Middle Man

by David Rich

  Zoran did not like that. The King did not like that. “It’s not enough that I trust you, Robert. You must trust me as well, wouldn’t you agree?” I did not agree, and after more unpleasantness that I was not supposed to understand, they gave me the phone and one of their cars.

  14

  Robert Hewitt, cocky investor, got cold feet at the very last minute and nervously allowed Gill and his men to handle the exchange, which took place in Bayou Park at the end opposite the sculptures. Robert Hewitt then hid, leaning against a tree where he could watch the transaction without being seen.

  Matching goons marched forward holding Maya. She looked like the prize in some fraternity dress-up ritual. Arun, the chauffeur, was not there. All my attention focused on the kidnappers in the hope that I would recognize one set of brown eyes. He had loomed over me, so I assumed he was tall. Nita had said he was shorter than me. It didn’t matter; I was too far away to make out the color of their eyes.

  The choreography broke down when the kidnappers opened the briefcase and counted the money. I put only two hundred thousand dollars inside but forgot to mention that to Gill.

  Guns came out. A thin female jogger cruised alongside the confrontation, her earphones keeping her oblivious to the threats. The two sides froze: mannequins misplaced. She glanced their way, had to see the guns, but she never broke stride. The moment she passed, the kidnappers were pulling Maya away, and Gill was craning around to scan the park for me. But I was on my way back to my car so I could follow the kidnappers.

  The Ferrari was parked in the bank parking lot where I had picked up the money. The borrowed town car was parked at my hotel. I was driving a blue Honda. The kidnappers drove their black SUV southwest out of the city. They were in no hurry and thick traffic provided ample cover for me. I had the rest of the million dollars with me.

  Five minutes into the ride, the King’s phone rang. No number showed on the caller ID. I did not answer. A minute later, another anonymous call came in. The first message was from Zoran, the second from the kidnappers. According to the Rules of Dan, the more severe the threats, the more room there is for negotiation. Zoran threatened a lot and even accused me of malfeasance. The kidnapper, who had a Boston accent, simply said he would call back in one hour. Both sides needed me: one for the money, one for Maya. But I decided to stay silent for a few hours to give them the opportunity to realize how important I was to them.

  On the outskirts of Sugar Land, the SUV turned down a private road. A small wooden sign identified either the road or the property as Runnymeade. I could not follow without being spotted. Three times I drove past the entrance to Runnymeade. It never changed. I did not want to go down that road without some idea of what I might be facing. The phone rang again. I ignored it again.

  I called Major Hensel and asked for Daisy’s number. The Major asked if I needed help with anything. I thought I better ask for something or he would be suspicious, so I asked for background on Mr. Gill. The Major said he would get back to me soon.

  Daisy did not bother with hello. “I don’t have any information yet, but I’m going on a date with Darrell White in a little while, so expect success,” Daisy said.

  “Can you have him meet you at your house?”

  “Apartment. Yes, of course, he’ll want to come here.”

  I arrived first. Daisy was decked out in full mufti, heels to wig. “You look beautiful, Daisy. I’m sure he’ll fall madly in love.” I gave her instructions: Let me in when I knock, pretend you don’t know me, play along.

  “I won’t let you down,” Daisy said.

  “If it goes right, you can still have your date.”

  Darrel White drove up in a dark blue Bentley and left it in the loading zone right in front of the building. He wore a beige sport coat and brown pants and it looked like he had paid special attention to making sure the prow on top of his head was aerodynamic. I gave him five minutes, then took the elevator up to Daisy’s apartment on the fifth floor. I knocked and said, “Delivery.” When Daisy opened the door, I moved in fast, grabbing her arm. “Hello, Darrell,” I said.

  He reached inside his coat for the gun in his holster. He was slow. I slugged him in the gut and it felt like my fist went all the way through to his spine. He fell backward on his butt, then toppled flat on his back. I jumped forward and reached under his jacket and pulled the gun, a Colt.38 revolver. I pointed it toward Daisy and ordered her to get Darrell a glass of water.

  I doused him with the water and said, “C’mon, big guy, sit up and we’ll have a quick talk. I believe I still have you on retainer.” He coughed a bit and propped himself up and felt for his gun. I poked him in the ear with it. “Who pays for the King’s rent?”

  “How would I know? What are you doing?”

  I mussed his hair. It made him look younger. I asked again and received the same answer. I said, “Darrell, I can start kicking you in the head or you can start talking.” He shrugged, so I kicked him in the head. He moaned and fell on his side. “The next one takes out teeth.”

  Daisy yelled, “Leave him alone. Get out of here.”

  I took her arm and tossed her roughly to the couch. She overplayed it, of course, and almost went through the wall. “Stay there or I’ll kick your boyfriend harder.”

  The King’s phone rang.

  “Hear that, Darrell? That’s the King calling, or the people who kidnapped the King’s daughter. If I answer it, I’m going to tell them I’m here with you. I’m guessing you’d prefer more kicks in the head from me. Should I answer it?”

  I held the phone out and turned the ringer up. I could see Darrell’s shrewd lawyer look returning to his face, measuring my resolve. I answered the call and put the phone on speaker so Darrell could hear the low, vicious voice: “We’ve had enough of this. The girl is going to die. And so are you . . .” Darrell tried to hide the panic, but it was too strong. He shook his head vehemently and waved his hands like a referee signaling the play should stop.

  I hung up. I kicked Darrell in the head once more to remind him that it was time to speak up. Daisy yelled, “No!” and rushed off the couch.

  “Get him some more water,” I said. Darrell drank the water and I let him stagger over to the couch and ordered Daisy to sit next to him. She sat close to him, soothing him. Daisy was a very convincing actress.

  “A guy showed up with cash for the rent. I passed it along. Three months in advance. That’s all I know.”

  He knew a lot more. His expression when he heard the voice on the phone told me that. “What about Runnymeade?”

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “You’re disgusting, you know that? Why don’t you just get out of my apartment right now? You got what you wanted. Git,” said Daisy. She took Darrell’s hand in hers.

  “They gave you money for another residence, didn’t they, Darrell? They paid more for the second one. All cash. How much?”

  Darrell seemed to take courage from Daisy’s support. He would not budge from his previous position.

  “Darrell, think it through. I know where the house is. If you don’t cooperate with me, I’m gonna tell them you spilled their secret. You’re boxed in. Time to be smart.”

  Darrell just stared at the floor.

  “Miss, what’s your name?” I said.

  “Daisy.”

  “Daisy, you’re a very beautiful woman. What do you think Darrell should do?”

  “Will you leave us alone if he cooperates? Promise?” Daisy spit it out, but it was just the kind of help Darrell needed to move him.

  “I promise. Start with the payments. Tell me who made the payments.”

  “He called himself Mr. Clark.”

  “He paid for both houses?” Darrell nodded. “You knew who the one house was for. The second one, Runnymeade, who was that one for?”

  “Mister, they gave me enough money that I was not asking too
many questions. Just like with you. It was straightforward: Find us two houses, pay the rent, keep the rest for yourself. I knew about the King because I had to do visa work for him. Once I had the payment, I never heard from Mr. Clark again.”

  “Until just now on the phone,” I said. Darrell nodded again. “What kind of security system is there at Runnymeade?”

  “None.”

  “That’s a big house not to have a security system, Darrell.”

  “The landlord had ADT, but these people disconnected it.” There was not much more to get from Darrell except the landlord’s name, which he gave freely, some big-time basketball player who was traded. Darrell’s story made sense except for one part. “Why are you so afraid of them?”

  “Because I’m not as stupid as you.”

  “You tell him,” Daisy said.

  15

  Pre-Marines and on the road, it happened that I grew tired of parks and hostels and unlocked cars for sleeping. Sometimes I would pick a house and watch it from about six A.M. until the adults left for work, and if there were no kids, I would break in and eat, set the alarm clock, and fall asleep. Most home alarm company signs were just beware-of-dog signs in disguise; if there was a home alarm system, it wasn’t hooked up. I tried hard to get security companies to give me the codes: I was a son home from college and couldn’t reach my parents, a new renter being cheated by the owners, a repairman on the job, a repairman who left his tools behind. Nothing worked. Another homeless kid, Vic, had a different approach. Vic was working as a busboy at a steakhouse near the marina in San Diego and he overheard people talking about a monthlong trip they were taking to Europe. He found the house, broke in. All he took was one extension of the cordless phone. That afternoon he stood in the yard and canceled the alarm service. The security companies think if you call from the home number, you’re legit. Though they’ll usually start the service from any number. It was a good plan, but Vic was paranoid and greedy.

  Vic worried that someone else was going to try to usurp his new turf, so he bought a new keypad for the alarm system, put in his own code, then called a new security company and signed on with them, using the family’s credit card, of course. His paranoia was justified, but being right did not help him. Within a week, there was a break-in, some other guys from the steakhouse. Cops came. The robbers ran away, Vic got hauled away.

  I guessed right one time on a house that had the security sign but no alarm. A single woman lived there. Fifties, short dark hair. She left for work every morning about seven thirty. I went in the back door, ate cereal, cleaned up, then went to sleep in a guest room. I was always out before five. On the sixth day, I woke up at about noon and there she was, staring at me.

  “Please don’t call the police,” I said. I got up slowly and straightened the bed covers, trying not to look at her.

  “I thought it might be my husband. Hoped, anyway. I saw the Cheerios. They were almost gone one day and full the next.”

  “I replaced them.”

  “And you changed the alarm clock. I use this one sometimes because it makes me get out of bed to turn it off. Otherwise I go back to sleep. He left three years ago. I don’t even know if he’s alive.” The tears started. She was blocking the doorway and I wanted very much to get through it, but the sobbing got worse and she was not going to move.

  I hugged her. She just stood there. Arms limp. Eventually she said, “Thank you. That’s enough.”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said and I edged around her so I had a way out. “You should turn on that alarm. It’s all rigged up. Probably worth the money. Not everyone will replace the Cheerios.”

  “I turned it off after he left. After a few months. He could never remember the code and I didn’t want him to come back and not be able to get in.”

  “He’d probably just call you and complain, say, ‘Why the hell’s the alarm on?’”

  “You talk like you know him.”

  Everybody knows him, but I did not want to say that. I could tell she was going to offer to let me come back, so I got out of there fast as I could without running.

  ______

  Websites gave me an overview of the Runnymeade property, and the virtual house tour was still up on the listing realtor’s site. Eight bedrooms, a ballroom, and a basketball court, indoors, to help the goons ward off boredom between kidnappings. I called ADT, claiming to be the landlord, and told them to reactivate the alarm system at nine P.M. I planned to be inside the house by then.

  The mist reached critical mass and became a soft, light rain. The headlight beams scattered their power in the drops. Two young couples, teenagers, got out of a white BMW and came inside and took the booth next to mine at the Delta Diner. The girls were pretty, a little heavy, wearing shorts and sandals. The guys wore jeans. One had a small tattoo on his wrist. They had been to the movies, something scary, and they were still feeling the excitement. A girl said, “Why would she go back to the lagoons? I would never go to lagoons. Why do they even have lagoons anyway?”

  A boy answered, “She heard the voices. She felt guilty. She thought she could help her friend.”

  The girl said, “There’s always something in a lagoon that’s going to hurt you. A creature or something.”

  Another boy said, “Not if you get out fast, or outsmart it.”

  The girl said, “Right. You know you’re gonna slip or trip or get sucked into the muck. Why do they even have lagoons anyway? Can’t they just be filled in?”

  The other girl said, “I could see going, but not alone.”

  A girl and a boy said together, “Right.”

  The King’s phone rang; Zoran calling. When his tirade died down I said, “I’m just waiting for them to contact me. I’m going to arrange to give them the rest of the money and then Maya will be freed.” I said it loud enough for the teens to hear and they must have, because their talking stopped. Zoran went on a bit, but I would not tell him where I was or what the plan was, only that I was waiting for the other side to call.

  The other side called fifteen minutes later. This time I spoke more quietly. I let them dictate the terms of the meeting. When they said they were not bringing Maya along, that she would be released later, I protested a bit for show. I was hoping they would pick a spot miles away, but they chose a restaurant just a mile from the diner. One hour.

  As I was leaving, I heard one of the girls say, “Maybe we should call the police.” I turned back and glared to give her a thrill.

  ______

  The gate at Runnymeade opened and two black SUVs barreled through the mist. Their windows were dark, so I could not see how many men were in each one. I had plenty of time to slip through the gate before it closed. It was 8:50.

  Two guesthouses stood to the right of the big house. I cut behind them, hoping I could avoid any motion-detecting lights near the front entrance. All the structures were made of light, chalky looking stone, with sharply slanted roofs. The main house spread out away from the guesthouses, then curled back, forming a J. Plenty of downstairs lights were on. The only upstairs light was at the far end of the house before the curl. At the end of the J, I found an unlocked door and I entered a small room furnished with wicker and cushions, a sun room.

  I stepped across the room and waited for a full two minutes, just listening. The staircase was straight ahead. The lights were on in the hallway to my left and I thought I could hear a TV somewhere down that way. They had brought six goons to the failed exchange in the park. I was hoping six went out to meet me this time. I figured no more than four stayed behind at the house. I wanted to deal with as many of them as I could first, before I found Maya.

  The hallway was so long it needed a moving walkway. I passed two doors on the right and two on the left. All were closed and I left them that way. Large action photos of the basketball player who owned the house lined the walls. His feet never touched the floor, so the pictures gave the
impression he was skipping along on air.

  The TV grew louder as I got closer. Its light flickered against the walls as the scenes shifted. Someone shouted on-screen and a man laughed in the room ahead of me. I stopped and leaned tight to the wall. I peeked in. An enormous television was playing some historical action movie.

  A man’s voice said, “Do come in, Mr. Hewitt. No need for caution anymore. Actually, there wasn’t any need for caution at all. We’ve been watching you all along.”

  I checked behind me: Two goons in suits materialized down the hall. I might have been able to take them and get away. But I did not want to get away yet.

  I entered a large den. The man doing the speaking stood behind a love seat, made of beige fabric, which was perpendicular to the television. Maya was sitting on the love seat. This man was not the Mr. Clark I heard on the phone. This man had a singsong Welsh accent. He was tall and big: big chest, big belly growing out under the chest. His head was shaved. His cheeks were flabby. That combination made him look like a gigantic, overgrown baby. A baby who played rough; he wore a patch over his left eye. At first I thought he was holding a gun, but he jabbed his right hand toward the enormous TV and paused the movie that was on-screen.

  The goons behind me closed in and positioned me in front of the love seat, in front of Maya. Her expression was indecipherable. I was looking for panic, pleading, pain, hope. But I must have been looking for the wrong things. I could not break through.

  The bald man sat down next to Maya and crossed one leg over the other. He spread his arms across the back of the love seat and smiled as if to taunt me.

  “I was watching Stanley Baker. Well, I was watching Stanley Baker and you alternately. Know him?”

  “No.” I looked at the TV. A thin-faced, dour looking leading man in a red British Army uniform, top button undone, was staring out into the distance at grassy hills. His dark hair was mussed up. He held his rifle casually in his left hand.