by Ted Galdi
Clyde chuckles. “A lesson you apparently learned.”
Tommy chuckles too. “Thoroughly.”
They ride along the Pacific Ocean, its water dark against the night like a big pool of ink.
“There’s a possibility some department out there gives me a second chance,” Tommy says. “But that wouldn’t be for a while. I’d have to stay out of trouble for at least a couple years, prove I’m not associated with a pattern of bad behavior. Whatever. That part of my life is over. I’ve moved on to better things.”
“You got a job already?”
“More than just a job. I own my own business. In Manhattan. We’re crushing. Don’t worry about me.”
“Never said I was. What sort of business?”
A pause. “Sales. I have a whole team under me.”
“What do you sell?”
“Not a physical product or anything. Stock-market deals. It’s complicated.”
“Cool.”
“Really cool.” A pause. “The second you looked me up, you assumed I was a piece of shit, didn’t you?”
“Where’s that coming from?”
“Just admit it.”
“I definitely didn’t assume you were going to be winning civic awards any time soon.”
“I knew it. Unfair.”
“What about you? You’re telling me you didn’t make any assumptions about me because I was an FBI agent?”
Tommy is silent for a while. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because you are an FBI agent. And I’m not actually guilty of attempted robbery.”
“Well…the world ain’t fair sometimes.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
They drive a few more miles to the US line, Clyde presenting his FBI credentials to the Border Patrol agent. He explains he was in Mexico working a case with his associate behind the wheel, and clears Tommy for American entry without a passport.
“Thanks,” Tommy tells Clyde.
“We celebrating or what?”
“Huh?”
“Still a lot of open questions on this investigation, but I think we accomplished enough tonight to treat ourselves to a beer or two. Agree?”
“Hell yeah. Let’s jam.”
Nineteen
“Pull in here,” Clyde says, pointing at the parking lot of a one-story building with a neon “Cannonball Bar & Grill” sign on it.
“This your type of joint?” Tommy asks, eyeing the other vehicles, the majority Harley-Davidsons.
“Don’t think I’d fit in?”
“You cruise around on a hog off-hours?”
“They have great wings. And cold beer. Come on.”
Tommy parks. Clyde undoes a button on his shirt and rolls up his sleeves. He enters the place, Tommy following him in. Saloon-style bar. Pool tables. Classic rock from the speakers.
A hostess with a lot of earrings seats them at a booth. A waitress with even more earrings comes over. Clyde orders two dozen wings for the table.
“What sort of beer you like?” he asks Tommy.
“Any with alcohol in it.”
“Pitcher of Bud Light,” Clyde tells her. She smiles and walks off.
Clyde rests his arm on the back of the bench. Tommy notices a barbed-wire tattoo around his forearm. He nods at it and asks, “You get a little ink to give yourself some street cred in here?”
Clyde chuckles. “Got it way before I started coming here.”
“It’s really original.”
“Screw you. Was when I got it.”
“Nineteen Twenty? Twenty-Five?”
“I’ll kick your ass back to Eighteen Twenty-Five you keep flapping that mouth. What sort of tats you sporting?”
“None.”
“Fireman from Queens. Really?”
“Want me to strip down?”
“Why none?”
“Came close a couple times. Then I thought…I don’t know. Like in ten years, even twenty, what if I don’t like it anymore? Now I’m stuck.”
“I knew guys who got them in prison just to pass the time. Some are fine, others look ridiculous. You’re lucky you didn’t succumb to that.”
“Guys you put away?”
“Guys I just…know.”
“You have friends that did time?”
“I’ve got all types of friends.”
“Is that right? Where’d you meet these friends?”
“I wasn’t always an FBI agent.”
“Who were you before?”
“A teenager. Like most teenagers, I did my share of dumb stuff.”
“Couldn’t have been that dumb. Or they never would’ve given you a badge.”
“Or maybe I just didn’t get caught.”
“You’re not on the clock. I’m just…some guy in a bar right now. And we’re just talking. Give me a little taste.”
“You better not tell Quick.”
“Why would I tell Quick?”
“Oh, I can think of one reason you’d tell Quick.”
“What does that mean?”
“I wasn’t an FBI agent my whole life. And I wasn’t married my whole life either. I know how things work.”
“What things?”
“The way you were looking at her when you were making the pipe bomb. You didn’t think I noticed?”
“I was…showing her how the thing functioned. Of course I’m going to look at her. What do you expect, I do it blindfolded like Harry Houdini?”
“Nothing wrong with it. Just saying I noticed.”
“I’m not going to tell her about this just for some…excuse to talk to her, or whatever you’re accusing me of. All right? So hit me with it.”
The waitress sets the pitcher of Bud Light on the table with two glasses. Clyde fills one, passes it to Tommy, then one for himself. He has a sip and says, “I sold a little herb.”
“You were a drug dealer?”
“I moved a few dime bags around my high school. I wasn’t some kingpin.”
“Did it for the money?”
“My dad had a solid job at a power plant. We were always fine in that department. I guess I did it because Pugsy was doing it.”
“Who?”
“My best friend. I was trying to…impress him. He was chill. Chillest kid in the neighborhood. Always had the new record or the new shoes or the new whatever like a month before everyone else did, before it was officially cool. Always had a fine girl on his arm. Anything he did had to be right, you know?”
“Was it fun? Selling with him?”
Clyde smiles. “Time of my life.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“I wasn’t doing it for the money. But he was. Soon enough he started moving powder. Not just at school. All over town. That’s where the real bucks were. Lied to me about it. But I knew.”
“Cops got him?”
“I wish. To this day, nobody knows what exactly happened. But he must’ve crossed someone higher up. And that was it. They mowed him down in a drive-by.”
“Oh. Wow.”
“I went one-eighty after that. Stopped selling. Focused on my grades. On basketball. Became an FBI agent to take down the sort of people who shot Pugsy like some dog.”
“How old was he when he died?”
“Didn’t die. He’s one tough son of a bitch.”
“He’s still alive?”
“His body. But not his brain. He’s in a home. About twenty miles from here. I visit him once a month.”
“He can talk?”
“Mumbles a little. Nothing coherent. You look into his eyes and ninety-nine percent of the time it’s just…blank. But that one percent, I swear…I’ll tell a story from back in the day and I can see it. A little spark. And it’s like I’m looking at sixteen-year-old Pugsy again. And I know he remembers me. For just a few seconds. Then it fades.”
“You guys had some pretty good stories, huh?”
“Shit yeah.”
“Tell me one.”
Clyde swigs his beer. “S
ophomore year. Our science teacher, Mister Leapish, had it out for Pugsy. Just straight up didn’t like him. No particular reason.”
“We had a couple teachers like that too.”
“So Pugsy gets detention with him for like the hundredth time that year. And after it’s over, he’s walking out of the building. And he passes Leapish calling his girl on a payphone. Wishing her a happy birthday. Telling her he’s got them a reservation at this place Beverly’s, the nicest spot in town, at eight.”
“All right.”
“Pugsy knew a lot of people. Partly from selling drugs. Partly because…he just had that personality. The cousin of some acquaintance happened to work as a busboy at Beverly’s.”
“’Kay.”
“So Pugsy gives him a fat sack of bud. On the house. Also gives him a bottle of super-strength liquid laxative.”
Tommy chuckles. “That’s cold.”
“Whole thing goes in Leapish’s glass of wine. Me and Pugsy are waiting outside Beverly’s in the bushes, giggling like little kids, staring through the front window. Sure enough, Leapish rockets up from his table. Sprints for the bathroom so fast he bowls over a waiter, tray of pasta goes soaring through the air, lands all over a bunch of guests.”
Tommy claps. “Good stuff. Yeah…good stuff.”
“All right. Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“A story.”
Tommy drinks some beer. “My best friend in high school was this kid Josh. Still is. Plenty of material on him.”
“Give me one.”
“Josh has a…unique sense of fashion. Senior year he got into jumpsuits for some reason. You know, like a one-piece zip-up.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”
“They were doing a lot of renovations to our school that year. There were always these crews of workers walking around. They did their thing, never interfered with the classes or anything like that, and we did our thing, never messed with their projects. Two totally separate worlds, workers and students, but existing right on top of each other, you know?”
“Sure. Was like that when they were renovating my house.”
“So Josh shows up one day in this blue jumpsuit. We’re eighteen, so come off like adults. He even had a little moustache going. Could’ve easily passed for twenty-three. He didn’t do this intentionally, but the jumpsuit looked almost identical to the kind some of the workers would wear.”
Clyde laughs. “I got you.”
“Despite the loud outfits, Josh is an introvert. So he’s in this getup. And one of the construction managers sees him. Big guy with a real gruff voice. Goes to Josh, ‘Hey, where the hell have you been? The guys are waiting for you outside.’”
“He thought he was one of the workers?”
“Apparently some new guy was supposed to start that day and never showed up. So the crew didn’t know what he looked like. The boss assumed it was Josh. He was too timid to talk back to him. So follows him outside.”
“You got to be shitting me.”
“They hook him up with a hardhat and a shovel. At this point he’s too deep into it to back out. So he goes along with it. Goddamn kid puts in a full day of work. Digging ditches. And since he obviously wasn’t the right guy on file, never even got paid.”
Clyde bellylaughs. “Dapino, that’s spicy. That’s really spicy.”
Soon the waitress returns with a hot platter of wings. Tommy bites into one.
“So where you crashing?” Clyde asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Sleeping. I’m assuming you’re not flying back to New York tonight.”
“Oh. Right.” A pause. “Same place I did last night when I came out for the service. Hotel, right on the beach.”
“Which one?”
“I’m blanking on the name. Something with Sea in it.”
“Huh. Anyway, sometimes those places are rip-offs. See if you can get a refund. Come crash by me. We have an extra room.”
“You sure?”
“In exchange I just need one thing from you.”
“What’s up?”
“That was a great scheme me, you, and Quick pulled off in Tijuana. But that shit’s over. Once my pal in Computer Forensics unlocks the burner, this investigation goes back to running by the book.”
“So what do you need from me?”
“Technically nothing. I just need you to step away. We’ll find who’s at the top of this thing and bring it all down.”
Tommy leans forward. “I went through a lot to get that phone.”
“I know you did.”
“And I don’t deserve to see what’s on it?”
“You deserve justice for your sister. Her shooter is already dead. And we’ll arrest the leader.”
“I can’t even get his name?”
“Why, so you can break into his house and try to slam an axe through his head? I can’t even begin to list the amount of problems that would cause. Not just for the bureau. But for you. I’m doing you a favor.”
“You’re doing me dirty.”
“We’ve got to play this carefully. Ideally catch him in the act when he comes up for another attack, but before he hurts anyone. You’re not careful. You’re like a…bull hopped up on Red Bull. Which served us well back in that junkyard. But won’t in this phase of the investigation.”
Tommy finishes his beer. “You really think he’s going to surface, do this again? He must know you’re looking for him. It’s all over the news.”
“That doesn’t deter these people. You knew I wanted you away from my case. That didn’t stop you from coming back with the burner-phone idea, right?”
Tommy refills his glass. Has a long sip.
Twenty
Dr. Glen Brent’s eyes are open.
His wife Cora’s are closed, her hand in his as he leads her through their four-bedroom home in Carmel Valley, a wealthy nook of San Diego, her other hand resting atop her eight-months-pregnant stomach. The morning sun shines through the windows.
He stops at a door one over from the master bedroom’s. “Ready?”
She grins, nods.
He opens it and says, “Okay.”
She reveals her eyes. They marvel at the pink-walled nursery for their soon-to-be daughter, the result of remodeling work he wouldn’t let her see until complete.
“It’s amazing,” she says.
Glen, forty-nine, watches his thirty-year-old wife bounce around the room, still kissed with the scent of fresh paint. She checks out the bassinet, diaper-changing table, and dresser mounted with a top-of-the-line baby monitor.
“This isn’t the only change we’ll need around here,” he says. “Since I’m going to be a dad, I need to stock up on dad jeans. From now on, I won’t entertain a pair of denims unless the waist starts at my belly button or higher.”
“Don’t forget the backs. Need to be totally flat. Completely hide my hubby’s cute ass. That’ll come in handy when Jade starts school. None of the other moms will have enough of a view to properly check you out.”
“So Jade? You’re done sleeping on it? You know how much I like it.”
“Hey Jade, finish your homework. Hey Jade, want to go shopping with mom?”
“Hey Jade, you can start dating when you’re twenty-seven.”
Cora giggles. “Yeah, Jade. It fits.”
She picks up the sleek baby-monitor transmitter from the dresser. “Cool. Seems like something on a space shuttle.”
“Audio, plus HD video. Syncs with an app we can download to our phones. It can even record for hours and save the clips to the cloud. Nothing but the best for our little girl.” He kisses her forehead, then her pregnant belly. “I have some emails I want to catch up on before I head to work.”
“Okay boo.”
He descends the stairs to the first floor, then navigates the meandering hallway to his study at the back of the house. He enters the blinds-drawn room. The majority of their five-year marriage he came in here only to do work for his job. He
had nothing to hide from Cora.
That changed six months ago.
He locks the door. With Tor Browser on his computer, he accesses the dark web, a subset of the internet that runs on encrypted overlay networks that mask the IP addresses, and therefore identities, of visitors.
Glen goes to the dark web’s leading site for black-market goods and services. With his user ID, “The_Eternal_Patriot,” he logs on. And reads nine new messages from people who need his help.
Twenty-One
“These are great, Mrs. Gabor,” Tommy says in the breakfast nook of Clyde’s kitchen, then has another bite of his pancakes.
Clyde’s wife Val, a mocha-complexioned woman in her early fifties, replies, “The key is letting the batter sit for a few minutes after mixing it. Turns into a little taste factory.”
“I’d punch in for work at that factory without pay.”
Clyde finishes his coffee. “Time for me to punch in at the FBI factory.” He stands, says to Tommy, “After I get back, one-on-one in the driveway.”
“I’ll make sure I have my phone handy so I can call nine-one-one when you throw out your back.”
“I’ll make sure I have mine propped up on a little tripod videotaping the schooling. I’ll edit it after the game, lay a little music over it. Can be your souvenir from your trip to California.”
Tommy gazes at Val. Makes a funny face.
Clyde kisses her on the cheek, says, “See you, babe.”
“Bye Curly.”
Tommy says, “Curly?”
“Bye,” Clyde says, then picks up his pace out of the room as if not wanting to be around if Val explains the nickname.
Tommy asks her, “How does a guy who’s almost bald get the name Curly?”
“Wasn’t always almost bald. I have all the old photo albums out in the den. Making a collage. I’ll show you my Curly later.”
They eat for a while longer, until all the pancakes are gone. “I’ll get these,” Tommy says, collecting the dishes.
“No need.”
“Come on. You were nice enough to let me stay here. Least I can do.”
She smiles. He stacks the empty plates, sets the coffee cups on top, and carries them into the kitchen. “Just leave them in the sink,” she says. “I’ll do them later.”