The Council of Ten

by Jon Land

  She looked at him one last time. “Sealed with a postage stamp, Isser, or a bullet?”

  Part Three:

  Too-Jay’s

  Chapter 7

  “YOU’RE CRAZY.”

  Drew played Sam Masterson’s initial response over and over again in his mind as Sunday came closer.

  “It’s a state of mind that comes over me when I find out my life is in danger. My grandmother helped you and now you’re going to help me. Consider it poetic justice.”

  Masterson was heading his Ford back for the Hyatt. “Except she volunteered and I’m not about to.”

  “I think you will, Agent Masterson. You see, I had this feeling right from when you picked me up that it was more than just Trelana you were scared of, it was me. I know all about the game you guys played with an old lady. Would make for great press, wouldn’t it? And I’ve got the letter to back up what I say. Agency wouldn’t come out looking too good and you’d come out looking worst of all. That’s how I see it.”

  Masterson fought to keep his eyes on the road. Even so, Drew could see his face had flushed first with rage, then frustration, and, finally, hopeless resignation.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Someone who wants to stay alive and who’s willing to do you a favor in the process. Willing and able.”

  “Able?”

  “I’ll get to that later. It gets a little complicated. I don’t need much. You’ll hardly have to implicate your innocent little self.”

  “I can’t do this!”

  “You couldn’t have used an old lady to do your dirty work for you either.”

  Masterson pulled into a parking lot. “Assuming I go along with this, what would you want?”

  “Your inch-thick file on Trelana and a gun, preferably a magnum.”

  “You mean you plan to just go up to Trelana and—”

  “Let me finish. I assume someone at the DEA is doing what they’re supposed to be doing. You must have virtually a constant tail on Trelana, and since you admitted he’s a community figure, I’ve got to think he spends plenty of time in public. It’s just a question of finding the right time. Chore number two.”

  Masterson’s mouth dropped in shock. “You don’t expect me to—”

  “I expect you to find me a way to get close to him. I expect you to get me a gun to do the job and I expect you to help get me out afterward. I’ll take care of the rest. And, of course, if you decide to leave me holding the bag, well, there’s always the press.”

  “You’re asking too much. Too much!”

  “It’s for my grandmother, Agent Masterson, and that makes it not even close to too much. Better head back to the Hyatt now and drop me off. You’ve got plenty of work to do.”

  When you came right down to it, Drew figured Mace was to blame for his decision to kill Trelana.

  His early sessions in the mercenary camp were marked by mistakes and fears typical of the amateur. He remembered freezing on a catwalk suspended forty feet over the ground while being marked by machine-gun tracer fire. He remembered his first two forays into the jungle on individual wargames maneuvers, comic adventures in which he had “died” first on each occasion.

  Mace took him aside after the second.

  “You’re thinking too much, son,” the death machine advised. “Thinking about living, dying, and what your goddamn next move is supposed to be. What you gotta do, you gotta learn to hate… .”

  Mace had gone on to explain that this hate was for no one individual, but just for the idea of defeat, of failure. Refined, the hate could become a weapon that could help you achieve the impossible, overcome any odds. The hate taught you to accept nothing and stop at nothing. It was the great equalizer.

  “Take the Timber Wolf that time in Corsica,” Mace had related. “Ambushed by twenty shiteaters with automatic weapons, and he stayed alive. Killed most and the rest ran for the hills with fudge stains in their undies. He couldn’t have done it without the hate.”

  “But he’s a professional, you’re a professional,” Drew returned. “I thought professionals weren’t supposed to feel anything.”

  “That’s crap mostly. When you’re out there alone, on your own, with shiteaters ready to rip your gut out, you’ve got to feel something. I’ve known men who were like ice, but they’re few and far between. So, you find something to hate and you don’t stop hating until you’ve won, which in this case means at the end you’re still alive and the shiteaters are dead. Stop hating and you got no edge. No man, not me or even the Timber Wolf, can be better than everyone else. It’s the hate that makes you better.”

  Drew took Mace’s words to heart. He had been looking at mercenary camp as merely a violent extension of his own life, had tried to apply the same rules. It hadn’t worked because different rules applied. In the next session, the same obstacles remained to be overcome, but Drew’s hesitance and desperation were gone. The hate had replaced them, hate for anything that threatened to trip him up. The hate gave him focus when he took to the woods, a singular purpose of survival, which made him feel more alive than ever. He slept in trees or buried under layers of dirt or squeezed between two large rocks. His concentration never wavered. The mere consideration of failure had been stricken, of success as well. There was only the moment immediately before him. Survive that one and he could move on to the next. The short term was the key. One step at a time. He was among the last surviving five two sessions previous, and in the most recent it had come down to just him and Mace. The hate had served him well.

  Now it had returned. His state of mind was that of the woods. A man had murdered his grandmother and would try to kill him. That man had to die. The hate required it. Mace always said you came into the world kicking, screaming, and alone, and that was the way it might as well stay with everyone else being shiteaters anyway.

  Masterson had called him back early Saturday evening.

  “There’s a disco in Palm Beach called Chauncey’s. Meet me there at ten.”

  Chauncey’s was located on the first floor of the NCNB Building on Palm Beach Lakes Boulevard. It was packed by ten o’clock and featured a marble dance floor and striking art deco design. Masterson had a table off to the side within sight of the door. He was working on a drink that had a soggy lemon peel floating on its surface when Drew took the chair across from him.

  “Forget it, kid,” were his first words. “It can’t be done.”

  “We wouldn’t be meeting here if that’s all you had to say.”

  “Just trying to do you a favor, that’s all.”

  “Just tell me what you found out.”

  “You wanna whack Trelana? No sweat. He eats lunch every Sunday at a Palm Beach deli called Too-Jay’s—him and a pair of bodyguards who could pass for the Incredible Hulk’s brothers.”

  “Six bullets can go a long way.”

  “You’re fucking crazy.”

  “Yeah. Keep talking.”

  “Same table all the time. Rear corner. Trelana sits between the two monsters. Couple others wait in a car outside. Sure, no problem… .”

  “Can you get me in there?”

  “It’s a public restaurant.”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it, Agent Masterson. I’ll need to be close to Trelana to be sure. His bodyguards gotta have a reason to let me do that.”

  “Like if you were a waiter? Sure, I can handle that. We place people in restaurants all the time. Just remember, if you’re closer to them, it’ll mean they’ll be closer to you.”

  “Yup.”

  “I’ve got a gun for you in my pocket. How you get it into Too-Jay’s is your problem. Giving you a reason to be there in the first place I guess is mine. Call you later on that one.”

  “Not bad. Now what about getting me out of there?”

  Masterson resisted, his mind changing tracks. “Kid, I wouldn’t be doing this if in the long run it wasn’t going to make my own life easier. We can’t touch Trelana. You’re going to be makin
g lots of people happy.”

  “Just tell me about the escape.”

  “It’s like this. Frustration is a by-law at the agency these days. A couple other lifers feel like I do. It wasn’t hard to secure their help.” Masterson thought briefly. “I’ll have a man, a spotter, watching Too-Jay’s from outside at a point from where he can see the interior of the dining area. As soon as you approach Trelana’s table ready to use the gun, lean over and pretend to tie your shoe. That will be his signal to call for the getaway car. When the hit’s finished, hightail it out of the restaurant. The car will be waiting.”

  “If it’s not …”

  “Look, kid, if I get you that far, I’m not gonna screw you. You’ll have enough to feed me to both my own people and Trelana’s. We’ll get you out of Too-Jay’s, then out of the city and back home. Do this right and nobody’ll even get a look at you. If something fucks up, you’ve got my private number, which rings wherever I am. I’m not a hard man to find.”

  “Let’s hope I don’t have to look.”

  Masterson hesitated again. “I’d have done something like this, or hired someone to do it, a long time ago, except I never learned how not to be scared.”

  “Or how to hate,” Drew told him.

  “Ordering! One turkey club with extra mayo, one liverwurst on rye with onions… .”

  Drew’s head pounded from the constant sound of plates clapping against steel. He stepped to the raised counter; behind it two men were busy with a never-ending array of breads and contents to be stuffed between slices. Quickly he clipped his order in the first vacant slot. Across from the sandwich area, the activity was similarly hectic inside the kitchen where hot orders were being prepared. A continuous stream of khaki-clad waiters passed in and out through the swinging door. A collision seemed unavoidable. The Sunday lunchtime rush at Too-Jay’s deli had begun. The popular eating spot promised to be swarming with people for the next hour or so. Then things would quiet down considerably and Arthur Trelana would make his appearance.

  “Ordering! One BLT, one tongue special with melted swiss …”

  One of Drew’s orders came up and he loaded the four plates onto a tray, carting them carefully back into the dining area. He felt nearly as nervous about botching things in his cover as a waiter as he did about the more pressing task soon at hand. So far he had held his own, but the rush hour would sorely test him. Stand out too much and someone might make a point of mentioning him to Trelana upon the drug lord’s arrival.

  Masterson had arranged the cover of a substitute waiter. Drew was told to be at the deli by six A.M. He was expected. Masterson told him the restaurant would furnish him with a uniform. He had the cab leave him off on Coconut Row at the head of Royal Poinciana Plaza, a nest of shops and stores in Palm Beach where the famous deli was located. Not only did this spare him the attention that might have been drawn by a waiter arriving in a taxi, but it also provided him with a chance to study the layout. Small access roads wound through the plaza, crisscrossing parking lots and providing easy access to the labyrinth of stores. Too-Jay’s was situated in the center of one of several mall-style buildings. Drew entered and announced himself.

  He hung his windbreaker on a coat rack in the kitchen, careful to make sure that the right pocket containing a bulge was concealed. There he had stowed the snub-nosed magnum revolver, checked and loaded and now waiting for him to retrieve it.

  Minutes after that he had donned a pair of khaki slacks, blue Too-Jay’s shirt, and white apron. He took advantage of the moderately slow first hours to study the restaurant’s layout in detail. A huge dessert counter was on the left of the entrance just before the start of the sandwich counter. The cash register station lay on the right along with the entrance to the full kitchen where his jacket hung with the hidden pistol. The tables were straight ahead in an informal dining area, about twenty of various sizes. The far wall was all windows and looked out over a spacious courtyard across which lay still more shops. Masterson’s men would probably be watching from one of these for Drew to lean over and feign tying his shoe at the proper time—the signal that he was about to initiate the hit. The side and rear walls of the dining area, meanwhile, were mirrored, and as Drew delivered order after order he found his eyes focusing on himself more and more.

  Is it me that’s really about to do this?

  The mirrors told him that it was. For real. No game in mercenary camp.

  By one o’clock the lunchtime rush had subsided and Drew anxiously began to wonder if Trelana was going to show. He didn’t know if he could stand this kind of pressure another day, didn’t know if he could maintain the mental state he had put himself into in order to accomplish the task before him. The pay phone on the wall kept grabbing his eye, tempting him to call Masterson and tell him the whole thing was off.

  A little past one o’clock, two large, menacing-looking men came through the doors and spoke briefly with the manager. Dressed in light cotton suits, they made a careful walk through the deli and kitchen, checking faces but not speaking to anyone. Drew went about his business as if he didn’t notice them. And since the men’s eyes never regarded him a second time, he figured he must have done a pretty good acting job.

  Less than a minute later, one of the big men held the door open for Arthur Trelana. Drew recognized him immediately from the file Masterson had provided. He stepped inside slowly, smiling, looking dapper and elegant in a finely cut three-piece white suit. He greeted Too-Jay’s manager and shook hands with him warmly. They exchanged pleasantries.

  Drew’s heart picked up its pace and he felt along his chest involuntarily. Shaking himself alert so as not to draw attention, he returned to the dining area to take the order of a couple who had just been seated in his section, making eight tables occupied in all. He was distracted now and had to concentrate on appearing at ease.

  Drew moved toward the kitchen to put in the order. On the way, Trelana and his bodyguards walked right by him. The man reeked of sweet, expensive cologne. Everything about him seemed perfect, his naturally bronze skin making him look healthy and fit for a man of sixty.

  Drew hated Trelana’s guts.

  But the reality of what he was about to do suddenly struck him. Every part of him starting shaking until he clung to the hate once again. This was the man who’d had his grandmother murdered, the man who would soon order him killed as well.

  Unless he struck first.

  More of the lessons of the mercenary camp returned to him. How to melt into a scene and seem simply a part of it, anything to influence those around you to keep their defenses low.

  He could hear Trelana and his bodyguards chuckling in the dining area. That gave him the last fuel he needed.

  His order was up on the raised counter in the sandwich area and he delivered it to the other table active in his section, mixing up the orders and having to change the plates around. He cursed himself for the oversight, for it had drawn attention to him. But returning to the dining area did afford him the opportunity to chart the position of Trelana’s table and the drug lord himself. He was indeed seated between his two bodyguards at a table against the far wall of mirrors.

  As expected. Perfect.

  It was time.

  Drew’s mind was working fast now, but his motions seemed slow. His back tensed in anticipation of a scream from his rear, an accusation tossed at him by one of Trelana’s bodyguards, perhaps a gun drawn to accompany it.

  But none of that happened. He passed into the kitchen through the swinging door and moved unobtrusively to the coat rack. Without hesitating he extracted the gun from the right pocket of his windbreaker and pressed it quickly against his body before sliding it under his apron into his belt.

  Drew was trembling when he emerged through the swinging door. This wasn’t a game being played out in the woods this time. It was real. But the same rules apply, he tried to tell himself. Hate, don’t let go of the hate… .

  His mind sharpened. He realized he could not simply walk straigh
t up to Trelana’s table and start shooting. He’d be watched through the entire course of an apparently uncalled for approach. When he went for his gun, he’d be finished. He needed a distraction, better yet something that looked completely normal.

  A tray of sandwiches appeared atop the steel counter before him. Drew had his answer.

  He grasped the tray and, without hesitating, made a slow but direct path to the dining area. When he reached it, he gazed out through the windowed rear wall and leaned over to retie his shoe, placing the tray for a moment on an empty stand. The signal had now been given. The getaway car would be on its way to the front of Too-Jay’s. He gazed over at Trelana’s table.

  One of his bodyguards had changed chairs! He was now sitting on the opposite side of the table across from Trelana. Drew had gone over the hit a thousand times in his mind but never with this scenario.

  Improvise ….

  Yes, that was the key!

  Drew retrieved the tray of sandwiches meant for another table and stood up. His hands weren’t shaking anymore. They felt cold and clammy, yet steady. Even the sweat had dried up. He felt surprisingly calm.

  He walked directly to Trelana’s table with the sandwich tray balanced carefully in his left hand. His right was within easy drawing range of the pistol.

  Just a little closer now… .

  He stopped to the right of the bodyguard sitting opposite of Trelana, halting directly over him. All three men became silent and looked up as Drew set his tray down on the stand nearby.

  “Now who had …”

  The words were used merely for distraction as Drew yanked his pistol up and out in a single motion, in line and ready to fire. But in the last instant, even as his finger found the trigger, Drew knew he wouldn’t be able to pull it. This was no game in the woods. His bullets were live and he had been a fool for believing himself capable of actually using them for real.

  Drew froze and the instant unwound in slow motion as, in the movies, the last moments do before a car crash. He saw the guards lurching from their seats as their hands disappeared inside their jackets only to emerge with cold steel pistols. He saw Trelana cowering low, saw his own certain death, and remembered that he was about to close his eyes when they recorded the impossible.