A reason to kill, p.40
A Reason To Kill, page 40
Continuing the chore of stacking dinner dishes in the sudsy water, Sandra pretended ignorance as she asked, “What would you have me help you with? I’m a mite tired. Paddy’s been a terror—”
“Leave them be.” He grabbed a pile of crockery from her hands and plunked it on the sideboard.
She yelped. “You’ve broken a bowl.”
“Probably cracked anyway—the stuffs so old. I’ll buy a dozen more.” He captured her wrists. “And one of those damn machines so you’ll not always be washing the bloody things. Now come away from the kitchen.” Hanlon slipped an arm around her waist to urge her towards the parlor. When she didn’t push him away, he let his fingers grow bold and glide down her hip. “You’ve been of the same mind as me?” He laughed softly. “Yet you’d have me on my knees begging.” He gave her bottom a light slap.
She faked surprise. “Don’t know what you’re talking about? What’s gotten into you?”
“It’s not what’s gotten into me, sure, it’s what I’ve neglected to get in to.” He pulled her down with him on the sofa. “You knew I was looking your way, you never let on.”
“And what would you have me do? Come crawling in your bed, your pa in the next room?”
His mouth captured her warm breath. He held her close and felt the passion mount so rapidly, he was suddenly afraid he might instantly climax. Damn! He wasn’t a fucking stallion who dropped his prick at the scent of a filly. He was man—he knew the necessary moves required to seduce a woman. Even if he’d never actually done it, he’d pretended often enough. Forcing himself to picture a huge block of ice sailing around in cold bath water, while his blue flesh shivered in the middle, helped.
This was more like it. He was glad she’d closed her mouth—her lips were so soft. Her cheeks moved against his like wisps of satin cloth. Never could he have imagined how smooth a woman’s skin was. It even had a flavor, he didn’t recognize it but it tasted grand. Her head arched slightly and his mouth moved down her face to sample the flesh of her neck. A subtle scent of flowers pleased his senses while the delicate taste of spice excited them. His control was slipping and his hands began to investigate the feminine curves. As he grew bolder, the woman suddenly shoved him off.
Leaping to her feet, Sandra accused, “It’s your harlot I’m to be!”
“What?” was a grunt of astonishment as he watched her retreat. What had he done wrong? “We’re not children. I’ll wed you. But surely not tonight. What difference can a piece of paper make?”
She let gentle tears flow without screwing up her features, as honest crying would do. She whispered, “To me, a great deal. It will make me a part of you. Something you can’t cast off.”
The idea seemed rather preposterous causing him to laugh sharply. “You think I’d be one to do something like that? If I was? You think to stop me with a piece of parchment?”
“I didn’t mean—oh God!” Her hands covered her mouth as he got to his feet and stalked across the room.
Required to adjust his trousers to hide an uncomfortably committed penis, he uncorked the Jameson’s and sucked from the bottle.
“I love you.” She blurted out. “So very much. I want everything right between us.” Sandra moved again to him and put her palms on his ridged spine. “But?” Her voice was hazy with fresh tears. “I’ll do what you’re of a mind too.” Her wet cheek on his back dampened and warmed his flesh beneath the silk shirt.
“I’ll not be asking.” He found the proposal amusing almost juvenile but controlled his mirth as he promised. “We’ll have a ceremony first—nothing fancy.” Will it be legal? He wondered. I’ll have to call Tom, he realized, and he dreaded that.
~~~
“Marry! Are you nuts!” Rory Hanlon was certain Tom Devlin had blown several telephone circuits. “Why can’t you just live with the woman?”
“Not that kind.”
“Might be a damn sight better if she was. How did you explain to your little miss prim, you’ve a criminal record, you’re in hiding—”
“Don’t plan on her finding those things out. Got us a wee boy; wouldn’t be right him knowing that about his pa.”
Devlin sucked deeply on his breath in amazement. “A kid?” he whistled. “You work fast, lad.”
“Got the proper equipment.” Hanlon preferred to lie rather than try to explain what he didn’t understand himself. “Gonna marry her as Richard Quinn. It’s a good name. Didn’t Jock leave everything he owned to his last surviving son?” Hanlon smiled at the memory of the old rebel who even in death had been thinking for him. “Had no legal problems. Signed my name a few times. People round here, even Jock’s solicitor, all know Rick Quinn. Came by the dozens to pay their respects to my pa. Some still remember me from when I was a wean.” He gave a soft laugh.
“Fine. You did your job right.” Devlin’s tone had lost its sharp edge of anger. “Of course you realize that makes you four years older than you are. Hope you act your age?” He warned. “And don’t sire a dozen more kids.”
“This one’s plenty.”
“You going to want out now?”
“Not right away. I’ll see this game through I’ve got debts to pay.”
“So it’s a boy?” Devlin’s pleasanter tone came over the line. “What did you name him?”
“Padrick.”
“You got to be kidding?”
“My own pa’s name.”
“Sorry, lad, I forgot.”
“You didn’t know my pa.”
“Right. Congratulations you old stud. Sorry I can’t make the wedding. Guess I’ll be sending you two gifts.” The tone of Devlin’s voice told Hanlon what he needed to know. There was still a place for him; Tom wasn’t going to drum him out. Someday soon, he’d have to tell Tom the truth about the boy. He might pass for four years older than he was, he grinned to himself, but he’d be hard pressed to explain a three year old new born.
~~~
Franco Baumont had taken to occasionally shadowing Rory Hanlon for several weeks now. Attempting to discover something about him. He knew he had to be careful; if the bastard once caught him…the realization made his guts quiver in fear. If he closed his eyes, Baumont knew he could feel that gun pressed into his groin, the sound of the clicks rotating through his memory, and the nausea would come again. At present he was useful, but once the Irish bastard decided his value had become obsolete? He trembled at the thought. The son of bitch would squash him like a worm beneath his heel. But knowing about this child? Hanlon’s son, he didn’t doubt as he watched them.
Confident that Hanlon wouldn’t recognize the borrowed car, Baumont had backed up the block so he could see into the small yard Hanlon and the child had entered. Though deprived of hearing what was taking place, he could imagine and the view caused malevolent ideas to fester. To imagine an evil bastard like Hanlon, acting out this tableau he was witnessing nearly convulsed him with mirth. The idea that the bastard should even have a child, function as a caring parent, was incredible to him.
The pair was unaware they were being observed.
~~~
The tiny boy toddled beside the man. A shoebox was clutched in his good arm, while the other was still held uselessly in a sling so it didn’t pull him off balance. “I didn’t ‘queeze ‘em ‘ard, papa.” Paddy Thorn Quinn sniffled in despair.
Hanlon laid a comforting hand on the child’s shoulder as he glanced into the makeshift coffin, wherein lay a tiny brown mouse on a white washcloth. “He was a wild creature.” The man tried to explain. “Hurt, he was terrified of captivity. Sure, it wasn’t your fault, lad. He damaged himself.”
Paddy perched on a step with his shoebox on his lap while Hanlon dug the miniature grave. Then the man took the box so the boy could peek in and say his, “Good bye ‘iddle ‘ouse.”
Hanlon replaced the cover. Setting the paper coffin in its shallow grave, he quickly filled in the dirt. In a final gesture, he broke a twig in half and lashed it together to stick on top of the small mound.
“What’s ‘hat for?” Paddy rubbed a stuffy nose against a sleeve.
“A cross. Little creature deserves a marker.”
Unexpectedly the boy dropped to his knees. His good hand tugged at the man’s pant leg, as he demanded, “p’ay, papa, p’ay.”
Fighting a grin, Hanlon followed his new son to the ground and whispered, “May he rest in peace.”
“‘est in ‘eace,” Paddy mimicked, blessing himself with the wrong hand.
“Damn,” Hanlon grumbled, “but I should see to a proper pet for you,” as his son crawled into his arms to weep against his neck.
Looking over the top of the boy’s head, he spotted the car parked across the way. He couldn’t see inside but a warning light turned on in his brain and his face hardened in an angry frown.
The motor coughed into life and the car leaped forward. Fear pressed down on that gas pedal, and Hanlon sensed it as the car sped off.
Chapter 74
London, England, 1984
Marcel Delange, nineteen, admitted to being orphaned at thirteen, with no relatives that she knew of. Both her dead parents were French Nationals who left their only child a beggar in a foreign land. Introduced to sex by her first foster father, she found it a convenient way to survive.
Attractive to a fault, her hair, touched up to mimic black satin, harmonized with a soft olive complexion. To emphasize the starved slenderness of her figure, she wore a simple black shift with three inch black fabric slides to lift a five-foot one frame. If the girl despised this wealthy young man, she hid it rather well. She knew he expected every woman he laid to be grateful for the honor.
“You like the place?” Franco Baumont was telling more than asking.
“Lovely. But are you actually going to live here?”
“Not all the time pet.” He sipped wine slowly as his glance roamed over her body. He had considered a number of others before settling on her.
He set down the glass on the end table in the expensively decorated parlor. He moved closer to the woman. He traced the outline of one thrusting nipple as he said, “How would like to have this place?”
“Me?” Marcel watched his expression as if expecting a sudden eruption of insulting mirth.
Only it didn’t come as his fingers continued to stroll over her body. The lack of undergarments excited him more than if she were naked. One hand came to rest on the vague slope of her belly, with the other he recaptured the nipple. Huskiness invaded his tone as he said, “You may live here. I’ll see to your expenses; but there must be no others.” He applied pressure to the nipple and the girl moaned. And though he warned her like he meant it, he didn’t in fact much care who she fucked. It was the principle; if he gave her all this and didn’t dominate her, she’d think him an ass. “We understand each other?”
He knew that Marcel was far from stupid. She realized he was buying her. He imagined she might consider he was building a high price stable. Him, a pimp? the idea was appealing. Would she turn his offer down? He knew others but this one was perfect.
Then, this girl who had sweat her flat rent out in the arms of too many men smiled as she nodded, yes.
The overbearing tone in his reply told her he expected that answer. Though he had fully intended to indulge himself with this possession, Baumont found he’d lost the desire. “A few rules. You, naturally, can come and go as you please. You may even have a few guests—no parties and see that you escort your friends in and out. Use only the left side entrance.
Our company rents the bottom floor to a foreign investment firm. But they have no use for this flat so I made an arrangement with them, so don’t hassle them.”
He spoke like he’d done the whole deal with her in mind. “Of course I have my own key.” He tossed it in the air before returning it to his pocket. “I have a late appointment. I may be back. You can stay the night and move your belongings in tomorrow.” He pinched her cheek and felt a surge of pleasure when she blinked in discomfort.
Baumont exited by the prescribed door, then to cover his destination he drove around the block parked and walked back.
He let himself in by the front door and into the reception area; he lacked keys to go further. Hanlon had told him to make an extra set of keys for the side entrance and the upstairs apartment; he’d be by about eleven to pick them up. It was nearing quarter past. Son of bitch always made him wait.
Wonder why the bastard wants keys to the upstairs? Does he intend to use the whore himself? Baumont grinned at the thought. Considering that the small boy who called the monster papa would have a mama brought a quick laugh—that died rapidly as he heard the bark that accompanied the opened door.
“What in hell ya doing playing with yourself? A cute bitch upstairs. You? It figures.”
Baumont accepted the insult without complaint as he moved to comply with the ordered, “Get me a drink.”
“What’s this?” Hanlon cautiously inspected the wicker carrier Baumont had deposited on a desk when he first entered.
“Nothing much.” Baumont answered as he handed over the scotch. “Mother’s champion bitch was bred. She dropped a runt. Have to leave it off at the vet to be destroyed. Didn’t want it yelping in the car.”
Watching the tiny ball of fluff wiggle against an improvised mother of a hot water bottle, Hanlon sipped his drink and asked, “How old is it?”
“Eight weeks.”
Hanlon had no idea of the requirements in breeding champion canines. “These mutts? They good with kids?”
“Sure, if they’re raised with them; most breeds are.”
“Suppose…” Hanlon grinned as he studied the puppy’s antics. “They grow very big?”
“About so high.” Baumont indicated with his hand. “This one is stunted though.” He continued with the lie and knew a pleasant sensation that when his mama returned from Rome, she’d be heartbroken to discover her prize puppy had died.
“How much you charge for him?”
“Him? Nothing. I told you if they’re not perfect? Well…” He hesitated on purpose.
Hanlon eyed him. “You just kill them off?”
“Protect the blood lines.”
“Shit! Tell ya what, I know a kid might fancy him.”
“I couldn’t. My mother…” The younger man threw his hands up.
“Have a fit.” Hanlon said. “How’s she gonna know? Tell her you killed it yourself.” That idea was enforced with a nasty laugh. “Thought, lad, you had a price for everything?”
“You want the pup. Take it as my gift. Here’s the key for upstairs.” He set it beside the carrier. “Her name—”
“Forget it.” Hanlon cut him off. “Got no interest in the woman. Pup got a name?”
“Of course not. You don’t name something you’re going to destroy.”
“Right.”
Baumont felt a sudden chill. A whore. One with no ties would be best; Hanlon had made that point clear when they discussed putting someone in the flat. His eyes dropped to where the third key was disappearing into the other man’s pocket.
Chapter 75
London, England, 1984
Curled on the new sofa, Sandra Thorn Quinn could glance about her freshly redecorated flat with a sense of pride. The majority of the decisions her new husband had left to her.
Normally she was contented but tonight a novel lay neglected in her lap and her eyes continued to stray towards the clock. Her curiosity about an employer had been replaced with concern for her husband. Now she worried about Richard Quinn’s odd associates who called in the dark hours; the business meetings, which like tonight, could take him off at any hour. She knew he was involved with foreign investments, that he said, “Netted him a good bob.” But that was as much as he told her.
She was also aware that the Pakistani, who ran the market down stairs, kept all the profits now that Jock was unable to collect his weekly share. So money obviously wasn’t a concern, for the market would net them nothing if it weren’t her insistence that they collect a fair rent.
She’d been aware of all this before she married Richard Quinn, then none of it had appeared threatening but now she was Mrs. Richard Quinn.
Tom Devlin had called earlier. He was only a voice on the phone, always pleasant, friendly. He promised he would meet her soon. The Yank frightened her, though the reason for her fear escaped her.
Tonight, he’d asked after Paddy. Referred to her son as if he were a wee babe. He upset her with the questions he asked after she informed him her child required nothing special like a pram. “Paddy gets along fine on his own two legs,” she had said and he seemed surprised. And then the questions begun and she felt like she was being interrogated until she actually found the nerve to tell him so.
He laughed and apologized but still left her feeling uneasy. After he rang off, she had been lost in her worried thoughts. Rick might be angry that she’d been so abrupt with his friend. She wondered if Tom would complain to her husband. Rick hadn’t told the man Paddy was not his son? Why, she wondered. Had he felt his Yankee friends would feel him the fool marrying up with a woman encumbered by a child he would be required to support?
She hadn’t heard the door open.
Startled by the man who could move so quietly, Sandra leaped up exclaiming, “What have you there?”
Hanlon’s face wore a pleasant grin as he held out the squirming ball of fluff in one hand and said, “A dog, or the makings of one, I think.”
“A wean,” she corrected. Rescuing the tiny pup, she cuddled it against the warmth of her breast. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Feed it regular. And hope it grows some. Ain’t much use but it will amuse the lad. Shall we introduce them?”
“Rick,” she protested. “It’s near half twelve. Paddy’s been asleep for hours.”
“And sure, where’s he taking himself off too, come morning, that he can’t be woke? Or should we just drop the pup in his bed?”
“Suppose you think a wee nipper like this has manners.” She giggled as the puppy nuzzled her cheek.
