Private Eye - Part 6

Oliver Draft was seated at his desk in his office, with Frankie standing behind him, by the window, hands clutched behind his back, ever the boss's bodyguard. Stood before them were Antoine, Harry, Ray and Mitch.

“What is it, Antoine?” asked Oliver. “Don’t tell me you need somebody else taken care of, I don't have the time to keep rescuing you from people you rub up the wrong way.”

“No, man. I’m ‘bout to give you a heads up,” replied Antoine. “The guy that Harry smoked outside Reno’s? His brother knows he was connected to you. I overheard a conversation between him and two other guys. One is investigating the case and I think the other guy was his lawyer.”

“Carlos Vespa,” said Harry. “The guy that’s been snooping around.”

“And what did they say?” asked Oliver.

“The guy knew his brother was doin’ things for you but he didn’t know what things,” continued Antoine. “They were sayin’ they’re plannin’ to bring your whole organization down.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” interjected Harry. “They've got no evidence of Ben’s involvement with us.”

“Well, whatever they plannin’ to do, they gettin’ prepared. Talkin’ ‘bout carryin’ guns,” said Antoine, and paused. He took a breath. “And they know about System Three.”

There was an anxious pause. One that, for Harry, seemed like forever.

“How do they know about it?” asked Oliver, trying to contain his anger.

There was a nervous silence. It became unbearable. Harry shuffled his foot. A bead of sweat ran down his face.

“How do they know about the substance?” screamed Oliver.

Harry hesitated, now completely on edge, his nerves raw. “I, uh. . .I killed Ben West with it.”

Oliver went wide-eyed with shock and glared at Harry. “What?”

“I thought I’d made sure no one would find out, I -”

“You’re an imbecile!” screamed Oliver, cutting him off. “Why did I even have a son? I should’ve just got a dog!”

“You’ve put us in a very difficult situation now, Harry,” added Frankie.

This was the second time he had spoken to Harry in this way and it made Harry's blood boil.

“You say another word to me while I’m talkin’ to my dad, Frankie, I swear on my mother’s grave I will kill you before the last syllable leaves your lips!” said Harry, raising his voice.

A wave of embarrassment had already just crashed over Harry. He was already ashamed and angry at the way he was being treated by his father. Who did Frankie think he was anyway? He was nothing.

“Shut up!” shouted Oliver. “Why on earth would you do something so stupid, Harry?”

“He didn’t die right away, he managed to get outside! At least now we know the stuff works.”

“Of course we know it works, that’s why we have labs! You could have just shot him again. You’re
a sadist, Harry. You wanted to watch the effects of the poison, I know you too well, son.”

“So, what do we do?” asked Frankie.

“The only thing we can do,” said Oliver. “Eliminate all three of them. Ben’s brother, the investigator and the lawyer. That’s our only option.”

“I can handle that, I’ll get on it right away,” said Harry, quickly.

“You couldn’t handle a wheelchair, Harry. You’re not doing a damn thing, and you’re supposed to be out of sight!”

Oliver pulled a gun from a draw in his desk and held it so that it’s barrel was pointed in Harry’s direction.

“Dad. . ,” said Harry, his voice weak with fear and surprise.

“If you venture out in the open once more,” said Oliver. “If I catch you attempting anything out in the open, I will shoot you in both legs to the extent that you will never walk again. Son or no son of mine, you will not bring us down. I won’t allow it. I don't want to hear another word out of you.”

“You want me to get some guys and go do this?” asked Frankie.

“This needs to be done, and done quickly and definitively,” said Oliver. “Get Mort. Bring him in.”

There was an awkward silence once again.

“Are. . .are you sure you wanna go that far?” asked Frankie, more nervous about that particular prospect than of questioning Oliver.

“Do it.”

* * *

Not much was known about Mort. You only ever saw him or heard from him if you’d hired him to kill someone or if you were the one being hunted by him. He was a quiet man, albeit a huge, bald, ferocious looking man, who’s attitudes and outlook on life were surprisingly positive for a contract killer. Which made him that much more cold and ruthless, because the people he killed meant absolutely nothing to him and if he found you, no amount of crying or pleading would make him go away. He didn’t care. But there was something about him and his interests. Something. . .nice.

He was sitting in a big, light green chair in his lounge, decorated with floral wallpaper and a pink carpet, on which a couple of kittens were playfully fighting. The TV was on and he was watching an episode of Will & Grace. Yes. . .he is a contract killer. A ruthless one.

The telephone on the side-table next to the chair rang. He picked it up and put it to his ear.

“Yeah. . ,” said Mort into the telephone. His voice was gruff and as hard as nails. “. . .Ok.”

He put the phone down and continued watching the TV.

* * *

Later.

Carlos was sitting on the bed in his hotel room, in his un-tucked white shirt, and black trousers. There were various pages of notes spread over the quilt, which he was studying.

Okay. So, lets get up to speed. He knew that Ben West was running errands for the Draft mob to get himself out of debt. Somewhere along the line, something went wrong and they had a disagreement. And maybe he knew too much about the family to just let him walk away. So Harry Draft killed him. But not just with a gunshot. With an unidentified poisonous substance. The reason for that is still a mystery as is the reason for the very development and possession of this poison. What’s the deal there? Carlos needed to find the source of that substance and pin it to Harry Draft or an associate somehow. That wasn't going to be easy.

* * *

Next day.

Oliver was seated at his desk in his office, with Frankie standing behind him by the window. Also in the room were Harry, Mitch, and Ray.

“He should be here in ten,” said Frankie.

“What’s the deal with this Mort guy, anyway?” asked Harry. “What can he do that we can’t handle ourselves?”

“I’ve already told you, Harry. You’re not handling anything,” replied Oliver.

“All right, what about the guys? I’m sure they’re more than capable.”

“Do you know what the word ’mort’ means?” asked Oliver. “From the Middle English language it means 'death'. In the dictionary it has the meaning of the note sounded on a hunting horn to announce the death of a deer. If this man has been sent to wipe you out, that’s exactly what it means. The announcement of your death. He is an assassin and is the embodiment of complete and ultimate chaos and destruction. He has no fear. And he gets things done.”

“He’s here,” said Frankie, peering out the window.

“Good,” said Oliver. “He’s early.”

Harry, Ray and Mitch walked over and looked out the window at Mort walking towards the entrance to the building. He was a huge, bald man. He carried a black sports bag. He wore a black leather jacket.

The rest of his appearance was somewhat different...feminine, even. He had a diamond earring in his right ear. Black nail varnish on. Blue jeans, rolled up at the bottom. And a pink t-shirt with a picture of a small dog on that says ’I Love puppies.’

“Is. . .is he gay?” asked Mitch, ever the one to speak his mind.

“Why don’t you ask him when he gets up here?” replied Oliver. “I’d be interested to see how he answers you.”

A couple of minutes passed, with the men totally confused as to what to make of this supposed merciless killing machine.

Then there was a knock at the door.

“Come in, Mort.” called Oliver.

Mort entered. He was a very big man, stocky and well built. He walked over to the desk without acknowledging anyone else in the room and, putting his black sports bag down, shook hands with Oliver across the desk.

“Good to see you again,” said Oliver.

“Likewise.”

“Let me introduce you to-”

“Introductions aren’t necessary, I don’t plan on this taking very long,” interrupted Mort.

Oliver was taken aback slightly by this interruption, but carried on. “Fine. The priority here is to remove this private investigator permanently. The longer he’s around the more he can find out and the more damage he can do. He needs to be tracked down.”

“I’ve already tracked him down,” said Mort. “After you called me I hacked into his bank account and traced his credit card transactions and followed his movements. He’s staying at the Gerard Marshall Hotel. And he’s bought a gun.”

“Excellent work. Efficient as always,” commended Oliver.

“I’m gonna need some men.”

Mitch stifled a snigger in the background, making a sound like something was stuck in his nose.

“What for?” asked Harry, ignoring him.

“To be sure. Overkill is better than no kill.”

“What do you propose to do, just walk into the hotel and shoot him?” asked Harry, sarcastically.

“That’s exactly what I propose to do,” replied Mort without missing a beat and without looking away from Oliver.

“But not you, Harry,” said Oliver. “You’re staying here where I can keep my eye on you.”

Mort turned, picked up the sports bag and
walked towards the door. He looked at Mitch and Ray. “Get your guns and let’s go. We’ll take this guy out and go straight after the others.”

“You too, Frankie,” instructed Oliver.

Mitch’s curiosity had now gotten the better of him and he studied Mort. “Why have you got ‘I love puppies’ on your shirt?”

Mort eyed him threateningly. “‘Cos I do. Don’t you?”

Mitch answered quickly and nervously. “Sure.”