The Removers

Chapter Twelve

MARTELL STEPPED BACK, to a point from which he could cover us safely, and it was time for me to forget him, for the moment, and turn my attention to the other man, sitting behind the desk.

He was a big man, a dark man, a man who'd have to shave twice a day and use plenty of talcum powder between times. He was an ugly man, with too-small features in a face that had spread out around them; particularly below the chin. He had a pug nose that I'd seen before, in a much refined and more attractive edition, but the mouth and eyes weren't familiar-she must have got those from her mother's side of the family, lucky girl.

"Hello, Dad," Moira said.

The funny thing was, my first feeling was a kind of embarrassment I hadn't felt in years, not since I was young enough to be taking girls to dances, after one of which we'd gotten bogged down on a dirt road where we'd had no business being-none that we cared to talk about, anyway-and it wasn't until close to four in the morning that I got my date home, muddy and disheveled, to find her parents awake and waiting.

This man was Big Sal Fredericks: he was a racketeer and worse, but he was also a father, and his daughter was standing beside me, after a night in my company, with her wonderful red-gold hair, as usual, tumbling down around her ears, with her expensive kid pumps ruined by rocks and thorns, with her smart piquй dress wrinkled and far from clean. Even her youthful resilience had its limits, and she'd passed them during the night. At least her costume had.

She looked very young like that, like a dressed-up baby at the end of a tough birthday party, and I was ashamed of myself. I wouldn't have wanted another man to bring my daughter home like that-particularly not a man so much older than she was. There was a moment in which I really wanted to apologize, quite sincerely. But Sally Fredericks put me at ease at once.

He got up and looked at us. He walked around the desk and approached his daughter and looked her up and down. Then he struck her hard across the face with his open hand.

"You slut!" he said.

He turned to me. He used his fist on me. It was quite a punch, slow but with lots of power. I managed to roll with it or he might have broken my jaw. I went down. It seemed like a good idea to let him think he'd really hurt me, and as a matter of fact, he had. He still wasn't satisfied. He came over and kicked me hard in the side. Then he went back around the desk and sat down, rubbing his knuckles proudly.

After catching my breath, I looked at Martell, who jerked his head to let me know it was all right to get up. In a way, it was nice to be dealing with at least one professional. With amateurs, you've got to watch every minute that they don't do by mistake what they could never do on purpose. I know of at least one good operative, behaving himself perfectly, who was killed by a jittery farm boy with no more sense than to rest his finger on the trigger of a shotgun.

But with Martell around, you knew you'd never be killed accidentally-for what it was worth. I thought I could see a kind of malicious amusement in his eyes. He didn't mind a bit watching Fredericks work me over, knowing that, to stay in character, I had to take it meekly… I got up and looked at the kid standing there with her hand to her cheek and hatred in her eyes, as she glared at her father, behind the desk.

"Who's this creep?" Fredericks demanded. "Another of those barflies you keep picking up? Haven't I told you-',

"You've told me," she said. She took her hand down, revealing a reddened area along the cheekbone that might go away, but might also color up into a real bruise. Her voice was level and cold and adult. "I'm supposed to stay home all day and watch TV."

"Nobody's talking about what you do in the day!"

"All night, then," she said.

"I warned you what I'd do to any jerk who-" He drew a long breath, and said, "I've tried to do what I should. I've tried to be both parents to you since your mother-"

"Let's not bring Mother into this!"

He said, "I've sent you to the best schools, given you money and clothes and cars, and what do you do? First you get yourself mixed up with a married fellow and then you come back here and shame me by trying to act like the town tramp-my daughter! Why didn't you stay back east like I told you and find yourself some nice socialite fellow your own age-"

"I did," she said, "but you know, it's funny how they always seemed to lose interest when they learned my dad was Sal Fredericks, the big hotel man. I guess there's kind of a prejudice against the hotel business these days."

He flushed, and controlled himself. "Why do you do it, baby?" he asked, and for a moment he was human and I could feel a little sorry for him. "Why do you do it? Look at you, my daughter that I've tried to bring up nice, like a lady, standing there looking like you'd been sleeping in your clothes-"

"I have," she said bluntly. "With him. Twice."

We weren't there any longer, Martell and I. They were alone in the room, the two of them, swinging at each other with spiked clubs, drawing real blood. She didn't look at me as she said it, and he didn't look at me as he heard it; he'd get to me later.

"Why, baby?" he asked again.

"Because he was the only man I could find who had the guts! Who wasn't scared of you!"

"We'll see about his guts," Fredericks said. "Now you go home and clean yourself up-"

She said, "You're not going to touch him! You're not going to lay a finger on him!"

He said, "Fenn, take her home!"

There was a slight hesitation. I didn't look in Martell's direction.

He said, "Mr. Fredericks, I don't think I ought to leave right now."

"What the hell do you… Oh, this one? Hell, I can handle this beanpole Casanova. You saw-"

"Yeah, I saw," Martell said, and I knew he was squirming inside like a hooked angleworm. He didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay and supervise my fate. But it was his turn to remain in character. He tried once more, however. "My advice-"

Fredericks flushed. "Who the hell's asking your advice, punk? Take her home. And, Fenn…"

Martell's voice was very soft. "Yes, Mr. Fredericks?"

"Don't go inside the door. I heard all about you long before you got here."

"Yes, Mr. Fredericks."

He came across the room stiffly. Moira seemed to come out on her hate dream with a start. The mark of her father's hand was still red on her cheek, but her eyes were suddenly dark and remorseful as she glanced in my direction.

She'd used me to hurt the man behind the desk, without thinking of me. Now she was realizing what she'd done to me-or thought She'd done: the outcome hadn't really been changed much by her angry words. Fredericks hadn't brought me here to welcome me into the family.

I said, "Run along, kid."

"I won't leave-"

"Go on," I said, wishing she'd hurry up and get Mar-tell out of there. As long as he was around, I was in serious trouble.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I didn't mean… I just kind of flipped, I guess."

"Sure. Now go."

She started to speak again, and checked herself. Martell was waiting. She went up to him, and they left the room together. Before the door closed, I saw a man standing guard outside, the man who'd brought us down the hall.

It still wasn't good, but with Martell gone it didn't worry me too much. I'd met Fredericks; I knew where I stood with Martell; I'd learned all I could expect to learn here. It was time to stage a disengagement, as we used to say in the Army.

Fredericks was staring at me hard over the desk. He said, "So you've got guts, have you? We'll see about your guts!"

I watched him get up and walk around the table and come to me, and I couldn't help being aware of my aching ribs and throbbing jaw. These hoodlums walk so big and talk so loud.

He said, "That isn't the only thing we'll see about. We'll fix you so you'll be no more trouble to young girls."

It wasn't unexpected, it was the way his mind would work, but it didn't help establish him in my mind as a citizen to be protected and preserved. He came to me and slapped me across the face-slapped me, for God's sake! It was pitiful. It was irritating. You get tired of being the cold, impersonal, machine-like hunter of men sometimes; you think of the fun it would be to do one strictly for kicks.

My hand was in my pocket, and the little knife was in my hand. He slapped me again, and I'd had enough of Salvatore Frederici, and I grinned at him pleasantly, the little man who was dead and didn't know it. All I had to do was bring it out, flick it open, and insert it in the right place. By any standards of judgment, he'd lived quite long enough. My mind gave the signal. My hand didn't move. I couldn't do it.

I couldn't do it. I heard Mac's voice: It's a war of sorts and you can consider yourselves soldiers of sort… I couldn't do it just because I was fed up with the guy. I couldn't do it because he'd slapped Moira. I couldn't even do it because, in some way that I didn't know about yet, he was undoubtedly the man responsible for turning the ranch where my children lived into an armed camp with an atmosphere of terror.

Don't misunderstand me. He was on the list, and if I ever got a chance at him in the line of duty, I wouldn't hesitate. In fact, from now on I'd be looking for the chance. But I didn't need to kill him to get away-at least I didn't think so-and I couldn't kill him just because he'd made me lose my temper. It wasn't a sufficient reason. It wasn't what I'd been trained for. It wasn't what I was here for, to avenge injuries to my tender pride…