There was a problem, though.
Robbie had “gone off the reservation” a little.
There was one thing he—and he alone—had sent Wally out to do that the Other One didn’t know about. Wally, Robbie figured, was the real muscle, the guy willing to snap necks. As it happened, Robbie had one particular, long, skinny neck he wanted to see snapped. Wally knew that Robbie was expecting a big payoff. A lot of money. Robbie had to promise a good bit of it to Wally in exchange for this one task. It would cost him plenty, but it was worth it. As for Wally, he just seemed like a robot with thick glasses and a dumb mustache. He acted like he’d do anything for money, and Robbie was about to get some. Get this done, he had told him, and I’ll make it worth the effort out of my end. Wally had seemed fine with the arrangement, even though an exact dollar amount hadn’t been settled on. It didn’t seem to matter. For one, Wally seemed to enjoy his work. And anyway, Wally was responsible for transporting whatever money was promised to Robbie. Wally knew he’d get paid. Robbie had sent him on his way with a photo and an address.
Simple.
But then Wally had been gone all night without answering him back, until now. And now it seemed like maybe there was someone else messaging him from Wally’s phone.
The Other One.
Oh, please, no.
He felt the phone buzz in his hand. Another message had come in.
Computer
Robbie swallowed hard and pulled himself off the couch. He was in a T-shirt and shorts, both damp with sweat. He grabbed for his cigarettes and sat down hard at the computer desk. The laptop whirred, blinked awake, and went through its motions. After a few seconds, the home screen appeared. The wallpaper was what Microsoft had assigned, a crisp photo of a mountain field in Switzerland. He drew deep on a cigarette and blew out slowly. He had figured out over time that something on his end alerted the Other One when he was online. After a few seconds, the black box appeared. Inky-green text slid into view.
What did you do, Robbie?
Robbie stared at the text, his fingertips pulsating. The Other One had never used his name. Not once. He never really referred to him at all. He just gave directions and answered questions.
What?
You sent my man on an unauthorized errand. My man betrayed me, and I know he did so at your direction. You betrayed me, Robbie. Now that man is dead, and you are the one who will suffer for it.
What? I don’t know what you—Before he could finish the sentence, another line appeared.
My man is dead, but the man you sent him to kill is just fine, and talking to the police, perhaps still as we speak. I have eyes and ears everywhere, Robbie, and I know what you tried to do and what happened. Now you will pay.
Whose dead? What the fuck?
My man is WHO’S dead, Robbie, you ignorant, perfidious worm. Stop writing and read.
Robbie stared open mouthed, the cigarette burning to the filter in an ashtray. His hands went limp.
I know everything, and with that knowledge, I tried to protect you. I offered you the best possible outcome and a considerable sum of money to boot. You threw it away.
Robbie managed to punch out you dont, but then text started streaking across the screen.
Of course I do, Robbie DeSantos. I know what you wanted. I know what you’ve always wanted. You wanted your mother punished. We accomplished that. I groomed her and cosseted her back to New York, a reformed whore from a storefront church, and she was punished. You wanted that, and I gave it to you.
And Joe. You wanted Joe to suffer also, and we accomplished that, didn’t we? Lois first, Joe’s fat, perfumed girlfriend next, and both of them so perfectly pinned on Joe. All we needed was blood, Joe’s blood for all the caring world, and I directed you to it. For once, for all time, I allowed you to wipe the sanctimonious grin from his face. Now you have pissed on all of it. Alas, I should have known.
Robbie’s mouth went dry. He felt imprisoned in the black desk chair.
Known what?
That what I offered wasn’t enough for you. You wanted one last person punished, didn’t you, Robbie? That’s why news reached me this morning, news more complete than I’d guess you could imagine. News brought to me by men I pay to keep six steps ahead of worms like you. You only knew one of the men I direct, Robbie. You turned him against me and sent him out to murder. Well, my man did murder a person, a vagrant. That vagrant is of no consequence. The man who survived, though? You knew that man, likely from your past, didn’t you, Robbie? You hated that man.
Robbie’s mind raced. “Vagrant” meant nothing to him. The deal with Wally wasn’t about killing some vagrant. Robbie had tracked down Nate Porter to his address in Manhattan, a task as easy as thumbing through the white pages. All Wally had to do was case him, get in, and get it done—just like he had with Robbie’s mother and Joe’s ex-girlfriend. The only difference with this job was that he didn’t need a vial and a dropper to leave blood behind. Joe was already on his way to prison for two murders. Wally was no one. He would never be suspected of Nate Porter’s murder.