Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

55

Ah, here he comes now …

Waddy Dwyer saw the broad shoulders and buzz-cut head of Rickie Powell bouncing out of the Continental Airlines doorway of Indianapolis International Airport. He wore dark, gold-framed Elvis sunglasses, and an Affliction T-shirt that resembled a full torso tattoo, as he was an MMA freak, though he’d been banned from some UK feeder league after three straight disqualifications. The boy did love those head butts.

Dwyer had switched cars to a smokestone metallic Mercury Grand Marquis. That Lincoln was a notch too flash for his liking. He’d reserved a full-size when he’d first arrived, but they’d upgraded him unasked to the luxury class ride. He hadn’t wanted to take the time and cause the notice that switching would have. But now the Lincoln may have been spotted, and besides, it stunk like petrol and ass sweat, takeaway food, and concentration-like all work vehicles did eventually. He flicked the lights and tapped the horn, and Rickie changed course toward him and then tossed his duffel bag in the backseat and slid into the front.

“ ’Ello, fruit,” Dwyer said by way of greeting.

“Waddy, you big queer, good to see ya.”

“You steal them glasses from Kanye West?”

“His little sister, actually,” Rickie said.

“What I figured,” Dwyer said, pulling away from the curb.

As Dwyer drove back to the city, he briefed Rickie on the particulars of the situation, from his original hire to the blown attempt, all the way through the fun and games of last night. He poured in every detail including all the private security involved. Rickie mostly looked out the window as he listened, but nodded like a metronome, clocking each fact, locking it all down in his mind.

“On the bright side,” Dwyer said, “Banco’s dead. I called as a concerned citizen looking to donate blood in case ‘my poor neighbor who was hurt in the fire needed a transfusion,’ and some nice lady in the administrator’s office told me there’d be no need.”

“You’ve always been clever with the incendiaries,” Rickie said.

Dwyer finished with a rundown on Frank Behr, booted cop, private investigator, and general pain in the bollocks, whom he’d done a background on that morning, and the very man who’d pulled Banco from the fire.

“This knob’s a regular National Peace Scout, ain’t he,” Rickie said. “You want to spike his computer with kiddie porn, fit him up?”

“His reputation’s been buggered for years, don’t think it would slow him down much, and he might have enough sway with the cops to avoid any real hassles,” Dwyer said, pulling over. “No, I’m going to sink a deep choke on ’im and keep it locked for about three fucking minutes.” It was an amount of time that caused death.

“You sure that’s a good idea, Waddy? You know what happens when pros lock up: everyone gets hurt. And he sounds like a strapping fucker,” Rickie said, laughing.

“They go down harder than anyone when they’re shot on and their legs is yanked out from under ’em,” Dwyer said through gritted teeth.

“Just taking the piss, man,” Rickie said. “Where’s your sense of humor?”

“Shit stirrer,” Dwyer said, turning off the car.

“What are we doing here?” Rickie asked of the massive military surplus store they’d parked in front of.

“Need to do a little shopping,” Dwyer said. “You got a cap you can wear? They’ve got cameras all over these places, and with them glasses they’ll probably think you’re some celebrity.”