Lovely Night to Die

by Caleb Pirtle III

  “Missing.”

  “The arresting officer?”

  “Retired.”

  “I’m sure he still lives in Durango.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “Not anymore,” she said. “He’s gone. His house is empty.”

  “And all because of Roland Sand.”

  “The man nobody knows.”

  Hurt snapped his fingers, and the dance hall girl brought him another Scotch.

  Eleanor had not yet touched her Pinot Grigio.

  Hurt leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table. His eyes touched Eleanor’s face, and she could feel them burn. “Roland Sand is not the man you think he is.” Hurt spoke slowly, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Is that his real name?” Eleanor asked.

  “It’s the one he’s using now.”

  “I was under the impression Roland was a two-bit killer.”

  “He’s a professional.”

  “A hit man?”

  “He’s for hire.”

  “The Mob?”

  “An agency known by its initials.”

  Eleanor sipped her white wine. She was afraid to connect the dots. Finally, she asked, “CIA?”

  “The CIA has a lot of moving parts.”

  “Are all of them legal?”

  “Most of them aren’t.”

  Eleanor drained her glass. The wine stung her throat. She coughed to catch her breath. “How do you know these things about Roland?” she asked, not quite sure she wanted to hear an answer.

  “I have friends,” Hurt said.

  “Who?”

  “They don’t have names.”

  “Do they work for the government?”

  “They were hired by the government.” A wicked grin crossed the Commander’s face. “They pretty much work for themselves now.”

  Eleanor waited until the dance hall girl had filled her glass, then laughed. It was a brassy sound devoid of any humor. She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m that naïve,” she said. “I thought the government and its agencies kept us safe. I didn’t know it had a bunch of outlaws running loose.”

  “Theirs is not a pretty job,” Hurt said.

  “Are you one of them?” she asked.

  He smiled. “I’m a SEAL,” he said. “I’m one of the good guys.”

  “How do I know?” She frowned.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Maybe you’re the one Roland warned me against?”

  “That’s a valuable lesson you’ve learned,” Hurt said softly.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t trust anybody.”

  “How about you.”

  He smiled and winked. “You can trust me,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “We take care of each other?”

  Eleanor’s voice trembled. “Was Roland a SEAL?”

  Hurt shook his head. “No,” he said, “but Roland was one of the good guys.”

  Eleanor began drawing imaginary circles on the tabletop with her finger. It was something she often did when she was stressed, in court, or troubled. “Do you know where they took him?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know who has him?”

  “The man with one eye.”

  “Do you know why he was kidnapped.”

  “I’ll know something at midnight.”

  “Why midnight?”

  “The clock always stops at midnight,” he said. “Then we start all over again.”

  “What if there’s no reason to start?”

  “We’ll have a reason.” Hurt took Eleanor’s hand and helped her to her feet.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “You’re forgetting one little detail,” he said as he led her toward the door.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re not the only one who wants to know what happened to Roland Sand.”

  Eleanor stood in the corridor waiting for the elevator. She looked through the window at the far end of the hallway.

  The snow showed no signs of letting up or stopping.

  The day had grown dark.

  “You think he’s still alive?” she whispered.

  Hurt placed a brotherly arm around her shoulders. “I won’t believe otherwise until I see the grave,” he said.

  A distant siren cut through the darkness. It was a bad night to travel.

  No.

  Eleanor thought again.

  It was just a bad night period.

  Lovely Night 12

  ROLAND SAND HAD no idea he would see anything attached to tomorrow.

  He wasn’t really sure he wanted to see a new day. Political prisoners were all treated the same, whether they were stuck in a hole in Colorado or Afghanistan.

  A man no longer lived from day to day.

  He lived from moment to moment, expecting the next one to be his last. Sand had been through it all before.

  He lay on the stone floor of an underground cell.

  No lights.

  No windows.

  Nothing but darkness.

  Day.

  Or night.

  Time stopped.

  The cold didn’t.

  Sand could reach out and touch the dark.

  He wrapped the cold around him, and it had the ragged, decayed feel of a funeral shroud left too long in the ground.

  Lovely Night 13

  PATRICK HURT SAT alone in his hotel room, lit only by the lamp post just outside the window, and watched the second hand on his watch tick toward midnight. It always moved like molasses when he was in a hurry. When the final second pushed both hands to twelve, he pressed a number on his cell phone.

  Hurt had no idea how many times the call was routed or how many countries and satellites bounced the electronic message across empty space from one gridiron to the next. He did not bother with the technology, only the results.

  He waited for three rings, then hung up and sat down on the edge of his bed. Beads of sweat curled down his face. Neither the air conditioner inside nor the snow flurry outside managed to cool his nerves. Hurt counted slowly in his mind until he reached twelve. The lamplight flickered. The moon went behind a cloud. Darkness filled the room. It even removed his image in the mirror.

  Hurt promptly called the number again.

  Four rings, and someone answered.

  “Dee Jay Cooley with the music of tomorrow,” came a voice he knew well.

  “I have request.”

  “For you or the man.”

  “One is a lonely number.”

  “Ain’t it the truth, brother?”

  Silence.

  Hurt reached for his pen and notepad. He heard the abrasive sounds of shallow breathing.

  “I’d like the Ballad of Roland Sand,” Hurt said.

  “Popular request.”

  “How many?”

  “You’re not the first.”

  “Tonight?’

  “Try the flip side.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Time doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “Do you have the record?”

  “The record’s spinning, man.”

  Silence.

  “Which record?”

  “Stay the Night.”

  “By Chicago?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “What’s on the turntable?”

  “Blues from an Airplane.”

  “Don’t know it.”

  “Jefferson Airplane’s got the vocals, man.”

  “I didn’t know the record was still hot.”

  “Selling like crazy, man.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “You can’t miss him.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “He’s a big shot, man.”

  “What makes him different?”

  “Got one eye looking at you.”

  “How about the seller?”

  Silence.

  Hurt waited.

  He hated moments like this.

>   “You listen to Ricky Van Shelton?” the voice asked.

  “From time to time.”

  “He sings for the seller.”

  Hurt searched the innards of his mind.

  He knew what the words were.

  He was afraid to say it.

  Finally, he whispered, “From a Jack to a King?”

  “It’ll hit number one before Sunday ends and Monday goes dark.”

  Hurt rubbed the back of his neck.

  His muscles were taut.

  Every nerve ending burned as if it had been touched by a flame.

  “Who made the request?”

  “The Jack’s got his friends, man.”

  Silence.

  The sound of breathing came from a long way away.

  Nothing else.

  The wind howled outside.

  Sleet peppered the window.

  “The King is dead,” the voice said. “Long live the King.”

  “Sanctioned?”

  “Yes.” The voice trailed off. “And no,” it whispered.

  “How about Roland Sand?’

  “He’s the hit maker.”

  “Does he know it?”

  “He doesn’t even know the song.”

  The phone went dead.

  Hurt dialed again.

  No answer.

  Only a message.

  “We do apologize,” said the lady’s voice with a British accent, “but the telephone is temporarily out of service.”

  Hurt sat without moving in the solitude of his room. It was as if some great hand had flipped the switch, and the stars had fled the sky, taking the moon with them.

  The darkness was his cocoon.

  My God, he thought. Roland Sand is going to murder the President.

  He’s in the clutches of the One-Eyed Bohemian.

  The Bohemian has sold out to the highest bidder.

  Who’s the highest bidder?

  Someone close to the Vice President of the United States.

  The Bohemian has gone rogue.

  Again.

  Who will stop him?

  No one tries.

  No one knows when their agency will need him again.

  So why kidnap Roland Sand?

  Sand is the pawn.

  Sand will do the Bohemian’s killing for him.

  One shot.

  The next shot will be aimed at Sand.

  Kill, then be killed.

  Sand’s firing a dead man’s shot.

  Quick and clean.

  No questions asked.

  No answers required.

  That’s the way it’s done.

  Sand is the puppet.

  Someone else is pulling the strings.

  Who can save the President from Sand?

  Who can save Sand from himself?

  The Bohemian is like quicksilver in a child’s hand.

  You can catch him.

  You can’t hold him.

  The Bohemian will defend a dead President.

  The Bohemian will assassinate the assassin.

  No hope.

  No chance.

  No escape.

  And no one knows.

  Hurt smiled. That’s not true anymore, he thought. The Bohemian has a secret he won’t be able to keep.

  Lovely Night 14

  ON THE SECOND morning, while the sky outside his barred window was the color of burned ash, Sand heard someone unlock the door and watched Darrell Pendleton walk into his room. He carried a black suit and white shirt, still on hangers, thrown over his shoulder. He threw the clothes onto a bed that didn’t appear as if anyone had slept on it. Neither the sheet nor the pillow was creased with wrinkles.

  Sand sat in the blackest corner of the room, mentally calculating each move the Bohemian’s agent made. His eyes were ringed with dark circles. The top of his head glistened with sweat and looked as if it had been rubbed with oil. The ropes had been cut away, and the sharp pains in his wrists and ankles were fading. The faint hint of a beard was shading his face as dark as his eyes. He had not slept, but every nerve in his body was awake and alert. He figured, with any luck, he had one shot for escape left. This might be as good a time as any.

  How many steps separated him from Pendleton?

  Four?

  Six?

  How long would it take him to reach Pendleton and break his neck?

  Two seconds?

  Three?

  How long would it take Pendleton to turn and fire?

  One second?

  Two?

  It was enough time to live.

  Or die.

  He remained motionless, and his eyes bore into Pendleton.

  One careless move, and it was over.

  He heard the faint rustle of feet scraping the floor behind him.

  Sand glanced over his shoulder.

  Muscles filled the doorway. He was holding a Walther P38 loosely in his right hand. The crooked smile had not died on his lips. He was a man with a full clip and not afraid to waste a round.

  Go ahead.

  Sand could read it in his eyes.

  Go ahead and try it.

  The grin widened into a scar that slashed across his face, and Muscles pushed the brim of his black hat back on his head with the muzzle of the pistol.

  Sand didn’t move.

  He could see disappointment etch its way into the big man’s eyes.

  “Kolinski wants you dressed and ready to leave in forty minutes,” Pendleton said, his voice devoid of emotion.

  “What’s the time?”

  “In forty minutes, it will be six o’clock.”

  In forty minutes, it would be time to meet his maker.

  THE BOHEMIAN WAS sipping on a Bloody Mary, leaning back in a black leather chair, his feet propped up on a matching leather ottoman, when Sand was ushered into his second-story office. Nothing hung on the walls: no pictures, no certificates, no promissory notes, no doubts. The carpet had been ripped off the floor, leaving the cement splattered with large patterns of dried glue.

  Atop his desk lay a wooden box of imported cigars, a bottle of fine single malt Scotch whiskey, Glenfiddich the label said, a month-old copy of Time Magazine, and a Kimber Custom 1911 pistol. Bartus Kolinski had been known to use the weapon like brass knuckles in a street fight. He sat with his back to a floor-to-ceiling window, chewing on a cigar while a lovely young Oriental lady in black curls, velvet purple robe wrapped tightly around her shoulders, manicured his nails. The night outside his window was having trouble turning into daylight. The clouds were thick, dark, and stuffed with snow.

  Kolinski nodded toward the lady. “Have you met Katsumi?”

  “Sapporo, I think it was.” Sand had not taken his eyes off Kolinski or the Kimber Custom 911.

  “Osaka,” she corrected as the hint of a smile touched her face.

  The Bohemian leaned forward, struck a match against the top of his desk and lit the cigar. “You are a fortunate man, Roland Sand.”

  Sand remained silent. His eyes narrowed.

  He waited

  “This is not your day to die,” Kolinski said.

  “I’m sure you have your reasons.” All Sand heard was the gentle, rhythmic sound of Katsumi breathing and Kolinski’s abrasive wheezing as cigar smoke forced its way into his lungs.

  “You know the rules.”

  Sand shrugged. “I wrote most of them,” he said.

  “Then you understand them.” He nodded toward Katsumi, and, with her head down, she hurried from the room.

  “They’re black and white.”

  “A mechanic has two choices,” the Bohemian said. “He follows orders, or he dies.” Kolinski stood and walked to the window. Snow danced from the sky. A thin mist rose from the ground. The clouds were the color of molten lead with night still hanging around the edges. It was a day in varying shades of gray. “Archie Conway did not follow orders.”

  “He’s dead, I understand.”

  “You did not follow orders either, Mister Sand. Same c
rime. Same guilt.”

  Sand grinned through clenched teeth. The room was chilled as though the snow had worked its way through the window. Sweat was beginning to crease the top of his baldhead. It burned against his skin like embers in a dying fire.

  The Bohemian picked up the pistol, aimed at Sand’s head, just above his left eye, and calmly pulled the trigger.

  A click, barely audible.

  That’s all Sand heard.

  Nothing else.

  “Unfortunately,” Kolinski said, “Mister Conway could not be redeemed.” A smile was a twisted shadow on his face. “Fortunately,” he continued, “you can.”

  “What makes my soul worth saving?” Sand asked. “And why did Archie have to lose his?”

  The Bohemian shoved the pistol into his belt and sat back down in his chair. “Mister Conway dealt with numbers.” He shrugged. “I can find men who deal in numbers on street corners, in bars, working late for Merrill Lynch.

  “Archie was a good soldier.”

  “Good soldiers, I fear, are expendable.”

  “So that leaves me as the last standing traitor in your army.” Sand’s voice had the cutting edge of sarcasm.”

  “So, it does, Mister Sand.” Kolinski turned in his chair, blew a puff of smoke that curled toward the ceiling, and gazed out the window for a moment. He lay his head back against the leather chair. “But you have the uncanny ability to fire a .300 Magnum Winchester rifle and hit a moving target at twelve hundred meters.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Where?”

  “You’ll know when we get there.”

  “What makes you so sure I’ll take the shot?”

  “One shot erases a lot of sins.”

  “Mine?”

  “His.”

  “Who’s the target?”

  “Archie Conway told you.”

  Sand stared at the Bohemian with an impassive face. His eyes remained calm. His arms dangled loosely at his side. But his stomach was churning, and the bile in his stomach tasted like grease poured down his throat.

  “Why the President?”

  “It’s time for him to go.”

  “Who made that decision?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Sand glanced toward the window.

  The day was dark.

  It had just turned darker.

  “It never does,” he said.

  The ashes at the end of Kolinski’s cigar had turned cold. He hadn’t noticed. Maybe he didn’t care. He sat up abruptly, shoved a manila folder aside and propped his elbows on the desk.