Less Of Me

by Edward Goble

  Chapter 18

  “Big’n!”

  “Hey Will.”

  “Hey Andy, listen, it’s been about a week since we talked. Just thought I’d make a quick call and see how it’s going. Their pushing me for a draft or something, you know.”

  “Yeah, I appreciate where you’re at. Look, the best I could do right now is email a few chapters. I’d rather not though; it would be better if they can wait till the whole draft is complete. I’m sure you agree.”

  “Oh, absolutely, absolutely. How far along, if you had to guess, is the story? Any ideas? Have you rounded the turn for the home stretch?”

  “Funny you should use that image.”

  “What?”

  “Oh nothing, I’m just using horse racing as a back drop in the story.”

  “So...”

  “I should have a draft ready pretty soon, I guess. It’s coming a little faster than I expected.”

  “Andrew Boyd, that is music to my ears.”

  “No promises, you know. I’ve got till the end of the month.”

  “Oh, absolutely. I know. But every day we come in under deadline probably adds a year to my life. I know you don’t feel petty feelings like stress, but your agent does, trust me.”

  “You’re funny, Will. Look, I’ll do my best. Talk to you later, huh?”

  Andy took a quick shower and put his iBook in its carrying case and walked the eight blocks over to Starbucks. He decided a change of scenery might do him a little good. The writers he had spotted there last evening had given him a little inspiration. Friday mornings were always a little sparse, in terms of foot traffic heading toward down town. It seemed like there were fewer people stepping off the buses, less portable ‘full’ signs sitting in front of the parking structures, and plenty of room to sit on the trolleys at every stop. Andy’s theory was that people were working less. More people seemed to be taking Friday’s off and some of those were even staying home to telecommute on Mondays as well, effectively making a three-day work week. Andy, on the other hand, worked seven days a week, and some days he even managed to get something accomplished.

  Starbucks, as he had hoped, was quiet. He thought he recognized a few of the same people who had been here last night, tapping away on their laptops. He ordered a ceramic mug of coffee and an apple fritter and found a table for two that was vacant. As he settled in allowed the sugar and caffeine to kick in, he opened a hot-spot connection and made a new blog entry.

  Andy’s Weblog - November 9th

  Working through the Weirdness

  Yesterday was surreal. As a matter of fact, the entire week has been odd. And the interesting thing is, that while my days and nights have felt like a ride on the big wooden roller coaster at the Boardwalk, the hours I’ve spent working have been doubly productive. I don’t know why. I guess its just working through the weirdness. I haven’t always been able to do that. If my world tilted and spun even one degree out of kilter, I would implode. My life depends on routine and familiarity.

  Maybe I’m maturing and becoming able to separate work from life. I doubt it… Andy

  Instead of posting the blog, Andy just sat there and stared at it. The cursor at the end of the last sentence flashed like a metronome inviting him to daydream in perfect rhythm. He thought about his week. There had been some close calls at home in relation to his decision to loose weight. The depression and destructive thoughts had pushed him to do some impulsive, empty-headed things, throwing away all his food, for one. He shook his head as he thought about it. And the Martins, what was he thinking getting involved in that whole mess. He should have ordered his food to go, encouraged the old couple to call the police and kept his fat butt out of it. He still couldn’t believe he actually met with those thugs and paid the debt for that scrawny looser nephew of the Martin’s, he didn’t care about that kid, and the kid sure didn’t care about him. But, he had to admit, helping someone felt pretty good. It felt like a spigot was turned on releasing a cool flow of life in to his heart. Then there was his mother and Marg and that whole revival deal. Janice Boyd, religious, a Jesus freak? Double weird.

  His mom was the original independent woman; he couldn’t imagine her following God. The images that conjured up in his mind were the stuff of nightmares. He had no idea where it might lead, if anywhere. He had to admit, though, that she seemed really happy and, more than that, at peace, which was a feeling her son had never experienced. The conflict in Andy’s life was constant and exhausting. And the most unexpected thing about his mother’s epiphany, or whatever it was, was that she wasn’t trying to force it on him. He always thought that was the whole point of the religious game.

  Then there was the whole thing with Debbie Williams, which had to be the strangest part of a really strange week. Had a woman; a pretty, articulate, intelligent young woman actually called him and invited him out for coffee? That one still had him flat-footed. “I’m still the same goon I was last week, nothing changed... She just doesn’t know it yet,” Andy assured himself with a sip of coffee that once Debbie Williams got a whiff of the real Andrew Boyd, big-time writer, and the novelty wore off, she would head for cover faster than a scared clown fish. He polished off the fritter and wiped his sticky hands. He thought for a moment about carrying one of those disposable hand sanitizer bottles around like the big no-neck guy at Allied Financial. “That wasn’t a bad idea,” he thought.

  ----------

  Appalachian Malady - 7

  “Beatty.”

  “Hey Spin.”

  “Hi. I didn’t recognize the number, thought you might be a prank caller,” she said playfully.

  “No such luck. How’s it coming?”

  “Nothing worth writing about yet.”

  “Listen, this is moving into some dangerous territory. Do you want to keep playing, or are you ready to take your ball and go home.”

  “Are you kidding? If you’ve got another lead, sweetie, give.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “Look for a connection between Lecter and A.D. Ken Williams.

  “What am I looking for?” she asked.

  “Anything, really. Do they know each other, ever take meetings together, travel, anything that catches your attention.”

  “Got it. Anything else?”

  “Nope, gotta go. See you soon,” Rance said and ended the call.

  John Sanchez held cover, watching his perimeter and keeping an eye on the two deer hunter/armed guards, as they sat and smoked on and around the fire road gate. Another pair that strolled in from the opposite side of the gate eventually joined the two. Sanchez couldn’t tell what they were saying from the distance of his post, but it looked like the first guys were razzing the others for being late or something. Other than smoking, one of the two in the second pair was holding a plastic coffee mug and wore a back pack along with his assault rifle. Fifteen minutes after the second pair of guards arrived, the first of a convoy of eight trucks approached the gate from the west. It was a two-axle Freightliner day cab hauling an orange 20’ container, the kind you might see stacked on a ocean freighter or riding two-up on a slow moving train that you cussed from behind a flashing railroad crossing. Coffee cup jumped on to the step on the truck by the driver’s side window and said something to the driver while one of the other guards fussed with unlocking the gate. He removed the heavy chain and lock while the two other guards swung open the heavy bar which either needed lubrication or it was, in fact, really heavy. They pushed against it like oxen till it heaved open wide enough the rig to fit through. Coffee cup pulled a piece of paper and pen out of the back pack and walked around the container and cab, apparently checking numbers before tapping the door of the cab and signaling the driver through. The process was reenacted for each of the eight trucks.

  After each truck had cleared the gate they continued to motor down the fire road, around a corner and out of sight. Sanchez could hear the whine of the big diesel motors for a few minutes and
realized that, with the echo of these mountain canyons, he was probably just hearing where the trucks had been, rather than where they were. After the guards had secured the gate they appeared to make a little small talk before each pair split off and headed back the way they came, which, for John Sanchez, meant the two he had followed were going to be making their way directly back toward him.

  He checked his cover, improved it with an extra fallen branch, and lay like a snake on the forest floor as they approached. As he watched them walk back up the hill, he projected their current path to bring them very close to his lair; in fact, the guard on the high side may actually step on him if he kept his path. The guards were smoking and talking, not really looking around much, making sure of their footing walking across the side of the slippery, leaf-covered hillside. When they got within fifteen meters, John was certain that they would walk right over his position. With one hand he slowly lifted the sheath of his knife and positioned his hand around the handle for a quick strike. At the same time, with his other hand, he rummaged around the ground, quietly and slowly, until he felt the hard, round casing of an acorn.

  The two guards were close enough now that he could hear their thick southern accents, probably ten meters away. Carefully, he moved his hand to the edge of cover and watched the eyes of the guards, when they appeared to be diverted, he flicked the acorn with his thumb and middle finger across and away from his hiding spot where it hit a tree and rolled down in to the leaves. It was enough sound, in the silence of the forest, to draw the attention of the guards who tensed up and drew their weapons, looking around and back down where they had come from. Sanchez realized his tactic might have been a mistake as the two rednecks froze in their positions and grew silent. Though young, these men were probably seasoned hunters and had the ability to blend in to these mountains and pounce like a lion on some unsuspecting animal.

  “See anything?”

  “Shut up!” The men looked around, focusing down the hill in the direction of the sound. They were too far away for Sanchez to get a drop on them, and they hadn’t moved in the direction of the sound, as he had hoped, only froze in their tracks, which meant that they may continue the path after they were sure nothing was out there. He reached for another acorn and moved his hand back near the edge of cover.

  Finally, after what, to John Sanchez, had been an eternal thirty seconds, the guard that had been walking right towards him, pivoted and walked down hill three or four meters. The other guard didn’t move till the first one said, “C’mon.” They stopped again at about ten meters, now fifteen meters south west of Sanchez, still very close, and froze again.

  “It was probably just a snake.”

  “I hate snakes,” the chain-smoking guard said behind his raised weapon. The other guard put his hand on the barrel and pushed it down.

  “Don’t be an ass. Buddy will skin you alive if you go shooting up the damn forest with that gun.”

  “Buddy ain’t here.”

  “The sound carries. God you’re an idiot. C’mon, it was nothing.” The first guard turned and started back up the hill on an angle that would take him just past Sanchez as he made a V, back to his familiar path. Sanchez cursed himself for not moving further from the path, he should have expected the knuckleheads to return at some point. Now that they were both past him, he hoped that he didn’t leave any clues on the path that would show them that they had been followed. “Rance should get trained spooks to do this job with him,” he thought. “I’m out of my league.” He wasn’t, of course, Rance had recruited Sanchez precisely because of his particular intellect and skill set. Rance knew John would avoid violence if possible, that he was smarter than most of the people he would come in contact with, and, that if superior intellect didn’t work, he would at least be resourceful enough to hold his own in a fight. This time his tactic worked, but it also revealed some bad planning on his part.

  Sanchez slowly pivoted from his position of cover and watched the guards as they continued north toward his camp. The chain-smoking snake hater turned around regularly and walked a few steps backward, glancing back to where they had heard the noise. John stayed in cover until they were nearly out of sight and then made his way slowly behind them, straining to keep them in sight. He followed them for half a kilometer, making sure they were retracing their steps. Then he stopped, turned back, and carefully navigated his way to the fire road gate where the trucks had passed through. He scanned the rough gravel road in both directions from the locked gate, and then began walking west along the road. He decided to climb the northern face of the hill in case another convoy or scouts were on the road. From the higher perch he made slower progress, but was pretty well out of immediate visual range of someone driving a rig.

  After a kilometer of walking, he retrieved his GPR unit and began scanning the forest floor. He began picking up a signal at the two-kilometer point. He marked the spot with a twig that he snapped into a right angle on the top and shoved in the ground marking the southeastern corner of something underground. The signal stayed strong as he continued along the hill face. The forest was quiet for another fifty meters when he began hearing a murmur of voices. Sound could carry for miles down the valleys and hollers of the forest, but he was certain that he was heading in the direction of the sound. He climbed higher on the side of the hill and slowed his pace. The GPR unit was still flashing although the sound was off, so he didn’t announce his presence to whatever party he was approaching. He whispered to himself, “I’m John Garcia, a contractor from California visiting my cousin in Tennessee. I’m hunting Turkey... Easy,” he thought, “an idiot wandering around in a forest full of guys with automatic weapons, while hunting turkey - a turkey hunting turkey.”

  ----------

  Andy looked up for the first time in over two hours; he had to allow his mind time to catch up with his eyes. His face was blank and a part of him was still in the tick infested Daniel Boone National Forest with John Garcia, aka John Sanchez. The itch of chiggers on his skin felt more real than the sights and smells of the San Francisco coffee bar he was sitting in. He slowly brought a cold cup of coffee to his lips, the bitter taste of which shocked him quickly back in to reality. “Grrrh,” he shuddered. He clicked save on his document file and sat the computer down on a side table. Andy stood and hiked up his jeans before stepping to the quiet counter for a refill. Fifty cents later he was back in his chair sipping hot joe and wondering what was going to happen next in the story. He allowed his mind some time to re-boot while he enjoyed the atmosphere. When the mug was about half gone the story beckoned.

  ----------

  Sophia Garza entered the paddock just off the field at Churchill downs; from there she walked past the stables and along the fence till she reached the main track. James Rafferty was easy to spot in his white hat. The binoculars around his neck and cigar between his fingers made him look like an upscale reporter. Though he appeared to be standing alone, Sophia noticed several body guards stationed around him at various intervals, “he is nothing if not paranoid,” she thought. She had changed shoes after lunch and left the pearls in the car. She donned a windbreaker over her polo and pulled her hair back in to a ponytail and up through the top of a visor. With her oversized sunglasses she would have never passed for a top rate veterinarian as she sidled up to her boss. “What number we watching?” she asked.

  Rafferty glanced over at her and then focused back on the starting gate. “You’re late,” he said. She didn’t answer. “Number 4,” he said.

  After the race they walked over to the stable to check the horse up close. Sophia gave her opinion, which was strictly professional. Rafferty generally relied exclusively on his gut, and if he liked what he saw in the pasture or on the track he usually made a deal. In the occasional situation where he had a mixed opinion, he called in the doctor. With this animal, the mixed opinion had more to do with other things that were going on in his mind, than whether or not it was a quality horse. He patted the horse’s withers and
nodded absent mindedly as Sophia pointed out positive nuances in the horse’s physique.

  “Yeah, okay, good. Thanks,” Rafferty nodded at the trainer who led the horse away and continued the cool-down. “Let’s get back into the sun, huh?” he said and motioned for Sophia to follow him. They walked out from under the shaded stable and stood by a white four rail fence near the entrance to the paddock.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked.

  “It’s busy, I came as soon as I could.”

  “I called an hour ago, Jacy said you left this morning, right after we talked.”

  That left her a little cold. She hated sneaking around Rafferty, it seemed like he knew everything. “I left a little early, I guess.”

  “So...”

  “I had lunch in Louisville,” she admitted. His eyebrows rose a little which, to her, looked like a cagy father catching a child in a lie.

  “I have a life, James,” she announced.

  He smiled and raised both hands in defense, “What? I didn’t say anything.”

  “I know that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The look that says I need to run everything by you. I can’t always do that. I need...” He cut her off with an understanding, but stern, look.

  “Sophia, we’ve gone over all of this. I trust you—you know that. But as I have told you, there are a lot of people, even friends of ours, who would like nothing better than to see me fall hard. And they will use any and all means to accomplish that. I just don’t want to see you get stuck in the middle of something. That’s why I like to send someone with you, just to make sure you are safe,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. She tensed under his touch in a way she hoped escaped his notice.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head, looking at the dirt and rocks around her shoes. “It was Mr. Pena... We had lunch.”

  “There, was that so hard?” Rafferty smiled. “When did he call you, what did he say?”

  “I called him. It was my idea.”

  “I see,” Rafferty smiled, “Lucky man.” She tightened her lips and shook her head. “Let me ask you this,” he said, “Do you think Pena is on the level? I mean, I guess you must, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just trying to figure the guy out. He shows up one day and he says all the right things, and his story checks out…” Rafferty’s voice faded, something was just out of reach. “I don’t know, I guess I’m just a little paranoid,” he smiled.

  “He seems overwhelmed by all of this,” she said honestly. She felt like advising her boss to leave Michael Pena alone, but she wanted him to be around, she could picture having a relationship with him. If Rafferty cut ties, she would probably never see Pena again.

  “I didn’t really get the feeling that he was overwhelmed at all,” Rafferty challenged. “It almost seems like he’s a step ahead of me, if anything. He didn’t seem overwhelmed. Did he say something at lunch?”

  “No, not really. He was surprised that you invited him to your house on the spur of the moment. He said that kind of thing never happens to him,” Sophia said, then she added her two cents, “I think he’s just a regular guy, James. Just an honest, hard working man.”

  “Well he was sure in the right place at the right time, I’ll give him that much.” He realized that he needed to be careful around the young doctor. If she were falling for Pena she would defend him and try to protect him.

  Sophia turned to face her boss squarely, looking up slightly, squinting against the cool fall sunlight, “Look James, I like him, okay? I want to see him again and I plan to. Now, if you are not all right with that, then we might have a problem.”

  James put both hands up in self defense and smiled, “Hey, relax, we’re just talking here. And listen, for the record, I like the man too. I’m thinking of doing some business with him. So he might just be around more often, which, I’m guessing, would be okay with you, huh?” Rafferty felt like a co-father to Sophia, he loved her and her family as much as his own. He kept her just outside of his core business, which he was confident she knew nothing about, and trusted her and her father more than anyone else on the farm including his own wife. “Look, do you have a number handy? For Mr. Pena? I left his card at the ranch,” Rafferty lied, but wanted to know how far she’d gone with Pena.

  Sophia produced the cell phone number that Michael had given her expecting that it would wind up in the hands of Rafferty. Sophia turned and walked back to her car with a strut that was equal parts frustration that her life was forced to be such an open book and anger that she had no privacy. Rafferty watched her walk away wishing he were twenty years younger. He dialed Pena’s cell phone before Sophia was out of view.

  “Michael Pena,” came the answer on the second ring.

  “Michael. James Rafferty.”

  “Sir.” Pena/Broadback said instinctively.

  “I understand you had lunch with my veterinarian,” he said.

  “And a very pleasant one, thank you,” Michael said, suggesting to the older man that he thought Rafferty may have set it up.

  “Oh, I didn’t have anything to do with it, that was all Sophia. I think she likes you.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Listen Michael, I wanted to run a few ideas by you, business stuff. Could you come over to the track?”

  “Today?”

  “Yeah, right now, soon as you can.”

  “I’ll have to reschedule a few things, can you give me an hour?”

  “I’ll leave your name at Will Call, come on up to the suite,” Rafferty said.

  “I’ll be there in an hour or so,” Michael/Rance said and hung up the phone. He hoped Rafferty had decided to let him in to the business.

  “Ken, I’m telling you, this wasn’t a suicide. It was as professional as anything I’ve dealt with,” Detective in Charge (DIC) Ron Kramer explained to his boss.

  “Do you have anything hard that says murder?” Williams said, leaning back in his generous office chair and stretching his arms to the side. Ken Williams secretly thought of himself as Pat Riley, former coach of the Nicks. He would never admit it, but it was a running joke around the office. Same dark Gucci suits and slicked back hair, same courtside demeanor around the office. To him the coach was the perfect model of leadership, from look to style, which he adopted the first business day after he was named Assistant Director. His act was as thin as the pencil-sized neck that stuck out of the top of his starched white shirt.

  “Just a footnote on the autopsy. CSI tends to agree with me.”

  “So, give.”

  “Well, the doc says there would have been more blood at the surface of the mans face, due to the adrenaline and anxiety of, you know, putting a gun to your own head. You can’t do that without some kind of reaction, he says, extra blood flow. Adrenaline. So blood rushes to the cheeks and scalp immediately, sort of a protective mechanism. But with Hagin, everything was perfectly normal, like he was eating a bowl of Cheerios or taking a leisurely stroll. M.E. says he couldn’t have been that calm and, at the same time, take his own life.”

  “That’s pretty thin.” The A.D. in Charge of the D.C. Bureau field office only had a year of fieldwork when he was bumped inside to sit at a desk. After five years of kissing up and taking credit for things he knew little about, he wound up with his own command. For detectives, like Ron Kramer, A.D. Williams was like a zit on your ass, just something you wanted to avoid aggravating. Kramer didn’t think Williams was smart enough to understand the implications of the murder of a Senator, but chain-of-command dictated that he brief his superior officer during the investigation.

  “It was murder and from the looks of it, professional. Actually, it was even cleaner that a typical professional job. Maybe Dark Ops.”

  “That’s insane,” Williams blurted. “You jump over that fence and you’ll have Homeland Security and the CIA down here so fast it will make your head spin.”

  “I don’t want a pissing contest down he
re either, Ken, believe me. But this one is deep and dark, okay? We might need the help.”

  “Let me spell it out for you, Kramer. Do your damn job.” A.D. Williams said in no uncertain terms. “You’ve got 24 hours to come up with something solid. Or you’re off the case... A dark-op hit—have you lost your mind? That designation doesn’t even exist anymore, and if it did, you idiot, it certainly wouldn’t be deployed against one of our own assets.” Williams shook his head. “Twenty four hours, Kramer.” The Assistant Director was adamant about wrapping this case up in-house.

  “Glory hog,” Kramer thought as he walked the long corridor back out to the main reception area and passed through the revolving door. In the spacious courtyard he took a seat at the edge of a fountain and weighed his options. Number one, he had nothing but a footnote in an autopsy. Whoever had killed Senator Hagin had made it look like a perfect suicide. It was open and shut, as long as you ignore the fact that none of his acquaintances noticed any unusual behavior. Zero. The man demonstrated none of the classical signs that suggest he was thinking of punching out. His family seemed closer than most. His wife and kids had been supremely accommodating in the investigation. They were sure, certain beyond any doubt, that he would never take his own life. That was about all he had to go on—that and his gut, which was rarely mistaken. He needed fresh eyes. He scrolled through his cell phone database until he found a set that he knew were 20-20.

  “Jim? Ron Kramer.”

  “Hey Ron, what can I do for you?” Jim Tate said to his old boss.

  “Got time for coffee?”

  “Lou’s downtown?”

  “An hour?” Kramer asked.

  “See you there.”

  Kramer stood as Jim Tate approached the small booth. There were two coffee’s already poured and the one nearest Ron Kramer was surrounded by the liter of three empty sugar packets and two plastic creamer buckets. “I took the liberty,” Kramer said.

  Tate nodded and sat down after removing his topcoat and scanning the room, “So what’s the latest, Chief?”

  “It’s the Hagin thing. He was hit.”

  “Well, that was your first thought...” Jim led.

  Kramer nodded and leaned in to the table, he shielded his mouth from the rest of the patrons with his coffee mug, “Not just a hit, though, too clean. I think it was one of ours.”

  Tate didn’t respond. Kramer’s face was drained of emotion. He stirred his coffee blindly. Tate thought of the kid’s game where they line dominos up, one behind the other, and then tip the first one, which creates the chain reaction. In this business, when the front domino is marked with the words “dark ops,” one of two things would inevitably happen: Nothing, if you were lucky enough to be wrong. Or, the first domino would lead to another, a little higher up on the political food chain. And that one would lead to another, and another. Each level was more dangerous than the last. Both men had known others who had lost careers and worse by trying to pin cases on this invisible brotherhood that had been officially disbanded after Bush number one.

  “You have any idea who made the call?” Tate finally said. He wouldn’t question Kramer’s hunch. Kramer would never toss out a scenario like this unless every signal pointed there.

  “Not yet. But the only thing controversial about the guy was that legislation he was pushing, Senate AP365.”

  “The drug legalization deal?”

  “That Bill has people on both sides of the aisle up in arms. No less than six other Senators including the majority leader and the Speaker of the House tried to force him to back off, he just wouldn’t do it.”

  “You think someone in the Senate...”

  Kramer shook his head, looking down at his cup, “I don’t think they have the collateral, really, to make that call. But someone in their pocket, yeah.”

  “Whew,” Tate said, pushing his cup to the edge of the table for a warm-up as the server came by with the pot, “So, how can I help?”

  “Sound board, for one. I think I just needed to walk through this out loud in front of a fresh set of ears to hear how it played.”

  “Well, as far as that goes, it sounds to me like you’ve got the scent.”

  “Then,” Kramer continued, “I thought that if you had any connections, and I don’t need to know, but if you do, you could run this up the pole. I trust you Jim, but this might make both of us targets.”

  “I understand,” Tate said. “I can’t promise anything,” he told the detective, who was busy doctoring up his fresh Joe.

  “Sure. But let’s keep in touch, just the same. If anything were to happen to me, I would like to know there is someone out there who has a clue.”

  “Point taken,” Tate said and tipped his cup to the senior officer.

  Jim Tate left the diner after draining his second cup and called a number that he’d memorized for times like this. The call was picked up on the third ring.

  “Yeah,” Broadback said.

  “Good time?”

  “Any time is good for you, buddy. I’m in the car, so, yeah. What’s up?”

  “DIC says it was dark-ops. Got time to look in to it?”

  “I’ll make time. Thanks, Jim.” Rance hung up the cell phone and returned it to his pocket. General Madden was the only one with access to the very small list of contractors who, like Rance Broadback, had been used for dark-op missions. But that designation was dead and buried. And Rance was certain that the General would never sanction a hit on an elected official. Not unless the politician was a double agent, or committing some act of treason - even then, that wasn’t the General’s style. The General would send someone like Rance in to create an ambush on the evildoer, get them to fall into their own trap. He wouldn’t stoop to a lowbrow assassination. The old team would have balked at the order, anyway, having served their country in countless dangerous missions, patriotism ran high, and was required as a character trait. There was no room for an operative to have some kind of breakdown and become a liability. That was likely to happen when you began playing God and targeting your own people.

  Rance talked himself out of calling the General. The old man wouldn’t be involved, he was certain. That meant that the list, or part of it, had been compromised. Rance believed the names and numbers were securely locked in the head of General George Madden, but maybe he was wrong, maybe the old man had taken to writing things down. And maybe some of those names were intercepted. Maybe even his name.

  It was another 10 minutes before he parked in the VIP section and walked to Will Call. The Rafferty Suite was just like any other, from the outside. Inside it was similar to his house, palatial. A server escorted Rance through the dining room to the viewing area at the window where Mr. Rafferty was sitting with one other gentleman whom Rance recognized from a photo.

  “Sir,” the server said in an effort to gain Mr. Rafferty’s attention.

  “Yeah,” he said, turning, “Hey, Michael, you made it. C’mon down here, I have someone I want you to meet.” Pena/Broadback shook hands with James Rafferty and then with his guest.

  “This is Bill McCoy, good friend of mine from the eastern part of the state.”

  “Mr. McCoy,” Pena/Broadback said, nodding respectfully,

  “Buddy, please, just Buddy.”

  “Actually, it is Sheriff Buddy McCoy,” Rafferty corrected. “Buddy serves the rural county of Alta Loma, Kentucky, smack dab in the middle of the Daniel Boone National Forest. He is also the Chief Operations Officer with our little partnership.”

  “Well, it’s an honor to meet you.”

  “And, Buddy, this is the young man I’ve been telling you about. Michael Pena. He owns a trucking company and is interested in expanding. His niche is intermodal, container movement. Very interesting business.”

  “I don’t know how interesting it is,” Michael/Rance demurred.

  “Well, trust me, if you need something shipped, it is interesting.” Rafferty said.

  “I suppose so,” Pena said.

  “Listen
, have a seat. Let’s watch the next race.” Rafferty said. Buddy offered Pena/Broadback one of his giant cigars, which Pena declined. From his searing, beady black eyes and tough chin to his square shoulders and firm grip, Rance knew that Buddy McCoy was more than a redneck Sheriff—he was trouble. James sat and leaned forward in his chair, his binoculars in one hand and his race sheet in the other, while Buddy McCoy sat back and lit a cigar, putting his feet up on the rail.

  ----------

  Andy Boyd pulled himself away from the story. A glance at the menu bar of his computer told him two things; one, the battery on his iBook was about dead, having entered the dreaded ‘red-zone,’ and, two, he had written through lunch. He was a little self conscious about sitting in the coffee shop all morning, but an inspection of the dining room reminded him that he was not alone. So he repacked his laptop in to its case and stood to leave, first setting the bag down in his chair so he could get a good grip on the belt loops of his pants to pull them up in to walking position. He stopped at Martin’s on the way home to get a sandwich to go. He really didn’t want to stop and chat, he just needed some food for an evening of writing. Luckily, the Martin’s niece was working the store and Mr. Martin was nowhere to be seen.

  “Mr. Martin at the hospital?” Andy asked, not knowing if the girl would recognize him or not even though they’d seen each other at least a dozen times. She looked at him like he had tulips growing out of his ears.

  “Mr. Martin here?” he tried again.

  “He’s upstairs, he just went up there with my cousin. You want me to get him?” she invited.

  Andy thought about that for a second. He would like to chew a piece of the scrawny dope-head’s hide. On the other hand, he didn’t want to intrude in family business and he had a story to write which was getting interesting. The longer it sat percolating in his spacious cranium, the more likely it was that he would write it down wrong, or it would change. He didn’t want that, it was going too well. “No, I’ll just have a sandwich to go. Uh, make it a meatball marinara. Large,” he added. As she made the sandwich, Andy grew more certain that he didn’t want to jump back in to the middle of the Martin’s affairs, he had gone too far already, probably. He just wanted to get out of there and get back to his house. He tossed a ten-spot on the counter and told Martin’s niece to keep the change as he grabbed his bag and headed for the door. He wanted to not only get out of the deli but to get beyond visual contact as soon as his wide, flat feet could manage.

  “Listen Uncle Albert, I’ve been thinking about what you said, uh, the other day at my place... And I, uh, I’m real sorry for everything, you know?”

  “Sorry doesn’t really amount for much, does it?”

  “I know,” the young man looked at the ground. It was critical that he grovel properly in front of the old man in order to soften him up. “How’s Aunt Maria? She’s going to be okay, right?”

  “Not that you really care,” Mr. Martin said, arms folded across his chest. The old man’s lips were pursed tightly scrunching his bushy mustache under his nose in a way that made his mouth all but disappear.

  “Of course I care. That was a total accident. I would never hurt Aunt Maria.”

  “So you say. Your actions, however, speak differently... Did you call your father?” Mr. Martin had not told the boy or his father about the act of benevolence given to them by his good friend Andy Boyd. He would make certain that the boy was plenty sorry, first.

  “Uh, yeah. Of course...”

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “Is he going to help you? How are you going to get the money?”

  “He, uh. No. He basically said he’d done all he was going to do for me this time. He said I’m on my own on this one.”

  “I see. And, have you contacted the men you borrowed from?”

  “Hmmph,” he grunted, “No way.”

  “Do you think they’re just going to go away?”

  “No, of course not. I’m a big boy, it’s just that, well... That’s why I came over.”

  “What?”

  “I wanted to see if you’d loan me the dough. I’ll pay it back.”

  “You mean you’ve been sitting in that apartment for two days... Two days while the interest on your loan grows at $500 per day and that’s the best you’ve come up with?” Mr. Martin was nearly yelling he was getting so agitated, “Come over here and borrow money from me? After all you’ve done? What are you thinking? My God, Albert!”

  “Look, I don’t have a choice, you know?” Albert was crying. “I screwed up, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I’m an asshole. All right? But what’s done is done, right? And I’ve got to make this good or those guys are going to break my neck. I just know it. My friend says these guys play for keeps. You saw those guys, they’re insane!”

  “And yet you got in bed with them,” Mr. Martin said, not letting up on the wanna-be dealer. “Tell me, Albert, what happens after this? Huh? You pay these guys off, and you do your time in jail. What then? Have you thought about that?”

  “Sure I have.”

  “Well then?”

  “Well what?”

  “What are you going to do with your life? Is this how it’s going to be? Buying and selling drugs till you get shot or thrown in jail for life?

  “It’s not like that.”

  “You know everything, don’t you?”

  “Look, I came over here to apologize and to ask nicely, okay. Just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’, you know. You don’t have to rub my nose in everything like a damn dog.

  “Sit down, Albert. I want to tell you a story,” Mr. Martin said.

  Albert grudgingly pulled a maple chair with an orange and beige printed cushion away from the dinette and sat down. Mr. Martin stood leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms still folded across his chest. “I have a friend,” the old man began, “whom I have known for several years. He is not a dear friend, I don’t even know exactly where he lives, as a matter of fact. The truth is, I don’t know him nearly as well as I know you. But this week, as this friend watched what was happening in our home and to our family, he came close to my side,” Mr. Martin’s eyes were welling with moisture, doubly so as he saw the boy didn’t care. Albert just wanted the old man to get it out of his system and give him the money, or tell him no, just do something.

  “He came close to my side to help. Did he have to? Did someone hold a gun to his head? No. He is just a friend. And he tells me, ‘Mr. Martin, this is what friends do.’ And do you know what he does, Albert?” Mr. Martin hated to waste this act of kindness on a kid who could care less, he was crying now, tears running down his face and onto his apron. He took a dishtowel that was draped over the sink and wiped his eyes and puffy red cheeks. He cleared his throat and went on, “Do you know what this friend does? He comes to me and says, ‘Albert Martin, I will pay the debt,’” Mr. Martin stared hard at the boy, watching for a reaction. It took a minute to register.

  “Wait a minute,” Albert said, “this guy did what?”

  “He paid your debt.”

  “But he doesn’t even know me.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “But, why would he...”

  “Because he cares for your Aunt Maria and I.”

  “So, did he do it? Am I off the hook? What’s the deal?”

  “You are such a child, Albert. All you can think about is yourself while someone you don’t even know has saved your life.”

  “Hey, I appreciate it, I really do, but it’s not like the end of my problems or something. I’m still looking at time.”

  “And you will be a man and face it, pay for what you’ve done.”

  “So, this guy. Do I owe him now? Did he just buy the paper, or what?”

  “You owe him all right. And you should pay him back. But he said it was a gift. He told me you should be paying the doctor bills and paying to fix up what you broke in our home.”

  “I know, I know,” Albert said.

&n
bsp; “Some day you’ll understand all this, Albert, and when you do, I hope you show the respect that is due. You should go now.”

  Albert looked at his uncle, whose face was still red with disappointment, and left the apartment without another word.

  Mr. Martin waited a few minutes to regain composure, and then followed the boy back down in to the deli. Albert was gone but Mr. Martin’s niece had a message.

  “That big guy that’s always hanging around came in to see you,” she said. “He just got his food to go, said to tell you he’d stopped by.”

  “Did you see which way he went?” he asked. She shrugged with a look that said, ‘not my department.’

  Andy ate his sandwich on the sofa and watched the light grey afternoon turn in to a dark grey evening. He thought about what Mr. Martin might have been saying to the boy but whatever it was didn’t really matter. Andy had done what he needed to do; the rest was between the man and his nephew.