Read Online Lone Wolf #13: The Killing Run by Mike Barry - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mike Barry
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man.
“Don’t,” Cohen said, “don’t kill me.” Drool came down his chin in uneven little spatters. “I didn’t do anything. I tell you, I didn’t do anything to you.”
Wulff put a shot into the wall above Cohen’s head. The idea had been to shake him up, to convince him with that one shot that he was in serious trouble and he had better talk, but Wulff had not intended the shot to come as close as it did; it just barely missed the man, and Cohen’s face broke into something past fear, absolutely past sensation of any kind, and onto it came a loose, hanging kind of smile. He must have thought he was dead. “Shit,” Cohen said, “shit.”
“Where’s the stuff?”
“Where’s what stuff?” Cohen said. He turned the smile full on Wulff, a full, curious, beaming smile with much attention on it but little comprehension. His eyes were crazed. “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cohen said. “You shot and killed me, remember? I’m dead now. But you can’t follow me into the afterlife. That isn’t fucking fair at all.”
“Listen, Cohen …”
“No,” Cohen said with a slow, awful reasonableness. “Fair is fair. You come into my house, you back me up, you scare the shit out of me, and then you start shooting, and finally you kill me, and that’s the end of it, you understand? I’m out of it now.”
“I want—”
“You can’t do a fucking thing to me,” Cohen said. “You’ve killed me, and I’ve died, and I’m not here anymore. You absolutely cannot push a man past a certain point.” He came down against the wall in a slow, clinging drop, his feet extended, back sliding down with a squeaking noise, and fell onto the floor with an astonished expression as his rear collided. “I’m not dead,” he said. “Shit, I’m not dead.”
“Where’s the stuff?”
“If I were dead, I wouldn’t
be
here still,” Cohen said meditatively. “If there’s some kind of an afterlife, it stands to reason that it wouldn’t be exactly like what we’ve got here. Doesn’t that sound reasonable? Because there would be no point to it at all, unless it was different.” He nodded, flicked a little sweat away from the edge of his nose. “So the afterlife would be different, and if there was no such thing as an afterlife, well, then, I would be in oblivion, wouldn’t I? Instead of being right here. So you didn’t kill me. That was just a wrong guess, a poor matter of opinion.” He looked up at Wulff with an assumed expression of benignity then. “All right,” he said, “what do you want of me?”
“I’m doing Díaz’s business.”
“That would figure. That sure as hell would fall into place. Someone ought to do the son-of-a-bitch’s business. He sure as hell couldn’t have done it himself.”
“Where’s your cache?”
Cohen looked up at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve got some drugs here. A hell of a lot, at least, according to Díaz, but I’ll take what I can. Where are they?”
Cohen said, “You’ve got this all wrong.”
“I don’t have anything wrong.”
“I don’t have any fucking cache. I have a little private supply, that’s all. When I need some more, I know where I can score. But I don’t have anything in the house. In this town? No way.” His eyes seemed suddenly laughing and relieved. “Hell, is
that
what you came here for? Is that what Díaz expected? The bastard was even stupider than I thought.”
“I want the stuff.”
“I hope you killed him,” Cohen said seriously. “I really hope that you did that; a guy so stupid doesn’t deserve to live. Really? He really thought I had smack in the house? That’s the goddamnedest thing you ever heard. Hey, you mind if I stand up now? It’s pretty tough to be in a position like this, and as you can see, we’ve got no quarrel at all. Nothing’s wrong here, mister, you’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.” Cohen rolled over easily on his palms
“Don’t,” Cohen said, “don’t kill me.” Drool came down his chin in uneven little spatters. “I didn’t do anything. I tell you, I didn’t do anything to you.”
Wulff put a shot into the wall above Cohen’s head. The idea had been to shake him up, to convince him with that one shot that he was in serious trouble and he had better talk, but Wulff had not intended the shot to come as close as it did; it just barely missed the man, and Cohen’s face broke into something past fear, absolutely past sensation of any kind, and onto it came a loose, hanging kind of smile. He must have thought he was dead. “Shit,” Cohen said, “shit.”
“Where’s the stuff?”
“Where’s what stuff?” Cohen said. He turned the smile full on Wulff, a full, curious, beaming smile with much attention on it but little comprehension. His eyes were crazed. “Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cohen said. “You shot and killed me, remember? I’m dead now. But you can’t follow me into the afterlife. That isn’t fucking fair at all.”
“Listen, Cohen …”
“No,” Cohen said with a slow, awful reasonableness. “Fair is fair. You come into my house, you back me up, you scare the shit out of me, and then you start shooting, and finally you kill me, and that’s the end of it, you understand? I’m out of it now.”
“I want—”
“You can’t do a fucking thing to me,” Cohen said. “You’ve killed me, and I’ve died, and I’m not here anymore. You absolutely cannot push a man past a certain point.” He came down against the wall in a slow, clinging drop, his feet extended, back sliding down with a squeaking noise, and fell onto the floor with an astonished expression as his rear collided. “I’m not dead,” he said. “Shit, I’m not dead.”
“Where’s the stuff?”
“If I were dead, I wouldn’t
be
here still,” Cohen said meditatively. “If there’s some kind of an afterlife, it stands to reason that it wouldn’t be exactly like what we’ve got here. Doesn’t that sound reasonable? Because there would be no point to it at all, unless it was different.” He nodded, flicked a little sweat away from the edge of his nose. “So the afterlife would be different, and if there was no such thing as an afterlife, well, then, I would be in oblivion, wouldn’t I? Instead of being right here. So you didn’t kill me. That was just a wrong guess, a poor matter of opinion.” He looked up at Wulff with an assumed expression of benignity then. “All right,” he said, “what do you want of me?”
“I’m doing Díaz’s business.”
“That would figure. That sure as hell would fall into place. Someone ought to do the son-of-a-bitch’s business. He sure as hell couldn’t have done it himself.”
“Where’s your cache?”
Cohen looked up at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve got some drugs here. A hell of a lot, at least, according to Díaz, but I’ll take what I can. Where are they?”
Cohen said, “You’ve got this all wrong.”
“I don’t have anything wrong.”
“I don’t have any fucking cache. I have a little private supply, that’s all. When I need some more, I know where I can score. But I don’t have anything in the house. In this town? No way.” His eyes seemed suddenly laughing and relieved. “Hell, is
that
what you came here for? Is that what Díaz expected? The bastard was even stupider than I thought.”
“I want the stuff.”
“I hope you killed him,” Cohen said seriously. “I really hope that you did that; a guy so stupid doesn’t deserve to live. Really? He really thought I had smack in the house? That’s the goddamnedest thing you ever heard. Hey, you mind if I stand up now? It’s pretty tough to be in a position like this, and as you can see, we’ve got no quarrel at all. Nothing’s wrong here, mister, you’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.” Cohen rolled over easily on his palms
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