White Bird (A Mayan 2012 Thriller)

by Tom Rich

  Then there was nothing.

  34: HQ

  Kurtwood Franz put in a call from his penthouse suite to his personal secretary one floor below. “Elizabeth, cancel my appointments for the day.”

  “You think that wise, sir? Senator Birnbaum is coming for lunch. Canceling on a United States Senator?”

  “Damn. What’s beforehand? Surely not the President.”

  “Someone with a little more clout. The Chinese businessmen.”

  “The Chinese are a patient people. Call and tell them I’ll get back.”

  “First of all, the entire reason for Senator Birnbaum’s visit is for you to tell him what the Chinese are up to. Second, the Chinese are here, half an hour early. That qualifies as patient.”

  “I hear you. We’ll make them wait the entire half-hour and then some. What do you think, twenty minutes extra?”

  “I think the sooner you finish with them, the sooner you can attend to whatever business you decided to leave me out of the loop about.”

  “Oh well, day’s shot anyway. Birnbaum always brings a bottle from whatever country he’s last pillaged. I’ll have to match the gesture with something rare and expensive of my own.”

  “Shall I tell the Chinese fifteen minutes?”

  “Right. Nod and smile and tell them fifteen minutes.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Three hours later Jones Pelfry and Aly Roarke pulled into the visitor’s parking lot of Franz World Headquarters in Pelfry’s Mustang.

  Aly nodded toward a dozen policemen milling around parked motorcycles. “Your Indiana tax dollars hard at work?”

  “Senator Birnbaum is probably here. He likes a big escort.”

  “Franz consorts with senators?”

  “Forming an idea of what we’re up against?”

  “You think his high profile associates won’t drop away if it looks like he has anything to do with child killing?”

  “Mighty big if.”

  “Right. I suppose Franz contributed a bundle to the Senator’s election fund?”

  “Reasonable supposition.”

  “Hmm. You really think Franz could be crazy enough to believe he can communicate with gods by tossing kids into wells?”

  “I think excessive power and wealth are forms of crazy. Anything is permitted within those realms.”

  “I see.” Aly popped open her door. “You just going to sit here while I go in?”

  “Unless you have a better plan.”

  “I know, soon as I’m out of sight, you’re going to kick some motorcycle cop butt and tell those guys to look alive.” She got out.

  “Take your time. I’ll probably have them wash the car.”

  “Make a ripe video,” said Aly to herself as she walked away. “Cop hunks in their hats and Speedos all covered in suds squirting each other.”

  Two police officers carrying bags smelling like burgers and fries held the door for Aly. She nodded and smiled as she passed through.

  “Ya, such sweeping grandeur.” Aly paused, impressed by the high ceiling that made the lobby of Franz World Headquarters an immense atrium. Dozens of people strode urgently in and out of the building and to and from a bank of elevators. Others milled in and out of a snack bar, a bookstore, a bar, a gift shop featuring Guatemalan imports, and a restaurant featuring Central American cuisine. “Maybe I should check that gift shop for the Ch’ak of Ukit Took. Probably a better chance of finding it in there than getting in to see Franz.” Aly approached the information kiosk in the center of the lobby.

  “Yes, ma’am. How may I help you?” asked the lady in the kiosk.

  “I need to get a message to Mr. Kurtwood Franz. See him, if that’s possible.”

  “First of all, I’ll need your name and the company you represent.”

  “You can tell him my name is Aly Roarke. But that won’t mean squat. Tell him I represent Ukit Took. I’m fairly certain once he hears that name he’ll see me.”

  “I see. If you could fill this out.” She handed over a form, then glared over her glasses. “Need a pen?”

  Aly took the paper. “Yeah. Look, ma’am, I realize someone like me normally has to go through channels to see a guy like Franz. I realize he’s busy and all.”

  “There are forty floors of building above you filled with companies and organizations that keep Mr. Franz busy. If you could write down what type of organization Ukit Took is, I could put your message through to the proper department.”

  “What about an archeological department? See, I was working on this project down in Guatemala. The information I have has to do with that.”

  “That would come under the category of foundations.”

  “Right.” Aly wrote her name, Ukit Took, and Pelfry’s home phone number. “Any idea how long it will take for this to go through? Like I said, Mr. Franz is going to consider this a top priority.” She handed back the form.

  “Miss Roarke, you look like a reasonably intelligent woman. I’m sure you might be able to estimate, given the number of things Mr. Franz is involved with, how many people feel an urgent need to see him every day.”

  “Right. What if I was a U. S. Senator?”

  “That could expedite things.”

  “Be a quicker way in?”

  “Much quicker, even taking into consideration that this is not an election year for senators in the state of Indiana.”

  “Oh, but I’m not from Indiana.”

  “Then I do hope you enjoy your visit to the Hoosier State.”

  “Right. Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “What the hell is a Hoosier, anyway,” muttered Aly as she crossed the lobby. “At least everyone knows a Buckeye is a worthless nut.”

  She found Pelfry sitting in his car, gazing through the windshield.

  “Hey. Looks like your boys missed a spot by the bumper.”

  “I think I know that kid,” said Pelfry.

  Aly looked where he was looking. “The tall black kid in the uniform?”

  “He was at Melvin’s funeral. He went through the receiving line just ahead of me.” He thought for a moment. “Melvin helped out with a youth group Franz runs. I’ll bet that kid’s a member.”

  “Jones, you think you have a better way to get to Franz than by my contact with Hell’s Hoosier Harpy, go for it.”

  “I have two tickets in my pocket to a Pacers game. They’re nosebleed, but the game is sold out.”

  “You stereotyping? Just because the kid’s black, he likes basketball?”

  “Look how tall he is. And playing basketball is practically all they do at that club. Melvin got his workouts in by coaching them.”

  “You really think Franz has time for that sort of thing?”

  “Franz promised the kid he’d make time. He’ll keep that promise in honor of his friend.”

  “Well?”

  “You better do it. Kid like that has an instinct for spotting cops.”

  “Aren’t you Mister PC.”

  Pelfry passed the tickets through the window.

  Aly ran after the boy. “Hey. Hey, excuse me.”

  The boy turned.

  “Can you do me a favor?” asked Aly.

  He glared over Aly’s head.

  Aly held out the tickets. “You can have these Pacers tickets. They’re up high, but you’d like that. You can see everything from the top row.” She wondered what made her say such a thing. She hoped she hadn’t offended him by implying he could never get good seats. He was too sullen to register a reaction.

  “What I gotta do?” he said.

  “Give a message to Mr. Franz. That’s all.”

  He looked at the tickets. “What.”

  “Uhh, shit! Wait here a minute.” She ran back to Pelfry’s car, got a piece of notepaper and wrote down the same information she’d given to Hell’s Hoosier Harpy. When she got back to the boy he had already turned and was walking away. “Wait. Just get this message to him. All right?” He stopped and turned h
alfway. Aly handed over the tickets and the message. “I’ll know if he does or doesn’t get it. And there are more tickets if he does get it. All right?”

  “Ah-ight.” He turned and shuffled off.

  ~ ~ ~

  Forty floors above, in the penthouse suite, Sylvie Averling awoke. For several moments she had no idea where she was. Bits and pieces from the previous day floated by, dissolved, came back with a vengeance. There was Woody, there was a dark room, there was lots of rum, some shouting, running. What the shouting was about, or where the running took her, Sylvie couldn’t remember. Considering what people had told her about such rampages in the past, nothing about her actions would have been rational. So there was the distinct possibility she’d blown her relationship with Kurtwood Franz.

  Oh well.

  At the moment Sylvie had more urgent business to take care of: finding a way to fix how awful she felt. She remembered how her drunkard’s instincts had kicked in the day before and that she’d hidden a bottle of rum in her closet. Head pounding, she eased out of bed and into the closet.

  “Hah! Thank God it’s still here.” She uncapped the bottle and took a swallow. “Ugh. Brr. What is this stuff? Hello. Rot Reeko is what the label oughtta say.” She took a second drink. Then a longer third. “Whelp, Mama never said medicine gotta taste good.”

  She shuffled out of the bedroom, wandered around the penthouse swigging from the bottle. “Hey! Anybody home?” After a moment, “Guess not.”

  Sylvie paused in front of a mirror. “Yeah, I remember this dress. Something about…something about…fuck it. Who cares? Lookin’ good is good enough.”

  Halfway through the bottle, and still wandering, she felt better.

  “I’m bored. WOODY!”

  Sylvie heard a commotion from the direction of the kitchen. She followed the noise until coming upon a scene of Franz’s French chef screaming at two girls dressed for formal service. The chef swilled red wine while carelessly dropping cigarette ashes into the food he was preparing.

  One of the girls turned away in tears. Her eyes fell on Sylvie. “Hey. Hey, you’re…you’re…”

  “Shh. I don’t want Pierre seeing me,” whispered Sylvie. “I need to know if you can do me a favor.”

  “Really? Sure. Anything.” She dabbed away her tears.

  “I need is glass. A nice tall one.”

  “Okay.”

  Two minutes later Sylvie had her glass and was traipsing across the penthouse. Now she could work on procuring her favorite mixer with rum. “This town must have dealers just like any other,” she said to herself. She went to her room and found her oversized sunglasses and the floppy hat that covered half her face. She gave no consideration that her skimpy costume might draw more stares than Marilyn Monroe risen from the dead.

  Sylvie searched for five minutes, sipping from her glass, before finding the foyer with the row of elevator doors. She pressed buttons. Nothing happened. “Duh-uh. This one needs a key card. Okay, how ’bout you?” She pressed a button. The door opened. “Voila.” She stepped aboard. “Let’s get the hell out of Kansas, Toto.” The door closed.

  Sylvie took a moment to steady herself after the rapid plunge. She stepped into the main lobby, fussing with the hat to make sure it stayed over the upper half of her face. “Hmm, there’s a bar over there. Good to know.” She paused at the information kiosk. “Excuse me. I don’t suppose you could tell me…?”

  “Yes?”

  “Uhh, never mind. Just kidding.” She sipped from her glass.

  “Tell you where you left the rest of your clothing?” muttered the information lady as Sylvie tiptoed away.

  Outside Sylvie became disoriented. “Where’s the rest of downtown? This is it? One stinking building? Damn, this is a city in the middle of a corn field.” She looked around until she spotted a person of interest. “Uh huh. And I suppose there walks the sole representative of urban riffraff.”

  Sylvie ran and tiptoed in fits and starts, sipping her rum, until catching up to the guard wandering the visitors’ parking lot. “Yo! Homey! What up, dude?”

  Antony, the two Pacers tickets in his pocket, was just thinking how his day couldn’t possibly get better. “You want something, lady?”

  “Hey, you’re not really a cop, are you?”

  “What of it?”

  Sylvie smiled her waif’s smile. “It’s just that they’re filming a movie near here. All kinds of famous movie people around. I mean, you don’t look like a cop, even though you’re dressed like one. I can tell a cop when I see one. But you look like a movie actor playing a cop. That’s just what I was wondering. That’s all.”

  “Ain’t no movie actor.” Antony’s eyes focused above Sylvie’s head.

  “Well, you sure could pass. Look, you know who I am?” She lifted her hat with her free hand and nudged down her sunglasses with the hand holding the glass.

  “First day on the job, lady. Just getting to know people.”

  Sylvie re-adjusted her glasses. “Look, don’t call me lady. Call me Vee, okay? I’m just a kid looking to have a good time. Know what I mean? What’s your name?”

  “Antony.”

  “Antony. Got a—”

  “I don’t use no slave name.”

  “Cool. Got a girlfriend, Antony?’

  “I play the field. Too young to get tied down, thass right.”

  “Uh huh. Any white girls in your stable, Antony?”

  “The hardon don’t see no color.”

  “Whoa ahahahaha.” Sylvie held on to her hat. “Shew, you get right down to it?”

  “I tell it like it is.”

  “Well, let me tell you like it is with me, Antony. I’m just a little girl and I like to play. And when I play I like to have candy. Dig?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, you know how certain kinds of candy goes with certain kinds of play. Still with me?”

  “Ain’t you cold out here dressed like that? I got me a stationhouse over there with a heater.”

  “Ah ah ahh. Not so fast, Antony. First I need to know if you’re the Candy Man. ’Cause the Candy Man can, dig?”

  “I got me all kinds of interests. I take care of what needs taking care of, thass right. Tonight I be going to my man’s house. He hook me up, I hook you up.”

  “Soo, you’re saying no candy today?”

  “You come with me tonight. I got my man picking me up.”

  “Doesn’t work that way, Antony. I don’t play until. That’s a firm policy.”

  “Then, what? You give me your number?”

  “Antony, Antony. Dealing with numbers is so bourgeois. Oh, sorry, that’s French for bush league.”

  “I know what it is.”

  “You work tomorrow?”

  “I be here.”

  “Rock candy is my favorite, Antony. But I like other kinds. Expensive stuff, preferably. Don’t worry about the money. That is noooooo problem on my end. But, Antony, do not rip me off. Okay? I know the score. I’ll look for you tomorrow.”

  Antony thought Vee had a damn fine ass going on for a white girl. Then he thought about his high school guidance counselor telling him that putting himself into a work situation, even when starting at the bottom, could create opportunities for him he could never imagine. Looked like he was going to have to listen to more of what Mr. Dickweed had to say. Might even start calling him Mr. Dixon.

  35: That Night

  Senator Birnbaum had brought a bottle of Slovenian brandy to his lunchtime meeting with Kurtwood Franz. After making sure the senator had two martinis beforehand, then letting him drink the lion’s share of two bottles of white wine with the meal, Franz sipped lightly throughout the brandy and the thick, potent plum concoction given to Franz by the Chinese businessmen. Franz felt an especially urgent need to indulge Birnbaum in order to convince him to introduce legislation banning the products of a Chinese agricultural research company. Meanwhile, Franz would strike a deal that would send the company into full production, which in t
urn would leave them near ruin if Birnbaum’s legislation were properly timed. Franz assured the senator his motivation was not profit, but to punish the Chinese for experimentation on fruit tree yields that sickened children in Southeast Asia. “Yes, we’ll do it for the children,” Senator Birnbaum had said, intimating his motivation had more to it than fond memories of pre-teen prostitutes in Thailand, but was actually about pleasing the largest contributor to his ongoing campaign fund. When the senator was finally leaving, just as dusk fell over Indianapolis, the two girls who had served lunch, both promised fifteen dollars an hour plus a generous tip, came charging through the penthouse toward the row of elevators while screaming at the hotly pursuing French chef that their thousand dollar apiece tip did not include “That!” The senator intercepted the girls and calmed them with his most fatherly manner. He sent the French chef packing, then skillfully eased his way into negotiations with the girls on just how much, “That!” would cost him.

  Once the senator was fully occupied, Franz began his search for Sylvie. He called local halfway houses and rousted employees to check every place in town that hosted AA meetings. He called the airport, then began calling everyone he knew in LA, which was a formidable list, having been ingratiating himself with the film industry for several years. He finally realized he hadn’t lifted his hold-all-calls from the senator’s visit and switched on his fax. In came a series of frequently updated security reports from Pistol Pete about Sylvie’s behavior over the past seven hours in the lobby bar. Before he went to collect her, Franz amused himself with detailed accounts of Sylvie entertaining bar patrons with jokes and dead-on impersonations of Hollywood stars, both past and present, then getting belligerent and insulting, followed by brief periods of being the lost waif, and on and on through the cycle.

  There was also a message relayed by Pistol Pete from Antony Phillips. Franz swore on the death of Melvin Weeks that he would double over backwards to help the kid. He’d check Antony’s message after collecting Sylvie.