by C. T. Wente
“Keep the change,” Tom said earnestly as she walked away. He watched as she quickly worked the register and tossed the coin change into the tip jar on the counter before slipping back onto her stool. Within seconds she was reabsorbed into her book. The sound of Chip clearing his throat snapped Tom back into reality.
“So,” Chip mumbled as he leaned towards Tom. “What’s the latest with the investigation?”
Tom pretended to ignore the question for a moment as he took a long sip of his beer. He slowly rested the glass on the counter before turning and staring somberly at the older man. “It’s over.”
Chip’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you serious?” He quickly glanced over at the wall of letters and photos before looking turning back to Tom. “So what does that mean?”
“I’m legally obligated not to discuss details about the case,” Tom said quietly, his stare wandering back to Jeri’s cat-like figure curled up on the barstool. “But I can tell you that Jeri is no longer in any danger.”
“What makes you so sure of that?” Chip asked skeptically.
Tom’s eyes lingered on Jeri for a moment before turning and narrowing on Chip. “Because her mystery writer is dead.”
∞
Eugene Austin parked across the street from the bar he’d watched Agent Coleman walk into and immediately flipped on his homemade listening device in the back seat. He would have been in place sooner, but he’d decided to stop and put the signs from his old pizza delivery job on the door and roof just in case Coleman had noticed the maroon Toyota parked in his neighborhood earlier.
From where he sat, Eugene could look directly across old Route 66 into the arched window of Joe’s Last Stand Saloon. Unfortunately, he could barely see anything within the dark interior. Whatever he thought irritably as he opened his laptop and put on his headphones. He turned a small dial on the top of the device and immediately heard Coleman speaking quietly to another man. The other man’s voice was low and unfamiliar. Satisfied that the listening device was capturing the conversation, he reached over and punched the ‘record’ button on the laptop next to him.
He then pulled off the large headphones and eased the car seat back. I’ll check the recording later he thought as he slipped a cool new pair of ear buds into his ears and began listening to a mix of songs he’d just downloaded on his iPod.
He stared out at the late autumn landscape and yawned. A postman walked briskly down the sidewalk towards the bar, the blue collar of his uniform turned up against the cold as his breath streamed out behind him. Otherwise the old downtown was deserted. After a few minutes of staring absently at the lifeless maple trees planted along the sidewalk, Eugene closed his eyes and drifted off
to sleep.
∞
“I just don’t get it,” Chip said gruffly. “A few weeks ago you were telling me that I was instrumental in solving this case. Now you’re saying the case is solved and I don’t have the right to know any details.”
Tom shrugged dejectedly. “Look Chip, it’s classified information. I came here to tell you the case was closed. I wasn’t under any obligation to do even that, but I thought it was the right thing to do. I understand that you want to know the details, but I’m not in a position to give them. The guy is dead, and that’s all that matters. The rest is just so much bullshit in a CIA report.” He shook his head and drained the last of his beer.
“I thought you were running this thing,” the older man replied as he stared at his beer.
“Well, you were wrong.”
The front door of the saloon opened with an irritable groan. Both men turned to watch the postman walk in and give them a half-smile as he strolled towards the bar. He tossed the day’s mail on the counter in front of Jeri and flashed another smile before quickly disappearing out the door.
“Hey Jeri, can I get another one?” Tom asked quietly. Jeri nodded her head as she stood and began sorting through the mail.
Tom stared at his empty beer glass, his thoughts churning in his head. He still hadn’t decided how to tell Jeri the news. Would it even matter to her? he wondered. Jeri wasn’t exactly the warmest of people, especially when it came to men. Why should some unknown pen pal’s death be any different? Considering he was an international terrorist, she should be leaping for joy that the scumbag was no longer walking the earth.
In fact, depending on what he revealed to her, Jeri might even look at Tom as something of a savior. He smiled to himself as he considered that thought.
“So he’s dead, huh?” Chip said, interrupting his train of thought. “You’re sure of that?”
“For Christ sake Chip… I saw it myself. Yes, I’m sure of it.”
Chip pointed his thumb towards the corner of the bar and gave Tom a wry grin. “Then how do you explain the airmail letter Jeri’s holding in her hand?”
Part III
“More financially solvent than most economies, more powerful than most governments and more technologically advanced than most militaries, the mature Corporate State will rapidly outgrow every external threat to its existence with one notable exception – competing Corporate States.
In order to defend key assets such as intellectual property, and vital personnel from competitive threat, the Corporate State will employ the same strategies and tactics of any major government or country. With billions of dollars in revenue at stake, clandestine activities ranging from intelligence gathering and sophisticated electronic warfare to coordinated military-style operations will become an everyday reality in the new business ecology.
Ultimately, the competitive actions of the Corporate States will mimic those of any competing predators in the natural world. Alliances will be made, weakness will be studied, and, when the opportunity to dominate presents itself, power will be exercised with swift and lethal precision.”
James H. Stone
“Predictions in the New Business Ecology”
42.
Jeri stood behind the counter and vaguely noticed her heart beating faster as she held the red and blue-edged airmail envelope. It was thicker than any of those previous, its corner covered with extra airmail stamps and the dull smears of red “RUSH” postmarks. She smiled with excitement and started tearing it open when a voice suddenly cried out across from her.
“Don’t open that!” Tom Coleman screamed as he leaned across the counter and roughly snatched the envelope from her hand. Jeri stared back at him in shock.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked angrily, holding out her hand. “That belongs to me!”
Tom ignored her as he carefully examined the envelope. He shook his head disbelievingly as he held it up to the dim overhead light.
“It can’t be him,” he mumbled. “It just can’t be.”
Jeri watched him cautiously for a moment before looking over at Chip.
“Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?”
Chip nodded his head slowly. “I’m afraid I do.”
“Then please, enlighten me,” Jeri demanded.
“Your former pen pal was a terrorist, Jeri,” Tom said matter-of-factly as he dropped the envelope onto the counter.
“A what?” Jeri asked, smiling at the absurdity of Tom’s comment.
“You heard me,” Tom replied flatly. He turned and pointed at the shrine of letters on the far wall. “You see all those letters over there? They weren’t written by a doctor, or an art collector, or some freelance journalist out on assignment. They were written by a killer. By an international goddamn terrorist. And when he wasn’t writing letters and taking silly pictures for you, he was murdering innocent people.”
Jeri’s smile slowly faded. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m absolutely serious,” Tom replied.
Jeri looked back and forth at the two men. “Okay, what the hell’s going on here? Is this some kind of practical joke?”
“I think it’s time Jeri heard the full story,” Chip said softly as he stared into his beer. “Wouldn’t you agree,
Tom?”
Tom narrowed his eyes on Chip. “Sure, why not.” He frowned at Jeri and pointed at the barstool next to him. “You may as well come over here and sit down.”
“I’ll stand right here, thanks,” Jeri replied tersely, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter.
“Suit yourself,” Tom countered. “You want the story? Here’s the story.”
Tom quickly began summarizing his investigation, beginning with his initial discovery of the link between the letters’ origins and the deaths of several Petronus Energy researchers. Jeri’s eyes widened in surprise as he then told her about the death in Kaliningrad that proved his assumption was more than just a theory. He was just about to tell her about Alex and the SOG team raid in Amsterdam when she suddenly held up her hand.
“I don’t get it,” Jeri said, shaking her head. “Even if there was some shred of truth to what you’re saying, how could you possibly know all this?”
“It’s my business to know all this,” Tom replied as he reached into his jacket. He pulled out his ICE badge and briefly showed it to her before returning it to his pocket. “I’m not playing with you, Jeri. I’m an agent with the Department of Homeland Security. This is what I do. I know everything there is to know about your pen pal.” He paused and pointed at the envelope on the counter. “And I’m telling you… that letter can’t be from him.”
Jeri picked up the envelope and held it in front of Tom. “What makes you so sure?”
Tom looked at her with a cautious expression. “Because four nights ago I watched him die in his hotel room in Amsterdam.”
Jeri stood frozen for a moment, waiting for the shockwave to pass through her. She squeezed the envelope tightly in her hand before walking over to her barstool and sitting down. A moment later she looked up at Tom with an accusatory stare.
“You used the address he included in the last letter to find him, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” Tom replied flatly.
Jeri’s eyes flashed to Chip. “And you knew about this?”
Chip nodded. “I did, Jeri. I’m sorry. That’s why I’ve been spending more time here lately. I thought if nothing else I could at least… well, keep my eye on you.”
Jeri glared at him angrily before looking at Tom. “So how did he die?”
“He killed himself,” Tom answered unapologetically. “We had him holed up in his hotel room, surrounded by agents. There was no chance of escape and he knew it. So he detonated a bomb like any other gutless terrorist would do. Luckily none of the agents involved were killed.”
Jeri stared at the envelope in her hand and shook her head. “Then this can’t be from him.” She suddenly ripped the corner open and looked inside. The folded sheets of hotel stationary were covered in a familiar handwriting. Jeri started to remove them, then stopped and looked at Tom.
“Did you see him do it?” she asked.
Tom looked at her quizzically.
“See him do what?”
“Did you actually see him detonate the explosive?”
“Yes. Well, I mean… I watched it happen over a live video link from the agents conducting the operation. They were just about to enter his room when the explosion happened.”
“Was the door closed?”
Tom sighed. “Yes, the door was closed.”
“So you did not actually see him detonate the explosion – correct?”
Tom shook his head in frustration. “Look Jeri, I see where you’re going with this, but it’s pointless. There were three teams of agents covering the guy when he entered the hotel. They swept the entire place before entering his room. He blew himself to hell, and I saw it happen. Okay?”
“But how did you identify him in the first place?” she asked, her voice holding an edge of doubt. “You can’t tell what he looks like from the photos.”
“His t-shirt,” Tom replied. “He was wearing that same goddamn Joe’s Last Stand t-shirt when he walked into the hotel, and part of it was still sticking to what was left of his body after the explosion.”
“Jesus Christ, Tom,” Chip said quietly.
“Hey, she asked the question, didn’t she?” Tom shot back defensively, his eyes still fixed on the envelope in Jeri’s hand. “So… are you going to open it or what?”
Jeri nodded her head as she carefully pulled out the letter and unfolded the crisp white pages. She glanced at the top right corner of the first page before again looking over at Tom.
“When did you say you killed him?”
Tom looked at her quizzically. “It was last Saturday… the 30th. Why?”
Jeri ignored his question as she started to read, the slightest trace of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
43.
847 Jinan Road
No. 1549
November 31, 9:27am
Planet Dongying
The Galaxy of China
Jeri –
I’m not going to kid you, Jeri-girl, I’m writing this with more than a touch of the melancholy. Maybe it’s this country. Don’t believe what you’ve read about China. The only things this country really makes are great walls of concrete and ceilings of smog. Sometimes it’s hard to tell one gray mass from the other. All I know is that the image of you curled up warmly behind that magnificent chocolate-colored old bar reading this humble little letter of fanatical obsession and abject devotion is the only thing keeping me going. Well, that, and the definitive collection of Eugene O’Neill I bought online last night in a drunken moment of weakness. Talk about under-celebrated playwrights! Seriously… have you ever seen The Iceman Cometh?
Getting your letter was like being the pope after finding the Holy Grail. I’ve read it no less than sixteen times. Everything that flowed from your pen from the moment you questioned my intelligence until the final threat of never talking to me again was nothing short of poetry. I doubt that such a marginally warm letter has ever been so well received.
Our kids will be precocious little buggers, Jeri. I know it.
Of course, this letter isn’t intended to be just another long-winded sermon of pharmaceutically-enhanced incidents and accidents on my journey towards self-endarkenment. You have questions that need to be answered.
“Beginning with what you’re up to” I believe was your first request, though you already know the answer. The tequila, the womanizing, the endless travel through the seedier folds of terra firma… isn’t it clear that I’m up to no good?
Not that I’ve had much choice in the matter, Jeri-girl. Spin around this planet as much as I do and you’re forced to pack light. I’m toting enough proverbial baggage as it is without the extra weight of a moral compass. And who needs one anyway? Right and wrong are as mythical as true north itself. It’s all just a matter of degrees, baby – like points on a map. Some are good, most are bad, but in the end, they’re all worth seeing for yourself.
This brings us to your second request – the question of why I’m writing you. Of course, you already know the answer to this one too. You see, from that moment I first laid eyes on the beauty behind the bar at Joe’s, I simply and selfishly knew that she was someone worth knowing. I mean, how often does one come across the path of a fair-skinned lass with eyes as deep and turbulent as the spring-fed Amazon, a mind as sharp as a thirty-gauge needle, and looks that would put even the dawn-sky view of Victoria Falls to shame? Not often, Jeri. Have I already mentioned that our kids will be gorgeous?
And then there’s your last request… the revelation of my identity. I have to say, this one stumps me, Jeri. Not the question, just the value of the answer. A name? Mine is a name you wouldn’t know. This face? As common as they come. The rest of me baby is just tequila and words. Six feet of random thoughts and a smoking cigarette, wandering the back roads of sanity and society one sinful step at a time. The truth is Jeri, if you’ve read my letters carefully, you know me better than anyone.
Was that last paragraph as depressing as it sounds? Christ, I better sign off until the Lithium kick
s in. Time to find a cozy communist bar that serves Fortaleza and Chinese-made Camel Lights. I swear Jeri, fun is harder to find around here than a virgin in east L.A.
I’ll be glad when all of this is over.
Ta!
- Mysterious Joe’s Last Stand Guy
P.S. Thanks again for sending the t-shirts, Jeri-girl. Don’t tell the boys in Amsterdam, but I ended up keeping a few for myself.
P.P.S. Please tell me you heeded my advice on the brainy buddies. It’s happening NOW. I’ve nabbed three of them so far, but finding the last is proving to be a real bastard.
P.P.P.S. You can’t turn a street corner here without running into a barbequed terrier. Show me canine charcuterie and I’ll show you the culinary abyss.
Fuck it.
Go ahead, order dog.
44.
“May I read it, Jeri?”
Tom Coleman stretched his arm across the counter and wiggled his fingers impatiently.
Jeri looked up from the letter. This can’t be happening she thought as she stared absently out the front windows at the cold December morning. She shook her head and closed her eyes as a torrent of questions began flooding her mind.
“Jeri… please?”
Jeri silently stood and walked down the bar, dropping the letter into Tom’s outstretched hand. He quickly grabbed the pages and started reading, his shoulders slumping lower with every sentence.
“Holy shit... it’s him, isn’t it? The son of a bitch is fucking alive.”
He looked up at Jeri with a disbelieving stare.
“You tell me,” she answered sharply. “You’re the one claiming to be the expert on this guy.”
Tom muttered something under his breath and turned his attention back to the letter. Jeri turned and fixed a venomous stare at Chip.