Morris wiggles the hatchet again. ‘You can come out of this whole and intact, or with some of your fingers lying on the desk. Believe me on this, Andy. I’m not the man you knew.’
Andy gets up, his eyes never leaving Morris’s face, but Morris isn’t sure his old pal is actually seeing him anymore. He sways as if to invisible music, on the verge of passing out. If he does that, he won’t be able to answer questions until he comes around. Also, Morris would have to drag him to the office. He’s not sure he can do that; if Andy doesn’t tip the scales at three hundred, he’s got to be pushing it.
‘Take a deep breath,’ he says. ‘Calm down. All I want is a few answers. Then I’m gone.’
‘You promise?’ Andy’s lower lip is pushed out, shining with spit. He looks like a fat little boy who’s in dutch with his father.
‘Yes. Now breathe.’
Andy breathes.
‘Again.’
Andy’s massive chest rises, straining the buttons of his shirt, then lowers. A bit of his color comes back.
‘Office. Now. Do it.’
Andy turns and lumbers to the back of the store, weaving his way between boxes and stacks of books with the finicky grace some fat men possess. Morris follows. His anger is growing. It’s something about the girlish flex and sway of Andy’s buttocks, clad in gray gabardine trousers, that fuels it.
There’s a keypad beside the door. Andy punches in four numbers – 9118 – and a green light flashes. As he enters, Morris reads his mind right through the back of his bald head.
‘You’re not quick enough to slam the door on me. If you try, you’re going to lose something that can’t be replaced. Count on it.’
Andy’s shoulders, which have risen as he tenses to make just this attempt, slump again. He steps in. Morris follows and closes the door.
The office is small, lined with stuffed bookshelves, lit by hanging globes. On the floor is a Turkish rug. The desk in here is much nicer – mahogany or teak or some other expensive wood. On it is a lamp with a shade that looks like real Tiffany glass. To the left of the door is a sideboard with four heavy crystal decanters on it. Morris doesn’t know about the two containing clear liquid, but he bets the others hold scotch and bourbon. The good stuff, too, if he knows his old pal. For toasting big sales, no doubt.
Morris remembers the only kinds of booze available in the joint, prunejack and raisinjack, and even though he only imbibed on rare occasions like his birthday (and John Rothstein’s, which he always marked with a single jolt), his anger grows. Good booze to drink and good food to gobble – that’s what Andy Halliday had while Morris was dyeing bluejeans, inhaling varnish fumes, and living in a cell not much bigger than a coffin. He was in the joint for rape, true enough, but he never would have been in that alley, in a furious drunken blackout, if this man had not denied him and sent him packing. Morris, I shouldn’t even be seen with you. That’s what he said that day. And then called him batshit-crazy.
‘Luxy accommodations, my friend.’
Andy looks around as if noting the luxy accommodations for the first time. ‘It looks that way,’ he admits, ‘but appearances can be deceiving, Morrie. The truth is, I’m next door to broke. This place never came back from the recession, and from certain … allegations. You have to believe that.’
Morris rarely thinks about the money envelopes Curtis Rogers found along with the notebooks in Rothstein’s safe that night, but he thinks about them now. His old pal got the cash as well as the notebooks. For all Morris knows, that money paid for the desk, and the rug, and the fancy crystal decanters of booze.
At this, the balloon of rage finally bursts and Morris slings the hatchet in a low sideways arc, his cap tumbling from his head. The hatchet bites through gray gabardine and buries itself in the bloated buttock beneath with a chump sound. Andy screams and stumbles forward. He breaks his fall on the edge of his desk with his forearms, then goes to his knees. Blood pours through a six-inch slit in his pants. He claps a hand over it and more blood runs through his fingers. He falls on his side, then rolls over on the Turkish rug. With some satisfaction, Morris thinks, You’ll never get that stain out, homie.
Andy squalls, ‘You said you wouldn’t hurt me!’
Morris considers this and shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe I ever said that in so many words, although I suppose I might have implied it.’ He stares into Andy’s contorted face with serious sincerity. ‘Think of it as DIY liposuction. And you can still come out of this alive. All you have to do is give me the notebooks. Where are they?’