by A. C. Fuller
Frankie gave him a side-eyed look. “It was a damn war zone. Everyone needs entertainment.” His face got even more sober. “I really was gonna go to Hollywood. Study screenwriting.”
Cole thought Matt would have seen Frankie’s lies not as lies, but as creative storytelling meant to entertain. Matt was good to everyone he met, and he would have liked the healthy version of Frankie.
“So we became buddies,” Frankie continued, “as much as you can over there. Things were generally pretty calm. We weren’t losing many soldiers. That’s one reason I took my vocal coach’s advice to serve again.” He rattled ice cubes in the cup, then sipped his soda. “One night, everyone was watching a movie and I ran into Matt near the bathroom. He pulled me aside and asked if I’d noticed anything weird going on with Lopez and Morgan. Those were the two dudes I’d seen with the Asian guy. Long story short, I told him everything I just told you. It was odd, but not a huge deal.”
Cole leaned forward across the table. “And?”
“And nothing. He just kinda nodded and went to the bathroom. But he never came back to the movie that night.”
“When was this?”
“All kind of a blur, but maybe a week or two before he died. Lemme finish, though.”
“There’s more?” Cole asked.
“Way more. I was there when Matt confronted them. I know what they were up to.”
Cole rocked back in her chair, speechless.
Warren said, “In Cole’s business, that’s called burying the lede. Tell us everything.”
14
As he told the story, Cole grew numb. The far-off mountains and the skyline of Las Vegas faded. The sound of traffic below disappeared. Everything went black except Frankie Undercroft’s freshly-shaven face, his mouth moving fast, then slow, then fast again. Her perceptions were distorted like she was in a dream.
But this was no dream. She believed every word he said.
A week after Frankie told Matt about the day he’d seen Lopez and Morgan with the Asian man, he’d come back early from a patrol. Heading for bed, he’d heard Matt’s voice coming from inside a storage room. He crept to the door and listened. For a long time, the only voice he heard was Matt’s. He was lecturing someone, but in his usual, friendly way. He explained why what they were doing was wrong, really wrong. He understood their financial needs, but they needed to stop.
Only after listening for a couple minutes did Frankie hear Lopez’s voice. Sounding frustrated but not angry, he told Matt to mind his own business. He had the facts wrong, didn’t know what he was talking about. Stay out of it. Then he’d heard Morgan’s voice. More firm, more menacing. Morgan told him he’d never been to China, didn’t know a damn thing about China, and had never met with any Chinese dude.
After that, there was a long silence. Next thing he heard was Matt’s voice telling them they’d get caught, and they needed to clear their consciences.
Cole interrupted. “What were they talking about?”
Frankie stood and walked to the railing, then walked back but didn’t sit. He picked up his soda and rattled the ice cubes in the cup. “It’s messed with me ever since. I don’t know.”
Cole stood and put her hands on his shoulders, her focus narrowing to only his eyes. “Look at me.”
Frankie slowly raised his eyes. “I swear, I don’t know.”
“But you suspect something.”
Frankie nodded, then shook himself free and sat. He turned to Warren. “I ever tell you about the time I won the Coney Island hot dog eating contest?”
Warren ignored him.
“Or the time I won the Texas barbecue championship?”
Cole slammed a fist into the metal table, rattling it. “Tell me.”
Frankie hung his head. Cole stood over him, and he wouldn’t look at her. “Here’s the thing most people don’t get about wars,” he said quietly. “People back home like to believe in the rules of engagement, like to believe things are neat and clean, right and wrong. They’re not. Every man over there had to make his peace with killing another man. In some cases, it’s not a man—it’s killing women and children. I figure every soldier has had to make their peace with that.” Frankie shook his head in a tight arc. “Not Lopez and Morgan. They were killers—had always been killers. I thought it was because they’d been over there longer than me, but the more I got to know them, the more I saw it didn’t bother them. Don’t think it ever had. One day they came back having shot two women. Said they were suicide bombers, and maybe they were. I don’t know. But it didn’t bother them. Shooting women. Didn’t faze them.”
Cole reached down and raised his chin so she could see his face. His lower lip quivered. He was afraid of Lopez and Morgan. They’d done something to Matt and they were still out there. He was afraid, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t letting him off the hook. “So what does that have to do with Matt?”
“If they were doing something wrong, something about China, something having to do with that guy I saw them with, and if Matt knew…”
“Wait a sec,” Warren said. “You can’t just accuse two Marines of murder.”
“Not accusing, man. Just wondering.”
“So you don’t know what happened?” Cole asked.
“I heard the argument. Never saw them get into it again after that. Sometimes you have a feeling, you know?”
There was nowhere else to take the speculation, but Cole wanted to wrap up a dangling thread. “China? What could two Marines in Afghanistan have to do with China?”
“Drugs,” Warren said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“They were getting high?” Cole asked.
Frankie chuckled. “Not those two. No way.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Warren said. “What’s Afghanistan’s number one export?”
It took her a moment. “Heroin?”
“Poppy. But China is where a lot of the world’s heroin gets made these days.” Warren leaned down and put his face right in front of Frankie’s. “You bullshitting us?”
“N-n-nah, man. No.”
“Because if you’re spinning shit to entertain us and—”
He kicked the chair back and stood. “Look at me, look at my life. The Marines were the only good thing ever happened to me. Only time I was anything close to happy. You think I’d make something like this up?”
Cole stood, too. “So...so what are you saying?”
“I don’t know for sure...I...and I don’t want to overstep here, but I think they were running poppy from Afghanistan to China, and Matt found out. Then Matt...he died the next day.”
They took the stairs down from the roof to Frankie’s apartment. Warren told Cole to stay in the hallway as he walked Frankie in. He wanted to try to convince Frankie to accept help from the VA.
As the door clicked shut, she heard them inside, promising to stay in touch, exchanging numbers. Warren insisted that Frankie reach out if he needed anything. Frankie made a few half-hearted attempts to convince him to stay.
Cole leaned on the door, her mind racing, tumbling over and over every word Frankie had said, trying to commit them to memory. Then her mind went blank and the emotions hit her all at once. All the feelings she’d been tamping down since the moment Frankie said Matt’s name.
She bolted for the elevator and smashed the button. The door creaked behind her. Warren came out, exchanging a final goodbye with Frankie. Her chest burned. She darted for the staircase and raced down, emerging into the residential neighborhood.
Staggering down the street, she played Frankie’s story in her head. Matt always played by the rules, but he was also loyal. Had he found out two of his buddies were doing something wrong, he would have spoken to them directly, rather than going to superiors. In her mind she created images for Lopez and Morgan, imagined the conversation they’d had with Matt in the storage room, the pieces Frankie hadn’t overheard. Filled in gaps with guesses. Clearly, he’d discovered they were involved in something illegal,
or at least immoral.
He’d confronted them.
And they’d killed him.
Somehow, they’d managed to make it look like enemy fire.
She took off in a full sprint down the block, trying to outrace the twisted images of Lopez and Morgan that had taken over her mind. She turned a corner, then another, then another. She had no idea how long she ran. Time had stopped. She’d been transported to that storage room in Afghanistan and now it was all she saw.
She rounded another corner and crashed into Warren’s muscular chest. He pulled her close.
Her tears wet his shirt as she buried herself in his arms. “What...what the hell is going on?”
“Cole, oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“What is this world?”
He put his hand on the back of her head gently, but said nothing.
“What is this world?” she asked again. “What is this world?”
15
Warren stood at the window, staring north across the desert to the brown hills in the distance. Cole lay in bed, covers drawn over her head. She hadn’t spoken since they left Frankie’s. A cold vanilla latte sat on a round table next to the bed, along with a tuna melt and fries—his best guesses as to what might entice her to join him back in this world. That was exactly how it felt. Cole had fled the world during the conversation with Frankie. She hadn’t responded emotionally during Frankie’s tale. She simply asked question after question. Then she ran. And by the time she ran into his chest, was sobbing.
She’d said some pretty bleak things to him the first day they’d met and many times since. This was different. She’d entirely checked out. She’d ignored the lunch, ignored him as he left a series of messages for Takigawa, telling the FBI agent about his conversation with Skinny Pete and imploring him to fill them in on the “retirement party” for Sunny Lee. He’d hoped that news about the case would rouse Cole, but he had no news.
“Cole,” he tried again. “Hey, Jane.”
No response.
“Look, I know you’re in a bad place. I’ve been there. Not exactly where you are, but I’ve been down a hole. I was there for a couple years. Eating might help. Your brain needs sugar to function.” He tried to sound light. “I got you a latte.”
He didn’t think it would do any good. When he was in his darkest places, not much could pull him out. It had been his daughter Marina—the thought of losing her forever—that made him clean up his life. At the time, she was the only thing worth living for, the only thing that gave him purpose.
Cole rustled under the blankets and poked her head out. “Gonna go back to New York. Take the first job I can. This is over.” Her voice was monotone, and again she disappeared under the covers.
Warren took the latte from the table and handed it under the covers. “Drink this. Please.” To his surprise, she took the cup. A step in the right direction.
“I’m not going to argue with you,” he said. “You want to head home, I’m in. We’re not making any progress anyway, and chances are, we’re not going to. It’s almost dinner time and the cheese on your tuna melt is cold and congealed. It’s gross. Let’s go down to the casino and get a real dinner. Tomorrow morning we’ll head back to New York.”
She didn’t reply, but the muffled sound of Cole sipping the latte emerged from under the blanket.
His phone rang, and he put it on speakerphone. “Agent Takigawa. I’m here with Jane Cole. You’re on speaker.”
“Mr. Warren. I got your messages. That was a curious conversation you had at Club Blue. And it does check out. The Truffle Pig was killed because of the old grudge, not his involvement in the nine murders plot. That was one of the theories we were already investigating.”
“Okay,” Warren said.
“As to the retirement party, we still believe Sunny Lee’s in danger. We aren’t certain it’s connected, and I really can’t tell you anything more than that. Of course, I can’t involve you in any way. I’m sure you understand.”
“Actually,” Warren said loudly, pacing the room, “I don’t understand. We handed those two NVM guys to local police and the FBI on a silver platter. Literally in a silver SUV. You all blew it. The least you can do is let me in on the stakeout of the retirement party.”
“I’m sorry, I really can’t do that. Rules are rules.”
Warren glanced at the bed. The top of Cole’s head peeked out from the blankets. She eyed him. He shrugged, as if to say, Got any ideas?
“Please,” Warren said. “Maybe the two NVM guys are back in Vegas, maybe they’re part of whatever crew is planning to take out Sunny Lee. We can help.”
“I gotta go.” Takigawa’s tone was flat. “By the way, did you have any of the sliders at Club Blue?”
Warren stared at the phone. “What?”
“They’re famous for their drinks, but they’re supposed to have great bar food as well. They make these Turkish sliders, half pork, half lamb, with spices, yogurt dressing, pickled vegetables. I don’t know what’s in them, but...well...You really ought to try them.”
Cole sprang from the bed and pointed at the phone. Warren looked from her to the phone, dumbfounded.
“Mr. Takigawa,” Cole said, her voice strained. She cleared her throat. “Around what time would you say we should go for the best possible service?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Takigawa said, “Hello, Ms. Cole. I’d say around seven to be safe. Beat the dinner rush.”
16
They sat in white leather chairs on either side of a glass table in a corner of Club Blue. “Bottle service starts at nine,” a handsome young waiter said, but you’re welcome to hang here until then. “After that, it’s a thousand dollars for most bottles. Mixers included.”
“I hear the sliders are good,” Cole said. “Can I get an order of those?” She’d swigged the cold vanilla latte in the hotel, but otherwise hadn’t consumed anything since the fries on Frankie’s roof.
The waiter turned his attention to Warren. “And for you?”
“Coffee, burnt if possible.”
He gave Warren an odd look, then laughed and walked away.
“He thought you were joking,” Cole said. “Nobody orders burnt coffee.” She felt hollow inside, but ribbing Warren about his odd food and drink habits helped fill the emptiness.
The feeling didn’t last long. Warren pointed to a camera in the corner, which moved slightly. “Facial recognition,” he said. “If what I’ve been told is right, they’ve got your face and are matching it to your driver’s license photo right now.”
“How is that legal?”
He laughed. “It’s not.”
It was early for a place like Club Blue. The dance floor was empty and only a dozen tables were full. One of the hottest late-night destinations in Vegas, they served high-end bar food between five and nine to make money from people who wanted a hit of the prestige of Club Blue without staying up all night.
Warren nodded at a side door, where a group of women in evening gowns were on their way in. They didn’t turn toward the front where the tables were. Instead, a man in a black suit led them to the back.
“Where do you think they’re going?” Cole asked.
“Party? Special event? Noticed a banquet room this morning.”
Cole scanned the bar. Silver sconces aimed blue light in all directions, striking the floors and walls at strange angles. “Wait, is that…” she gestured to a booth on the far side.
“That’s Takigawa,” Warren said under his breath.
“What’s he doing?”
He sat across from a woman with long dreadlocks whose face they couldn’t see. Both had glasses of water and plates of untouched food.
The waiter returned, placing water glasses in front of them, along with Warren’s coffee.
Warren swigged his water. “Staking the place out. I saw two vans across the street on our way in. There’s another couple behind, maybe one at the side door. Takigawa and the lady across from him
must be their eyes and ears.”
“Why do you think Takigawa told us where to come?” Cole asked.
“First I thought it was in case the two NVM guys showed up. So we could ID them. But they wouldn’t be stupid enough to show up in Vegas again. And even if they did, we could ID them later.”
“So why?”
“Guess he felt he owed us.”
“You know, when he mentioned this place, I was about to come out from under the blankets. I’d decided to head back to New York and get a lawyer. Try to get Matt’s records released. Try to find out what really happened. Lopez and Morgan. Their unit. Freedom of Information Act. Lot of rocks to turn over.”
Warren gave her an odd look, eyes down, a slight shake of the head.
“What?” she asked.
“It’s just...I don’t know. I’d never tell you to drop it, but it won’t be easy to get any information.”
“So what was that look?”
Warren grimaced. “I know you have to keep looking, and I know how bad it’s gonna get.”
Another group entered from the side door and headed toward the banquet room. Three couples, all in suits and gowns. Takigawa noticed them, too. One of the women led the way. She had long blond hair and wore a black evening gown and pearls. Her movie-star smile lit up the club. She carried herself like she owned the place. “Sunny Lee?” Cole asked.
“Didn’t get a look at her face,” Warren said, “but I think so.”
Takigawa lifted his arms and said a few words into his sleeve.
The waiter returned with the sliders. “We’re famous for these.”
“They smell amazing,” Cole said, though she didn’t smell anything. “Hey, can I ask you something? Is there a party in the back tonight? Seems like the place to be.”
“There is!” he said. “Private function. That’s our banquet hall. If you’d like I can bring you a brochure about renting it.”
