The Romen Society

by Henry Hack

  “Good thinking. Now tell me exactly what you’re proposing here.”

  “I’ll accept Willis’ invitation to meet with his cousin, and I’ll attempt to become a member of the Romens.”

  “Does Vera know about this?”

  “You sound like Harry now.”

  “Does she?”

  “No.”

  “Pop, let me tell you something about this group you’re willing to join. We believe each member, each disciple, has to pass a final test before he is allowed to become a full-fledged part of the group.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is he has to personally pull the trigger and kill a target. And, if he doesn’t he becomes the target.”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Pop said.

  “Cross that bridge? How? This is too dangerous for you. You’re retired for crying out loud. You’re too…”

  “Old? Go ahead, John, say it. You, Harry, Vera all think I’m too fucking old to be of any use anymore. I assure you I am not. So tell me, Captain McKee, how are you geniuses going to take these motherfuckers down? What are your ideas? Anything better than a sharp, old UC to help you do it?”

  “You’re exasperating, Detective Hunter.”

  “But I’m right.”

  John sighed, “That’s what troubles me – you probably are.”

  “Then get crackin'. I got phony ID from Sheldrake already, but it’s not deep enough to pass more than a superficial scrutiny. I’ll need complete records of my past as Samuel Charles – membership in ELF and other groups, job history, a criminal record – the works.”

  I’ll bounce it off Carl Petersen first thing in the morning.”

  “And I need to be back on the Job – any law enforcement job.”

  “I don’t know if…”

  “I ain’t going in there as a civilian.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good man,” Pop said. “I knew you’d see things my way.”

  “I’m not convinced about this. Let’s see what the powers that be have to say.”

  “John, be serious. The powers that be will jump on this with both feet. They’ll be happy to throw one old dude to the wolves for a shot at the Romens.”

  “You’re probably right again, but I don’t like the idea the old dude, crazy as he is, is one of my best friends.”

  “Thanks, friend, but why wait until morning? Call now and get the ball rolling. My meeting is less than a week away. I want to be prepared.”

  “You love this shit, don’t you, old man?”

  “As I keep saying, retirement sucks.”

  When Carl Petersen got the call at home that evening he also didn’t wait for the next morning, calling Walt Kobak as soon as he hung up with McKee. Pop Hunter was watching TV in the Manhattan apartment rented for his use courtesy of Sheldrake Associates when his phone rang. “Pop, it’s Walt.”

  “That didn’t take long. Guess you’re interested, huh?”

  “Can you be on the eight a.m. shuttle to D.C. with me and Carl tomorrow?”

  “Sure can,” he said.

  “Good. You can call your job from the airport. I’ll see you there.”

  Pop steeled himself after hanging up with Walt. It was time to call Vera. The one- bedroom apartment leased under the name of Samuel Charles, and paid for by Sheldrake Associates, had been Pop’s undercover residence since he began his assignment at Henderson-Sparr back in October. It had been a nice deal for both him and Vera. Every Friday afternoon when Pop left work he went to Penn Station and took the Long Island Railroad to his home in Westbury. And every Sunday evening, after dinner, Vera accompanied him back to Manhattan on the train. They would have dinner out together on Monday night and catch a movie. Then dinner again on Tuesday night and a Broadway show. Vera went back to Westbury Wednesday morning, so they were apart only three days and two nights. Pop dialed his Westbury number and said, “Hi, Vera, how’s it going?”

  “Going fine, Charles. I’m just looking at the movie schedule for Monday night.”

  “Listen, something just came up. I have to fly to D.C. tomorrow morning.”

  “What for? What in your assignment can cause you to make a trip to Washington?”

  “I can’t talk about it now because I don’t have much information yet. I’ll call you from there when I can.”

  “You will be coming home for the weekend, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this, Charles. What is going on?”

  “I told you, I’m not sure either. Drop the interrogation, please. I said I’ll call you.”

  “You’re lying to me Charles Hunter. You’re up to no good. What are they trying to suck you into now?”

  “Nobody’s trying to suck me into anything. Look, I discovered some information that may be of some importance to an investigation. I’m just going down there to pass it on.”

  “Why can't you pass it on to them here?”

  “Vera…”

  “Okay, okay. Do what you have to do, but you better get back here quick.”

  “I will, I promise. I love you.”

  “I love you too, you old fool. Don’t you go getting into anything crazy.”

  “Of course not. I’m too old – and I’m retired, right?”

  “Right,” she said. “Remember that.”

  When Pop reported to Henderson-Sparr bright and early the following Monday morning, completely recovered from the “virus” that caused his absence the previous Friday, no one but he and a few highly placed officials in the government knew he was now deputized as a special agent in the Homeland Security Department. When the powers that be want something bad enough, magical strings can be pulled. These strings can cause mandated job requirements, such as age restrictions, to disappear. Pop met Bob Willis in the coffee room and Bob asked, “How are you feeling, Sam?”

  “Much better now. I must have had one of those two-day stomach viruses. It was pretty much gone by Saturday afternoon.”

  “That’s good to hear. Are you still up for Wednesday’s meeting?”

  “You bet. I can’t wait. Then maybe I can quit this evil place.”

  “That’s up to you, but I know everyone in the organization maintains a steady day job for cover purposes.”

  “Then maybe I’ll stay awhile until I can find something else.”

  “Listen, I’ve been asked by my cousin to tell you to bring certain things with you to the meeting with him.”

  “Like what? By the way, what’s your cousin’s name?”

  “Driver’s license, birth certificate, passport, record of employment, education records, history of family members, and all the places you’ve lived in your life. And my cousin’s name, for now, is Number Five.”

  “Looks like I’m going to have to do some paper gathering and some memory stretching in a hurry,” he said. “Are you sure Number Five needs all that?”

  “Oh, yeah. The Romens want to make certain who they let into the group. They especially don’t want any law enforcement agents to get in.”

  “Do I look like a cop to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, you do,” Willis said.

  “Shit, I’m too old to be a cop.”

  “How old are you anyway?”

  “Sixty-three.” And he had a driver’s license in the name of Samuel Charles to prove it. And all that documentation Willis had just requested was already sitting in a neat pile in his apartment, compliments of the CIA, FBI and Department of Homeland Security. And when anyone accessed a database and searched for Samuel Charles what they would find was exactly what was in that pile of material.

  “I envy you, Sam. I wish I was the one being asked to join the Romens, but my cousin says I’m too valuable here because of the money flow.”

  “Maybe your day will come in the not too distant future. I mean, how much money do they need – just for guns, bullets and gasoline, right?”

  “No, they have to constantly buy
new cell phones and computers to keep ahead of the authorities. My cousin has had so many cell phone numbers and e-mail addresses I’ve lost track of them. And they move around a lot, so they always need rent money and security deposits.”

  “How long will it take for your cousin… Number Five, to check me out?”

  “As long as necessary for them to be satisfied Samuel Charles is who he says he is.”

  “I am who I am.”

  “I hope so, for your sake – and my sake,” Willis said. He was not smiling.

  8

  On Wednesday morning Bob Willis sidled up to Pop in the crowded break room and whispered, “After work today Number Five will meet you at the New York Public Library, 5:45 sharp. Stand in front of the stone lion on the left. He’ll find you.”

  It was warm for late March and when Pop arrived precisely at the appointed time he took off his suit jacket and draped it over his arm. In his hand was a briefcase containing all the requested documentation for Number Five. His peripheral vision spotted Danny Boyland sitting on the stone steps, smiling, drinking coffee and chatting with a black male who he figured was Agent George Washington. No doubt other Task Force members were stationed nearby. He wondered how many of Number Five’s group was also in place to observe the meet? He was startled by a tap on the shoulder, “Sam?” asked a pleasant looking young man.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “And I am?”

  “Number Five.”

  “Correct. Do you have all the items I asked for?”

  “Right here in my briefcase.”

  “Good. Let’s get a desk inside so I can look them over.”

  Number Five chose an empty desk on the third floor where there were no other patrons in the area, and they both sat down. Pop opened the briefcase and slid out the documents for inspection. Number Five took a typewritten list from his jacket pocket and painstakingly examined each item and checked it off against the list. “Very good, Sam. Everything’s here. That’s a good start.”

  “How long before I know if I will be accepted into the group?”

  “The screening process takes four to six weeks.”

  “That long?”

  “Our leader is careful and thorough. Tell me about yourself, Sam. Tell me the things that move you, the things that aren’t in the papers you gave me.”

  Pop spewed out the carefully rehearsed material he and John McKee felt would be what the Romens wanted to hear – hatred of the current political system that abetted the destruction of the earth, agreement with the methods now being used by the Romens, and total disgust with the current puny environmental efforts. When he was done, Number Five smiled and nodded. “But now let me ask you one more question, the critical question. Would you personally pull the trigger to kill one of our enemies?”

  “Without hesitation.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because the Romens have proven this is what works.”

  “Correct,” he said. “I’m going to give you a positive recommendation when I forward your documents. Oh, are you wearing a wire?”

  “A wire? Of course not! Why would I?”

  “I have to check. Please follow me.”

  Pop trailed Number Five as he worked his way through the aisles of desks and study carrels until he stopped in front of a door that said “Staff Only.” John and Carl had discussed at length the advisability of Pop wearing a wire, but with the secrecy and paranoia already shown by the Romens they all finally agreed not to do it. Even the newest devices, which were so tiny they could be placed under the scrotum or between the butt cheeks, were ruled out. A good thing because Number Five said, “Sam, if you would now bend over and spread your cheeks…” followed shortly by, “and lift your scrotum, please.”

  After Pop dressed they left the staff bathroom and Number Five said, “You can leave now. We’ll be in touch when our decision is final. My cousin will let you know.”

  Pop walked down the library steps and passed close to George and Danny. He raised his hand to his mouth and coughed and then whispered, “I left him on the third floor.” Pop then continued down the steps to Fifth Avenue and turned west on 42nd Street to the subway station on Sixth Avenue. He made certain he wasn’t being followed on the short walk and boarded an uptown F train for the ride to Queens to meet John McKee. They met at a different restaurant and John began, “Your Number Five disappeared on us.”

  “Damn! They didn’t locate him on the third floor where I left him?”

  “Not there, not anywhere.”

  “He might work there. He had a key to a staff bathroom. Maybe he knows other ways out of the building.”

  “I still have someone watching the front entrance, but realistically I believe he is long gone.”

  “Good thing I didn’t wear a wire,” Pop said.

  “Why?”

  Pop explained the strip search and the interview. “I believe it went well. He said he would forward my papers with a positive recommendation to the leader of the group.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Yeah, but the bad news is their screening process takes four to six weeks.”

  “Damn! That’s a lot of time to pile up more bodies, but I guess we have no choice but to sweat it out.”

  “I guess it’s time to call Vera and fill her in on our new lifestyle.”

  “I think she is gonna be one pissed-off woman when she finds out you’re un-retired.”

  “Yeah, I can’t wait for that conversation. And send a sketch artist around to my place so we can work up a composite of Number Five.”

  At one minute after nine the following morning Vera Hunter called Harry Cassidy and went at him hard, angry words spewing out, threats intermingled with pleas. Only when Harry was sure she had vented out did he say, “Vera, this is all news to me. I promise I’ll look into this and get back to you as soon as I can. Yes, I know I’m the police commissioner, but Pop doesn’t work for the Department. I can no longer control what he does. Vera, I’ll get back to you, I promise.”

  Harry called John McKee and said, “John, what the hell is going on? How did Pop Hunter get himself involved with the goddamn Romens?”

  “Here’s the story…”

  “Then until Pop hears from the Romens he plays it so close to the vest he can't even see Vera at all?” asked Harry after absorbing McKee’s information.

  “He certainly can't go back to his house in Westbury, that’s for sure.” “No wonder she’s off the wall. Is she aware he may be asked to kill someone?”

  “No. We all felt that was better left unsaid.”

  “I don’t like this one bit. You know what Pop means to me. Isn’t there some other way?”

  “No. We’ll just have to go with it and play it by ear.”

  Harry called Vera back and explained the situation as best as he could over her numerous objections. “Listen, Vera, he has to play this close until he hears their decision.”

  “And what if they accept him?”

  “All he’s going to do is keep his eyes and ears open and pass information back to the Task Force. Let’s hope what he gives them will be good enough for them to take them down.”

  “Then he won’t be in any real danger?”

  “No,” he lied. “He just wants to be a small part of the action.”

  Harry picked at his sandwich. His stomach had been in a knot from the phone calls with Vera. He couldn’t think of an alternative solution to crack the Romens and he couldn’t use his power as commissioner to order Pop off the case. Pete Hayes stuck his head in the door and said, “There’s a Detective Faliani on line two asking to speak with you, sir.”

  “Thanks, I’ll pick it up,” he said. “Hey, Nick, what’s happening?”

  “I just got a call from Pop Hunter. He and I try to have lunch once a week and he tells me he’s gotta cancel all future lunches and contact with me until further notice. I ask him what the hell’s goin' on and all he’ll tell me is he’s on a top secret assignment and
he can’t breathe a word about it. I ask him what the hell could be top secret in his line of work and he clams up. Now, I ask you – what the hell’s going on?”

  “He’s going undercover on a special assignment for the Task Force. He is now officially a special agent for the Homeland Security Department.”

  “You’re kidding! Does this have something to do with the current situation?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want back in. I want to be with Pop.”

  “What about Theresa?”

  “I already told her if I find out Pop is back with the Task Force, then I’m going back, too.’”

  “And she said?”

  “She said, ‘Remember what I told you last time?’ And I said, ‘There’s the goddamned front door. I’ll help you pack.’”

  “Now you’re kidding,” Harry said. “What did that high-strung lady say to that?”

  “She smiled at me and said, ‘Okay, honey, if that’s what you want, you can go back. You know I was only bluffing last time, but I got away with it.’”

  “Women! Who will ever understand them?” Harry said.

  “I second that. Will you transfer me back?”

  “I’d be happy to. I’ll call McKee now. I appreciate you putting it all on the line.”

  “It’s for Pop. I don’t like the sound of this and I want to be there with him.”

  “I’d like to be there, too – with Pop, with you, with the other guys.”

  “We were some team back then, weren’t we? You, me, Pop, Jerry, Dick, all of us.”

  “We sure were,” he said. “Stay safe, partner.”

  Walt Kobak had added another agent, Alicia Johnson, to partner up with Nick Faliani and when he arose to address the group he had to remember, as the fiery image of his wife Theresa flashed through his mind, he was now a happily married man. Alicia Johnson was an attractive brown-skinned agent, in her mid-thirties – with a great body. After Nick finished with his career in the Nine-Five Squad, Midtown North Squad and Manhattan District Attorney’s Squad, he said, “I am happy to be back here with all of you. Let’s track down these Romen bastards soon.”