Blood-Stained Kings

by Tim Willocks

  FIFTEEN

  RUFUS ATWATER sat in Filmore Faroe’s study and yearned to light up a Kool without finding the courage to ask if he could. Opposite him, Faroe sat behind the leather-topped desk and stared at him with lizard eyes.

  While Atwater had gone to the Stone House and made the bowel-loosening trip back with his cargo of drugs, corpses and bad news, Faroe had changed his appearance. The disheveled wreck with gray hair plastered across his cheeks that Atwater had left on the steps was now dressed in a gray suit and blue silk necktie. Faroe had also shaved his head as bald as a stone and looked as menacing as anyone Atwater had ever seen. This effect was enhanced by the presence of the Cuban, Roberto Herrera, standing in the shadows behind Faroe’s right shoulder. Occasionally Faroe would say something to Herrera in rapid Spanish and Herrera would nod without speaking, and Atwater would feel even more worthless and out of his depth. Faroe was putting the vise grips on him: the spic cocksucker could speak English. Atwater was wet and miserable. Jack Seed, whom Atwater now missed and loathed in equal measure, was wrapped in a sheet in the Dodge Tradesman panel van with half his skull missing and his dick and balls chewed off. But there was no going back. Icing Bobby Frechette had been a turning point. When Atwater had gone through that door blasting, he’d changed forever. He was no longer a prosecutor: he was a killer. Wet and miserable or not, he’d best start acting like one.

  Atwater had told Faroe all he knew, about Parillaud, about Jefferson and about the investigation that had led to them springing Faroe from the Stone House. Almost as an afterthought, and for the sake of completeness, he told him about Dr. Grimes. Faroe had employed Jefferson years back and the idea of the hidden stash that Parillaud and the other parties were looking for had set him thinking. He’d now been pondering in silence for what felt like an hour. No one had interrupted and Atwater had decided it wasn’t going to be him.

  Finally, Faroe half turned his head toward Herrera and uttered what sounded like instructions, again in Spanish. Herrera listened carefully—his lean features were shrewd, Atwater conceded, maybe even intelligent—then saluted—saluted, for Chrissakes—and left the room with a crisp, military gait. When the door closed behind him Faroe rubbed a hand over his smooth white scalp and looked at Atwater.

  “Don’t be disturbed by Colonel Herrera,” said Faroe. “His interests in no way conflict with your own. This is a team effort.”

  Atwater let his breath out in what he hoped didn’t sound like relief. So he wasn’t going to be buried somewhere on the plantation with Jack. He was still needed. He was still a part of the team. His confidence started to return.

  “I didn’t know he was a colonel, Mr. Faroe,” he said.

  “Cuban air force. He defected with one of their MiGs. Our government was grateful, but not as grateful as Colonel Herrera would have liked. He understands that I shall not be nearly so niggardly.”

  “Whichever way he swings, you can count on me,” said Atwater.

  “It’s important you know what’s at stake here, Mr. Atwater. My return here is a more delicate endeavor than you might think. It will take time for me to reacquaint myself. I am, after all, dead. But that state is not without its advantages, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  Atwater could only imagine this in the vaguest possible terms but he wanted to let Faroe know that he was with the program. “Absolutely,” he said.

  “Fundamental to the successful outcome of my return is that we get Magdalena back alive. Do you understand that?”

  Atwater’s mind floundered. “I think so, sir,” he said.

  “You are a prosecuting attorney, I’ve no doubt a very expert one. I’m sure you could list much more readily than I can the crimes Magdalena has committed, and of which I am the principal victim.”

  Now Atwater caught on. He nodded and smiled.

  “I think she’d be looking at some hard time.”

  “I’m sure, also, that it could be arranged so that she would never come to trial at all,” said Faroe. “Suicide in prison isn’t uncommon, after all.”

  “It happens, sure,” said Atwater.

  “I don’t want to be seen in the public eye right now. If we have Magdalena I can prepare my affairs at leisure. Then my escape from the Stone House can be reconstructed at a convenient date.”

  Atwater raised one eyebrow. “So that’s why you want the Jessups kept in the freezer.”

  Faroe nodded. “This breathing space—as a dead man—is even more important now that we are so close to Captain Jefferson’s legacy. You are clearly a man of considerable intelligence, Mr. Atwater. You can probably imagine as well as I can the kind of material he might have put away. But you cannot imagine the use to which I will be able to put it.”

  Atwater had admitted it to himself long ago. It seemed politic to do so in front of his new master. “You’re right about that, sir. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “It will more than simply smooth my return to the arena; it will give me more leverage than any other figure, elected or otherwise, in the whole state. Perhaps even in the South.”

  “We’ve been searching for that stash for months,” said Atwater. “I don’t know that we’re as close to it as you’d like. Or to finding Miss Parillaud either, come to that. Even when all the law enforcement agencies work together, a manhunt’s as much about luck as anything else.”

  “Most luck stems from someone else’s mistake,” said Faroe. “It’s clear that Dr. Grimes was plunged into this affair unprepared. The chances are huge that he’s made a mistake.”

  “Grimes?” said Atwater, puzzled. “Where does he fit in?”

  “Are you familiar with Occam’s razor?” asked Faroe.

  “I’m afraid I’m not,” replied Atwater.

  “It’s a medieval scholastic stratagem for solving problems of causality. It states that when there is a choice between, on the one hand, a single plausible reason for a phenomenon and, on the other, several separate reasons, equally plausible when taken together but related only by their common synergistic outcome, then the correct solution is most likely to be found in the one rather than the several.”

  This sort of bullshit took Atwater back to law school. He could follow it.

  “What you mean is that Grimes must be the key to both Miss Paril-laud’s escape and to Jefferson’s stash.”

  “Very good. You know where Grimes lives?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Atwater.

  “Go and search his home, his office, whatever. Find me something.”

  “I’ve already got two men watching his father. Name of George. Grimes saw him last night, seems they had some kind of fight.”

  “You see? You’d already worked all this out for yourself,” said Faroe.

  Atwater had a suspicion that this was a roundabout way of calling him an asshole. Okay. He’d show Faroe he needed more than a bunch of spic pilots to help him out. Then he’d be due some loyalty payments of his own. Atwater stood up.

  “I’ll get on to it,” said Atwater.

  “No police,” said Faroe. “Not until I’m ready.”

  “Of course,” said Atwater.

  He was irritated enough to ask the question that had bugged him all night.

  “You’ll have to forgive my curiosity, but I must ask. Why did Miss Parillaud keep you locked up in that place?”

  “It is to your curiosity that I owe my freedom, Mr. Atwater,” said Faroe. “And so I do forgive it.” He leaned forward and his voice dropped half an octave. “But if you ever ask that question again, of me or of anyone else, our relationship will be terminated as abruptly as I am able to bring it about.”

  Atwater said, “I guess that’s all I needed to know.”

  He turned and walked to the door, his hand already reaching into his pocket for his Kools, but something still didn’t sit right in his gut. He was working for Faroe, no question, but he didn’t like being made to feel like an errand boy. As he opened the door he turned.

  “Where did Herrera g
o, Mr. Faroe?” said Atwater. “I think I should be told.”

  “The Colonel will provide the brawn to your brains,” said Faroe. “He’s gone to procure essential equipment and more men.”

  “Equipment?” said Atwater.

  “I’ve authorized him to assemble whatever firepower he thinks necessary,” said Faroe. “Including a helicopter.”

  For some reason this, more than anything, made Atwater realize just how heavy was the shit he was getting into. Then he saw Faroe’s lizard eyes boring into him. He didn’t want Faroe to think he was having second thoughts. Atwater held the lizard eyes and smiled what he thought of as his Clarence Jefferson smile.

  “A helicopter sounds like just what the doctor ordered.”

  After all, someone had to take the Captain’s place now that he was gone.

  Rufus Atwater left the room and fired up a Kool and went to nail

  Cicero Grimes.

  SIXTEEN

  IT WAS DAWN when they hit the outskirts of Baton Rouge and swung northwest toward Ryan Airport. Grimes felt light-headed. He was so tired he was no longer able to summon up much of a sense of urgency for the miles they had to cover, but he was putting his body through the motions. They were moving. He was starving too. He needed coffee and hotcakes. He assumed that Lenna, sitting beside him with circles under her eyes, felt the same way. She, at least, had managed to sleep a good part of the way.

  “You want to stop, get something to eat?” said Grimes.

  Lenna shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”

  Grimes lit a cigarette instead. It tasted pretty bad. A few minutes later he saw the exit for the airport and took it. Lenna glanced over the back of her seat at Gul.

  “Does this mean we’re leaving your new friend behind?” she said.

  “You must be kidding,” said Grimes. “You think I could handle any of this on my own? We’re going to hire ourselves a plane.”

  “Have you got the cash?” asked Lenna.

  “No. You haven’t carried cash in years, right?”

  “Right. Yesterday I could’ve bought the airline.”

  Grimes pulled into the parking lot.

  He said, “Maybe flying with the tourists will be an experience for you.”

  He slotted the car into a space and Lenna got out and shut the door. Grimes turned to look at Gul, who had raised his head from the back seat and was looking at him as if to say, “Where’s the action?” Grimes opened his door and Gul reared up on all fours, his bulk slamming into the roof.

  “Okay, asshole,” said Grimes. “Let’s go and find us some dough.”

  Grimes got out and Gul clambered after him. They walked over to the terminal. As the electric doors swished shut behind them Grimes spotted their first problem. A security guard was waddling toward them, the type who had taken the job just so he could tell people they couldn’t smoke or walk around in bare feet. His eyes were fixed on Gul. Grimes felt the vibration of a low growl by his leg. He spoke quietly without looking downward.

  “I’d like to kill him too, pal, but we’ve got to stay cool. Cool. Remember this motto: Cool Breeze, Silent Death.”

  It seemed to work. The vibration disappeared. Grimes gave the security guard a false smile. The guard didn’t smile back.

  “I’m afraid you can’t bring your dog in here, sir,” said the guard.

  “I don’t own a dog,” said Grimes.

  The guard seemed stunned by the baldness of this disclaimer. He stared at Gul, who stared back. Grimes hoped that the guard didn’t maintain the eye contact for longer than was wise. The guard sensed this and looked back at Grimes.

  “You brought the dog in with you, sir,” said the guard. “I saw you. Now I must ask you to remove him from the building.”

  Grimes felt all the pissed-off-ness that he’d been keeping under control rise up in his thorax.

  “Listen, sporto,” said Grimes. “My wife and I,” he inclined his head toward Lenna, “parked our car in your lot and walked in here with the intention of conducting some business at the American desk over there. This fine animal followed us through the doors of his own accord. All I can say is he has done us no harm. You, on the other hand, are getting on my tits. If you want to get rid of him that’s your business, go ahead and try, but don’t ask me to do your job. Now, earn your fucking pay and get out of my face.”

  By this time the guard’s cheeks were bright red. He didn’t step any closer but his hands made a vague gesture in Gul’s direction. Gul showed the guard a narrow wedge of fangs and let him have the low-pitched bowel-trembler. The guard’s hand drifted reflexively toward the revolver clipped into a belt holster. Gul’s hips dropped and his shoulders bunched.

  “If I was going to reach for that gun,” said Grimes, “I’d make sure I had a decent hand surgeon nearby.”

  The guard diverted the hand from his waist to his face, which had turned from red to white in a matter of seconds. He rubbed his jaw.

  “Look, friend,” said Grimes. “This is none of my business, as I say, but as a neutral observer it seems to me that if you let this creature go his way he’ll let you go yours, and we can all get on with our lives.”

  With that Grimes smiled and walked past the guard toward the American Airlines desk. Lenna and Gul came with him. The guard was left stranded on a plinth of humiliation and indecision. Behind the ticket counter sat a woman with a badge pinned to her blouse that identified her as Jeannie.

  “Good morning, sir. How can I help you?” said Jeannie.

  “Hi,” said Grimes. “I’d like a cash refund on this ticket, please.”

  Grimes took the ticket Jefferson had sent him from his pocket and handed it to Jeannie. He took out his driver’s license and handed her that too.

  “My ID,” he said.

  Jeannie studied the ticket. Her brow furrowed.

  “This is over four thousand dollars,” said Jeannie.

  “When your company sold the ticket you were happy enough to take the money—in cash you’ll notice. Now, I’d like my money back. If there’s a percentage to pay for the cancellation then by all means deduct it.”

  “We can make the refund, sir, but we’ll have to mail you the balance by check.” Jeannie, sensing that this wasn’t going to please him, smiled her trained smile.

  Grimes smiled back. “I know you don’t make these policies and you are just doing your job, so I don’t want to argue with you,” said Grimes. “Please get me your supervisor.”

  Jeannie thought about this and decided it was a good idea. She picked up a phone and dialed. Grimes turned his back to the desk while they waited.

  “So this is life in the real world,” said Lenna.

  “Yup,” said Grimes. He nodded toward the dog. “I guess it’s all new to him, too.”

  Gul lay on the floor surveying his surroundings with contemptuous indifference. In the distance the security guard was engaged in an intense conversation with a colleague, who was looking across in their direction. The supervisor arrived and introduced himself as Russell Beakes, a portly fellow with the air of self-importance appropriate to a minor corporate bureaucrat.

  “I’m afraid our operative has informed you correctly, Dr. Grimes,” said Beakes. “You are entitled to your refund but you’ll have to go through the regular channels.”

  “I want my money,” said Grimes.

  “I don’t think you understand,” said Beakes.

  Grimes said, “Do you have the authority to give me my money or not, and if not who does?”

  “I could, in principle, authorize …” began Beakes.

  “Then do it.”

  “It would be most irregular to issue a cash refund for such an amount. I’m sure you’ll …”

  “I want my money,” said Grimes.

  Beakes licked his lips and glanced into the distance over Grimes’s shoulder, Grimes presumed toward the security guards. It occurred to Grimes to brandish the gun from his pocket and steal his money back. Gul, he was confident, could take out the
two guards. Lenna interrupted this train of thought by reaching across the desk and picking up the telephone. She smiled at Russell Beakes.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Do you know the name of the president of your company, Mr. Beakes?”

  “Naturally. Mr. Stephen J. Cochrane.” Beakes looked bewildered.

  To Jeannie, Lenna said, “Can I get long distance on this?”

  Jeannie, wide eyed, nodded. Lenna started to punch in a number.

  “I own a six percent shareholding in American, Mr. Beakes. Steve and I ski together every winter in Vail. That’s in Colorado.”

  She finished dialing and listened. Beakes’s hands fluttered. He looked at Grimes for help.

  “Steve won’t mind getting out of bed on a Saturday morning to authorize this transaction,” said Lenna, “but you might have difficulty finding yourself another job.”

  Beakes’s fluttering hands reached out and extracted the receiver from Lenna’s grip as if it were an unexploded bomb. He placed it down with a sickly smile.

  “If you don’t mind waiting a few moments,” said Beakes, “the doctor will have his money.”

  Beakes disappeared and Lenna turned to Grimes.

  “Maybe I should get out more often.”

  Minutes later, with his pocket padded out with currency, Grimes felt better. He thanked Beakes and Jeannie and bent down to Gul and looked him in the eye.

  “Stay,” said Grimes.

  Gul blinked. Grimes and Lenna walked across the concourse toward the exit. On the way they passed the two security guards, their faces now twitching.

  “It’s only a goddamn dog,” Grimes overheard one say.

  “You didn’t see its eyes,” said the other.

  Grimes nodded to them. “Have a nice day.”

  At the exit doors Grimes stopped and turned. Behind the American desk Russell Beakes was waving his arms at the security guards while peering over the counter at Gul. Gul hadn’t budged but his gaze was fixed on Grimes. Grimes nodded and slapped his thigh.

  Gul came straight across the concourse in a disdainful, broad-shouldered lope. In the Stone House Grimes had seen him move at three times the speed, but the lope was fast just the same. The security guards staggered backward out of Gul’s path. When he arrived Grimes opened his arms and Gul went up on his hind legs and threw his paws on his shoulders. Grimes just managed not to fall over backward. He rubbed Gul’s flanks.