-7-

Hannibal returned his friend’s smile but kept his feet rooted in place. “Ray. What’s up, buddy? Bad day? I’m not used to seeing you around this early.”

“Yeah, running the limo company been taking up way too much of my life,” Ray said, pulling the stub of a cigar from his mouth. “Figured I’d just visit with you for a while before I went to have dinner with Cintia. Now come on, open this door that’s standing between me and my beer.”

“You deserve a break,” Hannibal said, wondering if his visitor was on the other side of that door aiming a pistol at it. “Unfortunately, the fridge on that side is tapped out. But I got a beer or two in the apartment. Come on.”

Hannibal turned and headed for his apartment door, fighting the urge to scream a warning at Ray. He anticipated the sound of gunfire any second but instead he heard a brief pause, then Ray’s footsteps behind him.

“Yeah, I guess you’ve had enough of the office for one day,” Ray said, following Hannibal into his kitchen and right to the refrigerator. He kept an assortment of beer for visitors, but he knew that Ray’s tastes mirrored his so he pulled out a pair of Sam Adams black lagers. They carried the bottles into the living room before twisting off the caps. Hannibal dropped into his recliner while Ray settled into the center of the sofa.

“So, rough day, eh?” Hannibal asked, chasing the question down with a long swallow from his bottle. The thick, smooth liquid rolled down his throat, relaxing him on its way down.

“Yeah, man, it’s a lot easier to deal with people you’re driving than to deal with drivers who work for you. It’s harder than hell to keep them all busy but if you don’t have enough you can’t grow, you know. Life was easier when I was just a cabby.”

“You wanted to own your own business,” Hannibal said. Then a memory floated to the surface. He pulled a pad from his jacket pocket and quickly wrote down a name and address.

“What’s this?” Ray asked. “You need help on your case?”

“Yeah, but it’s also me throwing some business your way.” Hannibal handed the note to Ray. “I gave this guy your card today. His car got crunched and he’ll need a ride for a couple of days. I gave him a recommendation but it wouldn’t hurt for you to make contact and let him know how much you want the work.”

Ray leaned back, took another swallow of beer, and looked at Hannibal “This guy’s part of the case you’re working?”

“Uh huh. It would be nice to know where he goes. He’s not local. He’s from Algeria, just renting a place in Woodley Park.”

“Really?” Ray said, slipping the paper into his shirt pocket. “One of my drivers is from Algeria. I got a lot of guys from Africa and the Middle East, and a good handful of West Indians too. And there’s that Panamanian guy.”

“Sounds like you got a regular rainbow coalition going on there, buddy,” Hannibal said.

“Not quite,” Ray said. “I only got one white guy driving, and I’m pretty sure he’s gay.”

* * * * *

Less than an hour later, Hannibal was walking Ray to the building door.

“You sure you won’t come with?” Ray asked as he stepped out onto the stoop. “You know Cindy’s always glad to see you.”

“No, man, you need your father-daughter time. Besides, I think I’ll make it an early night. Later.”

Hannibal closed the door and counted to ten to make sure Ray wasn’t going to double back for something he forgot. Then he marched to his office door, unlocked it, and stepped through. It locked behind him when he closed it.

Ivanovich was staring at the computer monitor, apparently surfing the Web. His left hand was lying beside his pistol. He glanced up when Hannibal entered, then turned back to whatever he was looking at. Hannibal’s headphones hugged Ivanovich’s head. Hannibal’s eyes traced the cord back to his bookshelf stereo. A compact disc was spinning in the player.

“You went in my tunes,” Hannibal said through clenched teeth. Ivanovich cocked an eyebrow at him and uncovered his left ear.

“You went in my tunes,” Hannibal repeated.

“You make it sound as if I had violated you,” Ivanovich said. He was smiling, but Hannibal was not. Ivanovich eased his hand onto the butt of his gun. “You have an interesting and surprising collection.”

“You were expecting the collected works of Barry White and George Clinton?”

“I wasn’t expecting this.” Ivanovich unplugged the headphones and the industrial thump of Nine Inch Nails filled the room.

Broken, bruised, forgotten, sore,

Too fucked up to care anymore,

Poisoned to the rotten core,

Too fucked up to care anymore!

“That figures,” Hannibal said. “Trent Reznor’s nihilistic lyrics are just perfect for a heartless assassin.”

“Nihilistic?” Ivanovich grinned again, tapping the tip of his silencer against the desk. “Not a word, or even a concept I would have expected from you. But then, you couldn’t be stupid and do what you do. In fact, you must understand human motivations better than most.”

“Yeah, I’m a regular Dr. Phil,” Hannibal said, dropping into his visitor’s chair. “You want a report of today’s progress?”

“That would be good. I was about to order Chinese. What do you like?”

“It ain’t bad enough you bogart my office? I got to eat with you now?”

Ivanovich’s eyes moved down and his smile faded. For a moment, Hannibal thought he had touched something tender.

“No,” he said, his eyes returning to Hannibal. “It is not required that you eat with me. I simply ask you to. Heartless assassin is a lonely life. Even more so for the assassin who has a heart and cannot be with the one he wants to protect. This feeling you now know. In any case, I would have enjoyed a conversation about nihilism, and Kierkegaard’s view of self-actualization. I know you think of such things. Who do you have to discuss them with?”

“I...” Hannibal lowered his eyes and his voice. “I, um... I like General Tso’s chicken.”