Page 111 of Hanging and Burning

“It was only two guys. I broke one’s jaw and crushed the bigger one’s foot.”

“When did all this go down?”

“Around two this morning.”

“You get anything good?”

“Digital downloads and pictures of paper files they keep on at least four dozen clients.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I think you could do something with all that.”

“You vulnerable?”

“Only if I wanna be. I mean, Paulie called, asking for an apology and the name of whoever put me up to goin’ through his files. I told him he was a limp-dick daddy’s boy, and he said that if I knew what was good for me that I’d bring back what I stole. That’s when I offered to settle it in the ring.

“I told him that I was staying here and that I’d be waiting.”

“What he say to that?”

“He say Click,” she replied, using the thumb and baby finger of her right hand to make the motion of hanging up an old fashioned phone.

When I first met Oliya, she used her words to convey only objective information through short staccato sentences and with no expression whatsoever. That was her idea of professionalism when she worked for the International Operatives Agency. But just in the brief time she’d been in New York, her humor had emerged. I supposed that this latent personality had been hovering beneath the surface of the lifelong survivor.

“I don’t think Roger would like it if we shot up this hotel,” I suggested.

Olo shrugged and then gestured for the waiter to come over.

Half an hour later, she was having a double order of oatmeal, cooked in water, while I perused the rest of the printed news.

“Miss Ruez,” a familiar voice said.

It was Carl, one of the assistant managers of the hotel. A compact man in a dark blue suit, he wore a name tag made from bronze. His black hair was gray at the temples and the green of his contact lenses was a little darker than the natural pale emerald hue that lay underneath.

“Yes,” the killer-savior responded.

“There are, um, some men here that want to speak to you.” Carl did not seem happy about the visitation.

“You don’t like them?” I asked.

“They’re rude. The manager is considering asking them to leave.”

“How many?” Oliya wanted to know.

“Four. We have asked them to wait at the front desk.”

“Let them decide on two that can come back. You can tell them that it’s a question of available chairs.”

“As you wish.”

Carl was a tough little nut, five foot eight and olive-colored. I thought of him as a foot soldier in the Great War, World War I. Nothing ever fazed him, and in a hotel like that one, many problems fell to him to solve.

“You think it’s your old boss?” I asked Olo after Carl went off on his mission.

“Either that or the thought police.”

Two minutes later Carl was shepherding Paulie Jr. and Kenny Rouche into the dining room.