The Killing Kind

22

Eric Purkhiser wiped his palms on his thrift-store dress pants and watched the Missouri countryside roll by as the limo Pendleton’s sent for him drove north on Route 13. It was his first time in a limousine. He’d always thought that they’d be nicer; they looked so swanky from the outside. But the interior was dated-black lacquer trimmed in pink and purple. The air inside reeked of cheap air freshener. There wasn’t even any booze-just two bottles of off-brand water where the bar should be.

Not that Purkhiser would have poured himself a drink. His stomach was a wreck already. The collar of his dress shirt felt like it was slowly tightening around his neck. He tugged at it with one finger and forced himself to take deep breaths. For what felt like the hundredth time, he ran through the plan his mystery savior had laid out yesterday and told himself he’d be just fine.

“Talk me through it one more time,” Hendricks had said.

“Dude, we’ve been through this five times already!” Purkhiser whined. “What more do you need to know?”

“I need to know you’re up for this. I need to know that come tomorrow, you’ll play your part. And I need to know you haven’t forgotten any detail that’ll get us both killed. Now talk me through it one more time.”

They’d been going around like this for the better part of an hour-Purkhiser sitting at his kitchen table and sipping from a can of Bud, Hendricks pacing back and forth across the yellowed linoleum.

“The limo will be here to pick me up at one p.m. They offered to pick me up earlier and comp my lunch-but as instructed, I declined. Thanks a fucking bunch, by the way- I mean, why would I want all the four-star cuisine I can eat when I got a fridge full of mustard and batteries right here?”

Hendricks doubted the Pendleton’s restaurants were anyone’s idea of four-star cuisine, but he held his tongue on that count, instead saying, “The Outfit’s instructions weren’t to whack you at your ceremony-they were to make it public. Lunch at a fancy restaurant might strike the guy who’s here to kill you as plenty public, and a hell of a lot easier to pull off than in a banquet room that’ll likely be full of guards.”

“All right, all right,” he said, showing Hendricks his hands. “No lunch.”

“What happens after you arrive?”

“I arrive no later than four p.m. They bring me in via the employee entrance and take me through the service corridor that serves as backstage for the banquet hall.”

“Then?” prompted Hendricks.

“The head of the casino does his little jerk-off dog-andpony show, they roll an it-could-happen-to-you video that ends with me hitting the jackpot-can you believe they built that fucking slot machine with a camera to capture the big moment?-and then they bring out the big check. I get up, accept it, and then there’s gonna be a balloon drop. I hear-tell there’s gonna be a bunch of giveaways hidden in the balloons-free meals, concert tickets, fifty bucks in chips, even a coupon for a weekend stay in the Mark Twain Suite-their way of guaranteeing the seats get filled. People are gonna go apeshit once those babies drop.”

“That’s when the Outfit’s goon will make his move. Given that they want to make a scene, and there’s no screening on the way into the casino, we have to assume the worst, which in this case would be a fully automatic firearm, likely stowed in a briefcase or piece of luggage to blend in with the hotel crowd. Once they drop the balloons, you’re to get down and stay down, understand? I’ll try to neutralize the guy before he ever gets a shot off, but better safe than sorry.”

“I still don’t understand why I’m not wearing a bulletproof vest,” said Purkhiser.

“Well, for one, Eric, you don’t need one-you’ve got me,” replied Hendricks. Purkhiser frowned-not entirely certain he believed that. “And for two, any pro worth his salt would spot its bulk a mile away, in which case he’d just scotch his plans to hit you then, and whack you later.”

“Eddie,” he halfheartedly corrected. “And I’m just saying, this don’t seem right to me. Maybe we should call the whole thing off-hole up somewhere and let the bastard come to us.”

“Eddie,” Hendricks echoed. “Right. Believe me when I tell you, Eddie, it’s a hell of a lot easier to keep you upright if we know where and when your killer’s gonna strike. You take that away from me-restore his element of surprise-and it’s a coin toss whether you live or die. But hey, you’re the gambler-you wanna roll the dice?”

“Jesus, dude,” said Purkhiser sullenly, “I was just askin’. No need to be a dick about it.”

“You didn’t pay me to be nice,” Hendricks said. “In fact, you haven’t paid me yet at all. You get the transfer paperwork I requested?”

Purkhiser fished a crookedly folded piece of paper from his back pocket. Four pieces, actually, of that translucent too-thin onionskin paper that’s pulled from stacks of carbon-transfer duplicates. Hendricks thumbed through them: all fine print and Purkhiser’s initials, the last page signed, dated, and featuring the number to one of Hendricks’s accounts in the Seychelles, listed here as Purkhiser’s own. Well, Palomera’s, according to the paperwork-not that it mattered. What did matter is that by the close of business Thursday, the day of Purkhiser’s ceremony, six million dollars-less taxes-would be transferred to Hendricks’s account.

“Looks like this is all in order,” Hendricks said. “Which means as long as you do as I’ve said, everything is going to be just fine. You have my word.”

The limo bypassed the casino’s main entrance and pulled into the employee garage around back. The driver opened the rear door, but a sense of impending doom kept

Purkhiser in his seat.

“Sir?” the driver said. “We’re here.”

Purkhiser swallowed hard and clenched his jaw, and then he stepped out of the car.