I glanced at the flight-tracking screen and saw that our guy’s plane from DC had arrived at the gate.
I said, “Tell me again about this Smalley guy.”
Chantal said, “Peter Smalley is a retired US Air Force major. He now works for Steel Marquee, a private security, risk management, and defense contracting company. They are based in Reston, Virginia, and currently are managing operations in Somalia, Afghanistan, Qatar, Nigeria, and a dozen other places. Their revenue last year totaled nearly one-point-five billion dollars.”
Figures on that order of magnitude gave me vertigo. I wished Stan could be here to revel in the giddiness. “So dropping a hundred and twenty million on our goods—”
“Will be, for them, a modest purchase. As would a much nicer two hundred million.”
I played with my share of those numbers in my head for a while, envisioning everything Nellie and I could do with that kind of dough.
Chantal interrupted my fantasies. “Here he comes.”
I had no trouble spotting Smalley, who had plainly based his look on a swaggering Chuck Yeager–Clint Eastwood clone. Tall and rangy with weathered features, he wore cowboy-cut Wrangler jeans and a black rodeo shirt with white piping and blue embroidered floral motifs on the yoke. His Lucchese alligator-skin boots must have set him back at least five grand. The leather flight jacket, gray ball cap bearing a NASA patch, and Ferragamo aviator sunglasses completed the look.
Carrying only a moderately sized bag that spoke to his frequent-flyer efficiency, Smalley wove confidently through the crowd when he spotted Chantal. He swept her up in a full embrace, lifting her slight body off her feet and twirling her around. He let out an accompanying whoop that drew the attention of anyone within earshot. Men all wanted to be him, and the women wanted to be Chantal.
“Mothering bride of Christ, you sweet little Belgian truffle! How you doing, goddamn it? I haven’t seen you since Dubai last year!”
Chantal consented to have both her cheeks kissed, Continental style. I started to wonder whether she was working for me or Smalley.
“Oh, I am maintaining myself quite well, Pete. But I have no need to inquire about you, for news of your exploits in Mali came to me.”
“Aw, hell, they don’t let me out in the field that often anymore. But when they do, I naturally aim to unfuck whatever situation comes my way, and that sometimes requires lighting up a few idiots who didn’t get the memo. Hey, Lester, my son! How’s it hangin’?”
“As well as can be expected, Pete. Allow me to introduce Glen McClinton, CEO of Luckman Enterprises.”
Smalley had a grip that could have squeezed coal into the Kohinoor Diamond. Happily, he didn’t demonstrate on me.
“Great to meet you, Mr. Smalley.”
“Pete! It’s Pete, compadre, or we don’t do business together.”
“Well, informality’s no hardship.”
Smalley turned back to Chantal. “Now, baby, get me up to speed. What’s this burg offer by way of entertainment for a lonely business traveler? Last time we were together, as I recall, you and me ended up dancing on a bar.”
“Glen knows his town better than I, Pete. I’ll defer to his wisdom.”
I dug out my phone and punched in Stan’s number. I hoped he was back from the track by now.
“Pete, I think you are sincerely going to enjoy meeting Luckman Enterprises’ chief operating officer, Mr. Stan Hasso.”
33
Stan dropped a cheap white Styrofoam cooler on the coffee table of our apartment. I had been sitting on the couch, scrolling wistfully through texts from Nellie and wishing she were back home. Not only would her presence prove stimulating and enjoyable on its own merits, but perhaps having her around would serve as an excuse to avoid further late-night excursions with Chantal, Les, Pete, and Stan.
Over the past two nights, these four revelers had exhibited the alcohol-intake capacity of an entire frat house, compounded by the exhausting party-hearty ethic of a Range Rover full of victorious female rugby players. Pete Smalley, obviously happy to be out of the office on an extended all-expenses-paid junket, seemed in no hurry to get a demo of the Luckman detector. But I couldn’t hack it. By this afternoon, I could feel my liver enlarging and brain cells dying faster than crickets in an early freeze. But Nellie showed no particular yearning to rush home, tied up as she was with the import biz. So I would just have to suffer on for the sake of our eventual big score.
“What’s this?” I asked Stan, gesturing to the cooler.
“I figured you could use some protein. Build up your endurance so’s you stop turning into a pumpkin at midnight. So I got us some nice sirloins. Oh, and I think there’s fish in there, too. That’s real brain food, you know.”
I now saw that the cooler was embossed with the Omaha Steaks logo. But there was no address label to show that it had been delivered.
“You signed up for this?”
“Hell no! You know me—even a phone plan makes me feel tied down. This is from Gunther’s warehouse.”
Studying the box more closely, I saw that the logo was a little off register, not quite perfect.
“This is counterfeit meat?”
“Sure. And fish, too. All authentic ripoffs. But just as good as the real thing. I think you and me mighta even driven a load of these boxes on one of our last trips in the semi.”
I took off the plastic wrap and removed the cooler lid. The red and gold boxes inside looked authentic enough except for the hazy trademark, and a generous quantity of dry ice had been packed to keep everything frozen, so that the bargain-seeking customer would not die of E. coli and thus be unable to return for more.
“So now we are peddling fake gadgets, while eating fake food and drawing on a bank account possibly filled with fake money.”
“Sounds about right to me.”
“Doesn’t all this fakery ever get to you? Doesn’t it seep into your soul, so you start to feel fake, too? Don’t you ever want to have something real to hang on to?”
Stan moved away from the frozen contraband and over to the liquor cabinet, where he poured himself a generous shot of scotch. “I got plenty of real things in my life to keep me grounded. Women, for one. Nothing realer. And I don’t ever bother with watching what’s ‘seeping into my soul,’ cuz that is one organ no one has ever managed to show me on no doctor’s-office anatomy chart. You’re just freaking out for no reason at all. Or maybe you’re antsy or horny or something, and it’s queering your nerves all up. I don’t see what the hang-up is, anyhow, about trimming some corners to save a little dough. What’s it matter the brand name that’s stamped on something? It’s all the same stuff. This meat probably comes from the same butcher that supplies the genuine Omaha Steaks. You’re not gonna be able to tell the difference.”
“But sometimes there is a difference between real and fake,” I said. “Sometimes the fakes are dangerous—like fake antibiotics that don’t work, or fake airbags that explode when they’re not supposed to.”
“Take my word for it; these steaks ain’t gonna explode. Not the fish, neither, unless you cook them on a leaky propane grill.”
I put my phone down on an end table and got up from the couch. I needed a drink now, too. “Stan, you’re impossible to reason with. Your skull is as thick as a cape buffalo’s.”
“You just can’t stand to lose an argument, which is why you gotta turn to add-hominy attacks. This is something I have known about you from the first time we started hanging out together. But I don’t generally mind, because I know it is the mark of an insecure person.”
“Oh, just forget it.”
“It is already gone from my consciousness. Oh, yeah, I got something else for you from the warehouse. It’s for Nellie, actually. I picked up one for Rosa and one for Sandy and figured you could use a little help, too, with the old romance thing once Nell gets home.”
&nbs
p; Stan took a bottle from the pocket of his winter coat and tossed it to me. It was perfume, 24 Faubourg by Hermès—about a hundred and a quarter a bottle.
“Another fake? I can’t wait to smell it. It probably features the essence of plastic flowers, with notes of Easter-basket grass.”
“Just get those steaks going, will ya? I gotta get over to see Rosa before any clubbing tonight.”
Weary of arguing and dreading another night out on the town, feeling somehow insubstantial, as if I were a tenth--generation photocopy of myself, I carried the cooler into the kitchen, defrosted the steaks in the microwave, then started cooking. Mention of Rosa reminded me that I still had not finagled a private talk with her about where she thought her affair with Stan was heading. Maybe tomorrow.
Just as I was sliding plates of meat and fish and some fake Rustic Roasting Vegetables onto the table, my phone rang. Convinced it was Nellie, I scrambled for my cell. But Chantal’s ID showed.
“Hello? What’s up?”
“You and I and Les will not be going out tonight—at least not for fun. Marquee Steel Pete will have to amuse himself. Our second client is arriving, and we have to meet him. Please pick us up at the hotel.”
“Should I bring Stan, too?”
Stan was waving the unheard chore away with his left hand while his right brought a forkful of rare sirloin up to his lips.
“That will not be necessary, I think. Your perspicacity will suffice. We will see you in half an hour.”
Chantal ended the call without so much as a polite goodbye, and not for the first time I wondered who was boss of this operation.
I explained to Stan what was happening.
“It’s cool you can handle this by yourself, Glen. Much obliged. This frees up my evening to be with Rosa.”
“Stan, you know this has to come to an end. What’s Sandy going to feel when she gets back and finds you boinking your high school physics teach?”
Stan narrowed his eyes. “Have you been on the phone with Sandy about all this?”
“No, of course not. I’d never interfere like that. Why do you ask?”
“Only cuz she’s been acting a little weird with me the last few days, like something’s bothering her. She sounds kinda like she did down in Hedgesville. In fact, she said she might come home before Nellie does.”
“It’s not anything I’ve said or done, believe me. I haven’t even exchanged a single text with her.”
“Okay, okay, I believe you. Nobody can figure out why women do things, anyhow. Maybe she just got lonely for her old man. That would be perfectly logical given my irresistible nature.”
I made no comment, but wolfed down my meal and dashed out of the condo.
I had expected to find Chantal and Les waiting for me on the sidewalk or in the lobby, but when I didn’t spot them there, I texted and got an answer bidding me to come up to their room.
In the luxury suite—faux gaslight sconces, flocked wallpaper, divans—I found Chantal ready to go, all understated fashionable allure as usual, already wearing her elegant camel-colored Burberry wool and cashmere coat. But Les remained on the bed, sitting up against a stack of pillows, fully dressed but unshod, legs crossed at the ankles, and looking equal parts grim and sheepish—half stubborn, half apologetic. His smooth Asian features reminded me in that moment of a petulant child’s.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
Chantal made a gesture dismissive of all Les’ concerns, indicating that her partner was a wimp afraid of shadows. “He does not wish to associate with our new client any more than is strictly necessary, and generally by daylight, in a group. Especially, he objects to riding in the back seat with the man from the airport to the hotel.”
“There must be a compelling reason, and I want to know more, of course. But couldn’t we solve one problem by having you ride in the back seat with the guy?”
Now it was Chantal’s turn to be peevish. “I do not care to ride all cramped up in the backseat of a car without a very good reason. And this is not a good reason.”
“It is to me,” said Les.
“All right,” I said, “this isn’t getting us anywhere. I assume we have to be at the airport fairly quickly, and we’re just wasting time. Why didn’t this guy give us more advance notice, anyhow?”
“It is the nature of his business. It is hard for him to get away or to know when he will have free time. It is a testament to my salesmanship and connections that he agreed to come at all.”
“Well, who is he? What’s he do?”
“His name is Derian Crespo. He hails from El Salvador and is connected with an NGO in that country.”
“Nongovernmental, huh? Some kind of demining operation that could use our detectors? Making the countryside safe for farmers? What’s his group called?”
“La Sombra Negra.”
“‘Black Shadow’? Never heard of it. Not very sunny-sounding and upbeat, is it?”
Les’ laughter held a bitter edge. “Why should it be? They’re vigilantes—a death squad.”
34
I wasn’t sure I had heard aright.
“A death squad? As in killing people at random?”
Chantal objected. “They do not kill people at random. They kill only the bad people, with maybe a little collateral damage, just like your American drone strikes and superheroes. Surely you have heard of the merciless MS-13 and the grievous problem they represent? The Black Shadow is the only force that can deal with them effectively. The brutal gangsters of MS-13 fear no one except them. That’s why the government of El Salvador gives La Sombra Negra its extrajudicial blessing. I believe Derian Crespo actually sports a governmental title apart from his more freelance pursuits.”
“But they murder people!”
“You very rationally did not say ‘innocent people.’ What of your Mr. Santo? Are his hands clean? Yet you are accepting his support and funding.”
I sat down on one of the divans. I did not need this ethical and practical dilemma at this moment, when I was already stressed out and juggling half a dozen different chainsaws. The fake sirloin churned in my stomach. I could see why Les might be leery of tagging along with this new client. You endorsed mass graves just by sharing a cab with such a guy, whose motto, I suspected, was closer to “Kill them all and let God sort them out” than to “Imagine all the people living life in peace.”
Chantal squatted down to get her eyes level with mine. I noticed for the first time their dove-gray fathomless depth. Her lovely white face seemed carved of marble.
“Listen to me, Glen, this is no time to lose your nerve. If you want someone to buy lots and lots of your toy detector, you have to go where the money goes, and find the kind of people who want this thing. MS-13 is getting into making bombs more and more, even associating with terrorists, and La Sombra Negra wants to be able to reliably detect these dangerous explosives. They have deep pockets and the need for your detector. When we get Crespo bidding against Smalley, who knows how high the price will go? Think of all that lovely money in your pockets.”
I tried to follow her advice and envision the easy street I would soon be dwelling on. But all I could think of were the potholes and car crashes on the way to that boulevard of dreams. To mix metaphors, it was like Gatsby having to swim across Macbeth’s sea of blood to get to the green light on Daisy’s dock.
“What’s going to happen when the detector doesn’t perform up to snuff back in El Salvador?”
“This was always your concern, no matter who bought it. Surely you knew this. But don’t worry. The detector is not totally useless, just partially. You can always claim that the operators are doing something wrong, and even earn more money by sending instructors if you want. It will work good enough to fool people for a long time. And by then you will be out of the picture with your profits, leaving Luckman holding the bag.”
I he
sitated, and Chantal added, “Besides, you’re not selling him guns, after all—just life-saving devices.”
I stood up, having made a decision. “Okay, let’s go meet Dark Zorro.”
Les remained planted on the bed, arms folded across his chest. “I’m still not coming. The less time I have to associate with Crespo, the happier I’ll be.”
Chantal made a noise of resigned disgust. “Be that way, then. You and I will discuss this more when I return.”
* * *
The car was on the expressway heading to the airport before Chantal spoke again. Her heady perfume filled the cabin, and I guessed it was not counterfeit.
“Les is such a little girl sometimes, I wonder what I see in him.”
“You two, ah, are, um, an item, then, I take it.”
“Les and I go way back. It is complicated.”
“I see.”
Her hand resting lightly on my thigh nearly caused me to swerve out of my lane and end my checkered life in a flaming crash. Unlike its coolness when we first shook, that hand now burned through the fabric of my pants.
“It’s an open relationship, you understand.”
“Oh, I understand plenty.”
Chantal removed her hand and said, “But we must attend to our business first.”
“Oh, I could not agree more.”
A small bubble of space surrounded Derian Crespo as he moved down the corridor among the other disembarking passengers from his flight. Some aura he radiated warned even blithely unobservant strangers not to get too close or hinder his freedom of movement.
Nothing about him was particularly scary. Of average height, not too young but not quite middle-aged, with mocha features of unremarkable handsomeness. A shaved head but with lush, neatly groomed mustache and goatee as if to compensate. His clothing was neither extravagant nor cheap. He wore a nice black down vest over a blue soccer jersey of the El Salvador national team. The shirt and his tight designer jeans showed off an athlete’s build. I failed to see a bandolier of bullets or any automatic small arms concealed on his person.
The Deadly Kiss-Off Page 16