Darkman by Randall Boyll Read Free Book Online

the doors, old Strack watched them sourly. A long white limousine drew up and he went out.
    “Need a ride?” Louis asked.
    She deliberated for a moment, then: “Probably better not. I might . . .”
    He frowned amicably enough. “Don’t say it, Julie, because then I’ll get my hopes up. And I hate having my hopes dashed.”
    She smiled. “Fine, then. I’ll take a cab.”
    “Good enough. Can I, um, call you sometime?”
    “For business?”
    He raised his hands. “Strictly business, madame.”
    “That would be fine.” She extended a hand. “Nice working with you, Louis.”
    He shook her hand. “My pleasure.”
    He opened the door for her and she went out. Louis watched her go, smiling a bit. If that guy with the funny first name ever let this one go, Louis would be there to catch her; he knew that as fact.
    The limousine honked. Louis saw the old man poking the chauffeur on the shoulder, forcing him to honk like some damn taxi driver. He ground his teeth. God, but the doddering old coot was getting cranky lately. Louis made a mental note to buy him a bottle of Geritol, if the old man lived long enough to drink it. It was obvious to everyone that he was failing.
    He got in the back with Pop and made himself a drink to wash the anger away. The limo pulled out smoothly, and when he finished his drink, Louis buried himself in a fresh copy of the Wall Street Journal. Strack Senior was studying financial reports. The silence between them grew long, but it was nothing new. They had had nothing to say to each other in years, except an occasional brief argument over financial this and financial that.
    An article caught his eye. Krugerrands were on the rise again. He read it, almost drooling. Real estate could go to hell; here was real money. He lowered the paper. “Krugerrands are looking attractive, Dad.”
    Strack snorted. “Krugerrands. Bah. Strack Industries will stick with real estate. You remember that, sonny.”
    Sonny? How swell. Now Pop thought Louis was a kid again. It was a miracle his brains weren’t leaking out his ears.
    The chauffeur drove into a small, run-down gas station. Strack craned forward. “What now?”
    “Flat tire, sir.”
    “Oh, goody. This will come out of your wages, you know. This vehicle is your responsibility. Got that?”
    “Indeed, sir.”
    The driver got out. He walked to the errant wheel and stooped down. He reached into his uniform pocket and withdrew an ice pick. He drove it into the tire, which was remarkably full of air for a flat tire, pulled it out, then went to the trunk and opened it. A minute later Strack got out, grumbling about his prostate being bigger than a bowling ball. He headed off to find a rest room, stopping long enough to examine the tire.
    It was flat.
    “Damn tires cost a billion bucks nowadays,” he muttered, blinking under the harsh sunlight. “Damn shitty driver.”
    Off he went. Twenty yards away, a man wearing a stuffy-looking blue suit was hurrying toward the station. He held a rolled-up newspaper in his hand. Strack didn’t notice, and if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. Peeing in this fleabag of a gas station was his uppermost worry now. What if germs were floating around in the air?
    The man in the suit came inexorably closer, not quite so fast now, pacing himself. He was grinning, showing plenty of white teeth. He hooked a cigar out of a pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He was five yards from old Strack now, on an intercept course. In the car, Louis sat daydreaming about Krugerrands.
    The man aimed his newspaper, revealing a dark rod of sorts hidden inside. There was a brief orange flash and a small pop! Strack clutched his chest, staggering forward by force of inertia only. The man caught him. They danced a wobbling tango.
    Still in the car, Louis looked up. His view was blocked by the station’s double pumps, and the driver, who was lugging the bad tire around the car. Louis looked back down to his newspaper, unconcerned.
    The man dropped