Wet Work

by Christopher Buckley

  Charley settled on McNamara and Bundy. Big Mac described himself as a hands-on kind of guy who had gotten very wet in Vietnam but who had drawn the line at eating Vietcong liver. "Something the folks in Psy Ops thought up," he explained to Charley. "The Vietcong, they believe that you have to be whole to enter heaven, so the idea was to take out the liver and bite a chunk out of it and leave it on the ground beside the body." He shrugged. "You want to know the honest truth, I was just never partial to liver in the first place." Bundy was a weapons specialist from Georgia, a sniper. His dossier was full of "CITATION CLASSIFIEDS" and he would not say what they had been for, other than to point at each and say, "Thousand meters, seven hundred meters in a crosswind, twelve hundred meters."

  A few days after Charley had made his selection, Felix, posing as an FBI agent, paid McNamara, Bundy and Rostow separate visits, asking them if they'd been approached by a Mr. Charles Becker in connection with certain criminal services. They each denied it and reported the contact to Charley. It was something Charley prided himself on, being able to get the measure of a man right.

  He heard the rumble of the engines through the fog and then saw the running lights, red and green, heading straight for the pier. Spook started swimming out to it. Charley told him to come back, stop being foolish, you can't fetch a whole boat.

  Felix was at the wheel, looking ragged from not having slept in two nights, carrying a limp body up a four-story walk-up and then driving the other from Manhattan to Cambridge, Maryland. Ramirez was in a crate marked "Frozen Turkeys-Perishable." Spook came running down the pier, wet, and started barking at the crate as though it contained a year's supply of Purina Dog Chow. McNamara and Bundy, being the two largest, did most of the carrying as the procession moved by flashlight down the pier and along the shore and up the path that cut through the honey locust to the clearing of heather and moss where Charley, over Felix's strange objections, had decided he was going to put his garden. Sure enough, he started in as soon as they'd set the box down, none too gently.

  "Boss," he said, "I wish we wouldn't put them here."

  "Felix, we been over that."

  "She had a special feeling about this place."

  Charley said, "You remember that walrus tusk?" It was one summer he took Conquistador up to New England. They were in Nantucket and she found a walrus tusk in a shop; it had a hole drilled through the tip and a leather thong looped through it. She had the sweet arrogance of youth; was appalled to find a walrus tusk for sale in a store. She asked the owner what the hole and thong were for, and he said they'd used the tusk to club baby seals to death and the thong was just so they could hang the club on a nail in the wall after they were done killing the baby seals. That did it. She made Charley buy the thing-$500 worth of walrus molar-and scoured the town until she found a scrimshander to scratch "Save the Seals" all over it, and while he was at it, "No Nukes," and "Arms are for loving," and other slogans that made Charley groan to pay for.

  "Yeah," said Felix. "So?"

  "She said it was to get the 'negative energy' out of it. That's just what we're doing here. Getting the negative energy out."

  "No no," said Felix, "you're putting negative energy in. This is a special place and you're filling it up with drug dealers."

  "Think of them as fertilizer," said Charley. "I'm thinking of planting-it's too shady for roses. Maybe some ferns and wildflowers. Those meadow anemones she liked. Maybe some wild columbine. That's hardy. Lady slipper, blue lobelia." Felix was looking more and more like a basset hound, but it was something he could not explain, there was just no way he could explain it.

  McNamara and Bundy dug and said they hadn't done any digging since the early seventies and wanted to know if there was Ben-Gay, because they were going to need it tomorrow. Charley kept looking over at Rostow, but he wasn't going to say anything yet. Spook kept barking at the crate. When the hole was deep enough they opened it up and tossed Ramirez in and shoveled it over. They all stood around for a moment wondering if Charley was going to call a priest on the cordless and ask him to say a few words.

  Back in the cabin Charley waited until they'd settled in with beers by the fire. He took the New York Times clipping out of his pocket and put it on the coffee table. The men stared at it. Charley said, "All right, who did it?"

  It was obvious. A CIA polygrapher had told Charley once you could usually tell if a man was lying if he looked up and wiggled his eyes.

  "Rostow," said Charley. Rostow picked up the clipping and read it and put it down.

  "A little collateral damage is inevitable," he said. The others nodded. So they were all in on it. Well, goddamnit.

  "Collateral damage?" said Charley. "Hold on just a moment here. He was walking away and, and you shot the sumbitch!"

  Rostow said, "Mac and Bundy and I agreed that a no-witness policy made sense." McNamara and Bundy nodded.

  "Agreed? Who the hell are you, the board of trustees?" Bundy started flipping through Colonial Homes, Mac looking over his shoulder. During the Ramirez planning session the two of them had gotten into an argument over whether kilims went with Saltillo tiles. It occurred to him that he-rather, the late Mr. Luis-was the victim of the incentive package he'd put together. In addition to the million dollars-and the medical, the stock options-they'd each receive a CPI-adjusted yearly bonus of $100,000 for the rest of their lives, as long as the operation remained secret. It was meant to encourage mutual enforcing. If one of them said anything, the other two were likely to look him up and express their unhappiness over the loss of their retirement package.

  "Well, damnit," said Charley, it being about all he could say.

  Rostow said, "There wasn't time to get him a priest, but I did him in front of the church there. You must get some credit for dying in front of a church, right?"

  "Right," said Mac helpfully, looking up from Colonial Homes.

  11

  "Book me five suites at the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables," said Charley, charging out of the elevator from the rooftop chopper pad at his old velocity. He was still in his hunting clothes, tracking dust from dried mud. These hunting trips were certainly restorative, she thought; he no longer looked the broken man he was at the funeral. "For tonight," he said, peeling off his jacket and tossing it onto the sofa. He left a trail of clothes on the way to the shower, an old habit from his days on the shrimp boats along the Gulf coast. Margaret used to give him hell for it. Miss Farrell picked up his jacket. There was something on the sleeve.

  "Tonight," she said absently, studying the stain. Charley took quick showers. He was on his way to his desk in the oversize terry bathrobe when Miss Farrell's assistant's voice said on the boom box in a worried tone, "Sir, there are two men here from the FBI to see you."

  Miss Farrell looked at the jacket she was holding and folded it to her breast. There was a back way out of Charley's office; she headed for it. On her way out she heard Charley say, "Send 'em in. And can we have some coffee, please?"

  They were in there twenty minutes. Miss Farrell couldn't concentrate. When the door finally opened, she looked up, stricken. She heard Charley say, "And the politician says to the Devil, 'What's the catch?'" The FBI men laughed. Charley followed them out. He shook their hands and said, "I'm sorry to cause you all this trouble."

  "What was that about?" she asked.

  "Oh," said Charley, "I strayed a little too close to Andrews on the way back from the island. Air Force Two was on final and, well, it's nothing, really, just… You know," he said, chuckling, "I used to let Tasha handle the controls sometimes and the same thing happened, we just kissed the inside of the Restricted Airspace and all hell broke loose. They scrambled an F-4, buzzed us, nearly knocked us down. Damn near wet my pants. Course, she thought it was the greatest thing ever happened. Tell Chuck to have Forty-nine ninety fueled for Miami with a five o'clock wheels-up. Now what do I have for today?"

  "What's going on in Miami?" Miss Farrell asked.

  "Office been swept this month?" They'd fo
und a listening device in the sofa a few years ago after a visit by a man representing Futaki DSM Corporation. Charley left it there so he could feed it disinformation about Becker Industries' progress with SmartPlastics, until Futaki was convinced BI was a year behind schedule.

  "Yes," said Miss Farrell.

  Charley whispered, "Eastern Airlines."

  Miss Farrell arched her eyebrows in appreciation, though on reflection she wondered why on earth Charley would want to acquire such a headache at this, well, stage in his life. "Do you want me down there with you?"

  "I would very much," he sighed, "but Lorenzo is just paranoid about leaks. What's left of it, it's his company, so I have to play by his rules."

  "Who's going?"

  "Me and Felix. Plus some people from M and A." Mergers and Acquisitions.

  She could feel his eyes following her as she walked out. He said, "Jeannie?"

  "Yes, Charley?"

  "Are you seeing anyone? I don't mean to pry. I just-"

  "No."

  "Well," he said, pleased, "perhaps when I get back you'd care to come out to the farm. As a guest, I mean."

  She sent the clothes to be cleaned. The jacket she took home and soaked in lighter fluid and burned.

  Felix, Rostow, McNamara and Bundy were waiting for him on the tarmac at Opa-Locka when the G-4 whined to a full stop Charley stepped out into the warm Miami night and reflected that Miami was one of few places where there was nothing unusual about a private jet being met by four large men with armpit bulges. He rode in front with Felix, another habit that drove Margaret nuts.

  "How's it look?"

  "It looks like it's not going to be easy," said Felix.

  "Well, we're working our way up the food chain," said Charley. "The fish are getting bigger. What about the hotel?"

  "It's nice. Which's good, because I have a feeling we're going to be here for a long time."

  The Biltmore was a grand affair, built in the twenties at the height of the Florida land boom and subsequently vexed by the worst hurricane in the state's history and the stock market crash. Since then it had served a variety of inglorious functions, such as military housing, until finally the city of Coral Gables bought it-rather than watch it slide further into desuetude-pouring fifty million into it to restore it to its quondam Jazz Age splendor. Architecturally it was a tad difficult to pin down, and right away McNamara and Bundy fell to arguing over what was Mediterranean versus Moorish, Spanish Revival or Beaux Arts or Gothic Renaissance. Listening to them while he checked in, Charley was certain of one thing, anyway: no one would mistake them for a couple of hired killers.

  He had sandwiches and coffee sent up to the Everglades Suite. "All right," he said, "what's the plan?" No one spoke up. "What's the matter?" said Charley. The sandwiches were on a platter. Mac reached for an olive and held it up to his eye and peered through the hole.

  "Don't," said Bundy. "Don't do that."

  Chin's beeper had gone off during the interrogation and right away it was clear he was more terrified by the prospect of not returning his boss's phone call than by these men who had plucked him somewhat roughly off the street, and in a way the reason had to do with olives.

  The late Antonio Chin's boss was Jesus Celaya Barazo, the purpose of their stay in Coral Gables. For years he had been importing a thousand kilos of cocaine-one metric ton-each week from the Reynaldo Cabrera family of Medellin. Then, suddenly, Barazo announced he had found a new supplier and would no longer accept shipments from Cabrera. Since the loss to Cabrera's organization amounted to about $15 million a week-as well as his invaluable contacts in the Bahamian Defense Force-he sent three of his people to Miami to persuade Barazo to continue to buy his product. Two days later Cabrera received a parcel delivered by Federal Express, packed in dry ice-for a small additional charge. The box contained six eyeballs, each run through with one of those miniature plastic swords used to enliven canapés. Cabrera was himself no stranger to these kinds of interoffice memoranda; his own business protocol included slicing a man's throat open to his sternum and pulling his tongue out through it, the so-called "Colombian necktie," throwing men alive into pits full of tusked wild pigs and sundry other entertaining ways of inculcating in employees a sense of company loyalty. Nonetheless, Cabrera elected to cut his losses and seek alternate wholesale arrangements in the Sunshine State.

  Barazo lived inside a walled compound in South Miami, at the corner of Southwest Sixty-fourth Street and Seventy-fifth Avenue. Not for him the glamour of a Key Biscayne or Coral Gables address, and just as well, since there were two federal warrants on him outstanding, which together could put him back in Danbury. Charley was somewhat surprised, if grateful, that a man with such legal difficulties should be living here under everyone's nose, but as they say, capital goes where it's well treated. Chin said the ground behind the wall was mined and beyond that were a half dozen Rottweiler dogs Barazo kept half starved so they'd stay mean. He fed them the remains of whatever animals he sacrificed to his Santen'a deities. And they say ours is a faithless age.

  "I borrowed a gas company uniform and showed up at his gate," said Rostow. "This golf cart comes humming up with two guys with MACs. They pointed them at me. They said they didn't want the meter read."

  "He's spooked," said Felix. "Ramirez, Uguarte, Sandoval, Chin. His people are disappearing. He probably thinks it's Cabrera finally getting some payback. He's not going to come out and play."

  "Then we'll just have to go in there and get him," said Charley.

  "In what, a tank?"

  "We could blow him to DEA," said Rostow. "Apparently even Miami-Dade doesn't know he's here. The house is in someone else's name."

  "What the hell good would that do us?"

  "He might make bail. We could make our move while he's on his way back to the house."

  "What if he doesn't make bail?"

  "Then he's out of circulation. Having him whacked on the inside, hell, that's easy. And cheap."

  "Then what? The trail goes cold. Come on now, boys, we can do better. I know it's tough, but you've been doing a fine job and I know we can do this."

  Bundy said, "There's a tree line across the street from him, casuarinas, some are pretty tall."

  "Go on."

  "He has a pool. Chin said that's where he gets his exercise. I could get up there with a.308 and shoot him in the nuts while he was doing the backstroke, then we could get him in the hospital while he was having them sewn back on."

  Charley thought about it. He nodded. "That's a possibility. But what if you missed? You might hit an artery or something. He might bleed to death."

  Bundy looked at Charley. "Sir," he said quietly, "I do not 'miss.'"

  "I'm sure you wouldn't, son, but it's, I don't know, it's messy."

  Rostow spoke up. "Why don't we let him chill out for a while. Six months, whatever, let him get his confidence back. We could make it look like Chin just ran off on him, so he wouldn't think it was Cabrera."

  "Six months?" Charley snorted. "That's not how I do business."

  "I know. We Arc Light him," said McNamara.

  "We what?"

  "B-52s. That stuff you were telling us about they use on the space shuttle? HMQ?"

  "X, HMX."

  "Why don't we chopper over him at night and drop some on him."

  "I'm not sure we're quite there yet, Mac," said Charley. "Boys, I think we're losing sight of something here. Barazo isn't the end of the chain. We got a whole other continent to deal with after we get done with him. Let's keep that in mind, all right?"

  Felix said, "There's something we might as well look at now."

  "Well?"

  "This is a guy who puts toothpicks through people's eyeballs. Once we get him, how are you going to make him talk?"

  "Damnit, McNamara, will you put down that magazine? You can design your damn dream house on your own dime." It was frustrating. "Felix," he said, "put on that tape of Chin. Now let's listen close, everyone. There's got to be a way. There
's always a way."

  12

  "Whaddya got?"

  "A cold," said Diatri. "I still got this cold, it won't go away."

  "Yeah? That's too bad. On the Raid Jacket case, you got anything?"

  "That's what I'm saying. This cold. That's what I got on the Raid Jacket case. I got it standing in the rain. You ever been out to Potter's Field? It's out on Hart Island. Let me tell you, this is a sad place. All those bodies that no one wants. And these City yo-yos they got doing the burying. They don't exactly lower you in. They just tossed this guy in. I mean, I thought the box was going to split open."

  "Tossed who in, Frank?"

  "Luis, Jim. The guy in the Raid Jacket case. That 'hot' case you gave me?"

  "Right, right."

  Diatri blew his nose. "Two weeks I've been sucking on zinc tablets. I thought maybe someone would show up at the guy's funeral. No one. So the guy's a scumbag, but scumbags have family-friends, even. You'd think someone would have showed up at his funeral. You want to know the truth, Jim, it was almost sad. I mean, if no one shows up to watch them bury you, it's like you never existed, right?"