One False Move (Myron Bolitar 5)

Win jammed his .44 into the man’s face. He was still smiling.

“Seems to me,” Win said, “that you just attacked me with a baseball bat. Seems to me that shooting you in the right eye would be viewed as perfectly justifiable.”

Myron had his gun out too. He ordered everyone to drop his bat. They did so. Then he had them lie on their stomachs, hands behind their heads, fingers locked. It took a minute or two, but everyone obeyed.

Nike/Reebok was now on his stomach too. He craned his neck and croaked, “Not again.”

Win cupped his ear with his free hand. “Pardon moi?”

“We ain’t gonna let you hurt that boy again.”

Win burst out laughing and nudged the man’s head with his toe. Myron caught Win’s eye and shook his head. Win shrugged and stopped.

“We don’t want to hurt anyone,” Myron said. “We’re just trying to find out who attacked Clay on that rooftop.”

“Why?” a voice asked. Myron turned to the screen door. A young man hobbled out on crutches. The cast protecting the tendon looked like some puffy sea creature in the process of swallowing his entire foot.

“Because everyone thinks Horace Slaughter did it,” Myron said.

Clay Jackson balanced himself on one leg. “So?”

“So did he?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because he’s been murdered.”

Clay shrugged. “So?”

Myron opened his mouth, closed it, sighed. “It’s a long story, Clay. I just want to know who cut your tendon.”

The kid shook his head. “I ain’t talking about it.”

“Why not?”

“They told me not to.”

Win spoke to the boy for the first time. “And you have chosen to obey them?”

The boy faced Win now. “Yeah.”

“The man who did this,” Win continued. “You find him scary?”

Clay’s Adam’s apple danced. “Shit, yeah.”

Win grinned. “I’m scarier.”

No one moved.

“Would you care for a demonstration?”

Myron said, “Win.”

Nike/Reebok decided to take a chance. He started to scramble up on his elbows. Win raised his foot and slammed an ax kick into the spot where the spine met the neck. Nike/Reebok slumped back to the ground like wet sand, his arms splayed. He did not move at all. Win rested his foot on the back of the man’s skull. The Nike hat slipped off. Win pushed the still face into the muddy ground as though he were grinding out a cigarette.

Myron said, “Win.”

“Stop it!” Clay Jackson cried. He looked to Myron for help, his eyes wide and desperate. “He’s my uncle, man. He’s just looking out for me.”

“And doing a wonderful job,” Win added. He stepped up, gaining leverage. The uncle’s face sank deeper into the soft earth. His features were fully embedded in the mud now, his mouth and nose clogged.

The big man could no longer breathe.

One of the other men started to rise. Win leveled his gun at the man’s head. “Important note,” Win said. “I’m not big on warning shots.”

The man slinked back down.

With his foot still firmly planted on the man’s head, Win turned his attention to Clay Jackson. The boy was trying to look tough, but he was visibly quaking. So, quite frankly, was Myron.

“You fear a possibility,” Win said to the boy, “when you should fear a certainty.”

Win raised his foot, bending his knee. He angled himself for the proper heel strike.

Myron started to move toward him, but Win froze him with a glance. Then Win gave that smile again, the little one. It was casual, slightly amused. The smile said that he would do it. The smile hinted that he might even enjoy it. Myron had seen the smile many times, yet it never failed to chill his blood.

“I’ll count to five,” Win told the boy. “But I’ll probably crush his skull before I reach three.”

“Two white guys,” Clay Jackson said quickly. “With guns. A big guy tied us up. He was young and looked like he worked out. The little old guy—he was the leader. He was the one who cut us.”

Win turned to Myron. He spread his hands. “Can we go now?”

Back in the car, Myron said, “You went too far.”

“Uh-hmm.”

“I mean it, Win.”

“You wanted the information. I got it.”

“Not like that I didn’t.”

“Oh, please. The man came at me with a baseball bat.”

“He was scared. He thought we were trying to hurt his nephew.”

Win played the air violin.

Myron shook his head. “The kid would have told us eventually.”

“Doubtful. This Sam character had the boy scared.”

“So you had to scare him more?”

“That would be a yes,” Win said.

“You can’t do that again, Win. You can’t hurt innocent people.”

“Uh-hmm,” Win said again. He checked his watch. “Are you through now? Is your need to feel morally superior satiated?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Win looked at him. “You know what I do,” he said slowly. “Yet you always call on me.”

Silence. The echo of Win’s words hung in the air, caught in the humidity like the car fumes. Myron gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles turned white.

They did not speak again until they reached Mabel Edwards’s house.

“I know you’re violent,” Myron said. He put the car in park and looked at his friend. “But for the most part you only hurt people who deserve it.”

Win said nothing.

“If the boy hadn’t talked, would you have gone through with your threat?”

“Not an issue,” Win said. “I knew the boy would talk.”

“But suppose he hadn’t.”

Win shook his head. “You are dealing with something out of the realm of possibility.”

“Humor me then.”

Win thought about it for a moment. “I never intentionally hurt innocent people,” he said. “But I never threaten idly either.”

“That’s not an answer, Win.”

Win looked at Mabel’s house. “Go inside, Myron. Time’s awasting.”

Mabel Edwards sat across from him in a small den. “So Brenda remembers the Holiday Inn,” she said.

A small yellowish trace of the bruise remained around her eye, but hey, it would go away before the soreness in Big Mario’s groin did. Mourners were still milling about, but the house was hushed now; reality set in with the darkness. Win was outside, keeping watch.