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Mark Murphy's stories have appeared in Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine and on Mysterical-E. He has a blog, http://murphyscraw.blogspot.com. The Highest Return by Mark Murphy
It took some doing, but Henderson Hample always prided himself on his persistence, and he finally found his man sitting in a curtained booth in a dimly lit restaurant on the outskirts of town.
"What're you doing here?" the man asked after Hample poked his head through the curtains.
"Mr. Orloff, you don't know me, but -- "
"The hell I don't. I read the business pages as much as anyone else. More to the point, how do you know me? I've always managed to keep my name out of the paper."
"That's quite right," Hample said, giving him a slight bow and a small, self-satisfied smile. "But let's just say that I've heard about you, and where I might find you, and from what I've heard, I think you can help me. You see, I have some business to discuss."
"And I'm expecting someone in a few minutes." Orloff gestured toward the place setting opposite him. Hample, misunderstanding, took a seat there.
Orloff looked at Hample and his sappy smile and thought for a moment.
"All right. But make it quick."
Hample nodded. "This concerns a business rival. Someone whose company I've been trying to take over for years. And we've gotten to the point where, given the current economy and the general business climate, only one of us can survive. I, of course, want that someone to be me. So I'd like to hire someone to, um, bump him off."
The slang sounded silly and patronizing, and his wink as he said it didn't help any.
Footsteps approached, and both men turned toward the curtains. The steps halted just outside. The bottom of the curtains was about two feet from the floor, and a woman's bare, shapely legs were visible, along with baby blue high heels. She had obviously heard their voices and was hesitating.
Hample got up. "Maybe I'd better -- "
"No, sit down. Might as well hear you out." Orloff turned to the curtains again and raised his voice. "Honey, could you come back in maybe five, ten minutes? Fix your face or something?"
Without a word the baby blue shoes reversed direction and walked away.
Orloff said, "I take it the bumpee, so to speak, is Frank Broderick? Oh, don't look so shocked. You two are really the only players in town in your particular line of business. But up to now, at least as far as I know, you've both been legit."
Hample tried to decide whether this was an insult, then decided to ignore it.
"And while we're at it," Orloff said, "what makes you think bumping off Broderick will automatically get you Broderick's company? I seem to recall he has a wife."
"Her?" Hample made an impatient gesture, as if brushing away a fly. "From what I've heard, she doesn't have much of a head for business. I'm sure she can be bought off."
Orloff nodded. "Most people can. And I figure you've scoped out the rest of the layout -- the stock, the board of directors, whatever -- and have your strategy all set?"
"I consider all the angles, Mr. Orloff."
"So I'm guessing you want me to suggest a hit man."
"No," Hample said, "I want you to suggest three hit men."
"Three? How many times you figuring on killing this guy?"
"You don't understand. I want the names of three of the very best men around, with phone numbers. I'll contact them. Whoever submits the lowest bid gets the job."
"Bid?" Orloff tried not to laugh. "You're soliciting bids for a contract kill?"
"In the business world, Mr. Orloff, we do this sort of thing all the time."
Orloff shook his head and looked at him. Then he took out a small notebook, tore out a blank page and gave it to him.
"Got a pen? Good. I'm going to give you three names, three phone numbers. Write them down. And make sure that when you call them, you don't mention my name."
A moment later, Hample stuffed the page into a pants pocket, then removed an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Orloff.
"Your remuneration -- with the promise of more when the, er, project is completed."
Orloff glanced inside. Twenty hundred-dollar bills. Usually he demanded at least five times that amount before he would even begin to consider fixing an election for city dog catcher.
He tried to decide whether this was an insult, then decided to ignore it.
Hample rose. "Thank you very much."
"No problem. And perhaps you noticed that back exit a few feet up the hallway. Please use it now."
Hample turned to go.
"Oh, and Mr. Hample?"
"Yes?"
Orloff smiled. "Best of luck."
***
"How long you gonna keep ogling us?" said the beefy, black-haired man. He tapped his right index finger against the arm of the six-hundred-dollar chair in a Morse code-like rhythm.
"He's sizing us up," whispered the red-haired man seated to his right. The man's wry smile and droopy eyelids suggested that he wasn't taking anything about this meeting very seriously, except for maybe the piece of lint he was extracting from the pants of his custom-tailored gray suit.
"Sounds like there's woodpeckers in here," said the young man seated to the left of the black-haired man, but the tapping continued.
The young man shook his head and ran his fingers through his blond hair.
"Let's get this show on the road," he said.
Hample, behind the desk, said, "As you wish, Mr. Wilkie."
Three envelopes were on the desk.
"I trust all of you arrived here unobserved tonight?"
"We're not amateurs," the black-haired man said. "At least, two of us aren't."
"Hey," Wilkie said, "What are you -- "
"Gentlemen!" Hample said. "That will be enough. Mr. Larson, I meant no offense." Hample frowned, thinking of the added expense of lighting and heating the building after hours and hoping this would be worth it.
"So which one of us gets the job?" Wilkie said.
"Patience, Mr. Wilkie." Hample picked up the envelope at his left and looked at the man in the suit, who looked back at him, unblinking.
Hample removed the piece of the paper from the envelope. His Adam's apple went up and went down.
"Twenty thousand dollars, Mr. Grover?"
The man in the suit shrugged. "I'm the best." He said it without boastfulness, as if he were simply stating a fact that was beyond his control, like the 1997 population of Nutley, New Jersey.
Hample couldn't help admiring Grover's coolness, but....
The second envelope. "Eight thousand dollars."
Larson crossed his legs. His shoes needed shining. "I ain't no clothes horse," he said, "but I am very good."
Wilkie sat back, grinning, the soiled polyester lining of his biker jacket partly visible.
Hample opened the third envelope.
"Quite reasonable, Mr. Wilkie."
"How reasonable is quite reasonable?" Larson said.
"He doesn't have to tell you!" Wilkie said.
"Gentlemen!" Hample said. "This is a business meeting, and I am the one running it. The figure Mr. Wilkie submitted is two thousand dollars."
Grover slumped in his chair. The laugh he emitted sounded more like a snort.
"Two thousand!" Larson was on his feet. "The punk's not worth half that!"
"Oh, yeah?" Wilkie was half out of his chair.
"You don't know his kind, Mr. Hample," Larson said, walking toward the desk. "He's sloppy. What's more, he's hot-headed. Got a real temper!"
"NOT TRUE!" Now Wilkie came forward. "I mean ... yeah, I admit it, I've blown my stack, once or twice. But it's only been when someone's double-crossed me. That really sets me off. Like Bobby Elgin. If he hadn't ratted on me, he'd still be -- "
"Excuse me," Grover, sitting back in this chair, said to Hample, "but by any chance is this room bugged?"
"Oh," Wilkie said, in a much smaller voice. "Oh yeah. Good point. Thanks."
Grover yawned and looked at his watch. "Don't mention it."
"No, it is not bugged," Hample said. "Although I would prefer not to know about things I do not need to know."
"This kid's told you enough, just now, to let you know he's not the guy for the job," Larson said. "If you'd only listen -- "
"One moment," Hample said. Grover was strolling toward the door. "Where are you going?"
Grover yawned again. "Meeting's over. You've picked Wilkie. From here on in, you're wasting my time."
Hample folded his arms. "Sorry to inconvenience you."
"Oh, don't get me wrong." Grover opened the door. "I hope you get the highest return on your investment."
The door closed quietly.
Larson, hovering over Hample's desk, said, "You might want to think about what he just said. And Grover also was right when he said he's the best. I'd almost rather you hired him instead of Billy the Kid here."
"That's it!" Wilkie said, taking another step forward. "I've had just about -- "
"Gentlemen!" Hample clapped his hand, like a teacher on the first day of kindergarten. "I must admit Mr. Grover was right -- when he said Mr. Wilkie has the job. And now, Mr. Larson, if you'll excuse the two of us...."
***
Hample looked at his watch. Nine fifteen. Wilkie should have killed Broderick by now. Hample and the gunman had met secretly during the past week to go over the plan: Wait for Broderick in his parking garage, shoot him, then meet with Hample at 9:30 in back of an abandoned fast-food joint, where they'd met previously, to get the other half of the two thousand. Wilkie had cased the garage enough to know that Broderick usually left around nine. All simple enough.
And if I leave home now, Hample thought, I'll get to the restaurant in plenty of time. His nose wrinkled at the thought of the foul smell there -- there was still a lot of garbage in the alley -- but as Hample stood in the living room and put on his coat, he told himself he'd only have to put up with the stink one last time.
He walked through the living room to the front door, took a deep breath and opened it.
Wilkie, on the doorstep, pointed a gun at him.
"I thought you were smart," the gunman said.
Hample took two steps back. "What -- what are you -- "
"Shut up." Wilkie marched in and looked around the living room, keeping the gun on Hample.
"Thought you were an honest guy," Wilkie said. "Hey, what's that?" With his free hand he pointed to a four-foot sculpture on a stand near an armchair. "Looks like a pretzel gone bad."
"My ... father gave it to me."
"You like it?"
My God, Hample thought, he's pointing a gun at me and he wants to talk art? What am I supposed to say?
What came out of his mouth was: "Well, I guess so."
"You guess so?"
"Well ... sure." Hample grinned. A big grin. His mouth wasn't used to the effort, and it hurt a bit. "I mean ... it is worth ten million dollars!"
"Oh." Wilkie looked the sculpture up and down. His face softened, and he smiled at it. Then, still keeping the gun on Hample, he shoved it off the stand, to the hardwood floor.
"Now it looks like a broken pretzel gone bad!" He chuckled.
Hample looked at the pieces on the floor. "Why did you do that?"
"Setting the stage," the gunman said softly, as if making a note to himself. "I'll do some more later."
"Look, I don't know what you're trying to do, but -- "
"Then you really are dumb. I told you I get hot-headed when someone double-crosses me."
"But I didn't!"
"You may as well know. Your man's dead, along with Broderick."
"My man?"
Wilkie looked at him closely. "On the other hand, you are very good at playing dumb."
"But I don't -- "
"OK. Might as well play along. Your man -- Larson -- showed up in the garage right after I shot Broderick. Caught me by surprise. Made me drop my gun. There's a grate a few feet away, and he kicked it there, kicked it so it fell right in, so I couldn't get at it. Must've scoped out the place pretty good himself. He told me you hired him because you had second thoughts about me. You were worried I was unstable and that after I killed Broderick I'd go off half-cocked, get caught, start talking. Or not get caught but start blabbing around anyway. So your Mr. Larson was going to take care of me."
"No! None of this is true!"
"Only your man made one mistake." He laughed. "Like all the big talkers always do. He starts telling me how nice and soundproof the garage is, and he starts waving his gun around, dancing around, pointing at the walls, as if he'd designed the place himself. Which is when I make a grab for his gun. Quite a struggle, but he isn't quite as strong as he thinks he is, and I finally grab it. He steps back, hands up, pleading with me, but I let him have it anyway."
"You're sure he's dead?"
“Well, I didn't exactly have time to wait for the coroner, but I did see him on the floor, and he wasn't moving, and there was a lot of blood, so how much more of a picture do I have to draw?"
"My God."
"And you might say I got a bonus." He held up the gun. "You and Broderick will be killed with different guns. Confuse the cops a little. And even if they find my gun, you'll notice I'm wearing gloves."
"No! You've got to realize! Larson was lying!"
"God, you're good. Real good." He looked around the room again. "Yeah, there's just enough stuff for me to mess around with and make it look like a robbery. I'll be taking your wallet, of course. I've got Broderick's."
"No! Listen! You're making a big mistake!"
"Yeah, you're really good. Almost amazing, even. You ever play poker?"
Hample, breathing hard, shook his head.
"A real shame. A real waste of talent."
Then the gun went off.
***
"Seems to me you were the one taking all the chances," Orloff said as the two men sat in the curtained booth. An unopened bottle of champagne, with three glasses, stood in the middle of the table.
"And when you come right down to it," Orloff said, "the whole thing was tossed right in our lap. Guy we've been wanting to get rid of comes right in and asks us to help him get rid of another guy we've been wanting to get rid of. And when he wanted the names of three guys, the idea practically thought itself up. All I had to do after he left was call two of you and explain the setup. Child's play. You're the one who got in front of the bullets."
"Nah," Larson said, poking himself in the chest. "That's why God invented Kevlar. And I've used these vests enough to know pretty well how to position myself. Oh, by the way, that guy Al, that stuntman I used to work with out on the coast? He sent that fake-blood device priority mail. That OK?"
"Well worth the cost," Orloff said. "And nice touch, kicking the gun into the grate. And it probably never occurred to Wilkie that getting your gun away from you was maybe a little too easy."
"Nah. My scariest moment was in Hample's office. I worried I was laying it on too thick when I was making the case against Wilkie. What if Hample had changed his mind?"
"No way. It was made up already. He thinks -- or thought -- like a bean counter."
"Cops probably think it's weird, two business rivals hit the same night."
"With different guns, though. And both wallets taken. Oh, I'm sure they're suspicious, and we'll have to be careful, but we can wait awhile, ride it out. Till the merger of the two companies seems inevitable anyway."
"Yeah. And one thing we always are is careful. There's just that one loose end."
"It's all tied up now," a woman's voice said.
She entered the booth. She was in her late 30s, with long, ash blond hair, green eyes matching her low-cut dress, and a mouth that was maybe a centimeter too wide.
She pointed to the bottle as she sat down next to Larson. "Whoa. How much is that?"
"A couple thou," Orloff said. "Don't worry, it's the money Hample gave me. I take it you heard from Grover?"
"Yep. Wilkie got as far as Ohio."
Larson whistled. "Four states away. Maybe I wasn't giving the kid enough credit."
"We'll never know now," she said. "Not after what Grover did to him."
Orloff reached for the bottle. "Good riddance to the little weasel. Been wanting to do something about him since that blow-up over Elgin. But I knew he'd underbid any decent hitter, and I figured we could take advantage of his temper."
"What if he hadn't gone after Hample?" Larson asked.
"Broderick would still be dead, you would still have gotten up and dusted yourself off, the kid would've skipped and we'd have gotten Hample later. But I figured the idea was worth a try."
"Got an idea myself," the woman said. She reached below the table, toward the floor, and laughed. "Henderson Hample. What a fool. Where do you suppose he got all his information?"
Orloff shrugged. "Maybe used some cheap outfit. Or maybe no outfit at all. Most likely, cheapskate like him, he relied mostly on hearsay."
"Hearsay is free," Larson pointed out.
"That could explain it," she said.
The cork popped, and her hand emerged from under the table.
"Say when," Orloff said.
"Imagine. Me not having a head for business," Mrs. Frank Broderick said as the champagne filled the baby blue shoe.
THE END
Mark Murphy © 2008 |