Page 23 of Passion's Wicked Torment

“Go to hell,” said Chad.

Ironman lost control. He picked up the first thing his eyes lit on, a heavy plaster vase on a table, and smashed it down across Chad’s brow. Chad instantly crumpled to the wooden floor and lay there, unmoving.

Terry knelt down and looked him over, frowning hard. “Now you did it,” he said. He put his ear to Chad’s chest, listening for a heartbeat.

“Did I kill him?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “No. He’s alive. But I don’t know if he’ll stay that way. You probably scrambled his brains with that vase.” Terry looked reluctant to say anything further, but finally he spoke, chastising his boss slightly. “Hell, if you wanted him dead, I could have done that. I thought you wanted to get info out of him.”

Ironman threw the vase against the wall, shattering it. “Ahh,” he said disgustedly. “I didn’t intend to hit him like that. He drove me to it. It’s just . . . hell, I never planned to keep him here this long. This thing is dragging out too damn long! I thought I’d pick him up off the street, rough him up a bit, and he’d tell us what we want to know. Most reporters are softies. How’d I know we’d get a tough one. ‘Mad Dog’ Fleming, that’s what they called him during the war. Did you know that?”

Terry was still on his knees before Chad’s unmoving body, listening to his heartbeat. “All I know is, he’s going to be in bad shape, even if he does live. And we can’t keep him here much longer, anyway. This place is getting too hot. The cops ain’t looking for him, but the feds are. Why don’t we just dump him into the lake, Ironman?”

“I need that name!” roared Ironman. “I got to weed out that infiltrator! Every day he stays in my organization, he’s a day closer to getting the goods on me. Soon he’ll have enough for the feds to arrest me.” He looked at Terry suspiciously, with feverish, paranoid eyes. “Why are you so anxious to have him done in? You wouldn’t be the man I’m looking for, would you now?”

Terry scoffed at the foolishness of the question. “Boss, I’m the one who’s been beating him silly every day! You think he’d risk his neck to protect me if I was the fed?”

“All right. All right. So I’m getting jumpy. I just want to find this infiltrator and get him taken care of.”

“Meantime, what do we do with him? We can’t keep him here.”

“I’ll come up with some other place to move him to. I’ll let you know soon. When he regains consciousness—”

“If,” Terry corrected.

“When! That bastard better not die on me now, after all the time I’ve wasted on him. When he regains consciousness, you keep drilling him for that name. And I’ll keep trying to locate his sister, this Molly K. Fleming gal.”

As Ironman started to leave, Chad groaned loudly on the floor. Ironman turned back just as Chad opened his eyes and sat up. He blinked several times at Ironman, who was staring at him with a furled brow.

“Who are you?” Chad Fleming said in a subdued voice, squinting hard, his eyes narrow slits.

“Nice try, kid. But it won’t work.” Ironman turned on his heel and left. As he walked back to his limousine in the darkened alleyway, he had only one thought to console him amidst all the frustrations and mounting anguishes of his life: At least he had that beautiful young girl waiting for him at home.

“Kristin Seagrave,” he said aloud, taking comfort even from the lovely sound of her name. He pulled on his gloves, entered his car and let himself savor the pleasures that awaited him back at the hotel for tonight and many nights to come.

CHAPTER 14

After living with Ironman for two weeks, Kristin finally learned the first bit of information about Chad. Out of discouragement, she had almost been ready to force the issue. She had decided to hint around the subject, to try to get Ironman to talk about whether he had ever abducted anyone and what he did with them. She knew that by asking this, she would be taking her life in her hands, risking divulging her true purpose. It would have meant almost certain death, she realized afterward, if she had taken that course. Fortunately, it had not been necessary.

They were in Ironman’s penthouse. Kristin was wearing a silk robe and an elaborate diamond necklace. Ironman liked seeing her wearing the expensive jewelry or mink stoles he gave her, even when she was only lounging in front of the fireplace, reading, as she was doing now.

Ironman was at the grand piano, trying to play a popular show tune. In a few hours they would have to begin dressing for the big party Ironman was hosting at the Savory ballroom, but for now they were just killing time.

Kristin winced at Ironman’s piano playing. He was absolutely terrible. And the worst of it was, he did not realize it. He thought he was a gifted musician, and he often spoke to her about how, if he had not gone into his present line of work, he might have become a famous pianist. Kristin did not argue. She never mentioned to him the fact that he was so tone-deaf, he did not even realize it when he struck horribly wrong notes.None of his men said anything about this either, realizing how sensitive their boss was to the subject.

The phone rang, and she answered it. It was Riggio calling from downstairs in the lobby. “Tell the boss that Teal is on his way up.” She relayed the message. When the bell rang, Ironman had Kristin let the man in. Arthur Teal stood about nervously as Ironman finished the piece he was playing, then looked up at him and Kristin for approval. Teal was so dumbfounded by the horrible playing, he did not know if the boss was joking with him or not. He looked nervous. Kristin saved him by showing him the way. “It was wonderful,” she said gently, looking at Ironman, then Teal.

Teal swallowed. “Yeah, boss. Really what you’d call a hot piece of playing.”

Ironman smiled indulgently, pleased. “Nothing. George Gershwin couldn’t do,” he said, only half jokingly. He stood up from the piano and came over to the wet bar, where he poured himself and Teal a shot of whiskey. He glanced at Kristin out of politeness, but knew she would shake her head no, as she did.

“Thanks, boss,” said Teal, taking his drink and gulping it down. He looked upset and harried, as if he wanted to say something but did not know how to phrase it without getting himself in trouble.

One of Ironman’s positive traits was that he had a sixth sense about his own people. He could usually tell what was going through their minds. Part of the reason for this, Kristin believed, was that most of his men were so simple-minded, they could be read like a book. Ironman sipped at his whiskey for a moment, then said:

“All right, Arthur. Spit it out. What’s on your mind?”

Teal looked agonized. It seemed that he was about to mention a subject Ironman had already decided on, and Teal was about to question the wisdom of the decision. Finally he made himself speak, blurting it out after gulping down another shot of whiskey. “Boss, h

ow much longer do we have to keep that damn reporter?” Kristin’s ears perked up, She felt so alert, it was as if a bolt of lightning had struck her. She did not look up from her magazine, though, which she had returned to reading on the sofa.

There was a moment of dead silence. Then Ironman said, “Kristin, honey, why don’t you go into the bedroom.” The sternness in his voice was due to his displeasure with Teal, she knew, not with her.

She looked up casually, as if she were so absorbed in what she was reading that she had not been aware of what was said. “Why, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, honey. You just go and make yourself comfortable. Then you can come here again a little later.”

She was almost on the verge of arguing with him or trying some ploy such as asking if he didn’t trust her. But she restrained herself, knowing it might tip her hand unduly. She shrugged and wandered off into the bedroom, holding the Collier’s magazine in front of her as she walked, as if still reading.

“And close the door, honey.”

She did so. And then, instantly, she dove down to the floor near the heater grating, which had an outlet on both sides of the wall. She had discovered this means of eavesdropping a while ago and had used it on other occasions. It was not very good though. She now put her ear right against the cold metal grille, thankful that Ironman preferred the fireplace for warmth rather than the heater. If the heater had been on, she would not have been able to get near enough to the grille to hear anything.

Ironman’s voice was deep and gruff as usual. Part of what he said was lost in the grille, coming out as muffled, undecipherable sounds. She heard enough of the conversation to piece it together though.

“Arthur,” Ironman was saying, “why do you question my judgment? I told you it’s good business to keep him alive. You think maybe you should be running the mob?”

“No, boss, no! That’s not it at all! It’s just . . . well, he ain’t gonna talk, boss. Me and Terry, we think he’s lost his memory just like he’s making out that he has. We think the way you hit him last time—”

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