by David Chill
He removed five bills from the briefcase and placed them in his wallet. Dinner money. He usually concluded his final night in town with a celebratory dinner, a toast to his success. In L.A., he liked to go to Capo. It was a short walk, a block from the ocean, just down the street from the hotel. It had an Italian theme, the pastas were nice, and he always ordered a bottle of champagne. But what he really looked forward to was the dessert. He so loved the candied bread pudding, the mere thought of it made him salivate. The reward for a job well done.
The Assassin put on a suit and tie and took the elevator downstairs. The lobby was buzzing with activity, guests checking in, couples talking with the concierge, mingling. But there was something wrong, something amiss, unsettling. Something officious was going on. He could feel the danger in his bones. He noticed a man waiting at the lobby entrance, a tough looking man, unshaven, tie open at the throat, the type of man who did not look at home here at Loews. He was not a guest.
The Assassin needed a diversion. He ignored the gruff man at the entrance and turned to walk over to a desk clerk. Handing her a hundred dollar bill, he smiled and politely asked if she could make change. For tips. The clerk smiled in return, counted out some bills and passed them back. He stuffed them in the pocket of his pants and glanced over at the rough-hewn man who had begun to approach him. The Assassin glanced around nervously for possible exits. None were reachable. He thanked the desk clerk, straightened his tie and moved directly toward his approaching adversary.
"Mr. Kyle Wolfowitz?" the man asked, flashing a gold LAPD badge.
The Assassin smiled bravely. "I'm so sorry. The name's Lamb. Robert Lamb. You must have the wrong person."
"I don't think so," the Detective answered. "I need to ask you some questions."
"I'm sorry," the Assassin repeated, continuing to smile as he moved his left hand inside the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "I have an appointment I'm late for."
"You're appointment is with the LAPD," he said. "Let's not make a scene here, pal."
Oddly, it was the Detective's tone that irked him the most. Uncouth and unrefined. He'd wait and let the local cop try and accost him, and then turn and shoot him in the belly. In the commotion, he'd find a way to flee. But as the Assassin began to turn away, he stopped abruptly. Two uniformed police officers were approaching from the other direction, their hands resting on holstered pistols. It was over, it was all over. Everything. The moment had arrived. The Assassin suddenly knew he had only one option. He closed his eyes and let everything go. He let his legs become rubbery and his spine turn to jelly. He allowed his body to swing in a spastic motion. His head swiveled slightly as his body dropped quickly to the carpeted floor. His left hand found the little Ruger thirty-eight special, he grasped the rubbery handle and jerked it out of his pocket. But he did not aim the gun at the Detective. He did not aim at the uniforms. There was no point. He could take out one man, but not three. Taking three officers of the law out in a highly public area would be difficult. And he knew it would not allow for a clean departure.
He always sensed this day would come. The end of the road. But it had to end with a bang, not a whimper. Go out in a blaze of glory. He did not plan on spending any more time in prison. The six months in Karachi was more than enough. He knew what it was like, and it was a fate worse than death. Especially in his case, because he would never be paroled, never be pardoned. The rest of his life would be spent wasting away in isolation, watching the hours and the minutes slowly tick pass. No, that was not going to be his fate. He made his move to invoke the final solution.
Opening his mouth, he pushed the gun past his lips. He could feel the cold taste of steel on his tongue. His index finger reached for the trigger. But then his wrist was suddenly snapped back. His left hand was immobilized. He reached for the gun with his other hand, but the gun was not there. Instead he felt a sharp blow to his temple. He cried out in pain. No, no, no. Things could not possibly end this way.
"Please," he whimpered. "Let me do this. I'll take care of it This is the best way. For everyone."
"Sorry, pal," the Detective said, the Ruger now securely in his hand. "That's not how it works. You don't get out of this so easy. You don't get to die quickly like your victims. You're going to live for a while. I don't really care about you. I care about what you know."
* * *
The white light poured in. I tried to open my eyes, but I quickly shut them again, tightly, the light being just too harsh. Finally, I sensed the cool shadow on my face, a good sign the light was being turned off or aimed in another direction. I slowly blinked my eyes open and focused. A number of figures were looking down upon me, observing me in much the same way people observe animals in a zoo, with a modicum of interest, the mild curiosity which could be turned on and off at will.
"He's back with us," I heard a male voice say.
"Took him long enough," added another.
I stirred enough to begin to realize I was lying on my back. "Where am I?" I asked. "Heaven?"
"Not even close," said a soft, familiar voice. "You're at Saint John's."
"Is that Leslie?" I asked, raising my head and trying to focus, the simple act telling me I was in the throes of a nasty headache.
"Yes it is," she said. "They checked you in last night. You gave everyone quite a scare."
"What happened?"
"The officer said you just collapsed. Hit your head on the sidewalk. Lucky he was there, he got paramedics to the scene right away."
"What time is it?"
"Five-fifteen."
"Morning or afternoon?" I asked, still in a bit of a daze.
"The morning, sweetheart. Try and get some rest. You're going to be okay."
And with that, I faded back to the same unconscious state, into a dreamy world where the sky was blue, and the sun was softly distant. There was no danger lurking, inside of me or out. I was back in the low country of South Carolina, hiking with friends, making a campfire, toasting marshmallows on long, smooth oak branches. It was warm and it was safe, but it did not last. It stopped eventually, the steady beeping noise of a nearby machine injecting reality into my escape and slowly dragging me back into the present. I heard someone call out, perhaps announcing my stirring to the world once again. And as I opened my eyes, a cluster of people in green scrubs came into view, chatting, motioning, and handling equipment.
"Ned?" came a voice that was clearly not Leslie's, but was faintly familiar.
"Uh-huh," I managed. "I'm in here somewhere."
"How are you doing?"
"All things considered?" I asked.
"Yes," came the reply.
"I've had better days."
A few chuckles were heard, and when my eyes finally focused, the sight of Dr. Eli Sterling came into view, along with what looked like a couple of young physicians, and an even younger nurse.
"I'm sure we've all had better days," Eli said. "Your wife included. I sent Leslie home to get some sleep. She was here all night."
"I remember waking up earlier."
"We've been waking you every three hours. You just don't remember."
"What time is it?"
"Almost noon. You going somewhere?"
"Probably not," I sighed.
"Nope, we'll keep you here for another day. Observation. You have a concussion, but you should be fine. It could have been worse. Much worse."
"My head hurts," I said. "But it doesn't feel as bad as when I first woke up."
"All good signs," Eli said.
"What do you think happened? I guess I passed out."
"I'm not certain. I spoke with Gus, it's unlikely to have been the chemo, but It might have been the Decadron. Might also have been the ridiculous amount of stress you've been under. And it also might have been something much simpler, like not eating all day."
"How do you know that?"
"Your wife told me."
I nodded dreamily, and then slowly drifted back off to sleep again, only to be woken up thre
e hours later by a male nurse in dark blue scrubs who apologized and told me he was just following protocol.
"When will your protocol allow me to get some rest?"
"Probably tomorrow," he laughed, ready to walk of the room. "But you seem more chipper now."
I looked around the room, thinking about nothing in particular, other than it felt good to be alive, my headache notwithstanding. I noticed some sun streaking in through the windows. This time I didn't go back to sleep. About a half-hour later, the nurse returned.
"Well, how are you feeling right now?" he asked.
"Wonderful. I guess that means I'm probably delirious."
"No, I doubt that. By the way, are you up for a visitor? A woman's been waiting to see you for the past hour. I didn't want to mention it when you woke up. Figured I'd give you a little time to get acclimated to the world again."
"My wife?" I frowned, wondering why they didn't just let her in.
"No. Says she knows you, though. The famous Mr. Baker."
I shrugged. "Sure. Why not. Send her in."
The pretty woman who walked into the room a minute later was familiar, but I couldn't quite place her. She was tall and blonde, and her tawny eyes were bright and inquisitive. She carried an arrangement of colorful flowers. I had seen her recently, but I just could not figure out when or where.
"Mr. Baker. It's so good to see you."
"It's good to see you, too, but I can't quite recall who you are."
"Callie Saxon," she said, looking around the room. "Hmmm. No vase. I'll put these in water later."
"Name rings a bell. I hope I don't have amnesia."
"If you did, you probably wouldn't remember the word amnesia. I'm with MSNBC. I ran into you a few weeks ago at a coffee house. I heard you were here, and believe me, I had to do some digging for that. I thought I'd come by. You're quite the man-about-town right now. Lately you've developed a knack for being in a, oh, how should I put this? A newsworthy place?"
"Really?" I asked, wondering just what had been transpiring while I was asleep. "What's been happening?"
"Yes, I know you've been out for a while. The police caught the man who assassinated Vice President Sudeau. Oh, it's not public yet, the LAPD won't release details, but my sources tell me they have a suspect in custody. Grilling him right now, I believe."
"Who?"
"Some renegade. A killer for hire."
"CIA?"
Callie Saxon gave me a long look. "Yes. Did you know that or were you just taking a shot?"
"I knew."
"Interesting. I'd love to hear what else you know. Especially given your candidate was planning to announce today."
"Oh?" I asked, a little bewildered. "I didn't know I had a candidate anymore."
"Well, my sources said Amber Sudeau was going public with her announcement. Throwing her hat in the ring to run for president. That's what they said, anyway. I guess when Amber heard a suspect was in custody, they figured now might not be an opportune time. I did hear her polling numbers were looking quite good."
I stared at her. "That's not possible. We're just going into the field with our survey."
Callie scrunched up her mouth. "Well, Randy Greece likes to employ the Noah's Ark approach when it comes to political pollsters."
"Meaning?"
"Two of everything."
My head sank onto the pillow. It didn't hurt as much as it did earlier, but learning this tidbit of news didn't help. My mind was full of cobwebs, and I tried to think back to our meeting with Amber and Greece up in Beverly Glen. Nothing snapped together cleanly. They seemed motivated to hire us. They were interested in my health. They were tolerating Blair. They were sharing a cigarette. The same cigarette. I thought about this some more. Sharing the same cigarette. The type of gesture only intimates do.
"Let me ask you. How did you know the suspect was CIA?" she asked.
I thought of an idea. "If I tell you, will you do me a favor?"
"Maybe."
I smiled. "It's in your best interests. And mine. And maybe even the country's."
"Go on," she said, her voice tinged with the timbre of mischief as she pulled out a notebook and a pen.
"You'll need to find a contact in the Bethesda police department," I told her. "There's a file on Amber Sudeau. It's sealed, but maybe you can work whatever magic you have. People have a way of talking. Amber has a police record. A record of violence. That alone won't disqualify her from being president. But you'll be surprised at what you find. And I'll bet the voters will, too. At the very least her donors will back away from her like scared rabbits. It's not like she can fund a presidential campaign on her own. I have a strong hunch that Amber's pseudo-candidacy is very likely going to implode."
Callie Saxon scribbled quickly into her book. "This is ... fascinating. Why are you telling me this about your candidate?"
"Because she's not my candidate," I said. "I just fired her."
"That doesn't normally happen," she observed cannily. "Anything else?"
"Isn't that enough?" I asked.
"I like to be thorough."
"Check your sources inside the Secret Service. Amber and Greece."
"I'd love to," she said and looked up at me. "But their detail doesn't talk about those things."
"You know what they say. Where there's smoke, there's fire."
She nodded, the mischievous grin returning. "They do say that, don't they? A golden oldie."
"Oh, yeah," I responded, and thought of something. Maybe now was the time to take care of lots of unfinished business. "There is one other thing you might have some interest in. Have you ever heard of company called Garter Vitamins?"
Chapter 31
The Peet's Coffee on San Vicente had once been my Sunday morning ritual, a refuge I found back in the halcyon days before Angelina was born. I would get up early and tiptoe out of the house so as not to wake Leslie, grab the Sunday L.A. Times from the doorstep, and make the three minute drive. I would spend a couple of hours drinking dark coffee and reading every section of the newspaper. Then Angelina was born, and she took after her daddy in waking early. When she was young I would take her with me, slipping her Madeleine cookies while I went through cup after cup of coffee. But as she got older and was less inclined to sit through what was really my tradition, I simply made coffee at home, and played cards and games with her. Giving up my custom was just a minor part of accepting the changes parenthood brings. And as the Sunday Times had shrunk over the years, I was now able to read it cover to cover in about forty-five minutes. Things change.
I was seated near a window. The sky outside was bright blue. It was July now, and the ugly, overcast sullen cloud cover had lifted, the days of uninterrupted sunshine a welcomed return. I felt good, the type of good you get when you feel energy surging through your body, your mind and your soul. My next chemo infusion was set for tomorrow, but the Decadron I took early this morning was already kicking in. Dr. Ashland said he couldn't be certain what caused my blackout. It would have been highly unusual for me to have a reaction to the drugs. He ultimately concurred with Eli and Leslie. I had gone most of the day without eating. Lack of food and loads of stress can send anyone spiraling into the ground. So we'd do the same regimen again this time, only I was under strict doctor's orders to avoid arguments, car accidents and targeted killings. And to make sure I ate lunch.
I was halfway finished with my second cup of coffee when I saw Haley Comey open the glass door. A few men turned to look at her, she had that affect, a sexual magnetism that draws men in and it wasn't just the tank top and tight jeans. Haley was tall and statuesque, with large breasts, a slender waist, and flaring hips. Her thick brown hair tumbled past her shoulders. She had a distinctive look, one that featured big brown eyes and a protruding nose, a face I always considered more tough than pretty. But it was the type of look that a lot of men liked. She radiated sexuality more than beauty. And she knew it.
I did not stand up when Haley approached, instead p
ointing to a seat and asking if she'd like something to drink. She shook her head no, but did have the courtesy to thank me for offering.
"I appreciate your coming this morning," I started.
She looked at me coolly as she sat down. "I figured I owed you that, Ned. You've been through a lot. And with Blair ... well, I never in a million years could have imagined that string of events."
"Me, neither."
"So, how are you doing?" she asked.
"Getting by. I go in for my next cycle of chemo tomorrow. I'm on a three-week rotation. We'll do scans next week and see if my body's responded. I've been told I have options, some genetic testing came back looking promising. That's a good thing. I'm lucky."
"I'm sorry about your cancer. You don't deserve it. Neither does your family. It isn't fair."
"The world is unconcerned about what's fair. Last week, my daughter's softball team lost in the regional finals. Windward beat them by one run, and the ump blew a call at the plate on the last play. Would have tied the game. Instead, they left the go-ahead run stranded at third base. It ended and they lost. It wasn't fair. But life goes on."
"There are worse things than losing a softball game."
"I agree. But I had to spend a lot of time consoling my daughter. Everyone's got a different perspective on what's important."
"I guess," she said.
"So, how are you doing, Haley?"
She gave me a hard look. "Do you really care?"
