Waiting for Mister Cool

by Gerard Houarner

  “Good to have the law on our side,” Max said.

  “More than that. Come on, follow us. We’ll take you in. We have a lot of work for you. And your people.” He started off, stopped, turned, and asked, “What’s your real name?” Holding up a hand and shaking his head as if instantly realizing he’d made a terrible mistake, he continued, “I mean, what name do you want us to use? We’d rather not call your Mister Cool, you know? It was corny enough as a contact sign, but we understand how much you like movie kinds of things. Just give us a regular name. Anyone will do.”

  “Max.”

  “That’s fine. Max. I’m Cal. Welcome to Strauss County, Max.”

  Cal headed back to the car, and the other men relaxed as they loaded themselves into their vehicles. In that instant, Max knew he could take them. If he jumped the truck at the right, the girls would knock out the left flank with their grenades and Lee would take care of the middle. It would be over in less than thirty seconds. Not even a scratch.

  The Beast growled its approval.

  But did not roar.

  Something was in the air, sickly, tainted, dangerous. More blood was waiting. The Beast’s appetite roiled like stormy waters, tempting Max. Let the clouds come. Let the thunder shake the land, and lightning crack the sky. Let the blood rain down and wash away the hunger.

  The body could wait. Maybe the girls had led him out here, intentionally or not. It didn’t matter. A hunting ground called. Why run away from it?

  Cal asked him to follow. He went back to the Bronco with the slightest spring to his step, and slid quickly into the passenger seat.

  Lee shut himself in and started up the engine. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Max smiled.

  Kueur and Alioune leaned forward to catch the glimmer of his teeth in the dashboard lights. They smiled.

  “Ah, shit,” Lee said. “I’m not going to like this, am I?”

  “Just relax,” Max said. “And enjoy the ride.”

  Chapter 2

  “Where the fuck have we landed,” Lee said, tapping on the Ford’s brakes as if there was an exit he could duck through, or room between the trees and enough grace from their escort in front and behind them to perform a U-turn and get away.

  The caravan had just taken the final bend on the rough, winding backwoods road that had taken them far from the two-lane highway and road block. A dim glow reflecting from the low clouds had signaled the presence of a small town – a few houses, a store, maybe a gas station – buried deep in the hills as they’d made their way through several valleys. But they’d gone so deep into the back country that the reflected light could not have been seen from the main road, and there were no signs pointing the way to this outpost of civilization. Max had assumed the town served as a commercial center for the surrounding hill community, but there did not appear to be any farms, ranches, industrial parks or developments anywhere nearby. The hills were a dark, brooding canvas that the occasional lightning flash exposed as nothing more than mostly pine-covered, with harder woods closer to water in the valleys. Not a single house light shined from above, not a single driveway intersected the relic from wagon-train days on which they traveled. He had a feeling Native Americans had stopped using the trail the road had been built over even before a white man had discovered it.

  Max guessed he’d stumbled on a village with a gang or government safe house, or perhaps an entire cult community, and his stomach tightened at the possibility of becoming involved in a covert operation for which he hadn’t been sanctioned.

  But the sight that greeted them as they descended into the final valley relieved Max of that worry, and even made him break through a smile and actually laugh. The twins joined him, gleeful, ecstatic, almost like true, human little girls.

  Lee was not amused. “Disneyland’s aborted twin,” he said. “The one they left on a hilltop to die, only it fell here and got raised by wolves.”

  “Tonton Lee!” Kueur exclaimed, pounding him joyfully on the shoulders until he flinched. “You have such a wonderful imagination.”

  The town was larger than the glow in the clouds hinted at. And it was not actually a town.

  Before he could decide exactly what it was, he was drawn to the ring of structures and vegetation that enclosed it like the walls of a fort.

  The six outer buildings, two-story, flat-roofed boxes lacking civilian amenities like chimneys, telephone wires, or glass, much less curtains, covering the empty squares of their windows, were connected by a circular hedge of tangled vegetation that looked like barbed-wire trees in the odd glow emanating from the structures.

  The illumination made him uneasy. Max couldn’t place its origin, and he had killed by all kinds of light: fungal phosphorescence on deep jungle tree trunks and on cavern walls below the earth; swamp gas rising erratically from bayous; cockpit displays; eerie fire feeding on any number of combustible materials, from flesh to aluminum hulls to depleted uranium shell fragments simmering in melted armor plating. What came through the windows was something that might have sparked into life if a full moon had been captured by a madman and sundered, its broken fragments used as foundations, and if each foundation had then been soaked in sin and blood and the raw appetites of the meek and the cowardly to fuel the fire that would keep the lights alive through generations of pain and frustration.

  What came through the windows was pale, not vibrantly electric, or flickering as if born from fireplaces or candle wicks. The light leaked from the windows with the relentless drive of a plague, oozed into the night in a toxic haze that might have blown from a ruptured transport tank, settled to ground like a nightmare broken by waking, all the while leaving a luminous trail that clung to everything it touched, casting no shadows, brightening the world just enough for human sight to recognize the size and shape of things hidden in the darkness.

  The Beast twisted and curled in discomfort. Max didn’t like the thoughts the sickly glow provoked.

  More traditional sources of light provided clearer illumination, and accounted for the modest glow in the cloud cover: a string of white bulbs obviously powered by electricity hanging from the Ferris wheel at the center of the enclosure; a small fire burning in the church steeple, larger than a lantern, but contained, smokeless, apparently not the product of a random lightning strike consuming the tower; faintly rose-tinted lamp posts placed along paths rambling through the randomly placed buildings, passing a dilapidated playhouse with the comedy mask of the theater pair dominating the marquee charred beyond recognition, a shuttered, two-story Western-style saloon complete with covered porch and raised walkway, tie rails and water troughs for horses, the burnt remains of an outdoor amphitheater dug into the earth and constructed from logs rather than stone, and several dozen other buildings from outhouses to cabins, some collapsed or nearly so.

  The perimeter bunker houses and hedge wall gave an impression of fortification, while the Ferris wheel inspired a circus atmosphere. The other buildings, and the path, suggested the random chaos of children set free to build where and what they wanted.

  Order and reason slipped through understanding’s grasp. The place was meant for play, or perhaps battle, even a hunt, or something he couldn’t imagine, but never to be inhabited.

  The Beast stirred, focusing beyond the odd light, its interest peaked. Max considered imprisonment as another purpose for the site. Sacrifice came to mind, as well, for no good reason he could tell.

  Despite the uninviting sense of the place, cars, trucks, tents, and camp fires clustered at the near side of the enclosure. The thumping beat and thin harmonies of popular music carried up to the clouds, along with laughter and the shouts of human voices.

  He relaxed, seeing easy prey in the lack of deadly professionalism.

  On the far side of the toy town stood a few shacks, unlit hulking shadows that seemed to consume the sickly light coming from the hedge buildings on that side of the circle. There was no trace of movement, no sign of vehicles. As far as Max could t
ell, the place, perhaps half a mile away from the first camp, was as silent as a grave. His guard came back up.

  The twins stared through Kueur’s window at that far side, drawn to its eerie quiet, its mystery.

  “Where the hell are we?” Lee asked, in the soft, dismissive way he used when he didn’t want an answer.

  “What was this Mister Cool supposed to do here?” Max answered.

  “Let’s hope he wasn’t an architect, ‘cause there’s no way you’re going to be able to even pretend to know what to do with a place like this. Other than burn it down.”

  The caravan stopped in front of an open-sided shack serving as a cooking station. A few men were still washing pots in water from a small creek and cleaning up underneath an electric lantern. Music pounded from one of the parked trucks. Litter skittered across mostly bare earth, carried by gusts presaging storm. The grass had died. Men had been gathering in this spot for a while.

  “Man, look at that,” Lee said, pointing excitedly to one of the cars parked nearby, bracketed by a Mercedes and a Ferrari in a line of new model Rams and Chevys, a Range Rover, an F150. “A 1970 Grand Torino Cobra. Man, that’s a nice restoration. Wonder how much that’s going for.”

  Cal jumped out of the back of the Cherokee and signaled them to join him as he headed for a large tent, an old, surplus, truck-sized affair from many wars ago.

  Max followed, with the twins tipping the seats forward and slithering out, falling in behind him, leaving Lee guarding the rear. The twins had hidden their explosives somewhere in their fashionably-tight jeans, under designer T-shirts and inside light, sharply-urban jackets, but Max and Lee held the mini-Uzis out in the open, with clips sticking out of their jean pockets. At least Max’s shirt was tucked in.

  Six men, casually dressed, half-armed with M-16s and the rest with sporting guns, stood restlessly along points of the camp perimeter watching the commotion caused by new arrivals. If the place really needed guards, they should have been less obvious, and attending to the darkness beyond the camp for whatever they thought might be coming, instead of looking to the camp for entertainment.

  Like the rest of the men in the camp, most were amateurs, Max concluded. The vehicles told him it had been a long time since the worst of them had seen any action. There was none of the paranoia of militia, the lethal laziness of gangsters, the detached self-absorption of mercs. These were retired military – comfortable, relaxed, with only one or two having the restless eyes of law enforcement. And even they’d thickened and softened like dough somebody forgot to bake. They were wrong for the place, the wreck they’d passed, for hiring a professional killer who called himself Mister Cool.

  The scent of the twins’ kill had faded long ago, but there was still blood in the air, mingling with rain and pine and earth, gasoline and cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, piss and shit, and spoiled food. But despite the open invitation to wildlife, Max doubted that raccoons, rats or bears dared raid the food stores or the plastic garbage bags waiting to be picked up. The other smells, sharp, like burnt plastic with a sprinkle of ammonia, and something else, would keep them away.

  He didn’t like looking at the light from the ring of buildings, the nearest a stone’s throw away. Up close, the structures still offered no clue about their purpose, though they appeared solidly built, perhaps concrete. None of the guards had taken advantage of the high ground available through the second-story windows, longer than they were tall, almost like firing slits in fortifications. On this point, Max couldn’t argue with their reluctance. Even if it was unprofessional. He didn’t think he’d have picked that particular high ground either.

  Cal ushered them through the outer tent flap. Max took a last look at the Ferris wheel looming over the site, suspicious of the empty cars. They went past another guard sitting in a fold-up camp chair, into an inner chamber where a small, trim man in black combat fatigues, boots, and Kevlar vest sat in front of a small, collapsible metal table studying old, even antique recon photos, and architectural drawings. There was energy in him, coiled, disciplined, ready to spring at an instant, unlike the other men. He, too, was a professional.

  And worse. A man obsessed by a sense of purpose. Maybe a rogue. Or a man possessed by someone else’s vision. The kind of man Max was often assigned to murder.

  Outside, a woman’s voice sang about being a redneck. It was the only female the Beast sensed for miles, except for the twins, and the demon was disappointed. Women were its favored prey, a kind of delicacy that relieved the boredom of gorging itself on the agony of men, all too familiar in Max’s line of work.

  And yet, there was desire in the air. The Beast had already picked up the trace at the road block. Not the usual lust for women, or men, or drugs and alcohol, or cars and other material things. The scent came from someplace far-off, in the hills. Or close by, hidden.

  “Mister Cool is here,” Cal said, with a touch of deference. “He’d liked to be called Max,” Cal continued, with a self-satisfied expression crinkling from the edges of his beard.

  The man at the table glanced up. “We opening up a girl scout camp here?”

  The twins moved, silent and swift.

  Max’s heart jumped, and even the Beast purred in admiration. Cal went for the Beretta in his belt holster but Lee had him covered. The man at the table never had a chance to draw. Max tucked his weapon into his jeans, in the small of his back, and kept his hands at his sides.

  “Morris?” Cal said, before Lee shut him up by pushing the Uzi’s brief muzzle into his open mouth.

  From behind the table, Morris’s eyes flicked back and forth, from Kueur to Alioune. Kueur had a knife at his throat, Alioune, a knife at his crotch.

  Even Max hadn’t seen from where the twins had pulled the blades. It was the kind of display that disturbed the Beast, knocking it off its tracks of rage.

  “Nice family you got,” Morris said. “Aren’t there child labor laws against this sort of thing?”

  “They really want you to buy their school candy,” Lee said.

  “They came along for the ride,” Max added. “They’re not part of the package.”

  Morris’s gaze was drawn to one of the photographs, as if he found the image more compelling than his vulnerability. “Mom’s night out? Babysitter busy?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m part of the package,” Lee said, warming up to the role with a smirk.

  Morris held a hand up. Max nodded his head. The twins withdrew, and Lee backed off Cal, who glowered as he rubbed his lips.

  “I thought you were cool,” Cal said, with both anger and hurt, to everyone and no one.

  “That’s him,” Lee said, jerking a thumb at Max. He followed Max’s lead and tucked his gun into his jeans.

  “Nobody ever said anything about kids,” Morris said. “This place isn’t set up for them, as you can tell. But if you don’t care about bringing them along, we sure as shit won’t. Might even work to our advantage with the pervs. If you don’t mind using the girls as bait.”

  Stray acts and random information converged into a pattern for a moment.

  “Tonton Bébête,”said Kueur, in a tone that was far older than her appearance. She exchanged a look with her sister, and both looked to Max, quizzical and eager. Asking permission.

  Max rode the flash of a pattern in his mind, along their instinctual understanding of the situation, even as he warmed to their deference to him. If he said no, he was sure they’d stay by his side.

  But that’s not how he loved them.

  Max couldn’t yet put what he knew to be true into words. Beast didn’t understand, either. But it understood that there were connections being made, plans springing up spontaneously like desert wild flowers after a sudden shower. It sensed the blood, and howled.

  “Go ahead,” Max said.

  The girls slipped out of the tent.

  “Max?” Lee said, turning from the inner chamber’s flap settling back into place to stare.

  “They’r
e going out to find someplace safe to play,” Max said. “I’m sure your men won’t bother them.”

  Morris snapped his finger, then jabbed it at a shadow in a grainy black and white print before looking up again, almost in surprise that he still had company. “Whatever, Max. This isn’t a movie, it’s the real world. Though it doesn’t look like it, does it? But don’t be fooled, there’s some serious shit going on here. I’m not taking any responsibility for the brats.”

  “We kind of figured,” said Lee.

  “I’ve got a job. You came highly recommended. You took the deposit. Are you in?”

  Max took a deep breath, let it out slow. “You have, what, two dozen or more armed warm bodies out there who couldn’t shoot their way out of a spent rubber. You’ve got Cal, here, who means well. You, you’re out of Coronado, black ops, probably spent time in, say, the Sudan.”

  “Retired,” Morris said. “I never ran with you, or you, either,” he said to Lee. “Do we have some kind of history I don’t know about? Because outside of former COs, I don’t know too many guys your age. Frankly, I was expecting someone a hell of a lot younger.”

  “Just call me Lee,” Lee chimed. “Mister Lee, if you’re into the Bobettes.”

  “Like I said, I’m not that old, but my father would appreciate the reference.” Morris stood, and even with a stretch of his spine, he was still the shortest man in the camp. He studied Max for a moment before asking, “Who was the guy in Kiss of Death who pushed the old lady in the wheelchair–”

  “Richard Widmark,” Max said.

  Lee glanced at Max.

  “Yeah, okay, that was easy, but who played Spade in the first Maltese Fal–”

  “Ricardo Cortez.”

  “I knew that,” Lee said.

  The eye contact between them told Max he’d be hearing about the usefulness of Lee’s interests, including movies, which he had a habit of sharing on long trips to drop zones and pick up points.