Persuader Part 8

There was another pause. The surf crashed and boomed outside the windows.

"I'm a cautious man," Beck said. "And I don't want to offend you."

"But?"

"But I'm wondering who you are, exactly."

"I'm the guy who saved your boy's other ear," I said.

Beck glanced at Duke, who stepped forward smartly and took my gla.s.s away. He used the same awkward pincer movement with his thumb and his index finger, right down at the base.

"And now you've got my fingerprints," I said. "Nice and clear."

Beck nodded again, like a guy making a judicious decision. He pointed at the guns, where they lay on the table.

"Nice weapons," he said.

I said nothing back. He moved his hand and nudged one of them with his knuckles. Then he sent it sliding across the wood toward me. The heavy steel made a hollow reverberant sound on the oak.

"You want to tell me why there's a mark scratched against one of the chambers?"

I listened to the ocean.

"I don't know why," I said. "They came to me like that."

"You bought them used?"

"In Arizona," I said.

"From a gun store?"

"From a gun show," I said.

"Why?"

"I don't like background checks," I said.

"Didn't you ask about the scratches?"

"I a.s.sumed they were reference marks," I said. "I a.s.sumed some gun nut had tested them and marked the most accurate chamber. Or the least accurate."

"Chambers differ?"

"Everything differs," I said. "That's the nature of manufacturing."

"Even with eight-hundred-dollar revolvers?"

"Depends on how discriminating you want to be. You feel the need to measure down to the hundred-thousandths of an inch, then everything in the world is different."

"Does it matter?"

"Not to me," I said. "I point a gun at somebody, I don't care which individual blood cell I'm targeting."

He sat quiet for a moment. Then he went into his pocket and came out with a bullet.

s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s case, dull lead point. He stood it upright in front of him like a miniature artillery sh.e.l.l. Then he knocked it over and rolled it under his fingers on the table. Then he placed it carefully and flicked it with his fingertip so that it rolled all the way along to me. It came in a wide graceful curve. It made a slow droning sound on the wood. I let it roll off the end of the table and caught it in my hand. It was an unjacketed Remington.44 Magnum. Heavy, probably more than three hundred grains. It was a brutal thing.

Probably cost the best part of a dollar. It was warm from his pocket.

"You ever played Russian roulette?" he asked.

"I need to get rid of the car I stole," I said.

"We've already gotten rid of it," he said.

"Where?"

"Where it won't be found."

He went quiet. I said nothing. Just looked at him, like I was thinking Is that the sort of thing an ordinary businessman does? As well as registering his limousines through sh.e.l.l corporations? And instantly recalling the retail on a Colt Anaconda? And trapping a guest's prints on a whiskey tumbler? "You ever played Russian roulette?" he asked again.

"No," I said. "I never did."

"I'm under attack," he said. "And I just lost two guys. Time like this I need to be adding guys, not losing them."

I waited, five seconds, ten. I made out like I was struggling with the concept.

"You asking to hire me?" I said. "I'm not sure I can stick around."

"I'm not asking anything," he said. "I'm deciding. You look like a useful guy. You could have that five thousand dollars to stay, not to go. Maybe."

I said nothing.

"Hey, if I want you, I've got you," he said. "There's a dead cop down in Ma.s.sachusetts and I've got your name and I've got your prints."

"But?"

"But I don't know who you are."

"Get used to it," I said. "How do you know who anybody is?"

"I find out. I test people. Suppose I asked you to kill another cop? As a gesture of good faith?"

"I'd say no. I'd repeat that the first one was an unfortunate accident I regret very much.

And I'd start wondering about what kind of an ordinary businessman you really are."

"My business is my business. It needn't concern you."

I said nothing.

"Play Russian roulette with me," he said.

"What would that prove?"

"A federal agent wouldn't do it."

"Why are you worried about federal agents?"

"That needn't concern you, either."

"I'm not a federal agent," I said.

"So prove it. Play Russian roulette with me. I mean, I'm already playing Russian roulette with you, in a manner of speaking, just letting you into my house without knowing exactly who you are."

"I saved your son."

"And I'm very grateful for that. Grateful enough that I'm still talking to you in a civilized manner. Grateful enough that I might yet offer you sanctuary and employment. Because I like a man who gets the job done."

"I'm not looking for work," I said. "I'm looking to hide out for maybe forty-eight hours and then move on."

"We'd look after you. n.o.body would ever find you. You'd be completely safe here. If you pa.s.s the test."

"Russian roulette is the test?"

"The infallible test," he said. "In my experience."

I said nothing. The room was silent. He leaned forward in his chair.

"You're either with me or against me," he said. "Either way, you're about to prove it. I sincerely hope you choose wisely."

Duke moved against the door. The floor creaked under his feet. I listened to the ocean.

Spray smashed upward and the wind whipped it and heavy foam drops arced lazily through the air and tapped against the window gla.s.s. The seventh wave came booming in, heavier than the others. I picked up the Anaconda in front of me. Duke pulled a gun out from under his jacket and pointed it at me in case I had something other than roulette on my mind. He had a Steyr SPP, which is most of a Steyr TMP submachine gun cut down into pistol form. It's a rare piece from Austria and it was big and ugly in his hand. I looked away from it and concentrated on the Colt. I thumbed the bullet into a random chamber and closed the cylinder and spun it free. The ratchet purred in the silence.

"Play," Beck said.

I spun the cylinder again and raised the revolver and touched the muzzle to my temple.

The steel was cold. I looked Beck straight in the eye and held my breath and eased the trigger back. The cylinder turned and the hammer c.o.c.ked. The action was smooth, like silk rubbing on silk. I pulled the trigger all the way. The hammer fell. There was a loud click. I felt the smack of the hammer pulse all the way through the steel to the side of my head. But I felt nothing else. I breathed out and lowered the gun and held it with the back of my hand resting on the table. Then I turned my hand over and pulled my finger out of the trigger guard.

"Your turn," I said.

"I just wanted to see you do it," he said.

I smiled.

"You want to see me do it again?" I said.

Beck said nothing. I picked up the gun again and spun the cylinder and let it slow and stop. Raised the muzzle to my head. The barrel was so long my elbow was forced up and out. I pulled the trigger, fast and decisive. There was a loud click in the silence. It was the sound of an eight-hundred-dollar piece of precision machinery working exactly the way it should. I lowered the gun and spun the cylinder a third time. Raised the gun. Pulled the trigger. Nothing. I did it a fourth time, fast. Nothing. I did it a fifth time, faster. Nothing.

"OK," Beck said.

"Tell me about Oriental rugs," I said.

"Nothing much to tell," he said. "They go on the floor. People buy them. Sometimes for a lot of money."

I smiled. Raised the gun again.

"Odds are six to one," I said. I spun the cylinder a sixth time. The room went completely silent. I put the gun to my head. Pulled the trigger. I felt the smack of the hammer falling on an empty chamber. Nothing else.

"Enough," Beck said.

I lowered the Colt and cracked the cylinder and dumped the bullet out on the table. Lined it up carefully and rolled it all the way back to him. It droned on the wood. He stopped it with the heel of his hand and sat there and said nothing for two or three minutes. He was looking at me like I was an animal in a zoo. Like maybe he wished there were some bars between him and me.

"Richard tells me you were a military cop," he said.

"Thirteen years," I said.

"Were you good?"

"Better than those bozos you sent to pick him up."

"He speaks well of you."

"So he should," I said. "I saved his a.s.s. At considerable cost to myself."

"You going to be missed anywhere?"

"No."

"Family?"

"Haven't got any."

"Job?"

"I can't go back to it now," I said. "Can I?"

He played with the bullet for a moment, rolling it under the pad of his index finger. Then he scooped it up into his palm.

"Who can I call?" he said.

"For what?"

He jiggled the bullet in his palm, like shaking dice.

"An employment recommendation," he said. "You had a boss, right?"