Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

He blew air through his mouth, as if I had asked an impertinent question. “Nothing to do with me or my partner. We do freelance work, like anyone, but nobody gets killed. Nobody even gets very hurt. Nobody needs to go stay too long in the hospital, if you know what I mean. People scare easier than you might think.”

“You need to go to the police and tell them about your involvement.”

Deckart laughed nervously. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re an outsider. This is my town. The police here aren’t like the cops in Beverly Hills or Chicago. That’s the first thing. Second is client confidentiality. It’s the backbone of the security industry. I go volunteering information to the police, even the Port Morris police, how do you think that’s going to look to my clients? And the third thing is, why do you care anyway?”

I said, “Why I care doesn’t enter into it. I care, simple as that.”

He shook his head, as if something I had said was strange, or funny even.

Deckart said, “You’re wasting your time, and mine. Go crawl back into whatever hole you came out of. I don’t even know your name. Tell you something for free. If I have to learn your name, it isn’t going to go good for you up here.”

I smiled broadly, truly happy. “I think you’ve just threatened me. That right, Deckart?”

He laughed and opened his arms wide, hands up. “It is what it is.”

I came out of the chair in a single smooth movement. Fast, maybe a quarter of a second from first muscle twitch. My hands pushed off the cushioned leather arms, and my legs used the floor to catapult me into the air, and right up on top of the wide mahogany desk, both feet landing balanced, like a world class acrobat. Deckart jerked back in his executive chair, but not fast enough. I only needed a short wind-up to kick him square in the face. The kick landed at the bridge of his nose. The steel toe crushed the cartilage inward, squeezing. Compressing the veins and channels. Nose blood sprayed down through Deckart’s nostrils, staining his mustache and painting two expanding cones of deep red on the front of his immaculate white uniform. Deckart’s overly groomed head whiplashed back, rebounding off the cushion.

I had a moment to examine his reaction. Condition black, wild panic. No control. Totally clueless.

By the time Deckart realized what was going on, I was on the other side of the desk, controlling his left wrist. I clicked one set of cuffs on. Pulled the right wrist around and clicked the other cuff. Now he was controlled, stretched across the wide back of his fancy office chair. The position looked like some kind of very advanced yoga move, in other words, torture.

I came around front and sat on his desk. He was sort of getting it back together. Breathing heavily through his mouth. Licking the blood dripping into it. I unclipped my folding knife.

“Listen, Deckart. You’re out of your league. See what just happened? It’s going to be like that for us. You’ll never be able to protect yourself from me, and I won’t stop coming at you. If I ask you a question, just answer it simply. There isn’t any reason to make it complicated. I’m not in a patient mood. Plus, I’ve got to get back to something else.”

Deckart was trying to control his breathing. It took him a minute, but he managed to speak finally.

“What’s the question?”

I spoke patiently. “Mister Lawrence. Tell me what I need to know about him.”

He shook his head. I pressed my thumb into his broken nose. He pushed back into the seat, but I didn’t let him get away from the pain.

He said, “There is no Mister Lawrence. There is no ‘him’.”

“People talk about a Mister Lawrence. I spoke to someone who has seen him. You thought I was working for him. What is it I’m not understanding here, Deckart?”

Deckart was eyeing my knife, which I was twirling in my hand. It was a great knife. I’d had it all season. Bought it for around fifteen bucks soon as I got up to Alaska. The handle was an aluminum skeleton. Blade was half serrated and half not. Perfect for rope work, or fish work, or anything really. There had been plenty of time on the boat to keep that blade razor-sharp. I moved the tool slowly. Closing in on Deckart’s shirt. “Let me help you out here.” I sliced off a button with just the smallest amount of pressure. The little plastic disk flipped off onto the carpet.

He said, “You’re on video, you know that.”

I said, “I know. I’m pretty sure you’ll erase it when we’re done. If you still have fingers left to push the buttons. If not, you can dial with your nose. Call the hospitality princess, I’m sure she can help you out.”

I sliced off another button.

Deckart spoke quickly, all of it coming out in a single breath. “Mister Lawrence isn’t a person. It’s a company name. It’s a brand. They make desserts. Like cakes and shit. You ain’t heard of them cause the company sells in Asian supermarkets. There’s a picture of a bald white guy on the boxes. But his name ain’t Mister Lawrence.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know what his name is. He’s an actor.”

“So a company named Mister Lawrence bought the place out of town here. Why would they do that?”

“I guess they’re making cakes out there. How would I know different?”

I said, “Same company owns this boat?”

Deckart said, “Different company but, yeah, same in the end maybe.”

“Help me understand that.”

“Mister Lawrence is a shareholder in the company that owns this boat. But the boat company is different, technically speaking. From what I understand.” He looked up at me. One of his eyes was already bloodshot, the other welling at the corner. “Like a shell company or something. Owns