by Harper Lin
“No, madam.”
I gave him the eye. “Pity. I would have had you request a transfer.”
“I, um, need to go photocopy this,” he said.
Now that he had fled and the two people remaining at my table were busy staring at the race again, I did what I came to do. I set my purse on my lap, opened it, and pulled out a racing magazine. Opening it up, I used it to cover the view of my lap from any prying eyes. I pretended to read, running my finger along the complex charts of racing statistics while my other hand slipped into my purse, pulled out a little metal box, and stuck it with a magnet on the bottom of the table.
I sent up a prayer of gratitude that the tables were made of metal. Otherwise I would have had to find somewhere else to stick it and that could have gotten complicated.
Missions are filled with these little complications. Every now and then one would get you killed.
The device was another special delivery from the agency. It picked up any cell phone conversations within a hundred meters and relayed them to a receiver which I had left in my car. Now I would be able to listen to the staff’s phone conversations. Of course I could get this place shut down right now with a simple call to 911, but that wouldn’t take down the whole organization, just one tentacle. I had already seen how well these thugs compartmentalized their organization.
The transceiver stuck to the bottom of the table, well out of sight unless someone got on their hands and knees and looked for it.
Mission accomplished. I wouldn’t learn any more by sitting here, but I couldn’t just run off after making such a grand entrance. They’d suspect me for sure. So now I was obliged to gamble for the next couple of hours.
Pierre brought me the gin and tonic I had ordered.
“Oh, you’re such a darling!” I cooed. He moved off before I could say more, like remind him that I wanted him to drink with me. It would have been nice to pump him for information.
Since I was now forced to drink and gamble, two things I’ve always found a bit dull, I decided I might as well make the most of it. I made a scene, roping reluctant men into conversation and pestering them to buy me drinks. I started drinking gin like an MI6 agent stuck in the jungles of Burma. After the second gin and tonic my drunken act became less of an act. Out of the corner of my eye I caught people pointing at me and laughing, and overheard snatches of unkind conversation about me, but that was all part of my plan. The best way to hide is in plain sight. Security is looking for the man or woman with shifty eyes, the one who hangs back and acts as an observer. Instead, I was the center of attention for everyone except security, who had stopped paying me any mind once the money started flowing from my purse.
And flow it did. In return for being the evening’s comic relief, I got the latest “hot tips” from the hardcore gamblers on which dog or horse would win, which roulette wheel paid out more, and which slot machine was “looser”. I was feeling pretty loose myself.
I followed all their advice and lost $800 in less than two hours.
This was getting to be an expensive investigation. There was no way I could ask the CIA or the Cheerville police to put illegal gambling on expenses.
After an especially big loss, when the “sure bet” greyhound I put $100 on at ten to one odds came in last, Pierre returned with two gin and tonics. I focused for a second and realized it was just one gin and tonic. The drinks were catching up to me.
“Thanks, daaaarling,” I said, and placed a hand on his chest. I could feel his heart rate go up.
Just then my own heart rate went up and I suddenly felt stone cold sober.
Someone had walked into the club who I recognized.
The Exterminator.
Six
I was sure it was him the moment I spotted him walking through the door.
I’d only seen him briefly through a car window a month ago, passing by and wearing shades, and again in my house when his face was covered by a balaclava. If he were any ordinary man I would have never been able to recognize him.
But the Exterminator was an extraordinary man. He moved with the deadly grace of a panther, and his crystal blue eyes had that dead expression of a true career violent criminal. You didn’t get that look with car thieves or embezzlers, no matter how long they’d been at it. This man made his money by physically hurting other people.
Why? I’d never understood that despite all my time in the most violent parts of the world. Some people, little people, got a sick enjoyment from the sufferings of others. They could be dangerous but they were also weak, terrified of their own suffering and thus they ended up acting as cowards. People like this man, however, did not kill for pleasure or even for money, since the money would bring them no pleasure either. That emotion had long since gutted out in their hearts, assuming they had ever felt any pleasure in the first place. People like the Exterminator killed because it was in their nature to kill. Asking them why they did it would be like asking you or I why we eat lunch.
He wasn’t particularly large or well-muscled. He was fit, certainly, but it was more the fluid grace of his movements and the hard look in his eye that told me how dangerous he was. I looked him over for weapons and couldn’t see any. That meant he knew how to hide them. Someone like this guy always went armed.
He stalked across the casino, heading from the front door straight for the back way. His gaze roved around the room and took in every detail. Career criminals always did that. I’ve seen that roving eye on every type of lowlife from crack dealers to confidence men. I suppose I had the roving eye too, but I’m one of the good guys.
His eye roved in my direction. I put an arm over one of my reluctant companions and gave a toast to something or other. My mind and my lips had long since parted ways.
Oh my. I was drunk on duty. And even worse, I shared a room with at least one and probably several trained killers.
Luckily my disguise was good enough to fool him for the moment and he didn’t slow down as he went to the back door, punched a key code into the pad by the door, and stepped through. Of course he blocked the pad with his body so nobody, including little old me, could see the code.
I threw some money onto the roulette table, lost, and threw some more money down. And lost again. To kill some time, I walked (stumbled really) to a table with a good view of the back door and watched a horse race. I lost. I also didn’t see anyone come out of the back.
Enough. I had gained access to the club, placed the transmitter, and gotten a good look at the Exterminator’s face. Job done. It was time to go home before I really made a fool of myself.
Wobbling on those agonizing high heels, I made my way for the door.
“Stop!” a voice called behind me.
I froze. This was it. I’d gotten drunk on the job and had made some mistake, a mistake that had blown my cover and would now cost me my life. Tensing, I slowly turned.
Pierre stood behind me. He smiled and extended a laminated card. On it was printed “Apple Bluff Charity Society” and a member number. 1016. More than a thousand people came to this place? They must be making money hand over fist!
“Thank you, gorgeous,” I slurred.
“Do you need help to your car, madam?”
I almost said yes and caught myself at the last instant.
“Oh, you’re such a dear. No, I’m fine. See you soon!”
“Be careful driving home, madam.”
If I didn’t know Pierre was a member of an organized crime syndicate, I would have thought that he actually cared. Perhaps he did in a way. I suppose he didn’t want me to get pulled over for drunken driving and spill the beans about where I drank so many gin and tonics.
I chuckled as I revved up my convertible. I may have had one too many but I was an expert driver, having driven everything from Jeeps and motorcycles to Humvees. I bet in my youth I could have outdriven cute little Pierre. Outfought him too. With my driving expertise, no one on the road would notice I’d had a few.
No one, that is, except
the cops.
They pulled me over before I even got out of town.
When I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror, I felt a spike of fear. The alcohol washed it away. I could handle this.
I pulled over, popped a breath mint in my mouth, and waited as the cop called in my license plate number.
Then he walked up to the car. He was young, not as attractive as Pierre but certainly fit in a uniform better than Grimal.
“Hey, darling!” I said, hoping to disarm him.
“May I see your driver’s license, please?”
“Here you go, gorgeous,” I said, handing him the fake ID.
“Celeste Tammany,” he read. “Did you rent this car, ma’am?”
“Of course!” Reality poked through the alcoholic fog. “Um, no. My dear, dear friend Barbara Gold rented it.”
“Do you have permission to drive it, ma’am?”
“Of course! Barbara is unwell and I’m just doing a few little errands for her.”
“Ma’am, I detect the presence of alcohol on your breath. Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle, please?”
“Why do you people always say ‘vehicle’? It’s a car. Why the imprecision?”
“Just step out of the vehicle, ma’am.”
I did, and just then one of my heels decided to break. Down I went, at least partway. The police officer caught me.
“What a gentleman!” I said, hugging him.
“Ma’am, sit back down. I’m going to give you a Breathalyzer.”
“If you fall I will catch you I will be waiting, time after time,” I sang. Cyndi Lauper. Great musician.
“Just stay there, ma’am.”
He took my keys.
Things got a little fuzzy after that. I remember breathing into a tube and making the machine go off like red alert on Star Trek. He then had some questions about my driver’s license, which by this time the dispatcher had told him was bogus.
I waved that little detail away like it was nothing.
“Just call Arnold Grimal. He’s the police chief over in Cheerville. He’ll explain everything.”
“I know who he is, ma’am. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Boon companion. Bosom buddy. Comrade in arms. Well, not really.”
“And what is he going to explain, ma’am?”
“That I’m on important police business, that’s what!”
“I think you need to come with me, ma’am.”
The next thing I remembered was being handcuffed and put in the back of the patrol car. I suppose he would call it a “patrol vehicle.” I dozed for a while on the way to the station. Who knew that the backseat of a patrol vehicle could be so comfortable?
The next thing I knew I was being given my one phone call. I called Grimal.
“What do you want, Mrs. Gold?” He sounded irritated.
I lowered my voice so the policeman standing nearby couldn’t hear. “I’m in a bit of trouble here in Apple Bluff. I was looking into that thing we talked about, and the police pulled me over. I’m in custody.”
“What? Why? Did they bust the place?”
“No, they don’t know about it. At least I don’t think so. You see, I went in disguise and to get in character I had a few stiff ones at the casino and got pulled over for drunk driving.”
A strange sound came over the line. It sounded like laughter, but muffled, as if he had put his hand over the phone.
It took him a minute to reply.
“So they’re charging you?”
“Yes, for that and for driving with a false license and stealing a rental car from myself.”
That strange sound came from the other end again. It took longer for him to get back to me.
“Hold on, Mrs. Gold, I just got an urgent call on the other line.”
“Wait! This is more important! Just explain to the …”
My voice trailed off. He was no longer there.
I waited. And waited. The policeman grew impatient.
“He’s just on the other line. Give me one minute and he’ll be back,” I assured him.
One minute turned to two, then five. The policeman took the phone from me and hung it up.
“He can call you back,” the cop told me.
The next thing I knew I was in a cell. I felt mortified. It took a long time to doze off. The bed wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the back of the patrol vehicle.
Seven
I dreamt about witches.
The witches had long green noses covered in hairy moles. They drank gin and tonics and played roulette while cackling at me. They kept winning, and every time they won they cackled louder. It took me a minute to wake up to the fact that the cackling was real.
I opened my eyes, squinting as the harsh light of the jail cell jabbed them. My retinas felt like a pair of frying eggs.
The cackling continued.
Blinking, I focused on a couple of figures on the other side of the bars. One was the officer who arrested me.
The other was Police Chief Arnold Grimal.
Grimal was cackling like the Wicked Witch of Cheerville.
When he saw I was awake he stopped cackling and stood there rubbing his hands and grinning at me.
“Is this Mrs. Gold, sir?” the arresting officer asked.
“Oh yes! It took me a minute to see through the disguise but it sure is!” He broke off into another round of cackling.
“Is it true she was on police business? We also got a call from someone in the CIA.”
Grimal’s face fell. “That means a get out of jail free card, doesn’t it?”
“For the false identification and the car theft charges, yes sir. But they didn’t mention anything about the drunk driving.”
Grimal’s face lit up like a child at Christmas. He looked back at me with glee.
“So high and mighty, and here you are in a cell with the cockroaches.”
“Cockroaches? Where?”
Blearily I looked around and saw a small black spot on the floor near my feet. I hate to admit it, but I flinched. I’ve never liked cockroaches. I’d rather have someone shooting at me.
I summoned my courage and took a closer look.
“That’s not a cockroach,” I said.
It was my hairy mole. It had fallen off during my sleep. I picked it up and put it in my pocket.
“Now what are you doing?” Grimal asked.
“It’s a mole. Part of my disguise,” I mumbled.
The arresting officer took me out of the cell, charged me, and Grimal drove me home. He hummed the whole way.
“I got too into character and the booze caught up with me,” I said by way of explanation.
Grimal hummed louder.
“Stop that,” I snapped, “we have an investigation to run.”
“Did you find out anything besides the price of drinks?”
I was tempted to hit him. I had a sure shot right for the side of his neck. It would incapacitate him for a good five minutes, but seeing as how he was driving us at 60 miles per hour down the highway I thought better of it. I’d had enough car trouble for one day.
“I placed a transceiver so we can pick up their cell phone calls. Plus, I got a good look at the Exterminator.”
Luckily for me, I remembered to grab the receiver from the rental car before getting driven home.
“We’ll have a police artist sit down with you and do a sketch. Come in tomorrow once you, hee hee, sleep it off.”
He dropped me off at my son’s house, where I was still camping for fear of the Exterminator. All I wanted to do was roll into bed, curl up in a little ball, and die of embarrassment.
What had happened? It had been a long time since I had drunk so much. Sometimes I had to in my line of work, and while I’ve never been much of a drinker, I could hold my own. Four or five gin and tonics over the course of a couple of hours shouldn’t have laid me low, especially considering how watery the casino made their mixed drinks.
I tried to remember th
e last time I had downed that many drinks. There was that party in Sonora back in 2002. I had drunk a lot more and didn’t feel nearly as badly as I did now. And that had been mescal, far deadlier than gin. It was the Exterminator of alcoholic drinks.
I lay on the sofa rubbing my ankles. They screamed in pain from wearing those heels and I knew they’d be sore all day tomorrow as well. And on top of that my neck hurt, probably from sleeping in the back of the police car. Sorry, police vehicle. And I had a headache. And a queasy stomach. Whatever happened to that middle-aged woman who drank a Mexican Army captain under the table? He’d been in his thirties and I still bested him. And why should wearing heels for a few hours give me so much pain when I used to climb mountains and feel fine the next day?
I couldn’t deny it any longer, I was getting old.
It felt unfair. Of course, every senior citizen feels aging is unfair. It takes a lifetime to get comfortable with yourself and build up your family and career to what you want it to be, and then your knees start hurting, your vision goes, and you drop off into little naps in the middle of conversations. It felt doubly unfair for me. I had always been at the peak of health. Field operatives had to be. But now here I was at the not particularly advanced age of 70 with all these minor physical problems. And I knew they would only get worse.
I have to say it took me by surprise. “Sure,” I told myself, “other people will be going downhill at 70, but not me. I exercise, eat right, don’t smoke or take drugs, and drink in moderation.”
Except for the occasional mescal and gin bender. All in the line of duty, of course.
The sad fact is, living a healthy lifestyle isn’t always enough. How well you age is as much related to genes as to lifestyle. Also, while every couch potato is guaranteed to end up with some serious health issues later in life, the kind of rugged living I had enjoyed for so many years had obviously taken an equal toll. All that crouching behind cover while waiting to ambush an enemy had done a number on my knees. All those harsh days in deserts and mountains had probably given me that little spot of skin cancer they removed from my forearm a couple of years ago. Lugging eighty-pound packs on countless forced marches had certainly contributed to the back pain I now enjoyed.
