by Deek Rhew
They waited in the underground line at the crowded entrance for tickets to the elevator. “Well, I guess if we are going to do this, at least we don’t have to walk.” Monica huffed in resignation.
They boarded the tiny car, which seemed more like a spaceship escape pod than an elevator, their knees almost touching the mom and two young children on the opposite seats. The youngest child, a girl of about four, held her mother’s hand and stared at them with wide eyes. On the other end of the spectrum, the son, a willowy boy of about seven, asked a never-ending litany of questions. “Who built it?” “Why?” “How tall it is it?” “What happens if it falls over?” His poor mother struggled to draw a breath in between answering the relentless barrage. At one point, the haggard woman, pretty in her light summer dress despite the deep-purple lines under her blue eyes, smiled at Monica, exuding a bone-weary tiredness reserved for parents of the very young.
She watched through the small window as steel girders and other building infrastructure scrolled past on their ride up. When the doors opened at last, Monica and Angel let the family exit first. The excited boy tugged his mom’s hand, dragging her behind him. Monica stepped out of the pod and stopped short, astonished.
People, a great majority of them children, packed the long, arching room. Dozens of excited little voices chattered as kids peered out the small rectangular view ports. The family they’d rode up with disappeared in the throng. School kids in uniforms, families, and other patrons marveled at the view and technological wonder together.
Monica and Angel wove through the crowd, making their way to one of the windows, and stared out at the landscape below. The clear sky gave an unobstructed view of the river. They switched sides and peered out over the city. After wandering the hall for a little while, they left. Monica didn’t say anything on the ride to the bottom.
“So?” Angel asked. “Do we still need to call the wrecking ball people? Mr. Kadafi, tear down this arch!” she said in a decent Ronald Reagan impression.
Monica laughed. “You goob. First of all, it’s Mr. Gorbachev. Second of all, it was a wall in Berlin, not an arch in Missouri.”
“Yes, counselor. The distinctions you’ve observed have been noted and entered into the record.”
Monica nodded. “I guess you’re right. There is something here. I never thought there’d be any benefit to something so extravagant, but the kids were very excited. It gave the children and the parents something in common to bond over.” She thought about it for a minute. “Okay. It can stay.”
Angel burst out laughing. “So glad you approve. It would have sucked to have to walk into city hall and tell the mayor, ‘Mr. Mayor, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. You know your arch? Yeah, the one that brings in a zillion tourists a year. Well, Mr. Mayor, it’s crap, and I’m afraid it needs to come down.’”
The two women strolled the circular walkway around the arch to a nearby canopy of trees. In the distance, a paddleboat languished its way up the river. Several families, with kids running around, dotted the landscape of the shared grounds. Exhausted parents remained on constant vigil as their children played hide and seek and chased one another along the grassy knolls.
Monica turned her face to the sun, breathing in the Mississippi river air. Her friend had, once again, taught her a lesson about life. She looked over at Angel as they strolled the trail.
Perhaps, just perhaps, a chance existed that they would pull through this thing.
40
Barry Yamalki sat in his office going through news articles and the police reports from the Walberg explosion, hoping to find something that would assist Tyron. Another meeting with Laven loomed in the near future, and if he didn’t have good news, Barry’s life expectancy might plummet by several years. He’d seen time and again what happened to those that displeased Laven. Being behind bars hadn’t slowed him down any. Though his second-in-charge ran the basic day-to-day operation, Laven retained command of the troops.
Tyron had not yet caught and tied up the loose end. Somehow the witness continued to elude him. Barry had been sorting through the dozen or so news articles when something stopped him. With nothing new to report, a resourceful Phoenix reporter, desperate to blather on about something—anything new—started interviewing locals who didn’t seem to know any more than the flailing journalist.
Except, in this patchwork of pathetic attempts to rouse a story from the literal and figurative ashes, the correspondent entered the local coffee shop and talked to the woman running the place, Mary Beth Sanders. He got his news quote for the night when he asked her if she had any theories about the explosion and death of the local girl, Susan Rosenberg.
“…I knew somethin’ was goin’ on. This town is little, and pretty much ever’one knows all the goin’s on of ever’one else. But that girl was so secretive. She didn’t want to date no one and never talked about her background or nothin’. You want to know the truth? I think somethin’ was going on with her, like she was hidin’ maybe. Then after her house exploded, there was the thing with the law office. At first folks was sayin’ that Lisa Bunder got fed up with her husband—Lord knows they’s fighten all the time—but usually someone like Lisa’ll come ’round after they cool off. Only she didn’t. S’posedly, she went to her office, took out all the money from the safe, and drove off. Don’t think so. That girl was flighty, but she was real responsible about her business. She’d never just leave it to rot like that. I ain’t no detective. Our sheriff is a good man, and I tried to tell him something happened to her. Somehow, that Susan girl is ’volved. See what I’m sayin’ there? But he’s not thinking so…”
The police disregarded the woman’s wild theories, but Barry started searching. He traced the car and credit cards with ease. He didn’t have the card numbers, but he found the car as a matter of public record. He could ascertain their connection from the senator who had connected him with the Agency. The same Agency who refused to continue helping, insisting they completed the project. A misunderstanding, Barry decided. When he first started working for Laven, the mob boss explained that everything was connected.
“See,” Laven said from behind his big desk after hiring Barry to handle all his legal needs, “there are threads between everything. They are invisible to most people, which is why the masses have to work so hard. They are busy spinning their own threads because they can’t see the ones that already exist. Everything, and I do mean everything, is connected.
“If you know how to see them, and even more importantly how to use them, life becomes your playground. Let’s take you, for instance.”
Barry stiffened, and his stomach gurgled.
“Your mother,” Laven continued, “is in a nursing home in Pennsylvania.”
Barry tried to keep his face impassive and hide his shock, but he knew Laven had seen it. Laven saw everything.
“The man who runs it,”—he paused for a second as if thinking—“Greg Hutton, he’s got a problem.”
“I don’t understand how—” Barry began, but Laven ignored him.
“See, he likes the ponies. Every other Friday is payday at the nursing home. Greg has Saturdays off, and by Sunday he’s broke. Doesn’t matter how far up he gets, he doesn’t stop until his check is gone. He’s lost his apartment. He has no car. Nothing. Everything is gone. So Greg has been living in one of the rooms at the home—eating their food, using their laundry, you get the picture. But it doesn’t stop there. He’s maxed out his credit cards, and the hounds have been searching for him.”
“Mr. Michaels, I don’t—”
“No, of course you don’t because you can’t see the threads. You don’t see how everything is connected, so let me shed light on it for you. I know all of this because I make it my business to know things. Greg can hear those hounds baying for him in the distance, but they haven’t caught him…yet. He’s on the cusp of collapse. If the owner finds out his employee is living on his dime, Greg is out. No one will hire a serial ga
mbler that lives on the back of the man who gave him a job.”
Laven tiltled his head ever so slightly. Cold eyes appraised Barry’s face; the mob boss seemed to be able to read the lawyer’s thoughts as easily as a highway billboard. “So what? They’ll just hire someone else. It’s just another bum on the street. In fact, we should tell the owner, right? Get him out of there. Don’t deny it. You’re thinking it; I can see it on your face.”
Barry didn’t deny it. The situation angered him. A man like Greg Hutton used the system Barry paid for. He loved his mother and allocated money to afford her the best care in the best facility the state had to offer. He went every two weeks, without fail, and spent the afternoon with her. She didn’t recognize him anymore. He hadn’t heard her call him by his name in two years and faced the immeasurable grief of introducing himself to her every time he saw her. Despite the expense, he didn’t mind writing those checks every month, but he loathed the thought of someone mooching off of his money.
“But you only think that because you don’t see the threads. See, there is a senator in Pennsylvania by the name of Silvia Goldwater.”
Barry’s forehead crinkled in bafflement. He had no idea where his new boss headed with this tale.
“Silvia is an independent, strong-willed, die-hard feminist, so when she married her four-star general husband, Drake Pinkle Hutton, she kept her maiden name. Are you starting to see the threads now? Greg Hutton is Drake’s disowned brother, though the two men haven’t talked in years, decades actually.”
Barry shook his head. He didn’t like the picture his boss painted yet he had no power to stop it.
Laven continued, “So someone with a charitable heart, my organization, let’s say, offers to help. We can keep the dogs off and relieve a little of the pressure. A man as desperate as that will grasp any branch extended to him. So now I own Mr. Hutton. His life is mine to do with as I please. Both Drake and Silvia, as career politicians, recognize the potential for scandal if it came out that his brother, disowned or not, had fallen from grace. Once the dogs were done with Greg, a mere appetizer, they would turn to the couple. The hounds, having a taste of blood, would be thirsty for the main course, and nothing would be tastier than a rich general and his senator wife.”
A spark flashed in the mob boss’ eyes. “I now own the general and his wife too. Talk about a valuable resource. But that isn’t where it ends. Do you see?”
Barry did, and his bowels turned to slush.
“Mr. Hutton takes a small sum of cash from us every month, a pittance, really, though it’s a king’s ransom to him. He lives for these small investments in his pledge to become a fulltime gambler, and from time to time, I’ve asked him to do small tasks for us. The people that come through this facility are from influential families with deep pockets. Some would make Ms. Goldwater and General Hutton look positively like paupers; you’d be surprised.”
Barry couldn’t fathom the exact nature of those “small tasks,” but he believed them to be significant—very much so.
“You think you applied for this position. You think you beat out the competition because of your charisma in court, your deep understanding and experience with the law. Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret. There are hundreds, thousands of lawyers slithering around this city who are better than you. More qualified. More charismatic. They could talk you into the ground. But I don’t want any of them. Do you know why?”
Barry did, but he just stared at the little man who, by some miracle, grew bigger by the minute until he towered over Barry like a giant in huge black shoes, poised to crush him like a cockroach. His breath left his body, and he struggled to draw it back in. The air thickened, gelatinous and dirty like used motor oil.
“Because, Mr. Yamalki, I see the threads that connect everything together at a fundamental level. It’s what binds us all. Once you see the threads, all you have to do is tug the right one, and you can make anything happen. I don’t want a lawyer who’s only working for money. I wanted someone who was motivated by more than just greed, which is why you are sitting in that chair and none of them are. I wanted someone connected to me.”
When the bitch turned up as the star witness in the case the D.A. built against the mob boss, Barry found the appropriate threads and utilized them, tapping into the resources Laven needed to help destroy the prosecution’s case.
Laven didn’t use his connections often. Threads, by their nature, exhibit fragility—yank too hard, they stretch and break. Since the FBI held the girl in Witness Protection, Barry had no trouble locating her after placing the right people on the task. The country’s own government, the same one trying to put Laven in jail, located her. But the man they’d sent botched the job, and now she ran free.
Barry retrieved the information on Lisa’s car, a shiny red Audi. He put in a query to a private detective, a fat old gumshoe Laven kept on staff, and the man found the records of the car as it crossed tollbooths, making its way across the country. The latest hit came just two hours before in Missouri. Barry sent the information to Tyron.
During this research, he found the news item about the murdered waitress in Kansas. Fury flooded his veins, replacing the momentary victory that had just flowed there a minute before, and Barry picked up his cell.
* * *
Frustration tore through Tyron. At some point, he must have passed the women. Since he had no idea when he had done so, he spent several fruitless hours searching for them in St. Louis. Other than their descriptions, he had little to go on. They hadn’t used the laptop since Kansas, leaving the trail cold. Just when he started to think about burning off some of his pent up frustration with a little “extracurricular activity,” like he had done with the cunt of a waitress from the diner, his phone beeped with an email. The small red Audi the women drove, once belonging to the bitch he charred, had passed through a tollbooth less than two hours before.
He climbed into his car and began to pull into traffic when his phone rang. The caller ID read Barry Yamalki. Tyron detested the smarmy little man—though in truth he hated almost everyone—and coveted an hour alone with the pompous little shit. Why would Yamalki be calling now?
“What?” Tyron answered by way of greeting.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“You should know; you’re the one who gave me the assignment.”
“I’m talking about the waitress.”
Tyron paused. How the hell did Yamalki find out about that? Tyron did his hobby with extreme care—vigilant not to leave evidence behind. He understood enough about police procedure to know the big things never tripped a man up. The little things did—trace evidence, DNA, bodily fluids, and the like. So, he shaved every inch of skin to ensure he never left hair behind. He wore gloves and a condom during the wet work, which he burned afterwards.
Yalmaki had taken a dangerous gamble fishing without any proof. Tyron sneered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do!” The sound crackled and blasted through the tiny little speaker, and Tyron jerked the phone away from his ear.
“You don’t need to shout.”
“Really? Because I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here. You were told to eliminate a loose end, but instead you’re out there fulfilling some sick fantasy. Quiet—that’s the rule of the game here. We’re trying to get our boss out of prison, but if you get your ass caught that’s not going to happen. There’s enough to deal with without you creating a trail for the police to follow. You might think you’re the best, but even the best can fall. There’s a direct link between you and Laven. If the connection to that waitress’ murder is made to you, it’s going to be pretty much impossible to get him out. Perhaps you’d like to be the one to explain to him why he’s doing twenty to life?”
Tyron did not want to do that. Laven, a genius, ran things like the right hand of God—or Beelzebub, depending on the point of view—controlling everyone and everything around
him. But he had about as much soul and mercy as flesh-eating bacteria. The mobster made a bipolar madman look tame, but Tyron liked crazy. He related to that spark of insanity, yet Laven also scared him. The man radiated darkness, cold as a black hole, leaving Tyron with the impression that, if the idea struck him, Laven would gut him and eat his liver while sipping a cold beer and watching a Mavericks’ game. “No.”
“Good. Glad to hear that you can be reasoned with. Now, there will be no more playing. You’re done with your sick little fantasies. Find these women, do your job, and make sure it’s untraceable. I don’t care how you do it, but be nice and neat. I do not want to read about it in the paper. Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes.”
The call disconnected. Tyron sat in the idling car. He hated the thought of that sniveling piss-ant lawyer calling the shots, but the images of what his boss would do to him should the man spend even one extra day in jail made him shudder. Tyron dropped the car into drive and pulled out into traffic, headed towards the Gateway Arch.
* * *
Erebus received his hard-won victory when the snitch and her companion disappeared into the shiny silver structure. He sat on a bench, watching the entrance. Little rodent children ran around playing tag, shouting, and screaming, absorbing him into their chaos. Why anyone would have the blood-sucking leeches baffled him.
When the two women left the landmark and headed his way, Tyron pretended to be involved in a newspaper, pulling the baseball cap low to help hide the telltale scar on his face.
When they rounded the corner, almost out of sight, he got up and followed.
41
Monica sat cross-legged in the grass, watching as a paddleboat meandered up the river. Scattered, fat clouds reflected in the surface of the water. From the bank of the Mississippi, she could envision her problems floating away, faint and wispy as cotton. The FBI should be able to help her get a real identity. Perhaps they could even keep the mob thug behind bars for good or, better yet, issue him a one-way ticket to the electric chair. She was sick of looking over her shoulder. She longed to take control of her own destiny, to rid herself of the mob guys, then spend an inordinate amount of time relaxing on some tropical island.
