by Martin Clark
“Hot, Mr. King?” Hobbes asked.
A sweat rivulet was winding down Joel’s forehead, swimming toward the slant of his nose. “I’m not used to the heat,” he answered. “The dry heat. What’s it to you?”
“Always the con artist, aren’t you?” Hobbes said. “And it’s March, asshole.”
“Always the skeptic,” Joel replied.
The three other officers left him alone with Hobbes while they went to a white van—TOPPS CLEANING AND JANITORIAL was written on each door in bold black letters—and checked the reception from the transmitter.
“Test one, two, three, four, five, Agent Hobbes is glad to be alive,” Joel joked after waiting for them to get in position.
“Where is it?” Hobbes said.
“Where’s what?”
“Kill two birds with one stone today, eh? How much was the reward on the museum burglary? I heard from Ms. Allen you’ve been asking.”
“I’m sure you already know,” Joel answered, “being an ace G-man and all.”
Joel looked like a late-seventies rock star in his police disguise—one of the Allman Brothers, maybe, or Pete Townsend—his head underneath a puffy, mushrooming denim cap, his straight black wig brushing his shoulders and his face obscured behind tricolored aviator sunglasses. “Do I get a guitar?” he asked Woods once they’d finished dressing him. “A leather vest with tassels?”
“It’s supposed to look homemade,” Woods told him. “Like you did it yourself.”
“I know,” Joel said. “I’m only kidding.”
The appointment had been made under the name of Sherman Flanagan, and because Mr. Flanagan was a new client, Sa’ad’s receptionist presented him with a two-page questionnaire fastened to a clipboard and instructed him to please complete every section. Joel spent five minutes goofing through his answers and was tempted to put “police informant” in the employment blank before finally deciding to stay in character. “Bass player, seventies cover band,” he printed. Ten minutes after he returned the forms, the receptionist announced that Mr. Sa’ad was ready for him. She didn’t seem to recognize him, although she did ask twice if he was Mr. Flanagan when he first arrived and told her he was there for his four o’clock meeting.
Sa’ad was in full flower as Joel entered his office, hovering and pacing on his raised platform, talking into a sleek cordless phone, animals snarling, growling, pouncing, clawing and prowling all around him. He acknowledged Joel soon after he came through the door, then ignored him while he continued to saunter back and forth and purr sonorous sentences to the person on the other end of the call. Joel kept his distance, held steady near the threshold, and he pretended to scan the office, did a three-sixty that concluded at the gum machines. Sa’ad glanced his way again and spoke into the phone: “Yes you will. Oh, yes you will,” he said imperiously.
Joel pivoted to block Sa’ad’s view, ran one hand across the top of the machines and sneaked the other into the front of his pants, located the two strips of Scotch tape holding the ring on the underside of his scrotum. He’d practiced for several hours in the basement, had become adept at collecting the jewelry and leaving the tape behind, was able to accomplish the grab with a fluid motion that didn’t register in his shoulders or stance. He’d used a yellow-and-white disposable Bic razor to shave the area, had drawn blood because he couldn’t half see what he was doing. The cotton fabric of his pocket was cut away on the rear side, replaced with a generous patch of thick black felt. The felt was lightly glued to the rest of the pocket, barely attached.
With the ring in his palm, he jammed his hand into the rigged pocket— looking for coins it would appear—separating the felt and balling it around the ring. He could hear Sa’ad finishing the call, could tell he was being watched now, and he was careful not to panic, didn’t rush, doused his nerves with the belief he was doing fate’s bidding and operating under the Lord’s immunity.
He inserted the wad into the throat of the machine and pushed until he got complete resistance, then paused to make certain the clog hung and didn’t fall out. The metal flap covering the shoot clicked closed when Joel withdrew his fingers, made a ting that sounded like a detonation to Joel’s tense ears. He spun around and brought his fist to his lips, acting as if he were dropping in gum, and began chewing the piece already in his mouth.
Done. Mission accomplished. Thank you, Lord. This had to be the correct route, he told himself, because so far the plan had transpired flawlessly and without a hitch. Sa’ad could have recognized him or met him at the door or kept him under scrutiny the entire time, but, just as he’d hoped, the hotshot lawyer was too busy showing off and strutting the stage for a new client. Instead of virtually begging him to entrap Sa’ad, the detectives could’ve searched him rigorously, stripped him naked and pried apart his legs and discovered his hiding place, which was good but far from perfect. Either Winton and Woods didn’t care about his potential skullduggery or they were convinced he was on the straight and narrow since he didn’t come unglued when the subject of a frisk was raised. It was as if the Lord had snapped His fingers in front of the cops’ eyes and rendered them temporarily blind. So what if Hobbes thought he had Joel pegged—he was out of the loop, and he couldn’t prove a thing.
“Mr. Flanagan,” Sa’ad said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Hello, Sa’ad,” Joel said, still standing at the machines. The greeting was brassy and obnoxious. “Great to see you.”
“Sir?” Sa’ad was taken aback. “Have we met?”
“Of course we have. Although you don’t seem too eager to return my calls.” Joel moved closer, away from the treats and novelties. “It’s me.”
“I’m not certain . . .” Sa’ad hesitated and stepped off his platform. “Joel?”
“Excellent. Good guess.” He removed the hat and wig, then the glasses. He patted his hair into place as he approached Sa’ad.
“This is a surprise.”
“I’ll bet,” Joel said. “We need to talk, old pal.”
“Talk? About what? Have a seat. Welcome. It’s been a while.” He touched Joel’s shoulder and shook his hand. The surprise and confusion were transient, already waning. Sa’ad’s expression was no longer mystified and his voice had healed. “Why are you dressed in this . . . this costume?”
“You know why, Sa’ad. The same reason you’re not picking up the phone to call me. I had to disguise myself to slip out of Missoula.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.” Sa’ad looked at him with a mixture of malevolence and joy, like a tiger about to disembowel a hyena. “Sit. Sit, please.” He made a grand production of cocking a chair in Joel’s direction.
“Sure.” Joel sat and tossed his wig and blossomy hat onto the floor. “You want to search me before we do business? Check the lot for spies and black ops?”
“Are you okay? What’s happening?”
“You darn well know what’s happening, Sa’ad. The project’s in the tubes, the FBI is about to eat me alive and you and Edmund aren’t helping me.”
“Edmund?” Sa’ad said. “Project?”
“Yeah. Edmund.”
“What project are you referring to? Your divorce? Has something arisen there? I received your messages, but I’ve been very distracted.”
“Listen, here’s the deal. I need a boost, some help and advice from you guys, and if I don’t get it, I’m going to start polishing up my junior deputy’s badge. Talk to the cops and see what they can offer. Understand?”
“You’ve lost me, I’m afraid. Simmer down and let’s see if we can isolate your concerns.” Sa’ad stood and relocated to his desk, hanging his suit jacket over his chair before sitting back down. “Now, let’s start by finding you something to cut the dust—water, or a soft drink? Juice?”
“I don’t have time for this, Sa’ad. Are you going to work with me or not? Quit acting so bizarre.”
“Let’s just relax. How about something to drink?”
“I’m not thirsty. What do I need to do a
bout the FBI? They know the insurance claim’s a fraud.”
“Did you see my most recent addition?” Sa’ad gestured to his left, where a buffalo’s horned head was mounted on the wall.
“Great. You shot a bison. Congratulations.”
“I’m very proud of it. Know where it came from?”
“Mars? Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom?” Joel shrugged. “Why would I care about your ridiculous hunting trophies?”
“Colorado.”
“So?” Joel grunted.
“They raise them there and slaughter them for meat. You can go to the ranch, pay a few hundred bucks, and they place you on a shooting stand above the pen and let you take your pick. The hunter gets the head and skin, then they process the meat and sell it to restaurants and distributors.”
“That’s obscene, Sa’ad. Gruesome. You shoot the poor animal while it’s fenced in? Do you wait for them to look up from the salt blocks and hay? Sounds about par for your course.”
“It’s a damn fine arrangement, Mr. King. I don’t like risk and failure in any of my endeavors.” He paused. “And I wanted a buffalo head. Now I have one. They would’ve killed him sooner or later anyway.”
“Is this some sort of parable, Sa’ad? Something veiled?”
He smiled from behind his desk. “No. Gracious, no. Not at all. I simply thought you’d be interested.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Do you want to tell me about your problem? Something about the FBI and insurance? This isn’t a divorce concern?”
“I’ve said everything I need to say,” Joel told him. “It’s your call now.” Joel heard the door open, and he noticed Sa’ad calibrate his attention, tilt his chin and extend his neck. A chubby black man in shorts and tennis shoes entered without knocking or speaking and waddled by Joel. He laid a sheet of paper on Sa’ad’s desk and stood waiting while Sa’ad read the message. Sa’ad thanked him and dismissed him, and the heavyset man lumbered back out of the room, his thighs squishing as he passed Joel.
“My goodness, Mr. King. I’m absolutely mortified. I hate to mention this, but we have a problem. And it’s my fault, my breach.” Sa’ad contorted his face into a clownishly overwrought expression of disappointment.
“What?” Joel felt the stares of the stuffed animals, noticing for the first time how their dead, fake eyes were trained on the seats at the bottom of the desk plateau.
“I treasure my clients’ privacy. You know that. It’s part of my code, part of my obligation as an attorney, to safeguard your secrets. Confidentiality is a watchword with Sa’ad X. Sa’ad. And because I’ve whipped the state and the federal government in court so many times, and because I help the little guy and the underdog and the single mom, because I don’t fear big insurance companies and huge corporations, I’m often a target of unfair practices. Dirty tricks, unlawful surveillance, harassment, snooping, eavesdropping, intimidation—you name it, I’ve seen it.”
“I can’t say I’d blame the insurance companies for coming after you—”
“It’s just atrocious,” Sa’ad declaimed. “There’s a price to pay whenever you champion the common man against the state or the establishment.”
“I’ve never heard such a bunch of—”
Sa’ad talked over him, steamrolling Joel’s words. “So I’ve been forced to take countermeasures, to implement security procedures for my clients’ protection.”
“Oh?” Joel replied. He sensed Sa’ad was nearing the conclusion of his speech, and he could anticipate the applause line, what was coming.
“Sad but true. I’m sorry to report we’re being bugged. My security chief, Melvin, tells me there’s a transmission leaving this office at this very moment. Can you believe it? You have my apologies.” Sa’ad said everything with a straight face. “My, my.”
“You have someone monitoring your office for bugs?”
“Day and night, Joel. Day and night. My house, car, office, the works. Isn’t it a shame our government would do this to me? It’s retribution, pure and simple. Orwellian in nature, illegal and unconstitutional. I’ve been forced to pay thousands a year and stay constantly vigilant, just to protect the integrity of my services. Makes you sick to your stomach, doesn’t it?”
“You know who you remind me of?”
“Who?” Sa’ad’s tone was blue, hurt, but his features were jumping with mischief. “Dr. King? Jackie Robinson? The Weavers from Ruby Ridge?”
“I was going to say Al Sharpton. But how about Don King?”
“Fine Americans both. Came from nothing. Thank you.” Sa’ad situated his chair closer to the desk. “We’re going to have to discontinue our conference until we can eliminate this problem. You can reschedule with my secretary, or if there’s something urgent, I can give you a referral. You have my apologies for the inconvenience. But let’s not say another word regarding your business—we can’t take the chance.”
“You think you’re pretty shrewd, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean.” Sa’ad’s expression became more animated, as if his features were about to evacuate his face and assume their own life. He picked up an extravagant fountain pen and opened a folder. “I’m preparing a file note. I’m going to document this intrusion by the government, record how their illegal snooping has interfered with our attorney-client relationship. Bastards. Or perhaps it’s a private entity monitoring us, some conglomerate or reckless chemical company with a courtroom grudge. Once we locate the culprit, I’ll contact you, and we’ll sue them silly.” He squiggled the pen across the opened folder. “Huh,” he said, bumping the pen’s tip against his desktop. Tap, tap, tap. “I’ll be darned.”
“What?” Joel was perched on the edge of his chair, the frame digging into his thighs.
“Two-hundred-dollar pen, and the rascal won’t write.” He puckered his lips and a devilish shine flitted through his pupils. “How about that?” He located another pen and pretended it also was broken. “Guess I’m jinxed today.”
Joel tried not to smile but couldn’t help himself. He broke into a broad grin, and Sa’ad followed suit, flashed a mouthful of perfect dentistry and a ribbon of moist, red gum line. “You’d think for that much money, it would write,” Joel said.
“Hey, how about you let me borrow yours?” Sa’ad said, his smile gigantic and insincere.
“Better not,” Joel told him.
“Oh?”
“Nah,” Joel answered.
“Come on. It’ll save my secretary a trip.”
“You can’t dictate the message? Or simply remember?” Joel was playing out the string, hitting his marks.
“No, I need to document this immediately, so there’s no question about accuracy or whose note it is.” He reached toward Joel with an open hand. “It’ll only take a minute, and I’d be eternally indebted.”
Joel rose and transferred the pen to Sa’ad and didn’t sit again. Sa’ad acted as if he were attempting to write on the file, but Joel could see the nib wasn’t anywhere near the target. Sa’ad made a number of passes and strokes over the folder, then started shaking the pen and thwacking it against his desk. “Damn, Preacher, this one’s defective, too.” He beat the daylights out of the pen, tossed it into a trash can and the amusement, every jot and tittle of it, fled his face. The spiteful playfulness vanished and the harmless man-in-the-moon grin disappeared, replaced by a pernicious stare.
“I don’t guess I’ll be getting my pen back, huh?” Joel asked.
“No,” Sa’ad said, his appearance now waxy and stiff, tombish. “I’ll have my office manager send you a replacement. And I’m sorry to be no more help with your legal problems.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Joel said. He was certain he smelled formaldehyde cross-stitched with decay, the stink probably emanating from the newly mounted buffalo head.
“You do that, Reverend.” Sa’ad sounded and looked soulless, capable of most anything, his conscience evidently assigned to the taxidermist along with the bears and
deer and other wild beasts.
Joel drove from Sa’ad’s to the Stardust, the Topps cleaning van following at an inconspicuous distance. They reconvened in the same room, and Hobbes ploughed into him as if the catastrophe with Sa’ad was somehow Joel’s responsibility. “A total fiasco,” Hobbes bellowed.
“Not his fault,” Woods said.
“Nope,” Harry Winton agreed. “Sa’ad’s cagey, I’ll give him that.”
“Joel probably tipped him or warned him or gave him a gesture or some such,” Hobbes argued. He was pacing. “And you didn’t have to forfeit the damn pen.”
“He caught us with our pants down,” Woods said. “Damn it. Now Joel’s probably too compromised to ever do us any good. Sa’ad’ll never trust him. Never.”
“Yeah, Hobbes,” Joel said, “I gave him a heads-up, told him to hire a security guy and have everything in place so he could discover your J. Edgar Hoover–era, Maxwell Smart microphone-in-a-pen.”
“Be as smartass as you like, Mr. King,” Hobbes snarled. “Be my guest. As I see it, your deal just went down the crapper, so you go ahead and antagonize us, keep the sarcasm coming. Maybe when Don Rickles croaks you can fill in here on the Strip. And let me assure you that was state equipment you were using. We have parabolic mikes and sophisticated bugs and shit so stealthy that Sa’ad would need a microscope to find it.”
“You did your best, Joel,” Woods said quietly. “I’ll tell Lynette.”
“Yep,” Harry Winton concurred. “I ain’t got a beef with Mr. King.”
“Thanks,” Joel mumbled.
“You see anything strange in the office?” Woods asked. “Got anything else to report?”
“Sorry,” Joel answered, intentionally skirting the question.
“I see,” Winton said. Joel couldn’t determine whether he noticed the evasiveness.
“Not your fault,” Woods reiterated.
“By the way, guys,” Joel said. “Did you hear the buffalo story? What did I tell you? That’s a threat from a man with an arsenal in his office. Believe me now?” In fact, the last creepy moments with Sa’ad had been unnerving, had prompted Joel to partially accept his own pitch.
