THUGLIT Issue Seventeen

by Steve Bailey

  "It's possible. Can I get a list of those people?"

  "I'm a member of the Association." He rummaged around in an oak filing cabinet and handed me a folder. "Any idea who?"

  "Not yet, but it may be tied into the StrykerDyne business."

  Rackham's face closed down. "You know about that?"

  "Yeah. Look, I don't care about that except as it bears on this situation. One of the investors may be looking for payback and he's probably getting help from someone here. He knows when the house is empty and he has no trouble with the roving patrols. Is there perimeter security?"

  "Motion-activated floods and cameras at the beaches."

  I nodded at the shotgun. "You'd better get your wife out of here."

  "Already done. She's at her sister's."

  "Okay. With your help, I'd like to lay a trap for this guy."

  At eleven that night I was sitting in Rackham's darkened living room. He had picked me up at my office and driven back with me hidden in the trunk of his Lexus. Then he'd packed a couple of suitcases, left them in plain sight on the back seat, and told Procope that he was joining his wife for a few days.

  I spent the remainder of the afternoon raiding the refrigerator, icing down my arm, and comparing the names of StrykerDyne plaintiffs against those of Hillbourne's employees. And I found a match: one Russell Swain, age 73, with an address in Hyannis. Swain had been hired two months earlier as a security guard. Among his references was one from Raymond Procope who testified that Swain was a friend, a fellow Marine and Vietnam veteran, and a man of sterling character. I didn't know if Procope was involved, but I figured Swain was and would probably move again, and quickly. Maybe tonight when he learned from Procope that the Rackhams were out of town.

  At twelve-thirty I heard noise from the study. No need for caution, he thought the house was empty. I found him behind the desk, doing something to the chair. I hit the lights and showed him the working end of the Browning.

  "Hands. Now."

  He was a slight man wearing a gray uniform. Thinning gray hair was styled in a comb-over. There was a satchel on the floor beside him.

  "Step out here."

  He complied and I had a look at the office chair. He'd undone something under the seat. Nuts and bolts lay on the floor. The satchel revealed a stick of dynamite, blasting cap, and assorted paraphernalia. When I looked up, Swain had a revolver pointed my way.

  "I got nothing against you, mister. Put the gun away and let me walk out of here."

  "Too late. Why don't you tell me about StrykerDyne."

  He surveyed me with sad eyes. "Long story short: we invested all we had on that phony wind farm. Saved all our lives, planned to retire, travel a bit, set up a trust fund for our daughters, enjoy the golden years. You know what happened. I tacked on interest at five percent. That piece of crap owes me three hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars. And I know he's got it."

  "So you decided to collect."

  "You're damned straight, and not a nickel more. It's not just the money. I had to go back to work when I was almost seventy. Pray to God you never have to do that. I was lucky to get this. Big deal, right? A uniform and nine-fifty an hour, part time so they don't have to provide benefits. My wife suffered from congestive heart, and then she got the cancer. The cost of medicine was burying us, never mind the care she needed. Had to sell everything and get an apartment. Ever try to find a rental out here? All gone condo, all priced sky high for the tourist dollar. Finally found a rat trap over in Hyannis." His voice broke. "Couldn't even make Evelyn's last months comfortable.

  "Her brother offered to take us in, but he has no room and his wife isn't well, either." He smiled. "You can imagine how I felt when I started here and saw Rackham's name on the list of residents."

  "What's the deal here?" I asked, nodding at the chair.

  "He won't come across, so I'm preparing a little payback. Took the bolts out of the shaft, was going to install a plunger and dynamite. He sits down, the seat drops, hits the plunger and sends Rackham straight to hell."

  I lowered my gun.

  "You letting me go?"

  I shrugged. "This is a stupid idea, but it isn't worth either of us getting shot over."

  He lowered his weapon to his side. We both knew that tomorrow he'd be in jail or on the run. He nodded once and turned to go.

  The blast was deafening in the small room. It was as if a huge hand had hit Swain in the chest and driven him back against the wall. He slid to the floor, the front of his jacket a bloody mess.

  Rackham hadn't joined his wife. He'd waited until Procope went off duty and then come back. Now he stood in the doorway, the shotgun still at his shoulder, lips drawn back in a tight, feral smile.

  "Little rat! That's what you get."

  "What did you shoot him for? He was leaving."

  Rackham swiveled toward me, glanced at my gun, and racked another shell into the chamber. The shotgun was pointed slightly down and a little away from me. If it moved up I would have to shoot him. We stood like that for a few seconds more, then he shrugged and stood the gun against the wall.

  "He was in my house with a gun in his hand. It was self-defense. Try and prove otherwise."

  "Count on it, I will."

  "Your word against mine," he said, reaching for the phone. "And send me your bill. You're fired."

  I drove out to Hillbourne Estates the following afternoon. I'd spent the morning at police headquarters giving a statement. I knew Rackham was going to slide. Swain had been holding a gun, and the "castle law" would justify a plea of self-defense. And then there were the notes and the explosive.

  I parked and walked over to the gatehouse. Procope didn't appear to be overjoyed at seeing me.

  "You're not on the list of approved visitors."

  "I rarely am. I just wanted a word with you."

  "Why should I talk to you?"

  "Maybe because I didn't bring your name up to the cops. I could say I forgot to tell them you may be involved in abetting a felony. Or maybe you'd rather talk to me, tell me what your stake in this was."

  "I'm not admitting to anything, but I'll tell you that Russ was my friend. More than that. We fought together at Khe Sanh. Ever hear of that, laddie?"

  "I heard it was a meat grinder."

  "That it was. Seventy-seven days of hell. That kind of thing creates a bond."

  "Enough so that you'd help him kill a man?"

  "A man? Rackham's a cockroach." He produced a bottle, took a healthy swig, made it disappear. "Russ married my sister after we got back from 'Nam. So you see, he was family, too."

  "I'm sorry about your sister."

  He nodded, checked the area, took another belt from the bottle. "You ever lost everything, laddie? Everything that matters to you in the world?"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Well, when you head back home today to your wife or your girl, you think a while on what you might do to someone who took them and your money away just so he could buy another house, another fancy car, membership in another country club. And now I think we've said all we have to say to each other."

  I drove away from there with a bad feeling inside. Swain had shown poor judgment when he invested everything with StrykerDyne, and again when he went after Rackham. Rackham was a viper guilty of derailing Swain's life, but nobody was responsible for Evelyn Swain's dying. Her husband had conflated all his hardships into one big sack of woe and laid it all on his enemy.

  I don't own a home, or have a wife or girlfriend, or enough money to worry about. But I thought about what Procope had said, and about what I would do if I found myself in Russell Swain's circumstances.

  And I didn't know. I just didn't know.

  El Cambalache

  by Terrence McCauley

  El Cambalache Taverna, Buenos Aires

  A Few Years Ago

  Hicks sipped amaretto while he listened to Oscar Alavera woo two doughy tourists from Toronto.

  Oscar thickened the accent on his English
as he explained the essence of the tango. He rolled his 'r's as he spoke of the excitement of Buenos Aires' wilder days of revolution and Peron. He laid on Argentine romance suave and smooth.

  The women gawked and nodded as he spun his tale, as if they were remembering something they had lived. They looked relieved to hear those days were as romantic as they'd dreamed. They looked hopeful they could experience a hint of that now while they were in town on holiday.

  Hicks knew it was all bullshit, but didn't blame them for buying it. Oscar was tango and moonlit enchantment. He was tall and sharp-featured and still had most of his hair, even if it had turned silver. He embodied their idea of Argentine mystery and he was in a San Telmo bar talking to them!

  No, Hicks didn't blame the women at all, for seduction had always been Oscar's trademark. Seduction was the reason why he'd been the most effective Ringmaster on the University's payroll.

  Hicks had never liked the tango. He liked amaretto even less. But on that particular night, he drank it willingly because Oscar loved the stuff on the rocks. He drank it because that particular night was also the last night of his old friend's life.

  He watched Oscar pause his narrative long enough to sip his beloved amaretto. One of the ladies—the less blonder but dumpier of the two—took the opportunity to beckon Oscar closer and nodded toward Hicks. "Your friend over there looks lonesome. Is he married?"

  The much blonder of the two tugged at her faded sweater set from the Dollar Store as she leaned in to add, "He's handsome but he looks really shy."

  Hicks closed his eyes and forced down another belt. Fuck me. If that's the best I can do anymore…

  Oscar glanced back at Hicks before quietly telling the women, "My young friend isn't shy, madam. He is simply Brazilian and, like most Brazilians, he is ill-tempered and doesn't speak English very well."

  A man to Hicks' left was obviously Brazilian and obviously spoke English. He told Oscar to go fuck himself in Portuguese. Oscar ignored him.

  Hicks intervened. In Portuguese, he told the man, "My apologies for my friend. He is drunk and trying to get lucky. He meant no offense."

  The man looked at Hicks. "You speak Portuguese."

  "I do, but I'm not Brazilian."

  "Then why did he say you were?"

  "To protect me from his new lady friends, I guess. Or to protect them from me." Hicks offered a lazy shrug. "It is difficult to understand my friend sometimes."

  The Brazilian glared at Oscar's back as he clinked glasses with the ladies. The divorcees giggled as they sipped wine. A private joke shared between the newest of old friends.

  The Brazilian scowled. "Your friend is an asshole."

  "Among other things."

  The Brazilian cursed and went back to his conversation. Hicks grinned into his glass as he drank. Some things never change. Oscar's mouth was always getting someone else in trouble.

  He'd seen Oscar work this same scenario dozens of times before. He knew Oscar planned on bedding both women, but would settle for one if he had to. Either one would do, though both would be preferred. A few more glasses of Argentine wine would be followed by a slow stroll across the bridge to their hotel in Puerto Madero. One lady on each arm, of course. Along the way, he'd regale them with more humorous stories of Buenos Aires and the Argentina of old. He'd wax nostalgic about the great tango singer Carlos Gardel and sing a few bars of Volver as they slow-walked across the bridge. The city lights reflecting on the river would have the desired effect.

  The stroll would end with an awkward pause in front of their hotel, where one of the ladies would probably invite him in for a nightcap at the hotel bar. One would probably beg off and go upstairs, citing humility. Oscar would romance the one who remained over more wine at the bar. After a few lingering glances and perhaps a gentle kiss or two, he'd convince her to bring him up to her room with the promise of a quiet romantic interlude. She'd resist at first to be polite, but the allure of a spontaneous coupling…

  After a night of forbidden topics, he'd most likely win her over. After all, she was on vacation. By sunrise, Oscar Alavera would have two more hearts to add to his collection.

  Hicks also knew the divorcees themselves had very little to do with any of this. For Oscar, accomplishing the goal had always been more important than the act itself. His ability to separate the two had made him a legend in the University system before he'd retired.

  Even as he pushed sixty, Oscar was still keeping score and racking up points. In the game of love, even lay-ups counted.

  Hicks saw no reason to spoil his plans. Not yet. He owed his old friend a few more moments of playtime.

  He watched Oscar gently place his drink on the coaster. "And now my lovelies, please excuse me while I take a few moments to answer the one call that can never be refused or ignored. The call of nature."

  The women giggled as he placed a napkin over his glass to show the bartender he'd be back.

  The divorcees swooned as Oscar turned to Hicks and said in rapid Spanish, "Still got it, don't I?"

  Hicks sloshed the ice in his drink. "You've got something."

  Oscar grinned. "Not yet, my friend, but I will. Two more notches for my bedpost."

  "With your record, those bedposts must be worn down to toothpicks by now."

  Oscar laughed. It was a sincere, familiar laugh, not the stage laugh he'd been feeding the women all night. "There's an old Argentine saying: Low hanging fruit is still fruit."

  Hicks caught a glimpse of the tourists. Blondie wore too much makeup in all the wrong places. The other wore a blue 'I HEART ARGENTINA' hair band. "That fruit has been lying on the ground a long time."

  "Since when have you known me to be picky?" Oscar nudged Hicks' shoulder as he said to the women in English, "Brazilians! Such a sullen people!"

  The divorcees tee-heed as Oscar broke into a mini-tango to the restroom. Blondie gave Hicks a furtive wave. He tried a smile, but couldn't pull it off. What he was about to do required some degree of solemnity, even for him.

  When the ladies went into a predictable huddle to discuss how charming Oscar had been, Hicks removed the napkin from Oscar's glass. He caught the eye of the bartender and, in perfect Spanish, asked him to refill both Oscar's glass and his own. The bartender obliged, even though Oscar's glass was still half full.

  As the bartender put the bottle back behind the bar, Hicks snatched a small plastic stirrer and placed it in Oscar's glass. Bartenders the world over knew Oscar Alavera despised plastic stirrers or toothpicks or anything in his drink other than ice. Hicks knew it, too, but such a subtle touch would be essential if the plan was going to work.

  And it had to work. For Oscar's sake.

  As he waited for Oscar to return, Hicks heard the divorcees debate each other over Oscar's resemblance to Ricardo Montalban. Oscar would've been insulted by the comparison. Montalban had been a Mexican. He was neither an Argentine nor a Frenchman. To Oscar, these were the only two civilized cultures.

  Hicks' gaze drifted down to Oscar's amaretto. The plastic stirrer was just above the rim of the glass. He hoped he didn't notice it before he drank. He wished he'd been able to talk the Dean out of taking Oscar's life, but the Dean wasn't one to be talked out of things. And the University wasn't known for its sense of mercy.

  The University was the oldest of old-school intelligence; going back to pre-OSS days. It once had names for every role in every department in the System. Most names had died off over the years, but some of the names stuck. Female assets who seduced male targets were called Snake Charmers for obvious, vulgar reasons. Their male counterparts were called Ringmasters because they often had their sources jumping through hoops.

  Hicks considered Oscar a Ringmaster extraordinaire. His seductions included both men and women, so he cast a net wider than most assets. In twenty-five years in the field, Oscar had uncovered more actionable intelligence than anyone else in his division, and he'd done it very quietly. Hicks had heard rumors that some of his former lovers still pined for hi
m. One or two had even killed themselves after he'd disappeared from their lives.

  Oscar's impressive record and long friendship was why Hicks had risked the Dean's ire in pleading for his life. And when that failed, he made sure he got the assignment to take Oscar down.

  "Quick and neat," the Dean had warned him in that last phone call. "No guns. No knives. It can't look like a hit and it can't come back to us in any way."

  Hicks hadn't needed the warning. He'd done this kind of thing many times before.

  Oscar stepped out of the bathroom with a flourish and did a couple of tango moves as he threaded his way through the tables between the bathroom and the bar. Carlos Gardel reborn.

  The divorcees clapped and giggled. The natives ignored him. The Brazilian looked disgusted. Asshole.

  Hicks eyed Oscar's drink. The small plastic stirrer loomed large. For the next few moments, everything hinged on that damned thing.

  The Argentine twirled and stopped at the bar with a dramatic stomp; exactly in front of his amaretto. The divorcees swooned. The natives ignored him. The Brazilian shook his head and looked away.

  And from the corner of his eye, Hicks watched that glass. It was time.

  "So my lovelies," Oscar said as he raised the glass to his lips, "did you keep my friend company in my absence?"

  Hicks looked away as Oscar drank deeply. He saw him pull back when he discovered the plastic stirrer and set the glass on the bar. He plucked the stirrer from the amaretto and asked the bartender, "Who put this in my drink?"

  The bartender shrugged and moved to serve people at the other end of the bar. With a theatrical flourish, Oscar tossed the stirrer across the bar. The divorcees laughed. The natives ignored him.

  Oscar drank.

  Hicks took a drink. The trap had finally been sprung and he didn't feel good about it.

  Oscar looked at Hicks, then at the ladies. "If you'll excuse me for a few moments, mis amores, I think my sullen friend is feeling left out." The divorcees sagged before he added, "Only for a few moments."