by Aaron Cohen
The FBI guy fingers the trigger of his M-16. His eyes bore into David. The guy wants to start shooting.
“So let me ask again,” David says, this time with his own smirk. “Am I under arrest?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, you are.”
I don’t have time for this. I need to get that data stick back right now. That’s the thing that will kill me, not this shit stain and his ridiculous wire. I need to go right now, and my lawyer isn’t going to be fast enough. Shit. Time to use my trump card. I hate to, but desperate times…
“In that case, I’d like to make my phone call right now.”
The FBI asshole points his M-16 at David. The other FBI assholes automatically do the same.
“You can make it from jail. Put your hands behind your back.”
David slowly lifts his hands into the air instead.
“You want me to make this phone call.”
“I said put your hands behind your back.”
“Let me make this phone call with the cell phone I have in my right breast pocket and I’ll come quietly. I’ll even wave my right to attorney. You can grill me all night long, and I will answer every question. All for one phone call.”
The FBI asshole considers it. His eyes squint as he thinks. He’s trying to push his anger away long enough to make a good decision. David can’t quite tell which way it’s going to go. Mr. America with the crew cut, blue eyes, and strong jaw is probably from a long line of cops and Marines and needs a beating.
“Make your call and make it quick,” the FBI asshole says.
“Good choice,” David says, trying not to sound disappointed.
He slowly, so as not to give any the trigger happy morons a reason to start shooting, reaches into his right breast coat pocket and pulls out a slim cell phone. He dials the number of a man who owes him one…
***
Twenty Years Ago
David was the proprietor of a wildly successful escort service in Washington DC called Ladies in Waiting.
The set up was genius, if he did say so himself.
The secret was charging hilariously outrageous sums of money for a date.
The high price meant that vice cops would steer clear because it would be too expensive to set up a sting. To setup a sting, a cop pretending to be a hopeful client would need to front ten grand, placed in an untraceable numbered account. That was money that would never be returned, making for a big bite out of the departmental budget. It was cheaper and easier for vice cops to make cases against streetwalkers, pimps, and the low-end call girls who advertised in the backs of free weekly newspapers.
Ladies in Waiting didn’t advertise. The business was built on referrals only, word-of-mouth from one pleased client to another. Quite often, it was a lobbyist giving a tip to a distinguished member of the United States Congress. No better way to move a bill through congress than to keep senior committee members happy and their balls free of excess semen.
The girls were stunning, educated, and smart. They weren’t white trash tempted out of the Greyhound terminal with the promise of a free dinner at KFC. These women knew what they wanted (money) and they were professionals. They were future business leaders, lawyers, doctors and professors. To make their college years a little more comfortable, they were Ladies in Waiting.
Late one night, David was at an all-night diner with four of his girls. He always maintained a professional, and non-sexual, relationship with them, but he also tried to be a friend, offering them advice, serving as the wise older brother on occasion. The business ran better when the girls liked him, so he went out of his way to make that happen.
Over Denver omelets and coffee, one girl, Sasha, started a round of john stories, the kind that always start with, “You won’t believe what this one guy did…” A client, a Senator, wanted something pretty wild, and kind of gross. As she explained the complex logistics of completing this exotic sexual act, David simultaneously lost his appetite and laughed out loud. It was some embarrassing shit to want, and the good Senator had to drag that heavy desire around his entire life. David had his share of kinks, but that, wow, that was just too much.
Sasha’s story wasn’t even the weirdest. The next girl took a turn, and her “weirdest client” tale left David with even less appetite and sad. But even that story wasn’t the worst. After the last girl’s turn, David actually felt nauseous. In fact, he was pretty sure he would never eat a Denver omelet again.
How to make this knowledge profitable was the thing David thought about next. Plain blackmail wouldn’t work. If word got out he was extorting clients, it would kill his business and his business was stupidly profitable.
Still, just in case he needed a little bit of leverage one day, he had girls report to him any unusual client requests, taking down names and sordid details. His notebook of dirty deeds grew over the next two years, until it had hundreds of entries.
David had no idea what to do with the litany of hilarious and disgusting kinks important people had. How could he make that list work for him? There had to be a way!
Sasha came to him one night with a fresh report. She was shaken and exhausted. Her story was like a greatest hits of dirty deeds. This guy seemed to want everything in the top-20 sexual acts that might make someone vomit. Over the course of 48 hours, Sasha performed like a pro, walked away with $200,000 and decided to retire. She had had enough. She would never be able to look a man in the eye again. She didn’t particularly like sex with girls, but the one quality she liked in them was that they weren’t guys. Something about that Y chromosome made them crazy, she figured.
David said he understood. He wished her well.
Before she left, she gave him a gift. At one point when things got weird and Sasha feared for her life, she used her cell phone to call her answering machine, which would record for up to two hours. She often did that as a way to protect herself, or at least leave evidence of whatever asshole went Jack The Ripper on her.
She gave David the tape and walked out.
David recognized the man’s voice immediately and felt his lungs seize and his heart skip a beat. It was like listening to your own murder.
The man on the tape, a man haunted by an array of perverse desires, was a powerful man, rich, connected, respected around the world, and known to be a ruthless patriot, not so much a problem solver but a problem eliminator. Administrations both Republican and Democrat used his services, and yet his name was never mentioned by the press, even though events with his fingerprints often were.
David knew the man’s name because The Organization knew the man’s name. He wasn’t competition so much as a respected peer. On occasion, the man’s company would come into contact with The Organization about one thing or another, and they always parted peacefully, respectably and often profitably.
David called the man. Told him what happened. Apologized. Then set a meeting to deliver the tape himself.
On the walking path of the Francis Scott Key Bridge during the 5 p.m. rush hour, with thousands of potential witnesses slowly driving by in a massive traffic huddle, with clear lines of sight in all directions and no good place for a sniper to hide, David waited for the man.
The man, in a dark gray suit and looking like any one of a million mid-level office workers, walked to David and said, “Hello.”
David gave the man the tape. Assured him there were no copies, and again apologized for the inconvenience.
“And you want nothing in return?” the man asked.
“I want to not accidently die in my sleep for no apparent reason,” David said. “That would be nice.”
“I will look into making sure you sleep soundly and awake in good health,” the man said.
“Much appreciated,” David said.
“This mistake of mine was careless, and I’m not often careless. I appreciate that it hasn’t become a problem I need to deal with.”
“As am I. Consider this a professional courtesy.”
“It’s more than a cou
rtesy. I find myself in your debt, and I like to repay my debts. Are you sure there is nothing you’d like? A service I could perform perhaps?”
David thought it over. His goal was to put this dangerous episode behind him and get back to making money. He had plans to move his operation to Las Vegas, maybe build up enough money to open a casino. He didn’t want to worry about waking up dead.
Then again, a favor from this important man could be helpful one day.
“At the moment,” David said, “I’m not in need of anything. But one day, who knows? I might need a favor. It would be nice to think I could call on a friend if I were ever in need.”
The man handed David a business card with nothing on it but a ten-digit phone number.
“If you are ever in need, I’ll see what I can do.”
The man walked away to the Brooklyn side. David walked back into Manhattan.
Later, he would put the number into the address book of his cell phone. And there it had stayed, until today.
Chapter Forty-Six
The man answers on the first ring.
“You need something?”
The voice sounds older than it once did.
“I’ve got an issue with the FBI.”
“You can’t afford a lawyer?”
“I’d like to resolve the matter more quickly than that.”
“Are they pointing guns at you right now?”
“Yes.”
“This is your one favor. You sure you want to spend it on this? After 20 years, I expected your request to be more complex.”
“There are other factors in play.”
“So be it. Give the phone to the man in charge.”
David smiles and hands the phone to the asshole in charge, who looks confused. He was in charge, and now he’s not. He’s lost and he doesn’t know it yet.
The asshole listens. His face goes from annoyed, to inquiring, to surprised, to sad, to scared.
Fuck you, asshole. That’s what real power feels like. I can make a phone call and your personal commando team will have to pack up their M-16s and get the fuck out of my house.
“I understand,” asshole says.
He hands the phone back to David. The asshole is angry, the tendons in his neck straining, his jaw so stiff he can barely speak.
“Next time, David,” asshole says. “I’m a patient guy. Next time.”
“Come back when we’re open next month. Guys with three inch dicks get half price.”
The asshole turns and walks to the door, his men, looking confused and stupid, walk behind him.
David is elated. Life is interesting again. His face hurts. His ribs hurt like a motherfucker. His hands feel hot, full of pleasure from hitting another man in the face multiple times.
War is a drug, the perfect drug. It is what men were made for, to defeat their enemies, take their gold and rape their women. David wishes he were a Viking of old. He would have enjoyed that life. But the one he has, the one with Armani suits and super models on speed dial, this one isn’t so bad either.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Stork speeds away from The Dark Star, its passengers feeling sweet relief. They almost died and didn’t.
Cecil and Artie are lounging on couches, too tired to talk. Luke has never seen them not trading jibes and one liners. Charlie is driving, that amazing beast. Hank is riding shotgun, checking English football scores on his iPhone and muttering.
Luke sits on the worn, stained couch in the back of the RV. Leanne sits next to him, close. Their knees are touching. Her hand is on his shoulder. She’s trying to console him.
Luke could use some consoling. Ben is gone, maybe forever. The FBI has him now. Luke might never talk to the old man again. He’ll be in the witness relocation program for the rest of his life. Uncle Owen, dead. Aunt Beri, dead. Ben, gone.
He might have Leanne though, sexy Leanne, who is doing her best to make him feel better.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Luke says.
“There was nothing you could have done,” she says.
“I could have left him alone. I could have not brought him out here to get shot at and beat up and now taken in by the FBI.”
“He did it to help me, and I’m grateful. I’m grateful to you, too. You took a risk coming to get me.”
Interesting. This could be the opening he is looking for. Finally the ice is starting to melt. This is what a rescued princess should sound like. Up until now, it has been all attitude and ball busting. With the danger behind them, she is opening up, letting herself become more vulnerable.
“I wanted to help,” he says.
He leans in just a little, looks at her lips, dark red, moist with gloss. They look like they would taste of cinnamon and vanilla. When did she have time to touch up her makeup? He’s pretty sure she’s going to lean in and open her mouth a little, the universal signal for “kiss me, you fool.”
“We aren’t out of the woods yet!” Hank yells from the front of the RV.
Leanne pulls back at the sound of his voice, looks hard again, determined, all vulnerability gone.
So close. Damn.
Hank runs into the back of the RV.
“A couple trucks are coming up fast,” he yells as he opens a cabinet and pulls out a cardboard box.
He shoves it at Luke. The top of the box is taped shut. In red marker are the words: “For emergencies only.”
“Get to the top and when they get close, rip off the tape, and dump it out.”
“What’s in it?”
“Truck repellent.”
“What are you going to be doing?”
“Working the other truck repellent.”
Hank springs up, stands on a chair and pulls down a rope ladder that leads to a hatch at the top of the RV.
“We don’t have all day, kid! Get going!”
From up front, Charlie issues a half-howl, half-growl.
“They are right behind us!” Hank yells.
BANG! Aluminum and insulation explode. A bullet hole opens up in the back of the RV.
Artie springs up from his chair, ready for action.
“Let’s kill these fuckers!” Artie shouts with glee. “High speed fight to the death! Awesome!”
Cecil dives to the floor and crawls underneath a table.
“I thought this thing was armored!” Leanne shouts at Hank.
“Just up front,” Hanks shouts back. “Normally there’s nothing to protect back here.”
“Fantastic,” Leanne says. She drops to her knees and crawls under the table with Cecil.
Another shot hits the back of the RV and a hole opens up the size of a quarter.
“We are all going to die!” Cecil whines. “This is our hearse! Our hearse, our massive piss-smelling hearse!”
Luke climbs up the ladder and pushes open the hatch.
“Good luck,” Leanne shouts up at him.
At least she’s paying me some attention.
The warm desert air hits him the face. It would be pleasant if it weren’t for the goon pointing a .44 at him from a speeding SUV.
The bad guy’s truck is almost even with The Stork. If Luke throws the box now, it will land behind the target. He needs the bad guys behind him, just ten feet or so would do it.
“Charlie!” he screams. “Punch it!”
“Punch it, Charlie! Punch it!” Artie yells.
***
Charlie is punching it. His foot is all the way to the floor and has been for several seconds. The RV is doing 112 miles an hour. The steering wheel is shaking in his hand. The transmission is whining like it’s wounded.
In the two years they have owned The Stork, they have been chased, but not by cops. Their policy with cops is to pull over when ordered to, call the lawyer, and shut up.
Their chases normally involve rival drug smugglers who feel in some way insulted or disrespected at having their territory encroached upon. The offended pot salesmen drove fast cars, but got bored quickly and were nervous about at
tracting police attention. They would make their statement by chasing for a few miles, maybe shoot off a few rounds, and then give up.
Charlie has never been involved in a chase where Hank’s “counter-measures” have been used. Hank doesn’t want guns on board, as being caught with guns and a few bails of pot could get you a life sentence in a lot of states. So instead, he improvises, just like he did in “The Sandbox.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
“The Sandbox,” that’s what Hank called it. He was 18 when he went to Kuwait and then Iraq for Desert Storm. He was a big, tall, handsome kid who looked like a recruiting poster.
Desert Storm was a big fat win. War was fun, and Hank was good at it.
He became a Ranger and excelled during even the most grueling training. His class started with 100 grunts and ended with 32 warriors with M-16s. He spent the next decade fighting secret wars – Somalia, Bosnia, some Asian island he can’t remember the name of – then headed to Afghanistan followed by a tour in Iraq.
After that much war, it was no longer fun.
When he returned to the U.S., he didn’t speak. He lived in the woods in a tent, mostly the old-growth forests in the Pacific Northwest.
Charlie didn’t speak either, due to his tongue being removed. He sat in front of his fire, roasting fish on a stick, eating popcorn, and smoking a giant doobie.
Hank walked in out of the woods, filthy, long hair, eyes skittish. It was a cool night and getting cold.
Charlie waved his hand at the fire, showed the stranger his open palm, the universal signal for “have a seat.” Hank sat, starred into the flames.
Charlie handed him the doobie. Hank took it to his lips and drew in the skunky sweet smoke.
“Holy shit,” he said, the tension leaving his face. “That is some good shit.”
Charlie laughed. He wished he could ask the man his name, but he didn’t say a word. He hated trying to speak. The noise that came out freaked people out. So he just nodded in agreement.
Hank took another long hit, held it in, and let the smoke ease out through his nostrils.
“Those were the first words I’ve said in about five years,” Hank said.
