by Kim Oh
God, I miss that guy.
And if that were the case for this Morton person – and why wouldn’t it be? – then I had to do something about him. Which was why I’d brought along my favorite piece, the .357 Cole had given me a long time ago. Before I’d pulled up outside this funky old building, I’d been perfectly prepared to walk up the stairs to the floor Morton had told me to meet him on, place the .357’s muzzle against his head, and conclude our mysterious relationship in a messy but entirely final way.
Only the sonuvabitch hadn’t shown up – or at least not in person, in the flesh. Which meant that he also knew that about me, that I’d be capable and willing to tie up this loose end with a bullet attached to the bow.
“Kim? You still there?”
Morton knew I was – the laptop camera light was still on, and the postage stamp in the Skype window showed my face. But I’d lapsed into silence – for how many seconds, I didn’t know – while my thoughts had paced around in a circle.
“Yeah . . .” I gave a slow nod. “I heard you.”
“So? Why did you? Come here, I mean.”
Guess it would seem rude to say that I had been hoping to maybe kill him. Really – I’d take it personal if somebody said that to me. So I had to come up with some kind of an answer.
“You mentioned . . . some kind of business. That you wanted to line up for me.”
I don’t know if I convinced him – the robot-like voice was silent for a few seconds.
“All right,” Morton’s altered voice came at last. “Let’s just take care of . . . business. There’s a lot of other stuff we need to talk about, Kim. But that can wait.”
Big of him. I supposed I could reciprocate by waiting a while to kill him. In this business, it’s important to be flexible.
“So, the job.” The grackly robot voice and picture of whoever it was stayed the same. “You’re interested, then?”
“Depends.” I shrugged. “You haven’t even told me what it is.”
“I’m sure you can handle it. I have a lot of confidence in you.”
Great. This is what it’d come to – pep talks from a laptop.
“Fine,” I said. “I have confidence in me, too. There’s just one thing I’m really not very good at.”
“What’s that?”
“Reading minds – especially long distance. I could use a few details on what exactly this job consists of, that you want to line up for me.”
That actually got a laugh from this Morton guy. Filtered through whatever voice-altering program he was using, it sounded like a tin can being run over by a lawn mower.
“Hold on a second,” he said. “You might as well talk to the actual client.”
I waited just about that long. Then the office door opened, and the well-dressed man I’d seen waiting outside, when I’d first come up the stairs, walked in. He thumbed off his smartphone and tucked it inside his jacket. That must’ve been how Morton had told him we were ready for him.
Which I wasn’t surprised about – I’d pretty much figured we were both there on the same business matter. If I hadn’t been set on finding out as much as I could about this Morton guy and what he was up to, I could’ve buttonholed this other person out in the hallway and cut whatever deal I needed to with him directly.
“Kim – this is Sam Dalby. He’s wanted to talk to you for a while now.”
I looked this Dalby fellow straight in the eye. “What about?”
The small piece of luggage I’d spotted on the floor next to the chair in the hallway dangled from his left hand.
“Our friend Morton has told me a lot about you, Miss Oh.” Dalby lifted the bag by one of its straps and set it down on the desk, right behind the laptop. “He says you’re good.” A thin smile appeared on the guy’s face. “About getting things done.”
I didn’t like that smile. It was a boss smile – I mean the kind of smile that bosses have, that isn’t a smile at all, but just a rearrangement of facial muscles that guys in charge do when they’re trying to make you think they’re your friends. And they’re doing you a favor, when really they’re just dropping another stack of b.s. on top of the stack that’s already in your Inbox.
“Depends,” I said. “On what it is.”
“Very simple.” Dalby picked up the bag again and held it out to me. “I need something delivered.”
I took it from him. It was a backpack – nothing fancy, the sort of thing somebody would take on a day hike, or for an afternoon in a public park. Dark green, with thinly padded shoulder straps and a waist belt with one of those plastic claw buckles that just snap together. I had one at home almost exactly like it, though this one was a North Face, and I’d bought mine at REI.
“Yeah?” I held it flat on both my palms. Whatever was inside didn’t weigh much, maybe just a few pounds. “What is it?”
“Come on.” That was Morton’s altered voice, coming from the laptop. “You know the drill, Kim. Something like this, it’s strictly no questions asked.”
True enough – I hadn’t done a courier job before, but I’d heard about them. From Elton and a couple of other contacts in the same business I was in. When people like this Dalby hired people like me, discretion was part of the arrangements.
I glanced over at the laptop screen and watched myself in the postage-stamp view in the Skype window, turning the backpack around in my hands. There was a single object inside it – some kind of box, about the size of three or four books stacked together. Seemed like metal, from the feel of it, instead of cardboard or plastic – the sides didn’t flex when I gave the bag a squeeze.
“Okay,” I said. “So I don’t need to know what it is. That’s fine. But I’d like to know what it isn’t.” I raised the backpack up by one strap. “You’re not asking me to mule drugs, are you?”
“No.” Dalby shook his head. “Nothing like that.”
I hadn’t thought so. The package inside didn’t seem right for that sort of thing – too light for the size. Plus, it just wouldn’t have made sense. With the rise of what some people were calling the dark web – my little brother Donnie had clued me in on it; he’s hip to all sorts of Internet stuff – and the ability to make untraceable payments using Bitcoin and those other so-called cryptocurrencies – moving illegal recreational substances around was stupidly easy. Here in L.A., you could get whatever you wanted, delivered right to your door, like the Domino’s Pizza guy had just pulled up. Don’t forget to tip.
Even moving big amounts of stuff, like on the wholesale level, kilos and similar amounts – you didn’t need somebody like me, who’s all strapped up to the eyeballs, and who doesn’t even go out her own front door without a .357 in her shoulder bag. In fact, that’s the last thing you want. Let’s face it, there’s so much of this stuff going on now, and the manufacturing and distribution overhead has gotten so low, some big-time drug operation is probably better off losing a shipment of its merchandise every now and then, rather than having a lot of guns going off, like in some corny old action movie, and drawing attention to themselves. I mean, I like keeping a low profile, but those drug people have raised invisibility to a fine art. At least the successful ones have.
“Kim –” That was Morton, coming over the laptop speaker. “That’s not the kind of business I’m trying to line up for you.”
I was glad to hear that. Not because I had any big moral objection to the drug thing – people can do whatever they want, as far as I was concerned. Except for my brother Donnie – if he ever messed around with anything like that, he would be so in a world of hurt from his big sister. But I knew I didn’t have to worry on that front. And if other people wanted to screw up their heads and slow up their reaction times, I just figured that would make it easier to bring the hammer down on them, if I ever had to. Even the tweakers doing all that crystal – yeah, they become hair-trigger paranoids, but they’re so jittery, they can’t even hit the proverbial broad side of a barn.
No, I guess it was more of an ego thing. Ferrying
drugs from Point A to Point B is such a low-level deal – guys talk their girlfriends into doing it. Strictly amateur, or minimum wage at best. And I’d worked hard to get beyond the stage where I’d have to take a job like that. I hadn’t heard yet what this Dalby guy was offering, but it’d have to pay more than just bonehead mule work. I have my standards. In terms of building up my business, I’m shooting for becoming more of a high-priced boutique item, rather than a bargain-basement commodity. Sort of the Tiffany of killing people, rather than the Walmart.
“Great.” I saw now that the backpack’s zipper pulls had been soldered together, and some kind of thin metal thread had been laced around the zipper’s entire length. Nobody, including me, would be sneaking a look at the bag’s contents. “So if it’s not drugs, or something else illegal – then why not just stick it in one of those If it fits, it ships boxes from the post office and send it on its way? Even FedEx would be cheaper than hiring me.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.” Dalby’s expression turned serious. “Just because it’s not illegal, that doesn’t mean there aren’t other people who would like to have it. People who . . .” He shrugged. “I’d rather they didn’t get their hands on it. Does that make sense to you?”
“Yeah.” I gave a nod. “It does. There are plenty of things like that. I’ve even got a few.”
“You see, Miss Oh –” Dalby reached over and laid a hand on top of the backpack. “I’m in the venture capital business. You know what that it is, don’t you?”
“Sure. You give people money. And then you get a lot more money back from them.”
His thin smile returned. “That’s pretty much it in a nutshell. I finance tech start-ups – but not the ones people hear about. I’m actually rather similar to you – I like to keep my business private.”
I was starting to get on the guy’s wavelength. I knew why I didn’t want people knowing about what I did – if he was the same way, it probably wasn’t about killing people. It was more likely about making insane amounts of money. So much money that you could pay people – the right people – to make sure it didn’t even exist. And that way you could keep it all.
“Sometimes,” continued Dalby, “I have to send things to the people I’m working with. Just . . . communications. Files. Business plans, contracts, financing offers – that sort of stuff.”
“So?” I set the backpack down on the desk again. “Why not just email them? If you’ve got security issues, that’s what encryption’s for.” Maybe this guy should’ve been talking to my brother instead of me. Donnie knew how to do those things.
“Oh, it’s encrypted, all right – don’t worry about that. But if somebody else really wants to break it – if they’ve got the right resources, and it’s worth enough to do it . . .” Dalby shrugged. “The encryption probably will hold up. My tech guys have the best tools there are, for locking down data – better security than the NSA. Ninety-nine point nine percent guaranteed – that nobody can get into it.” His voice turned harder and tighter. “But if there’s still a tenth of one percent chance that somebody could – even if it were only a hundredth of one percent chance – I can’t risk it. That’s how much money’s involved.”
That explained why whatever was in the backpack weighed so little – maybe it was just a USB thumb drive taped to the inside of the metal box in there. With these precious files encoded on it.
“And you think it’d be safer this way?” I pointed to the backpack. “Hand-carried?”
“Not just hand-carried.” Dalby’s smile – that wasn’t really a smile – returned. “Hand-carried by you.”
“I told him,” came Morton’s voice from the laptop. “That it’s something you’d be good at doing.”
“Thanks.” I studied Dalby for a second or two. “I don’t know, though . . .” A shake of my head. “Seems like there’d be easier ways for you to get this where it needs to go. The usual ways – just call up Brink’s. They’ve got armored trucks you could throw this in the back of. And guards toting riot guns. They move sacks of cash around all the time – they should be able to handle something like this.”
“There are . . . problems with those kinds of services.” Dalby’s expression darkened. “Let’s just say, I haven’t been completely satisfied with them in the past. With an armored truck – it’s hard to keep things a secret. People find out. And the guards, and the drivers of those vehicles – they’re targets. For the kind of bribes that can turn just about anybody around. Sacks of cash don’t even compare. So again, you’re not talking about perfect security – you’re still at the ninety-nine point nine level. And that’s just not good enough. Not for what I need.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And you think I can do better? I’m flattered.”
“Yes – I do.” Dalby gave me of those gazes that are so cold and appraising, it’s like having your spine CAT-scanned. “Morton told me you’d be what I was looking for – but I wasn’t sure until I saw you. In person.” A slow nod. “You see . . . I’m a very good judge of character. I have to be, for the business I’m in. If I’m going to give somebody the kind of money they’re asking me for, to get their start-up going, I have to know they’re going to deliver. I have to know . . . here.” He tapped his chest with a forefinger. “They’re going to come through, or die trying.”
His voice had sunk low and intense enough to prickle the skin of my arms.
“You know what they are? The same as you.” This time, Dalby’s fingertip stopped a quarter-inch away from my breastbone. “They’re hungry.”
For a moment, the room was silent. Then –
“I told him,” came the voice from the laptop. “That you’re still building up your business.”
“Our friend Morton told me a lot about you.” Dalby non-smiled again. “But somehow . . . that was the most interesting thing. That you're an up-and-comer. Because that means you’re motivated. To succeed.” He tilted his head to one side as he gazed at me. “You are, aren’t you?”
I didn’t say anything.
“All right.” After that little bit of weirdness, Dalby turned all matter-of-fact. “I’m not even going to ask you if you want the job. Because I know you’re taking it. So here’s the deal.” He lifted the backpack by one strap and set it down closer to me. Then he drew his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, counted out a thin sheaf of bills, and laid them on the desk. “Half up front. That’s standard, isn’t it? The other half you’ll get paid on delivery.”
I picked up the cash and counted it myself. That’s a bookkeeper habit, from my previous life as Little Nerd Accountant Girl – nothing’s real until it’s been counted twice.
When I was done, I stood there, weighing the money in my hand. And twice this, when the job was completed, the package delivered? That’d be a nice payday. Real nice . . .
I should’ve walked away.
I knew it. Just put the money back down on the desk, leave the locked-tight backpack where it was, and pick up my own shoulder bag where I’d set it on the floor. Say good-bye to these two gentlemen, the one standing right here in front of me and the one Skyping from the laptop, head out the door and down the shabby building’s stairs, then out the front and onto the sidewalk with the cracked cement and old newspapers blowing down the gutters. Climb on the bike and just go.
This whole thing was screaming hinky. Something was up with this job offer, something these two guys weren’t telling me, and I didn’t know what it was. And I didn’t trust either one of them farther than I could throw them, then run and catch them before they hit the ground.
“Miss Oh –” Dalby’s voice broke into my circling thoughts. “Does that sound okay to you?”
I didn’t leave. Instead, I reached down and tapped a finger on the stack of money. Because my thoughts were finally coming to a halt, and I knew exactly what I was going to do. And why.
First thing – not trusting people? That came with the territory. I’d already been screwed over enough times by the people
I was working for, and who’d supposedly hired me to do a certain job, that if it happened again, I wouldn’t exactly have a heart attack from the shock. Plus – that’s the way it is for everybody now. You don’t have to be in the business of killing people, the way I am, to be pretty sure that your boss is a jerk. As I said, it comes with the territory.
Second. Something hinky about this job? Yeah, sure – so what? If I turned down every job that didn’t smell exactly right, I’d never work again.