“Not Quin, obviously,” Finn said. “He might do some crazy shit, but he doesn’t hurt women.”
“Who is Quin’s competition then?” I asked.
Seth and Finn looked at each other for a second, running through the roster of shady characters in the area. And it wasn’t exactly a short list.
“Hammond?” Seth asked, waiting for some agreement from Finn.
“I could see it.”
“Who is Hammond?”
“He’s kind of like a… broker of crime,” Seth explained. “He seems on the up and up, has a ‘consulting’ business. But he is the go-between with the wealthy clients and the low-level criminals willing to do whatever job pays. For a fee, of course.”
“Does he know what the jobs are?” I asked.
“Guess it depends. I mean, I figure it might be better for him, legally, to never know the exact details. Say you are the rich guy, and you come to him and say you need someone who can tamper with a car. But don’t go into specifics.”
“Makes sense. Where do I find him?”
“Over in Merittown in that strip across from the yogurt place. Don’t you think you should maybe talk to Fallon first?” Finn reasoned.
“No,” I said, turning and making my way back out.
I was shocked that Brooks didn’t even try to stop me.
I think, once you’ve been in the club for long enough, you know better than to get between a guy and the woman who was going to be his old lady one day.
I was sure someone was on the phone with Fallon right that moment. But I was already on my bike and peeling out of Navesink Bank.
I just needed confirmation.
I needed Hammond to say that, yes, it was Frederick who’d come into his office to ask for some particular services.
Then I would drive my ass to old Bent-Dick Freddie’s place and show him how I felt about people who want to harm my girl.
Hammond’s place was relatively easy to find, situated in a small strip mall of office buildings that were neither upscale or seedy, just somewhere in the middle.
A podiatrist to the left.
A medical supply office to the right.
With him right in the middle.
The big plate glass windows were tinted so dark that you couldn’t see shit inside.
But the front doors proudly sported the company name.
Hammond Hope & Associates.
No one would know, judging from the decent building and the nice sign, that his associates were contract killers and muscle-for-hire.
I was somewhat surprised when the door just opened in my hand, no code, no buzzer, nothing.
But, I guess, when you employed all the local criminals, you didn’t really need to be afraid of them dropping in for a visit.
The inside was, well, an office.
The entry opened up to a long front desk with waiting areas to each side. Both were identical with the usual ugly black polyurethane armchairs, black coffee tables, and flatscreens on the walls.
The waiting room to the right had a coffee station, though, whereas the one to the left had a water fountain and snack basket.
From the speakers, what at first listen appeared to be casual, classical music was, in fact, an old rap song from the early two-thousands turned into classical waiting room music.
While the front desk had all the appearances that someone potentially manned it, there was no one present. And judging by the black computer screen, no one had been in for a while.
Seeing a little silver service bell, I tapped my finger impatiently against it, hearing it echo through the empty office.
If I expected Hammond to come out frustrated by the sound, I was mistaken.
And if I’d been expecting some shady-ass character with a cheap suit and a finger-twirling mustaches, I would have been disappointed to see who was actually standing in the doorway from the back.
Hammond Hope was a tall man with wide shoulders and a strong chest. If I had to wager a bet, I’d say he was somewhere upward of forty but not quite into his fifties. There was a speck of gray in his dark hair, but not much. His face was mostly unlined from his wide jaw to the skin around his gray eyes.
“You don’t look like my typical client,” he decided, his gaze moving over me. “Are you looking for a job?”
“A job? Like where you hire me to beat the shit out of an innocent woman? That kind of job?”
If I’d been expecting immediate denial, or demands for me to leave his office, I would have been frustrated to watch him watching me with those keen eyes of his, trying to make sense of what I was saying.
“Can I offer you a coffee?” Hammond asked, gesturing out toward the waiting room.
“No. You can offer me a fucking name,” I said, planting my hands on the desk, and hauling myself up and over it until I was on the other side with him.