The Target
Page 57
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"Get out of his face," the young guy said, and gave Ramsey a shove. The guy might look scrawny and too young, but Ramsey spotted the moves immediately, the watchful eyes, the stance.
"That isn't polite," Ramsey said, and in a move that was subtle and smooth, he gently clasped the young man's hand and twisted his thumb back. The guy gasped with pain. He didn't move.
"Now, back off," Ramsey said very quietly. "I'm not a reporter." He applied a bit more pressure on the thumb. "All right?"
"Leave be, Alenon," Louey Santera said.
The young guy nodded. There was cold hatred in his dark eyes. It seemed to be awfully easy to make enemies these days. Ramsey released his thumb. "Now, let's get out of here. Molly, say hello to your ex-husband."
"Hi, Louey. How's tricks? Hey, I don't see your girlfriend. She doesn't have a passport?"
"How did you find Emma?"
She batted her eyelashes at him and put her hand on her hip. "I used my considerable sex appeal, naturally."
Ramsey stared at her. Louey Santera barked out a vicious laugh. "Hey, that's a joke," he said. "You're always telling jokes, never serious. You didn't find Emma at all, did you? It's just all hype."
"Why do you think that? I don't have enough brainpower? Not enough guts?"
"Come off it, Molly. You know you didn't have a thing to do with getting Emma back. You wouldn't know where to find square one if it hit you in the nose. What really happened?"
She leaned close. "Okay, Louey, the game's over." She leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Listen, you selfish jerk, I found my daughter, all by myself. You want to know what happened? The man who took her sexually abused her and beat her. What do you think of that, Louey?"
"That can't be true. I didn't hear anything like that. No, you're lying, trying to make me look bad."
"No one could make you look worse than you already look. You call from Europe and start bragging about your success there and all the women you're screwing. You're a toad, Louey, you don't give a damn about Emma."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because my father scares you all the way down to your crooked little toes. If he told you to be celibate for a week, I just bet you'd do it."
"He's a murderer, Molly, shouts to the world that he's a big legitimate businessman, but he's nothing but a big-time crook, and you know it. You're no better. You took me for everything in the divorce, you're nothing but a-"
Ramsey broke in. "All right, enough of the emotional sentimental reunion. It's time to get out of here before more reporters show up." He turned to the acne-faced young guy who was Louey Santera's bodyguard. "You get Mr. San-tera's luggage. You can drop it off at Mason Lord's place in Oak Park. Then you can go to a motel or something. Don't think you're included on Mr. Lord's houseguest list."
Louey looked over at the reporter who'd been so rude. He recognized him. His name was something like Marzilac. He was from the Chicago Sun-Times. Hell. He was just standing there, speaking low to his photographer. What were they talking about? Maybe they were talking about whether to print any of this. Just his luck. Now he had to face Mason Lord. His kidney hurt just thinking about it.
"Let's go," Ramsey said.
"Do as he says, Alenon," Louey said. "Just call the house and tell me where you're staying."
16
AN HOUR AND a half later, Louey Santera faced his ex-father-in-law across the huge mahogany desk in Mason Lord's study.
"This cretin-" He motioned toward Ramsey, who was standing by the door. "He accosted me. He nearly broke my bodyguard's thumb. In fact, I'll just bet you he got a reporter to come there and ask me stupid questions. It cost me a bundle to leave Germany. I was busy, everything was going great with the crowds. Besides, there's nothing I can do for you. I've thought about it, and I don't know of anyone who could have done this."
Mason Lord didn't rise. He sat there, tall and straight in his chair, weaving his black Mont Blanc pen, heavy with gold trim, expertly between his long fingers. He let Louey talk and talk. Finally, when he'd heard more than enough, he said, smoothly, "You're looking thin, Louey. Your eyes look too bright, the pupils too large. I hope you're well."
"Touring is hard work, real long hours. Sometimes I have to take sleeping pills to calm me down. Listen, I didn't want to come here. What can you possibly want from me?"
"That isn't polite," Ramsey said, and in a move that was subtle and smooth, he gently clasped the young man's hand and twisted his thumb back. The guy gasped with pain. He didn't move.
"Now, back off," Ramsey said very quietly. "I'm not a reporter." He applied a bit more pressure on the thumb. "All right?"
"Leave be, Alenon," Louey Santera said.
The young guy nodded. There was cold hatred in his dark eyes. It seemed to be awfully easy to make enemies these days. Ramsey released his thumb. "Now, let's get out of here. Molly, say hello to your ex-husband."
"Hi, Louey. How's tricks? Hey, I don't see your girlfriend. She doesn't have a passport?"
"How did you find Emma?"
She batted her eyelashes at him and put her hand on her hip. "I used my considerable sex appeal, naturally."
Ramsey stared at her. Louey Santera barked out a vicious laugh. "Hey, that's a joke," he said. "You're always telling jokes, never serious. You didn't find Emma at all, did you? It's just all hype."
"Why do you think that? I don't have enough brainpower? Not enough guts?"
"Come off it, Molly. You know you didn't have a thing to do with getting Emma back. You wouldn't know where to find square one if it hit you in the nose. What really happened?"
She leaned close. "Okay, Louey, the game's over." She leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Listen, you selfish jerk, I found my daughter, all by myself. You want to know what happened? The man who took her sexually abused her and beat her. What do you think of that, Louey?"
"That can't be true. I didn't hear anything like that. No, you're lying, trying to make me look bad."
"No one could make you look worse than you already look. You call from Europe and start bragging about your success there and all the women you're screwing. You're a toad, Louey, you don't give a damn about Emma."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because my father scares you all the way down to your crooked little toes. If he told you to be celibate for a week, I just bet you'd do it."
"He's a murderer, Molly, shouts to the world that he's a big legitimate businessman, but he's nothing but a big-time crook, and you know it. You're no better. You took me for everything in the divorce, you're nothing but a-"
Ramsey broke in. "All right, enough of the emotional sentimental reunion. It's time to get out of here before more reporters show up." He turned to the acne-faced young guy who was Louey Santera's bodyguard. "You get Mr. San-tera's luggage. You can drop it off at Mason Lord's place in Oak Park. Then you can go to a motel or something. Don't think you're included on Mr. Lord's houseguest list."
Louey looked over at the reporter who'd been so rude. He recognized him. His name was something like Marzilac. He was from the Chicago Sun-Times. Hell. He was just standing there, speaking low to his photographer. What were they talking about? Maybe they were talking about whether to print any of this. Just his luck. Now he had to face Mason Lord. His kidney hurt just thinking about it.
"Let's go," Ramsey said.
"Do as he says, Alenon," Louey said. "Just call the house and tell me where you're staying."
16
AN HOUR AND a half later, Louey Santera faced his ex-father-in-law across the huge mahogany desk in Mason Lord's study.
"This cretin-" He motioned toward Ramsey, who was standing by the door. "He accosted me. He nearly broke my bodyguard's thumb. In fact, I'll just bet you he got a reporter to come there and ask me stupid questions. It cost me a bundle to leave Germany. I was busy, everything was going great with the crowds. Besides, there's nothing I can do for you. I've thought about it, and I don't know of anyone who could have done this."
Mason Lord didn't rise. He sat there, tall and straight in his chair, weaving his black Mont Blanc pen, heavy with gold trim, expertly between his long fingers. He let Louey talk and talk. Finally, when he'd heard more than enough, he said, smoothly, "You're looking thin, Louey. Your eyes look too bright, the pupils too large. I hope you're well."
"Touring is hard work, real long hours. Sometimes I have to take sleeping pills to calm me down. Listen, I didn't want to come here. What can you possibly want from me?"
