by Vince Milam
Shorts, leather sandals, and a loose button-up Hawaiian shirt, untucked. The shirt displayed palm trees and coconuts on an aqua background. When in Rome, baby. And it hid the waistband-tucked Glock. The Lava Lava Beach Club—how much weed was smoked coming up with that name?—was a few miles away. I kept an eye as always on following traffic, which turned into a futile exercise as the restaurant and bar was clearly popular with folks. Several vehicles turned into the parking lot with me. Early, I sought a corner or more isolated table where Jess and I could speak with relative privacy.
The place had a funky beach atmosphere—an open-air layout with wooden deck. Closer to the water, cushioned lounge chairs and small side tables were sprinkled across the sand under palm trees. A tiny nearby stage showcased a woman playing guitar and singing folk songs from the sixties and seventies. A relaxed place, well chosen, and more crowded by the minute. I chose a two-lounge-chair arrangement with a small table. It sat farthest away from the noisier covered seating, in the setting-sun shade of a large palm tree’s trunk. I ordered a coconut Mai Tai and settled in, sunglasses on, back toward the ocean, facing the crowd.
Then spookville joined me and ruined the relaxed vibe. He approached through the on-holiday tourists, attired in khakis and tucked-in polo shirt and shades. An Asian man in his late thirties displaying an enigmatic smile. He halted alongside the empty lounger and turned his head, taking in the ocean view. I knew what he was, and was pretty sure he knew I knew.
He turned toward me and asked, “Do you mind if I join you for a moment, Mr. Lee?”
Zero accent. Not unexpected as the other MSS—Ministry of State Security—spies I’d run into looked and acted and spoke like UCLA graduates. Hell, most of them probably were. I extended a hand toward the empty chair as response. A waiter approached as he sat.
“No, thank you,” he said to the waiter. “I will not stay long.”
“Well, there’s some good news,” I said. “Otherwise we’d have to get to know each other.”
His smile widened.
“We always find you most interesting, Mr. Lee. My country tends to produce men who are, how shall I say this, more restrained.”
Yeah, whatever. MSS hadn’t shown a lot of restraint when they pushed proxies to whack me during a Caribbean job.
“Are you going to introduce yourself? And should I keep a close watch on this Mai Tai so no inadvertent poison drops in it?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “No, I do not believe introductions are necessary. I know who you are, and that is sufficient. And please enjoy your beverage. I mean you no harm.”
I lifted the icy drink, took a sip, and kept a grip on the glass. You never freakin’ knew.
“How was your audience with Mr. Krupp?” he asked, the smile reduced to a tight-lipped expression.
“Jim-dandy.”
So MSS tracked the comings and goings of Krupp’s compound. My headspace filled with disappointment, but little surprise. When I told Jules I’d entered a spook-free zone it was delivered with both sincerity and hope. Hope, always a frail vessel, was now tossed out the window.
“Ah. May I ask the purpose of the meeting?”
“Nope.”
“I see.” He cocked his head. We’d yet to eyeball each other, both with dark sunglasses. “Then may I express a concern?”
“Is it a brief concern, or does it include phase two of the Cultural Revolution? Because I already have a pretty good grip on that.”
Mao Zedong and the Chinese Communist Party launched the Cultural Revolution during the nineteen sixties and seventies. It cost the lives of millions of Chinese and inflicted cruel treatment on tens of millions more. The Cultural Revolution had sprung to mind when Hoolie explained the Chinese government’s social credit system, aided and abetted—it was suspected—by Krupp and Alaton. The analogies were blatant as hell and hard to avoid and left me with a sour taste. As for confirmation that Alaton had had a hand in the Chicoms’s current system development, proof sat across from me wearing bright new Nike sneakers. My dig at his country’s past elicited zero response, and he plowed ahead.
“It is a brief concern,” he said. “My country is engaged with Mr. Krupp in a commercial endeavor, and we wish for no disruptions.”
He lowered his sunglasses. I returned the favor as we locked eyes.
“Over the last few hours, I have learned about your background, Mr. Lee. I must say, disruptive is a most appropriate descriptive of your typical activities.”
Yeah, well, most of those activities kept Case Lee Inc.’s CEO and bottle-washer in the vertical position. But I wasn’t exchanging information or pleasantries or threats with this spook, so I kept silent. Seconds ticked off. He lifted his sunglasses back into place. I reciprocated.
“Our hope is your stay in Hawaii is brief and nonconfrontational,” he continued. “That would not appear to be too much to ask.”
I remained silent. Condensation from the Mai Tai glass rolled down my hand, people around us chattered, and the sun approached the horizon. A Lava Lava employee meandered about lighting the Tiki torches planted in the ground among the lounge chairs. The Chinese spook stood.
“I would also express it is my sincere wish for this to be the last time we have any cause to meet. Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Lee.”
I lifted the drink glass as a goodbye response, and he turned and walked away. At least we share the same sincere wish, bud. A waitress passed, and I ordered another drink, irritated. To begin with, this was US turf. This MSS clown carried an air that lacked any and all recognition of such a reality. Yeah, he had ironclad cover as a legit businessman, no doubt, but still. It grated. And he’d tailed me after my departure from Krupp’s place. I wasn’t fond of spooks tailing me and disappointed in myself for not picking up on it. I’d let my guard down. It also tainted this whole gig. I had sincere hopes as well that this would be the first and last time the MSS spook and I would meet, but now the job was polluted with an espionage element—the last thing I wanted. And buried not-so-deep, another threat. Implied, sure, but there. Screw you, buddy.
On the other hand, it was valued intel collected, which would make it into Global Resolutions’s report. Which opened the door for wider speculation on the entity who’d contacted them to investigate Krupp and Alaton. I’d worked the game long enough and couldn’t dismiss that it might have been MSS. The Chicoms covered all the bases. A messed-up worldview, but we lived in a messed-up world, a fact emphasized when daylight illuminated the shadows.
“I’m worried about something.”
The voice arrived from several yards off to my side. Jess Rossi. Brunette hair cut short, pretty, mid-to-late thirties. She wore shorts, sandals, and a navy sleeveless top. And sported a great tan and a mile-wide smile.
“Worried?”
“Yes. I’m worried you aren’t going to find replacement batteries for your shirt.”
I had to laugh. Jess Rossi, wearing a wide smile, had arrived.
Chapter 7
“Who was the visitor?” she asked and tossed a thumb toward the exit path of the MSS spook.
“You don’t want to know.”
“You may be wrong as rain on that score.”
A different waitress arrived with my drink. I shifted the sunglasses to the top of my head.
“What’s that?” she asked and pointed toward my cocktail.
“Coconut Mai Tai.”
She addressed the waitress. “What might you have with pineapple? I’ve been on a bit of a pineapple jag the last several days.”
The young lady offered something called a Shark Bite.
“Is it mostly alcohol?” Jess asked.
She replied with a sincere laugh and an “Absolutely.”
“That would be perfect. Thanks.” She shifted in the chair, suntanned legs crossed. “Now as for you, man of mystery, who was that guy?”
Bold as brass, full of great humor, blunt and irreverent and, well, mighty attractive. Mercy.
“How’d you kno
w who I was?”
She raised a single eyebrow.
“I knew you’d arrive early and alone. Do you happen to see any other guys sitting alone?”
“I wasn’t alone when you arrived.”
“Your visitor didn’t have a drink. Your visitor didn’t order a drink. And your visitor left after a few minutes. I hope I don’t come across as overly suspicious, but you don’t strike me as the private investigator type.”
It was weird how with some folks, a very few folks, it’s better to lower your guard and speak the truth. Truth without obfuscation or hidden agendas or ulterior motives. Jess Rossi was one of those rare folks. Maybe it was her professional style, honed and practiced and validated during her PI career. Hard to say, but I went with full-blown honesty.
“This type of contract isn’t up my usual alley, Jess.” I paused to take a sip and plowed ahead. “I mean, I’ve contracted with a European client for years. Different types of gigs in varied and, well, less sedate settings.”
“Which makes sense. I didn’t figure you picked up those souvenirs in Malibu.” She pointed toward several old scars along my thighs and calves. Nothing obvious, well healed, but there nonetheless. “They’re not unsightly or anything. Please don’t take it that way and forgive me for mentioning them if you’re sensitive about such things. I’m certainly not. Former military?”
“Yep.”
“Special ops?”
“Yep again. And we should dead-end that conversational train.”
“I understand,” she said as her drink arrived. “And I didn’t mean to pry into sensitive areas. Ah, an umbrella in the glass. Yes, indeed. Are you hungry?”
“Not at the moment. Still in recovery from being run over with the Jess Rossi freight train.”
She laughed, took a sip, settled back, and hummed, “Mmm, Mmm, Mmm,” with eyes closed. A solid pineapple fan. And a person who knew what she was doing. She’d sussed my background and nailed my lack of experience in the gumshoe business. And kept the communication doors wide open. But there was something else. An edge, hidden, but sharp and honed and prepared. A former cop, maybe. Detective.
“A vacuum cleaner salesman?” she asked.
“What?”
“Your visitor.”
Dog on a bone, she wouldn’t allow her earlier question to languish.
“MSS. Ministry of State Security. A Chinese spy.”
“Ooh.” Her hazel eyes sparkled as she sipped Shark Bite through the straw. “I wonder why I don’t get such interesting interactions?”
“Wrong line of work, I suppose.”
We both laughed.
“A solid point, man-who-cavorts-with-spies. I tend to have the dubious pleasure of interactions with cheating spouses, irate business partners, pissed-off siblings fighting over wills, and the occasional untimely death. It might come with a bit of mystery, particularly with a dead body or two tossed in. But zip, zero intrigue. I’m jealous.”
“On the flip side, you’re not dodging bullets or shrapnel or arrows. So, there is that.”
“Activities I could do without, granted. I’m hungry, so join me for a quick nosh and another drink. My client covers all expenses. So let’s have something to eat. The sun sets, we’re in Hawaii, and I have a gentleman across from me who appears to be not too unruly.”
A North Carolina accent. Subdued, but there. She plucked a menu from the small table, took another sip, and sang a line from a Bob Marley tune with a low, soft voice while she perused the menu. Man, I was in over my head. She’d controlled our interaction from the get-go, led me by the nose. Mercy. I tossed a conversational gambit on the table, feeble but grounded in something I knew about. A lot about.
“Do you carry in your line of work? Just asking out of curiosity.”
She didn’t look up, focused on the food selection.
“A .45 Kimber is tucked in my purse. I assume your weapon of choice is cleverly hidden under the electric shirt.” She glanced my way. “I hope you weren’t offended by the sartorial joke. It’s actually a nice shirt.”
“No offense taken.”
She returned to perusing the menu. I relaxed, sipped the drink, and enjoyed the stunning setting.
“As for weapons, are you checking availability in case there’s an imminent shore invasion of some sorts? Have I missed landing craft on the horizon?”
She raised her head from the menu and smiled. One of the waitstaff arrived. Jess ordered coconut shrimp and grilled ahi and kimchi chicken wings. And another drink for us both.
“If you don’t mind, we’ll share,” she said once the waitress left. “I’d like a taste of everything. So tell me about the Chinese gentleman and Alaton. Then I’ll tell you about Joanna Krupp. Is that a deal you can live with?”
“It is.”
I reviewed the short MMS conversation, and the rationale behind it.
“Alaton is thick as thieves with the Chinese government. And the US government. Krupp dug up my background. Stuff buried pretty deep.”
“What stuff?” she asked.
“Ugly stuff.”
“Ah. Tell me how the Grand Master is doing these days? I haven’t seen him in years.”
“You know Elliot Krupp?”
“I do indeed. How’s he doing?”
“He’s a shithead. With a samurai topknot. And bright underwear.”
“Do I even want to know how you discovered the color of his underwear?”
“It showed above his pants’ waistline.”
She smiled, shook her head, and stared toward the ocean.
“Dear, dear Elliot. Greeting you shirtless or at least unbuttoned so you could admire his magnificence.”
“You do know the guy.”
Man, she was sharp.
“I was maid of honor at their wedding. Joanna and I go way back.”
Jess explained she and Joanna had attended college together. Duke. Which confirmed the North Carolina accent. They took off on separate careers after college. Joanna worked for a Raleigh research facility and Jess became a Charlotte cop. Well, the accent and cop thing had me hitting two out of two, and I needed it. Maybe I wasn’t such a dumbass.
“What happened to the cop career?” I asked.
“It’s a long story, and now I’m really, really hungry. Should we steal food from another patron’s plate? We are armed, after all.”
A waiter approached with our next round of drinks and the chicken wings.
“We may be saved from such desperate measures. Food is arriving.”
The wings disappeared in short order as she continued her gentle drilling. Jess laid the close-buddy-Joanna card as a gatekeeper bona fide. I’d dance to her tune before reaching an open gate.
“Okay,” she said, wiping her mouth. “I’ve learned enough to buy you don’t work for Elliot.” She took a long straw sip, emitted a light belch, and asked, “So who do you work for?”
“My regular client. The low-key European one I mentioned. Which is all I can say about them, Jess. Honest.”
“Would you mind sharing what the contract is about?”
“Learn what I can about Alaton. File a report.”
“When you say ‘regular client,’ I assume they contract you for a variety of things.”
“We already brushed against that.”
“Let’s do another quick fly-by, if you don’t mind. They contract you for a variety of things?”
“Yep. And before you ask, ‘Like what?’, know there be dragons out there.”
She cocked her head, expression pleasant, and took another sip.
“Fair enough, Case. And I certainly do not wish to come across as overly defensive. But while variety may be the spice of life, it tells me your client has clients. Have you considered Elliot may have contacted your client? A backdoor check on his operations?”
I chuckled and shook my head.
“Do you have any close relatives named Jules? Yeah, I’ve considered that. And considered the Chinese may have contacted my clien
t for an investigation. Or a competitor or a foreign government or the US government since the right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing half the time. So yeah, I’ve tossed those possibilities into the mixer. The thing is, it doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll file my report, walk away, and wait for the next contract offer. I’m a simple man.”
The ahi tuna and shrimp arrived, and Jess asked for two more small plates so we could share the meal. The sun hung on the blue horizon and started its disappearance into the wide and fathomless Pacific Ocean. The Tiki torches became viable light sources, the sand under our feet began to cool, and I found myself enjoying the evening—perhaps more than I should have. Aware that this, too, could be a Jess Rossi gambit, placing me in a comfortable and pliable space. I didn’t care. She was fun and bright and it had been too, too long since I’d sat with a pretty woman for a pleasant evening meal. The here and now drove home how much I missed it.
The seafood was excellent, and I switched to beer; a couple more Mai Tais and I’d crawl back to the hotel. Jess slowed the liquor consumption as well as I opened the quid pro quo door.
“How much does Joanna know about Alaton?” I asked. “I’m hoping for genuine insight, bits and rumors and patterns I can piece together.”
“I’m afraid disappointment may lay on your horizon.”
“Why’s that?”
“Joanna’s washed her hands of Alaton. And has done so against my advice, by the way.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Elliot started Alaton with layers of lawyers and accountants. His name is buried so deep it may take a proctologist to find it. But it’s doable, and I’ve told Joanna as much. But she’s tired of the entire mess, receives half of his other assets we know about, and she’s happy to call it a day.”
“I would imagine she’ll end up more than just wealthy.”
“Yes, she will. But you should understand she’s not built like Elliot. The money never meant that much to her. He did. She poured out her heart in their marriage, and he stomped all over it.”
