Hammerlocke Read online

  HammerLocke

  Jack Barnao

  For Ben Lawson, who is 50% Barnao and 100% OK

  Chapter 1

  It smelt like an ambush. It shouldn't have. This wasn't some littered alley in Londonderry, I was standing on thick wool carpet among furniture made from two-inch teak, talking to a secretary who bought her clothes in Paris and had her makeup applied the way they spray fenders in a body shop.

  But she was the giveaway. She was flustered, as if I'd walked in and found her saving her boss the bother of going all the way down to the massage parlor to have his dreams come true. She had trouble meeting my eyes and there was tension around her mouth that even her million-dollar Max Factor makeover couldn't conceal. She tried a tight little smile and told me that Mr. Ridley was expecting me and would I knock and enter. Like that, knock and enter.

  So I knocked on the ten-foot-high door but because of my suspicion I waited for His Master's Voice. Behind me I heard the secretary gulp down a quick breath.

  A fat man's voice said, "Come," and I shoved the door open. It swung wide to my right but I didn't saunter in. I checked through the crack down the edge, then stepped inside and took a quick pace to the left, turning to face the door as it swung shut.

  In the glimpse I'd had of the room I could see no menace. Herbert Ridley Sr. was the soft man with the tan, safely behind his desk, both hands on top like a banker turning down a loan application. The guy in front of the desk was harder but forty pounds past fit. He had on the kind of glen check suit that cops buy at discounts from tailors on their beats. From the strain under the left armpit I knew he was carrying. I still wasn't alarmed. Applying for a job isn't a capital offense, he wouldn't shoot me.

  I went to the other chair and nodded at Ridley. He was smirking, the corners of his mouth twitching at his private joke, probably the fact that the other guy had a gun. I said, "I'm John Locke, I've come about the job of protecting your son."

  Ridley went Hollywood on me. He swung around to gaze out of his window, putting his feet up on his Chippendale escritoire. Over his shoulder he said, "You're supposed to be tough, Mr. Locke."

  I ignored him and sat down. He waited but when nothing happened he looked back over his shoulder as if I were in the back seat of his Mercedes. "You're supposed to be tough," he said again.

  "Unless you're planning to barbecue me, it shouldn't be a problem," I told him.

  Now he did a bully boy laugh and spun around in his chair, swinging his feet down clumsily. He looked at me and then cocked his head back and laughed again. "Suppose I told you that Mr. Sullivan here spent two years in Viet Nam."

  I turned to Sullivan. "Did you get a tattoo?" I asked politely but he was too busy looking menacing to take any notice.

  Ridley was starting to lose patience. He'd written himself some kind of scenario here but I was getting all the good lines—he didn't like that. "Sullivan was decorated twice," he said.

  "Good for him, so was my mother's front parlor." I stood up. "I'm not sure what you're talking about but get to the point. Do you need a professional to look after your son or not?" I've found it never hurts to be forceful. It lets them know you're a hardnose, which is the business I'm in.

  Sullivan spoke now in a growl he'd perfected in the service, I guessed, hazing recruits. "Shall I throw him out, Mr. Ridley?"

  Ridley ignored him. "Tell me about yourself, Locke," he said. Sullivan was edging to the front of his seat, ready for what he thought would be a pounce.

  "I'm ex-Cambridge, ex-Harvard, didn't finish either, and ex-SAS." I had finished that one, seven years, two of them in Northern Ireland, one in the Falklands and a lot of other work including getting my picture on television as I swung in through the window of the Iranian embassy in London.

  "And now you're looking for work?" Ridley purred. He was going to play the money game. He had lots, I had none, nah-nah-nah.

  "Right."

  "Well, what qualifications have you got?" He waited. Maybe he didn't watch television and had never heard of the SAS. I didn't bite so he sighed and pushed on. "What makes you think you could take care of my son?"

  "He's going to Italy. I've been there, I know a Giotto from a grilled cheese sandwich and I don't eat spaghetti with a knife and fork. An example like me might be useful to an eighteen-year-old dropout."

  Sullivan made another little push to the front of his chair but not quite to the point of balance, I still had him pinned if he moved. Ridley spluttered. "Who're you calling a dropout?"

  "I did my homework. He's had two arrests for joy-riding, no convictions. He was last seen trying to finish grade thirteen at Jarvis Collegiate. His marks aren't out yet but his teacher isn't holding his breath."

  Ridley straightened up in his chair. "So you've been snooping, and I'm supposed to be impressed," he said, huffily. He should give up the Marlboros or quit balling his secretary and take up squash, I thought. Again I let him carry on and he did, blowing his surprise. "I've arranged a little test for you. With Mr. Sullivan's assistance."

  "If it involves that cannon he's got under his arm, advise him against trying it," I said evenly. "If he goes for it I'll stick it up his nose."

  Sullivan roared and sprang. At least he would have sprung if I hadn't hauled him out of his chair by the left wrist, tripped him over my foot and pinned him on the floor, face down, swearing into the deep pile. I locked his arm up his back and reached over his shoulder with my left hand. His gun was a U.S. Colt .45 automatic look-alike, an air pistol.

  I stood back and let him get up while I uncapped the end and tipped out the little red paint balls inside, the kind that kids of all ages use in war games, if they've never been in the real thing.

  Sullivan got up and dusted off his coat. He was angry but we both knew I could take him and he wasn't planning any more springing.

  "An air pistol?" I said. "Why not a pop gun or one with a little flag that pokes out with 'Bang' written on it?" He didn't say anything so I slipped the pellets back into the magazine. Then I turned and fired at the Picasso print on the far wall. The paint round splatted all over it like tomato ketchup. Ridley howled with anger.

  "You sonofabitch. That painting cost ten thousand bucks."

  I turned and put two shots into him, splashing his beautiful vest and the tie with its yacht club insignia. He roared again, first at me, an unformed howl, then at Sullivan. "Get him. You can't let him get away with this."

  I turned to Sullivan. "I guess you buy your own suits, so I'm not going to shoot you," I told him. "Just sit down."

  I could see him working out the alternatives. Neither one was good. One way he got fired, the other way he got hurt. I guess firing was less painful. He sat and Ridley stood, swearing and swiping away at his ketchup stains with the sleeve of his Sea Island cotton shirt. I took the last pellets out of the gun and put them into my pocket. Then I dropped the gun on the floor beside Ridley's shining empty desk. "Don't call me, I'll call you," I told him and walked out.

  Miss Lacquer was standing outside the door. I smiled at her. "You're going to be asked to get him a clean suit. Try not to hurry, a little humiliation is good for the soul."

  She couldn't hold in her grin. "That was you, shooting?"

  "Yes. It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy."

  "A pity they weren't real bullets," she whispered.

  I grinned and gave her my card, which is a natty blue color with the words "John Locke, Physical Assurance" and my phone number.

  "Call when the laundry's done, maybe we can cook up a scheme to keep his hands off you," I suggested and walked out into the air-conditioned bullpen where a hundred computer gnomes were clicking and beeping away at their little terminals, earning Ridley the money to play games with unemployed bodyguards. I sighed at the thought.
Nothing had changed. He still had money and I still didn't, but at least I wouldn't be stuck saying "yes" to the fat bastard.

  Chapter 2

  Kansas City was in town that afternoon, trying to do it to the Blue Jays, so I spent a pleasant three hours down at Exhibition Stadium, baking gently over a couple of beers.

  It was tied up at the end of nine, then Moseby snicked one along the third base line and it hit that little glitch in the artificial turf and hopped past Brett and Garcia made it home and put the Royals out of their misery.

  While I waited for the crowd to clear I called my answering service. A woman had rung. Elspeth Ridley. I dialed the number and a Caribbean woman's voice said, "Ridley residence."

  "Good afternoon, this is John Locke returning Elspeth Ridley's call."

  "Hold the line, please," she said in an Islands singsong.

  A chilled voice came on and said, "Hello, Mr. Locke. Can you come and see me, please?"

  "Of course." I'm always polite to women, even if they're related to Herbert Ridley Sr. "When would be convenient?"

  "At once," she said without inflection. Money was talking again. I glanced at my Rolex. It was five-forty, rush hour. Did she think I was a magician? "Where do you live?"

  She told me the address, up in Rosedale where Toronto's old money sits gathering moss. I told her I would be there in an hour and went down to retrieve my Volvo.

  The crowd had thinned enough for me to get out onto the Lake Shore and up Jarvis Street, then Mount Pleasant so I was able to make the five miles in forty minutes but I didn't want to look eager so I parked a couple of blocks away and walked out to Yonge Street to watch the homebound commuters. It's something I do to calm myself when my bank account gets low.

  I stood and looked at all that fear on the move. All those tense people taking home full briefcases, just to impress their office manager or their client or some other whey-faced moneygrubber, worrying into the small hours over dog food or real estate or computer time-sharing or some other 1980s' necessity. Sure they make money but the price is too high for me.

  My wants are simple: excitement, travel, good food and beautiful women. I'd had it all in the army. Not food, of course. I've eaten mice, snakes, frogs, snails, all kinds of choice tidbits when I've worked under cover. But even the worst postings meant transit through interesting places, where there were women, who always seemed beautiful, and with the chance to eat better than it's possible to eat anywhere in Britain. No, I had no grudge with the army but I'd finally grown tired of keeping tabs on terrorists. I still don't understand them and they do business in places I'd rather not be. So I resigned my commission and brought my medals back to Canada. A free man, except for having to go hat in hand to a crusty-sounding rich old woman. I turned back. Everything has its price, especially freedom.

  The maid was beautiful, light-skinned and fine-featured with a look in her eyes that said she didn't take her boss too seriously. She looked me up and down as frankly as I looked at her. "You can come in," she said and when I grinned she added, "any old time." It was the best news I'd had in a while.

  Elspeth Ridley was a stiff-backed woman of seventy, sitting in a wheelchair in the conservatory repotting African violets. She put down the pot she was holding and spun her chair to face me, moving with a strength that showed she despised her body for letting her down. She dusted off her hands and reached out to shake mine. "Mr. Locke, thank you for coming." Her hand was strong and hard. I decided I liked her.

  "My pleasure." She waved me ahead of her and rolled her chair through the doorway into the living room. She pointed to the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable. I was about to have a drink before dinner, would you join me?"

  "Thank you." I sat down while she wheeled herself to the sideboard and got out the Beefeater. She had a bottle of Bushmills as well, a woman of character.

  She built me an Irish on the rocks and herself a martini then turned her chair around and looked at me very straight. I sipped and waited. At last she spoke. "Just what did happen in my son's office today?"

  "I was always taught 'never complain, never explain,'" I said.

  She waved the comment aside. "I tried to teach Herbert the same thing but he never understood me. Now he's been on the telephone blustering away about lawyers. I'd like you to humor an old woman and tell me what happened." She left it at that, sitting up straight with her drink cupped in both hands.

  "I suppose he thought he had to test me, if I was to be the bodyguard for his son. He had his security chief, a man named Sullivan, try to threaten me with a gun. I don't like that so I took the gun away and when I found they had it loaded with those war-games pellets I fired a couple of them in his office, to give him an idea of what guns are for."

  She sipped her gin and said nothing. She would be one hell of a poker player, I thought. I bit into my Bushmills and waited. At last she said, "Where did you learn how to take guns away from men the size of Mr. Sullivan?"

  "In the British army." I wasn't going to talk SAS again until I could see where it would lead me.

  She inclined her head. "But you're Canadian, aren't you?"

  "Born in Toronto but I didn't want to put on a green uniform and sit in Saskatchewan developing cirrhosis. So I went to Britain."

  "Ordinary soldiers don't learn tricks like yours."

  "I was a volunteer for a special unit."

  She thought about that for a moment. "Which unit would that be, Mr. Locke, the SAS?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  A man would have asked questions about the training or how many times I'd seen shots fired in anger or if I'd ever killed anybody. She said, "Did you hold a commission?"

  I nodded. It was no big deal, just first lieutenant, the second rank up from the bottom but they don't give commissions out with the rations in the SAS, I'd had to give up my rank in the Grenadier Guards to volunteer. It didn't matter to Elspeth Ridley anyway, she was talking business. "So you know how to behave," she said with no flicker of amusement.

  "Better than that, I think I understand the boy I'll be accompanying," I told her. It was more than money now, I wanted to work for this woman, she impressed me.

  "What makes you so sure?" Just the right note of disbelief to keep me anxious to explain.

  "From the checking I've done I get the impression he's a spoiled rich kid with not much ambition beyond having a good time. That could have been me, at his age."

  Again she avoided all the time-wasting questions. "The world is filled with former delinquents, do you come from a wealthy family?"

  "My father founded Locke Explorations." There, my pedigree was out.

  She humphed, thoughtfully. "I've met him. A big forceful man of about my age. He was on the Symphony committee one year but left because he was never in the city, he was always in Ungava or wherever, looking for new ore bodies."

  "That would be him."

  "And you're the prodigal son." She sipped her gin and allowed herself a little laugh. "I like that. Let me tell you the problem."

  I listened and she wet her whistle again and began to talk, slowly and calmly at first but I could feel the anger mounting in her speech. "Herbert, young Herbert, has been a problem for about five years, ever since his father left his mother. He was thirteen then, quiet, interested in painting. His father won the custody battle." She stopped and sipped again, gathering strength for the truth. "God forgive me, I helped him." I said nothing and she went on. "So. My son is the kind of man who suspects any trace of artistic ability is a sign of weakness. He took his son's paint brushes away and bought him golf clubs and tennis rackets, which the boy hated."

  I could see the pattern coming now but she didn't stop for questions, looking up and past me, through the door to her African violets that allowed themselves to be potted and shaped the way the owner wanted. "The boy didn't throw a tantrum, he simply went along with his father's wishes, but I could see the resentment building. And then when he turned fifteen, he started the anti-social behavior that has persisted
since."

  "What kind of behavior? I already know about the cars."

  She looked at me for a second. "You must be very shrewd, Mr. Locke, we kept it all very secret. But anyway, that was the least of it. He began pilfering, usually from women. When his father had one of his lady friends over, Squeak—" she stopped and waved one hand, "that's his nickname, Squeak would go through her purse and steal, not money but something personal."

  "Missing his mother, I guess," I said. Let's hear it for the Reader's Digest school of psychology.

  "Obviously," she said. "But his father regarded it as a sexual aberration and he beat him."

  "And that's when he switched to car theft?"

  "Among other things." She set down her glass and clasped her hands together. "For a boy of not quite eighteen he is very precocious."

  It sounded pompous, unlike her. I asked, "What other things?"

  She thought about that for a full minute while I waited, nuzzling my glass of Bushmills and wondering if I had chosen the right way to make a living. "Perhaps you might ask Louise, my maid," she said, "but I would prefer it if you didn't."

  I let her off the griddle. "So the job of escorting him is not so much for his protection as it is for the protection of the great Italian public," I suggested.

  She took it up gratefully. "That's exactly right, Mr. Locke. I, and my son, of course, have decided we needed a responsible, mature, strong adult to accompany the boy to Italy."

  "Why Italy?"

  "Italy is the spiritual home of all art," she said. "I want to rekindle the old desire he had for painting." I said nothing and she went on with anger in her voice. "I want to take his mind out of the gutter and point it upwards again, where he once was headed."

  I set my glass down. "It sounds considerably more interesting than other assignments I've been looking at. How much would you pay for the service?"

  She didn't hesitate. "I'm sure your other assignments would have paid well, Mr. Locke. However, my figure is one thousand dollars a week for the six weeks of the journey, plus all expenses, of course."