Читать онлайн «Good People»

APRIL 24, 2006

1

THE SMILE WAS FAMOUS. Jack Witkowski wasn’t particularly a fan, but he’d seen those teeth plenty of times. They shone in the huddle of supermarket checkout lines, gleamed on the cover of a hundred magazines. After a while it was natural to think of the smile as separate from the man, and watching him stop on the club steps to throw it at a gawking chick with a camera phone only reinforced the idea. One minute the guy was just a guy – good-looking and well dressed, sure, but just a guy, and even a little on the short side – then that spotlight smile hit, raw wattage that announced you were in the presence of a Star.

Jack gazed through the windshield, forefinger tapping absently against his shoulder-slung. 45. Nines might be the gun du jour, but you couldn’t beat a. 45 for stopping power. “One more time. ”

Bobby said, “ Marshall lets us in. We take the service steps up. Put on the masks. Be careful not to use names. Will and Marshall tie them. I get the money. We go back out the way we came, head for the Chrysler. If anything goes wrong, we split, meet up later. ” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

Jack squinted at that, wondered again if involving his younger brother had been a good idea. “That’s right,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Remember, go in hard. These are spoiled kids. Get your pistol right in their face, yell at them. Anybody gives shit, crack them with the gun, and don’t hold back. It’ll just make everybody else step quicker. In and out in five.

Bobby nodded. “What about that one?” The man he gestured to was taller than the Star and his entourage, built thick through the shoulders and neck. He carried a black briefcase in his left hand and kept his right open against his stomach, fingers just inside the jacket.

“That’s the bodyguard,” Will Tuttle said from the back, his tone smooth as a jazz radio announcer. He’d once said he’d done some voice-over work back when he was in L. A. , that he’d been the voice of a dancing soap bubble in a commercial for toilet cleanser. Easy work; two grand for a morning spent repeating We scrub so you don’t have to. “Don’t worry your pretty head, son. Let the real bad guys handle him. ”

“Fuck you. ”

Will chuckled. “What’s the matter,” he said, drawing Carltons from his suit jacket and tapping the soft pack to pop a cigarette loose. “I hurt your wittle feelings?”

“Enough. ” Jack stared in the rearview mirror. “Don’t light that thing. ”

Will tucked the cigarette behind his ear. “Victory smoke. ”

Across the street, one of his entourage patted the Star on the shoulder, hooked a thumb in a let’s go gesture. The Star nodded, threw one last smile-and-wave, then stepped through the doors. His friends followed, one of them pausing long enough to pluck a stunning brunette from the line, the girl grinning over her shoulder at her squealing friends. Movie people. Shit. The bodyguard went last, stopping at the top of the steps to scan the street. Jack stared back, just another Chicago yokel awed by American Royalty. After a moment, the man went inside, the door swinging shut to muffle thumping beats.