Read Online Lone Wolf #13: The Killing Run by Mike Barry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike Barry
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and knees, arched his back, came to a standing position, slapping dust from a pants leg. “It’s just too goddamned much,” he said. “It’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of in my life, but at least it’s all settled now, you see, there’s nothing here for you at all, so maybe you’ll just get the hell out of my house.”
Wulff sighed and hefted the gun, turned the business end around, put it deep in his palm, checked to make sure that it was on safety, and in one motion whipped it out in front of him, struck Cohen hard. The blow hit the man’s left cheekbone, and Wulff could hear the crack and splinter of bone even before Cohen’s shriek, but the shriek, high and piercing, had even more terror in it than the sound the man had made when the bullet had hit the wall. It was a satisfying sound, but Wulff was not interested in satisfaction right now; his rage had shifted to its older, more comfortable level. He kicked out, caught Cohen’s ankles behind his feet, and the man landed in a tumbling screaming heap at his feet, spread out all over the rug, holding onto the left side of his face and whimpering. Wulff stood over him, legs spread slightly, and showed the man the gun.
“Stop it,” he said. “Stop crying.”
Cohen looked up at him. His face was small and helpless. “It wasn’t much,” he said. “It was only a little.”
“But it was something.”
“Yes, it was. Yes, it was something.”
“It’s more than you would have admitted to unless I had broken your cheek. You could have told me that,” Wulff said almost gently. “You would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”
“I’m entitled,” Cohen said. “I worked hard. It wasn’t very much. It was the only fucking thing I had. You think anything else meant anything to me? It was all bullshit. But I worked, I worked hard to build up a little edge. You can’t take everything from me.”
“Where is it?”
Cohen said, “It’s in a safe-deposit box.”
“What?”
“It’s in a fucking safe-deposit box downtown.” His hand worked around in his back pocket, quivering, took out a ring of keys, thumbed one. “That’s it,” he said, “that’s the key right there. I think you broke something inside. I think that I’m bleeding in the brain.”
“You’ll live.”
“No. Really. You broke the cheekbone, but you might have gone into the brain tissue.”
“You don’t shut up, do you?” Wulff said. “Now, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I can’t get in there on my own.”
“I’ll go down tomorrow and pick it up and bring it back to you. You can wait right outside the bank.”
“I don’t intend to be here tomorrow.”
“Then there isn’t anything that I can do. I can’t do it tonight, and you sure as hell can’t break into a safe-deposit box.”
The man’s resilience was extraordinary, Wulff thought. Cohen’s house had been broken into, he had been fired at, beaten up, sustained a broken cheekbone, and screamed with irretrievable pain, and yet here, after all of it, he was still defiant. Credible, Wulff thought, because it could only be sustained, this defiance, in terms of a craziness that he was beginning to understand. It was the same craziness that drove Wulff—a refusal to admit the reality of circumstances, an inability to come to terms with the fact that they were beaten. Call it obsession, call it what you will, these little dealers and pushers and the big ones too were set apart. So was Wulff. Perhaps that was what held them together when all was done. “Give me the keys,” he said.
Cohen gave him a wondering, phased-out stare. “I told you, they won’t do any good.”
“Give them to me.”
Cohen extended the ring. Wulff took it, put it in his pocket, and then leveled the gun.
“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” the man said.
“I think I’d better,” Wulff said.
“You can’t kill me. I’ve cooperated with you in every regard, I’ve given you everything you wanted.”
“But
Wulff sighed and hefted the gun, turned the business end around, put it deep in his palm, checked to make sure that it was on safety, and in one motion whipped it out in front of him, struck Cohen hard. The blow hit the man’s left cheekbone, and Wulff could hear the crack and splinter of bone even before Cohen’s shriek, but the shriek, high and piercing, had even more terror in it than the sound the man had made when the bullet had hit the wall. It was a satisfying sound, but Wulff was not interested in satisfaction right now; his rage had shifted to its older, more comfortable level. He kicked out, caught Cohen’s ankles behind his feet, and the man landed in a tumbling screaming heap at his feet, spread out all over the rug, holding onto the left side of his face and whimpering. Wulff stood over him, legs spread slightly, and showed the man the gun.
“Stop it,” he said. “Stop crying.”
Cohen looked up at him. His face was small and helpless. “It wasn’t much,” he said. “It was only a little.”
“But it was something.”
“Yes, it was. Yes, it was something.”
“It’s more than you would have admitted to unless I had broken your cheek. You could have told me that,” Wulff said almost gently. “You would have saved us both a lot of trouble.”
“I’m entitled,” Cohen said. “I worked hard. It wasn’t very much. It was the only fucking thing I had. You think anything else meant anything to me? It was all bullshit. But I worked, I worked hard to build up a little edge. You can’t take everything from me.”
“Where is it?”
Cohen said, “It’s in a safe-deposit box.”
“What?”
“It’s in a fucking safe-deposit box downtown.” His hand worked around in his back pocket, quivering, took out a ring of keys, thumbed one. “That’s it,” he said, “that’s the key right there. I think you broke something inside. I think that I’m bleeding in the brain.”
“You’ll live.”
“No. Really. You broke the cheekbone, but you might have gone into the brain tissue.”
“You don’t shut up, do you?” Wulff said. “Now, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I can’t get in there on my own.”
“I’ll go down tomorrow and pick it up and bring it back to you. You can wait right outside the bank.”
“I don’t intend to be here tomorrow.”
“Then there isn’t anything that I can do. I can’t do it tonight, and you sure as hell can’t break into a safe-deposit box.”
The man’s resilience was extraordinary, Wulff thought. Cohen’s house had been broken into, he had been fired at, beaten up, sustained a broken cheekbone, and screamed with irretrievable pain, and yet here, after all of it, he was still defiant. Credible, Wulff thought, because it could only be sustained, this defiance, in terms of a craziness that he was beginning to understand. It was the same craziness that drove Wulff—a refusal to admit the reality of circumstances, an inability to come to terms with the fact that they were beaten. Call it obsession, call it what you will, these little dealers and pushers and the big ones too were set apart. So was Wulff. Perhaps that was what held them together when all was done. “Give me the keys,” he said.
Cohen gave him a wondering, phased-out stare. “I told you, they won’t do any good.”
“Give them to me.”
Cohen extended the ring. Wulff took it, put it in his pocket, and then leveled the gun.
“You’re not going to kill me, are you?” the man said.
“I think I’d better,” Wulff said.
“You can’t kill me. I’ve cooperated with you in every regard, I’ve given you everything you wanted.”
“But
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