***
"Newg!"
In total darkness, overheated and laying on my side in a cramped fetal position, my intentions of being bushytailed upon awakening were direly curtailed. Several seconds passed before I grasped the fact that the metrical pounding in my head did not originate in my body, but instead echoed like a recurring beat from a mechanized engine.
Have I indeed, this time, been buried alive?
In jigsaw puzzle style, my mind forced together my final memories: Spit on a swabby's belly ... Bridgework at the gangplank ... A rubber mallet ... My cowboy hat ... The Irish pennant ... Bridgework in the passageway ... Fabric smothering my lips.
"Neeyug!"
There was no question I was encased in something both silky and soft.
Inside a casket? Was Chip/Silly planning to bury me at sea?
The rascal would have his sadistic wish fulfilled and the satisfaction of knowing my demise was untraceable, particularly should my remains be recycled through the nearest great white. I was not, however, going down a shark's hatch without first contesting my standing in the food chain. A jolt of energy shot through my torso and into my lower extremities. The instinctual urge to either fight or flee were both, for once, in agreement with one another. I rocketed upward expecting to hit the lid of the makeshift coffin, instead finding myself crouching in the velvety ductile clouds of heaven itself, accompanied by the distant jangling of cymbals. At once I began beating the sides of the sarcophagus with my forearms and elbows, while inhaling the dry and tasteless velvety ductile clouds enveloping me.
"Nenna! Neeyuk!"
Responding as though I had spoken a magic incantation, the wall before me rolled back and I fell prostrate into bright light, fresh air and a finite amount of freedom.
"For Christ's sake, hold the noise down!" The command came from somewhere above me. "And look what you've done to my dresses!"
"Newg," I replied, spitting out the shoulder strap of an expensive Christine Dior evening gown, and followed up with a feeble plea. "Drink, please?"
"I should give you bilge water for all the trouble you cause me." She moved to the small refrigerator located next to the writing desk on the opposite wall.
"The trouble I've caused you?" I croaked with the small amount of dignity left at my arid disposal. "Pardon me, Miss Angel, but you haven't a clue of the troubles I've seen since we last reposed together." I pushed myself up to a kneeling position, brushing a Versace leather back dress from my shoulder. "Besides, how much difficulty can one be when perfumed into a comatose slumber and shoehorned into an undersized closet stocked with the latest fashions?"
"A tremendous amount. Tailing us in such a clumsy fashion --"
"Clumsy? I thought my motocross skills were on the high side of adept --"
"And baiting a llama into believing it was a mountain goat, ramming you at every turn." Angel lofted an ice-cold plastic bottle of water to me.
"The four legged interaction was unsolicited!"
"It certainly drew attention to your presence. Now I'm not sure how Wayland retrieved the flash drive from or, more importantly, where he put it!"
"Thankfully, I'm here to explain." I took a few generous gulps before initiating a refreshing and prolonged gargling. "My word, your launderer uses a lot of starch."
"One of many inconveniences when traveling in the tropics."
"Where's Chip/Silly?"
"Is he part of your explanation? I'm more interested in obtaining one of the flash drives, Baron."
"And I'm concerned about being unexpectedly mugged again."
"Don't worry," she sighed, stepping before the bathroom mirror to work her hair and dab at her make-up. "Just you and I will share this cabin. And I have the only key."
"I'm not so sure I find any relief in that news."
"Look," she said, slamming a heel on the floor, "are you going to help me or not?"
"I'm not so sure I can, Miss Angel." I stood up and stretched my arms and legs as though limbering up to take the mound for the local nine. The resulting crepitation was embarrassingly loud and, I feared, betrayed my age. "I feel as though I'm the lion tamer in a traveling circus where all the other performers and acts are intent on killing me. More to the point, I'm not so sure you can be trusted."
"I've hidden you from certain death on this ship. Don't you think that demonstrates a level of loyalty?"
I begrudgingly conceded her point. "The mugging part was, however, an aggravating factor. There's still a lot of explaining to do. I require clarification if I'm to act in an effective manner. And it would help immensely if you and your family would cease drugging me every other day." I must have hit the correct note of treacle for she was overcome with a look of painful disgrace.
"It was the only way I knew to keep you quiet. Otherwise, you would have gone on snooping around the entire ship and no doubt been caught in the process." She turned from the mirror and looked directly at me. "Since we got underway, the entire staff has hunted for a wayward cowboy electrician. If found, the orders are to toss him overboard. Then where would you be?"
I resisted the temptation to answer such speculation, but the thought of being nutritionally processed through the gooey belly of a large and nasty fish did enter my mind as the leading response. "Right, then. Let's get down to business. You're certain Bridgework secured the flash drive at Machu Picchu?"
"Positive. He was excited and happy in that respect, but angry when he spotted you and Ethelene together."
"At least the hostile llama was on his side. How is it you weren't with Bridgework on his errand of excavation?"
"I was occupied by his, by the," her words trailed off and she covered her eyes with her hands. "His hired bodyguard took me forcefully."
"There? In public? At Machu Picchu?"
"He's a very strong man, deceptive in appearance. He had a tight grip on my wrist and forced me into the gift shop. I couldn't get away." She dabbed her tears with a tissue. "He said he was going to kill you then kill the banditos who messed up trying to kill you. Then he would double check to make sure you were dead so he wouldn't make the mistake the banditos did. I figured if I kept him busy picking out T-shirts and postcards, you might stand a chance of escaping. Again."
"Does he also consult for Bridgework?" My synapses were now firing on full and the scent of rodent rose from deep within my memory. Logan Airport. The son of a bitch did look familiar! And not in a Keith Richards way.
"A majordomo. A capodecina. The puppet master. Bossy the cow. He scares me, really. He has the resolve of steel, severe halitosis and a terrible taste in choosing refrigerator magnets."
I hesitated to proceed further, yet found myself drawn to the inquiry like a large moth to an even larger flame. "Would he presently be sporting a grayish ponytail?"
"Yes, yes," Angel sputtered through a series of sniffles, "and I'm loathe to speak his very name. Osborne Moeziz."
"So that's it, then. Bridgework's trying to get to me through Oz Moeziz."
The notorious hired gun and I were well known to one another, having first met while involved an escapade I later entitled The Bathetic Stranger. In subsequent reprints, my publisher chose to re-title the work A Pathetic Stranger without my agent's knowledge or my permission. Regardless, the book remained on the bestseller list for over a year and, through sheer popularity, drove Moeziz into a hasty and uncomfortable life on the run. "He's cleverly adapted an entirely new appearance, I must say."
"Yes," Angel sniffled again in agreement, "gone is the carefree innovative Parisian hairstylist he once portrayed."
"He was certainly cutting edge. Worming himself into his victim's personality and bringing out the best in one's hair before extermination."
"He's been retained to take you out."
"As if I was but a piece of crab in an order of rangoons."
"With a side of white rice."
I sat down on the bed, contemplating my predicament. "It would've been wiser if I hadn't followed you into the
lair of my hunters."
"But then you wouldn't be here to help me."
"Angel," I lifted my porkpie and gave my itchy scalp a good going over, "I'm not sure who should receive my assistance or what that assistance might be. I've been requested to rein in Bridgework. Contradictorily, his plans don't include donning a harness."
"But --"
"Two things I know for certain, young miss. One, Bridgework doesn't like me. Two, Oz Moeziz and I share a bitter adversarial history, carefully documented both in print and digital format."
"Understood."
"Ethelene remains a parlor game puzzle to me, an older one at that, which surely has its missing pieces. Yet, my intuition asserts she wants me launched into the great unknown, as well."
"No arguments here."
"As for Chip/Silly, well, if we aligned his figurine upon a chessboard, your husband would without a doubt fit snugly between Moeziz and Ethelene. There is no question I should expect another inelegant attempt on my life from one or the other."
"Again, I agree."
"Finally, there's you. Hmmm," I said in mock introspection, "should I or should I not trust Angel? She who beseeches me for help while remaining nested with her cantankerous clan. Oh, she would like me to deem her honorable, having me believe she and I are yoked to the same plow. Given my feeble position of being seaborne and surrounded by those wishing me harm, what choice do I have?"
Angel frowned at my contemptuous presentation. "Precisely. What choice do you have? Your logic is astounding, Baron." She picked up an emery board and worked her nails. "If I wished you harm, how easy it would be to phone for a gang of stewards. But that hasn't happened."
"Not yet."
"If you cooperate and help me, it never will."
I took another swig of the water and surrendered to the obvious. "What's your plan, then? And please provide factual information this time. The old Baron is feeling rather dulled by misguided guesswork, dirt bikes, singing nuns and dark closets."
"First, Bridgework has the Machu Picchu flash drive. Otherwise, he'd still be there searching for it, yes?"
"It's chained to his neck with the Mount Rushmore unit."
"How do you know where it is?" Angel was astonished. "Did you see it?"
"Your father is a creature of habits, most of them nasty. Given the value he places on these storage devices who, other than himself, would he entrust them to?" I gyrated my middle-aged back in both directions, eliciting an audible pop upon centering myself again.
"You're guessing it's on his necklace."
"Perhaps you could distract him long enough for me to give his quarters a thorough tossing?"
"Baron, don't be such a looby. I've already been through his room twice without results."
"Then you've given yourself the answer I just offered, dear girl." I felt sorry for her as her frustration was clearly evident.
"Wayland's following the code of his R Four organization," Angel offered with a degree of detached enlightenment as though speaking to an unseen audience. "He's keeping both drives on his person at all times, on a lanyard around his neck."
"R Four? I thought he was only interested with happenings in the Loo."
R Four was whispered to be an ultra-secretive society purportedly consisting of an elite cluster of former "Bohos", e.g. one-time active members of the private Bohemian Grove men's club located in northern California. In contrast to the "Grovers" benign two-week summer retreat held in a dense forest setting -- by all accounts a glorified fraternity romp consisting of alcohol, cigars, off-key campfire sing-a-longs and unlimited outdoor urination -- the R Four membership placed a premium on members bringing their game face to its winter gatherings held at a remote mountain retreat in the Black Hills. What transpired between the dozen or so men and women in attendance was merely conjecture, but conspiracy theorists and amok-running journalists were adamant in their belief that R Four lorded over and controlled the basic quadrature of humankind existence: Armaments, economics, politics and theology.
"One would believe Bridgework and the Loo lead R Four around by the nose," I remarked in a thoughtful whisper.
"You dream. R Four is a selective crew. Maybe not equals in Wayland's mind, but they spur him on in pursuing what he values most."
"Eternal life?"
"Eternal wealth, more to the point."
"Yet another moving target."
"He's getting closer to it, Baron. Don't fool yourself. The flash drives he's collected? They hold the codes to unlocking and combining over three quarters of the world's currencies. He alone would control them! On the ancient pharaohs' best day, even they didn't possess such power. Do you have any idea? Don't you understand what's happening here?"
"Well," I said, thinking of Sondheim ensconced in his padded study sipping a dry martini, "my man avoided going into dire specific details. He simply wants Bridgework filed back inside the cabinet, stateside. I presume Uncle Sam's grab boys will take over once we touch foot on U.S. soil."
"Neither the IRS nor the FBI will lay a finger on Wayland. Trust me. I don't know who your man has in mind to detain him. Wayland's too well connected to be touched by the known system. Besides, where do you think his wealth is going to be concentrated?"
"Presumably Chip/Silly's Eternus Spiritus. After all, eternal life will prove to be a costly affair requiring a substantial reserve, if financial planners are to be believed. Think of the amount due in weekly payroll taxes alone."
"Eternus Spiritus bullshit! The money will be funneled directly into Chip/Silly's think tank! Nothing more than a rogue government operation funding itself and manipulating economies, just waiting to take complete control of the world's financial and natural resources one country at a time."
"And someone as savvy as Bridgework can't see that? Why, he devoted an entire chapter to various deceptive managerial practices in Only Self Conscious Musicians Get the Blues."
"Don't be so skeptical, Baron. Wayland believes he's buying an everlasting existence. Price is not a factor. In his obsessive state, Wayland thinks Chip/Silly is a genius. An eccentric software programmer and a whacky dolt who has picked the lock to infinity. Hence, Wayland's focus on Chip/Silly impregnating me."
"Hold on. If Bridgework's going to live forever, why the need for an heir? I'd think it a bit awkward visiting one's doddering grandchild residing in a geriatric home, don't you?"
"Chip/Silly's not going to live forever. He's not a passenger on Wayland's perpetual ride."
"Are you?"
"Of course not," she replied, exasperated. "It's this way. Wayland believes an offspring from our union will serve as the insurance policy for the next generation. If something goes awry with this version of Eternus Spiritus, Chip/Silly and I have already produced a genius safeguarding Wayland for the next sixty years at least. A blood genius at that, one obligated to maintain Wayland's life."
"And?" I felt an odd tinge of jealousy, induced by my fleeting and inexcusable thought of Angel coupling with Chip/Silly.
"Though I'm a woman with needs and desires, I have no interest indulging in procreation with my husband." There was a sadness in her face as she turned away. "Change of subject, please."
"Would you be surprised to learn Chip/Silly's been slipping you birth control?"
"Nothing surprises me anymore," she answered bitterly. "Leave it there."
"I think we both know Chip/Silly is fleecing Bridgework," I said after a few moments of reflection. "No one is going to live forever, no matter the promises made or the technology presented. We agree on that, yes?"
Angel sniffled and nodded her head while holding a tissue to her nose.
"This is a battle waged far removed from the public eye, Angel. Regardless, it's disturbing." I mentally pieced together the facts as I knew them, arranging them in what was considered the Sondheim school of orderly fashion. "Good versus evil. Age old opponents are at work here. Chip/Silly is one, having lassoed onto Bridgework's vast financial empire. My guess is once Bridgew
ork provides the final flash drive to Chip/Silly, Bridgework's eternal life will begin immediately somewhere other than here on earth."
"You're deeming Chip/Silly evil, which casts you as the virtuous hero, correct?"
As much as I liked the ring of being a moral champion, strict professional modesty would not permit my to assume the mantle. "For the sake of our discussion, let's say my employer serves as Chip/Silly's adversary. I am merely his representative. My instructions are simple and straightforward. Bring Bridgework home. I was not directed to take Bridgework's life or money."
"Wayland was a good father to me. Loving, kind, harmless. No one would believe that, probably. Not even Wayland himself anymore. Through the years he's been demonized by his critics, exploited by the tabloids and lampooned by comedians. It's like all the negative things said and written about him came true, as though he believes them. He reached a point of hating and distrusting his oldest friends a long time ago. His charm for life soured and he turned on his family. If only we could somehow strip all that away and show him where it was he started out."
"The same could be said for any of us, Angel."
And right there, Angel answered a question lingering in my mind: Sondheim needed me to pry Bridgework off the exulted seat in the Loo and deliver him to a stable environment where he could reconnect to a system of realistic values. After such rehabilitation, what would Bridgework's future hold?
Does immeasurable wealth permanently erode ethical beliefs?
As a byproduct of Bridgework's forced sabbatical, seventy-five percent of the global economy would be protected from nefarious behavior with Chip/Silly & Company shorted several gazillion dollars. An easy trick for any available righteous hero, accomplished without disturbing the sensitive settings and delicate workings of the pallid international economic apparatus.
"Let's talk flash drives."
"There are four total," Angel said, holding up the fingers on one hand. "Each encoded with a series of passwords and formulas. When put together, they open the vaults to thousands of financial reserves belonging to governments, banks, insurance companies, corporations and the like. In a matter of moments, the person possessing them commands the course of global order."
"The encoding, passwords and formulas originating from the Loo's security data."
"Of course. Information received, stored and collected from each client. Do you think a bank in Hong Kong is concerned about the security of a government's holdings in South Africa? Or vice versa? How about an insurance company in North America losing sleep over a password breach in an Amsterdam realty investment firm? It's all off the radar as long as everyone believes their money's good."
"Everyone around the world slept well thinking their accounts were untouchable."
"The good old days, right?" Angel rubbed her eyes before continuing. "In the past, this critical information was kept in separate locations using different encryption methods. There was never a reason to worry. Soon after I was married off, Wayland started consolidating confidential files. He refined what he needed, plugging the essentials into four flash drives. When one was finished, he'd take what appeared to be a vacation --"
"Hiding the flash drive outside of any banking system."
"And plant the drive where it could be retrieved when needed. I must add that Ethelene and Chip/Silly encouraged him all the way."
"Now Bridgework is out to assemble the flash drives himself, correct?"
"He started last month," Angel nodded, "before heading to Jamaica. The first one was stashed under rocks behind Thomas Jefferson's head on Mount Rushmore."
"What?"
"Wayland personally chose the hiding spots associated with icons he admired."
"Jefferson, then Pachacuti."
"Exactly."
"That makes no sense," I shook my head. "Why not a vault or safe deposit box in one of his institutions or homes? Just from a standpoint of accessibility alone."
"Baron, you don't get it. He doesn't trust anyone anymore. No one."
"Except Chip/Silly."
"Even Chip/Silly. You can bet there are safeguards preventing Chip/Silly from accessing to the data."
"For now. Who knows how reliable they might be."
"And that's the point. It's only a matter of time before Chip/Silly has the passwords to open all the flash drive accounts and ultimately gain the funds themselves."
"What about the remaining two flash drives?"
"I don't know yet. All I can do is follow Wayland, stick with him and see where he goes." She sighed and pushed her hair back over her shoulders. "I've gone this far to keep things under control and I've taken quite a few risks along the way. Everything's been a nightmare from the minute Chip/Silly proposed to me."
"Why did you accept?"
"I had no choice, Baron. My dad was traveling down a path, growing distant from me. Walking away from what he knew was right, being drawn into a realm of darkness. It was the only way I saw that I might be able to keep in touch with him, to save him." She sniffed and fought back tears.
"The Rushmore and Machu drives are on a lanyard hanging from his neck," I said confidently, not knowing if this was so yet feeling compelled to bring some form of comfort to the young woman. "He keeps them on his person at all times."
"Will you help me?"
"I'm not certain I have a choice." The truth was at this point I did not have any options but to assist Angel. "In this case, Wayland prefers a prosaic hiding spot for the flash drives he's garnered. You might end up requiring the skill of a surgeon to complete the procedure, eh?"
"That's where your talents enter the picture," Angel replied hopefully, obviously having roughed out the makings of a plan. "I can arrange for you to fill two vacant staff positions here onboard. House magician and recreational firearms instructor."
"Say again?"
"I need a cover name for your ship ID card, though," Angel continued, indifferent to my alarm. "Quickly, engage that creative mind of yours so we're mobile."
Flattered by her sideways compliment, I blurted out the first combination that came to mind. "Skeet Burnisher, conjurer and clay pigeon eradicator, at your service, ma'am."
"Well done, Skeet," she said, hoisting the phone and instructing the call's recipient to issue the appropriate ID and a size forty-four regular male steward's staff suit in the form of a white tuxedo jacket and matching shorts. "I also took the liberty of borrowing a makeup kit from the entertainers' dressing room," she said upon hanging up. "You'll have to come up with a convincing disguise that will fly for the next forty eight hours."
"And when I do?" I was infused with a dose of pre-performance jitters typically reserved for curtain risings. "How best to obtain the flash drives?"
"I'll leave that up to you. Count on Bridgework swimming tomorrow once we near the equator. He'll have to hand them off to Moeziz or April Après before he enters the water."
"Perhaps a poolside magic show is in order, then."
"Substitute one of the real ones with this," Angel affirmed, holding forth a small blue CerebStix. "It's loaded with files of random data. By the time Bridgework realizes the content is useless, we'll be far away."
"We?"
Angel winked and smiled.
"And you're sure this is an identical match?" I turned the flash drive over and again between my fingers. "He won't notice?"
"Chip/Silly owns the CerebStix company. It's the only brand Wayland trusts to use."
"Ah, that word again," I chuckled. "Assuming I pluck one of Bridgework's almighty CerebStix, whom do I entrust it to?"
"Me, of course."
"Just like that. To you. Hmmm," I rose to look out the porthole at the setting sun, "and then what becomes of me, you and Mr. Bridgework?"
"You won't have to search for Wayland once he finds out a flash drive is missing," Angel said, her brow furling with concern. "He'll be chasing you at that point. You'll round him up easier than a bum steer at an indoor cattle show. Deliver him to your handler.
Job done."
"And you walk away controlling the family fortune."
"Which thwarts Chip/Silly's plan for raping the global economy under the guise of Eternus Spiritus."
"Whereby you become the wealthiest person on the planet. A billionaire squared."
"Minor collateral damage for calming the financial waters, wouldn't you agree?" Angel bent forward and fished around underneath the Murphy bed, pulling out my battered rucksack and a spanking new magician's kit. "I'll guide money toward solving world problems instead of creating them. Or would you rather see Chip/Silly pushing one economy after another off a financial cliff while funding a farcical plan that promises Bridgework to live forever?"
I silently accepted my belongings and the kit while considering her precatory statement regarding Bridgework's mound of wealth. "What alternative do I have but to side with you?"
"And that's why we work well together, Skeet Burnisher. Your logical mind and my pure conscience. You'll finish your assignment and I'll disappear into the mesh of life, helping those who want to help themselves." She adjusted her clinging dress so it properly accentuated her highlights. "There's a reward in it for you, too."
I opted for not biting at the carrot she dangled and instead inspected my badly beaten laptop and cellular mobile, neither of which held a charge. "Would it be permissible for me to ring the home front at some point?"
"Absolutely not! Bridgework's electronic surveillance will detect your signal instantly, then record every word said. It's trips like these when he sorts out his employees by doing just that, you know."
I felt both sorted out as well as isolated, unable to contact Mia Kolpaux or Smudgely to advise them of my movements. As for Angel, I was at her mercy. What would keep her from making me shark chum at some future point? "We best make our play, then. Allow me to prepare myself."
"There's a dinner dance in the top forward lounge tonight. Work the room, get a lay of the land and allow yourself to be seen by Bridgework and Moeziz. Entertain at various tables, enjoy yourself, get the guests laughing. Make everyone comfortable with the magician and plan to meet me back here at eleven o'clock sharp."
"The Gangrene is heading north to where?" I was curious to learn if Angel's response would match what I already knew.
"According to my source, Acapulco then Los Angeles. Tomorrow will be our only chance to go for the flash drive."
"Our single opportunity? Surely we'll have more than one shot at it."
"We'll be in Acapulco in less than forty-eight hours. My goal is to disembark there with the flash drive. I would recommend you plan to do the same."
"With just my burlap sack."
"Naturally."
"And go home with my burlap sack in hand."
"Unless you care to stay for some cliff diving."
"Thank you, no. I believe I'd simply rather go home and prepare for wrathful Wayland Bridgework arriving at my threshold."
"The best defense is a great defense. He'll walk right into your web."
Deep inside I knew it would not be so easy or play out in such a simplistic way. "Right. So, entertain at the dinner dance and meet back here at eleven. Sharp."
"You got it," Angel said, surprising me with a quick peck on the cheek. "Good luck tonight, Skeet Burnisher."
Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys] Page 16
