Sympathy For the Devil

by Terrence McCauley

  Hicks killed the connection before Russo could argue or waste more time asking a lot of damned fool questions.

  Russo was out on his walkway less than ten seconds later. He was still wearing the same clothes from the night before and hadn’t shaved, either. Hicks unlocked the doors and let Russo inside.

  Russo dropped the bag on the seat and forgot to close the passenger door as he kneeled on the passenger seat and reached for his son. “Junior,” he wept as tears ran from his eyes. “Junior, it’s daddy. It’s me. I’m here.”

  Hicks grabbed Russo by the collar and pulled him down into the seat. “Close the door and keep your mouth shut.”

  Tears streaked down Russo’s face as he did as he was told. He pulled the door closed and craned his neck to look back at his son. “I’m grateful to you for this. So grateful. You’ll see. I’ll…”

  “Open the bag and let me see the money.”

  Russo’s hands trembled as he got hold of the bag—a regular laundry bag—and opened it. He pawed through it and, via a quick count; it looked like all hundred thousand was there.

  “You see? It’s all right there, just like I told you it would be. Every penny. A hundred grand just like you wanted. And I promise, now that I have him back, I’ll never let him do anything like this again. You’ve brought him back to me, and I’m so grateful that...”

  Hicks scanned the street for anyone who was looking at the car. But as busy as the street was with mommies and daddies and nannies, no one was at this end of the cul-du-sac. That was good. “Put the bag in the back seat and take a good look at your boy.”

  Russo did as he was told. He reached back and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Wake up, son. Wake up and let’s get well. Let’s get you inside where you belong.”

  “The only one who’s going home is you,” Hicks said. “Because he’s coming with me.”

  This time, Hicks didn’t have to push Russo into the seat. He fell back on his own. “What… what are you talking about? You said… you promised that…”

  Hicks drew the Ruger and jammed it into the side of Russo’s neck; pushing him against the passenger side window at an awkward angle. “I told you I’d get your boy back and that’s exactly what I did. But I’m not going to let you have him because you don’t know how to handle him. You don’t have the balls to make sure he gets clean and I mean all the way clean. So I’m putting him in a facility where he won’t have any choice but to straighten out. After ninety days, your boy will come back clean, sober, and refocused.”

  “But you can’t do this to me,” Russo wept. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because this isn’t some after school special, asshole. I need you focused on the shit I need done and I can’t have you worrying about this spoiled little bastard falling off the wagon in another three weeks.” He pressed the barrel a little harder against Russo’s neck. “So if you have any objection, tell me now, and I’ll kill you both right here because you’re no good to me if you’re worrying about him. Understand?”

  Russo nodded slowly that he did, just as the tears began to fall again. “I do. I guess it’s the right…”

  Then, Hicks jammed the barrel of the Ruger against Russo’s neck until the money man gagged. “And if you ever try to strong-arm me or hold out on me again, I’m going to be really disappointed. So disappointed, in fact, I’m going to take it out on him. I’ll even make you watch before I hurt you even worse. Do you understand me?”

  Russo nodded as best he could before Hicks pushed him out of the car. He almost tumbled out into his driveway, but he somehow managed to keep his footing.

  Hicks pulled the door shut and pulled away from the curb. As he drove away, he saw Russo in his rearview mirror; looking lost in front of his own house while he watched a total stranger drive away with his son.

  The same stranger he’d asked to rescue his son only a few hours before.

  The same stranger who’d barged into his life and taken it over only a day before that.

  The same stranger he’d allowed into his life by playing games with other people’s money.

  Hicks adjusted his mirror so he wouldn’t have to see Russo standing there like a lost kid at a carnival. Fuck him anyway.

  He knew there was a chance Russo might be so distraught that he might go into his den and blow his brains out. The gun was empty and Hicks had already taken all the ammo from the house, but he could’ve bought more. Or he could OD on his wife’s sleeping pills. Hicks didn’t care if he did. He had the money and that’s what counted. If he got the kid straightened out, then it was a bonus.

  He was halfway back to Manhattan when the dashboard screen showed an incoming call from Jason. He would’ve loved to ignore the call, but knew Jason was already tracking him on GPS. Ignoring him would only make a bad situation worse. He pushed the button on the steering wheel that allowed the call come through.

  “This is Wallace,” he said, using was the standard code that he was safe, but not alone.

  “You’ve been very busy,” Jason said. “Using our assets for your own vendetta.”

  “No vendetta, Ace.” Out of habit, he checked to see if he was being followed. He wasn’t. “Just doing what I’ve got to do to get shit done.”

  “Admirable,” Jason said. “Who’s that in the back seat anyway? OMNI can barely read his vitals.”

  Hicks didn’t see the point in getting into the details. “He’s nothing for you to worry about. I had to get Junior here out of some trouble in order to get his old man to help me finance your undercover operation against Omar. It turned out okay.”

  “That’s what you think. Do you have any idea how much you put us at risk? What if you’d been killed? What if the police grabbed you on your way out of the place? What if they grab you still?”

  Hicks smiled. “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “I couldn’t care less about what happens to you,” Jason admitted, “but the Dean does, and he’s who counts here. And there was no reason for you to risk exposure over a hundred thousand dollars. The money could’ve easily come from the Bursar’s office.”

  “Which would’ve taken time we don’t have,” Hicks said. “Let’s talk about something important, like my new operative. Have you narrowed down the search yet or are you still making up your mind?”

  “You really are a condescending, despicable son of a bitch when you want to be.”

  Hicks switched into the passing lane and fed the Buick some gas. “Daylight’s wasting, sunshine. I need details, not character assessments. What beauty are you sending me?”

  “Our colleagues in Army Intelligence are bringing someone who should fit your requirements nicely. I’ll send you a detailed profile on him in a few moments.”

  Hicks figured it could wait until after he dropped off Junior. “And what if I don’t think he’s qualified?”

  “There’s no doubt as to his qualifications,” Jason said. “As for whether or not you like him, well, that’s a risk we’ll have to take. If you don’t like him, the deal is off and we hit Omar as soon as we can. I don’t have to remind you that there are risks in taking that course of action, too. Those are our options, none of them pretty.”

  Jason wasn’t exactly a glass-half-full kind of guy, even in the best of times. “When does he get to New York?”

  “I’ll send you his file in a minute. In fact, he’s being brought up to the city as we speak from Virginia. I believe he should be there some time this afternoon just before rush hour.”

  Hicks didn’t like the sound of that. “Did you say he’s being brought up from Virginia?”

  “Yes. He was transferred him from Kansas just last night.”

  “Kansas?” He hadn’t known Jason long, but he knew the way his mind worked and if there was a way he could make this op difficult for him, he would. “Kansas as in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.”

  Jason said nothing.

  Hicks grabbed the wheel tighter. “You’re sending me a fucking jailbird from a federal peniten
tiary?”

  “You’re the one who stressed how quickly this operation had to come together, James,” Jason reminded him. “If we had enough time to put together a proper op, we probably would’ve been able to find some squeaky clean, well-trained agent for you. But, as it is, this is the best we can do under the circumstances. If you can’t make it work, then perhaps the Varsity should step in and run this entire operation for you?”

  Hicks knew Jason would like nothing better than be able to take credit for bringing Omar in. Justice for Colin and stopping whatever Omar was planning didn’t matter to him. He only cared about scoring points with the Dean. And Hicks would be damned before he let that happen. “Just have them bring the jailbird to the regular rendezvous spot on the west side and give me a call when they’re an hour out. I’ll be back in the city by then.”

  “What about your friend in the back seat?” Jason asked. “What’s to become of him?”

  “Not your problem.”

  Hicks decided he’d be the first one to kill the connection for once. He fully expected the little bastard to call right back, angry that he’d been dismissed. Instead, the dashboard screen showed that Jason had sent the information package on the operative as he’d promised.

  Hicks didn’t waste time wondering about what beauty they were sending him from Leavenworth. Probably some pissed off Ranger with a bad attitude and a hatred of superior officers. Hicks wasn’t worried. He’d handled bad asses before. Besides, before he worried about that, he still had one more item to check off his list.

  Hicks adjusted the rearview to get a better look at Junior. Still passed out cold. He hadn’t moved since they’d left the substation. He probably didn’t even know where he was.

  In a way, Hicks envied him.

  THERE WERE few things in the world that looked more ridiculous than a nightclub at ten o’clock in the morning. And despite all of its oddities, Roger Cobb’s nightclub was no different.

  After parking the Buick in the fenced in lot next door, Hicks let himself into the club through service entrance. He didn’t bother bringing Junior inside with him. The boy still had a couple of hours of flying time before he climbed down from the dragon’s back. Might as well let him keep sleeping.

  The Jolly Roger Club was one of the more popular underground venues in the city. It had become a haven for the various types of vice that weren’t always legal and, therefore, the club was not open to the general public. To call it a nightclub would’ve been vague. To call it a sex club would’ve been limiting its customers to the definable. It drew people from every level and strata of society and rarely actually closed.

  Anything beyond the pale was the norm at the Jolly Roger; ‘a dish for every taste’ as Roger himself liked to say, as long as they could pay. The bar served top shelf booze and genuine absinthe, as well as liquid cocaine and other exotic opiates. All the usual drugs of choice were also on the menu.

  The basement had a dungeon that would’ve make the Marquis De Sade blush. The subbasement was an opium den. Private sex chambers and corners were hidden throughout the darkened club. The Jolly Roger catered to every fetish and passion and proclivity on the Kinsey Scale and then some.

  Hicks had worked with Roger all over the world. Those who knew him in the intelligence community regarded Roger as the best interrogator in the University system; a man who had mastered the delicate craft of using pain and fear to get the most out of a target without killing them. Despite the premise of primetime TV cop shows stressing forensics; dead men couldn’t tell you much.

  When Roger told him he wanted to leave the rigors of fieldwork behind, Hicks jumped at the chance to bring him to New York. Hicks gave him the money to start The Jolly Roger and it had been one of the best investments he had ever made. It not only provided a source of steady revenue for the New York Office, but had proven to be an invaluable way to blackmail some very powerful people as they did some very lowbrow things deep in the darkened rooms of Roger’s club.

  Hicks walked up the narrow stairway and through a maze of narrow hallways to get to Roger’s apartment. He knew the door would be unlocked and didn’t bother to knock before going inside. Of Roger’s many faults, modesty wasn’t one of them.

  Roger’s residence was more of a chamber than an apartment. Hicks wasn’t surprised to see a naked young man passed out in a sex sling suspended from a hook in the ceiling. Hicks didn’t know when or how Roger had managed to rig the hook that high and didn’t plan on finding out, either.

  Other men and women were in various states of undress and unconsciousness were lounging in candlelight on couches and duvets and pillows throughout the large, windowless room. Roger’s chamber had the sprawling grandeur of Genesis sans the majesty.

  Roger was propped up in the middle of an oversized bed that was twice the size of a normal king-sized bed. His glasses perched on the end of his nose as he tapped through his iPad. He would’ve looked like an aging college professor glancing over the New York Times on a sleepy Sunday morning if it wasn’t for the naked men on either side of him; chained by their hands to the headboard. Their leather masks were the only allusion to modesty.

  Roger looked up from his tablet when he heard Hicks clear his throat. “Ah, James,” he smiled. “How good of you to drop by.”

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Hicks motioned to the two nude men flanking Roger. “Looks like you had a hell of a night.”

  “This?” He waived it off. “Just another Tuesday.” He set the tablet on the bare chest of the man to his left. “You look tired. Want some coffee? A client just sent me an entire sack of new coffee I think you’re going to just love.”

  The idea of something as wholesome and commonplace as morning coffee in a place with a man in a sex swing struck Hicks as odd. But he remembered he was dealing with Roger Cobb and in Roger’s world, odd was a term that had no meaning. “Sure, but I’ll make it if you’re… busy.”

  “Nonsense!” Roger threw aside the sheets as he swung out of bed. Hicks managed to look away before seeing more of his friend than he wanted to.

  Roger ignored the bathrobe on the edge of the bed and walked naked to a small pantry in an alcove set into the side of the room. “What brings you here so early, my friend? It isn’t like you to just drop by like a next door neighbor borrowing a cup of sugar.”

  Hicks didn’t like talking around strangers, especially when they were dozing on pillows or handcuffed to bedposts. “It’s important, and it’s private. And, speaking of private, I’d appreciate it if you’d cover up.”

  Roger turned and smiled ever so slightly. He was a pale man of fifty with a runner’s body, even though he didn’t believe in exercise. His fair blond hair was almost white and he was lean and wiry and shorter than Hicks by an inch or two. When clothed, Roger gave the impression of being slight; almost to the point of being gaunt. But, like Hicks, he was far stronger than he looked.

  “You jealous, old chum, or just embarrassed?” Roger looked him up and down. “Aroused, perhaps?”

  Hicks tossed him the robe. “Just dangerously decaffeinated. It’s already been a long day and it’s not even noon yet. I need at least a cup of coffee in me before I see your Jolly Roger flapping in the breeze.”

  “You’re no fun.” Roger shrugged into his robe. “A wise man once told me that variety is the spice of life.”

  “If that’s true, then your life is all peppers and hot sauce.”

  Roger grinned. “You have no idea.” He hit the grind button on the coffee machine. Many of the people lounging around the room reacted to the whirring of the coffee grinder, but none of them seemed to wake up enough to leave.

  “And don’t be afraid to speak freely around my friends here,” Roger said over the sound of the machine. “Last night was my Sensory Depravation Workshop. Beneath their masks, their eyes are taped shut and their ears have been plugged. I allowed them to speak but I’m afraid their voices went hoarse a few hours ago.”

  Hicks tried not to think abou
t exactly why they’d lost their voices and hoped like hell Roger wouldn’t tell him. Hicks’ mind was already crowded enough without Roger’s fetishes clamoring for space. “I’m sure everyone had fun, but I’ll still wait until we’re alone.”

  “Fun has very little to do with any of this,” Roger said as the coffee machine stopped grinding and began to heat the water. “Neither does sex, really, though it’s got more to do with it than fun. It’s about embracing one’s true nature. One’s entire being, not just the façade we present to the world. The light as well as the dark. The accepted as well as the taboo and everything in between. The pain and the pleasure and all that comes with it.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s a real mind fuck when you start to really think about it.”

  Hicks just watched the coffee machine gurgle as the coffee began to filter into the carafe. He hoped the smell of fresh ground coffee would deaden the stench of sweat and stale sex that filled Roger’s bed chamber.

  “I think you’ll like this particular type of coffee,” Roger went on. “It’s a civet bean; which is produced in a manner that men like you and I can appreciate.”

  Since Roger’s asides always had a point, he decided to play along with it. He was too tired to argue and still had a couple of minutes to kill while the coffee brewed. “Why?”

  “Because civet beans come from Indonesia. The beans are first consumed by a mongoose; a creature that can easily be mistaken for a rodent both in appearance and action, but is actually—biologically—a feline. The mongoose first ingests the bean, then digests it and excretes it.”

  Hicks hadn’t gotten much sleep and knew his mind might begin to drift, but thought he heard Roger correctly. “You’re serving me cat shit coffee?”

  “Don’t be so crass, James. Yes, the bean is later collected from the dung of the mongoose, cleansed and roasted, thus giving it its unique flavor.” Roger’s smile returned. “Not unlike us. It’s a process we can appreciate given all the shit we’ve been through and come out the other side better for it. I find the irony of the whole thing so fucking… rich.”