by John Lutz
“Hey, how you doing?” he said, as he advanced on the older man. “I’m Steve. Who’re you?”
“I’m—Leonard’s friend.”
“I know that. If Leonard hadn’t sent you, you wouldn’t be here. What’s your first name?”
The older man hesitated. “Leonard didn’t say anything about—”
“Look, I just need something to call you. Make something up. Or I will.” Steve stepped closer to the older man, sizing him up. What he saw made him grin, showing bad teeth. “How ’bout I call you Klingon? Like them geeks in Star Trek. You got the forehead for it. Plus, you look real tough.”
The man frowned. He said quickly, “Call me Anthony.”
“Yeah? I bet that’s your real name, too. Right?” Steve’s grin was wider and nastier now. He obviously took pride in his ability to goad people into making mistakes.
Anthony said, “You’re seventeen minutes late.”
The grin vanished from Steve’s face, to be replaced by a look of bewilderment. A reedy middle-aged straight citizen like Anthony ought to be trying very hard to keep him in a good mood.
But Anthony went on, “I told Leonard, if either party is even a minute early or late, the deal’s off.”
Steve stood blinking at him. “Hey, man, don’t give me a hard time. I’m here now and I got your stuff. What happened was, I got pulled over and—”
“Pulled over? By a cop?”
“It was just a speeding ticket, and anyway I talked my way out of it.”
“You were speeding?” Anthony said. “With what you had in the car, you were speeding?”
“I was trying to get here on time. Jesus Christ! What’s with you, pal? You think you’re my fucking dad or something?” Steve wiped his nose on one beefy forearm. As he lowered it, he flexed his fingers and the line of rings glittered.
Anthony stared at him for a while with undisguised contempt, then said, “All right. I’m willing to go ahead with the deal.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe I’m not.” Steve’s legs were braced and his fists were clenched at his sides. His whole muscular frame was vibrating. He kept quiet for a long moment, but his face was working. He was turning what Anthony had said to him over and over in his mind, and liking it less each time. Finally he said, “How do I know you’re not a Fed?”
“Leonard vouched for me. Look, if you don’t go through with this deal, Leonard will never set anything up with you again.”
“I gotta be careful,” Steve said. “That heap you’re driving looks like it’s right out of the motor pool. You dress like a Fed. And you’re a tight-assed bastard like a Fed.”
“You don’t really think I’m an undercover agent,” said Anthony in a weary tone. “Let’s get this over with. Show me the stuff and I’ll give you your money.”
Steve stepped right up to Anthony. The older man held his ground, his arms hanging at his sides and his face blank. Steve grinned and bent forward, as if speaking into a microphone under Anthony’s coat. “What stuff? What money? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re wasting—”
“I’m gonna search you, Anthony.”
The older man’s high forehead wrinkled with disgust. “That won’t do you any good. I haven’t got the money on me.”
“I’m not looking for the money. I’m looking for a wire.”
“That’s ridiculous. Will you—”
Steve grabbed him by the shoulders and roughly spun him around and pushed him. Anthony had to throw out his arms and catch himself against the roof of his car. Steve patted him down roughly but sloppily, with no real effort to be thorough. It was obvious that he didn’t really think Anthony was a Fed. He just wanted to lay hands on him, push him around. Show him who was boss.
“Nothing,” said Steve, as if disappointed, backing away. “Say, where you keep your wallet?”
Anthony turned around, lowering his arms. He hadn’t resisted the frisking, but it didn’t seem to have intimidated him either. “The money for you isn’t in my wallet. It’s well hidden. If you want it, show me the stuff.”
“I’m not trying to steal your money. I want to know who the fuck you are. ’Cause everything about you is wrong, pal.”
“Leonard—”
“Shut up!” Steve turned his head to look at the car. “I bet your wallet’s in the glove compartment.”
“It isn’t.”
For the first time there was a trace of apprehension in the older man’s voice. Steve picked up on it and grinned. “Sure it is. Straight citizen like you isn’t gonna go out driving without his license. You’re scared you might end up in jail. Never been in jail, have you, Anthony?”
“Please don’t search the car,” said Anthony. It didn’t sound like a plea, though. It sounded like a warning.
Steve’s head reared back. He stared at Anthony, blinking rapidly. Then he backpedaled until he reached the driver’s door of his Camaro. Keeping his eyes on Anthony, he reached inside through the window.
His hand came out holding a heavy, long-barreled revolver. “Now we’re gonna see what’s in your car.”
“I told you, there’s nothing.”
Steve stepped over to Anthony’s car and reached for the passenger door handle. Then he hesitated. The hand dropped.
“Come over here.”
Anthony approached. His hands were still hanging limply at his sides.
Steve said, “Get in the car, open the glove compartment door, and take out whatever’s in there.”
Anthony did as he was told. Steve kept the gun trained on him as he sat down in the car. His hand emerged from the glove compartment holding a folded piece of paper. “This is all,” he said. “You can come and look for yourself, the glove compartment’s empty. I left my wallet and license behind.”
Anthony was holding the folded piece of paper to his chest protectively. Steve noticed. “What is that?”
“Nothing. Just a calendar.”
“Let’s see it.”
Anthony hesitated.
“Listen, I’ve had about enough from you, Mr. Tight-Ass. I want to see that piece of paper and I got the gun, so don’t fuck with me.”
Anthony slowly extended his hand through the open car door and Steve snatched the paper from him.
“Now put both your hands on the dashboard where I can see ’em. And don’t move.”
Anthony obeyed. He let out his breath in a long sigh.
Steve was unfolding the calendar on the hood of the car.
“You see,” Anthony said, “it’s just a calendar.”
“No, not just a calendar.” Steve sounded amused, mocking. “You put a lot of work into this, didn’t you? You’re crossing off the days. That why you brought this along with you, so you wouldn’t miss crossing off today? I bet you have to wait till exactly midnight and then you make your X. I knew a guy like that once. Course, he had an excuse, he was in prison. But you’re just a tight-ass.”
Anthony didn’t reply.
“Is this really April sixth already?” said Steve. “I thought it was the fourth, but no, it’s Tuesday, so I guess you’re right.”
He ran his finger down the page. Anthony watched, his face impassive.
“Hey, you wrote little numbers in each square. You’re counting off days, aren’t you? Sixteen . . . fifteen . . . fourteen.” His finger ran down toward the bottom of the page. “Three, two, one, and here’s the big day, April twenty-second. All colored in red. So what happens on April twenty-second?”
Anthony said, “An event.”
“Oh, yeah? That when you’re gonna use the stuff I’m selling you?”
Anthony didn’t answer, but Steve didn’t seem to mind. He was grinning through the windshield at the older man, enjoying his humiliation. Anthony continued looking at the calendar. The raindrops on the hood were soaking into the paper and the ink was smudging and running.
“Hey, we’re not done, are we? I see we’re counting down again.” Steve flipped the page over. “What is thi
s? You cut the page off on May fifteenth.”
Anthony said, “It doesn’t matter what happens after May fifteenth.”
Steve was grinning and shaking his head. Without noticing, he’d lowered the gun so that it was no longer pointing at Anthony. He said, “So May fifteenth, you figure that’s the Grand Calypso, right?”
“What?”
“The Grand Calypso. The end of the world. Behold the seas shall smoke, and the Beast with four eyes and six dicks shall come forth, leading the armies of Satan or the United Nations or whoever. And you’re gonna be there to take ’em on in the last battle.”
Anthony sat there patiently, with his eyes downcast and his hands on the dashboard. “Can we get on with it?”
“Sure, sure. I just wanted to know who I was dealing with, and now I do. Straight citizen on the outside, total nutso on the inside.”
He held out the calendar, which was now damp and ink-stained. Anthony slowly lifted one hand from the dashboard, took it, and put it away.
“Get out of the car,” Steve said.
Anthony complied. He stood motionless while Steve backed away to his own car and reached inside. He brought out a cardboard box, the same size as a shoebox. The sides were grease-stained, like a fast-food container.
He slapped it down hard on the trunk of Anthony’s car, watching Anthony with a grin, as if he expected this to make him jump. It didn’t.
Anthony looked out at the road. No cars were coming. He opened the box. Inside was what looked like a large lump of wet clay.
“There you go,” said Steve. “C-4, prime U.S. Army Special Forces plastic explosive.”
“I was expecting more,” said Anthony. He used the same dry, demanding tone he’d used when complaining about Steve’s lateness. It was as if the search and the confrontation over the map hadn’t happened.
“You got twenty ounces there, for Christ’s sake. You got any idea how powerful that stuff is? This is enough to blow down a couple of good-size buildings. You remember Pan Am 103? The airliner the ragheads brought down over Scotland? They did that with a bomb stuffed in a minicassette player. Ten inches by seven. You’ve got four times as much here.”
“That was Semtex, not C-4,” said Anthony.
“Same thing, basically,” Steve said. Anthony’s comment had surprised him. He looked sideways at him. “You know something about explosives?”
Anthony was still looking down at the grayish lump in the box. He said, “Yes. I haven’t worked with plastique before, though.”
“This is great shit, man. You can roll it like dough, mold it like putty, or fold it like paper. And it’s damn near undetectable by security equipment.” Steve had shifted into salesman mode, now that his wares were on display. He seemed to have forgotten the confrontation of a few minutes before in his enthusiasm.
“Taggants?” asked Anthony.
Steve gave him another sideways look. Taggants were chemical markers that made it possible for investigators to trace the explosive used in a bombing back to its manufacturer. Steve said, “Hey, Anthony. You really do know what you’re talking about, don’t you? I thought I finally had you figured. You were one of those nutcases with an AK-47 under the bed and a six-month supply of canned food in the basement. I figured you wanted the C-4 just to make you feel like a bad dude. But that ain’t you, is it?”
“Taggants?” said Anthony again.
Steve rolled his eyes and sighed, “This is manufactured exclusively for the military. There are no taggants. That’s one thing makes it better than Semtex. They got different laws in Europe, where Semtex is manufactured.”
Anthony said, “Where did you get this?”
“It was stolen from an Army base. I’m not gonna tell you which one.”
“Tell me when.”
Steve was growing irritated again. It was plain on his face, but Anthony wasn’t looking at him. “Don’t worry about it. They won’t know it’s missing.”
“I need to know that it’s stable,” said Anthony testily.
“You can see for yourself, it’s sweating.” He pointed to the grease stains on the box.
“C-4 always does that. It’s not unstable. It’s U.S. Army issue. The stuff the Special Forces guys train with. Now, you want it or not?”
Anthony considered, then shrugged. “You never know till you run some tests anyway,” he murmured, more to himself than to Steve. He put the lid back on the box. “I’ll get you your money.” He picked up the box and started to turn away.
“Put the box down,” said Steve. He backed away a few steps, raising his gun. He was blinking rapidly, nervously.
Anthony put the C-4 down on the trunk of his car. “You don’t need that,” he said.
“Look. I don’t know who you are or what the fuck you’re planning. I don’t want to know. All I want is my money.”
“Then let me give it to you.”
Steve’s face was a mask of wariness. He dropped into a shooter’s stance, knees bent, both arms out, with the left hand cradling the gun hand.
“You give me a real bad feeling, pal, you know that? Don’t do anything till I tell you, and then do it slow. I mean that. Be real careful or you’re going to get yourself shot.”
“You’ve already searched me. You know I’m not armed.” There was no trace of fear, or any other emotion, in Anthony’s voice.
“Where’s the money?”
Anthony made a small gesture with his hand. “Right here in the wheel well.”
“The wheel well. Now that’s a real smart place to hide it. Christ, it prob’ly fell off by now. Or got soaking wet.”
“No. It’s in a special carrier I made myself. It’s fine. I’ll tell you exactly where it is, if you want to get it yourself.”
“No way. I want you to get it for me.”
Anthony knelt by the side of his car. He moved slowly and carefully. Steve continued to keep the pistol trained on him as he reached in behind the wheel. There was a metallic scrape, as of something sliding off a bracket.
“Freeze!” Steve yelled, and Anthony froze.
“Now you’re gonna bring your hands out of there real slow,” Steve said. “Real slow.”
When he was finished speaking, he took a step to his left, so he wouldn’t be standing where Anthony had last seen him. He was blinking more rapidly than ever.
Very slowly, Anthony drew a small metal box into the light where Steve could see it. It was spattered with mud.
“Okay.” Steve relaxed a little. “Get up.”
Anthony rose and held out the hand with the box in it.
“You take out the cash.”
Anthony slid the lid of the box down, a fraction of an inch at a time. With the same deliberation he lifted out the thick stack of bills.
Steve was just close enough to make out the features of Ulysses S. Grant on the top bill. He grinned, for the first time in several minutes. “Put the money down on the roof of the car and back away.”
Anthony obeyed.
“Farther back.”
Anthony took two more steps. He was now standing in the center of the bare concrete apron. Once again his arms hung at his sides.
Steve came forward. Shifting the gun to his left hand, he picked up the money in his right. His grinning mouth turned down. “Shit! I knew it. This is wet.”
“No,” Anthony said. “The container is watertight.”
“It’s wet. Oh, Christ, it’s sticky too. You jerk off on this or what?”
He laid the gun down on the roof within easy reach and grasped the paper band that held the money. He kept his eyes on Anthony, who remained motionless. Or seemed to. In fact, he made one move too small for Steve to see: He closed his eyes.
As Steve tore the paper it made a pop! like a child’s Christmas cracker. There was a flash as the money and Steve’s hands caught fire.
Steve screamed. Instinctively he tried to put out the flames by tucking his hands under his arms. His shirt caught fire. His screams redoubled as he sank to his kn
ees and toppled over.
Anthony was watching. His expression didn’t change. Unhurriedly he reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief, which he used to wipe off the napalm that had stuck to his own hands as he passed the money to Steve. Then he dropped the handkerchief and advanced. He picked up the gun. Steve was shrieking and rolling around on the concrete in paroxysms of agony. Anthony, standing over him, took a long time lining up the shot. He fired once. The bullet cut off Steve’s scream and he was still.
Anthony slid the gun into his raincoat pocket. He stood listening for a moment, but it was just as quiet now as it had been before Steve arrived. The only sounds were traffic on the distant highway and water dripping from the trees.
Anthony went to his car and took out a whisk broom and a small dustpan. Bending down, he shuffled back and forth over the concrete around the body, brushing up ashes and charred flakes of paper, which were all that was left of the wad he’d handed Steve. It was just white paper, in fact: Only the top and bottom bills had been real. There was a nauseating smell of burned fabric and roasted flesh, but it didn’t seem to bother Anthony. He kept on brushing until he had every last flake.
Carrying the full dustpan carefully, he brought it back to his car and put it inside. Then he picked up his handkerchief. A last look around assured him he was leaving nothing behind except for Steve’s car and Steve himself.
He took the box of C-4 off the trunk lid and got in the car, where he put it on the passenger-side floor. Then he started the car, switched on the headlights, and bumped back onto the road.
As he drove, the sky darkened and the rain began again. He switched on his headlights and wipers. The big green reflective sign for Interstate 44 came up. But Anthony pulled onto the shoulder before reaching the entrance ramp.
Leaning back, he shut his eyes and kneaded his forehead. Then he sat forward and reached into the glove compartment for the calendar. He frowned to see the smears and runs, but the numbers he’d written in were still legible.
