Last Track, The by Sam Hilliard Page B

for me,” Shad said. “And don’t sweat Dagget. He just acts like he hates everyone.”
    10:00:42 AM
    A public telephone at the corner of West End and 66th rang twice. The old phone booth had rusty hinges and glass covered with fingerprint smudges. Nicked and battered, the handset was slippery in his gloved hand. On the first ring of the fourth attempt, Crotty answered, and he shuttered the booth door. The barrier did little to deflect the noises of the morning commute. Horns beeped. Pedestrians shouted. And sweat beaded across his brow. Not from nerves, but rather from the heat outside.
    “About time,” a voice said to Crotty in a flat tone. This was the Partner speaking. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night. Why did you do it?”
    “I’m sorry, but it just wasn’t working,” Crotty said. Dealing with the Partner angered him enough, but having to justify his decisions over the phone was intolerable. His distaste surged through his voice. “You knew this was coming. Think of it like an early retirement.” For his part, Crotty preferred thinking of it that way. He almost had to. And now David’s body had to stay missing until it was safe for someone to find it.
    “But he was with us from the beginning,” the Partner said. “He was important.”
    “And had his efforts remained consistent,” Crotty said, “he would still be with us. But he was slipping. Quality was down, complaints were up. I acted like an executive and made a decision. Try it sometime.”
    “You have no sense of loyalty.”
    “Look who’s talking,” Crotty said. “You make Dr. Jekyll look sane. One minute you’re cracking skulls, the next you’re preaching peace. It’s not like you can’t pull a trigger. Just spare me, okay? Maybe we can send some flowers anonymously.”
    “Flowers? Do you realize his mother is dying of cancer? That she’s half blind? What sort of flowers would do in that situation?” The Partner continued, gathering steam. “You would understand these things if you actually talked to our employees once in a while.”
    “Who do you actually talk to? You talk to me and learn about issues through my status reports.” Beyond the primary structure of the company was an elite group Crotty handpicked and trained, who answered only to him. Those men prepared reports he could trust. Those men he valued. Everyone else was a line item on the expense ledger. That included the Partner.
    “Your bad judgment has placed me in an incredibly awkward position. You could not have picked a worse place for this. I hope you know that.” Yet another token of resistance from the Partner.
    “Life is about risks. Some pay off.” He waited until that sunk in. Then Crotty added, “You mentioned a background check.”
    The Partner sighed, yielding. This argument was over. As usual, the Partner lost against Crotty’s logic, because twisted as it seemed, Crotty delivered fiscal results. And there was no bringing back David St. John now. “Standard battery. Driving records, education, employment, medical. If you can find it, I want it.”
    “Give me the name,” said Crotty. He read and spelled it back to the Partner, recording it correctly the first time. Beads of sweat smeared the ink into his palms. “Anything in particular I’m looking for?”
    “Everything you can find.” The Partner paused. “Now what about the boy?”
    The boy who saw too much. The boy who saw the murder. That was a substantial wrinkle. Crotty had some regrets about the job. Most of all he regretted that the boy had wandered into company business. The scene ran over and over in his mind, refusing to disengage, like a videotape with the play button jammed. His own little Frankenstein—a mess he created and lost control of.
    After killing David St. John, Crotty had driven along the dusty road toward the highway, wondering how many glasses of Tanqueray it would take to blot out what had just happened. More than a few, for certain.
    While he was