Lovely Night to Die

by Caleb Pirtle III

  “You obviously gave them a pretty good fight.”

  “I did until the short little guy, the one with shoulders as broad as that door, knocked me down.”

  “I guess that’s how you got the bloodstains.”

  Eleanor walked toward the porthole. “My jaw hurts.”

  Sand stood and followed her. “I washed the blood off,” he said. “Can’t do much for the pain. The bruise won’t stay purple forever.”

  Eleanor turned to face him. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

  “You decided to be my friend when I didn’t have one in Durango,” Sand said. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “I thought you were probably guilty,” Eleanor said.

  “I probably was.”

  “You were never going to be tried, though, were you?”

  “Other people make those decisions.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “I follow orders.”

  “Always.”

  “Sometimes I don’t agree with the orders.”

  “And that’s why you were in trouble.”

  “The world has a lot of fiddlers.” Sand grinned. “Sooner or later, we all have to pay one of them.”

  “Do you worry about it?”

  “What?”

  “Paying the fiddler.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Sand shrugged. “First he has to catch me.”

  “Did he catch you this time?”

  Sand winked. “He thinks he did.”

  Eleanor pressed her eyes against the porthole. The day was gray, a heavy wind blowing the flags in the courtyard. Snow had hidden the ground. The glass frosted over when her warm breath touched it.

  “Who are you, really?” she asked.

  “I work for a contractor.”

  “What kind of contractor?”

  “You’d rather not know.”

  Eleanor walked back across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. “Is that why the government men took you?”

  “They aren’t government men.”

  “They certainly had the proper identification.”

  “They can pass for the KGB just as easily.” Sand sat down beside her.

  “Why did they want you?”

  “They have a job for me to do.”

  “Will somebody die?”

  “Somebody usually does.” Sand rubbed the back of his neck.

  Eleanor narrowed her eyes. Her face was pale. “Are you a killer?” she wanted to know.

  “I prefer to think of myself as an exterminator.”

  “Do you ever feel bad when it’s over?”

  Sand looked away and stared at the far wall. He closed his eyes and, for a while, Eleanor thought he had gone to sleep. His breathing was calm and measured. When he spoke, his voice was as soft as a whisper.

  “We aren’t paid to have a conscience,” he said.

  Lovely Night 18

  PATRICK HURT SAW only one plane on the runway. Its lights were glowing in the gray mist of a morning that looked more like night than day. He climbed out of the taxi, gave the cabbie a hundred-dollar tip for fighting his way through the snow for two hours and twelve minutes in order to reach the airport by noon. He made it with six minutes to spare.

  Crazy Al Humphries had the door open for him by the time Hurt reached the Aviat Husky and crawled into the lone passenger seat. He slapped the snow off his coat and felt the ice melting on top of his head.

  “How’s the visibility?” Hurt asked.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll be seeing what I see on takeoff.”

  Crazy Al wore his sunglasses whether he was flying day or night, whether he was facing an unforgiving sun or an unrelenting snow storm. His copper-tinted hair had flecks of gray and was buried beneath a St. Louis Cardinal baseball cap. His thick mustache matched the color of his hair, and his face was ruddy as if he had flown to Durango with the top down.

  Hurt grinned. “Any trouble getting down?”

  “I upset the air traffic controller a little.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “He said he’d go to hell before he gave me clearance to take off.”

  “Do you need his clearance?”

  “Didn’t in Basra.”

  “This isn’t Iraq.”

  “Said he’d shoot me down if I tried it.”

  “Think he will?”

  “Don’t think he can hit me.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  Crazy Al tightened his seatbelt. “It’s done,” he said. The motor coughed in the cold air, then roared to a start. He jockeyed the Aviat Husky cautiously toward the end of the runway while the air traffic controller was screaming on the radio. The words were all noise and static, devoid of any definition.

  Crazy Al turned down the volume.

  “What’d he say?” Hurt asked.

  “Sounded a little like he was telling us good luck.”

  Hurt leaned back in the seat. “Can he cause you trouble?”

  Crazy Al leaned forward and squinted through the windshield.

  The day was ashen.

  The snow was white.

  Somewhere in between, the sky had vanished.

  “He doesn’t know who I am,” Crazy Al said.

  “He can trace your plane.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “I stole the little bastard.” He glanced down at his instruments. “If these little doo dads aren’t lying to me and if the wind don’t blow us to Anchorage, we ought to hit Chicago in about three hours and forty-two minutes.”

  “You’re a good man, Al.”

  “Don’t tell me that until I land this sonuvabitch again.”

  “Got enough fuel?”

  “Afraid to look,” Al said. “Let’s get this thing in the air and see how far it’ll take us.” He removed his gloves and folded up his map. “What’s so important in Chicago?” he asked.

  “It’s best if you don’t know.”

  “One of those kinds of secrets?”

  “Let’s put it this way, Al. Pick up a copy of the newspaper tomorrow morning, and if you don’t see anything worse than another Bear loss, then you’ll know I made it on time.”

  “Your team meeting you in Chicago?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Then you’re not working on a sanctioned mission.”

  Hurt turned away and stared out into the falling snow.

  “God have mercy on your soul,” Al said.

  Hurt took a deep breath. “God’s sitting this one out, too,” he said.

  Lovely Night 19

  ELEANOR LEANED OVER the sink, splashing cold water on her face, using a spare pillowcase to wipe the mascara and makeup off her face. She looked into the mirror and shuddered at the sight of the face looking back at her. She ran her long fingers through her dark hair. The curl had fallen out hours ago. Her skin was too pale, she decided, her nose too pointed, her cheekbones too sharply chiseled, her neck too thin, her shoulders too narrow, her hips too wide. She felt like crying. Girls do that, she told herself, when they think they’re going to die.

  Why kid herself?

  She hadn’t been a girl for a long time.

  Eleanor glanced across the room, her eyes following every move Sand made. His eyes were solemn, his face without expression. He walked again to the porthole and looked out on a day gray with rain trying to decide between ice or snow. She moved across the room and touched his arm. She glanced across his shoulder. The sidewalk below had disappeared beneath mounds of snow. A dump truck rattled down the alley. The street beyond was empty.

  “Who took me?” she asked softly.

  “The contractor.”

  “He have a name?”

  “Kolinski.”

  “Is he American?”

  “Russian.”

  “Does he work for our side?” Eleanor wanted to know.

  “He does unless h
e’s working against us.”

  Silence.

  The room had grown colder.

  Eleanor hesitated.

  “Go ahead and ask it,” Sand said.

  “What?”

  “You want to know if I ever work against our side.”

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  “I don’t.”

  “What about now?”

  Sand turned his back to the porthole and cupped his hand under her chin. “In the game we call politics,” he said, “our side is always fighting their side, and, from one day to the next, the sides keep changing.”

  Eleanor shivered and didn’t know why.

  “I’m confused,” she said.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Why did they take me?”

  “They’re afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what I might have told you during our little meeting before Kolinski’s associates so rudely interrupted us.”

  “I wouldn’t tell anyone.” She threw her arms up in exasperation. “Attorney-client privilege guarantees that.”

  “Not this time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Sand placed both hands on her shoulders. “If you knew what I knew, you would throw your so-called attorney-client privilege right out the window. You’d talk, and you’d keep talking until someone listened to you.”

  Eleanor stiffened her shoulders. She felt her face redden with anger. She clenched and unclenched her fists.

  “It’s that serious?” she asked.

  “It is.”

  “Then why aren’t you out talking to someone?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “National Security.”

  “That’s an awful thin veil to hide behind,” she snapped.

  “You’re probably right,” Sand told her. “But it hides a lot of transgressions. You live in a safe little world full of laws and rules and regulations. You know what you can do and what you can’t do, and you know the repercussions you’ll face if you don’t. It’s neat. It’s tidy. It’s black and white. My world is as gray as the clouds outside. The lines between good and bad, good and evil, truth or consequences have all been erased.”

  “Then why do you do it?” Eleanor pushed a loose strand of her dark hair away from her eyes.

  Sand smiled softly. “So, you can live safely in a world that’s black and white,” he said.

  “That’s not fair,” she said.

  Sand shook his head and turned away. “We choose the lives we live.”

  “But you have such a kind face.”

  Sand chuckled. “It’s been through one plane crash too many.”

  “It’s a good face.” She gently touched his jawline with her fingertips.

  Sand dimmed the lamp.

  “A good face,” Eleanor said, taking his hand in hers, “always belongs to a good heart.”

  She pressed her face against his shoulder.

  Sand stared down at her.

  She felt the warmth of his eyes touch her skin. It was as though they were searching her soul.

  Her lips brushed against his, but only for a moment.

  “You can’t save me now,” he said.

  “I can try.”

  “I’m too far gone.”

  Her lips lingered on his.

  He tenderly brushed the hair from her face.

  “What’s going to happen to us?” A tear sliced its way through Eleanor’s voice.

  “I have a job to do.”

  “Will you be back?”

  “I never know.” His voice was hoarse.

  Silence.

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “There’s one basic rule of life you need to learn,” Sand whispered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Never waste your life waiting on a lost cause.”

  Sand wrapped his arm around Eleanor’s shoulders and held her tightly against him. The day grew longer, the room darker. Silence crawled across the floor like a scorpion in search of a victim. A soft and lingering silence, Eleanor feared, was all they would ever have together, silence and the specter of death.

  “When you leave,” she asked, “what will happen to me?” She realized she sounded like a frightened little girl, her words spoken from the far end of a dark tunnel.

  “Let me worry about that.” Sand wrapped his arms around her. She was trembling. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

  The door opened.

  No one had knocked.

  Darrell Pendleton walked into the room with a grim smile upon his face and motioned for Eleanor to follow him.

  “Where are you taking her?” Sand asked.

  “It’s not important.”

  “It’s time for her to go home.”

  Pendleton’s smile turned crooked. “Not tonight,” he said.

  “Kolinski has no use for her.”

  “Tonight, he does.” Pendleton shrugged matter-of-factly. “Tomorrow, of course, is another day.”

  “Are you taking Eleanor home tomorrow?” Sand wanted to know.

  “Depends on what you do tonight.”

  Pendleton grabbed Eleanor’s arm and led her toward the doorway.

  She jerked loose from his grip. Her jaws were clenched. “I will not be dragged anywhere,” she said.

  Sand’s eyes darkened. “Don’t touch her, or you’ll answer to me.”

  “I only answer to the Bohemian,” Pendleton said sharply.

  “I’m sure he’ll have nice things to say at your funeral.”

  “You’re in no position to threaten me, Sand.”

  “How long do you think it takes?” Sand asked.

  “For what?”

  “For a heart to stop beating.”

  Sand wrapped his big hand around Pendleton’s throat and jammed him against the wall.

  “How long do you think it takes?” Sand repeated.

  Pendleton tried to answer. He was wheezing.

  “For a man’s windpipe to crack.”

  Pendleton released Eleanor and began clawing frantically to loosen Sand’s grip. His eyes were turning the color of sour milk. “I won’t hurt her if she doesn’t give me any trouble,” he said, trying hard to hang onto the breath leaving his throat.

  “I’ve been known to cause trouble,” Eleanor snapped.

  “You will treat her like a lady,” Sand said.

  He loosened his grip.

  Pendleton’s knees buckled. He slumped against the wall. “My job,” he said, “is simply to deliver her to the Bohemian. You know Kolinski. He’ll do what he damn well pleases whenever he damn well decides to do it.”

  “Usually,” Sand said, “but not tonight.”

  “Why not tonight?”

  A cynical grin worked its way across Sand’s face. He took a step back from Pendleton and winked.

  His voice was hollow.

  His voice was cold.

  “Tonight,” he said, “is a lovely night to die.”

  Pendleton climbed back to his feet. It took a moment for him to regain his balance. He pulled Eleanor into the hallway, and slammed the metal door shut.

  It locked automatically.

  Lovely Night 20

  THE AVIAT HUSKY slipped out of a hard driving snow west of Omaha and roared into a torrential rainstorm south of St. Louis. The world outside turned from an ashen white to gun barrel gray. A heavy wind tossed the small plane like a stray button of confetti, and the darkness of a winter morning reached out and removed the horizon from the sky. Crazy Al said he had not bothered to file a flight plan. If they were lost, no one would look for them. If their plane crashed, nobody would find them. It was like old times in the dust devils of Iraq. Fly by the seat of his pants, and if he went down, try to hit the ground on a dead run. Patrick Hurt knew all about dead runs. He glanced at the instrument panel. The dials were spinning.

  “How long until touch down?” Hurt asked.

  “We’ll be later than you wanted.”


  “How late?”

  “Maybe an hour. Maybe two.”

  Hurt was silent.

  “Of course,” Crazy Al said, “I can get you there a good thirty minutes earlier.”

  “How?”

  “When I circle over Midway the first time, you can jump.”

  Hurt grinned. “Late’s fine,” he said.

  He looked out the window.

  No East.

  No West.

  No up.

  No down.

  Just a solid slate of tombstone gray.

  “We should be able to land before anybody knows we’re coming,” Crazy Al said. “Most of the flights out of Midway have been postponed, and flights in the air have been circling for hours.”

  “What happens then?”

  “I’ll run this little baby as close to the fence as I can get it, then you and I are out of here.” Crazy Al reached in his pocket, took out a little red pill, and swallowed it.

  “Indigestion?” Hurt asked.

  “Bad heart.”

  Hurt wished he hadn’t asked. “You’ll go it alone,” he said. “I’ll circle back to the terminal.”

  “You’re not leaving?”

  Hurt shook his head.

  “What are you up to anyway?” Crazy Al wanted to know.

  “If anyone ever asks,” Hurt said, “you flew here by yourself. You didn’t have a passenger. You never heard of Patrick Hurt. You had one gin fizz too many and took a joyride.”

  “It’ll cost me.”

  “Maybe,” Hurt said, “but it won’t send you to prison.”

  He glanced down at the front page of the newspaper he had picked up at the hotel before leaving Durango. A two-column story printed just below the fold, told him everything he needed to know. PRESIDENT ARRIVES IN CHICAGO TONIGHT FOR MONDAY RE-ELECTION CAMPAIGN RALLY.”

  He would be flying to Midway.

  He would land sometime after nine o’clock.

  Pollsters had him trailing the Democrat by four percentage points.

  He needed Illinois.

  Time was running short.

  For him, it was running out.

  “Remember,” said Hurt.

  “What?”

  “Check the newspaper in the morning.” Hurt leaned back and closed his eyes. “Maybe the Bears will win,” he said.

  ELEANOR SAW THE strange little man behind the desk wince slightly as she was escorted into the room. He started to smile but apparently decided against it. His hands were clasped beneath his chin as though he had been praying. Pendleton led her to a straight-backed chair and nodded for her to sit down.