Shock Waves(25)

And given time, the finger of suspicion would be aimed at Don Minelli.

* * *

The tall blonde shrugged off her blouse, let it fall behind her. She wore nothing beneath it, and her breasts stood firm, the nipples aimed at Benny Spitteri's face.

"Tha's nice. Let's see the rest."

"My pleasure."

The pimp rocked back in his swivel chair, and wondered if there was another man in all Manhattan who got so much pleasure from his work. Forget about the numbers, running smack, the rest of it. For Benny's money, there was nothing that could match the ladies, and at one time or another he had worked the best.

He was the manager of New York's most exclusive whorehouse, with a clientele composed of politicians, UN diplomats and businessmen who ranked among the top four hundred nationwide. A conscientious businessman, it was his duty to test each product before offering it for sale, to make sure that his customers were getting their money's worth. The rejects were passed to other houses or returned to the streets, and if it took him several trials to make his mind up, well, no one would ever say that Benny Spitteri had been less than thorough at his job.

Like now, for instance.

On the other side of Benny's desk, the blonde peeled out of tight designer jeans, then the panties, and stood before him, hands on hips. He shifted in his chair, attempting to accommodate the swelling in his loins, and beckoned to her.

"Over here."

She moved around behind the desk and did not protest as Benny made her kneel in front of him.

"So far, so good," he told her. "Let's get down to business."

"Mutual, I'm sure."

Actions spoke louder than words, and he could hear the tall blonde loud and clear.

"Hey, take it easy there. We got all day."

The first explosion rocked his office like a muffled sonic boom, the shock wave rippling beneath his feet. An abstract painting fell from the opposite wall, its glass frame shattering as it hit the floor.

Rising from his swivel chair, Benny shoved the blonde away. He found his zipper, tugged too hard, rewarded by the pain of pulled hair.

"Goddamn it!"

He reached the center desk drawer, pulled it open, and the damned thing kept on coming, spilling pens and paper clips and all that office shit around his feet. The little AMT .380 backup bounced once off his instep, disappearing underneath the desk.

"Goddamn it!"

Scuttling around on hands and knees, he angrily combed through the mess, finally found the little pistol and retrieved it. As he straightened up, his scalp made solid contact with the sharp edge of his desk.

"Well, Jesus H.Christ!"

Tears welled up in his eyes as he lurched erect, almost colliding with the naked blonde who was attempting to retrieve her clothes. He aimed a roundhouse at her head and missed by inches, cursing as she pulled back out of range. No time to settle with her now, as yet another blast ripped through the high rise, rattling the so-called soundproof walls.

The doorknob momentarily defied him, slipping through his sweaty fingers, but he got it on the second try and threw the door back on its hinges, banging it hard against the wall. For just a moment he was framed there in the doorway, glancing up and down the corridor.

Outside, the smell of smoke was powerful. An avid movie fan, the pimp immediately flashed on mental film clips from The Towering Inferno, and his blood ran cold.

He started for the stairwell with gun in hand, nothing on his mind now but survival. He was halfway there before he heard the third explosion, louder now, and closer. Benny Spitteri hesitated, racking his brain for an alternate exit, coining up empty.

And then, the gunfire.

Benny picked out .38s unloading in a panicked rapid fire, their rounds exhausted in an instant. Those would be his buttons, shooting windows out for ventilation, maybe blowing locks off fire doors to clear the way.

Spitteri was running when he reached the staircase, and he froze there as a cannon opened up beneath him, answering the smaller weapons with a voice of thunder. No shotgun, that. No weapon carried on the premises by any member of his staff. And that could only mean...

He started down, his legs leaden; he was very much aware the .38s were deathly silent now.

Benny never saw it coming. For an instant he was poised there, one leg raised to take another step, and then his kneecap suddenly disintegrated and his leg turned to useless rubber, and he fell forward on his face. He struck the banister, rebounded, and was airborne for a second prior to impact at the bottom of the stairs. The little AMT bounced free and disappeared.

The world was upside down, distorted through a looking glass of pain, and Benny heard the thunder now, reverberating all around him, telling him precisely what had happened. His lower body was on fire. When Benny tried to move, his muscles never got the message.