After Death(3)
Although Michael would prefer to be an ordinary man, he is unique by any standard, and no return to a normal life is possible for him. He proceeds.
The three men are gathered at the kitchen island on which packets of hundred-dollar bills are stacked high. The thickness of the packets suggests each contains ten thousand dollars. Together, the ordered piles must amount to at least three or four million. Tall and handsome and white-haired, Carter Woodbine is dressed in a midnight-blue silk robe over matching pajamas. His associates, Rudy Santana and Delman Harris, are fresh from the street, their duffel bag emptied of cash.
They are confident that the building’s security system cannot be breached without triggering an alarm, just as they are certain that no one can know about this meeting.
When Michael steps into the room, the three men’s astonishment is so great as to preclude an immediate reaction. Their heads turn in perfect synchronization, their expressions as ghastly as if he’s someone they murdered and is now risen from the grave, though in fact he is a total stranger to them.
Harris is the first to shrug out of the mesmeric moment. He draws a Heckler & Koch .45 from a shoulder holster under his gray leather sport coat. Rudy Santana’s thigh-length black denim jacket hangs open, and he retrieves a pistol from a hip sheath.
Because Michael has no weapon in hand and enters smiling and appears so self-assured as to be mentally deficient, the thugs are uncertain—hard-eyed and tight-lipped, but at the same time puzzled and wondering if drawing their guns will prove foolish.
Michael says, “I’m unarmed and alone. I prefer to avoid hurting anyone. I just need money. Give me half a million, and you keep the rest.”
A KITCHEN CONVERSATION
If the definition of murder requires that the accused must have squeezed the trigger or thrust the knife or swung the machete, then of the three men gathered around the kitchen island, Rudy Santana is by far the most prodigious perpetrator of homicide among them. If the meaning of murder is expanded to include anyone who finances illegal enterprises that by their nature involve vicious business rivalries and lethal violence, the laurels go to Carter Woodbine. For thirty years, the attorney has provided the seed money for new gangs that splinter from traditional criminal organizations, and he has used his political influence to spare his associates prosecution. He lobbies to keep the southern border of the United States open for the transport of narcotics and to facilitate the human trafficking that ensures a supply of indentured young women for brothels and the tenderest of children for men who yearn to have them.
Even with all the sources of information available to Michael, he isn’t able to attribute a scrupulously exact number of murders to either man. Besides, the total increases without surcease—by the month in Santana’s case, by the week for Woodbine.
The accomplishments of Delman Harris are more easily assessed. Michael is pretty sure that Mr. Harris has committed between seven and ten murders, a fraction of the deaths that can be blamed on either Woodbine or Santana. Perhaps the mere sprinkle of corpses he has left in his wake embarrasses him, leaves him feeling inferior to these other men, which might explain why he, rather than Santana, not only draws his gun but rashly points it at Michael, stiff-armed, finger on the trigger, and demands, “Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m nobody.”
Woodbine quietly disagrees. “You’re somebody.”
“I’m not any kind of cop,” Michael assures them.
“He don’t look like nobody’s homeboy,” Santana says.
“Shit,” says Harris, “he looks trick.”
“Pussy,” Santana agrees.
“You walked right in,” Woodbine says.
Michael shrugs. “You should complain to your security company.”
“Fucker won’t walk right out,” Harris promises.
Santana looks puzzled. “Say what? Security company?”
“Stall it. Cut the roo-rah,” Woodbine tells them, resorting to their vernacular. “Rudy, find out if he’s righteous when he says he’s alone.”
Rudy Santana gives Michael the red eye. He’s furious but in control of himself. He leaves the kitchen, on the hunt.
Harris is jumpy. He wants Michael to look down the barrel of his pistol and think about it. His gun hand twitches a little. His breathing is too fast and shallow.
Woodbine is calm, and he’s not faking it. He stands with his hands in the pockets of his robe, studying his uninvited guest. He doesn’t look concerned. Because nothing truly bad has ever happened to him, he assumes that nothing ever will. The world that is being remade by the greatest concentration of power in history is becoming a world that breeds narcissists with delusions of immortality, the like of which humanity has never seen and is not likely to survive.
Santana’s absence makes Harris nervous, as if he thinks his partner might not come back. “You dumb prick, comin’ in here, sayin’ peel me off half a mil. How much snow you put up your nose?”
“Wait for Rudy,” Woodbine says.
Three minutes pass in silence. Santana returns. “Everything is everything. Apartment and office clear. Elevators locked. If this shithead came with others, they won’t be hangin’ out downstairs, waitin’ for an invitation.”
“Pat him down,” Woodbine says.
Santana warns Michael, “Give me a reason.”