The Hardest Thing

acceptable
levels of injury. Channing was going to get hurt—but he was not going to get killed. And he presented one hell of a target—a long, lean, smooth torso of ivory flesh.
    A simple but direct side kick to Channing’s solar plexus, the impact coming from the outer edge of the foot, and he doubled over, cannoning backward with his ass. Marshall didn’t let go—he still had an arm locked around Channing’s neck—but Marshall was temporarily off balance and, crucially, the gun was away from Channing’s head, waving in the air as Marshall sought his footing. That was all it took. I grabbed his wrist and pushed it backward, pressing my thumb as hard as possible between the tendons at the base of his hand. He screamed and fell to the floor. I wedged my knee under the elbow of his gun arm and smashed down hard with my elbow, shattering the joint.
    Channing fell behind me, fighting for breath.
    The gun was clear. I kicked it out of reach, just to be on the safe side.
    The police swarmed back into the room—four burly officers to overpower one flabby old man. I rolled Channing on to his side, pulled the cover off the bed and waited for the medics to arrive.
    “You okay?”
    The color was returning to his face.
    “Sh…sure…”
    “We got him.”
    “G…g…”
    He vomited on to the carpet.

The Hospital 12
    Enrico Ferrari was no longer the movie star who walked into my room on 109th Street a week and a half ago. His face was a mass of scars and bruises, one eye closed to a purple slit, his left cheek swelled out like a baseball and his lovely dark floppy hair shaved up the side of his head to make way for an unattractive railroad of stitches.
    The doctors were reluctant to let us in to interview him until the scale of Ferrari’s offences was pointed out as well as the urgency of putting together enough evidence to satisfy the pretrial hearing. “All yours, gentlemen,” said the nurse, holding the door open.
    There were three of us: me, a sergeant, and an inspector from the Organized Crime Control Bureau. Unfortunately we weren’t there for a hospital-bed orgy. Yes, they were both hot: Sergeant Lynskey was short, bald and blue eyed, Inspector Rotherstein was a little older than me, grey haired and athletic. They knew enough about my involvement in the case to realize that, given opportunity and a door with a lock, I’ll fuck
anything in pants—but I guess they had other things on their mind. And for once, so did I.
    Ferrari grimaced when he saw me. “What’s he doing here?”
    “Major Stagg,” said Inspector Rotherstein, “is assigned to this investigation.”
    “You can’t do that.”
    “Watch me,” said Rotherstein.
    “I want a lawyer.”
    “And you have every right to one. But before we get all official on you, we just wanted to have a friendly chat. Off the record, so to speak.”
    “I’ve got nothing to say.”
    “Let me appeal to your better nature, Mr. Ferrari. You see, we want the best possible chance of getting a conviction against Julian Marshall.”
    “Who?”
    Rotherstein smiled. “Your evidence would be so valuable to us.”
    Ferrari looked away.
    “Wouldn’t you like to bring a major criminal to justice, Mr. Ferrari?”
    “I told you, I want legal representation.”
    “I’d have thought Mr. Marshall would be providing that for you. His trusted lieutenant.”
    “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Really? Julian Marshall, of Marshall Land? Doesn’t that name ring a bell?”
    Ferrari shrugged.
    “His number is on your phone. Why don’t you call him and ask him to remind you who he is?”
    Ferrari started to speak, but thought better of it.

    “That’s right—of course! You mislaid your phone, right? I expect you’ve been worrying about it. It’s a nice phone. But it’s okay, Mr. Ferrari. We found it.”
    “Huh.”
    “I thought you’d be pleased.” Rotherstein produced the phone from his pocket—a sleek, black oblong with a large screen. “Phones these days! They do everything, don’t they? Make calls, send texts, tell the time, do your shopping for you. Take pictures.”
    A pause. Ferrari stared at his water carafe.
    “Even moving pictures.”
    Silence.
    “Amazing, isn’t it?”
    Ferrari shifted in his bed and winced in pain. He looked like a kid who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
    “Now, Mr. Ferrari, you see why I wanted to keep this all friendly and informal. There’s enough on this camera to put you away