“They were swept off their feet by his cooking?’
“No, you idiot, by his ‘cocking’. They probably tripped over his dick.” After sex, Sylvia tended to talk dirty. “He was notoriously well-endowed. The French waiters named the pepper mills in honor of his penis. Oh, you’re laughing. You knew that, didn’t you?’
“Yes, but I’m not sure I like where this is going. I’m not sure I want you to twist my pepper mill.”
She laughed.
“Well, you’re no Rubirosa. But you’re no salt shaker either. You’re just right.”
“Goodman would be a more appropriate name for it, don’t you think?”
“A good man is hard to find,” she said, giggling.
“And a hard man is good to find.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. You know who Mae West is, too! Hurry up and finish your meal. Let’s go back to bed.”
CHAPTER 17 – PARADISE
Auburn Longstreet looked down at the Gulf of Mexico from his terrace in the penthouse of the 18-story luxury building.
“It looks like glass,” the woman said, handing him the margarita.
The Gulf was indeed flat as a millpond. He took a sip of the cocktail and grimaced.
“Too much salt on the rim.”
“Sorry, baby. I’ll make you another.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, running his finger around the rim and flicking off some of the salt. He really liked this girl. Most thousand-dollar call girls from Miami had a bit of an attitude. She was a sweetheart. He took another sip. “See, rescued.”
They were both naked, which might have been a problem if anyone could see them. But Longstreet’s penthouse terrace was not visible from any of the other apartments in the Shalimar II. In any event, none of them were as yet occupied. Except for a small maintenance staff and some workers putting the finishing touches on some condos, he and the lovely Cassandra had the entire building to themselves. The beach was empty, as was the Shalimar II’s pool area. None of the other Bonita Springs buildings adjacent was taller than three stories. No, only someone passing in a boat could see them, and would probably need binoculars. Not that Longstreet really gave a damn. It was his building after all. And for all intents and purposes, his beach. He had found paradise. Again.
“Where is your other building, Dickie?”
Longstreet didn’t care for the diminution of his name, but he put up with anything from Cassandra. He turned around and leaned back against the railing. She had sat down in a chair and stretched her luscious legs out, putting her feet on the rail so that he was between them. The view Longstreet had of her shaved sex certainly beat the hell out of the Gulf of Mexico. His mouth suddenly became very dry. He took a drink.
“What other building?”
“The other Shalimar, silly. This is Shalimar II.”
“It’s in Monaco,” he lied. “I’ll take you there some day.”
“I’ve been to Monaco,” she said. “Where is it?”
Of course she’s been to Monaco, he thought.
“Near the casino.” He knew there was a casino in the principality. “You must have seen it. Big white building with a red roof.”
“Probably. They all look alike to me. Is it called Shalimar I?”
She really was a simple one.
“No, honey. You don’t have to number the first one.”
“Why not? Wouldn’t it be easier to keep track when you have a lot of them.”
Longstreet didn’t feel like explaining, especially since the “Shalimar I” didn’t exist. He only gave his current building its name to impress people. A man who presumably owns two luxury buildings must be a force to be reckoned with. He ran a hand along her right leg. It was smooth as silk. She smiled and sat up, sliding her chair closer to him. Leaning forward, she bent her head and took him in her mouth, slipping a hand under and cupping his testicles. He groaned, then leaned back and drank as she aroused him. After a few moments he closed his eyes and gave himself over entirely to the sensations. She had a technique, using her hand and gentle biting, to bring him to a pinnacle, and then back, before she finally let him come. The orgasm was so intense he cried out, scaring a pelican from its perch on the terrace just below them.
With his eyes blissfully shut, Longstreet didn’t see the maintenance man on the roof in the corner of the building. The man, his forehead beaded with sweat, turned off the camera in his cell phone and immediately emailed the video, using the building’s excellent Wi-Fi service.
***
Vocce opened his IPad and checked his emails. He saw that he’d gotten one from the man he’d placed on the payroll of one of Longstreet’s contractors. It was a lot easier to do something like that in a union town, which Bonita Springs, on the conservative west coast of Florida, definitely was not. But contractors were contractors and getting a worker who didn’t need a paycheck was irresistible in a tight construction market.
Longstreet hadn’t been that hard to find. With Tucci fingered as the rat, he was living openly, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Sponging off other people’s money with the Government presumably covering your back will do that, Vocce knew.
It would have been even easier just to take him out immediately, but Boudreau insisted that he wanted to do it himself. Revenge aside, he was convinced that the slimy banker had his family’s millions hidden somewhere.
The Toothpick opened the video and after a moment cast a nervous glance at the other people in the airport lounge. Fortunately, there was no one nearby to see what was on his screen. He might get arrested just watching the video if there were any kids around. Just to be safe, he turned down the sound. He was glad he did. At the end, during his climax, Longstreet sounded like a stuck hog.
The video wasn’t that long. That was no knock on Longstreet, Vocce admitted. No man could last very long with the ministrations the girl was performing. Vocce planned to download the video to his home computer later. It was the single best blow job he’d ever seen.
Which was saying something, considering that he lived in Vegas, the fellatio capital of the Western world. Entranced, and not a little aroused, Vocce almost missed the gate announcement. They were calling his flight to New Haven.
He closed down his iPad. He would show Boudreau the video when he got back to New Orleans. The Fat Man would have a coronary when he saw it.
CHAPTER 18 – OYSTERS
Sylvia was waiting for Sudden at the bottom of the hill. She was sitting on the rock wall behind the big oak tree in front of his house. Behind her, a gaggle of geese marched across the lawn as if they owned it. In this part of Connecticut, the local wildlife had generally lost any fear of humans. Geese and deer were frequent visitors to Sudden’s lawn and gardens, and he fought a constant battle with raccoons that overturned his trash cans and gnawed their way onto his screened porch. The occasional black bear and coyote also wandered through the woods that bordered most neighborhoods, and a mountain lion had recently turned up not 10 miles from his house. Sylvia, a Midwesterner by birth, was an animal lover and thought it was all charming, as did some of Sudden’s neighbors. He wondered how charming they would consider it when a coyote or puma made off with the family dog, or worse.
Sylvia was holding a mug of coffee, and swinging her legs like a little girl, her shoes off. Sudden could see another mug perched precariously on the wall next to her. She looked very happy. After dinner the night before, they had gone to a movie in a small six-screen Cineplex in Fairfield that was showing Tell No One, a French-language film based on a Harlan Coben thriller. Neither could understand how the French could make such a fine adaption of an American book, although Sylvia said she read somewhere that Hollywood was working on its own version.
“Probably won’t be as good,” she said. “Look at The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I love Daniel Craig, but the Swedish version was superior.”
“I thought it was pretty good,” Sudden said, “and I really liked Rooney Mara.”
“You liked seein
g her boobies.”
Afterwards, back at Sudden’s house, they made love.
“Would you like me to pierce my nipples, like Rooney Mara,” Sylvia said, looking down at Sudden.
“I like them just the way they are.”
“I think they’re small.”
“Your nipples?”
He mouthed one.
“My breasts.”
“They’re bigger than Rooney’s.”
“Whose aren’t?”
An hour later they fell into an exhausted slumber.
They had followed virtually the same routine for most of the week. Sylvia, who had planned to stay only two days, made a couple of phone calls and arranged to have friends cover Shakespeare and Friends for her, augmented by out-of-work bookstore salespeople, of whom there was now no shortage in Manhattan. She claimed that she needed more time to edit Sudden’s manuscripts. He teased her that what she really wanted was more time to have sex. In fact, she had become quite insatiable. It had been, she freely admitted, a long dry spell. Sudden wasn’t complaining, although she was coming close to wearing him out in bed. And on the couch. And the rug by his fireplace. And the shower.
Work and lovemaking didn’t leave much time for cooking, so they ate out most nights: The Spotted Horse Tavern in Westport, Artisan at the Delamar in Southport. Molto’s in Fairfield and the Seafood House in Rowayton, where Sudden inhaled oysters in the hope that their alleged aphrodisiac powers would get him through the night.
Sylvia had still been asleep when Sudden got up to run off the previous night’s dinner. Now, as he walked up to her she ran a foot up under his shorts and twirled her toes suggestively. He slapped the foot away and leaned forward to kiss her.
As Sudden bent down he felt a sharp blow in back, between his left shoulder and the base of his neck. He rocked forward. His mind registered the two distinct, and all too familiar, sounds that followed the discharge of a high-velocity rifle. First there was the low crack as the supersonic bullet broke the sound barrier. That was followed almost immediately by the familiar “pow” made by the propellant gases escaping the gun barrel.
Sylvia exhaled sharply into his mouth and then began to slump backward off the low wall. He instinctively started to support her even as his legs weakened and a dull pain spread throughout his chest. As he tumbled to the ground he pulled her with him.
Sylvia slid off him. Sudden looked over to her. She was lying face down with her head tilted toward him. Her eyes were open and a small trickle of blood ran out her mouth. He heard childish laughter, the screech of brakes and, finally, high-pitched screams. Then he passed out.
***
He woke up in some sort of vehicle. He heard a siren. They shouldn’t use a siren. It was enemy territory. It would only alert the insurgents.
“No siren,” he rasped.
Something was wrong with his throat.
“Easy, pal. We’re almost there.”
A man in a blue uniform leaned over him. A U.N. peacekeeper? What the hell were they doing in such a hot zone? We’re always the last to get the word. Typical. No wonder they didn’t know about the siren.
“You’re going too fast,” he said, his strength going. “Place is lousy with I.E.D.’s.”
The ride was remarkably smooth. They should drive on the shoulders. Or even better, in the fields if they could. Less chance of getting blown up. He started to tell the U.N. guy, but he couldn’t move his mouth.
Blackness.
“Hey, Hal,” the ambulance driver shouted back, “what was he saying?”
“Something about the U.N.,” the E.M.S. paramedic from Bridgeport said. They had been the closest first responders available to answer the call. “He’s delirious. He can’t talk straight, anyway. I think his throat is swelling. You’d better step on it or we’re gonna lose him. His blood pressure is cratering.”
“Do you have to trach him?”
“Not if you hurry.”
***
He was in a bright corridor. On his back. Wheels creaked. He couldn’t move. There was pain, with the promise of a lot more to come. Overhead ceiling lights rushed by. Disjointed, but competent, voices.
“Gunshot. Through and through. Airway is partially obstructed.”
“Call a thoracic surgeon. And the throat guy, what’s his name, the Pakistani. He’s new.”
Pakistan? How did I get there? Whatever he was on banged into something. He groaned.
“Sorry, pal. Just a swinging door. They’ll give you something soon. We’re almost there.”
A sharp jolt of pain as strong hands hoisted him onto a table. Faces. Questions. He tried to answer but nothing came out. He was having trouble breathing. He felt nauseous. What the hell happened? I hope the boys got the sniper. I must have passed out on the copter.
As they cut away his clothes, he found the strength to shout, although it came out a hoarse whisper.
“What about my men? Take care of them first.”
“What’s he talking about?”
“Look at those scars. This isn’t his first rodeo.”
“My men!”
“Don’t sweat it, soldier.” The voice was kind, and reassuring. “They’re fine. You will be, too.” Then, more brusquely. “Type and tube him, and let’s get him upstairs, stat.”
He appeared to be heading down a long tunnel. It was getting progressively darker. Isn’t there supposed to be a light at the end. Tunnel vision? Where had he heard that before?
“It’s a good name for a book,” he croaked. “I don’t care what they say.”
Someone stuck him in the arm and said, “nighty-night.”
Blackness.
CHAPTER 19 – KENNEDY WOUND
“The bullet went through you and into her. Right into the heart. If it’s any consolation, it was quick. She probably didn’t feel anything.”
Nigel Buss was holding a cup of water to Sudden’s mouth. He took a small sip through the straw and grimaced as he swallowed.
“The docs say your throat will be sore for a couple of days. They intubated you during surgery, of course, but there was also some trauma to your trachea from the round.”
“I’m taller than Sylvia is … was. It should have …”
“From the angle the round took through your body we figure it came from the top of that hill you were running down. There was a copse of trees there. The cops found a patch of dirt where it looks like somebody was kneeling. Sniper’s perch.” Buss put the water on a table next to Sudden’s hospital bed and sat down. “The trajectory would have put it into her lower down. It was a full-metal military round. If it was a hollow point or dum-dum it would have spread out inside your chest and probably killed you.”
“But spared her.”
Buss nodded.
“Probably.”
Sudden closed his eyes. He was very tired. But he forced himself to stay awake.
“I wonder why he didn’t put another round or two in me to be sure. He had to be using a scope and would have seen me still moving.”
Buss was always stunned by Sudden’s cold analysis of even the most emotional situations. It was what made him a close-to-perfect field agent.
“Probably would have, but you caught another break. A van full of kids going to a day camp pulled around the corner. Driver stopped when he saw you. We figure the van blocked the shooter’s sight line. It was tough on the kids, though.”
A woman in a white smock walked into the room.
“I’m doctor Cusamano,” she said, with a withering look at Nigel. “Who the hell are you? Mr. Sudden is in no condition for visitors.”
“Police business,” Buss said. He tried to sound like it was true but he had that deer-in-the-headlights look even tough men get when confronted by an even-tougher woman. “Federal.”
“Whoopie fuckin’ do,” she said. “That gives you as much pull in here as my ex-husband. Now, git.”
Nigel folded.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, Cole. Take it easy. If you ne
ed anything, just call.”
“You’ll check with me first,” the doctor said. “I’ll let you know when you can see him. Are we clear on that, Mr. Federal Man?”
“Yes, Ma’am. You’re the boss.”
“You better believe it.”
After Buss left, the doctor walked over to Sudden and gently put her stethoscope to his chest.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “They never learn.”
“Git?”
She smiled as she moved the stethoscope around his chest.
“I’m from Texas. Do you think you can sit up?”
With her help he did and she listened to his back. Then she eased him back down.
“How do you feel?”
“Tired and sore, working on hungry.”
“I’ll see what I can do about the hungry. That’s a good sign. Then I wouldn’t mind if you rested some more. Do you think you can get some sleep without me increasing your pain meds? You’re already on enough pills to put down Secretariat.”
“That won’t be a problem, doc.”
“You are very fortunate, Mr. Sudden. Yours was a Kennedy wound.”
“The magic bullet.”
“You know your history. Oswald’s second shot went in the President’s back and came out his chest. Hit mostly muscle and missed everything important. Nicked his windpipe, which didn’t happen with you, but, like you, his wound was easily survivable, until the head shot.”
Sudden knew that Oswald’s round had gone through JFK to hit the Texas Governor sitting in the jump seat in front of him. A back brace kept the President upright long enough for the fatal bullet to shatter his skull.
“It doesn’t feel like it missed my windpipe.”
“By a hair. Shock of the impact nearby just bruised it, and caused it to swell. But there was no real damage. You might have some discomfort swallowing for a few days, so I’m afraid you are going to get sick of our famous hospital Jell-O. But maybe I can arrange for some ice cream or a malted.”
TWO SUDDEN!: A Pair of Cole Sudden C.I.A. Thrillers Page 8
