IN COLLECTIONS

By Jim Winter

Loman was naked and didn't care. Nor did he care about the gun to his neck. In fact, he knew the gunman had been there before he even entered the tent.

“If you came to kill me,” he said, “I'd be dead by now.”

“Rumor has it you're already are dead,” said a male voice.

“Shame they never dredged the Savannah River . Give Mama something to bury.”

“Your mother's dead. I did the research.”

Loman brushed the gun away from his neck and sat up. Turning on his sleeping bag, he saw who'd come for him. The man, late forties with flecks of gray in his hair, wore a black windbreaker sporting a Copperhead Island Club shield.

“This is a state park,” said Loman, “public land.”

“A club member was shot last night. Know anything about that?”

“I was sleeping.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“You don't even know when our member was shot.”

Loman chuckled. “I've been here all weekend.”

The man folded his arms, keeping the gun in sight. “His secretary said she was raped last night.”

Loman looked down at his lap. “Did you want a semen sample?”

“Very funny. Unfortunately, she locked herself in the bathroom before we could do a rape kit.” The man stood up, which looked ridiculous in Loman's pup tent. He had to hunch over. “Why you're in Put in Bay this weekend?”

“Vacation.”

“Why?”

“I like it here.”

“Bullshit.”

Loman smiled. “Okay. First, I met a new client.”
“Who?”

“None of your business. Second, someone owed me money.”

“Did you get it?”

“Of course.”

The man stepped around Loman and waved the gun at him again. “Now that your business is concluded, you may want to consider going back to the mainland.”

“I just may.”

“One more thing, Mr. Loman.”

“Yes?”

“Stay the hell off my island. Or you'll be more than legally dead.”

***

Actually, Loman went swimming the previous night. He'd left his clothes on Copperhead Island , a risk. A calculated one, but still a risk.

The early May water was freezing. Loman knew all about freezing water. Some crazy bastard had driven him off a bridge in Savannah not long ago. As the car filled with water, he assumed he was dead. Once he swam ashore, so did the rest of the world. After that, he had money, a death certificate, and complete freedom.

Death was funny like that. Too bad his targets didn't think so.

Mulkern, his former client, had stayed in the lodge nearest Put in Bay, making his escape easy. It almost didn't happen. He hadn't planned on Isabella's presence. A stupid mistake, he knew. A rich bastard like Mulkern would definitely be banging his secretary. Isabella, however, hadn't been the problem.

She was the solution.

“Rape! ” she screamed as he walked across the beach into Lake Erie . “Help me. I've been raped.”

Loman could hear the whine of the security team's golf carts. When he was waist deep in water, he heard Isabella tell security where the phantom rapist had gone.

To the opposite side of the island, toward Canada.

He treaded water just long enough to hear a man shout, “Oh, my God! Mr. Mulkern's been shot!”

Job done. Time to swim back.

Halfway back, he let go of a plastic bag he'd been dragging along. The most incriminating evidence sank to the bottom of the lake. It took Loman over two hours to swim to Put in Bay.

***

Why did they call it a “silencer?” A suppressed gun still made noise when fired. Isabelle flinched as she watched. That happened whenever someone had never seen a man die before. To her credit, she didn't scream or faint. Loman liked that.

He didn't like Kevin Mulkern. Loman had just blackmailed him into giving up the money he owed. The idiot still looked surprised when Loman shot him.

Well, money didn't buy brains. Sometimes, it just softened them.

“The security team ran off my ride,” said Loman. “I'm gonna have to swim out of here.”

“You have your account?” she asked, looking down at the corpse of her former boss and lover.

He held up the Blackberry. “Emailed.”

“And me? What about me?”

Loman felt his lips pull toward a smile, though no smile ever crossed his face. “Emailed everything.”

She smiled back. “If you ever want to collect another payment from me…” The strap of her nightgown slid down.

“I'm more interested in your business talents.” He turned to her and grabbed her arms. “But I'll consider the rest a standing offer. How's anyone going to believe you've been raped?”

“Oh.” She ripped open her nightgown, then tore off her panties. Her skin was already scratched from their violent lovemaking earlier. “Better?”

“Much.”

“Good. Now strip.”

“What?”

“You can't swim back fully clothed. Strip.” She took the lid off of a clothes hamper.

“You think they're gonna look for evidence in the laundry?”

He stripped down to his black briefs. Isabella tossed his clothes in the hamper.

Loman grabbed a plastic bag off the kitchen counter as they made their way outside. He dropped his gun and his Blackberry inside. “Remember, give me until I reach the water.”

“Yell rape, and tell them you took off for Pelee Island .”

That was good. One could probably reach the big Canadian island in a few hours, assuming they didn't freeze to death in the water. Or went to one of the Bass Islands closer to Copperhead. “I'll call you.”

“When?”

“Depends on business.” He kissed her again. “Try to be a client, not a target.”

He turned and ran toward the water. The light from one of the security golf cart almost caught him. Loman dove behind a bush. When the guard passed, he sprinted for the beach. He was waist-deep in the water when he heard Isabella's first screams.

***

“Why are you doing this?” said Mulkern. “I said I'd pay you.”

Why were the stubborn ones always like this? They never paid, only stalled. Even when Loman worked for the Cuban, it was like this. He liked it less freelancing. “When?”

“I told you I'd have an answer on Friday.” Sweat beaded on the man's upper lip.

Loman couldn't believe Isabella, with her body and brains, slept with this amorphous blob. Then again, he had done far worse to advance his career.

Like letting the Cuban drown, then taking his money.

“It's now Sunday morning,” said Loman. “And here you are on one of the most exclusive private islands in the country. Are you trying to avoid me?”

“Got it,” said Isabella, sitting at the computer in her Victoria 's Secret nightie.

Loman pulled the Blackberry off his hip and handed it to her, keeping the gun on Mulkern. “Punch it in.”

“Punch what in?” said Mulkern.

“Your offshore account number. You're about to authorize a transfer to my account.”

“You sonofabitch. Isabella, do it, and you're fired.”

“Really?” said Isabella. She handed the Blackberry back to Loman. “Account number and amount in there.”

Loman leaned over the bed and pressed the gun against Mulkern's forehead. He thrust the Blackberry into his chest. “You're going to enter your password and transfer the money into my account. If you're a good boy, I'll get an email confirming I am seventy-five thousand dollars richer. If you don't put in your password...” He jerked the gun. “Boom.”

Mulkern nodded quickly and typed with his thumbs. Loman snatched the Blackberry away from the Mulkern.

“How much you wanna bet Mr. Mulkern survives the next five minutes?” Loman asked.

Isabella now stood behind Loman.

“Why are you doing this, Isabella?” said Mulkern. “After all I've done for you?”

Isabella laughed. “I've seen what you do to your women. Was I going to be any different?”

“Yes.” It came out as a whimper.

Loman smiled, his thin lips pulled back against a hard jaw. “You should have been nicer, Mulkern. She's a fantastic lay and smarter than you.” He frowned. “Of course, that's not saying much. I've killed meth heads smarter than you.” The Blackberry in his right hand buzzed. Loman glanced at it. “Good. Someone transferred seventy-five grand into my account.” He snapped the Blackberry against his hip once more, then tapped Mulkern's cheek with the gun's silencer. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“You won't get away with this,” said Mulkern. “I have powerful friends.”

“So do I..” Loman stood up. “Like my newest client.”

“You're newest client?” said Mulkern. “Who?”

Isabella kissed Loman on the cheek. “Me.”

Loman pumped two slugs into Mulkern's forehead, splattering blood, bone, and brain all over the antique oak headboard.

***

“Don't move.”

Loman had dodged security to get to the lodge. Now he stared up at a slender black woman in a bathrobe aiming a .45 at his nose.

“I know why you're here,” she said.

“This is between me and Kevin Mulkern,” said Loman.

“I know. In fact, I know everything about you and Kevin.”

“You must be Isabella.”

She smiled, and Loman appreciated how it looked in the pale moonlight.

“I'd like to hire you, Mr. Loman.”

“You're just a secretary,” said Loman. “Even with benefits, you can't afford me.”

She lowered the gun slightly.

“Then again,” said Loman, “you haven't shot me yet. Make me an offer.”

“The resources of Hollis & Carruthers LLC.” She lowered the gun to her side. “You're a dead man, Loman. That takes some doing.”

“I manage.”

“I'm moving up at Hollis. I can create new ID's for you, hide your money, cover your

tracks.” She flipped the gun in her hand, popped the clip, and tossed it aside. “Would that interest you?”

“It may.”

She slipped off her bathrobe, revealing a skimpy negligee beneath. “I'm willing to offer other benefits.”

He stood and took a step forward. “I'll require a down payment.”

She stepped forward and pressed herself against him. “You don't know what the job is.”

“You'd like your boss dead.”

She kissed him. “After you get your money, of course.”

“So what are you offering as a down payment?”

The strap to her lace nightie fell off her shoulder. “A distraction while you escape.”

“A distraction?”

She shoved him back hard. “Make it look good. Otherwise, they're going to be suspicious if I yell rape.”

Loman grabbed her by the wrists and threw her to the ground.

***

Loman hung off the back of the fishing boat, out of sight of the armed guards. Up on the deck, Carlo, the old man who owned the boat, stood with his hands up.

“Don't know what your problem is,” said Carlo, “but I'm just out for a midnight cruise.”

“Are you aware Copperhead Island is private property?” said a man with an Eastern European accent. Loman guessed he was Czech.

Carlo snorted. “Are you aware Lake Erie is public water? Look, sonny, I'm from Put in Bay, so I know all about your little mafia fuck nest over there. And if you'll notice, I'm not trying to dock at your island.”

“Nonetheless, sir,” said another man, an American, “you are rather close to Copperhead. It would be wise for you to move away.” The man's voice sounded familiar to Loman. He guessed this one was the security chief on the island, but Loman knew him from elsewhere. This might make collecting his debt a bit more difficult. “We'd like to avoid any misunderstandings.”

“You would, now?” said Carlo. “What say I radio the Coast Guard, tell them how a couple of overpaid rent-a-cops are harassing citizens on the high seas.”

“Who the fuck are you?” said the Czech. “A pirate?”

“Been accused of it.”

“Look,” said the American, “we're just trying to protect our residents' privacy. Surely, you can understand that.”

“Right,” said Carlo. “And do you plan to have a sniper take out anyone with binoculars on top of the Perry Monument ?”

After a couple of beats, the American said, “Possibly.”

“Cool your jets,” said Carlo. “I'm off to Middle Bass Island for a night of drinking and debauchery.”

The Czech laughed at that, then stopped suddenly.

Carlo fired up the boat's engines. Loman took a deep breath and dropped below the water's surface. He held his breath until Carlo's twenty-footer moved off, then he floated to the surface.

By the time he reemerged, the security boat had already moved back toward the island. Loman began swimming for shore.

***

“Hollis & Carruthers,” said a pleasant female voice. “Mr. Mulkern's office. How may I help you?”

Loman loved that voice. He knew it belonged to Isabella, Kevin Mulkern's secretary. The woman was sharp. He admired that. She was also performing more intimate duties for Mulkern, which Loman didn't like but could respect. He could use someone in her position at Hollis & Carruthers.

Her boss, however…

“I need to speak to Mr. Mulkern on an urgent matter,” said Loman.

“One moment, please.”

“Wait. Don't you want to know who's calling?”

“I know everything I need to know, Mr. Loman. Please hold for Kevin Mulkern.”

She knew his name. Loman would have to reconsider using her if Mulkern didn't cooperate. He'd also need a new identity.

Seconds later, Mulkern answered. “Why are you calling me here?”

“Did you read this morning's Herald-Star ?”

Loman waited as, he assumed, Mulkern looked at his morning paper. He had his own copy in front of him, the headline reading:

KATHERINE MULKERN FOUND DEAD IN MONTICELLO MARINA

Never mind the details. Loman was there. According to the police, Katherine Mulkern, head of a high-powered PR firm in Monticello , Ohio , and Kevin Mulkern's ex, fell from a boat at the Olde Towne Marina late the previous night. Loman had used a metal rod about the thickness of the boat's railing to brain Mrs. Mulkern. She never made a sound. The only thing witnesses heard was a splash. Simple. Loman thought it was some of his best work.

“I did,” said Mulkern. “So it's done.”

“Shall we discuss settling the remaining balance?”

There was a long pause on the other end Loman didn't like. Nor did he like it when Mulkern said, “Right. About that…”

“Mr. Mulkern, we had an agreement. One fifty, half up front, half on delivery.”

“Yes, but how do I know she didn't fall on her own?”

“First, you're on a company phone. You don't know who's listening.”

“But…”

“Second, you hired me to do a job for a fee. I'd like what you agreed to pay me.”

“There's no contract, Mr. Loman. In fact, there's no proof. Last I checked, you didn't even exist.”

“True. You're point?”

“I just wonder how you plan to collect, Mr. Loman.”

Loman smiled. He loved it when they balked at paying. It became a game to him when they did. “Just because our business is off the books does not mean your bill won't go into collections. There are rules to this game, Mr. Mulkern, and collections would involve severe penalties.”

“Are you threatening me?” The phone crackled from Mulkern's fist squeezing the receiver. Loman could hear the man breathing heavily.

“Sir,” said Loman, “you shouldn't raise your voice in your place of employment. Discretion is necessary when doing this kind of business.”

“And what would you know about business?”

“I know when a businessman such as myself is not paid in full, he has the right send the debt to collections. Surely you, as a businessman and a lawyer, understand that.”

“Oh, and who's going to collect.”

“Remember what I do for a living, Mr. Mulkern. It's not only a service I provide, but the means with which I collect outstanding debts. Do we understand each other?”

There came a second pause, one Loman enjoyed very much. It came as no surprise when Mulkern said, “I'll give you the details on Friday. It'll take time to arrange that much money.”

“That's all I can ask, Mr. Mulkern. Until Friday, then.” Loman hung up and walked out of the lobby of the Ebersole Tower in downtown Monticello . Out front, the sign listing Hollis & Carruthers made him smirk. He punched another number to a boat service out on Holland Island .

“Yes, I'd like to book a seat on the next ferry to Put in Bay. What time does it leave?”