Don't Order Dog: 1 (Jeri Halston Series)

by C. T. Wente

  “Right, well that’s my cue,” he replied as he opened the back door and slid out of the plush interior and into the full heat of the sun. He closed the door and immediately heard a precise metallic click as the large vehicle dropped into gear and sped off. A cloud of sand and dust followed in its wake as he watched it leave. Assuming complete faith in the plan given to him, the Mercedes and its flatulent, cotton-wrapped driver would be back in ten minutes to pick him up.

  He walked casually across the wide empty street and paused just outside the door, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his khaki pants. A moment later the door cracked open again, then quickly widened enough for him to enter. He smiled and stepped cautiously into the black void before him.

  Cool air immediately licked his skin as the door closed behind him. The sound of a heavy deadbolt clicked loudly. He took off his sunglasses and looked around. The cramped room contained only a small, flimsy black conference table and a handful of outdated chairs. Its bone-white walls were heavily scarred with smudges and dents. Beneath it all, a hideous spread of cerulean blue shag carpet worn by years of traffic laid sadly.

  “Nice place,” he remarked, smiling at the two men sitting at the conference table.

  Behind him, the man who had shut the door gestured for him to sit down. He then moved towards the other side of the table and stood rigidly behind his two seated colleagues.

  He sat down at the table and quietly studied the faces across from him. Their dark Middle Eastern features notwithstanding, all three of the thirty-something men looked similar enough to be brothers.

  “Thank you for coming,” the man standing behind his two colleagues said without smiling.

  “It’s my pleasure,” he responded, his voice warm and sincere.

  “May we get you a coffee or tea?” The man seated to his left asked with a smile. He appeared to be the youngest of the three, with large, intelligent eyes and boyish, coffee-colored features. Unlike his somewhat malnourished looking colleagues, the man’s well-muscled frame was apparent under his crisp white dress shirt.

  “No, thank you… I’m fine,” he answered, returning the smile.

  “Then let’s begin,” left-seat replied sharply. With that his colleague seated next to him produced a large manila envelope from an unseen case beneath his chair and gently placed it on the table. His dark hand lingered on it protectively. “Four subjects in four cities,” left-seat said as he pointed to the envelope. “The details of each are contained here.”

  He glanced at the envelope and nodded. “Cause?” he asked politely.

  “Our preference would be accidents for at least two,” standing-man responded, his deep brown eyes studying him closely. “Of course, we leave some discretion to you. Certainly you know more about this than we do.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t necessarily say that.”

  “We were certainly impressed with your work in Assam.” left-seat said with another brilliant flash of teeth.

  He glanced at left-seat with surprise. “Assam?”

  “We apologize for not telling you before,” standing man replied, a glint of humor in his eyes. “Assam was a test. We wanted to see exactly what we were paying for first.”

  The three men smiled collectively.

  “I see,” he replied, feigning surprise. “Well, I’m glad we’ve met your standards. Of course, Assam was just a typical assignment. We’re capable of much more, should the need arise.”

  In truth, Assam had been anything but typical. It had taken more than two frustrating, rain-soaked weeks before everything had fallen into place. The fact that he’d pulled it off at all was incredible. And the last minute use of a tuk-tuk and an untraceable fire-accelerant was, in his own humble opinion, rather brilliant. If his craft was ever recognized as an art form, Assam just might go down as his ceiling of the Sistine fucking Chapel.

  Left-seat composed his face and continued. “The subjects include three males and a female. One Middle-Eastern, two Caucasian, and one Asian. Photos and your requested details are contained in the envelope.”

  “May I?” he asked, reaching his hand for the envelope.

  “Of course,” left-seat said, turning to his colleague and gesturing for him to slide the envelope across the table.

  He opened the envelope and quietly studied the information. Everything appeared to be in order; the photos and personal details of the four subjects were organized just as specified. Satisfied with the material, he closed the envelope and smiled at the three men who represented his latest corporate client.

  “Great, well I think I’m all set then,” he said warmly.

  “Do you have any questions?” standing man asked, a noticeable look of relief on his face that the meeting was almost over.

  He nodded with a somber expression. “You’ve read my stipulations, correct?” he asked, pausing to look at each of them.

  The three men nodded together.

  “Then you understand the absolute necessity of the on-sites? The sample collections?”

  “We do,” left-seat answered firmly.

  “Very well,” he replied, standing from the table. “Gentlemen, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “I hope you’ve enjoyed your time in our beautiful city,” left-seat said as he stood up from the table, visibly pleased to be done with the meeting.

  “Very much so,” he responded, smiling at the sound of his own lie.

  He slipped the manila envelope into his shirt pocket as standing man walked to the door and unlatched the deadbolt before peering into the street. A white-hot shaft of sunlight fell across the carpet.

  “Your car is waiting for you,” left-seat said as he shook his hand, his dark eyes friendly. “Our most sincere thanks again.”

  He nodded and walked to the door, pausing in the narrow alcove as standing man stepped aside to allow his exit.

  “By the way,” he said, turning to the three men, “I’m no expert, but it seems to me that if you really wanted to keep this meeting secret, you might have opted for a less conspicuous vehicle.” He pointed through the cracked door at the large Mercedes once again parked in the middle of the vacant street.

  Standing man’s puzzled face suddenly broke into a grin. “Mercedes? Ha! Everyone has a Mercedes here.” He laughed as he turned to his colleagues. “It is like having, what… a Toyota in the U.S.?” His two colleagues nodded affirmatively. “Bentley, Bugatti…maybe the latest Maybach. Those cars might get noticed. But Mercedes? No, no one here looks twice at them.”

  “Right… of course,” he responded.

  Standing man opened the door and briefly patted him on the back. “Do a good job for us again and we’ll bring you back to celebrate,” he said with a broad smile. “Take you out on the town… show you an excellent time… whatever you desire.”

  “Sounds great,” he replied as he put on his sunglasses and stepped out into the intense arid heat. He looked back and grinned. “Tell your driver to have your finest Toyota ready for me.”

  The laughter of the three men was cut off as the door swiftly closed behind him.

  He opened the back door of the Mercedes and sank heavily into the soft leather of the seat. A feeling of calm fell over him as the automatic transmission clicked into gear and the car sped down the narrow alley and back towards the hotel. He closed his eyes as the air conditioner whirled to life, ignoring the sound of the driver’s bowel as it again grumbled threateningly from the front seat.

  6.

  Stadium Road Rumuomasi

  Port Harcourt

  October 16, 1:19pm

  Planet Nigeria

  Jeri –

  This place is fabulous.

  36 hours since touch-down, and I’ve only been arrested by the Nigerian police once. Long story, but I was able to buy my way out of wahala (That’s pidgin for “trouble” – isn’t language cool?) for less than 6500 naira, which is only something like $50 bucks, though they did make me pay in U.S. dollars. Double whammy.

  If you recei
ve any belligerent letters from the Abuja Eko Casino demanding immediate payment on a $1,200 blackjack debt, I suggest marking the envelope “DECEASED” and sending it back. And don’t blow up at me, sweetheart, because they were large, muscled, irate and willing to break my hands if I didn’t proffer up the faloose. I’m not exactly sure how they got the impression I own a saloon on Route 66 in beautiful bucolic Flagstaff, but do me a favor and don’t open any packages unless you are sure you know who the sender is.

  Remember how I used to hang out with the “unofficial” supporters of the Manchester United football team when I lived in England? (I did tell you this, didn’t I?) Remember me telling you how we’d turn the streets into a drunken mass of brutality, and how right before we tore into the supporters of the other team, all of us – hundreds of half-witted bastard men, feeding on each other’s energy and blood lust – would whisper and chant “it’s going to go off… it’s going to go off”?

  Jeri, it’s going to go off.

  I have the sudden strange feeling that you’re considering cutting your hair. If this is true, please understand that you will not only be disappointed by the outcome, you will deny the surly, wayward throngs who stumble into Joe’s Last Stand Saloon the most beautiful sight to befall their eyes in recent, middle and distant memory. That sight would be you, my love, hovering behind the bar with those long coppery locks in tow, tucking mischievous strands back into place as you fill glasses with beer and men with envy. Our children will be gorgeous Jeri.

  If the word of a wily old Texan ex-pat can be trusted, there’s a bar within spitting distance of my palatial hotel that serves Fortaleza tequila by the double shot and Dos Equis by the bottle. He asked if I’d believe that just last week two American men were kidnapped in that very bar, to which I told him I would believe no less. My odds of surviving this place are roughly one in four. For a double-shot of Fortaleza, I completely accept this.

  The enclosed photo captures this place at its best. This may also be considered its worst. Such is the fucking conundrum of Africa.

  You don’t need to say it, Jeri girl. I already know.

  Ta!

  - Mysterious Joe’s Last Stand Guy

  p.s. The food here is best described as a culinary urinal. Don’t order dog.

  7.

  “What the heck is faloose?” Joe Brown asked irritably as he sat at the bar and scratched his pale, mirror bald head. The owner of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon sat hunched over the counter, the latest letter clinched in his large hands.

  “I think he means ‘money’ Joe,” Chip answered from the barstool next to him.

  “Then why didn’t he just say that?” the old bar owner grumbled before continuing to read. In her corner behind the counter, Jeri sat curled up on her barstool, slowly thumbing through a thick novel. Besides the three of them, the saloon stood nearly empty.

  “Ah shit,” Joe exclaimed, slapping the letter irritably. “Do I really need to worry about some package arriving? The last thing I need is some goddamn Nigerian casino owner mailing some kind of letter-bomb vendetta ‘cause this guy didn’t pay his damn debt.”

  Jeri and Chip exchanged grins as Joe sat with a wide-eyed look of concern stamped to his reddening face. His short, stocky frame was perched tensely on his barstool.

  “I think you’re safe Joe,” Jeri said with a wry grin. “I think our mystery writer is just kidding around.”

  “Not ours, Jeri… yours,” Joe retorted gruffly. “This guy obviously isn’t writing for anybody but you. But don’t think for one second I won’t throw out any weird shit that shows up in the mail. I mean it. If anything bigger than a postcard arrives here smelling like Allah Ak-bar, I’m calling the authorities. Jesus Christ, I’ve got casino-running terrorists on my ass now.”

  Jeri could hear the inflection of amusement in Joe’s voice. Were he really worried, she knew from experience, he wouldn’t be talking about it. She went back to reading her book.

  A minute later Joe dropped the letter onto the bar and slowly shook his head. “Damndest love letter I’ve ever read. That’s for sure.”

  “You should read the first two,” Chip mumbled.

  The saloon owner pulled the Polaroid from the envelope and squinted at the image. “Well hell,” he exclaimed, holding it close, “you can’t even see him in this damn picture. Good god, why would anyone want to be in a shithole place like that?”

  Jeri ignored Joe’s question and pretended to read her book. In truth, she didn’t even see the page in front of her; her mind was fixated on the memorized image of the photo Joe was holding. It was of a busy third-world road captured in midday, the sun hidden behind a gray-green phalanx of low clouds. The road was choked beyond capacity with a vibrant collection of cars, scooters, animals, taxis, and people; all packed tightly together in the chaos of traffic. In the background, a long row of squat, one-story structures were carved into small merchant stalls, each of them filled with myriads of colorful items that nearly spilled out onto the muddy, unpaved road. Nearly everything in the photo appeared to be in rapid, noisy, un-orchestrated motion towards some unseen destination.

  Everything except for him.

  He stood in the middle of the road, immediately recognizable in his blue Joe’s Last Stand t-shirt. As the image floated in her mind, Jeri could vividly recall every feature– his tan, muscled arms casually folded across his chest, his broad shoulders relaxed in a posture of unnatural calm, his body as still as stone in the churning melee of madness that surrounded him.

  But no face.

  Almost as if it had been intentionally timed, a man moving through the dense crowd stood directly between her mysterious man and the camera, effectively obscuring everything but the outline of his elusive face. Behind the blurry edges of the passing man, Jeri could almost feel his smile beaming back; could almost see his dark, intelligent eyes staring back at her smugly. The fact that his face was so tantalizingly close and yet hidden once again sent a ripple of frustration through her.

  “He’s either really good at hiding, or really poor at being seen.” Chip said in a low voice, as if reading Jeri’s thoughts.

  “I reckon so,” Joe replied, his mouth twisted in thought. He dropped the Polaroid on the counter and suddenly looked up at Jeri, his eyes wide with excitement. “Say Jeri, I have an idea.”

  “What’s that, Joe?” Jeri asked as she slowly marked the unread page and laid the book on her lap.

  “I don’t think your mystery man is going to stop writing any time soon, and even though he’s… you know… kind of out there, he writes some pretty funny shit.” Joe paused for a second, his bear paw of a hand stroking at his chin. “Plus he’s wearing our world renowned t-shirt,” his voice dropped into a low, smooth tone as he did his best TV announcer impersonation, “Available for purchase exclusively at Joe’s Last Stand Saloon!”

  “Get to the point, Joe.”

  “Yeah, right,” Joe stammered. He quickly glanced around the room, his thick fingers frantically stroking his whiskered face. “So what if we posted the letters and photos somewhere in the bar where people could read them? Then everyone would get a laugh out of it. And hell, look around – it certainly couldn’t hurt business.” He picked up the letter and waved it in the air, his face red with excitement. “Christ, all these little college bastards raised on reality-TV would eat it right up!”

  Chip, sitting quietly next to him, suddenly chimed in. “And who knows… maybe someone will recognize him and put an end to the mystery.”

  “Exactly,” Joe said, nodding his head. He turned and smiled at Jeri.

  “So… what do you think?”

  Jeri stared quietly at both men. Why was this a tough question? she asked herself. Did it really matter if Joe wanted to display some ridiculous letters from a man she didn’t know? She probably wouldn’t give a second thought to sharing love letters from others she’d received in the past – and those were from men she’d actually known. So why were these any different? And yet for some reaso
n the idea felt distinctly wrong, as if she would be exposing something very private; something that belonged just to her.

  Unfortunately, at the moment, as Joe smiled earnestly at her, she couldn’t quite identify what that something was.

  “Sure Joe. Go ahead,” Jeri said flatly, unable to inject any enthusiasm in her voice. “It’ll be good for the bar. And like Chip said, maybe someone will actually know who this guy is.”

  Joe slapped his hands loudly against the bar. “Great! Let’s do it.” He turned and pointed towards the wall at the front of the saloon near the arched window. “We’ll hang ‘em up right over there, where everyone can see ‘em.” He paused again as his fingers worked his chin, his eyes clouded with inspiration. “It’ll be a monument to romance and love… a shrine to our own mysterious ‘last stander’!”

  Chip suddenly erupted in laughter, his broad shoulders shaking visibly. From her corner seat behind the bar, Jeri quietly opened her book and pretended to read, ignoring the feeling of nausea beginning to grow in her stomach.

  “By the way,” Joe said, suddenly turning to Jeri. “You’re not really going to cut your hair, are you?”

  “What?” Jeri asked, glaring at him over her book. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your friend mentioned in his letter that you were planning to cut your hair. Is that true?”

  “Not that it’s any business of yours, but no. I have no plans to cut my hair.” Jeri went back to her book for a moment before looking again at Joe. “This guy isn’t a mind reader, Joe. Nor is he my friend. He doesn’t know anything about me.”

  “Yeah, you’re right… sorry Jeri,” Joe said apologetically, glancing at the letter on the counter. “But that’s good news,” he said with a thin smile. “A short-haired Jeri would definitely not be good for business.”

  8.