Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9)

Curse of the Jade Lily (Mac McKenzie #9) Page 78

“Then where is it?” I asked.

“You have it,” Pozderac insisted, his voice loud and clear. “You have Jade Lily.”

“A lot of people seem to think so.”

Pozderac pounded the table some more. “It is mine,” he said. “Give it to me.”

“Say please.”

“Do not fuck with me”—if you know what’s good for you, he might have added but didn’t.

I paused for a moment before responding.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Was that meant to be threatening? Am I supposed to be chilled to the bone? Tell you what. Try it again, only this time sneer.”

Pozderac rose quickly to his feet, knocking over his chair. “I am Branko,” he proclaimed.

Just one name, my inner voice said. Like Elvis, Cher, Madonna, LeBron, Kobe, Fergie, Bono, and Liberace, only not nearly as entertaining.

“I kill many.” He jabbed his finger at me. “Many. You are nothing. I kill you”

I sat straight in my chair, not moving for fear the pain might cause me to wince in front of Pozderac, giving him the wrong impression.

“Are you counting women, children, and old men?” I asked.

Pozderac’s face reddened. He started to come around the table. Hemsted moved to block him, and Pozderac pushed him away. He couldn’t push Herzog, though. Without a word, the big man stepped between us.

“Get out of way, nigger,” Pozderac said.

For a long moment, the world became quiet. The loudest sound was the light shining through the hotel’s windows. To Herzog’s everlasting credit, he did not lose his temper. He merely glared at the man. Pozderac knew he had made a grievous error in judgment, but he was not one to back down. He placed his hand on Herzog’s chest and tried to shove him. Herzog didn’t give an inch.

“Nigger,” Pozderac hissed.

He said it again? My inner voice was amazed. What an idiot.

“Herzy,” I said aloud. His head turned imperceptibly toward me. “I’m not paying you enough to put up with this shit.”

Herzog closed his hand around Pozderac’s throat and squeezed. Pozderac’s eyes grew wide with terror. He seized Herzog’s wrist with both of his hands, and tried to pull the big man off. It didn’t work. Pozderac began gasping for breath. Herzog took hold of Pozderac’s shoulder and, with his hand still clasped over his throat, lifted him several feet in the air and then threw him more or less toward the elevators. Pozderac spent a lot of time in the air before crashing and rolling across the floor, colliding with a table and chair, knocking both over. About half of the people in the bar looked amazed. The rest looked away, not wanting to get involved.

“Jesus Christ,” Hemsted said. He rushed to Pozderac’s side and cradled him in his arms like a fallen comrade. “McKenzie, what have you done?”

“What have I done?” I stood up and looked at Herzog, who wore an almost beatific smile on his face. “What have I done?”

“He’s a foreign dignitary assaulted on American soil,” Hemsted said.

“That’s terrible,” I said. “You should call the police. Better yet, call the FBI. We’ll be happy to wait.”

From the way his expression suddenly changed, I didn’t think Herzog liked that idea at all. As it turned out, Pozderac and Hemsted didn’t care for it, either.

“Get out of here, McKenzie,” Hemsted said. “Just go away.”

“Fuck you,” Pozderac added for dramatic effect.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said.

“Fuck you,” Pozderac repeated.

Herzog and I moved slowly through the bar and across the lobby while people turned their heads to watch, some blatantly, others furtively. By our leisurely pace, we weren’t trying to prove how unconcerned we were. My sprained ankle simply wouldn’t let me walk any faster.

Before we reached the door, I rotated my immobilized shoulder so I could glance behind me. Hemsted was helping Pozderac toward the elevator while the Bosnian shouted at him. I could not hear what he said.

“We’re having some fun now, aren’t we?” I said.

Herzog moved in front of me and opened the hotel’s heavy door. He held it open until I passed through.

“You like Ella, huh?” he said.

Jenny once invited me to a party that she and her husband threw at their palatial estate on Lake Minnetonka not long after they were married. When we met at the door, she warned me about her new friends, warned me before I had even been introduced to them.

“These are people,” she said, “who never go to ball games unless they have a luxury suite and who have never, ever been to the Minnesota State Fair. They don’t want to be bothered by the riffraff.”

“Then why am I here?” I asked.