Dead Watch

One of the pieces is leather with diamonds, two are separate gold chains.”
    “Give the phone back to Ralph. I’ll tell him to send you up.”
    In the elevator, Jake said aloud, “Tough and mysterious. Tough and mysterious. CIA killer. Movie killer, movie killer, movie killer . . .”
    Looking at himself in the elevator mirror, he did a quick recomb of his hair, baring the shaved strip and the stitches. The Frankenstein vibe. When he was done, one lobe of the greased hair had fallen over his forehead, and he liked it, a vague Hitleresque note to go with the Frankenstein. He put the quarter between his gum and his left cheek and said, “Here’s lookin’ at ya.”
    No. He was being cute again. No cute. He needed crazy.

    Rosenquist was a blocky, round-faced man dressed in sweatpants, a half-marathon T-shirt that said, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE , and slippers. A soft man, fifty pounds overweight. He had a glass in his hand. Dance music played from deeper in the apartment. Jake bobbed his head and held up his cane and the briefcase, tried to look like a polite CIA killer, and asked, “Dr. Rosenquist?”
    “Better come in. You recovered these things from Linc’s apartment?”
    Rosenquist had closed the door and Jake took two quick steps down the hallway and looked into the living room. Empty; music playing from a stereo in the corner. Jake turned back and said, his voice as hard and clipped as he could manage, “Yes, but we disposed of them. I used them as an excuse to get in here. I want to know what you did with Bowe’s medical records.”
    Rosenquist stopped short, his lips turning down in a grimace, and he growled, “Get out.”
    “No. We no longer have room to fuck around.” Jake stepped closer to him, and then another step, and Rosenquist stepped backward. “You’re right in the middle of this, Rosenquist, and people are getting hurt. I need the records.”
    Rosenquist moved sideways, his hand darting toward an intercom panel. “I’ll get . . .”
    The gun was in Jake’s hand, pointing at Rosenquist’s temple. “You don’t seem to understand how serious this is, fat man,” he said. “I’ve been told to get the records. I will get them, one way or another.”
    Rosenquist’s hands were up, his eyes wide: “Don’t point the gun at me. The gun could go off, don’t point the gun.”
    “The records . . .” The quarter slipped and Jake caught it with his upper lip: a snarl, a sneer.
    “There are no records, there are no records,” Rosenquist babbled. “Whatever records there are, are in my office, but they’re meaningless. He never had anything wrong with him.” But he was lying; his eyes gave him away, moving sideways, then flicking back, judging whether Jake was buying the story.
    He wasn’t. Jake waggled the gun at him. “In the living room. Put your ass on the couch, fat man.”
    “There are no records . . .” Rosenquist sat on the couch.
    Jake said, “What were you treating him for?”
    “I wasn’t treating him, honest to God.” Lying again.
    Jake looked at him, then said, in a kindly voice, “I’ve had to kill a few people. In the military. And a couple of more, outside. You know. Business. I didn’t like it, but it had to be done. You know what I’m saying? It had to be done. These people were causing trouble.” He hoped he sounded insane. The quarter slipped, and he pushed it back.
    “I know, I know.” Rosenquist tried a placating smile, but his voice was a trembling whine.
    “This is the same kind of deal, when you get right down to it,” Jake said. He said, “If you move, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”
    “Listen . . .”
    Jake flipped open the gun’s cylinder, shucked the shells into his left hand, and Rosenquist shut up, his eyes big as he watched. Jake picked out the empty shell, with the firing pin impression on the primer. Held it up so Rosenquist could see it, slipped it back into the cylinder, snapped the cylinder shut.
    “Now,” he said. He spun the cylinder.
    “Gimme a break,” Rosenquist said. “You’re not going to do that.”
    Jake pointed the pistol at Rosenquist’s head and pulled the trigger. It snapped, nothing happened. Rosenquist jumped, his mouth open, his eyes narrowing in horror: “You pulled the trigger. You pulled the frigging trigger .”
    Jake spun the cylinder: “Yeah, but it was five-to-one against. Against it blowing your brains out. Though maybe not. I can never do the math on these things.” The