Middle Man

by David Rich

  “But the Colonel had pressures on him, didn’t he? You must have seen that. He could get paranoid. Didn’t you worry, Frank? Worry that you knew something he didn’t want anyone to know? I know you did.”

  “There’s speed and there’s power and then there’s brains . . .”

  “Worry that someone like me would arrive. Someone, though, who didn’t come to ask for your help. Give me the names, Frank, and I’ll be gone.”

  “But that’s three guys . . .”

  “Joe . . . Joe!” Frank was a sergeant again, barking. Joe stopped talking for a second. “Go away. Go over there. I’ll send over some wings.” Frank’s voice was trembling. Joe just shrugged and nodded to me and left with his beer.

  “Who are you?” Frank was defeated and relieved to surrender, and he could not look at me now. He put both hands on the bar and used it as support as he slid forward until his feet touched the floor. I followed him down the corridor, past the restrooms, to a small office, just a desk and chair and one filing cabinet and a safe about three feet high. The only photo on the wall was of Frank and Colonel McColl. McColl had his arm around Frank’s shoulder.

  “That’s the day he shipped home. I never saw him again. I called him once to ask for a loan for this place and he sent me a package with fifty thousand in cash.” I looked toward the safe, expecting the information to be in there. Instead, he squirmed around in his seat and managed to dig his thick fingers into his back pocket.

  “You said six graves. There’s seven.”

  The list was handwritten. Seven names and dates. He stared straight ahead, both hands flat on the desk in front of him.

  “What are you going to do when the next guy comes along asking for the list, Frank?”

  He was smart enough to be terrified. His body stayed still while he twisted his fat neck in a knot so tight, one of the chins almost disappeared. “Whatya mean? I’m gonna tell him I ain’t got it.”

  “That’s what you told me, Frank, at first.” I didn’t mind extending his state of terror. “Do you have copies?”

  “No. No. I swear it.” I did not answer just so I could make him say the next sentence. Frank needed to feel fear. “You don’t have to kill me. I swear. Please.”

  I reached into my coat pocket, slowly, and watched his eyes follow my hand. I pulled out a folded sheet of paper. I set it on the desk in front of him. He shifted his eyes to mine. “I’m not gonna write a suicide note, that’s for damn sure.”

  I laughed, caught off guard. Frank had principles after all. “Look at the paper. It’s a list of six KIA and their hometowns. I want you to copy it out in your handwriting and keep it in that same back pocket. And I want you to wait until they work you over a little before you give it to them, so they’ll believe it. I’ll find out if you gave in too fast.” He had to throw out the first two copy attempts because his hand shook too much.

  After I watched him force the folded sheet into his back pocket, I was going to just walk away. But he spoke: “Who are you, really? Are you the guy who killed the Colonel? You are.”

  “You did the right thing, Frank.”

  “I knew you’d show up here. I heard about you.” I didn’t answer. “All those guys, the ones who didn’t get shipped home, got buried properly, y’know. We saw to that. It’s not like we left them in the desert.”

  “Were those orders, or did you think of that yourself? Someone’s going to want to know where. Better start on that list, too.”

  “Am I gonna lose my place?”

  “Get a good lawyer.” I went back into the bar, picked up my suitcase, and left.

  4

  On this second trip to Chicago, Frank Godwin’s perch at the bar was occupied by lovebirds, cannibals, I guess, munching on coated bird wings. The place was busy at just past midday. Nita the waitress smiled as she passed by on her way to deliver two pitchers and a handful of mugs. When she returned, she said, “I didn’t expect to see you again. That’s what Frank said.”

  “He won’t like seeing his seat occupied.”

  “He won’t know. He’s on vacation. Beer?”

  “Not right now. Who did he go with?”

  She looked at me like I was crazy to ask her. Men at a table across the room were holding up their empty pitcher for her. About ten minutes later, she caught my eye and gestured toward the back. Outside, in the shade of an overhang, she leaned against the brick and sucked on her cigarette. “Did you come back here to ask me out?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Why should I tell you anything about my boss, then?”

  “You shouldn’t.” She spent a full minute squinting off into the bright parking lot. She flicked her cigarette high and far, and the glow was extinguished in the sunlight.

  “He’s got a cabin over on Lake Delavan. And, no, I’ve never been there. But he sure asked me enough. I’d go there with you.”

  “Some old military buddies come around before he went?”

  “Looked like military. Yeah, two guys. I better get back.”

  She reached for the door. I grabbed her arm and turned her toward me and kissed her. She smiled and said, “You know why I like you?”

  “Because I don’t taste like barbecue sauce?”

  “Exactly.”

  ______

  He reminded me of a boy with no friends, only a fishing rod and a bucket and a seat on the end of the pier where his feet could dangle just above the water. I was about eighty yards away, coming along the shore with the setting sun behind me elongating my shadow so it seemed to belong to an alien. I lengthened my stride just to see the effect. The choppy water was splotched with silver, and the air smelled wet and fresh with the last taste of winter fading. I could not tell if Frank was wearing shoes or not.

  I had parked a few streets away from Frank’s cabin and walked down the lane behind his, hoping to sneak through backyards to get a look. But a man was outside working on his motorcycle at the cabin directly behind Frank’s and he looked like he would care where I went, so I walked down to the lake and found Frank by accident.

  I was thirty yards away when Frank felt a tug on the line. He reeled in quickly, no need to play this fish, and a thin pan fryer, a sunfish so small and insignificant to make anyone toss it back, wriggled on the end of the line. Frank grabbed it, removed the hook, and tossed the fish in the pail. Maybe he had barbecue sauce in there.

  “Nice catch, Frank.”

  He almost dropped his fishing rod. He squinted into the sun. He said, “Hey, you’re back. It’s not six. I’ll be back at six.”

  One shot was fired and Frank toppled over into Lake Delavan like a kid making an awkward first dive. I dove for the cover of the trees just a few feet from the shore. Judging by the direction Frank had toppled, the shot came from behind him, up the lane where his cabin stood, which meant I would be out of sight of the shooter. I waited. I waited. I had no weapon and I was dealing with a good shot. He would be doing the same thing I was doing: scanning for movement. The only sound was a motorboat coming toward the pier. One fisherman sat at the tiller. He came close to shore, spent some time checking out the area, then decided that whatever had been shot wasn’t going to benefit him and turned around.

  The boat was almost to the middle of the lake when I heard the whistle, three quick notes, and then the footsteps in the leaves behind me. I turned slowly. A man wearing a ski mask was running toward Frank’s house and had not seen me. I cut right so I would be directly behind him and tried to mimic his pace so I could keep him in sight. I had gone about fifty yards when the blow hit me behind the ear and I fell into the leaves, dazed. I made it to my knees and twisted around to see two men in ski masks standing over me. One held a rifle, the other a large automatic handgun. My eyes kept closing as I tried to stand.

  One said, “Check his pockets.”

  “He has no gun. I can see that,” said the o
ther one. I thought he had an English accent.

  “For a list,” said number one. “I’ll bet he has a list.” His voice was high and light and full of hope. Someone kicked me in the head. I could feel them searching me.

  I heard someone say, “It’s the same as the one we got from Frank.”

  “That’s good, then, isn’t it?” The voice was very close. I forced my eyes open. The automatic was pointed at my head. The guy without the English accent was kneeling close to me. “Nice to see you, Lieutenant. You’re very good. Very good.” The emphasis was on “good” as if he were trying to prove his sincerity. His eyes were brown and intense and he looked cross-eyed because the mask spread out too far and covered the inner parts of his eyes. I could see his lips and his small teeth. “But I’m better than you.”

  “Just kill him and let’s go,” said the Englishman.

  “He can’t find me, can you, Lieutenant? He’ll never find me. But I might need him later on.” He stood up.

  The Englishman said, “We have the list. You know we can’t let him live.”

  The American answered him calmly, “I told you, I might need him.”

  The Englishman said, “If you won’t do it, I will.”

  I tried to pull myself up, but the man behind me kicked me in the head again and I was out.

  ______

  I thought I opened both my eyes, but only one worked. My lips were fuzzy and a heavy log lay across my chest, keeping me from drawing breath. I tried to roll out from under the log but hit a solid block. I rolled the other way and was free. My face itched, so I scratched at it. The surface moved. I adjusted it so I could see with both eyes. The log next to me was wearing a mask. So was I.

  He was shot in the back. I took the mask off him. He was in his twenties, shaved head, and a flame tattoo on his neck. I pried one eye open; it was blue, which meant he was the Englishman. The other man had brown eyes that I would be seeing for a long time. I put the mask back on the dead man and took mine with me.

  I was walking away when I realized the American had called me Lieutenant. I was not wearing my uniform.

  Frank’s cabin was dark. A red Chevy pickup sat in front. The small porch was shaded by cedar trees on each side. I opened the screen door and banged it shut, then stood flat against the wall and watched down the lane toward the lake. I waited five still minutes but saw no movement and I heard nothing from inside.

  I went in. The living room had a nubby brown couch and a TV and a stained reclining chair covered in something that looked like velour, from which Frank could dangle his feet, with a tray table beside it. The furniture was old and worn and drab and for a moment I felt sorry for Frank sneaking up here to settle back into his real self. Next to the TV, a stuffed marlin pointed the way to the kitchen. On the Formica table, there was a bowl of Cheerios, still half full of milk, spoon inside the bowl. The fridge held two six-packs of Hamm’s beer, a block of cheddar, a pizza box. Two matchbooks and a clean ashtray sat next to the sink. One matchbook was from Applebee’s and one from the Triple A. Frank’s car keys and his wallet lay on the counter next to the sink. He had almost a thousand dollars in the wallet. Skimmed cash. There were two bedrooms, both with two twin beds, all with chenille covers. In one room, both beds had been slept in. In the other, just one bed was turned down. A Blackhawks poster, frameless, showing the team and the Stanley Cup, was tacked up next to the mirror in that bedroom. I assumed the one toothbrush belonged to Frank.

  Outside, a white four-door sedan cruised slowly toward the lake: DELAVAN NEIGHBORHOOD PATROL painted on the side and a yellow bubble on top. The driver might have heard the shot, but he wouldn’t be getting out of the car to look for a body off the end of the pier unless someone told him about it. Maybe someone told him to check Frank’s house for strangers. I wanted to know.

  The security car slowed down as it came even with the house. A man in a blue-gray uniform with a yellow patch on the sleeve got out. When he rang the bell, I stepped behind the door, and when he came in, I put my left arm around his throat and with my right hand I pulled his gun. I threw him onto the couch and cocked the gun and put it right up to his nose.

  “Why are you here? Why are you here? Who the hell are you?” I was angrier than I realized and right away I felt foolish. The pain in my head and my frustration were taking control of me.

  “I got a call. I had to come.” His fear was real. He was young, early twenties. His eyes were blue; he was not the killer who got away. “I work for the security company.”

  “Did you see a guy driving away? Did you see who was staying here?”

  “Frank lives here. I didn’t see no one else but you.”

  “Keys in the car?” He nodded. I took his phone and his walkie-talkie and I left.

  ______

  The Triple A was almost empty when I got back there. Nita stood at the bar, chatting with the bartender and sipping a cocktail. The bartender wasn’t happy to see me, but Nita was. We went to the bar at the Holiday Inn. She knew the bartender there, too, and he didn’t look so happy to see me either. Nita ordered a shot of Wild Turkey and a beer. I settled for just a beer. We moved to a table.

  “Exciting night at the Triple A,” she said.

  “Somebody send the wings back?”

  “FBI came in.” I kept quiet because I knew the rest. I wanted to see if she did. She did. “They were looking for a guy named Rollie Waters.”

  “Did they have a photo?”

  “Yes. Handsome guy. In uniform.” I watched her while she ordered another drink. Lying to the FBI would have been foolish for her. The bartender and the other waitresses had all seen me. “I used to work here. But you make better money off regulars than you do off cheap businessmen. And the food is even worse than the Triple A.” She waited, sipped, waited, then she said, “I had to tell them.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “It was the only way to handle it. Who else? Who else did you tell?”

  She put her hand on mine. “Do you have a room here?” I shook my head. “I live just about a mile away. We can go there.”

  I looked at the bartender. He wasn’t a big guy and I guessed he didn’t have a weapon behind the bar, at least nothing he would use unless he was being robbed. He glanced my way and I nodded and circled my finger to order another round. Nita looked, too, and confirmed the order.

  “You’re not mad?”

  “Not at you.”

  The drinks arrived. Nita clicked her shot glass against my beer and downed the bourbon. She sat back in her chair and waited for the punch in the gut, the follow-up, waited for me to try to ruin her night. She had decided to go home with me and her wide eyes challenged me to ruin it. That was easy. I decided it was best to handle this in public. “Frank is dead.”

  She was stunned. She grimaced and squinted her eyes. “Heart attack?” She said it hopefully. I shook my head even though she knew the answer. She widened her eyes to ask if I did it. I shook my head slowly and as I did, her eyes closed. She leaned back in her chair and lost her balance for a second and almost fell. When she righted herself, she said, “Who’d want to kill that fat fuck? All he wanted to do was eat and watch hockey and fish.”

  The waitress stopped by. “You guys all right?”

  “Another shot,” I said. The waitress went away. Nita took a long pull on her beer. “I want you to take your phone out and put it on the table. And I want you to tell me what time you called them so I can be sure what the number is. You can go outside for a smoke while I look.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I also want you to describe them to me. There were two of them.”

  The waitress delivered the shot. Nita waited until she left to say, “You’re nuts. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “You fingered me. Or so you thought. Maybe they hurt you. Maybe they paid you. Maybe both. I don’t care. I care what ha
ppens now. You called them and told them I was coming up to the cabin, just like they told you to. Only they didn’t go after me. They killed Frank, the fat fuck. Now give me your phone.”

  She looked at the floor. She looked at the window and at the TV showing a soccer game. I stared at her until she put her hand in her purse and slid the phone toward me. “They called me. It comes up private, no number.”

  I checked. The private call came in four times, earlier in the day. All the other incoming and outgoing calls were local numbers. “Describe them.”

  “Derek was a skinny guy, tallish. Shaved head. Flame tattoo running up his neck. He had an English accent. John was a little shorter than you, a little thicker. Dark complexion. I doubt those were their real names.”

  “Which one did you sleep with?”

  She slapped me. I took it and smiled. She got up and I grabbed her wrist and stood beside her. The bartender had come around the bar, but he stopped when he saw us standing close together. “I need to know,” I said.

  “John. He was more my type. Just like you are.”

  ______

  No leads. Not many clues. I needed help. Major Hensel, who ran SHADE, had kept the reins loose and I ran as freely as I could. I hardly knew him and I resented how well he seemed to know me, so I kept communication to a minimum to test him, and to set a standard. But now I had reached the limit and knew I needed his help. I called him while I sat in my car in the hotel parking lot. His first words were “Do you know where Frank’s killer is?”

  “No.”

  “Then you should get away from there fast as you can.”

  And, by then, the local police were approaching my car from three sides.

  5

  From the tenth-floor corner office, I had a view of two parking lots and a toll road.

  I counted the cars for a while and bet myself about which parking spots they would pull into. Black and silver were the predominant colors. Having completed my parking-lot accounting duties, I pushed the desk aside and began my tai chi, though I was not positive this was sanctioned executive behavior. Agent Hanrihan came in so soon after I began that I wondered if he had been watching. “Put that desk back,” he said. I put the desk back and sat down in the big executive chair and put my feet up. “Get up. Now.”