Hawke

by Ted Bell

  “Does he have a wife? Children in the house?”

  “No, sir, he do not have no wife, no children.”

  “There’s an old schoolbus parked outside the club.”

  “Yessuh.”

  “Run?”

  “That’s my mother’s bus. She hauls kids to school in it every day. Calls it her bread and butter.”

  “You have keys?”

  “Yes, sir. ’Course I do.”

  “Get dressed. You’re coming with us.”

  “I ain’t done nothin’, sir, but tell you the Lord’s honest truth.”

  “I’m taking you into protective custody until I can determine the truth of that statement.”

  “Don Carlo, he see me with policemen, I’m dead.”

  “He won’t get the chance to see you, Mr. Lillywhite. I’ll see to it that he does not. No harm will come to you or any member of your family.”

  “You got to mind yourself with Don Carlo, Mr. Congreve. Real careful. Man is crazy. He ’bout bad as they get down in these islands. And they can get very bad.”

  Lowering his weapon, Ambrose walked toward the empty doorframe, paused, and looked over his shoulder at the man still lying on the bed.

  “You’re dealing with Scotland Yard, Mr. Lillywhite. Bad is our bread and butter.”

  41

  Gomez felt as if he must have died and gone to heaven.

  Not only had his wife taken him back into her bed, she’d gone to acting like a bitch in heat. Right now she was sitting astride his chest, panting, her hands planted beside his ears, slapping her big breasts back and forth across his cheeks, pausing every now and then to let him nurse hungrily at her swollen nipples.

  It wasn’t all good behavior that had led Gomez to this blissful new state of affairs. He’d been a very bad boy.

  His buddy on the guard tower, Sparky Rollins, told him a shipment of generic Viagra had arrived last week at the Gitmo PX. Cheap. And, goddamn, it worked. Man, did it work. Not only for him, but, he discovered, for Rita as well. He decided not to tell her about it. Just let her get a taste of the new and improved Gomez for a few days. Show her that the big dog was back.

  And once you let the big dog out, well—

  She’d been surprised at his new ability and, after a few nights, even a little friendly. She wasn’t exactly all the way to the moaning and groaning stage, but she was allowing him to do what he wanted to do. Certainly better than the frigid ice bitch she’d been for months now.

  He hid the pills from her way at the back of the top shelf of the little closet where she stashed the clean bath towels. The shelf was so high, she couldn’t reach it, even with the stool. But he could. And, like clockwork, he’d climb up there every night before dinner, take down the jar, and pop a couple. An hour later, stand back, baby, nobody knows how big this thing’s gonna get.

  Couple of nights ago, climbing down from the stool in the bathroom with the plastic jar full of little blue pills, he’d had another one of his brainstorms.

  What if he crushed up a bunch of them little blue wonders and sneaked them into the spaghetti sauce? Or soup or whatever the two of them were eating for dinner. Then just sit back and see what happened. Hell, couldn’t hurt. Not like he was putting poison in her food or anything.

  It was like Spanish fly. Hell, he must have gone through a ton of Spanish fly when he was a kid. Problem was, nobody knew if it worked or not. It sure didn’t seem to work for him, but who knew? Other guys seemed to be getting lucky all the damn time.

  This stuff definitely worked. Made her stone crazy in the sack. Couldn’t get enough of that big old dog, that was for sure.

  She was moaning now, calling him names, words coming out of her mouth he’d never heard any woman say, begging for it, and she was going to get it, by God. Right friggin’ now! Oh, yeah—

  A tinny rendition of the William Tell Overture started up on the bedside table. Shit. His cell phone. Nice timing, dickhead, whoever you are. He let it ring a couple of times, thinking whoever it was would give up and call back later. Groaning, he entered her and that’s when it hit him. What if it was—?

  He reached for the phone, not missing a beat.

  “Hello, Elvis,” said the familiar voice.

  “Hey, how you doin’, amigo? Long time no see. Um, listen, could you call back in about—”

  That’s when Rita whupped him up the side of his head so hard it knocked the phone out of his hand. He rolled out from under her and onto the floor, reaching around for his phone, hearing the tinny little voice coming from it. He grabbed it and said, “Sorry, baby, I—”

  “Goddamn you!” Rita screamed, and in the moonlight he could see her grab the damn lamp off the table and rip it out of the wall, throwing it right at his head. He ducked, but it still hit his shoulder and hurt like hell. He stood up, rubbing his arm, and noticed he was still hard as a rock. Damn, this stuff was good!

  “Listen, baby, I’m sorry. I just thought it might be an important call and—”

  “Your little friend Julio Iglesias, maybe?” she snarled at him. “Or maybe it was Madonna. Or Mariah Carey. Get the hell out of here! Get out of my sight, you bastard.”

  He was about to plead with her, beg, but then he thought, wait, it was them. Well, they’ll call back. Like any second now. He’d better get down to the kitchen and be there when the phone rang.

  “Chill, baby, I’m sorry,” Gomez said, pulling on his jockeys standing on one leg. He stuffed the cell phone inside the waistband of his jockeys. “I’ll go. You try to get some sleep, baby. You’ll feel better and—”

  Something else was hurtling at him through the darkness. Clock radio? He pulled the door shut and heard whatever it was shatter against the thin wooden door. He ran down the narrow stairway that led to the kitchen, Rita still hollering upstairs. Jesus H. Christ, this spy shit was tough on a marriage.

  Now, there was a good question. Everybody knew that Jesus’ middle name started with an H. But how many people knew what the H stood for? Huh? How many?

  Henry? Harold? Howard? Jesus Howard Christ. Didn’t sound right. Screw it. Leave that one to the nuns and the Bible experts.

  He opened the fridge, one eye on the wall phone, thinking they might try that number, and grabbed a cold Bud. Popped that tallboy while he was in the laundry room, digging around in the dryer. He found a nice clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

  He was zipping up his jeans, damn, he still had a friggin’ woody! Jesus, this stuff was—he suddenly felt something vibrating on his pecker. What the—? His cell phone. He had switched it to vibrate. Felt pretty damn good, he was thinking, reaching down and pulling his cell out, not bad at all. Pick up the wall phone and call his dick a few times.

  “Hello?” he said, putting the cell to his ear.

  “Fuck you doin’, Elvis, hanging up on me?”

  “I’m sorry, man, see my old lady, she—”

  “Tell it to somebody who gives a shit. We’ve got business to discuss, Elvis. Urgent business.”

  “Okay, well, who is this? Who’m I talking to?”

  “Julio.”

  “Julio, my man! Whassup?” Gomez asked, trying to sound like he had his shit together and was ready for action. He’d had a few beers, but he’d learned one thing. You had to be sharp on the phone with these dudes.

  “Listen carefully. It’s checkout time at the Roach Motel, Elvis. We just got the call. You know what you have to do?”

  “Checkout time! Aw-right! My man, it’s about time! Let’s get it on! Let’s rock and roll!”

  Gomez noticed his breathing was getting shallow and his mouth had gone dry like that old iguana, one who’d been lying on a rock out in the sun too long.

  “You got the RC, Elvis?” Julio was asking him.

  “Some in the fridge. Why?”

  “The radio control box, you dumb shit.”

  “Oh, yeah. That. Just kidding around. No. Not on me. I mean, I know where it is.”

  “You remember how to work it?”<
br />
  “Tell me again.”

  “Are you drunk, Elvis? Tell me the truth, right now. If you are, you’re dead. You and your whole family, understand? Dead meat.”

  “Hell no, I ain’t drunk, Julio! I swear it! I had two beers with dinner and I’ve been screwing my brains out for two solid hours! Jesus! Calm down, all right?”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Now, listen to me, compadre. You go get that little bug box. You remember the little window with the red numbers?”

  “Of course. Jesus. I’m not stupid. You’re talking to a petty officer third class here, pal.”

  “Is it armed?”

  “Uh, it says ‘armed,’ yeah.”

  “Bueno. Now, you push the button on the left side. The numbers should all come up 0000. That’s step one. Step two, you push the button on the right. The numbers will start going up. Push the button again when they say 3000 exactly. The numbers will stop.”

  “Okay, I’m with you,” Gomez said. He was scribbling furiously on Rita’s grocery store pad, trying to keep up. “3000. What if I go too far, you know, by accident?”

  “No problem. Push the right button again and it will zero you out. Then you just do it again.”

  “Cool. So I can’t mess up. Then what?”

  “What time you got?”

  Gomez looked up at the big kitchen clock, then at his watch.

  “Exactly ten o’clock P.M.”

  “Okay. Once you’re programmed, you don’t do anything, anything, until midnight. At the stroke of twelve, you push the left and right buttons at exactly the same time. You got that? Exactly the same time.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it, señor.”

  “What does that do, pushing both buttons?”

  “Starts the countdown to checkout time at the old cucaracha motel. Thirty hours. The numbers will start rolling backwards.”

  “Holy shit, then what?”

  “Then you are a very rich man, Elvis. At ten or fifteen seconds after midnight, your cell phone will ring. You make sure you’ve got it on you, charged up, and turned on. Got it?”

  “Yeah. What do I say?”

  “You answer, ‘Roach Motel.’ A voice will ask you if there are any vacancies. If you have successfully initiated the countdown, you say, ‘No vacancies for thirty hours.’ Then you hang up.”

  “No vacancies for thirty hours. I got it. Then what?”

  “One more little thing, amigo, one more thing and then you are a very, very wealthy individual.”

  “What?” Gomez asked, feeling a little chill.

  “You have to deliver the RC to one of the guards at the Cuban checkpoint. That’s the only way we can confirm that you have fulfilled your mission. And the only way you get the password to your Swiss bank account.”

  “What? The Cuban side? How the fuck do I do that?”

  “You told us you had a good friend at one of the American towers.”

  “Sparky Rollins?”

  “Exactly. He’ll let you through, no questions, right? You said he was your amigo, the one you did all that time in the brig with?”

  “Yeah. I guess. What if he doesn’t just happen to be on duty tonight?”

  Christ, he was starting to shimmy and shake like a goddamn Mexican jumping bean.

  “You ever hear of wire cutters, amigo?”

  “Aw, shit, Julio,” Gomez said. He felt like he was going to start bawling. “There’s a goddamn minefield out there! You guys know that. How the hell do I walk across that?”

  “Very, very carefully, amigo. You got a million dollars at stake. You got to think positive. You got to watch your step, man, you’ll make it. Vaya con Dios.”

  “But what about—hello?” The line had gone dead. Shit. He stared at the phone in his hand. It was shaking so bad, he didn’t trust himself to put it in his pocket. He set the phone on the counter and took a big swig of the Bud. He wiped his eyes with the bottom of his T-shirt.

  Stay cool, he told himself. You can pull this off. This is the big one. But you got to stay cool. Stay focused. Focused on what? The Big Plan, of course! He’d been so nookie crazy lately that, until Julio’s call, he’d almost forgotten the Big Plan. The money, dickhead. The million dollars over there in goddamn Switzerland, that’s what he had to focus on.

  And the box. Had to focus on his little pal RC. Good thing he’d been smart enough to write it all down. He looked at the pencil scribbles on the grocery pad. They were kinda blurry because of his sweaty hand, but he could make them out. He folded the paper and stuck it in his jeans pocket.

  Then he grabbed another Bud and headed for the garage. The phone! He’d need the cell phone! He grabbed it off the counter and stuck it back down into his underpants. Safer that way. He ducked out the screen door that led to the little backyard.

  It was raining. Hard. He hadn’t even noticed. Thunder, lightning, the whole weather thing. Christ. His backyard was underwater. He splashed the few short steps to the garage and stood under the eaves, breathing hard. Why? What was the problem? The minefield? Yeah, that was a problem. A bona fide bitch. Would he try it for one million big ones? Bet your ass.

  So, what then? There was something missing in the plan, that’s what. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he would. He just needed a little Vitamin V to calm his nerves.

  He stepped into the dark garage and reached up to the shelf where he hid the bottle of Stoli inside an old coffee can. Can was there but it felt too light. He peered inside. Nothing but a few rusty nails. Goddamn kids. Or maybe Rita. She was always sneaking around, looking for his bottles. Now he’d have to drive over to the PX and buy a fifth of the Stolmeister. No biggie.

  A thought. He better program the little RC Cola thing before he dipped into the sauce. Smarts. Total concentration. That’s what it took in this modern world of high-tech espionage.

  He opened the trunk and lifted the spare. The little bundle was right where it was supposed to be. The RC wrapped in one of his old T-shirts. He lifted it out, carefully, carefully, and moved from the car to his work bench and pulled the cord on the hanging work light.

  He unwrapped the bundle. He smiled when he saw the little red letters saying ARMED. He stuck his hand in his jeans pocket and pulled out the directions he’d written in the kitchen. Took a deep pull on the old brewski. Smoothed the scrap of paper out on his worktable and went to work.

  Unbelievable. How good he was. He had it programmed in thirty goddamn seconds. Just seeing the 3000 flashing made him smile.

  Who wants to be a millionaire?

  Rafael Gomez, that’s who. Yeah, baby.

  Then he leaned in through the driver’s window and put the little box on the front seat. He got in and started the piece of crap Yugo. He looked at his watch glowing in the dark. He had an hour and forty-five minutes to relax and enjoy himself. Couple of drinks, calm down, and think.

  Because there was still a part of the plan he hadn’t wanted to deal with, but now he had to face it head on.

  The problem he had to figure out, now that he’d programmed the goddamn thing was, once he’d pushed the two buttons, what the fuck did he do then?

  He got behind the wheel and started the car, thinking hard as he could about the one thing he’d been trying so hard not to think about.

  Namely, how did he make sure his family got the hell out of Dodge before the fit hit the shan when all them damn roaches checked out? That was the one-million-dollar question, all right. Had to work on that one.

  Good news was he had thirty whole hours to figure that beauty out. Give a man with his kind of brainpower that much time, he’d be more than likely to come up with the goddamn secret of life!

  He put the car in reverse and backed out of the garage. He’d start to figure something out, once he sloshed a couple of cold vodkas down the pipe. Another family emergency in Miami? Would that work again so soon? Probably not.

  He backed into the street and put the car in first, splashing through puddles, tearing up his stree
t at a pretty good clip. He could afford to speed. Weren’t too many MPs cruising around in their Humvees this time of night. And after all, he was on a pretty tight deadline.

  As he drove with his left hand, he unwrapped the bundle. The RC felt cool to his touch on the seat beside him. He looked down at the red window that was flashing ARMED and then 3000, back and forth. So, he was ready. Focused.

  He pulled into the PX parking lot. Something was wrong. All the windows were black. Goddamn. Sunday night. He’d totally forgotten. PX was closed on Sunday night. He pounded on the steering wheel. • Now what? Here’s what. Go around the back, break a window in the door, and let himself in! Hello? Duh!

  Steal a Stoli for Jesus!

  The hootch would be locked up behind the metal gate back of the bar. Nothing serious. He had a tool kit in the trunk. Wirecutters, everything. He could jimmy anything. Hell, probably jimmy the back door at the White House no problema if he had to. He’d always been good with tools. Good with anything. He saw the little box winking at him. Bad if somebody took his little friend RC while he was on a mission. Real bad. He decided to take it with him along with the tool kit. Swig of Bud, toss the empty in the backseat, and it’s party time, pretty mama!

  “RC call home” popped into his mind and he giggled.

  He climbed out of the car and turned his face up into the falling rain. He opened his mouth and let the sweet water fill it. So this was what life was like on top of the world.

  Christ, it was great to be rich. Don’t let anybody kid you.

  Sweet.

  42

  “Call the ball, Kittyhawke,” squawked the irritated voice of the air boss in his headphones.

  Calling the ball.

  That’s what the U.S. Navy carrier pilots called it.

  If the ball showed green, you were coming in too high. Red, too low. A line of white lights was what you wanted to see.

  He watched the lights at the after deck flash green, then red, then green as his little plane bucked the thirty-mile-an-hour headwind. On final approach, what you were mostly worried about was a stall, and Alex was definitely worried. His jumpsuit was wet with the sweat of his adrenaline boost.