Free Henchmen by Eric Lahti Page A

now.”
    I know this guy has a serious Napoleon complex, but no real-estate agent gets like this over a previous tenant.  When we got here, I doubted this idiot would know anything, but now I’m guessing he’s neck deep in something.  I’ve met plenty of guilty people in my previous life - hell, I’ve been one of them - and he’s got the terrified look that comes from interacting with forces bigger than himself.  Usually you see this look on people working with the Mafia, but I’ve seen it on people in trouble with the government, too.  Goodman’s got a look people get after they run into people they didn’t quite understand, and got in bed with those people over before they fully understood the consequences of their actions.  He’s hiding something, and he’s more worried about being caught by them than he is afraid of us. 
    But fear is a powerful motivator, and it’s time Goodman paid more attention to the immediate threat.
    “Oh, you misunderstand us,” I say.  “This isn’t a good-cop, bad-cop thing.”  I point to Jessica. “This is bad news,” then point to myself, “and worse news.  Just answer the fucking question, and we’ll walk away quietly.”
    “Fuck you!” he yells, and tries to run around his desk.  Jessica hooks his leg, and he stumbles into the edge of the desk. He bounces off and trips himself.  She laughs, and he goes bright red.  He tries to get up, and she kicks him in the jaw without even getting out of her chair.  Goodman goes down again.
    I walk over to him and stand on his fingers.  He screams like a little girl and slaps at my feet.  Jessica squats down in front of him.  “Delano Hayha is my father.  I’d very much like to know what happened to him.”
    “He didn’t pay his rent, so I kicked his goldbricking ass out!  I had every right!  It was in the contract!  Would you get the fuck off me?”
    I think for a second.  “No, I can’t move right now.  When did you kick him out?”
    “About nine years ago.  He stopped paying his rent!  I went over and he was just sitting there, staring off into space.  I told him to get his ass out by the next day, or I’d be back with the police.  I came back and he was still just sitting there, so the cops escorted him off my property.”
    What kind of slumlord remembers a tenant from nine years ago?  Something happened to drill Delano Hayha into Goodman’s mind.
    Jessica looks pained.  “Did it occur to you to call for medical help?  I mean, if he was just sitting there staring off into space, something must’ve been wrong.”
    “That’s not my problem.  I need to make money, and he wasn’t paying me what he owed.”
    Wow.  I thought I was callous.  “You dirty, saprophyte motherfucker.”
    “You ass,” Jessica says to Silvio.  “You could’ve tried doing the right thing.”
    “I did do the right thing!  I made money off my property.”
    “Aiyah,” I say.  I picked that up watching some movie and have been using it ever since.  It’s such a perfect word.  In case you’re wondering, it’s a traditional Cantonese sigh of disgust.
    “Fine,” Jessica says.  “What did you do with his things?”
    “I auctioned them.”
    “Motherfucker,” Jessica says.  She looks at me “Do you happen to have that knife on you?”
    “Of course I do,” I say, pulling the knife out its sheath behind my back.  I spent some time earlier polishing it to a mirror finish, and honing the edge to a razor.  I make a show out of letting the sunlight glint off it before handing it to Jessica.  She holds it up and looks at her reflection in it. I have to hide a smile when she adjusts her hair slightly before squatting back down in front of Silvio.
    Goodman’s eyes go wide as dinner plates.  There’s a kind of primal terror about being cut that hits right at the cold part of your stomach.  I’m honestly more afraid of being cut than being shot; I know it doesn’t make sense, but it’s true.  When you