Making a Killing

by John L. Hart

  The Pale Man set aside his beloved book, The Classic of Wei Chi by Wang Ni, and sighed. It had been written in the eleventh century, 1050 AD to be exact, but such a timeless classic never aged. Like games. He loved games. He had always loved games. There was a certain delight unlike any other in absolutely dominating and then obliterating a foe. There was some pleasure to be had, of course, in watching, as opposed to being, the competition. As a child he had enjoyed watching a spider master a bee, the rending and shredding of a battle between a cat and a rat, the bloody ballet of a cockfight, many a dogfight. As Hemingway had found, the whole pageant of classic Spanish bullfighting could be so very entertaining. Watching martial arts—from wrestling to boxing to Brazilian or Asian fights—those could all be remarkable, especially if the pot was sweetened. Fighting to the death really brought out a level of human ferocity and capacity for violence that could be illuminating.

  It was a sad day when dueling went out of fashion in European circles, but even making such practices illegal did not ban seriously crossing swords, any more than the silly era of prohibition in America had stopped those who wanted their liquor from drinking. Likewise, in his younger days, he had been quite a swordsman and still liked very much to recall the look in some old rival’s eyes as they stared down at the steel about to impale their chest. They would often freeze just before it entered. He would pause, they would look up, he would fix his eyes on theirs as they hoped for the mercy of a gentle withdrawal of the blade, and it was then that he plunged it through.

  Oh, oh! He gasped with remembrance.

  He was a sadist—he had known from a very early age and never thought to try to curb the urge to watch or inflict pain. The pleasure was too rewarding, too intense. The problem lay in finding new, inventive ways to intensify the experience, to take it back to the beginning when it was all so thrilling and new. He had no interest in drugs other than their lucrative value, the novelty of them as a business, and most especially the opportunity to join the elusive ranks of a master strategist and gamesman like Phillip ...Well, that was quite a bit of interest now, wasn’t it? He just had no interest in taking drugs. But he could understand why junkies would crave a fix, why they would need more and then more to get a semblance of their first nirvanic high.

  Sadists and junkies were alike that way. But beyond that, they were so unalike. Junkies were more like masochists, taking pleasure in the destruction of their own lives, whereas he took pleasure in the various amusements he orchestrated on the grounds of his estate. True, he would take his pleasure anywhere, including the perfect little palace he had built far from here, where his first move ensured Mikel would become a formidable opponent, but here he had more control over the creative process and where it would transpire.

  Not everyone shared his enthusiasm for the sport of suffering and, alas, that would include Phillip. But Phillip did understand the necessity of maintaining order, even if it required unorthodox means and, as long as they served a legitimate purpose, was inclined to overlook the “special punishments” that he, Paulu, so enjoyed dispensing. Still, it was just as well that Phillip was preoccupied with his dear Katherine. A potential weakness to mine at some point, and sooner than later if Phillip was tempted to intervene with the lesson their greedy Colonel Vo had coming.

  The man was bright enough, had been educated in France. A mid-level crony of the Nhus when they ruled South Vietnam—assassinated; what a pity, but not really—Vo had shown an ingenious capacity for moving cash through banks, or laundering as some crudely called it, and having it then reside cleanly and safely in Switzerland. Perhaps that was why Vo believed himself more clever than he actually was, and sadly underestimated the genius and obsessiveness of his own accountant who uncovered the skimming and immediately reported it to the employer he really reported to.

  Insurance. Now that was never to be underestimated.

  Paulu smiled. Oh, he couldn’t help it. He gave himself a round of applause.

  The sound of helicopter rotors in the distance disturbed his reverie. His guest was arriving. So exciting the anticipation, he could scarcely stand it. The colonel was small game, yes. But the Great Game was only beginning. To become the Southeast-Asian Lord of Poppies was the prize. He was only afraid that, as so often it seemed now, winning would be too easy.

  And that did not appease his appetite for playing games at all.

  *

  Paulu smiled over his cup of tea. “Thank you for joining me, Colonel.”

  “It is my pleasure,” Vo responded. “Your message suggested you wished to ‘up the ante’ as the Americans say? I do understand we could soon be making a fortune in the heroin trade.”

  “Exactly so. We could without a doubt soon be making a fortune. Now.” He slid the papers with discrete gold lettering on the letterhead across to Vo. “You can see, my friend, that in fact you have a small fortune already of my money. That is your account number in Switzerland, I have been assured.”

  “I ... I ...” Vo stiffened. His face flushed. “There must be some mistake.”

  Paulu leaned toward him, lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “I understand greed. I understand ambition. However, I mistakenly thought you understood loyalty, especially in light of some of the entertainments you have seen here previously.” He paused to savor the moment. He could literally smell the fear rolling in waves off the rat who was about to walk straight into his trap. “I would propose a wager, Colonel. I know that you so love a good game of Wei Chi or, as some say, Go. I understand you even went to Japan to study at the Kitani School there after university and are well respected throughout the country for your virtuosity. So, I propose we play a little tournament of four out of seven games. Should you win our match, your debts are forgiven. I will allow you to keep the money in your account and continue in your present capacity.”

  The relief flooding Vo’s face was as immediate as his, “Agreed.”

  Paulu managed, just barely, not to chortle with glee. The confidence Vo had in his skills at the most complex board game in the world was right up there with his confidence that he wouldn’t be caught stealing to begin with.

  “But, Colonel, that is only if you win the first game. I propose we sweeten the pot again and should you win two games, you will receive double what is in the account. And so on. By the end of the tournament, this entire estate might even be yours.”

  “Excellent proposal, and agreed again.” Vo smiled over his tea.

  “Ah, but if you lose ...”

  “Yes?” Vo’s smile wavered but only slightly.

  “The higher the stakes, all the more drama. And you know I have such a weakness for the dramatic. Which is why if you lose the first game, you lose your left leg. The second, your right leg. The third your left arm. The fourth ... well, my good Colonel, let us just say I have a pet that requires feeding, and at that point you won’t be able to run.” He gestured to the waiting board. “Shall we proceed with the first game?”

  The colonel turned out to be a shrewder negotiator than Paulu had expected, which only made the game more delightful. Vo returned all the money, had it immediately wired from his Swiss account to where it belonged in the first place. Paulu showed how generous he could be by reducing the wager to the best three out of five games. Then Vo struck yet another bargain by agreeing to work for a year without pay in exchange for fingers rather than limbs, knowing if his performance was less than spectacular . . .

  Well, there was much incentive to retain what he could of his left hand. Yet another bargain struck: he was right handed.

  Vo won a single game of Go. Lost the first two, won the third, then lost the fourth, so the fifth was moot, but Paulu insisted they play anyway just so he could win. He was not happy, not happy at all, about losing the one game, but at least he had four fingers floating about in a crystal vase until he could have them otherwise utilized, perhaps in some sort of decorative art.


  Best of all, what made all the concessions so completely worth it, was that Vo had only a small window of time to convince Mr. Mike “Mouse” Gallini to go indefinitely AWOL. Paulu really did need him to come willingly, or at least be persuaded to say he had, in order to maintain good relations with his “Uncle Louie,” who was a necessary and well-protected component of their US distribution.

  But that wasn’t all! In exchange for keeping his thumb, Vo had promised to secure a suitable female companion for Phillip’s dear Katherine. Someone near her age with an engaging personality, who could speak English, knew her place in the order of this particular universe, and could be completely trusted. Because should she not prove exemplary in any of those requirements . . .

  Vo’s shrewd negotiations would be voided and he had already lost four out of five games.

  19

  After sobbing her heart out Kate managed to put herself back together to light up a Gauloises with a still-trembling hand. Once she would have shared it with JD. It was one of their little rituals she had come to treasure, how they would pass one back and forth after they made love.

  There would be no more shared cigarettes with JD.

  If Phillip smoked she would share with him. Besides being the supplier of all the Gauloises she wanted, she could count on Phillip to be honest and fair. He had never toyed with her as if she was an entertainment he could then toss aside once she no longer amused him, or until someone newer and shinier caught his eye, turning her into yesterday’s leftovers, a beggar’s meal.

  No, Phillip loved her and she knew it. They had a history that she and JD did not. She had lived enough of a life to realize no matter how shattered she was presently feeling, even if it was the kind of lingering devastation that would never quite leave, her life would go on without JD. And Phillip would still be in it.

  Just as she was about to light up again a soft knock sounded at the door. She knew that knock and glanced at Phillip’s briefcase. Just as he had left it.

  Her voice a croak she called, “It’s okay, Phillip, you can come in.”

  His expression upon entering the room told her she must look as much a wreck as she felt. Quickly crossing the distance, he came to her, and somehow managed to touch her without touching, to be there while still giving her space. He knew her so well.

  “Katherine, I hate to see you cry. Especially when I’m the one responsible. I’m so sorry to have upset you the way I did. Forgive me for saying things I shouldn’t have and making you question the intentions of someone we both care for, just in different ways.”

  Phillip was cutting JD way too much slack. The first glimmer of anger stirred. It was precisely then Kate realized how paper thin you could slice the line between longing and loathing. How easily the intensity of one could spill into the other.

  “Phillip, why would JD use me, lie to me, pretend to want a life with me . . . the way he must have with those other women, before they died? Why would he do that to them? To me? I just don’t understand.”

  Phillip shook his head, asked, “May I?” before sitting next to her on the bed.

  “My dear, if I could tell you that, I would, but your questions are better put to those like your doctor friends who understand the workings of the mind far better than myself. All I know is that JD was damaged as a child. He witnessed death before anyone should, and somewhere in the process of his schooling he became sufficiently distanced emotionally to take a life himself. One can only presume there came a point when his conscience had to quit working, at least on certain levels, in order to excel in his chosen profession. After all, a professional assassin cannot be overly burdened by a conscience, or he’s in the wrong line of work. I cannot imagine what it must take to dispense with another life, though I could easily kill anyone to save you. Or myself. I believe that’s true for most of us. Such is the survival instinct. But JD . . . I honestly have no idea how many he has killed, only that it is many. He is a complex creature shaped by unusual forces, and I want to believe there is still goodness in him. Maybe it was that belief that caused me to think he wouldn’t compromise your safety. But ultimately the fault is mine for not anticipating you would become so emotionally attached. I never should have introduced you to him. I’m sorry. So very sorry for my misjudgment at your expense.”

  Phillip moved from the edge of the mattress, got down on his knees. He took both her hands and pressed them over his heart, quietly beseeching, “Can you ever forgive me for the heartbreak I have caused you?”

  Her instinctive response was reminiscent of their first meeting, so long ago, when she had accepted his offer of a ride without a thought to the future or the consequences of a single action.

  Only this time she was fully cognizant of what her actions would bring.

  Kate pulled him up and into her bed and simply said, “You know what I need.”

  And he did. Their touchstone of intimacy; his body entering hers in their familiar dance of on again/off again coupling that had seen them through good times and bad, break ups and make ups, bonding them ever tighter over the years. As good and familiar as it was, Kate felt something missing, as if they were dancing to a different beat. Phillip wanted to comfort her and she wanted an exorcism, all thought blown out of her too-crowded brain and broken heart.

  While Phillip wasn’t quite the lover JD had been—no one was, that much was true—he remained exceptionally giving and accomplished. The whole hair and ear thing she had latched onto earlier seemed petty and inconsequential in the overall context of their relationship.

  And in the end, Kate thought as she smoked a post-coital Gauloises and Phillip softly snored, as the song said, you can’t always get what you want, but you might get what you need.

  *

  They were still in bed two days later. Phillip’s bed, not hers. He had suggested a change of scenery to his larger “suite,” to which Kate had readily agreed, more than happy to escape her gilded cage for an entire wing of the top floor.

  “You have said very little. I appreciate that there is much to consider here, Katherine, and with everything you have been through, well, I do understand.”

  Kate took her time responding and Phillip held his silence as she laid her head on his chest. She curled her fingers into the light smattering of gray hair next to her cheek. It had been tawny brown when they were new lovers, but his muscles remained firm from polo and rowing, and he was quite the shot whether it came to arrows, or the guns on which his family had built their fortune. He had always lived on the other side of the door, as his family had for generations, privileged, somehow above the fray. But she didn’t care nearly as much about his wealth as she did about the way he utilized it, and at the moment she mostly cared about the comfort of the familiar.

  That, and the opportunity of a lifetime he had just offered—the opening of a door society had always denied her just because she was a woman.

  “You know, Phillip, I always loved to play baseball, and I could beat most of the boys who ever let me play on their teams. It was mostly because of Gregg taking up for me, teasing them that they must be afraid a girl would show them up, that I even got to play then. But because I was a girl, some of those boys got scholarships that I never qualified for.”

  “Um-hmm. Completely unfair but not surprising.”

  “And I wanted to be an astronaut, did you know that?”

  “No, I did not. But I’m sure you would make an exceptional cosmonaut if only you lived in Russia. We remain woefully behind the Soviets that way. They sent up the first woman seven years ago, and I daresay it could be another twenty years before we follow suit.” His fingers sifted through her hair, playing with it the way she liked. “Nursing was an unexpected field for you. Lawyering, like your mother, would have made more sense to me.”

  “Are you kidding?” Kate snorted at that. “Watching her get slapped down over and over again and never allowed into the boy’s
club, much less ever have a chance at the Supreme Court—bet it’s another twenty years before that happens too, if it ever does. My God we’re so antiquated it’s ridiculous. No, my mother taught me early on to use whatever resources or luck I had to call my own shots in a way she never could.” Her mother had minced no words: What it means to be beautiful, honey, is that you can get what you want from men while you still have your looks. But being smart and being tough means you have a chance to get what you want for yourself and keep it. Be beautiful, honey, and work it. But be my smart girl.

  Kate felt tremulous inside but not at all unclear. Any further mourning for what was already lost was self-indulgent and futile. JD had promised to always keep her safe, just as her father had made promises to her mother that he didn’t keep. She admired her mother more than any other woman she knew. Her mother had raised her right.

  She was going to be smart.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Phillip’s hair sifting stopped. He pulled her up from his chest and held her slightly away.

  “Are you sure?” His eyes searched hers. “This will be terribly difficult for you. Once we get everything in place, you’ll have to see him again, convince him you escaped.”

  “And then make sure he takes me to see Zhang as originally planned. Yes, I understand.”

  “It’s dangerous,” Phillip cautioned. “I would never forgive myself if you were damaged in the process.”

  Damaged was such an interesting choice of word, she thought. Then again, it perfectly captured the worst parts of their history that bound them together. The wife. The abortion gone wrong. Damage was different from pain and hurt. Pain and hurt faded. Damage went deeper; it was built to last.

  Phillip glanced away. She knew he never forgave himself for the damage he had done. But she wasn’t blameless either and had never tried to blackmail him, emotionally or otherwise. Sometimes she wondered if his little “assignments” were his way of expressing his gratitude for that. Now she was getting a big assignment. BIG. As in actual training, coaching, an inside track to the top secret maneuverings behind the scenes. The CIA and the USA were aligning with new allies in the war to control the heroin trade in order to slow it down and eventually completely stop production. But first, they had to get Zhang on board in order to eventually take it over from him, and Phillip wanted to bring her in as a key player.