Pest Control

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Bob paced like an evangelist working a tent full of faithful.

  “Americans believe they have the God-given right to rid their homes of any and all living things they don’t want sharing their bounty. And when Americans shoot the Bad Guy, do they want to see him crawl away? No sir!”

  Bob spun quickly to face Sy, his fingers mimicking a gun. “Bang!” he said. “They want to see him die then and there, right in front of them.”

  Sy shook his head. “You’re killing yourself, kid,” he said. “What you’re saying is this all-natural idea ain’t gonna fly in a market that likes quick-fix aerosol answers.”

  Bob slapped his hand down on the desk. “Mr. Silverstein,” he nearly yelled, “what was the population of the United States in 1950?”

  “Why the hell are you asking me?” Sy asked. “I’m a real estate developer, not a goddamn census taker.”

  “There were approximately one hundred and fifty million people in the United States at that time,” Bob said. “And what was America like then? Diverse? Multicultural? No sir. The 1950s was white bread and conformity. You either got in line and stayed there or you had a date with the House UnAmerican Activities Committee.”

  “I was there, I know what it was like,” Sy said.

  “In a marketplace like the United States in the 1950s,” said Bob, “it was relatively easy to get rich. For example, if you sold hot dogs, all you had to do was sell all those like-minded people one kind of hot dog and you could become a weenie czar.”

  “Weenies schmeenies,” Sy barked, “just get to your point!”

  Buoyed by Sy’s enthusiasm, Bob leaned across the huge oak desk toward his tiny audience.

  “Today there are 260 million people in this country and conformity has lost its appeal. Choice is now the name of the game. Translated to our hot dog example that means you can make a fortune today by selling hickory-smoked turkey dogs, or Gaza Strip Kosher dogs, or low-salt fat-free diet dogs, or Long Dong Silver Foot Long dogs. It’s a simple numbers game, Sy. If you can get one buck from just 20 percent of the population you’ll make 50 million dollars!”

  Sy could see the picture Bob was painting. “I like it,” Sy said, urging Bob on to his inevitable conclusion.

  “In other words,” Bob continued, “the only thing necessary today is to appeal to a small percentage of the large number of consumers, and that is our strategy. Niche marketing!”

  Sy stared in wonder as Bob clambered onto his desk, now towering ten feet tall on top of the huge piece of furniture. The mad prophet of pesticidal doom began shouting.

  “The future belongs to those who can smell it coming, Mr. Silverstein! Our niche is environmentalism! My all-natural method will not only reduce the damage to the environment, but with the current swing toward eco-thoughtfulness and some luck, we’ll make millions!”

  After this extraordinary performance, Bob panted for air. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and, with a great deal of embarrassment, suddenly realized he was standing on Sy’s desk.

  Sy was flabbergasted by Bob’s exhibition. Bob didn’t know what else to say. He eased himself off the front of the desk and tried to smooth the wrinkled lease agreements he had been standing on.

  Sy was as embarrassed as Bob by the events that had just transpired. They were like cousins who had unexpectedly and spontaneously made love behind a tree during a family reunion picnic. They knew it was unseemly, but they enjoyed it nonetheless, and there was an unspoken agreement that they would both pretend it hadn’t happened.

  Sy crossed the office to the bathroom. He spoke loudly as he washed his hands. “Listen, kid, you sold me. I got some places with so many bugs if they were payin’ rent, I’d have tax problems. You can try your killer bug routine on them.”

  “That’s perfect! That’s all I need.”

  “Okay. Now, if it doesn’t work, we’re square. Right? Won’t cost me a thing?” Sy emerged from the bathroom drying his hands.

  “Right,” Bob said.

  “On the other hand, if it works, you let me franchise the thing and I’ll set you up in business anywhere you want. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Bob said, holding out his hand.

  As they shook hands, Sy continued fumigating the room with cigar smoke.

  “You won’t regret this, Mr. Silverstein.”

  Sy crossed to his computer and with a few deft keystrokes quickly printed out a contract and the terms of their agreement. Bob would conduct his Assassin Bug experiments on four of Sy’s buildings: (1) an abandoned sixteen-story department store near Madison Square Garden (2) a dilapidated apartment building on the Lower Bast Side (3) a former restaurant in SoHo and (4) an old warehouse in Queens.

  If it worked as planned, Bob thought, they would both fare well. If it didn’t, well, Bob decided not to think about that.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  There was a spring in Bob’s step as he returned home from his presentation. He bounded onto the front porch and noticed one of his house numbers, the nine, lying on the doormat where Pratt had tossed it earlier. Bob picked it up, found the tiny nail that held it in place, and tried to reaffix it to the wall. Without a hammer Bob was unable to get the nail in far enough to secure the nine tightly. The top-heavy digit spun around, resulting in a six and a new address for the Dillon’s.

  Bob removed his shoe so he could nail the sucker in. Then he noticed a large brown sedan with black-wall tires pulling up. The irony of unmarked cars was that they stood out so. Bob wondered why the government bought them. Were they cheaper?

  Parker, the young CIA agent, got out of the sedan. He approached Bob’s house, warily eyeing the man with the shoe in his hand from behind his dark sunglasses.

  Bob wondered if this guy might be from the Department of Fair Housing. “If you’re looking for that slumlord Pratt, he lives across the street,” Bob said, gesturing with his footwear.

  “Mr. Dillon?” Parker queried. “Would you come with me, please?”

  Bob tried to imagine what sort of mistake the Ray-Banned government employee might be making. “If you’re here about those Traveling Wilburys, you’ve got the wrong Dylan.”

  “Let’s go, Mr. Dillon,” Parker said matter-of-factly.

  Bob wasn’t the kind to get into cars with strangers, so he stood his ground. “Who the hell are you? What’s this about?”

  Parker pulled one side of his jacket back, displaying his gun. “Please,” he said firmly. “We’re with the government.”

  The part about being with the government didn’t make much difference to Bob and the “please” was completely unnecessary. All that really mattered was the large handgun in the man’s shoulder holster.

  “Let’s go, Mr. Dillon.”

  Bob looked at the upside-down nine before limping warily down the walkway toward the car. He got in the back of the sedan where Mike Wolfe waited.

  The sedan pulled away from the curb, the passengers riding in silence for a moment. Finally, Wolfe spoke. “So, you’re the freewheelin’ Bob Dillon.”

  “That’s right,” Bob replied, having heard that one before. “Who the hell are you?”

  Wolfe extended his hand. “Mike Wolfe, CIA,” he said.

  Bob shook Wolfe’s hand and nodded. “CIA,” Bob replied suspiciously. He looked at Parker and gestured with the shoe in his hand. “Those sunglasses, are they government issue?” Parker stared at Bob, stone-faced.

  “Listen,” Bob said, “leaving aside for a moment the obvious question of what the hell the CIA might want with me…How the hell do I know you two are really with them?”

  “I’m afraid we’re not allowed to give out that sort of information,” Parker said.

  Bob looked at Wolfe, who smiled as he spoke. “He’s right; that’s policy. You’ll just have to take our word. We could show you ID, but then you’d just
ask how you’re supposed to know they aren’t forgeries, right?”

  “Right,” Bob replied. “Besides, anyone who’d try to pass that off as logic must work for the government.” Bob slipped his shoe back on. The three men rode silently into Jackson Heights as Bob tried to figure out which of his friends could afford to stage such an expensive and unusual practical joke.

  “That’s quite a cover you’ve got,” Parker said, finally breaking the silence.

  “It is?” Bob asked. A fleeting sense of déjà vu flirted with his confusion.

  Another awkward moment passed before Wolfe spoke again. “‘Pest Control,’ I really love that.” Wolfe winked at Bob.

  “Thanks,” Bob replied skeptically. “You got to make a living somehow.”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” Wolfe said as the sedan turned on 103rd Street. After a moment Wolfe continued, “Listen, first of all I want to tell you how impressed we were with how you handled the Huweiler job.”

  Bob wondered who the hell this Huweiler was. The name sounded familiar. Was he that guy with the deli in Brooklyn? Bob had sprayed for roaches there, but he didn’t recall the owner’s name. “Huweiler?” he asked. “I don’t think I know any Huweiler.”

  “Of course not,” Wolfe said defensively. “Did I say Huweiler? Forget I mentioned it.” Wolfe knew a pro wouldn’t admit to an assassination. He turned in his seat to face Bob more directly. “Listen, let me be candid. We need a favor.”

  Bob chuckled. “The CIA wants a favor? From me?” Wolfe nodded sincerely.

  “You gotta be kiddin’.”

  “We’re the CIA, Mr. Dillon. We don’t do a lot of kidding,” Parker said.

  Wolfe gave Parker a look that said, “Let me do the talking.” “Okay, it’s more a job than a favor,” he said.

  There was only one way this could make any sense at all.

  “Ohhhhhh, wait a second,” Bob said. “Did you guys get ahold of one of my flyers? You know, I always figured there was some fixed-bidding kickback process to get contracts for federal jobs. But listen, if you want me to handle some sort of an infestation down at your headquarters, that’s no sweat. I can do that.”

  Parker reacted, wide-eyed. If he understood correctly, Bob was under the impression that they wanted him to kill someone within the Agency and, what’s more, he was ready, willing, and able to do so. Parker’s look conveyed this to Wolfe.

  “I love it,” said Wolfe with a chuckle. “We’ve known him for three minutes and he’s already offering to arrange for our promotions.” Wolfe laughed before continuing. “No, nothing that extreme. We just need some…pest control, if you know what I mean.” Wolfe winked at Bob again. Bob eyed him as if he had just escaped from the Bellevue Giggling Academy.

  Wolfe opened a folder and handed Bob a photograph of a tough-looking Latin gentleman. “Ronaldo DeJesus-Riviera,” Wolfe said. “As I suppose you know, he controls the world’s largest cocaine cartel.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Bob replied.

  “Good. Recently, Ronaldo stopped making payments to, uh, certain worthy parties, and now he needs to be ‘handled.’” Wolfe winked a third time as he continued. “And since you don’t have any idea about who handled the Huweiler matter so professionally, we’ve come to you.”

  It hit Bob like the end of a date with Mike Tyson. Bam! That night at Freddie’s when he responded to that ad in the Times. That goofy Frenchman, what was his name, Marcel? That’s where he had heard the name Huweiler. Apparently some improbable sequence of events had come to pass that led these nitwits to believe he was a hit man. And now they were trying to hire him to kill a drug lord who wasn’t making his payments to the CIA on time. These two were serious, Bob thought. Extremely stupid, but serious.

  “Listen, fellas,” Bob said. “I’m not exactly sure what happened here, but, uh, somehow you guys got the idea that I’m a hired killer.”

  Wolfe and Parker exchanged a curious glance as Bob continued. Most of the contract killers they dealt with didn’t talk this much.

  “The truth is,” Bob continued, “I’ve never killed anybody in my life.”

  “That’s understood,” Wolfe said quickly and with authority. Parker nodded agreement.

  “No, really. I only kill bugs.”

  “Absolutely,” Wolfe said, understanding the game perfectly.

  “Listen,” Bob said finally, “I’m going to tell you the same thing I told that Marcel guy. I am not interested in whatever it is you’re offering.”

  Parker looked to Wolfe for the true meaning of Bob’s statement. To Wolfe it meant two things—one, Bob had in fact dealt with Marcel, the man assumed to have arranged for Huweiler’s death, and two, that Bob was indeed saying the exact opposite of what he meant. Wolfe nodded knowingly.

  “If it’s good enough for Marcel, it’s good enough for me. The fee is $500,000.”

  “Guys, I’m speakin’ English here.” Bob’s voice had an urgency to it. “I’m not whoever or whatever you think I am. I’m strictly a bug squisher. Look, the closest I ever came to killing anyone was—and you gotta swear not to let this out, ‘cause I could get in real trouble for this, alright?”

  Wolfe and Parker indicated their fealty as Bob leaned in to confide with them.

  “Alright. The closest I ever came to killing anyone was myself when I used some yellow phosphorus on a really tough rat job in Brooklyn. I know the stuff’s illegal—hell, it oughtta be, that stuff’ll kill a man if he steps on it barefooted. But I know this guy with a cousin in Paraguay who sends it in the mail and these were some really big rats …” Bob trailed off as he remembered the rats.

  Parker again looked to Wolfe as he decoded Bob’s statement. Wolfe knew Bob was negotiating.

  “Ahhh, I understand, Riviera es muy mucho rata. Yes, he will be difficult.” Wolfe considered his words carefully. “Alright. Seven hundred fifty thousand.”

  Bob laughed. “You’re not listening, are you? Let me try this again. I’m just a regular guy who lives in Queens with a wife and kid and no interest in your muy mucho ratas.”

  “Yes, and as my young colleague noted earlier, it is an exquisite cover,” Wolfe complimented him. “Okay, a million, but that’s as high as I’m allowed to go.”

  Sensing he was not getting through, Bob stared at Wolfe for a moment before he finally gave up.

  “Jesus, why don’t you just drop me here?” Bob said.

  Assuming this meant they had come to terms, Wolfe indicated to the driver to pull over.

  “Excellent,” Wolfe said.

  The driver pulled over and let Bob out of the car.

  As Bob walked away, the window rolled down and Wolfe leaned out. “Of course, should anything go awry, we will disavow all knowledge.”

  “Natch,” Bob replied. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  The window rolled up and the car pulled away from the curb.

  Inside the sedan, Parker’s brow furrowed above his sunglasses. He turned to his mentor, unsure what had transpired. “Sir, I think he’s really an exterminator.”

  “Of course he’s an exterminator, you biscuit head. Where’ve you been for the last five minutes?” Then with an admiring tone, Wolfe continued, “The Exterminator. I love it.”

  Wolfe sat back to enjoy the moment. He had just secured his future by bringing a hot new “mechanic” into the fold. His retirement years had just taken a turn for the comfortable.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Most butterflies fly five–to–eight feet above the ground during migration, but some, like the stout members of the genus Lymanopoda, can cruise at altitudes above 14,000 feet.

  At the moment, several sturdy members of that genus, their venation distinguished by the connecting cross-vein of the sub-costa and radius at the midpoint of the discal cell, were crossing the Andes in Bolivia.


  For thousands of years the Andes provided the economic base for those who lived in and around them. They were mined for gold, silver, copper, and emeralds; the foothills coerced into surrendering oil and natural gas. Over the centuries various crops have been cultivated for export from this region, among them bananas, tobacco, and of course coffee, which contains the celebrated alkaloid caffeine.

  But roughly 25 years ago, Juan Valdez and his caffeine beans were forcibly relocated to Colombia.

  These days the real money maker around there was the coca plant, from which another, somewhat more potent, alkaloid is derived.

  About halfway between La Paz and Nevado Illimani, at around 12,500 feet, a magnificent estate had recently been carved into the Andean mountainside. And when they were migrating, one could watch butterflies from the expansive veranda of this Bolivian palace while sipping a cup of yerba mate. The estate was the home of Ronaldo DeJesus-Riviera and his brother, Miguel DeJesus-Riviera, controllers of a ruthless and wildly successful cocaine cartel.

  Ronaldo, the older of the two, spent most of his time more coked up than a blast furnace. He liked what he did and he did what he liked, a big ego, and a bad attitude. He was a major asshole and he could afford to be one, with a net worth in the neighborhood of $475 million.

  Ronaldo and Miguel were having a sales and marketing meeting one afternoon in one of the rooms of their palace. A large map of the United States, broken down into sales regions, was hanging on one of the walls.