by Vince Milam
We ate the cobbler with vanilla ice cream and followed it with brandy and coffee. Marcus and Miriam said good-night and wandered off together. Irene yawned and said, “I better get going as well.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
Driveway gravel crunched, and whiffs of fireplace smoke drifted. The moment held the potential of awkward and weird, but neither of us went there.
“So I won’t see you for a couple of months,” Irene said, taking both my hands.
“That’s likely.”
“I’m glad we stopped last night. On the couch.”
“Me too.”
“It would have made this ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’ business very uncomfortable.”
“Yes, it would.”
“So a couple of things before the final Titanic passionate kiss.”
“Okay.”
She started, stopped, half smiled, and continued. “You’re very good looking. The whole rugged thing works. So there’s that.”
“You’re not too shabby in the looks department, Ms. Collins.”
“No quid pro quo expected with my statement.”
“None given.”
She laughed. “And I’m not afraid of you anymore. I don’t mean physically. Afraid of the type of man you are. You may remember my little soliloquy this morning.”
“Do indeed. And well done, you.” I meant it. A sea change of perspective, with Case no longer the stone-cold killer, waiting to explode. Although I doubted she’d finished crossing that river.
“And you’ve got a way about you. Appealing, I think. I’m still analyzing it.”
“Ditto.”
We both laughed.
“And part of your appeal—and I’m just being honest—is there aren’t exactly a lot of men here in the middle of nowhere.”
“A fair statement.”
“An observation highlighted during my last LA trip. It was almost weird with so many men around.”
“I suppose.”
“You don’t suppose jack, mister.” She carried a half smile, at best. “You listen, but I don’t know what you think. Other than there’s the Case Lee path, and then there’s everyone else.”
“Bit harsh.”
“I’m not saying it’s self-centered or egotistical. But you’ve adopted a strange road in life.”
“No disagreement here.”
She looked away, still holding both hands, twisting her head toward an overcast night sky. Jake’s dog tags rattled. He’d followed us and sat in the midst of a good hind-foot-on-ear scratch.
“So when is that going to change?” She locked eyes with me and shifted closer.
“Working on it.”
“Work harder.”
“Sometimes life calls the shots.”
“Is this your metaphysical side talking?”
“You ought to meet my friend Bo. I pale in comparison.” Mentioning Bo caused a grin. I couldn’t help it.
“I’m serious.”
“I know. Me too. And I’d like seeing you next time I pass through.”
“How appealing. Passing through.”
“I’m not moving to Montana, Irene.”
“I know.” She looked away again.
“I like our chats over the phone.” I did. Irregular, but grounded and honest and welcome.
“So we leave it at that.” She turned back. “Visits, phone calls. We could both do better.”
“You could. Don’t know about me.”
She initiated the kiss. Long, lingering, with a hint of sadness. There were no further words as she climbed into her pickup. A final wave. How final I couldn’t tell.
Chapter 26
I landed in Norfolk, Virginia, late evening. Billings, Dallas, Norfolk—geographically roundabout and the shortest trip. Go figure. I instructed the Uber driver to drop me off at a location several industrial blocks from the Ace of Spades, moored in Chesapeake. I prefer Uber. It afforded me a front passenger seat and a nondescript vehicle. The seating came with a side-view mirror, which I adjusted to capture following traffic. No longer the big skies of out west, I now traveled through turf filled with players, espionage, and threats. Unarmed, the airport-to-Ace leg kept the danger meter at a healthy level of paranoia.
Eating miles of lonely road toward the Billings airport, Marcus and I joked, told tales of past acquaintances, and contemplated future plans. I promised a return trip when summer showed. And twisted his arm, again, about taking a break with me on the Ace. We didn’t mention Irene—a relationship and connection placed in a mutual mental drawer, revisited down the road.
“What’s next?” he asked, dropping me off at the terminal.
“Cruise. Visit Mom and CC.”
“And the next job?”
“Up to the infamous gnomes of Zurich.”
“Any thoughts on a gumshoe gig? Stateside?”
“Cheating spouses, tax evasion?”
“More low-key investigating. Information gathered in benign settings.”
“And miss out on flying arrows? Are you nuts?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“No argument here.” We laughed, shook hands, and waved sad goodbyes. I missed him before he pulled away.
The old industrial area of Chesapeake held little traffic this late at night. We hadn’t been followed. The Uber driver, a nice lady earning extra bucks for her kid’s education, expressed concern at my drop-off spot.
“There’s nothing here.”
“It’s all right.”
“You sure? Not a great part of town.”
“I’m sure. Thanks.” I slipped her a twenty, an extra tip.
Rucksack slung over my back, I sought the darkest portions of the street and maneuvered toward the small set of docks tucked behind a run-down warehouse. I scaled a chain-link fence and worked along the warehouse side, through weeds and junk and broken glass. And waited. The Elizabeth River, wide and slow, reflected moonlight.
A couple of dozen boat slips held recreational cruisers, river workboats, several small sailboats. And the Ace of Spades. Home. She tugged with the breeze against the securing lines. Her wooden hull a throwback among the fiberglass and aluminum hulls occupying the other slips. A future paint job awaited, along with minor repairs. But the Ace took me from point to point without fail, cruising at a sedate twelve knots. Reliability trumped appearance, every time.
Two overhead pier lights cast dim circles. The intermittent breeze pulled the vessels against their tie-ups. Ropes creaked, joining the soft thuds of boat bumpers against slip dividers. The air held river water with a hint of estuarial life. And diesel and creosote and aged metallic junk spread across the warehouse alley.
Fifteen minutes later I passed under one of the lights and boarded home base. The trip wires and preventative measures were untouched. My flashlight lit the belowdecks interior and engine space. All clean. I checked the foredeck. The heirloom tomato plants, purchased at a farmer’s market, had been watered as requested. The patched and dilapidated recliner under the foredeck tarp beckoned, as did a Grey Goose cocktail. But first things first.
The Glock pistol was retrieved and tucked into jeans. I also brought the AR-15 assault rifle up to the wheelhouse. The windows of the small wheelhouse were bulletproof. During a hot-fire situation, it made for a helluva Alamo. I perched in the wheelhouse, poured a drink, and scanned the area. The paranoia lowered, along with my blood pressure.
Two items remained before putting a bow on the PNG gig and cruising the Ditch. Jules of the Clubhouse, and the director of clandestine operations. I’d contacted Jules via the deep web earlier and requested a meeting tomorrow, any time before late afternoon. At her convenience. She hadn’t replied. Yet. You never knew with Jules.
And I’d call and set up a meeting with Marilyn Townsend for tomorrow night. Francis Scott Key Park in Georgetown. A tiny memorial park near the heart of DC and not far from Langley. Little visited, it offered a small island of seclusion and plenty of positions for her security detail. And
nearby parking spots—available at night—assured Marilyn wouldn’t have a long walk. She’d taken a bullet at some point in her career and walked with a cane. None of us in Delta knew the backstory and never would.
Jules first, a conscious decision. An attempt at gaining insights for the Townsend conversation. And capture any relevant information she might share, or sell, that pertained to keeping Case Lee vertical and breathing.
Morning brought a sense of normalcy. Workboats fired, their diesel engines rumbling. Life on the river began early. Forklifts worked nearby warehouses, eighteen-wheelers rattled down industrial roads. Gulls squawked, wings locked with the breeze. A glorious spring morning, with a hint of arriving warmth. I fired the old foredeck two-burner propane unit and made coffee. Workboats moved into the river, crews waved, and their wakes brought a languid bob on board the Ace. Life was good.
I checked the deep web. Jules had started her day. The message read Two o’clock. Her usual succinct style with electronic communiqués. Good. Now Townsend. Coffee poured, I settled in the foredeck lounger, the throne. She answered after two rings.
“Director, Case Lee.”
“Might I assume you are in the area?”
I hated such stuff first thing in the morning. A legitimate question, perhaps. Or the Company network may have alerted her last night. Facial recognition software could have spotted me at the Norfolk airport. In which case she knew perfectly well I was in the area.
“I hope this evening is convenient for you, Director.”
She remained silent. Tradecraft, working me. Jeez, too early in the day for this BS.
“I’m leaving town tomorrow morning,” I continued.
A true statement. The Ace and I headed south twenty-four hours from now. Adios, Spookville. Hello, Ditch life.
“Tonight is acceptable.”
“Francis Scott Key Park. Eight.”
“How clandestine. Wouldn’t you prefer a nice establishment nearby?”
No, I wouldn’t. Too many people, too much opportunity for one of her agents to get close. Outdoors, a quiet place, my turf.
“I’d prefer the park.”
Silence. I waited her out.
“Fine. I look forward to it, Mr. Lee.”
“As do I, Director.”
She hung up.
I spent the a.m. futzing on the Ace, fired the engine, and checked marine functions. Took Uber to the nearest grocery store and bought provisions, including a bag of black licorice—Jules’s favorite. A quick shower, sandwich, and off for the Clubhouse.
A forty-five minute walk, well needed. It cleared my head and loosened muscles. I carried a money clip of Benjamins, licorice, and the Glock. No electronic devices were allowed in the Clubhouse. Breaking that rule brought consequences of the fed-to-the-pigs kind.
My usual Clubhouse trips included index cards with transactional information handwritten. Trading cards, Clubhouse poker, for substantial bucks. The actual monetary amount always nebulous as she kept track on an old wooden abacus. The final tally was delivered at the end of the meeting. No arguments allowed.
Jules exchanged information with two formats, both in person. Either oral as we spoke across her old desk or handwritten. She was adamant about the index cards and not some other form of hard copy. Her Clubhouse, her rules. The oh-so-brief deep web messages from her—rare—were kept cryptic. She didn’t trust electronic communications. Her skepticism and caution kept her alive for years, and Jules wasn’t about to change. I intended oral transactions.
“A simple and honest broker of information,” she’d often described herself. I supposed she was honest—with fog and obfuscation wafted about, covering unknowns or details she chose not to reveal. Simple, however, she wasn’t. Of indeterminate age and origin, Jules serviced a variety of clientele. Clandestine government and military services, industrial spies, and the likes of yours truly. For whatever reason, she held a soft spot for me. I think.
The run-down neighborhood showed little improvement approaching the Filipino dry cleaners. I slowed and ensured no patrons occupied the downstairs business. The bells tied around the inside door handle rang as I entered, greeted with noncommittal stares. A successful small business, the dry cleaning establishment held an advantage over competitors. They worked rent-free in exchange for certain moonlighting endeavors required of their upstairs patron. One of which consisted of cleaning up the mess after the building’s owner blew someone away. You wanted to remain on Jules’s good side.
The Glock was laid on the counter. Other hands covered it with nearby articles of clothing. The woman behind the counter expressed no emotion. I’d retrieve the weapon when I left. Her expression wouldn’t change.
A nondescript door opened to stairs, leading upward. At the landing above me, a small window and the sole source of light. Each step brought a wooden squeak, and I’d attempted altering my footsteps over the years to avoid the noise. Without luck. A steel door at the top waited.
I considered allergies, a big deal. Jules was afflicted and held her sneezes in. At each held-in jerk of her body, she snatched the double-barrel sawed-off shotgun off the desk. A defensive posture during a spit second of vulnerability. Bad enough during a normal Clubhouse sit-down. But she greeted everyone, including me, with the weapon pointed our way. And I’d yet to experience what happened when a sneeze manifested during the walk-in segment of the meeting, her finger on the trigger. An experience best avoided.
Two knocks, an electronic buzz, and the door unlocked with a clang. Large twin barrels stared at me. Jules smiled, face against the wooden stock of the weapon. Her usual latex finger covers—preventing the spread of fingerprints—were absent. A change. Closer inspection showed a dried glisten, highlighted by the harsh light from the desk lamp. She’d dipped her fingertips in a form of sealant. No allergic reactions presented. An auspicious start.
Chapter 27
“Turn, dear. Turn and present my own private Ahab.”
I did. A pirouette of sorts. One hand held the money clip, the other, licorice. The allegory of chasing the white whale wasn’t lost on me.
“Thank you,” she continued. “Now sit, sit.”
She signaled with the shotgun’s barrel toward one of two wooden chairs. The door closed, the electronic lock clacked, and I tossed the licorice on her desktop. It slid across worn wood and stopped short of the ever-present embedded KA-BAR knife.
“How you doing, Jules?”
Her appearance hadn’t changed. Short-cropped hair, ragged, with clear signs of a DIY haircut. The black eye-patch band hid among the thatch.
“Borderline marvelous. A condition, I hasten to add, enhanced by a possibility.”
“Tell me.”
“A possibility the little package of goodness so cavalierly tossed my way is, in fact, for me.”
Her good eye crinkled with humor or anticipation or a spiderlike assessment of me. You never knew with Jules.
“All yours.”
She cackled and slid the top of the cellophane against the vertical knife blade. A light touch, the package opened, the tool razor sharp.
“You are a dear boy. Goodness!”
A piece of the candy popped home, she leaned back. Her old office chair squeaked.
“I’m a simple man. And appreciate simple pleasures, even when they aren’t mine.”
“Hmm.” She sucked and chewed and viewed me, silent.
The old Casablanca movie poster—her lone decorative piece—gone. Its former spot on the steel wall now occupied by a Cirque du Soleil poster, acrobats balanced. The chain-pull overhead bulb reflected off its surface. A steel cabinet, closed, rounded out the usual decor.
“You’ve redecorated.”
“A French motif. If nothing else, they do tend to put on a marvelous show.”
“I’ve heard.”
“And have you heard, dear, of the swirl around your latest little adventure?”
“Gears turn.”
She cackled again. “I shall consume one
more.” She plucked another licorice. “And hold the remaining in reserve. You failed to bring information.”
No index cards. She had, of course, noticed.
“I’d prefer an oral transaction.”
Chewing, she said, “Fine, fine. But first, allow me to ask of you. Are you well?”
“Very well. Thank you.”
She opened a desk drawer and removed a thin black cigar. Then placed the sealed end against the KA-BAR’s blade.
“And no physiological tokens of your little jungle jaunt?” she asked.
She would twirl the cigar against the blade and cut off the sealed end. Eventually. But she waited, one eagle eye drilling. A test, perhaps, of my truthfulness. Word of my injury may have hit the Clubhouse. Or she made a high-odds guess I carried remnants of the job. Few of my gigs failed to extract their pound of flesh. Either way, an exercise displaying her prescient skill set. A “nothing escapes Jules” statement. Fine.
“Arrow. Upper chest. It’s healing.”
The cigar twirled and the end fell on the desktop. Jules fished in the top pocket of her shirt for a kitchen match and fired it on the arm of her chair. Her eye never left me during the process. Smoke blew toward the ceiling, her head cocked.
“I shall issue a statement,” she said. “One which will cause your testosterone hackles to flare.”
“I’ll limit the chest thumping. For obvious reasons.”
“A few years ago that wouldn’t have happened.” She pointed the cigar toward my chest. “The unfortunate meeting of an arrow midflight.”
“Okay.”
“Age. An element of our existence we must all abide.”
“So I’m not as spry as I once was. Not a big deal.”
“A substantial deal when one’s occupation involves sharp flying objects. Or blunt ones.”
She meant bullets. Another variant of the talk, delivered this time by Jules of the Clubhouse.
“Let’s talk about those turning gears.”
She held the stare beyond my comfort level, then lifted the old wooden abacus and sent the black balls sliding against the upper railings. The store was open.
