by Todd Merer
This was the moment I’d been dreading.
Her hand rested lightly atop a shoulder bag. I wondered what caliber of gun it held. A .25 that would ricochet inside my skull? A .357 that would leave an exit wound the size and color of a watermelon?
“You’re staring, Benn.”
“My petrified look.”
She laughed. Exactly the same giggle she’d had when she was seven-year-old Sara Barrera, daughter of the Cali cartel CFO Nacho Barrera, my first Colombian client, the man who’d given me an admission ticket to the White Powder Bar. Until my recent case, in which she’d been revealed to me as Sombra, I hadn’t seen her—Sara—since the night the cartel’s security had rebelled, a coup that killed Nacho and hundreds of the Barreras’ extended family and friends. That night I’d saved Sara—no, Dolores, I reminded myself—only to lose her again.
I’m not prone to cognitive dissonance, but I felt it now. The girl who’d loved me like family had grown into her generation’s greatest cartel chief and now was approaching me, for an unknown but surely nefarious purpose, in the guise of a “Dolores”—
No, I reminded myself. She is not Sara. Not Laura Astorquiza. Not Dolores.
She is, now and forever more, a cold-blooded killer named Sombra.
“We have no problem, Benn. I’m no longer in the business.”
I’d forgotten how well she could read me, even as a child. I was no slouch at reading her, either. Meaning that I heard her but didn’t necessarily believe her. In all her adult guises, she’d become a consummate liar. I signaled to the barkeep: two fingers, a double vodka. If I was to be starring on a tabloid front page under the headline “Criminal Lawyer Gunned Down in Midtown Restaurant,” I might as well die drunk.
“It’s so strange, Benn. Seeing you now, I remember when you and Papa used to talk. I was always listening. Unless Papa caught me and put me to bed. I learned much from your discussions, but that’s really not why I listened. The truth? I listened because I was in love with you.”
“You were, what nine, ten?” I threw back the vodka. “I was almost thirty then. Thank you for not molesting me.”
Dolores laughed again. “You haven’t changed. Always the cynic, always the wise guy, always finding something funny no matter the circumstance.”
“I think of it as a survival skill.” I signaled for another double.
“I grew up copying you. Treating everything in life like a joke.”
“Here’s a good one,” I said. “Two cynics walk into a bar . . .”
“The prettier one says, ‘I joined Team America.’”
Huh? She’d become a rat? “You’re kidding.”
“What does the other cynic reply?”
“Um . . . you’re gonna kill me?”
“Oh, Benn, I adore you.”
“What do you want?” Where was that goddamn vodka?
“Just to say hello. After all, we’re on the same side. Take good care of our Stella.”
She stood to go, but I gripped her wrist above her purse. Her mentioning Stella Maris as an ally shook me; it was the third leg—Uncle, Stella, now Sombra—of whatever the hell I’d stumbled into.
Again, she tried to go, but I held on to her wrist.
“You want me to stay? To take a hotel room, or what?”
“That’s not funny.”
“Not meant to be.” She removed my hand, winked, left. As I watched her go, another woman sat on the stool at my left. An Asian beauty, devilish in a red dress.
“Miss, ah, Missy Soo, I presume?” I smiled.
She didn’t. Her almond-shaped eyes had black pupils devoid of expression. Her handshake was firm. Her red-lacquered nails were filed to points that scratched my palm. When the barkeep greeted her, she brushed him off with a curt: “Flat water. No ice.”
I said, “Shall we move to a table?”
Her reply was as cold as the ice cubes she’d forsaken. “I’ve already dined. Let’s get down to business.”
I shrugged. “Let’s.”
She said, “Stella’s been in and out of institutions all her life. She cannot deal with the stress of everyday life. She refuses to discuss certain pressing matters concerning the distribution of her family’s estate. Her recalcitrance is putting the rest of the family’s lives on hold.”
I raised my eyebrows as if this were all new to me, but I was thinking: So, another Chinese connection to the exact same case. The other part of the family?
Stella was Caucasian, but she had a tilt to her eyes that hinted of an Asian bloodline. She wore a small, star-shaped gem at her neck. Ruby red. Could she be pro-mainland Chinese, unlike Uncle, whose Foochow Tong was allied with the rival Taiwanese Chinese? Was the familial rift political?
I said, “By family, you mean?”
“There’s nothing you can do to assist her by yourself, but I, together with the rest of our family—and with your help—we can.”
Help? Or connivance? They say Mata Hari was a fox. Maybe so. But Mata was a drab Hollander while the exotic Missy Soo was the most beautiful Chinese woman I’d ever been so close to. And I was just a shovel for her dirty work. A shovel she wanted to use to bury Stella. I made Missy Soo as one of those capable-of-anything folks Stella had mentioned, a brat born to wealth who didn’t take orders from anyone.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” I said.
She leaned forward eagerly. “Yes?”
“My name isn’t Shovelhead.”
“Excuse me . . . ?”
“Meaning, let’s not continue this discussion.”
Her smile was condescending. “If you wish. But I was just about to inform you that I have with me a certified check in your name for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” She put an envelope on the bar. “For so long as your assistance is required, you will receive an additional two hundred and fifty thousand monthly, for each of the next twelve months.”
My damn palm itched. Took an effort, but I refrained from scratching it, then said, “My help? Specifically?”
“Simply arrange for me to meet with Stella. At a place of your choosing. In your presence, of course. If she trusts you, she’ll agree.”
“You think?”
“I know. Stella has a father-figure syndrome. Understandable, considering she’s hopelessly bipolar . . . Forgive my using medical terminology, I meant—”
“I understood what you meant.”
Boy, oh boy, did I. I’d been with all kinds of women and found “father issues” to be as common as they were varied: cold, distant fathers; absent fathers; fathers who couldn’t keep their hands off Daddy’s girl. I wondered how Missy Soo’s home life had been. She was so cold, her old man must have been a glacier, but I thought, given the chance, I might warm her up nicely.
I was feeling my old self again.
With good cause. My second double had arrived. Nicely mellow, I was thrilled to learn that Dolores—Sombra—didn’t want to kill me. I had $250,000 in the bank, and my immediate future promised more. As for Stella’s cautionary mention of risk, hell, I translated that word to action. The fact is, I liked walking the razor’s edge. All I needed to do was keep my pole balanced by making certain the game went according to Bluestone’s Rules:
Pay me as agreed. Tell me no lies I don’t want to know. Instead of CST—Criminal Standard Time—make a reasonable effort not to keep me waiting.
And, paramount among all, the absolute deal-breaker:
Never, ever, ask me to screw another client.
“Mr. Bluestone? What are you thinking?”
I picked up Missy Soo’s glass and placed my lips where her lipstick had marked its rim. Her upper and lower lips were the same size. Nicely plump. I drank her water.
Her perfect brow crinkled in a frown. “You’re drinking my water.”
“I get dry when I’m frustrated,” I said. “Your fault.”
“My fault? Why—”
“Because I’d love to take your money. But I can’t. See, you can hire me, but you ca
n’t buy me, and in your case, you can’t even hire me, because I’m already hired. But I do appreciate your coming out of the woodwork because now I know Stella needs to watch out for a lady in red.”
“You’re a sad little man,” she said. “The kind who get crushed like an ant because no one sees or cares about them. You just lost a lot of money for nothing, because with or without you, we will find Stella, and she will come to her senses.”
With that, she left.
I had one for the road while idly watching the TV above the bar. It was tuned to the news. The sound was muted, but the images spoke louder than words. Warships, jet fighters, missiles . . . of many nations. The chyrons on the bottom of the screen provided more details: Six nations bordering the South China Sea—China foremost among them—were threatening military action over sovereignty of the area and its vital trade routes.
Whoa. China? Again?
The envelope was still on the bar. I looked inside and, sure enough, found a bank-certified check for $250,000, made out to me. I drew a fortifying breath, then ripped the check in two, then ripped the halves into little pieces, and set them on the bar. Benn, the alchemist, who turns money into confetti . . . maybe also a bit of a snake, but loyal to only one charmer at a time.
That being Stella Maris.
CHAPTER 7
Now that the two beauties had departed, my thoughts became beastly. Greed is so bitter, it leaves an aftertaste. Wistfully, I stared at the little heap of confetti that had been Missy’s check.
“Bartender,” I said. “A sparkling water, please.”
I needed fizz to clarify my weird reality show. Seeing Dolores had me envisioning charred men in orange life vests in a black sea, a scenario I was certain included her—
My heart tingled. From my breast pocket, I took my device. I had a text from Stella:
I am outside waiting for you.
I supposed Dolores had told her I was here. Whatever. I took a final wistful look at 250 Gs’ worth of shredded paper and left.
A black, tinted-window Suburban idled curbside. Its driver—a big-shouldered guy wearing a black suit and an ex-cop face—held a rear door open for me.
I got in the back, and the door closed behind me with the refrigerator-like thud that was a giveaway for armored weight. Behind the tinted glass, the rear compartment was dim, and it took a moment before I realized Stella sat in the corner, bundled in endangered-species fur.
She leaned close to me. Her hair caressed my cheek as she whispered, “My grandfather has a wiretap on her phone.”
“Dolores?”
“The other woman you were talking to. The one who wants to kill me.”
Missy Soo, then. Whose recent proximity suggested she might be following us. I glanced out the rear window but saw only the usual Manhattan traffic through the dark glass.
When the big car stopped at a light, I casually tried the door handle.
It was locked. I sat back and didn’t enjoy the ride.
Stella, snuggled in her fur, seemed asleep. Through the partition, the driver was a blurred silhouette, the dash lights a smear of colored control lights. The car had as many gizmos as the Batmobile. Traffic was light as we drove downtown, whizzed through the Midtown Tunnel, and got onto the Long Island Expressway.
Stella remained cocooned.
We turned onto the Northern State Parkway. Half an hour later, we exited onto a winding two-lane blacktop that led to a shell drive that crunched beneath the SUV’s heavy, bulletproof tires.
We stopped. Stella’s door opened, and a shaven-headed guy in a black parka helped her out, gently as an egg. Then my door was opened, and I got out and took stock of the three men triangulating me.
Professionals, for sure. Brawny lookalikes wearing rubber boots and waxed jackets. I’d have made them for groundskeepers, but their shotguns weren’t game pieces, rather sawed-off man-killers. I remade them as ex-IRA or similar former paramilitaries. A shotgun pressed against my back.
“Move, boyo,” its owner said.
Yes, an Irishman, or maybe an Afrikaner, but definitely ex-military-gone-merc for the bucks. Having a crew like this suggested that Marmaduke Mason—I assumed it was he who’d sent for me—had a lot to protect.
We came to a guardhouse where two guys held on to a pair of slobbering Alsatians. The IRA guy held a palm up: Stop. I stood still as they patted me down. They took my device.
“I get a receipt?” I asked.
“Shut yer damn trap.”
We continued on.
Another bend brought us to a view of Long Island Sound. An enormous old mansion perched on a bluff overlooking the water. Impressive place, if you’re into Gatsby meets Bleak House.
A fourth man waited at its columned entrance. Instead of a shotgun, he had a folding-stock Uzi strapped at port arms. He wanded me from toe to head and back again. Made a detour into my nethers, then nodded. The shotgun guys remained outside as I followed Mr. Uzi inside. As if I had a choice. For all intents and purposes, I was a prisoner.
The interior of the mansion looked like a Deauville resort that had escaped 1910. Not exactly my style, but nicer than most prisons I’ve been in. I followed Mr. Uzi to a paneled door that clicked open. I entered alone, and the door closed behind me.
The room was large and richly appointed, with a bay window overlooking the Sound. It was artsy in an eclectic way. An exquisite Persian carpet, some fine landscapes I didn’t recognize, and two definitely major Picassos. Also, a sheathed Japanese samurai sword; an old-fashioned globe of the world still colored with Brit red; a pair of crossed pearl-handled revolvers, a la George Patton. A glassed-in display of Oriental shurikens. The desk was the real standout: massive, four-legged, ornately carved gilded wood that might have been Louis XIV’s personal dining table, although the extremely old man behind it bore no resemblance to the Sun King.
“Name’s Mason,” he said. “Sit down.”
I did. Marmaduke Mason was the type of ectomorph that grows ever thinner as he nears his goal line. He had leathery skin and a lionlike mane of snow-white hair. As if unaware of my presence, he watched a flat-screen TV, where a muted newscast’s corner logo read Singapore Times. On the screen was a map of East Asia and the South China Sea. Then the scene shifted to a Nimitz-class nuclear carrier launching missile-laden Hornets . . . and again shifted to a swarm of Chinese troops bulldozing sand on a low-lying island.
China, I thought. Again.
“Arseholes,” said Mason, still staring at the screen. “Gearing up for the big to-do. ‘China is ours’ versus ‘No, China is ours.’ The ultimate ‘mine is bigger than yours.’ It’ll start with an insulting mother joke and end with a nuclear winter. Good for them. Me? I won’t be around to see it.”
He shut off the TV, then swiveled around and stared at me as if examining a new species of bug. Despite his advanced age, his bearing was one of command, and I had the distinct impression he was evaluating me for whatever mission he had planned.
I seized what little initiative I could muster. “Good evening, Mr. Mason.”
My chair was several inches lower than his, befitting a mere courtier to be looked down on. He went on staring at me until I realized he wasn’t staring but gone off into an elderly moment, perhaps even a stroke.
“Are you all right, Mr. Mason?”
He coughed like a wet engine wheezing to restart. “Lose the mister,” he said. “The name’s Duke. As in Ellington.”
“And Snider.”
His eyes slid out of focus. Suddenly, he shouted: “Keegan!”
The door opened, and a portly man wearing a pince-nez and a harried expression rushed in. He carried a doctor’s satchel. From it, he took an ampule, crushed it, and held it to Duke’s nose.
After a few moments, Duke’s clarity returned. He brushed Keegan’s hand away and in a contemptuous voice said, “For the last time, Doctor. Don’t ever come near me again unless I tell you to.”
Dr. Keegan protested, “But you called me—”
> “Get the hell out of here, you quack.”
Dr. Keegan, bowing humbly, backed from the room. The heavy door closed behind him. It was quiet except for the crashing of waves below the bay window. Funny, I hadn’t been aware of them before.
Or, I thought, maybe a storm was approaching.
Duke started to speak, seemed to lose his train of thought, then retrieved it and in a slightly slurred voice said, “Protect my girl, and I’ll pay you well. Screw up, and I’ll hurt you bad. Clear, Counselor?”
I don’t mind being trashed a bit if the price is right. Rudeness comes with the territories I travel. Besides, he was on the kind of meds that loosen tongues. Bank on that. It takes an ex-druggie like me to spot a stoner like him. In a slightly slurred voice, he said, “I don’t like lawyers.”
“My feeling as well. Protect Stella legally?”
“In particular, I don’t like you. You’ve been hired because I’m told you get results. Stella stands to inherit my estate. Unfortunately, she’s had a difficult time of it and is not knowledgeable in the ways of the world. She needs someone to look after her affairs. A trustee, if you will.”
Trustee? Man, I really had crossed the line into civil law.
He said, “If I was younger, I’d do the job myself. But I’m no longer capable of hands-on maintenance, so you’re elected. But understand, so long as I’m still around, you’re my puppet, Counselor.”
“Sure, Geppetto.”
Duke looked at me blankly.
I said, “What did you mean by a ‘difficult time’?”
“Stella’s parents died suddenly. Murdered. Terrible tragedy. Stella was psychologically damaged. I put her out of harm’s way, first in an institution, then in the best boarding schools in the world. Helped her somewhat, but, well, you see how she is.”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure I do. Why don’t you tell me?”
He spun his chair back toward the bay window. Beyond it, the darkened Sound was sprinkled with running lights. For a long moment, he said nothing, as if again lost in his reveries. The waves crashed, he wheezed regularly, and I thought, Time to snoop.
My focus was on an opened envelope on his desk. Made of heavy paper, it had been addressed by hand. The letter that came with it lay open beneath the envelope. I whipped out my device and photographed both.
