by Alex Kava
Son of a bitch. What a fucking streak of bad luck he was having. It all started with that incident that put Casino Rudy in the psych hospital instead of six feet under. Leon was hoping to cash in on this job before that recent little mishap got out. Truth is, he about pissed his pants yesterday when he realized that’s where the Galloway lady was going, even though he knew damn well it had nothing to do with Casino Rudy. Fucking coincidence that she’d be going to Chattahoochee. But she was there to see some other old guy. Being in that place for crazies gave Leon the major creeps.
That’s also why he was in a hurry to knock her off. He was fucking tired of trying to figure out some accident. Mistakes happen when you’re in a hurry. Then to find out her old man was in the same kook-house as Casino Rudy. What the hell was he supposed to do? But nothing right gets done when you’re in a hurry. That’s exactly what happened with the hit on Casino Rudy in the first place. Leon would rather believe that than remind himself of that batty fortune-teller who claimed to have put a curse on him.
Who the hell believed in curses? Leon certainly didn’t. Or at least he never used to.
About a month ago, he was trailing a schmuck from New Jersey, an accountant stupid enough to think he could embezzle over two hundred thousand from his employer and not get caught. Leon had followed him to Coney Island. What a prime spot to knock the guy off. Just when Leon decided he’d pop the son of a bitch during the fireworks, the schmuck meets up with a woman and her little girl. Even Leon had standards. He wouldn’t off some guy with a little kid tagging along.
Instead of wasting the night, Leon bought a beer at the freak bar, thought he’d check out one of the freak shows, but there was nothing to compare with when he was a kid. Nothing even close to JoJo, the dog-faced boy. Only tattooed freaks and sword swallowers. Hell, he’d seen enough knives inserted into body parts more interesting than mouths.
He was about to leave when a fortune-telling gypsy with black eyes and a decent cleavage waved him over, her index finger giving him that come-hither twitch like she was reeling him in. With an approach like that how was he supposed to know it pissed off fortune-tellers when you propositioned them? Maybe they should have a sign or something posted. Didn’t stop her from taking his twenty, and then spitting in the palm of his hand and declaring “upon his head” some “curse of a dead ancestor.”
Leon laughed about it that night, but now it was starting to spook him.
He paid his tab and left the restaurant without even getting a piece of key lime pie like he wanted. He noticed the three-level parking garage across the street. He’d need another ride if he was sticking around. He couldn’t just dump the black sedan at the airport and leave like he intended. Originally he’d planned to wait for the two o’clock electronic transfer to be made into his account, then he’d book a flight home. In ten years he’d never had so much trouble. Maybe he’d stay away from fucking Florida for a while. Curse or no curse, nobody should push their luck. He should have known he couldn’t do three hits in the same area without something going wrong. Not that he expected all of them to be as easy as shoving a guy into a tank of chicken guts.
41
Sabrina shut herself away in her office. O’Hearn had disappeared. Pasha had returned to his files and test tubes. Anna shot Sabrina a series of dagger looks, once even mumbling something that sounded like, “I know what you’re up to.”
Sabrina just shook her head. Sidel wanted to create some competition among them, maybe even keep them distracted from asking any more questions. His evasiveness had set Sabrina on edge. Something was going on and she had a feeling Dwight Lansik’s resignation was somehow part of it.
She punched a security code into the computer and unlike Saturday’s unsuccessful attempts, this time it allowed her access. Maybe the thunderstorms had screwed things up. She didn’t care what the reason was. At least now she could check the system.
She brought up the software program that showed the entire process from pipelines to tanks to filters to depressurization process, pumping and flowing, opening and closing valves and all in real time. Lansik had designed an ingenious system. Using this software he had been able to control the entire process, simply punching a computer key if the cooking temperature needed to be adjusted.
Lansik’s security code allowed him to make changes. Sabrina’s allowed her only to view the process. It was a digital video screen, calling up various sections according to what stage the process was currently going through. And although it was impossible to see inside the pipes or the tanks, obstructions showed up on the screen like glowing green globs on radar. Feedstock showed up in liquid red so Sabrina could track its flow from one reactor to another, then to the depressurization tank. She could even watch the separation of the oil, all pushed out to one tank.
What wasn’t depressurized went into a separate tank where it would be mixed with the crushed bones and made into fertilizer products. The third was leftover water, which flowed into a flushing tank that rinsed it one last time and brought down the temperature before releasing it through a pipeline that led to the river. So without leaving her computer Sabrina could watch the entire process.
All she was concerned with was Reactor #5. She called up one screen and then another, punching computer keys, dismissing each stage, each level, running through the entire process twice before she finally stopped. Sabrina sat back and pushed her hair behind her ears. She couldn’t access Reactor #5, which should make sense if, indeed, it wasn’t being used. Maybe she was making too big a deal out of nothing. It could have been a mistake that was already corrected. And if it had already been corrected did it matter whether or not anyone admitted to it? Besides, she would find out soon enough when she met with the plant manager.
Sabrina started to close down the program when something caught her eye. She clicked back through the screens until she found it, a glowing green mass in one of the pipelines. She tapped through the menu and double clicked on the location to see exactly where it was. The computer took a few seconds, then flashed STAGE: FLUSHING and LOCATION: FINAL PIPELINE.
Sabrina checked the screen again. There had to be a mistake. If this was the pipeline flowing from the flushing tank and leaving the building to the rear, it would be only water. She pressed several computer keys and zoomed in. She could see exactly where the obstruction was. The pipeline ran along one side of the back parking lot. The elbow that glowed was the final angle down into the river. If she was right, it probably sat back in the trees just three or four yards from the edge of the parking lot.
Lansik had constructed traps into most of the angles and elbows of the pipeline so clogs could be easily cleaned out. But since this was a water-only pipeline he may not have added one to this pipe.
Sabrina glanced at her wristwatch. She had time before she needed to meet Ernie Walker. Maybe she’d take a bit of a detour.
42
Washington, D.C.
Jason started to get a little antsy. He wanted to get out of the limo and stretch his legs. They’d been driving around D.C. for at least an hour, maybe an hour and a half after leaving Old Ebbitt’s. Jason knew exactly why the senator didn’t want to go back to the office. He’d limited himself to one Chivas during lunch, but needed the extra two in the limo to convince himself that he had Senator Malone’s all-important vote for EchoEnergy.
“Worst-case scenario,” Senator Allen was telling Jason for the third time, “we have to split it. I’d rather split it with Malone and ethanol than those blood-sucking Arabs.”
When Jason’s cell phone rang he reached for it quickly, relieved at the interruption. He punched Talk before the senator could protest.
“Jason Brill here.”
“Mr. Brill, it’s Lester Rosenthal with Good Morning America.”
The call took Jason by surprise. He’d given up on hearing from GMA.
“Mr. Rosenthal, what can I do for you?” It was another tactic the senator had taught Jason. Even when you want something badly from som
eone never let them know. Let them think you’re the one doing them a favor.
“Robin Roberts met Senator Allen back in 2005 after Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. He was one of the few senators in the area immediately after even though he had a mess of his own down in Florida. He made an impression.”
Jason couldn’t help but smile and nod, indicating to the senator who sat across from him that it was something positive. He could relax. Going to the devastated gulf areas had been Jason’s idea. When he realized Hurricane Katrina would certainly steal the media spotlight, he convinced Senator Allen to be one of the first senators surveying the damage. At every opportunity Jason had stressed that the senator’s experience with the aftermath of hurricanes and his position on the Appropriations Committee made it impossible for him to not come and lend a hand. When, in fact, Jason had to bargain with Senator Allen, promising it would be only one day and he would not have to go near New Orleans.
Instead, Jason had chosen Pass Christian, Mississippi, on purpose, when he discovered GMA’s Robin Roberts was from the area. He figured Shepard Smith with Fox News, who was also from the Mississippi area, would be a great backup.
He didn’t have to worry. The media coverage had paid off big-time, and for a few months—not much more, it was D.C., after all—Senator Allen became a sort of hero given permission by the taxpayers to rubber-stamp whatever he saw necessary through the Appropriations Committee.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Jason said. “Senator Allen simply tries to do the right thing.”
Jason glanced again at Senator Allen, who was now looking out the window of the limo. His complexion was pasty with the exception of a red nose. The bags under his eyes seemed a bit more pronounced today. He had his suit jacket off and his signature red suspenders held up baggy trousers. Jason hadn’t noticed the senator had lost weight. He was a small-framed man, wiry, with a nervous energy that Jason called passion. Other than the overindulgence in alcohol now and then he took care of his body. At the moment, however, Jason couldn’t help thinking his boss looked like hell.
“We’d like to do an interview before the summit,” Rosenthal explained. “This oil from chicken guts is fascinating stuff, just fascinating.”
Jason could no longer contain his grin. This was great news. Exactly what they needed. Senator Allen noticed, setting his glass aside. He actually sat forward, elbows on his knees, waiting, looking anxious and sober.
“We can do a live satellite feed on Thursday’s show with Senator Allen in Washington and Mr. Sidel in Tallahassee. I’ll call with details tomorrow. How does that sound?”
“Perfect,” Jason said, trying to keep the smile from sliding off his face. Why the hell did they have to include Sidel? “I’ll look forward to your call tomorrow.”
He flipped his phone shut. Senator Allen was waiting.
“Great news,” Jason began, trying to figure out how to word it. “Good Morning America thinks thermal conversion is a fascinating idea.”
Senator Allen started to smile just as Jason added, “They want to interview you and Sidel.”
The smile immediately disappeared, and he stared at Jason as if he had heard him wrong.
Then finally Senator Allen slumped back and said, “Well, that’s just fucking peachy.”
43
Tallahassee, Florida
At least Leon couldn’t say his job was ever boring. He had worked his fill of crappy jobs, including construction one summer in Arizona. Son of a bitch! You wanna know what hell feels like? Go to fucking Tucson in August. One hundred and sixteen degrees. No shade. Everybody says it’s a dry heat like that means something. Leon could still remember what it felt like after two or three hours in that scorching heat. At the time he swore he could smell his own skin baking, peeling back from the bone all red and crisp. It’s just not natural.
No, he couldn’t really complain. He traveled first-class, stayed in luxury hotels. He now had a stock portfolio worthy of any of those Wall Street big shots. Oh, and plenty of real estate. Leon liked the idea of owning land.
And Leon liked the idea of branching out, trying new things—bettering himself. He started reading mystery and suspense novels, mostly serial-killer ones ’cause those guys were really fucked up. He read Hiaasen and Evanovich, too, because they made him laugh out loud. He was trying to drink ale instead of beer and learn a thing or two about fine wines. Last year Leon had even taken up chess, at first sitting and watching the old men who played in the corner café a block up from Leon’s little square house in Wallingford, Connecticut.
That was just one of Leon’s houses. He owned a half dozen across the country in small, unpretentious cities like Wilmington, North Carolina; Terre Haute, Indiana; McCook, Nebraska and Paducah, Kentucky. Most of them he rented out, usually to little old ladies with a cat or two. Not like they’d ever run out and stiff him for the rent. And he never had to evict a single one…yet. Yeah, old ladies with cats were about as sure a bet as you could get.
No, it wasn’t a bad life at all. A long way from where he’d come. His first paycheck at fifteen came from repairing and replacing roofs. Nothing worse than sitting your ass on hot asphalt in the summer heat. No, compared to that this life was pretty good. This job, this business afforded him not just luxuries but time. So he couldn’t complain despite his current state of affairs, the string of unfortunate events. He decided that sounded much better than calling them bad luck or some fucking curse.
He pulled up to the guard hut. Before he punched in the pass code, one of the guards inside waved at him. They knew him by now. He wasn’t sure he liked that even if they were led to believe he was some head honcho in the security department. He gave the guard a nod and drove on through.
He liked this SUV. Too bad he didn’t have the son of a bitch four-wheel-drive V8 yesterday—he’d be on a flight home with the money in his bank account by now if he had been driving this machine. He shoved the previous owner’s one-eyed teddy bear back under the seat and tried not to concentrate on what coulda, shoulda been if only he had given that lady scientist’s car a better shove.
It only gave him heartburn. He didn’t like being back here, either. Returning to the scene was also bad luck. Leon didn’t need to be a rocket scientist or a fortune-teller to know that. But he’d been successful last time he was here and besides, he was told it would be all set up for him again. All neat and simple. Yeah, Leon thought, if it was so neat and simple, why the fuck didn’t they do it themselves?
He parked in the far-corner lot, away from most of the park activity. He pulled out the map they’d sent to him. This place was like a fucking town of its own and there were too many catwalks and too many doors with security key card boxes. They must’ve given him a master code because he hadn’t had a problem getting in anywhere…yet.
Leon turned the map around, trying to match whatever corner of the processing plant he could see from this angle of the parking lot. They had sent the map weeks ago before he arrived in Florida and at the time he had studied it over and over again. The thing was stained with remnants of his study sessions and he even recognized the hot mustard from pastrami on rye at Vinny’s Deli. That was the first thing on his agenda when he got back home, stop in and see Vinny and the gang.
Damn! He hadn’t had a decent sandwich since he got to Florida. Leon had always heard Florida was full of retired New Yorkers, but evidently not a single one of them thought to bring down a decent deli with them.
The mustard stain actually covered the entrance to the fucking room he needed to get into. He scraped off the dried mustard with a stubby fingernail. Yup, there it was, Reactor #5.
As Leon left the SUV he noticed the white pipeline that ran alongside the edge of the parking lot. The pipe was about six inches wide and it stretched all the way from the side of the building down around the parking lot and into the trees. On the map it went all the way to the river and was labeled Flash Off.
As he made his way through the rows of cars, he found himself glanci
ng back at that pipeline and wondering how much of that guy he shoved into the chicken guts had ended up making his final trip out that pipeline.
44
EchoEnergy
The heat and humidity had returned full force as if making up for the weekend reprieve. Sabrina’s linen shirt was already sticking to her as soon as she left the air-conditioned building. Though rarely without her lab jacket, she was grateful to have left it behind. She had snatched her security key card from the pocket and grabbed the rental-car keys, debating whether a quick drive to the back lot would attract less attention. Now, as she wiped the sweat from her forehead and pushed back her damp hair, she wished she had driven the car across the park.
She avoided the sidewalk along the plant where the last tanker trucks of the day hissed and rumbled while hoses emptied or filled them. Instead, Sabrina took a path through the landscaped courtyard between the large sprawl of corrugated-steel buildings and catwalks that made up the administration buildings and the processing plant. The courtyard included benches, stone paths and a well-irrigated array of blooming landscape that had been Sidel’s attempt to complete his small-town vision for the industrial park. But Sabrina had never seen any employees eating lunch or holding meetings as Sidel may have hoped. She suspected the courtyard was still too close to the noise and the smells—a combination of bio diesel fumes, and on the hottest of days, fried liver.
Lansik had told Sabrina that within the last year EchoEnergy had installed a million dollars’ worth of equipment to tackle the odors after several ex-employees threatened to file lawsuits. At the time Lansik seemed annoyed by the complaints, telling Sabrina the odors were a nuisance but not a danger to anyone’s health.