor. What kind of doctor are you?”

“Head doctor.”

“Shrink?”

O’Brien smiled, looked down at the clipboard for a second and said, “No, I aim for the head.” He hit the man squarely in the jaw, knocking him out cold. O’Brien dragged the man into a janitor’s closet. Then he opened the door to Russo’s room.

“O’Brien! How’d you get in here?”

“Your hall monitor is resting comfortably next to a mop. Probably wake up with a nasty headache, though.”

Russo reached for the nurse’s call button. O’Brien was faster, grabbing the remote control and pulling it off the wall.

Russo tried to sit up in bed. The heart monitor raced. “What do you want?”

“Why’d you sic your dogs on Barbie?”

“That fuckin’ whore, who gives a shit.” His voice was thick with disgust.

O’Brien lifted his Glock, holding it by the barrel, the butt of the gun pointed toward Russo’s face. “I give a shit. This is where your goon hit Barbie. It’s where I’ll bein with you. And guess what, Russo, if she slips in a coma or dies…you do too.”

Russo pushed himself as far back in the bed as he could get, the electrodes popping off his chest. “Please, O’Brien…I’m a sick man.”

“Why’d you have the girl beaten?”

“Wanted to make sure she knew not to show up as a witness when we took your ass to trial. Figured we could get you five to seven and it’d send a clear signal to others-cops, PI’s and anyone who thought they could shake us down or was thinkin’ they could come in our place, trash it up and threaten us.”

“Who’s us?’

“Me and Sergio Conti.”

“I believe you hired Carlos Salazar to hurt the girl, maybe kill her. Just like you hired him to kill three people, you wanted to make damn sure Spelling’s letter kept out of circulation. You wanted to make sure Charlie William’s takes a hot needle. And if you put me out of the picture, that pretty much guaranteed it. So now you beat up Barbie because she was with me in you club, maybe send me a message, maybe scare me.”

Russo’s eyes looked toward the door for less than a half second. It was long enough for O’Brien to know someone had entered the room

O’Brien dropped to the floor, rolled, and came up with his Glock pointed in the man’s face. “Drop it!”

The man, his jaw swollen, his right eye watering, held his pistol in front of him. It was at least fifteen degrees to the right of O’Brien.

“Thought you’d sleep longer,” said O’Brien. “You’ve got a choice…you can take a chance and try to point that squarely at me and get off a shot before I do. Or you can set the gun down on the floor, kick it to me, and walk to the back of the room.”

“Shoot him!” ordered Russo.

The man looked at Russo and then looked at O’Brien without turning his head. He said, “He’s got the drop on me!”

“You fuckin’ pussy!”

The man slowly lowered the pistol to the floor.

“Kick it this way!” O’Brien ordered.

The man kicked the gun. O’Brien picked it up. “I bet that if I have a ballistics test run on this, I’m wagering that this gun, or one very close to it, killed Father Callahan. What I don’t know is who fired the killing bullet…you…or Carlos Salazar.”

“Wasn’t me! Tell him Mr. Russo!”

“I don’t know, pal,” said O’Brien. “You were so very eager to take a shot at me. You could very well be the hit man responsible for three murders in the last three days. The priest was a close, personal friend of mine.” O’Brien stepped closer.

“I didn’t shoot no priest! Tell him Mr. Russo! Fucker’s crazy…gonna kill me!”

“Shut up!” snapped Russo

The sounds of sirens could be heard close to the hospital. O’Brien stepped to the window and looked out. More than a dozen squad cars were half circling the main entrance. He turned to Russo. “Here’s the plan. Russo, you’re going to call Detective Ron Hamilton. You’re going to tell him that you and Sergio are dropping all charges against me. The second thing: you’re going to pay for Barbie Beckman’s medical expenses. After she’s healed, you’re going to subsidize her college education.”

“And if I don’t.”

“I walked into your club, and I got to you. I got to you in your hospital room. I’ll get to you wherever you are. Now the last item. Where’s Carlos Salazar?”

“He calls us from time to time. He checks in when he wants to. I don’t have his number. Sometimes he drops by the club.”

O’Brien pointed the gun at the man in the corner. “Where’s Salazar?”

“Spends a lot of time at the Sixth Street Gym. Likes to shoot pool at a joint called Sticks in Little Havana, and likes to buy pussy at the high-end clubs. Take your pick.”

O’Brien placed both pistols under his belt, hiding them beneath his shirt. Opening the door to leave, he turned back to Russo. “Your time’s up. Call Hamilton.”

When the door closed behind O’Brien, Russo said to his bodyguard, “Get Salazar on the fuckin’ phone. Now!”