by Joseph Flynn
One or two of the women, anyway.
Steeling herself, Nella said, “One of us needs to be sober to drive home. You wouldn’t want to embarrass the senator with a DUI.”
Bobby sat back and grinned at her. “Ain’t a cop in this state would give me a ticket for any damn reason. Precious few in Washington, D.C. would for that matter.”
Nella told her husband, “There’s always one who just doesn’t know any better.”
That gave Bobby Beckley pause, the idea that his home-state armor had even the least chink in it. He almost felt he had to put the notion to the test. Show both Nella and himself that it couldn’t be true. Then a more rational, less macho part of his mind asserted itself.
He’d had only one drink at the moment.
Bobby said, “It wouldn’t matter if that bitch in the White House called out federal troops to keep me off the road. I got us a room for the night.”
Bobby’s slur of the president had been loud enough to reach ears for a radius of several banquet tables. Nobody particularly minded his characterization of Patricia Darden Grant, but raising your voice in a rude way was frowned upon.
Nella helped stoke Bobby’s temper by responding in little less than a shout, “A room? That was the best you could do? Not even a suite?”
Brad Lewis sat on a sofa outside the ballroom in the Hilton that night in the same fashion he’d become a regular at the Capitol Café. Well dressed with impeccable manners. He was already a guest at the hotel, had been booked into it since he got to town. When he saw the sign outside the ballroom stating that Senator Howard Hurlbert’s birthday party was taking place there, Lewis knew he’d picked just the right place to wait.
A pretty white woman approached wearing a very tight dress that didn’t cover anything more than the law demanded. Lewis had contacted her the day before. He wasn’t certain she’d have the courage to show up. But there she was, looking like she could steal a man’s heart and break it with a single glance.
She was Lewis’ backup plan in case Nella didn’t have the pluck to take advantage of a golden opportunity.
“Pardon me, sir,” the woman said. “Would you mind if I sit down? I’m supposed to meet someone here in a little while.”
Lewis didn’t see how she could sit anywhere without putting on a real show.
He got to his feet to be polite.
“Please sit anywhere you like,” Lewis said, gesturing to the sofa.
She chose the far corner. He took the seat he’d already warmed.
Now all the two of them had to do was see how things went at the party.
Nella’s crack about Bobby not springing for a suite drew a few laughs. Not all that many. But the way Bobby saw it nobody was supposed to laugh at him. He was the guy who poked fun at other people. To show that he was a sport, he made a point of sending a local toady to “get me the biggest suite in the place.”
Unless Bobby passed out early or she sneaked off to sleep at another hotel, Nella was sure she was already in for a beating. Not to her face, the two of them being out in public. But somewhere between the knees and shoulders, under her clothes, she’d be bruised purple.
Before he got around to the rough stuff, though, Bobby thought the proper thing to do was humiliate Nella. So he drank and he danced. He was light on his feet, had a fair sense of rhythm and even in his late forties still had a thick enough head of hair to shake without looking totally foolish.
He picked the youngest and best looking women as his dance partners. Only one male objected to his spouse being poached, a young fellow not five years out of Ole Miss and a former starting lineman on the football team. Bobby waved a finger at him in a good natured way. Nella knew what that meant. Bobby would be back and next time he wouldn’t be denied.
To aid Bobby in having his way, as he made off to the dance floor with another man’s wife, his toady whispered to the big young man. Words to the effect of, “Don’t be stupid. You want to get ahead in business or politics around here, let the man have his dance.”
It was a contemporary take on the droit de seigneur. The feudal lord’s right to have sex with a vassal’s bride on her wedding night. Some of the men who had yielded thought one dance was no big deal, but Bobby often came back for more than a tango later. Depending on what favors the men wanted from the federal government, that would be overlooked, too.
Not in this case, though. While Bobby was off dancing, the big guy shoved the toady out of his way and took his lady fair out of the room. Good for you, Nella thought. Didn’t make Bobby happy, though. He was pissed. Sloppy drunk by now, too.
Nella had watched the last four of Bobby’s dance partners wince as he stepped on their feet. He wasn’t Elvis out on the dance floor any longer. Women all over the room were refusing to meet his eyes or finding a sudden need to visit the ladies room with three of their best friends.
About the only woman who didn’t turn away from Bobby was Nella. She stared right at him with a mocking smile. Bobby didn’t like that much either. He stomped over to her. As if the band leader sensed trouble coming, he had the boys play a slow song, “Wonderful Tonight.”
Eric Clapton’s love song to his beautiful lady.
Bobby thrust his hand out to Nella, knowing she wouldn’t dare refuse.
She didn’t. She knew from experience the least serious beating she’d ever taken from her husband had been when he was falling down drunk and tired. He could barely land a punch, and the ones that connected did little more than sting. Nella got to her feet and let herself be led onto the dance floor.
Bobby took her in his arms and held her close. His breath was foul and his body was rank with sweat. His hair hung down into bloodshot eyes, making him blink ceaselessly. Despite his dissipated condition, the predatory smile he directed at Nella made her shiver.
Then she felt Bobby’s right arm tighten around her torso. The pressure was more than uncomfortable. She felt like her ribs might crack. A jolt of pain hit her backbone, too. It didn’t seem possible that he might try to kill her right there in front of everyone, but if a fractured rib punctured a lung, she might die. If he damaged her spine she might be paralyzed.
Was the bastard even aware of what he was doing to her, Nella thought.
Then she looked in his eyes and saw that he did. He knew exactly what he was doing.
His smile grew wider with every moment of pain he caused her.
Nella did the only thing she could. Bobby had been stepping on his dance partners’ feet? She brought her three-inch stiletto heel down hard on his right instep. Bobby’s howl of pain stopped the band cold.
He growled, “Bitch!” and threw a right hand at Nella’s head.
Nella had seen that punch before. Several of them had landed on her face. But Bobby was slow and clumsy now. She ducked the blow easily, and turned to run. She hadn’t gone a step before he grabbed her hair with his other hand.
He didn’t have a real good hank of it, though. With a shriek of pain, Nella pulled free, leaving Bobby to look dumbly at the hair in his hand. He threw it to the floor and took up the chase. Everyone in the room looked on in horror, especially Senator Howard Hurlbert.
But no one tried to stop Bobby.
Brad Lewis tensed as he heard shouting and screaming coming from the birthday party. He turned his head toward the ball room doors, dreading the thought that he might hear gunfire next. The pretty woman on the sofa, following her instructions, scooted over close to Lewis. The Chicago private investigator could feel her tremble against him.
Lewis heard the sharp clickety-clack of footsteps approaching. A woman in high heels was running as if her life —
Nella Beckley burst out of the room, panic on her face and her hair standing on end. She turned left toward the hotel bar, the front desk and the main entrance to the building.
Lewis looked that way. The big young white guy who’d left the party earlier with his wife was standing with her just outside the bar. Lewis gave him a nod and got one in return.
The big young man’s face turned hard with anger as he saw Nella run past him.
Nella had noticed neither him nor Lewis as she made her escape.
A moment later, Bobby Beckley ran from the room, clearly in pursuit of his wife. He, too, passed the spot where Lewis sat, but Bobby got a good look at him. The two men had never met, but Bobby saw something that brought him to an abrupt, stumbling halt.
Bobby’s face twisted, first in surprise, then in recognition, finally in rage.
The man who intended to make Howard Hurlbert the president said, “Merrilee, goddamnit, you’re stepping out on me in public? With some old nigger?”
Brad Lewis knew exactly who Beckley was chastising.
His ex-wife, Merrilee Parker. Whom Beckley used to beat before Nella. He seemed to think he still had some kind of claim on her.
Bobby Beckley came for Brad Lewis now.
That gave Lewis only two choices, defend himself or cover up.
Lewis might have had a lot of gray in his hair, but he was strong, worked out three times a week. He’d been in his share of fights arresting tough guys on the street, too. Handling a drunk like Beckley would not be hard.
Not physically, that was. Dealing with the cops afterward, that might be a lot tougher. If it turned out he broke the jaw of a white man with political connections, he’d see the inside of a jail cell for sure. After that, in Mississippi, who knew what might happen?
Lewis just turtled up. Covered his face and head with his arms, pointed his elbows forward, the direction from which he was most likely to be punched. He pulled his knees up to his chest.
If the man took some shots at him now all he’d hit would be bone and muscle.
Probably bust a knuckle or two.
Unless the big young man with the pretty young wife got there fast.
The way Lewis had paid him to do.
Lewis counted three punches hit him. One on each shoulder, another on a forearm. None of them hurt worth mentioning. He doubted they’d even leave a mark. He did hear a loud yelp of dismay though. Not his own.
He opened his eyes and peeked out though the slit between his upraised arms.
The big young man had grabbed Beckley by the lapels of his suit coat and lifted him clean off the ground. Walked him over to a wall as Beckley started yelling at him. Whatever Beckley had to say stopped abruptly when the young man slammed him into the wall a time or two.
Then he let Beckley collapse into a heap on the floor and came over to Lewis.
He asked, “Are you all right, sir? Did that man hurt you?”
Lewis knew his role and played it well, “He surely tried to, but you saved me, young fella. You have my heartfelt thanks.”
The cops showed up a minute later, and Lewis gave the young man credit for saving him from a beating. He said he was a guest of the hotel and he’d been sitting down on the sofa minding his own business when he’d been attacked.
It helped his credibility when he told the local police he was a retired cop.
After things settled down and Beckley was hauled off, Lewis was told he could return to his room. Merrilee Parker was long gone by then. She’d been the bait, and she disappeared as soon as Bobby had started in on Lewis.
The private investigator went to his room and started packing for his trip back to Chicago. The files he’d received, to be returned upon reaching home, had given him all the information he’d needed to set up his trap.
If the files had been any more detailed, they would have been step-by-step instructions.
The big young man who’d saved Lewis had been looking to move to New York. Now, he’d find a job waiting for him, and lots of new friends to help him succeed in business. Just for standing up to Beckley, a jerk the young man had hated since he’d impregnated the young man’s sister while she was still in high school.
Whoever had hired Lewis had counted on him to see the opportunities he’d been handed.
Thinking about who knew him that well and who might send this job to him without leaving so much as a fingerprint, he could come up with only one name.
Jimmy McGill, the smartest rookie cop Lewis had ever trained.
That boy grew up and married the president. That’s how slick he was.
5
March, 2012
20,000 Feet Above Ground Level — Mojave Desert, California
Damon Todd, Arn Crosby and Olin Anderson jumped out of the plane in the last moments of daylight. Todd was making his ninth jump, having started training less than a week earlier. It was his first jump after being licensed, under his alias, by the United States Parachute Association. Crosby and Anderson had long ago lost count of how many times they’d exited an airplane in flight.
Todd had been taught that in a Superman posture, belly to earth arms extended, he’d fall at one hundred and fifteen miles per hour. If he went vertical, head or feet first, he’d fall much faster. If he wore a wing-suit, he’d cut his rate of descent to half of the Superman speed.
Todd had learned all this and more from his certified instructor.
Making no apologies to either Crosby or Anderson, he’d declined having either of them teach him a skill on which his life would depend. He’d paid close attention to Angeline Woods, the handsome forty-something former stuntwoman who’d drilled him in all the finer points of hurtling through the air without leaving a splat on the ground. He took detailed notes and watched the training videos repeatedly.
He also paid her the high compliment of relating to her in strictly a professional manner.
Didn’t try to hit on her, the way so many jerks did.
With unknowing insight, she told Crosby and Anderson, “This guy is dedicated. It’s like he’s on a mission or something.”
Neither of them wanted Angeline to think Todd was a terrorist.
Crosby said, “He’s trying to prove his ex-wife wrong.”
Anderson added, “Impress his fiancée, too.”
What they didn’t tell her was Todd had spent hours under self-hypnosis to dismiss the normal fear that something would go wrong and his first jump would be his last. That and focusing on doing things right to make sure he did get a second jump. By the time that night rolled around, it looked to all concerned like Damon Todd was actually having fun.
The altitude from which the three men jumped was high enough for Angeline to strongly recommend the use of bottled oxygen. Todd followed her advice without a quibble. Crosby and Anderson politely declined, but they wore small transceivers with microphones and earbuds so they could talk to each other above the roar of the wind as they fell.
Todd jumped first and quickly angled head down, as if he hoped to enter a swimming pool more than three miles below without raising a splash of water. Crosby and Anderson followed, each doing a Superman, falling like autumn leaves compared to Todd. Angeline was the last to jump, using an oxygen bottle.
She knew by now that Crosby and Anderson were accomplished jumpers, probably ex-military and better than her if she wanted to be honest. But neither of them was still the kid he thought he was. If one or both of the heroes blacked out from oxygen deprivation, she wanted to be close enough to pop their chutes. They broke their legs while landing unconscious that was their tough luck, but she’d never lost a jumper and didn’t want to start now.
Turned out they both still knew what they could do, waggled their fingers at her and grinned.
She gave them a wave and went into a vertical dive, wanting to close the distance with Todd as much as she could. Make sure he opened his chute at twenty-five hundred feet.
“Nice lady,” Crosby said, watching her go.
“Too nice for us.”
“True. Give us a girl who’s part scorpion, we’re happy.”
“Where’s the fun without a hint of treachery?”
The two of them laughed watching the world grow closer.
Anderson said, “Doc’s surprised me in a lot of ways. Jumping out of planes is just one thing. But I don’t thi
nk he’s ever going to get into a fight with McGill and walk away from it.”
“McGill won’t let him tap out again?”
“I wouldn’t and neither would you. McGill? This time, I think he’d end it.”
“Me, too.”
“You think either of us could take him?” Anderson asked.
The sun was all but gone now. They were rushing toward impact as fast as ever, but visual reference was down to points of light on the ground. No, wait, two chutes just opened. Todd and Angeline were drifting earthward at a mere twenty miles per hour now. Nearly as safe as a baby in Mom’s arms.
“I think it’d be real close for either of us,” Crosby said, “but, yeah, I think we’d both win. McGill’s good, he’s got lots of natural talent but —”
Anderson shook his head. “He’s on the board now. Got his first kill.”
“Yeah, but he feels bad about it. Where you and I’ve got him cold is we’re both fucking merciless. We get an opening, we won’t hesitate.”
“That’s true. So let’s go after him. We’ll tell Todd it’s just to soften McGill up for him.”
Crosby said, “Okay, who gets first shot?”
“The guy who pops his chute last.”
Playing aerial chicken wasn’t a new game, but it was one in which either player or both could die testing his nerve. Invariably, in either military or civilian circumstances, equipment failure was blamed for such fatalities. Nobody wanted to give parachuting a bad name.
Everybody wanted their beneficiaries to collect on the life insurance.
Crosby and Anderson zipped past Todd and Angeline softly settling toward the earth. Each of the special ops crazies had his eyes on the luminescent face of his wrist altimeter. Todd and Angeline had opened their chutes at a safe, conservative altitude. Crosby and Anderson had experience starting jumps below two thousand feet. BASE (buildings, antennae, spans, aka bridges, and earth, aka cliffs) jumpers used very fast opening chutes to take flight starting below two hundred feet.