by Steve Rzasa
“Barbaric creatures,” Janos muttered. His face never left the money. “Make a whole city evacuate and then turn the island to glass. And they lecture us on violence! Bah.”
“Rough deal, no doubt. At least no one got killed. And no radiation clouds.” Frankly, if we hadn’t threatened to turn our Air Force loose on the qwaddos’ diplomatic ships, Nantucket would have still been a lovely place for rich people to vacation. The U.S. learned real quick that buddying up to the qwaddos was the best way to make sure everybody got what they wanted.
Namely, money.
I just wanted to keep the volume running to cover the footsteps that were coming up the stairs. I hoped they were, anyway.
“Ah. Is good.” Janos turned to me and smiled like a little boy on Christmas. “All the money is here.”
“Hey, told you so.”
“Yes, you did! Good man.” Janos clapped his hands together. “Another drink. Come!”
“One sec. I have to call the collector.” Here goes. Got the cell phone out. Breathed normal. Played it cool.
“Da, good. Tell him—no, please, let me speak to him! I must tell him has been pleasure to deal.”
“Oh, you can probably do that.” Pushed send twice. It rang. Don’t have a stroke, Janos.
The door crashed open. Half a dozen men in black uniforms, boots, body armor, and helmets thundered through. They all shouted commands at once, variations on “Get down!”, “Don’t move!”, and “Show us your hands!”
Since they had M4A1 carbines and Glock 22s, I obliged. But only after I let the lead man slam me against the wall. Which he did a bit too convincingly.
“Isaac, you don’t gotta lay it on that thick,” I hissed through my teeth. My face was pressed hard against the wall, arms and legs spread-eagle, with a gun’s muzzle in the center of my back and a rough hand patting me down.
“Shut up,” he whispered back. In a louder tone he ordered, “Lancaster Foss, you have the right to remain silent! Anything you say can and will be used—”
Blah, blah, blah. Heard it. About a bazillion times. You know, I could probably play a cop on TV as many times as I’ve been “arrested.”
Yeah, I put those quotes in there on purpose.
“Ne! Az sum nevinen! I did nothing wrong!” Edvard Munch’s The Scream looked less shocked. They had Janos on his knees in the entry to the kitchenette, hands on his head. He couldn’t look away from the open briefcase of money. Probably wondering if he could make off with it when the guys with long guns stopped paying attention.
“Janos!” I hollered. “Don’t say a word! Don’t make a deal with them. It’s worth your while.”
Isaac prodded me right in the kidney with that gun. One of his stooges put me in zip ties. Together they spun me around and shoved me toward a corner.
“Caz!” They dragged Janos out the door. Oddly, in that moment, I heard the chickadees singing outside the door, even over the mumbling news commentator and the thumping jackboots. Janos’s sweat stank, mingled with the odor from the rest of the men. Didn’t anybody use deodorant? “Foss, help me!”
They hurried him out. The door slammed shut. Finally. I exhaled.
“Nice show, huh?” Isaac went to the window. He removed his mask. That was one friendly Filipino man, skin all bronze and hair black as coal. Wrapped up in his riot gear, he looked like a total thug. He grinned great big at me. “I think I’m getting better each time.”
“Certainly more realistic. Cut these off me, will ya?” I hated zip ties.
“Sure thing.” He sliced them with a knife you could have used to carve the Thanksgiving turkey.
“Thanks.” I rubbed my wrists.
“You got it all. Nice work, man.” Isaac holstered his pistol and tapped one of his men on the back. “Hey, Falcone. Make sure those sketches get properly secured and tagged. Every bit needs to be taken care of.”
“You got it, sir.”
I shook Isaac’s hand. “Always a joy doing business with the FBI, Isaac.”
“You’re the best, Caz, no matter what they say about you.”
That’s my name, FYI. Caz, short for Casimir Fortel, thanks to my parents and their sentimental attachment to their Eastern European heritage. Janos knew me as Lancaster Foss—also nicknamed “Caz.”
“The reward will be in your account by this afternoon, man, and you earned every cent.” Isaac looked at the sketches as the agents slipped them carefully into a new briefcase. “Can’t believe that slug thought he could steal from a retired art critic and hide ’em forever.”
“Thanks.”
“You know, you kind of look like that guy from that space show.”
“What guy?”
“That show you like. The canceled one. With the space cowboys? Come on, man, it was on Fox ages ago and you never stop yapping about it.”
“Oh, Firefly.” I frowned. “Nathan Fillion.”
“That’s the boy.” Isaac gestured. “See?”
I regarded my face in the mirror on the far wall. Okay, so with the haircut and coloring, and the contacts, I did kinda look like Captain Mal Reynolds. Bright blue eyes, light brown hair cut short and combed semi-neatly, chin crooked slightly to the left, scar on the right side of my nose, medium build on the muscled side—according to me—six foot one. Good looking, have to admit.
“Yeah, keep staring.”
“Thanks, jerk.”
“No prob.” Isaac grinned again. “Grow your beard back. It looks better.”
“Says you of the ever-present goatee.”
“Did you ever have trouble with Janos? How’d you get him to agree to this, anyway?”
“What kind of a question is that? Seventy-five percent of what Janos knows about me is a lie. The trick was to find out what he wanted to hear and tell it to him.”
That’s my job.
In my dream, I was captain of a starship.
Forget which one it was this time. Probably USS Defiant, my favorite. Ever watch Star Trek: Deep Space Nine? Loved that show. Avery Brooks was the man. It was like having smart-mouth Hawk from Spenser for Hire with his own space station.
Anyways, somewhere in the middle of shouting orders to my helmsman to fire phasers on the nearest Jem Hadar warship, a doorbell rang.
The helmsman turned around, all stocky and curly-haired, and said in a voice three octaves too high for an Irishman who should have a brogue, “Hey, babe! Get your butt outta bed!”
Something about Chief O’Brien calling me babe snapped me right awake. Three bleary-eyed blinks later, my apartment ceiling coalesced.
“Mmmph.” My first word of the day.
Something gurgled in the kitchen. Coffee pot? Either that or a drunken robot. Left the question of who was making the stuff. Not that I drank it, but I kept a few brands stocked for entertaining guests. Must mean I had a guest, and she was still here.
The doorbell rang again, more clearly this time.
“Did you hear me? Get up!”
Man, her voice was shrill. Somehow it had seemed silken and seductive last night. Though after enough margaritas, a car horn was probably just as entrancing.
“Comin’. Eventually.” I staggered out to the living room, red T-shirt and black shorts in all their glory. It was painfully bright, enough to make me shield my eyes. A wonderfully blue sky over Revere Beach and the Atlantic Ocean shining in the sun—it didn’t help that the walls were white and the carpet beige. This must be the kind of pain vampires feel. “You opened the blinds. Great.”
“Don’t be snotty.” She wore another of my T-shirts, the black one emblazoned with the silver Legend of Zelda crest, and blue jeans. Must have found them on the floor. “You gonna get the door or what?”
Door? Oh, yeah, the bell. My brain seemed to be stuffed with rags and nails versus the normal gray matter.
My cell phone buzzed. Where was it? Over on the table by the couch—no, under the table. Okay. I scooped it up. “Yello.”
“Open the door.” It was Isaac.
&nbs
p; “What?”
“I said, drag your lazy white rear over to the front door and open it so I can stop ringing the doorbell like I been doing for the past five minutes.”
“How’d you get past the security door?”
“FBI, you dope.”
He sounded alert this early in the morning. What time was it? Nine? Oh, so not so early then. “Hold on.”
I dragged myself to the door. Bread in the toaster popped up, mostly black and somewhat brown. The girl smiled at me as she poured a cup of coffee. Long blonde hair, long legs, blue eyes, freckles on her nose and cheeks . . .
Wished I could remember her name.
I opened the door. Isaac leaned against the jamb, arms crossed, cell phone cradled in one hand.
“ ’Morning, sunshine.”
“Shut up. You want coffee?”
“Nah. You got any of that orange spice tea?”
“Yeah, probably. Come on, I’ll get the water started. Thanks for wearing civvies on this social call, by the way.”
“Hey, man, I know how to work undercover too.” He had on a dark blue polo shirt with white stripes, khakis, and brown dress shoes. No gun that I could see. A big old watch worth mugging a guy for. “So let’s just cut . . .”
His words trailed off. I turned around. He stared, mouth stuck mid-sentence, at the woman in my kitchen. What in blazes was her name? “Hey, babe?”
She sipped at her coffee, mug cradled in both hands. “Yeah?”
Would’ve been a lot easier if her name had popped up like that toast. No dice. “We need to talk. Could you . . . ?” I rolled my hand in a vague motion. Do what? Go hang out on the balcony?
Leave?
She flicked her gaze from me to Isaac and back again. “I could take a shower, but the coffee’s ready.”
“Warm it up later, then.”
“All right. Fine.” She slammed the mug down on the counter. Coffee sloshed over the edge and formed a nice puddle around the base.
Isaac sidled over to me. “She’s nice. Anonymous. Can we recruit her?”
“Remember the part where I told you to shut up?” A headache pounded right behind my eyes. “What’re you doing here, anyway?”
He dropped into the easy chair. There were two of them facing the couch; he took the one that offered a better view of the deck and the ocean beyond. He put his oaf shoes up on my table. “Got a job for you. A big one. Probably the biggest one you’re ever gonna get.”
“Peachy.” I slumped onto the couch. Gave me a nice look at the oil paintings on the opposite walls, my scenes of the Maine coast.
The girl—woman—whoever—went storming across the dining area. She had her clothes bundled against her chest and her chin up, refusing eye contact. The bathroom door slammed shut. Loudly. I winced.
Isaac shook his head. “You got great taste, man.”
“That sounds like sarcasm.”
“Crack investigator, that’s you.”
“Am I that predictable?”
“Yep. When was the last time you went out with somebody minus the aid of the local bartender?”
“Long time. Drinks dull the emotions.” And that was for the best, trust me. “What do you know about it? You’re married.”
“Uh-huh.” Isaac twisted the gold ring. “And lovin’ every minute.”
“Puke. Okay, so what’s the job?”
“It’s art. One-of-a-kind piece. Well, one of a kind around here.”
“Here, where?”
“Earth. Plus the rest of our solar system.”
Well, now. My headache receded and my eyes ignored the bright light blasting in the windows. Even my posture improved. I rubbed the stubble that was on its way to a beard. Alien art. That’d be a good-paying job. “So what do you need from me?”
“First, get showered and dressed. You smell funky, as usual.”
“Nice.”
“You’re riding with me to HQ in the city. Then we call out to Denver.”
My enthusiasm came to a screeching halt, like the Blue Line T braking in the tunnel to Boston. “What the blazes is in Denver?”
“DEXA office.”
I groaned. “You mean I gotta tangle with Department of Extraterrestrial Affairs on this?”
Isaac shrugged. “I told you, man, this is a big one. Anything involving the qwaddos—er, the Panstellar Consociation’s monitors—goes through them. Anything and everything.”
“Including theft of alien artwork. Fantastic.”
“Right on.” Isaac leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Now go clean up. Get in the kitchen and make me tea when you’re done.”
<<<>>>
Took longer than usual to get ready, what with the bathroom occupied. The girl didn’t say a word when I grabbed my toothbrush and a washrag. Fortunately, I’d gotten a shower last night before I’d gone out. Made my BO passable, despite what Isaac said.
I dressed in something more appropriate than my underpants. I’m partial to a black polo shirt and khakis when going to an official pow-wow. Ever see George Clooney in The Peacemaker? 1996? Awesome flick. Makes me want to go jumping from hood to hood of every backed-up line of taxis within a block radius.
A quick glance in the mirror confirmed I was, in fact, still good-looking—though this soon after finishing a job (and a binge), it was always a shock. The hair was golden-blond and spiked, with a shorter cut. I had the beginnings of a neatly trimmed beard, also blond. The eyes were back to their normal pale hazel, mostly brown with green bursts around the pupils.
The real me. Caz Fortel, at your service.
Isaac drove his personal car. Thankfully the man had the sense not to bring a Fedmobile to pick me up. The Chevy Malibu was white and decked out with a leather interior. Those felt good on my back, which was pretty torqued from, I assume, sleeping on my left shoulder the wrong way. Again.
He had the music turned down low on his favorite rock station as we rolled out onto North Shore Road. My apartment complex loomed behind me over the rest of the buildings facing Revere Beach, like a half-dismantled pyramid of concrete and glass. Okay, so it was ugly, but it was home.
“You ever figure out her name?” His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. Couldn’t see the mischief in them.
“How’d you guess that?”
“Again, FBI. The ‘I’ is for Investigation. You never said it. Not even when you ushered her out. In a hurry.”
“Yeah, well.” Couldn’t say much else. You think I like not remembering the name of the woman who’d left my apartment? “Should’ve checked my phone. That would have told me. But I wasn’t exactly up to speed.”
“So you found it?”
I wagged the phone in the air. “Laci.”
“Pretty name.”
“It is. And so is she. Probably a nice girl who’s very smart and good at her job too. Whatever that may be.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled.”
“It’s just that the likelihood of this going anywhere beyond the sheets is slim to none.”
Isaac nodded but didn’t comment. He knew me well enough to not say anything when it could hurt more than help.
He had a compact Bible sitting on his center console, right next to the water bottle and candy wrappers. Its pages were worn and torn. Didn’t realize I was staring at it until he said, “You can read it. Ain’t gonna bite you.”
“Funny guy. I’ve got my own, thanks.” Well, used to have one. I turned my attention to the buildings blurring by.
“When was the last time you read it?”
Inquisition, much? “Do they teach FBI special agents subtlety?”
“I missed that class.” He grinned at me. “So you still read it. That’s good.”
“How’s about we leave my spiritual life or lack thereof out of this?” He knew how to tick me off. Had to give him credit.
More silence. Isaac cleared his throat. Great. Here we go again. “You still believe.”
It didn’t sound like a question and was sur
prisingly genuine. Did I still believe? Of course. “That’s never been the problem, Isaac.”
He nodded. “Okay. Well, if you ever want to talk it out . . .”
We left it at that. It was his third such invitation in the last year. Must be I’m his new hard case. Oh, well. There were worse people than Isaac bothering me about why I hadn’t been to church in a long while.
Listen, when you lie to people for a living, and you realize how often they lie to you, going to church every Sunday tears at you. Plus I get sick of reopening old wounds.
“Know forgiveness is always there for you, man.” Isaac kept his eyes on the highway as he changed lanes.
Okay, so he was really worried about me. I got rid of the sarcastic answer I’d planned. “Thanks. Really. I know it.”
Nothing more to say until we reached Government Center.
“You seen this yet?” Isaac leaned over the steering wheel.
“What, the big hole in the ground since they tore down City Hall? That thing was the ugliest building in town. I don’t exactly miss it.” Wait a sec. What was that new tower? It had to outreach the Hancock by ten stories. What was immediately obvious was that it was not man-made, and by “man,” I mean human. “When did the qwaddos put that up?”
“Last week. Grew it like Jack’s beanstalk, Thursday, I think. You shoulda seen it, man. Took no more than six hours. I don’t think the agents and staff on my floor got a thing done all day.”
It was—well, it was wrong. A slender spire, with four sections that looked like tendrils of a vine wrapping around a central core, covered in a reflective surface just like the Hancock only more iridescent. Instead of taking on the sky’s blue, the crazy thing shimmered and moved. Like it was alive.
Goosebumps rose on my arms. “Well, no wonder they paid the city to build a new hall a few blocks over. That one’s almost done, isn’t it?”
“Gonna look a whole lot nicer than the upside-down pyramid on crack they had from the sixties.” Isaac found a parking space on Cambridge Street, opposite the curved building of brick and concrete facing Government Center—One Plaza Center, FBI field office.
Downtown Boston was heating up nicely for a summer’s day. The smell coming out of the T station was outstanding: sweaty people carried on a gust of hot air with eau de garbage. Okay, so I didn’t sell you on it. But for me it was a trigger for lots of good memories. Going to college, touring the town, waiting tables.
