Page 67 of Stay Baby Stay

We file into King’s office.

“Where’s the safe?” I ask, though I recall exactly where it is.

He points to the spot on the wall behind his leather desk chair.

“Open it,” I tell him. “Slowly.”

King punches in a four-digit code into the keypad and then opens the safe. “There,” he says. “Take your money and get the fuck out of my house.”

“Patience, counselor.” Austin clamps a hand on King’s shoulder, towing him back around the desk and into one of the chairs.

I motion for Mike to look inside the safe. “See what you can find.”

King’s face grows redder by the second, as Mike begins pulling out and piling the contents of his private business all over his desk.

“Here’s your first five grand,” Mikey says, holding up a stack of wrapped bills. In addition to the money, he pulls out financial documents, an antique German Luger, and more than a few photos of underaged girls without their clothes on.

Mike tests the sides and bottom of the safe for hidden compartments.

“This looks promising,” he says, pulling a black external hard drive from a side pocket.

“That’s nothing,” King says. “Some old tax documents. Just take the fucking money and go.” Judging by the fury and pants-shitting fear written all over his face, we’ve stumbled upon something that might be useful.

“We’re not interested in your money, counselor,” I say.

“Then what the hell do you want?”

“A little information,” I tell him. “But first, I’m curious to know why you’ve got hidden cameras rigged up all over the interior of your house.”

His mouth flattens into a thin line. “Clearly, I’m a man in need of extra security.”

I chuckle, then turn to Mike. “Was there a computer in the basement?”

“Don’t think so.” Mike grabs the laptop off the desk. “This’ll do.”

“Hey,” King snaps. “Be careful with that.”

“Shut up,” Austin says, yanking him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“To your man cave, counselor,” I say.

“Can I at least put on some pants?”

I shake my head. “Something tells me you’ll be more cooperative in this getup.”

Austin keeps a hand on King’s shoulder and his gun pressed against his back, as we direct the lawyer down into the bowels of his house.

In the basement, under the dead-eyed stare of taxidermied wildlife, we sit King down on the chair I’d pulled out and secure his hands behind him.

Mike parks himself on the leather sofa with King’s laptop.

“Password,” Mike says.

“Fuck you,” King spits.

I press my gun to his temple. “That wasn’t polite, counselor.”

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