Mitch watched him thread his way through the room full of desks, his long stride conveying anger. Only after John had cleared the exit did he swivel his chair back to face his computer.
The most constructive thing he did that afternoon was to try the first cup of coffee brewed by the unit’s new appliance.
El Paso was in his element.
It was nearing ten p.m. Having to kill time over the past few hours had sharpened his eagerness and made him restless. He was primed for action. Bloodthirsty.
In his twenty-two years there hadn’t been a single individual he’d held in high esteem. No one in his life had been deserving of it. This deprivation had scarred his soul and left him with an incurably cynical outlook.
But in the short time he’d known Roland Malone, Malone had earned as much of El Paso’s respect as he was likely to award anyone. Malone wouldn’t win any contests based on his personality, which was that of an undertaker at his own funeral.
That wasn’t to say Malone lacked magnetism. Without having to speak a word, his demeanor was sufficient to bend people to his will. Reluctant to admire anyone, El Paso could appreciate that even fat cats bowed and scraped and were afraid to cross Malone.
He also had the ear of Oz when no one else even knew Oz’s identity. What other reason did one need to want to impress Malone and win his trust? Tonight he’d been given an opportunity to do just that. All he had to do was scare the riffraff away from the man’s restaurant.
It wasn’t hardship duty, because there was nothing El Paso liked better than terrorizing someone. And he was good at it. Considering his line of work, one would think his diminutive size was a disadvantage. One would be wrong. Dead wrong. Nobody expected a runt to be vicious. Several men had died in utter shock over the speed and ruthlessness with which he had ended their lives.
As Malone had ordered, he’d spent last night familiarizing himself with the immediate area. He’d marked businesses where he would blend in with the clientele. He’d scouted out places in which to hide in the event he needed to. Like a rat, he could squeeze into almost any space, no matter how small.
While pretending to have neither empathy nor contempt for his homeless soon-to-be victims, he’d moved among them, observing. He wouldn’t tangle with those who were aggressive toward anyone who came close to them. He wasn’t afraid of them, but he’d been instructed to keep it simple. Low-key.
He wouldn’t target any who were obviously stoned, drunk, or otherwise senseless, either. A threat would be wasted on them. He sought out the docile or infirm.
This evening, he’d ventured into the neighborhood attwilight, but he’d waited, a predator biding his time. But by now, traffic on the boulevard had become lighter. Crowds in the restaurants had thinned. A few of the bars were just now getting lively, but those groups were focused on partying and hooking up.
Deciding that it was time to act, he bought a hot dog from a street vendor, then began following a man he’d pre-picked. He was older, stooped, walked with a limp. One of the weakest of the herd. Easy prey.
The man was slowly making his way into the alley that ran behind Malone’s place, no doubt hoping for a handout. El Paso materialized out of the darkness so suddenly and silently, the old man didn’t have a chance to react before El Paso pushed him against the exterior brick wall of a building, pried open his mouth, and stuffed the hot dog into a maw of decayed teeth.
“Eat that, you bag of shit.”
He continued to cram the food into the man’s mouth, causing him to choke. El Paso grabbed him by his shoulders and forced him to the pavement. Coughing and retching, the old man tried to crawl away, but El Paso rolled him onto his back and put a knee to his throat.
He produced his switchblade, flipped it open, and waved it an inch away from the man’s terrified eyes. “If you or any of your friends come back into this alley begging for food, I’ll stick this in your eye and then slit your throat.”
For good measure, he nicked the old man’s chin with the tip of the blade before retracting it. He stood and kicked the old guy in the ribs, then turned and strolled out of the alley. The assault had taken no more than thirty seconds, but, gauging by the old man’s whimpers and the fear in his rheumy eyes, he’d gotten the message.
El Paso walked half a block to a T-shirt shop, which was packed with rowdy customers picking through the crappy merchandise. He spent the next fifteen minutes chuckling over the crude sayings and graphics on the shirts and baseball caps. During that time, nothing happened out on the street. No hue and cry was raised. No one shouted for help for the old bum. No police cars arrived looking for an assailant with a switchblade.
El Paso reasoned that the homeless man was as reluctant as he was to create a stir.
Not wanting to press his luck, he resisted the temptation to shoplift one of the shirts sporting an especially creative drawing of female genitalia. He slipped out of the store without anyone having acknowledged his presence. Shoulders slouched, stride relaxed, he started down the sidewalk in search of his next victim.
He figured three ought to do it. Word would spread like lice.
Dylan looked at her watch, then signaled the waiter to bring her check. As though he’d been assigned to wait on her exclusively, he’d been hovering near her table throughout her dinner at Ristorante Italiano. He glided over now and asked if she would like a refill of coffee.
“No thank you. Just my check please.”
He gave her an unctuous smile. “You’re Mr. Malone’s guest.”
“A paying guest,” she said.
“I wouldn’t hear of it,” said Roland in his gruff voice as he came toward them. He dismissed the waiter with a negligent hand motion and sat down across from Dylan at the table for two. “How was your meal?”
“Delicious. My compliments to your chef. But I really can’t let you treat me.”
“Nonsense.”
