Fiction 2, Chapters 17 & 18
Copyright © 1992
Chapter 17
"but [a traveller] that lies three-thirds and uses a known truth to pass
a thousand nothings with, should be once heard and thrice beaten"
All's Well That Ends Well, William Shakespeare.
If you take Route 35 down to Rockport and turn west on 881, after half a mile there's a dealer on the right that services my brand of trailer.
I arranged with them to haul it in and refurbish it, keeping it locked up in their workshop, and left them my pocket keys. I noticed they had welding gear, and found out from them where to get oxygen locally.
How about a little detail on my home-on-wheels?
My trailer is right in the middle of the pack as far as price and quality of production. There are probably a dozen makes of trailer that are as good and no better than mine. You can build more into a trailer; there are half-a-dozen manufacturers who do. The trouble is that the cost of that strength, durability and perceived quality is not just money __it's weight__ and the weight dictates where you can go, what you can do and the type of tow vehicle that is required to haul it around.
Mine is thirty-five feet long; big enough as it is, weighing about eight thousand pounds, ready to go. If it were much heavier, I'd need a pick-up built like a tank, with a tank's gas mileage, to haul it around.
I don't travel like a tourist. Living in different areas for a couple of months is my preference, and my trailer, not a self-propelled motor home, is ideal for that. There's sand from Baja California, gravel from Newfoundland in the east and the Athabasca glacier in the west, Seattle mud and Key West bugs imbedded somewhere on its aluminum skin, fighting for room among the many "dings" generously provided by the Alaskan Highway.
My rolling castle can last about a week without hookups when I'm in too big a hurry to stop at a regular campsite nightly. Sometimes, the scenery is just too beautiful to hunt up a trailer park on my way to the next stop on the Paradise line. All the lights are battery powered. The propane tanks hold about two month's worth and I can stretch four or five days water supply out of a forty-six gallon fresh water tank. Plus, an extra couple of days of minimal hygiene can be squeezed out by means of a few collapsible water containers.
There is a week's worth of holding tank capacity, and ten minutes at an approved dump site and a garden hose connection will set the trailer up for another week. Yet it's big enough for one or two to live in comfortably, even year-round if they're very friendly and don't care for many possessions. There's an invertor to power up my computer -wherever it may be- and its equipment, and twelve-volt fans, stereo, TV, VCR and cellular phone for the more advanced creature comforts without a hook-up.
No satellite dish; not yet.
I know I'm a nomad. That doesn't mean I have to ride a camel.
Driving into the campground, I pulled up to the office in the Pontiac, and parked it next to their barn. Stretch didn't have much to report. The police hadn't checked with him, so they probably hadn't missed me.
Actually, it's a small town, and there are never more than three police cars cruising at the busiest of times, Spring Break. McNally was the one and only Lieutenant, the one and only homicide detective, and the one and only matron, for all I knew. Although any local police officer is empowered throughout the state, Holiday Beach would be outside his jurisdiction, except if the Aransas County Sheriff called for back-up.
"How are you doing up at the cottage, Dick. Settling in?"
"It's very nice up there, Stretch," I assured him, "a perfect place to relax for a guy like me. Thanks. I've been doing a little spading and weeding; for the exercise." -And for the field of fire-
I told him only about the caltrops. He wasn't too happy about them but he took my sealed instructions, to be opened in the event anything happened to me. He was relieved to know that the trailer would be taken care of. Responsibility bothered him.
"How's the credit business going, Stretch?"
"Pretty good, I've already got three clients, and I'm not even through the fourth lesson." He was fairly bursting with pride.
I made myself look impressed. "That's pretty good. Maybe I'm out of work in the wrong business. One thing, though. If they're broke, how do you wind up getting paid?"
"No problem! I've got my card machine right here, for the campground. I just make up a slip for them with their card, and they sign it. When they get their credit back, in the slip goes; then 'Bang!', I've got my consulting fee." Stretch had gone through all the motions of doing so with his hands and had even provided sound-effects.
"Was that in the course?" I asked.
"No. That was my own idea. Neat! huh?" He was beaming with pride at his innovation.
"Must be. I never would have thought of it." Of course, if they ever by some miracle got a credit card re-issued, it would have a different number. No plan is perfect.
I borrowed a flashlight and bought a swivel inspection mirror; also a broomstick, a long screwdriver and a length of clothesline.
The Suburban was parked where it had been left, at the site. I didn't want to even look inside the trailer. The repair shop would inventory the damage for me, and put any salvageable personal belongings into boxes. Hopefully, for the sake of the workers, there wouldn't be any booby traps there. The important thing for me to do was to check out the truck for sabotage. I doubted that there would be anything as sophisticated as a tracer or as lethal as a bomb; still, you never know.
I did a quick check underneath. There was nothing.
The tailpipe was clear, so I tried the doors with the rope and stick. Five feet is better than nothing and __in any event__ they wanted me able to talk. The line handled the hood release handle, and the screwdriver tied to the broom stick popped the hood catch and lifted the hood itself up.
I wondered what the neighbors thought. I didn't want to hear it, though. "Paranoid" would seem like a compliment.
All clear! I think I've attracted enough attention by now, I thought. I prodded the driver's seat with the broomstick, and finally took the plunge. Ok, it's off to the wars, I decided, but first I'll pick up two tanks of oxygen for the hell of it, and then on to the "Beanery"!
"Hello!", he beamed. "We haven't had the pleasure of your company for quite a while, Mr. Quirk."
I was bemused at his attitude. "So cheerful and polite, Mr. McNally?"
-He must have gotten laid, for a change-
He corrected me for the record, "That's Lieutenant," and carefully placed his partly-filled coffee mug in a safe place. Resisting the obvious urge, I asked if there was any further progress on either homicide.
Mister "Lieutenant" asserted that he thought the perpetrator(s) had "left the area," the investigation was "ongoing," developments would be "forthcoming," leads were being "followed up," and I was officially released, but was to "hold myself available." Then he lowered his head toward some of the presumably unfinished business on his desk.
Whatever the reason for his sudden cheerfulness, the benefit was clearly accruing to my account. Too bad I'd have to spoil that.
I said, "All that would be very pertinent if I paid any taxes or voted here."
"What?" His fixed gaze snapped back in my direction.
"Lieutenant, there's nothing to gain here from 'legalese' bullshit."
"Then take your brand with you and get out of here, Quirk." But this time he didn't turn away toward his desk.
"Sure," I agreed, "as soon as you tell me where Sigfried and Roy are."
McNally grinned at me and asked, "Who? The T-Men? Is that what you call them?"
"I plead guilty, Lieutenant." His smile had brought back my basic courtesy.
"God knows you probably are!" he agreed vehemently. "I can get in touch with them, if you want to wait. But, if you've got anything for them, I want to know it beforehand." McNally was rubbing his hands together briskly while he was talking.
"Do you have a stenographer?" I asked. "I'd like to make a statement. I'll need to call my lawyer."
"How about tape, and you sign the statement?"
"I'd prefer one in person, and my lawyer present," I corrected him, "along with Harlowe and Morrison."
Fortunately, I had brought a thick paperback book because it took five hours to arrange and, of course, the statement was not what they expected. My lawyer was only there as a witness, really.
It was time to go on record: "I am a federal taxpayer who has been, and continues to be, endangered by your implicit denial of my voluntary cooperation in locating and surrendering important evidence; to wit, the counterfeit money. If I am injured or killed, both of you personally, as well as the Treasury Department will be held responsible by my attorneys, both sets."
"As I recall, Quirk, you were in handcuffs while engaged in that voluntary cooperation," the "Beaner" said, trying to keep a straight face.
"That was your response to my cooperation, not the reason for it," I replied, with an emphasis on "your," "and that will also be included in any legal action."
"Treasury doesn't do bodyguard work unless you're the President, and we don't have the manpower. There's always a cell downstairs," McNally pointed out.
"Not when all they have to do is tell the truth about the counterfeit. If they still had me tied to a stake for bait, it might make some sense, but they've gone on to risking other people's lives without dismantling the machinery they set up to endanger mine." Push any harder and I might be in that cell, I thought. "I'm not asking for a press conference, just a release."
Harlowe locked eyes with Morrison and shook his head disgustedly. They were both pissed off at being dragged to Rockport for some legal posturing, and they probably expected that I was going to sue them for malpractice. As if I had a lifetime and a fortune to spend trying to screw money out of the Feds.
At the bottom of all that nonsense were two motives: one, to establish a sort of alibi prior to premeditated murder, prima facie innocence; two, getting the not-so-Secret Service blamed if things went bad for me and I didn't survive, out of sheer spite.
Morrison literally intoned, "We will have to consult our files and with our superiors___blah, blah, blah, blah, blah." Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.
McNally actually enjoyed it. I found out later that his high spirits were the result of a hospital visit. Well, two actually; both of my contentious cell-mates were still being kept apart. Both were also facing additional charges __and hard time sentences for the original charges__ because of their jailhouse violence.
So I should take back some of the bad things I've said about him.
-All right, he hasn't gotten laid lately-
What can I tell you about McNally?
He's average height, average weight, below-average hairy, with a mug that only a Boston Irish mother could love. Or the fiery Tex-Mex lady who runs their domestic show like a stage manager or some other tyrant. I got to know McNally pretty well later on, and it won't spoil anything if I share it now.
He's a few years younger than I am; the right age but the wrong temperament to enjoy fighting in the sexual revolution.
Instead, he participated in that other great educational experience of the era, the Vietnam War. After joining the Navy at eighteen to escape the draft, that illustrious body decided that he would make a fine addition to their universally despised police force, the Shore Patrol. Actually, they are only universally despised by fellow sailors, just like the Army and their M.P.'s. And that's only due to military tradition, because they perform a tough job with more diplomatic skill than the entire State Department.
The first hitch was a dream come true for a kid from Boston: two years at New London, Connecticut __to part the apron strings painlessly__ and two years in Honolulu, to work on a tan. Unfortunately, McNally is typically Irish, in that burning and peeling is what comes naturally, not tanning. The second hitch saw him doing two year-long tours in Saigon. After the second tour in that cesspool, as he calls it, the young Shore-Patrolman was rotated back to the States to serve at the Corpus Christi Naval Air Station.
He found out the hard way that you can only get out of the S.P.'s by getting out of the Navy, and what he really wanted to do was fly. He flies now; he flies kites.
There was this girl, Margarita, you see, and an almost embarrassing series of children, six in all. They commenced in conception right from the moment that she decided that a Boston-Irishman was almost as good a catch as a Mexican-American, even if you can't understand a word of their dialect.
How he found time for night school is beyond me.
-I'm just repeating the slanders that McNally told me, by the way-
According to him, he had no actual say in the matter from the moment she, slightly pregnant, brought him home to meet her family. Trapped within the ample bosom of her family for three days, he was ushered around her shower, through Hispanic bachelor and engagement parties, the fastest reading of the banns in all of Christendom, a traditional Church wedding and an equally traditional post-marital hangover of tequila proportions.
Her family had taken two sensible precautions, as McNally tells it.
One was, they didn't seem to understand that he should be letting his family in Boston in on the developing event. Then too, there was no way that he could translate __"What happened to my car keys?"__ into Spanish from the original Bostonese. He says darkly that it was all a plot. But you know, when the man says "car-keys" with that accent, it does sound like "khakis," the sun-tan colored uniform.
Maybe he's right though; I usually understand her folk's speech more easily than his. They must have all learned to speak English in record time. It could have been his good influence as the only "Anglo" in the family. Of course, to an Irishman the term "Anglo" is not taken as a compliment __but then again__ McNally is convinced that it's not meant as one, either.
Eighteen years later, McNally is still a universally despised cop, -he says- and has six kids to show for it. Four of them tan, and two burn and peel. Their house is a madhouse; yet, despite his protests to the contrary, I have rarely encountered a family with more honest love and affection for each other than theirs.
I envy him.
That's McNally, in a nutshell.
"I don't think I should do this." He was panicking.
I reassured him. "It won't do any harm, and it may do some good."
"You're going to get me in trouble. I shouldn't."
"What harm could it do, Stretch?"
"I don't know, but she sounded real strange on the phone last night. I called to ask about her going up to the cottages but she was too tired."
"Just give me her number at work. I need to talk to her before tonight, Ok.?" I was kind of leaning on him then.
"Well,____"
I scurried away with Katherine's daytime telephone number, like a pack-rat to his nest. There would be indoor pay phones, positioned for a measure of privacy, at the public library. It was 4:30 P.M.
"Katherine, it's me. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry you were caught up in this business, and I hope that everything will be all right for you." She knew that I was referring to personal business here, not counterfeiting.
"I know how you feel, Richard." That didn't sound too good.
"I only wish you really did, Katherine. I feel a lot more regret about your involvement than you can know. If the only way I could save your life would be by giving up mine, I don't know what I would do, honestly. But if it's a choice between betraying you or betraying your illusions, I do know."
"I'll think about that. Is there anything else?" She sounded anxious, on edge.
"All right, whatever you want?" I agreed. "Look, I never had a chance to notice: Is your name displayed anywhere on the outside of your studio?" "Yes, it is," she said. "So what?" was the way it came across on the phone.
"How about your address in Corpus?"
"No."
"Are you in the book?" I asked.
"Yes, under 'F.', Frank's initial. It's 'F. Carpenter'."
"And it's 'Katherine' on the studio?"
"Yes," she said.
I breathed a little easier. "You shouldn't have any problems then, unless they're a lot better organized than I'm willing to give them credit for. It's still a good idea to take a couple of days off, and visit some far-away relative."
"I'll consider it." She said it as a dismissal.
Damn you, woman! I thought. "You're too smart to resent the suggestion, Love. Even now, you have to know that it's made because I'm concerned for you."
"I'll give it that, Richard." Just "it," not "you."
"Please, take that suggestion based on its own merit, all right? Forget about me and how you feel about me. Just think of this as a warning about a runaway truck, and get out of the way before you get hurt."
"Would you care?" She sounded like she really wanted me to say so.
"I would! And thank you." I said that and meant it sincerely.
"What would you care? And what do you mean, thank you?"
"I love you, Katherine. And I'm grateful that you allowed me to say that; that you want to believe that we have a future."
"Forget that," she said flatly. "It's just water over the dam."
"Yeah, sure. I've got to get moving. Please take off right away, all right."
"I'll think about it," she promised.
She had gotten to me there. There was a panic rising in me, a panic about having to make unbearable choices. The thought of her in the hands of the man with the yellow teeth -Weller?- was unendurable. I had shielded her from information about some of his more terrifying activities, and now it was coming back to haunt me.
"Damn you, Katherine," I burst out, "you're just saying that to hurt me. Right now, you can't afford the luxury. Get a move on! If we're both lucky, you'll have a chance to hurt me later. You're using up all the time we might have left. Please call Stretch with a message for me as soon as you're safe, and make it as cruel as you like. Now, you have to get clear! And remember, I love you."
I hung up.
Two hours to kill before the killing time, I figured.
The library was closing now, 5 P.M. It would be unwise to lead anybody trailing me back to Holiday Beach until full dark, and it would be downright stupid to be anywhere that wasn't highly public before then.
Off to the local H.E.B. supermarket; a bright store and a bright parking lot. I spent the time standing on a vinyl covered concrete floor reading magazines. By the time the two hours were up, my feet were killing me. Then it was off to the Beach.
The only problem was that nobody followed me.
I checked several times after leaving the main road. Nothing on the scanner, either.
Going back again to the campground, I did everything short of trailing a burning bush behind me. No luck! __"What a revoltin' development this is!"__ How the hell could I find them if they wouldn't find me? Was it possible that they had given up? What would have taken them off my case? Was I was off the hook?
For now? For good? -That was the rub-
If they picked up my trail some other time, some other place, I'd be at an extreme disadvantage __the disadvantage of being dead. Also, why was I off the hook? Who was on the hook?
The only one I could think of was David. Had they found him?
It seemed as though they wouldn't have deserted me before being sure that they had either the software, samples, ink and paper, or the key to force me to hand them over. It would be nice if I actually had the option.
Katherine was still a source of concern. The killers had deserted me at least two hours ago, and two hours ago Katherine had been all right. Could she have been a prisoner, then?
Of course not, what had happened to my objectivity: They would not have hidden her capture from me, they would have gotten right on the phone and threatened me.
This panic scared me.
I went back to Aransas Pass, to Jimmys.
* * * * * * * * * *
-Staish, I mishlied tutha shlan norch-
Yes, I went back to the bar.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Chairman as "Host."
Well, he thought he could see the humorous side of that. Actually, he was the only one who did. The creature had been to his office on many occasions before, and appeared to be at ease. His two goons endured the surroundings as they would have accepted the environment of a flying saucer after they were beamed up. -"The Untold Story" only in the "Star"-
He had even offered them the freedom of the private bar in his office. It's the Fourth of July Company Picnic; just like I'm sucking up to the hired help, he thought. Forget the firecrackers; no more Mr. Nice Guy!.
The Chairman began his lecture, "There's something called 'The Work Ethic', that might be of interest to you guys, you know? It means you've got to work for your money."
Weller, who had never before been a smart-ass, challenged the notion that Salburton was being short-changed. "So what? You gotta pay, and we gotta do the shit work."
"Doing the "shit" work is the right idea, Weller. But, you boys have still got to come up with results or you might collect a lot more "shit" than you can dish out, get me?"
"Whatta you mean?" That was the most pertinent of the mumbled responses.
"You'll see in a couple of minutes."
The Chairman kept a cylinder of capsicum spray handy on top of his desk, disguised as a cigarette lighter. That's what backed up his brave talk. And in fact, he could have used it to render all three goons helpless, including Weller, within a second or less. Capsicum __extracted from chili peppers__ is rough stuff, far worse than chemical Mace. He loved to watch its effects on animals.
At that moment in Rockport, one of Weller's goons came calling on Stretch.
The bad-man wasn't supposed to be there; he had been assigned to relieve one of the four teams watching the LBJ and the Neuces Bay causeways. But he thought of himself as a cut above the usual mob muscle, and figured he'd take a crack at detective work.
He'd thought it would be simple. Just lean on the fucking little midget and find out where the big guy with the beard was; that's all, he had thought, and it had made sense. So he'd decided to take matters into his own hands.
The man was tall. That's all I ever found out about him.
Chapter 18
"He who the sword of heaven will bear
Should be as holy as severe;
Pattern in himself to know,
Grace to stand, and virtue go;"
Measure for Measure, William Shakespeare.
All I could do right now was try to pick up David's trail.
There was no tail on me, so I wouldn't be leading anybody to him. If they had caught him, I wanted to help him as much as I could. If he was free, my trail and the killers' might cross in my search. I could find them. They could find me. In my arrogance, I really didn't distinguish that from finding them. They could lose David. The way I figured it, I couldn't afford not to hunt for him.
After all of that work digging a metaphoric moat, I wanted some alligator chow for it. It would be a shame if it went to waste. So, Jimmys it was. I parked around back for a quick getaway, and walked around to the front of the building.
The front door was open this time. It was warm, but not yet warm enough for the old A/C. Halfway expecting to see Roxanne, I looked for Lorna in the moderate size crowd.
Where else?
She was conquering the pool table. Sitting at the same wire spool table as the last time, I waited for her to finish and come over. The snaggletoothed lady with the squint was pretty looped, bitterly chewing her pool partner out for some verbal indiscretion that had caused her to be shamed in front of her friends.
"Ya had no raht ta say that about me. It's none a your biznezz what Ah do in mah place. Ah mean, ya jes walk in lahk ya own the place an butt in on mah biznezz. An it was mah ole man, too! Whatta ya care, whatever. Why do ya gotta tell all mah friends for, an make me look lahk a hooer, a low-down cock-suckin' hooer. An it was my ole man, anyway, not some nigra." He sank the eight ball in response and wandered off, reducing the diatribe to an occasional mutter.
I waved to get her attention. "Lorna! Over here! Buy you a drink?" Better than a diplomatic passport.
She squeezed her eyes in my direction. "Hi, honey. Ah remember ya, don' Ah."
"Right. What are you drinking?"
"How aboot -Virginia- one a them cream things?" The class of '80 all sang the same school song, I guess.
The downcast Creole from South Brooklyn was still behind the bar.
"Lemme guess. White Russky an a Lite?" It had only been a week or so; still____
"Thanks," I said, "You keep the change." And we'll keep an eye on each other, pal. I tracked him out of the corner of my eye as I returned to Cinderella. Sure enough, he went straight for the bar phone. Not much time, then.
"Here you are, Lorna." I handed her the White Russian.
"Thanks, honey. Whar do Ah know ya from, huh?"
The squint was still in place, even at close range.
"I'm Richard. You know, David's grandfather. I'd like to take him with me, and give him some schooling and a good home."
"Ya don' look that old," she said, "an anyway he says he don' really know ya." Bingo! And on the first try.
"Well, you know how it is," I explained. "Roxanne and I both moved around a lot."
Even with the drinks in her, she was getting nervous about being around me.
I asked, "Is David with that friend of Roxanne's, what's his name? The one with the frizzy hair?"
"Nah, Russ had hisse'f a panic ittack one day an jes drove away. Didn' even go get his stuff. Lak he saw a ghost."
I was getting nervous now, too. The Creole was talking to two big bruisers who were sitting with a couple of the homeliest female barflies you can imagine. They pushed their considerable masses up from the table and ambled over toward us, each picking up a cue stick along the way.
Definitely locals.
One of them wore an extra-extra-large disco shirt, and the other one a comparable size in lumberjack-plaid. I don't know where these guys get shirts that long. The front of their pants only came up to the pubic hair-line, and the shirt-bottoms held up their sizable guts.
Their expressions were hostile and their eyes were full of dimly understood purpose. Despite the lack of social graces, both of them impressed the hell out of me. You could say that they had the kind of faces that give viciousness a bad name. Almost competition for "Jaws," but not quite.
I had three choices: stab or shoot them and go to jail; fight them bare-handed and go to the hospital; baffle them with bull-shit.
"I hear ya been insultin' the company we keep, jerk-off."
Bull-shit it was, then. I decided to do my Cajun Groucho for them.
"Is dat waat ma brudder-in-laa bin tellin' ya, ami? 'Ay, Lorna cher, ma brudder-in-laa ain't done trine make trouble, cherie. Mus be da nigga in 'im. Look, ami, 'e beat up on 'is ma-ma' an leave ma sista an dere liddle ones wid no one da look oud fo dem, ya know? She gib me 'ell an tell me bring 'im back."
They looked appropriately bemused, so I continued, "'Ow would ya guys lahk ta make some good dough, eh? Do me a fa-vah' an 'is ma-ma' too."
"What kind a dough?"
"Ya'all come closa now, so's 'e cain' see, eh? 'ere a 'undred now an two 'undred, when 'e reddy to tra-vel', quiet-lahk."
Even to me, it sounded like the worst impression of a Cajun accent I had ever heard; although, my Creole would have been worse.
-Ah purse'-ow-nal'-ly gar-own-tee' it-
Still, the combination of the money, the promise, the story __and a brief flash of the S&W59__ made a better impression, I guess. They abruptly merged their consciousness __took the five twenties offered__ and proceeded to consult privately with the prodigal son from New Orleans. All three went out the front door, two of them willingly.
A few minutes later, they returned to invite an inspection. I paid them off and procrastinated on the rest. I knew before the night was over they'd get into a fight over splitting fifteen bills up, because Solomon's solution of getting change would be ten thousand beers behind them.
I got right down to business. "Here's my card, Lorna. Give it to David, and if you or he need any money, call me. Try this number first." I wrote Stretch's office phone number on the top of the card. "Ok.?"
She glanced nervously around the room. "If those gahs see ya hangin' roun me, they'll know Ah got David with me. They'll beat us up, maybe worse. Ya gotta get outta here."
"All right, Lorna, but keep the card. You'll be needing money for the boy." Bait, sweet bait! "Put the card in your shoe. Not here! Do it in the ladies room, right away."
There was an exit at the end of the corridor leading to the rest rooms, so I followed her out of the barroom. "Rest rooms"; what a laugh. I wouldn't have rested in the men's room, wearing a space suit. If you watched carefully, you could see the bacteria swimming up your stream of urine. Must be salmonella, backtracking the food chain.
I left the joint myself, just out back into the shadows behind my truck while Lorna was in the ladies room. Sure enough, she walked right out the open doorway. It was quick enough that I knew she hadn't gone back to look for me.
But she bounced back inside like a video in reverse.
I moved forward to see why. There was a skinny character in jeans and a red long-sleeved jersey with white horizontal stripes choking the lady against the wall.
-That's what you get for letting some people dress themselves-
I ran in as silently as I could, and kicked him in the right knee before he could react. He yelled, I guess, but I didn't really hear him. I grabbed his hair and kneed him under the jaw. -Go down, you bastard!-
I slammed his face into the wall once and then again to be sure. Lorna was gasping and retching; trying to get her breath.
Pounding feet!___ -More?-
I turned to the left.
One arm grasping an automatic pistol came waving into the corridor, attached a guy trying to slow down enough to take a firing stance. -Shit!-
I drew and threw the Tekna quickly, not accurately. It hit him in the shoulder but not blade-first. That was enough though to distract him. His reaction to being a target was still ongoing even after he knew he hadn't been stabbed.
The nervous marksman twisted around so fast that the gun flew out of his hand, arcing back toward the end wall of the corridor. He kept on turning and belly-flopped to the floor, trying to retrieve his one chance to stay alive.
The plywood under flooring creaked and groaned with the burden of his weight as he slid toward the wall __both arms extended in front of him__ desperately juggling the Browning. My would-be killer rolled over and wound up with the gun upside down in both hands, half-way sitting up against the wall at the end of the corridor.
I pulled the Explorer from under my left sleeve, took my time and made my next throw. Then I rushed him, trying to outrace the rest of his life. -A knife may be lethal, but stopping-power is not its strong point- A dying man could still take me with him.
The target had just opened his mouth wide to holler or scream when the blade of the Explorer went through it. He wasn't pinned to the wall or anything like that, but the tip of the knife had penetrated somewhere between his spinal column and the medulla oblongata.
Still rushing him while pulling the Gerber from its sheath in back, I slowed down enough to hear an echo, "Aaaahch!"
I retrieved the Tekna and sheathed it. The knife-throwing wasn't all that impressive, frankly. I had hurled the Explorer at his throat, but hadn't compensated properly for aiming downhill.
-Wait a New York minute! Jesus! What the hell am I caught up in?-
I looked around.
Lorna was gone, and it was time for me to put some distance between me and my troubles too. A crowd was gathering in the bar-room __maybe ten or fifteen feet on the other side of the corridor entrance__ judging by the chatter. The corridor wall kept me out of their view fortunately; although the doorway would give them a good view of the corpse from the knees north.
"Stay back, I'll shoot," I shouted. Grabbing the would-be pistolero's feet, I dragged him down the hall toward victim number one, still unconscious and still skinny. It must have made an odd sight: a dead man munching a knife, with a gun on his chest, sliding feet-first past the doorway to the corridor.
There was absolutely no blood showing, not a drop.
The corpse's face was frozen in his last grimace, like a Mayan glyph. The knife could stay stuck in him; it was a common enough model. Doing the cops a favor, I smeared my own prints and wrapped Skinny's right hand around the hilt for a second. Just removing the knife would wipe the blade.
The pistol, a 9mm. Hi-Power this time, was another Browning. A shot through the ceiling discouraged the more daring bystanders outside. Then I wiped the gun on his shirt-tail and inserted it into the dead fumbler's grasp. It took another shot into the ceiling to mark his hand with burnt powder.
I doubted that there would be any eye-witness testimony at all, much less coherent testimony. One more thing!
I drove around to the front, off to the left side of the front door, outgoing. Most humans prefer to turn to the left to do battle; a hangover from shield and sword, I guess. Sure enough, there was one chastened Creole and lifting him into the passenger seat was no fun. It was just like trying to move one of those old toys made from a coiled spring up the stairs instead of down.
-They were called Slinkys, I think-
By this time some of the patrons __the ones who weren't gawking at bodies or drinking the bar dry in order to toast the absent bartender__ were buzzing among themselves in the front parking lot. Nobody paid any attention to us. They say cold water is good if you need to wake somebody suddenly.
There's plenty of cold water on the east side of Aransas Pass; it's called the Gulf of Mexico.
The Creole gentleman must have been thirsty. He swallowed half a lung-full of water, at first, and then changed his mind and spewed it up.
"As long as you're not busy, you might want to give me a hand," I suggested gently. Or maybe quietly is a better word. I had to repeat myself, much less gently and just as quietly. By that time, I had no sympathy left for anybody who wasn't on my side.
"Whad? Whad? Whadda ya wan'?" He tried to roll over on his side but the fact that I had temporarily paralysed his arms __with sharp blows to the biceps__ proved to be a handicap.
I was kind enough to answer him. "The number, the phone number you called."
"Fuggin' pogged." He made a feeble effort to raise his right arm and point toward his heart.
He was still short of breath, of course __not surly__ and had recently developed sinus trouble. I picked through his shirt pocket. Sure enough, just a slip of paper with one telephone number in ball-point.
"Who did you talk to?" -No "to whom" in tough-guy talk-
"Wella, guy name a Wella." -Close enough-
"Who else?"; with emphasis, lots of emphasis. It must have been the hateful name that made me so rude to a guest, or the need to be more immediately terrifying than Weller was at a distance.
When he had recovered, he said, "Nobuddy, honest. Dat's id, jus Wella.
"What's he look like, then?"
"Big guy, tough. Early hair. Ya know, lak Tony Benned. Same kinda puss, too. Bud, no smiles, he don' smile, god yella teed. He's bad news, godda couple a goons, legbreggers workin' for him." -He smiles sometime, pal. But, believe me, you don't want to see it-
"Who's his boss?" I prompted.
"I don' know. Dere's somebody he asks, when I'm on da phone, bud I can'd hear wha' dere sayin."
"Where's this number? Where's he staying?" I slapped him a couple of times.
"I don' know, mac, I really don'." He fluttered his hands feebly, semi-protesting his innocence.
"Anything you want to add? Or do I have to come back?" I rested a thumb loosely on each of his eyelids. -Remind me to tell you about "Two-Thumbs" Williamson, some day. He was, I guess, the patriarch of the Scottish clan when I was born-
"I seen his car. A Lincoln Condinendal, adey-nine or ninedy. Blagg, wunna them fegg converdible tops, ya know."
"Plate number?" I asked, not really expecting an answer.
"Ya nuds, or sumpin. Why would I wanna know dat?"
"Thank you. And good night."
Stretch was nervous, almost hyper-ventilating, as he introduced his other visitor, a life insurance salesman if there ever was one.
"Hey, Dick! This is Mister Weiner. He's with the CIA. He came about the Mob guy I beat up."
"How do you know he's CIA, Stretch, and what Mob guy?"
"See: He's even got ID." And sure enough he did; although ostensibly I had no way of verifying it, and said as much. Of course, I was twitching with deja vu.
Weiner thought he understood. "Sometimes, I flash my driver's license instead. That picture at least looks like me."
"Let's see it, then." And it did.
"What about the Mob?" I asked Stretch.
He was still almost breathless. "I gotta tell you. There was a bad guy looking for you; he tried to beat me up in my trailer and I put him into the hospital. Just me!"
Shit!, I thought. This is what I've been trying to avoid.
Reaching over the counter, I grabbed him by his left arm, saying, "Slow down and tell me what happened."
His response was run-on; still panting with excitement. "Some guy came here after hours and then he came back to my trailer looking for me; he was looking for you and then he tried to beat me up and I beat him up with a fry-pan and he had to go in an ambulance when the cops got here and he got bit by a rattlesnake." He took a long, proud breath and attempted to think of something else to add to his achievement.
He usually liked high-fives so I tried one on him but his right hand was hurt; in a bandage that I hadn't noticed, I'm embarrassed to say. A few minutes of praise and congratulations were in order though, just to express my relief at his safe passage through what should have been my problem alone. Even if it meant waiting for an explanation. Stretch's attempts at disclosure were completely baffling.
I turned to Weiner, who was trying to suppress a smile at my dazed reaction. "Do you know what went on, by any chance?"
"Yeah, I got the word and couldn't resist coming here."
"Then, Agent Weiner, I'd like to know if you ever drink on duty?"
"I do drink, Mr. Quirk, and I've been on duty for twenty-two years."
"Good night, Stretch. Sleep tight!" There were campground residents at both doors with shotguns over their arms to assure that he would sleep tight. They were giving me dirty looks.
We went up the road to a place called "The Sandollar," in Fulton. A quiet place where we could take our drinks out on a dark, empty deck, over a dark, empty lagoon. It didn't quite smell empty that night. It offered up the smell of the sea: diesel and flotsam.
"Scotch Ok. with the CIA?" I asked.
"Yeah, you paying?" Trust Uncle Sam to find another way to stiff me.
I agreed, "Sure, I'm a sport. Give me a fifth of Glenfiddich, please, and bring a bucket of ice and a soda shpritzer."
Sorry; no Gaelic word for "shpritzer" comes to mind. That's all right; all they had was bottled club soda. I left three twenties on the bar and we took the Scotch out with us. Weiner and I walked to a table as close to the dark water as we could get, and when we sat down we faced the deck as much as we did each other. Keeping an eye out. Our location was still exposed to midget submarines, but you can't take everything into account.
He filled me in on Stretch's exploit while we waited for the ice and such. "A wise-guy came looking for you earlier and found Stretch."
I was defensive about it. "Not my fault. His name and site number are posted by the night registration desk outside, in case there's a serious problem like a fire."
"Well, a serious problem came looking for you and found him, pal."
Christ! Stop blaming the victim, I thought. But I kept my silence.
Weiner went on. "I got this story from McNally. Incidentally, I'm temporarily attached to the Treasury Task Force personnel here, both of them. And it took McNally hours to boil this down to what I'm telling you. Anyhow, the wise-guy knocks on Stretch's trailer so the kid opens the door and peers around to see what's what. He's wearing nothing but his underwear and he's holding a cat in the crook of one elbow."
"I didn't know Stretch had a cat," I protested.
He shrugged. "So now you know. Then the wise-guy grabs his ankles and pulls him out of the trailer so he's sitting on the little concrete patio. And the cat runs off. He goes to kick the little guy and a big dog comes out of nowhere at him, chasing the cat. The little cat runs up the bad guy's legs and back with every sharp claw out for blood, and then grabs his neck, hissing and spitting down at the dog. Meanwhile, the dog is taking all this personally and grabs one of the two handy ankles with the Jaws of Death."
I interrupted. "Where did the dog come from?"
Weiner looked at me and shrugged again. "Nowhere! But you ain't heard nothing yet. Wait!"
He continued, "Your friend Stretch kicks himself back into the trailer, and this wasp's nest __that's been sitting up under his awning for God knows how long__ falls down right on the guy's head and they all come out. He's batting and swatting, and being savaged around the ankles by a dog while he's wearing a necklace of cat-claws. Some kind of bird is swooping around under the awning now, beating him around the head and neck with its wings. Figure the bird's after the insects, or it's a pissed-off blue-jay, but it's still managing to peck at this guy's head."
"Wait a minute! Where did the bird come from?" I asked.
"It's a big awning," he answered with a third shrug. "Finally, the muscle man kicks loose, and jumps inside the trailer after the kid who's wasting his time trying to put on his pants."
"I can't believe this," I protested.
"I can't either and it's me telling it. So __anyhow__ he goes after the kid inside, and all these creatures of the night follow him in. The dog grabs the same ankle and goes back to work __gnawing__ while the guy's trying to kick him off. Stretch is there, standing with his left leg in the right leg of his jeans. He put them on backwards and couldn't find the zipper, so now he takes one leg out and is trying to turn them around without pulling out the other one. The bad guy goes to grab the kid and all of a sudden his other foot __the one without a dog attached__ hits a weak spot in the floor and falls right through up to his crotch. Worse even than that Dorf character, with one leg anyway."
"Don't tell me." I held my hands up, palms out, to interrupt him. "The rattlesnake's next, right?"
"Right!" he confirmed with a nod. "The rattlesnake! It's keeping warm under the trailer. Anyway, the kid grabs a fry-pan from the range; a hot fry-pan, no less. He had forgotten to turn off the burner from dinner-time. Then Stretch swings it at the guy but misses him __because he has to let the hot handle go__ and the pot slams through the front window. So he gets a mild burn from it but the other guy is trapped in this floor anyway, being repeatedly bitten by a poisonous snake and attacked by various and sundry other beasts. When the 'perp' __as McNally calls him__ falls all the way back on the floor, breaking his thigh, Stretch runs right over his face getting out of the trailer."
"That's it?" I asked. -What else could have happened there?-
"No! Not quite. The little guy's half-way up to highway speed when two neighbors, who heard all the noise, step out with shotguns and stand with him. The trouble is: When they made their appearance, it was just too much. Stretch fainted. I don't know whether it was from relief or more panic. The neighbors called the cops, who rescued the bad guy. He might survive. Now! that's it."
Weiner paused for a second or two, and asked, "What do you say about that?"
I thought about it for a minute. "What a hell of a cartoon that would make." What else was there to say?
-"Bambi II, the Vengeance of Thumper"-
As soon as the bartender had brought the wherewithal and left with the considerable change, we started trading lies about high crime. After a few minutes, the lies became ambiguities, and then hypothetical situations, and finally real-time information.
By the time we got down to brass tacks, we'd resolved the old Peace Corps' conundrum. Our glasses were refilled to the brim whenever they got down near half-empty.
No halfway measures for us.
For a guy with twenty-two years in the CIA, the agent was amazingly straightforward. And once my eyes had adjusted to the dim moonlight, I could gauge his reactions easily. Not much of a "poker face." Weiner dropped the Runyonesque present tense that had flavored Stretch's adventure. This sounded more like a formal briefing.
In a voice just a little louder than a murmur, he started in. "Weller's an ex-mobster; not a capo, just a sergeant, maybe. Anyway, he screwed up too many times. Not stealing from them, or anything they'd kill him for; just what you might call 'an excess of zeal.' That's what I'd call it, anyhow."
My face probably radiated doubt in that same moonlight. I was turned more toward it. "I could have sworn the Mob was too busy trying to peddle embarrassing quantities of real cash to bother with this."
Weiner dismissed that. "You weren't listening. Weller's not 'connected' any more. He screwed up. You don't teach lessons to guys who don't pay their bills, by making them quadraplegics. You just break whatever they don't need to make a living. It's not even useful as a lesson to other bums; they just start using another loan shark. So he's out."
"And understandably so. But he doesn't sound like the money or the brains, such as they are, behind this counterfeiting."
Weiner scoffed, "He's not. Weller works for a S&L banker named Salburton, J.C. Salburton."
"Surely not____"
"No, but close," Weiner laughed. "It's Justin Christian."
"Ah, that certainly inspires my confidence. Why aren't they under arrest, if you know who they are?"
"Because," he explained, "McNally has no solid evidence of murder on them; not enough to keep Treasury from exercising control over the investigation. And they want to let the bastards run free until they can catch them with the goods. A vague case of conspiracy doesn't help the old career profile."
I disagreed with those priorities and said as much, "The trouble is that Weller and Salburton are killing people, all the while our Joy Boys from Secret Sam are trying to get the goods on them for a lesser offense. How come the CIA is involved? I thought that was verboten in the U.S.A., like Caesar's army crossing the Rubicon."
"Jacta est alea," quoted Morton Weiner in Latin __plus a bit of Caesar's "Gallic Wars" with a Vulgate accent__ not American "legalese" or Classic.
"You are full of Gentile surprises, Mr. Weiner," I commented __with some amusement.
"Believe it or not, I was baptized Episcopalian and went to Catholic school. And call me Morty."
"I'm Dick." At least he didn't ask me why my mother didn't object to my phallic nickname.
"Anyhow, Dick, we keep a friendly eye on some of our presumed allies overseas. Nothing 'wet'. Do you know what that means?"
"I'm learning, Morty. I'm learning."
"One of our people in the embassy in Seoul, South Korea was approached by a local asset," he raised an eyebrow in my direction and when I nodded, went on, "about representing a certain high-tech company on his return to stateside duty. When he was due to be rotated home, he had to prepare his assets for the changeover in control, so they knew when it was scheduled. He was dirty even over there, in my opinion."
He paused briefly to add some more soda to his drink, then tasted it and made a bitter face. Picking up the Glenfiddich, he added twice as much Scotch as he had soda, and tasted it again. This time his face wrinkled up even more, as if it was lemon juice. The shoulders shuddered a bit and finally his features smoothed out again, back to normal. Quite bland, in fact. Actually he looks a little like a slender, occidental Buddha; so he was back to his normal appearance, not anyone else's idea of normal.
Morty tried to clear his throat, and gasped, "Perfect." He took another, longer pull at the drink __added a few cubes__ and quickly got back to business. "I think he planned to get rich on his own by double-crossing his new employers and us, as well. He reported the approach to us for at least two reasons: Up to a point, it might well have been a test of his loyalty; it would also get our cooperation, until he didn't need our help anymore. His name was Ralph Cary."
"Ralph Cary?" -You don't say-
Morty elaborated. "He was the corpse you were questioned about; the one found with his head smashed in. Gary reported that they had given him a name and address in Houston, an interested prospect for their service. We now know that he carried software in one form or another, and some quality control samples that you were kind enough to surrender. And we think that he carried a warehouse receipt for a supply of paper stock and ink suitable for counterfeit printing. A package deal, in other words. He didn't tell us about that part."
Add some optics and a couple of chips, I thought.
"So how come the CIA's still involved at this end?" -And sticking guns into my privates-
"We'd still like to find out who killed one of our own, even if he was probably dirty. We also have control over the foreign operation, the penetration in South Korea. Treasury has an observer there, and I'm replacing Ralph Cary here, at least as an observer. Not the undercover part, of course; that's finished."
I leapfrogged past Gary's killing. "So Cary introduced himself to Salburton."
"Right," he agreed, "just for the sales pitch. For the deal, Salburton had a nephew named Russell, Russell Tiddler."
"Tiddler?" -And Roxanne had bitched about "Dick"-
He nodded. "Right! Tiddler was his name. Salburton considered him an idiot-savant, I think. But he was really supposed to know computers."
-Hello, Frizzy-
Morty was starting to feel the booze. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this, Dick."
"Maybe, it's because I'm the only one who's asking. Maybe, it's because we're related," I suggested.
"Related?" His eyebrows rose.
"Our Scotch bloodlines."
"Oh, yeah. That's right."
I got serious, leaned a little closer to him, and gave him a riddle. "I've got something health-related to ask you. Suppose, just suppose that Weller came here with, say, seven or eight goons. Hypothetically speaking."
"Yeah."
"Morty, what would happen if, say, five or six of them came down with the flu, really bad? How long do you think it would take him to replace them?"
Morty thought for a minute, smiled, and said, "Five or six? Really? All I know about him is what Treasury knows, and their info is second-hand. I'd say he could have a dozen third-class __and/or maybe a couple of second-class__ wise-guys in Rockport within, maybe six hours. It's only a few hours to drive here from Houston, you know."
"Do me a favor," I requested. "Find me the address that goes with this number, all right? Just leave it with Stretch for me." I didn't feel like making a trip to the Ingleside library just for that.
"Is this Salburton?" He wasn't really surprised; he knew it was from the number. I thought, You didn't tell me you knew where he was, my friend.
But what I replied was, "You really don't want to know, Morty. I'm really getting pissed-off at him and Weller."
"Ok," he said, "just don't underestimate this Salburton. Your friendly banker isn't any tough guy personally. The little bastard's short and slight, and I'm told that he walks around like a wind-up doll. But he's got a few of the state big-wigs in his well-heeled pocket, and he's accustomed to the abuse of power. You won't be able to bluff him."
I said, "The smaller they are, the longer the fall looks, friend." -Big man bravado!-
"Maybe; maybe not!" Morty answered. He sounded more than a little dubious about that premise, as a matter of fact. "There's no doubt about one thing though; he's got a wide-spread reputation as a prick to work for or deal with. If he's giving the orders to a sadist like Weller, it's a dangerous combination. You've got a goon that's too far off-the-wall __even for the Mafia__ working for a megalomaniac. That's what I hear about them."
Morty was emphatic. "Dick, this guy is serious trouble, and so is his bully boy. There's a rumor that Weller was castrated as a kid, I guess because of his high-pitched voice, and he gets his kicks in very different ways."
The word in Houston __according to his Treasury sources__ was that Salburton had a bunch of properties torched by Weller when the people in them started getting too nosy. An old couple in Beaumont and three kids in Houston had been killed by suspicious fires in his tenements.
Footsteps! The man from the Central Intelligence Agency shut up abruptly.
The bartender's feet made quite a bit more noise than they had to, as he brought out a fresh bucket of ice cubes. Every good bartender knows when it's not the right time to walk softly.
Morty waited for him to leave and went on with the background. Neither the police nor the fire marshals, he indicated, could come up with any evidence. There was nothing provable: flammable paint solvents that just "happened" to be in the wrong place; oily rags in 55 gallon drums that just "happened" to ignite spontaneously; overloaded wiring with what "happened" to be pennies for fuses. A very clever bastard he seemed to be, in that field at any rate. No deadline for him. He didn't care when the fires lit up, as long as they did light up with no evidence of arson beyond unbelievable coincidence.
He smiled, shaking his head a little. "Funny thing! Weller shows up at every fire. Not right away, these are delayed actions. As soon as the news is out, though, he's there to watch."
Fire departments are routinely video-taping the crowd scenes at fires these days, hoping to catch fire-bugs who hang around.
"Weller's always there," Morty continued, "but there aren't any grounds even to pick him up and question him. It's his constitutional right to be a ghoul if he wants to be. In a sick world, he's got a lot of sick company."
The CIA man took another long pull at his Scotch and soda, and went back to his story.
"A state legislator and an investigator for the U.S. Senate Committee on Banking have been bumped off with .22 caliber bullets to the back of the head in office elevators. And a couple of "runners" have been known to miss their evening meal, so they could feed the sharks out in the gulf with parts of themselves. I guess easy money got to feel too easy to them for Salburton's or Weller's liking."
Weller's predilection for arson and "different kicks" didn't come as much of a surprise.
The rest of the conversation was mixed up with personal anecdotes, and I gave him some information that you already know, except I omitted any thing to do with Cary. And I was a little vague about anything else indictable. I didn't think Morty was wired. He hadn't known he would run into me and he hadn't gone to the bathroom, yet. You never know, though.
I'll make the rest of a long story __most of the Glenfiddich long__ as short as I can.
Cary reported back that Tiddler had grabbed the whole package and run, without making payment. He also claimed the package had been sealed, and that it had just been delivered to him before the meet.
Weiner thought the real story was, that Cary probably had to let the package out of his hands before he got the money. He would have intended to get it back by force, and then disappear. He had been scheduled to accompany Tiddler after Tiddler had a chance to examine the goods. A couple of Weller's goons were watching Cary; the CIA knew that. They were to make sure he didn't run with the money before Tiddler approved the buy.
They forgot to watch Tiddler and when he ran, they turned their backs on Cary just long enough to lose the payment too.
Nobody knew how Tiddler connected with Roxanne to start their desperate flight together, or exactly how Roxanne ended up with the package, except David perhaps. Morty told me the payment was supposed to have been in specific bearer bonds to the tune of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth.
Ah! How sweet it would be.
* * * * * * * * * *
-Munya lushin-
Mighty tasty.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Nurse left the elevator, turning to the right as usual. The Chairman and the other three sat relaxed in his office, watching as the overhead monitor kept track of her progress through the door and up the stairs. Salburton said nothing.
When the woman had reached the usual door on the upper level, she was refused entrance and knocked. She could sense from the solid feel of the door that her knocking would go unheard. After trying all of the doors on both levels, with the same results, she returned to the "Exercise" room, and started to bang on the door and shout. The men started to laugh at her and passed a few low-class remarks.
Except for Weller and the Chairman; they just watched.
"What are you going to do, Mr. Salburton?" Weller was anticipating something unusual. He even removed his dark glasses.
"Just listen to the speakers and watch what happens," he ordered them.
They could all hear her yelling.
"Hey! Hey! Where are you?" she demanded.
Weller's underlings were enjoying her frustration and confusion.
"Hey! Come on! Now you're pissing me off. I'm going to really punish you...."
The Chairman pushed a button quickly, aware that Weller was now staring at him and not the monitor. But not quickly enough. A bad mistake, he thought, knowing without looking that the feral glint was back in Weller's eyes.
I've got to be more careful, the small man thought as he worked the controls, Weller's not really stupid about some things.
Although the speaker was silent, the faint sound of an emergency siren now could be heard through the walls. Weller and his men glanced around in confusion, then sharply at the Chairman, who remained calmly seated. Reassured, they all looked back toward the monitor screen. The victim was trying to shield her ears with pressed palms, her eyes shut tightly and tears streaming down her cheeks. The mouth __already painted with lipstick in that strange pout__ was moving with screams that might as well have been silent, for all that she or the men in the office could hear of them.
He pressed the button again to kill the siren before it rendered the woman deaf and unconscious, but didn't reactivate the stairwell microphones. The men, including Weller, were watching her attempts to get up with awe.
When she had recovered somewhat, he did it all again. The other two were silent and Weller was actually smiling.
After a minute of watching the Nurse rolling around on the floor, holding her ears __having her mind torn to shreds as the sound invaded her very flesh__ the Chairman pushed the button again and allowed her relief. He thought it very likely that she'd never be able to hear anything again, not that it mattered.
When she had recovered to the point of being able to stagger to her feet and support herself against the wall, he picked up the microphone on his desk and spoke into it, if only for the benefit of his companions.
"All right, bitch, you can go now. The door downstairs is unlocked if you can reach it. This ought to teach you a lesson."
She didn't move, completely deaf and totally stunned.
The Chairman got off his special chair and walked to the door on the far wall. There was a large security port, an opening about a foot by a foot and protected by bulletproof glass. Lifting the cover, he peered through it and opened a red safety cover on a wall switch.
He prompted them to "Watch this!" and turned the switch up.
After a second, the men could hear what sounded like an air-conditioner, and felt its vibrations beneath their feet.
"Watch the monitor."
After a moment, they couldn't have looked away if a naked woman riding a tiger had come through the door.
In the stairwell __after about two seconds of hissing air__ a spray of fine droplets was being spit out of the sprinkler heads nearest the door, in what appeared to be a random pattern. They were yellowish and much more viscous than water, sticking to the tile walls before dripping slowly to the floor, except for a few that touched the woman as she held herself against the wall. The Chairman casually walked back to the desk and sat up on his chair.
The Nurse was screaming again, in terrible pain, her hands trying to put out the flecks of fire that had no flame, sparks of almost undiluted sulfuric acid. Everywhere it had touched her, she was blackened by the burning drops. A dispassionate chemist might argue that the destruction of her flesh was caused by extreme dehydration and not from combustion.
A moot point!
She turned to run from the spray, and the sprinklers __rotating now__ followed her with their liquid death; all except the sprinkler at the head of the stairs. Salburton's spotted prey started down the stairs, pain burrowing deeply into her flesh from each probing droplet. But as soon as the white shoes touched the fifth stair down, the lower level sprinklers went off, spraying her stockings and the steps beneath. On ruined feet __now bare and smoky black__ she was barely able to hobble back up to the top of the stairs, even as the sprinkler there began to spit out its share of her agony.
Her screams of pain __silent even to her ears__ coalesced into a breathless wail of anguish and despair as she saw her last refuge turning against her. At last, one of the amber drops splattered her left eye and started to burn its way through to her brain.
No one watching could say whether it was deliberate __or merely a reflex reaction to her pain__ as the Nurse flung herself from the top of the stairs in a twisting dive.
The angle of her neck as she lay at the bottom left no doubt in Weller's mind that his lesson was over. The face of the victim was no longer recognizable as human, and a fine smoke arose around her body as it lay in the shallow puddles of the corrosive liquid. Only the teeth could be distinguished as the pout was distorted into the rictus of death.
Death and the surcease of pain.
The Chairman was disappointed at the sudden finale, and yet, relieved at the same time. The erection between his legs was embarrassingly large for his size and __even though he was behind the desk__ an orgasm would surely not have gone unnoticed. That was all he needed with a predator like Weller in the room, waiting to pounce at the first sign of weakness. He waited a minute, willing himself to subside and then walked to the door again. The switch was turned all the way down this time, activating a water rinse.
No one spoke, as he returned to his accustomed place.
In the monitor, the stairwell could have been The Sauna From Hell as copious streams of water emerging from the whirling sprinkler heads were vaporized by the concentrated acid on the walls and floor. It would be at least ten minutes before the hallway was safe again for passage. Then he could get back to work in Ingleside. Alone in the back of the Mercedes, of course.
"There's a body-bag under the sink in the bathroom, Weller. This time you get to leave by a different door."
You are at Fiction 2, Chapters 17 & 18