Chapter
22

Robinson made the mistake of answering the phone. Not a good thing these days. Now Robinson had to deal with the caller, and the caller was not happy.

“His instructions were to make it look like an accident or, at the very least, random bad luck—say a carjacking. Carving someone up with a butcher knife does not appear accidental!”

“I told you I couldn’t control him.”

“The police are crawling all over this. That’s going to make things a goddamn mess.”

“I don’t think he’s worried.”

“Why? Because he’s the world famous ‘Mr. Bosu’? What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s a piece of exercise equipment.”

“What?”

“Both Sides Up ball,” Robinson supplied. “BOSU ball. It’s flat on one side, domed on the other. You balance on it to do squats, or place the domed side down for push-ups. Makes for a good workout inside a confined area.”

“You’re telling me I’ve hired a man who thinks he’s a piece of exercise equipment?”

Robinson said seriously, “I’m telling you you’ve hired a man who doesn’t mind pain.”

The caller was silent for a moment. So was Robinson.

“Is he prepared for the next assignment?” the caller asked finally.

“Working on it now. Of course, there’s been a minor wrinkle.” Robinson spoke carefully.

“Minor wrinkle?”

“Mr. Bosu has some new terms: Instead of ten thousand dollars for the new job, he expects thirty.”

The caller actually laughed. “He does, does he? The man just fucked up his very first assignment.”

“I don’t think he sees it that way.”

“Did he at least open a bank account?”

“Mmm, no.”

“No?”

“Mmm, he prefers cash.”

“Oh, for the love of God. You tell Señor Psycho a few things for me. One, I don’t have that kind of cash lying around. Two, he’ll get ten thousand dollars and not a penny more. Frankly, he should be happy I’m willing to pay that much, given that we both know I’m only asking him to do something he already wants to do.”

“I don’t think he’s into negotiation.”

“Life is negotiation.”

Robinson took a deep breath. No way around it now. “Mr. Bosu sent a note. It says if you want results, it will cost you thirty grand. It says if you don’t want results, it will still cost you thirty grand. It says Mr. Bosu knows where you live.”

“What? You haven’t told him anything, have you? I thought you picked him up in a rental car, gave him a stolen cell phone. There should be no way for him to trace—”

“I think he’s bluffing. But I can’t be positive. I have my contacts. Maybe he has his.”

The caller was quiet, breathing hard. Angry? Or fearful? It was hard to be sure.

“I would pay him the money,” Robinson said very seriously. “Or, I would get the hell out of town.”

The caller took a noisy breath. “Tell him there will be no new terms. Tell him I got him out of jail, I can sure as hell put him back.”

Robinson was silent for a moment.

“What?” the caller prodded.

“Well, to put him back in jail … you kinda gotta catch him first.”

Another pause.

“Shit,” the caller said.

“Shit,” Robinson agreed.

 

Mr. Bosu had a puppy. He’d had to buy it from a pet store, not his first choice but about all that was available to him on a Sunday afternoon. The shop, with its crowded shelves, cheap linoleum floors, and vaguely antiseptic smell, had given him the heebie-jeebies. Given that just forty-eight hours ago he’d been a victim of incarceration, looking at a bunch of puppies and kitties plopped down in tiny wire cages hadn’t done much for him either.

He’d planned on hanging out for a while. Pet stores on a Sunday afternoon, filled with fluffy kitties, soft puppies, and oodles of milling kids, what wasn’t to love? But the dispirited air of the place made him cut and run.

Mr. Bosu bought a beagle-terrier mix. The tiny, ecstatic puppy was all white with giant brown patches over each eye, dangling brown ears, and thumping brown tail. He was the cutest little bugger Mr. Bosu had ever seen.

For his new charge, he acquired a leash, a small carrier that resembled a duffle bag, and about five dozen chew toys. Okay, so maybe he’d gone overboard. But the puppy—Patches, maybe?—had gnawed on his chin and nuzzled his neck so enthusiastically, Mr. Bosu pretty much bought anything and everything the puppy so much as sniffed.

Now he had the puppy on the leash and they were both trotting merrily down Boylston Street. The puppy—Carmel? Snow?—appeared absolutely thrilled to be out in the fresh, fall air. Come to think about it, Mr. Bosu was happy, too.

Mr. Bosu and the puppy—Trickster, maybe? Come on, how could you have a puppy without a name?—reached the street corner. Mr. Bosu got out the map tucked into his pocket. A woman paused beside him. She was blonde, beautiful, and dressed entirely in the fall collection of Ralph Lauren. She gave him a stunning smile.

“What a beautiful puppy!”

“Thank you.” Mr. Bosu looked around the woman. No kids in tow. He was disappointed.

“What’s its name?”

“I just bought him fifteen minutes ago. We’re still getting to know one another.”

“Oh, he’s adorable.” The woman was squatting down now, oblivious to the people trying to walk all around them. She scratched the dangling brown ears. The puppy closed his eyes in true puppy bliss. “Your first dog?” the woman asked.

“I had another when I was a kid.”

“Do you live in the city?”

“At the moment.”

“It won’t be easy to have a puppy in an apartment.”

“Fortunately, my job allows me to make my own hours, so it won’t be so bad.”

“You’re really lucky,” the woman gushed. She was eyeing his Armani sweater and obviously liking what she saw. He flexed just for the hell of it, and her smile grew. “What do you do?”

“Kill people,” the man said cheerfully.

She laughed, a full, throaty sound. He bet she practiced that at night, just for guys like him.

“No, really,” she said.

“Yes, really,” he insisted, but then softened the words with a smile. “I would tell you more,” he said, “but then I’d have to kill you, too.”

He watched her work it out. Was she amused, frightened, or confused? She glanced at his Armani sweater again, then the puppy—Trickster, he was starting to like Trickster—and decided to go with amused. “Sounds exciting. Very hush-hush.”

“Oh, it is. And you?”

“Recently divorced. He had money, now I’m spending it.”

“Congratulations! No kids to worry about?”

“Fortunately not. Or maybe unfortunately. There’s a lot more money in child support.”

“Indeed unfortunate,” he agreed. Her eyes were warm, practically glowing as they caressed his chest.

“Maybe we could have dinner sometime,” he said. Those were the magic words. The woman whipped out a card with her name and number like a seasoned pro. He slid it into his pocket and promised that he would call her.

Trickster was now peeing on a newspaper stand. Not quite so attractive, so Mr. Bosu tugged on the puppy and they headed on their way. He eyed the map again. Six blocks later, they were there.

It was a lovely street, tiny, tucked deep within a maze of roads in downtown Boston. Clearly residential here. The lower level offered a corner grocer, florist, a tiny deli. Upstairs were the apartments. He counted from left to right until he found the number he was looking for. Then he eyed his notes once more.

Okay, all was well.

He found a bench by the corner grocer. He tapped the empty place beside him and Trickster jumped up, curling up beside his leg. The puppy made a long, soft sigh, obviously winding down from another hard session of busy puppy work.

The man smiled. He still remembered his first dog, Popeye. A cute little terrier his father had brought home reluctantly from some guy at work. Neither of his parents had been into dogs, but a boy needed a dog, so they brought home a dog. Mr. Bosu was given its complete care and his mother learned to sigh and blink hard when Popeye chewed up her favorite shoes, then went to work on the plastic-covered sofa.

Popeye had been a good dog. They’d run together through the neighborhood, playing endless games of fetch and diving through big piles of leaves.

Mr. Bosu knew what people expected of a guy like him, but he’d never hurt his dog. Never even thought about it. In the silent, little house where he grew up, Popeye had been his best friend.

It lasted five years, until the day Popeye rushed into the street after a squirrel and got flattened by Mrs. Mackey’s Buick sedan. Mr. Bosu remembered Mrs. Mackey’s horrified scream. Then watching his little dog twitching in the throes of death. There had never even been a question of bringing Popeye to the vet. It had been that bad.

Mr. Bosu had wrapped Popeye in his favorite T-shirt. Then he’d dug a hole in the backyard, burying his dog himself. He hadn’t cried. His father had been very proud of him.

Mr. Bosu went to bed early that night, but never slept. He lay wide-eyed in his twin-sized bed, wishing his dog would return to him. Then he had an idea.

He left the house shortly after one a.m. It didn’t take him long. People parked their cars in the street, and in a neighborhood like his, no one ever locked the doors. He popped the hood. He used a screwdriver. Punched a few holes. In the end, it was simple and neat.

They said Mrs. Mackey never saw it coming. One minute she was braking for the intersection, the next she was sailing right through the stop sign. The oncoming traffic nailed her at thirty miles an hour. Gave her a concussion and broke several of her ribs, not to mention her hip.

Didn’t kill her though. Damn Buick.

Still, it wasn’t a bad effort from a twelve-year-old. Of course, he’d gotten much better since then.

Now Mr. Bosu eyed the apartment window up on the second floor. Still no sign of movement. That was okay. He could wait.

He leaned back against the bench. He closed his eyes against the warm sun. He let out a long, low sigh, very similar to Trickster’s. Then he scratched his puppy’s ears.

Trickster thumped his tail appreciatively. Just a man and his dog, Mr. Bosu thought.

Yeah, just a man, his dog, and his hit list.