The Deadly Kiss-Off

by Paul Di Filippo

  Lina seemed unperturbed. “Gee, just like field conditions in Africa! I’m going to feel right at home. But I might have to up my fee a little if there’s live fire. Let’s call it seventy-five thousand now.”

  Stan, who had earlier lectured me about being too miserly, got a bit testy—I think, mostly on matters of principle.

  “Seventy-five K! For a night’s work? Why can’t we hire some local off-duty cop and his trained mutt for a couple of thousand?”

  Chantal said, “Number one, stealth. Lina and Algy know their infiltration tactics and are less conspicuous than some fat flatfoot and his barking German shepherd. Number two, reliability and confidentiality. Do you really want some drunken city cop bragging about what he did, and it gets back to Crespo?”

  Stan was already nodding. “All right, I see your point. Algy and Lina for the win.”

  Lina said, “I’m going to need a helper. I can’t manage Algy and a satchel full of ANFO props as well.”

  Les chimed in. “Count me and Chantal out. Not what we signed on for. You’re lucky we came up with this idea to save your ass.”

  I looked to Stan, and Stan looked to me. He beat me to the punch.

  “I got this trick knee, and my night vision is going, and I make a pretty goddamn big target.”

  How did I find myself so often in situations not of my choosing, where I had to accept dangerous, dirty jobs that were absolutely crucial to the success of our schemes? Much as I wanted to blame cruel fate, I suspected that somehow I was usually the one responsible for such karmic cock-ups. Maybe if I hewed to the straight and narrow, I wouldn’t find myself in such fixes so often. In other words, forget about it.

  “Okay, I guess that leaves me,” I said. “But I want everyone to know that if I catch a stray round or fall down a pit and break my neck, I am going to come back and haunt every last one of you till your own miserable dying days.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Stan.

  A knock sounded on the connecting door between rooms. Eddie Greenfriars—Lina’s husband, I assumed.

  Chantal went to the door and unlocked it, swinging it wide and stepping back.

  I got a quick impression of Greenfriars as a kind of amiable jock, a bit older than his wife: short hair, trim physique, open-faced good looks. Spotting Chantal, he beamed a huge smile and moved to hug her. She, in turn, registered utter shock, her expression shattering into fragments of alarm—the only time I had ever seen her lose her cool.

  “Cherry! Cherry Goldschlager! Goddamn, you have grown some for sure!”

  43

  Chantal stiffened in the friendly and familiar embrace of Eddie Greenfriars, not returning his hug. She had pivoted slightly away from him in alarm as he came through the door, making it easy for me to observe her face. Her features, normally as unrevealing as Amarillo Slim’s, now displayed her racing train of thought so clearly I could almost narrate it. Deny or affirm? Fight or flight? Bluff or fold? In a second, she had obviously settled on the former stances. She slithered not too rudely out of his grasp and said to Lina, “Your husband thinks he knows me. I’m flattered, of course. But I’m afraid I can’t say the same.”

  Greenfriars looked innocently perplexed, even hurt. “Aw, c’mon, Cherry, I realize it was a long time ago, but you must remember me. I worked for your dad at Raytheon, at the Waltham office. Sy Goldschlager. He brought you into the office practically every weekend, starting when you were ten years old. How you dug all the military stuff! You got so you could talk to the engineers like you were one of them. Not surprising to see you in this line of work now.”

  “This is all a very charming history. But I am afraid my parents in Ghent would be very hurt if I were to disown them so unkindly.”

  Stan, who had been absorbing the drama with a keen and perceptive eye, now stepped forward with an outthrust hand.

  “Eddie, I’m Stan. Stan Hasso. The one and only—not another guy like me on the whole fucking planet. But it is true most of us got doubles. Take my buddy Glen here. Everyone says he looks just like Steve Buscemi. I put him as more of a Don Knotts.”

  Greenfriars laughed heartily. “He doesn’t look like either one of those dorks.”

  “Thanks for the affirmation, Eddie. This is the kind of treatment you get when you partner with a bad amateur comedian who looks like the Hulk.”

  Greenfriars turned back to Chantal, who was now her old model of self-possession. “Awfully sorry, Miz—”

  “Danssaert. Chantal Danssaert.” She put out her slender hand.

  With the focus on Chantal and Greenfriars, I hadn’t paid much attention to Les’ reactions until now. So I was surprised to spot him grinning broadly at his partner’s consternation and subsequent recovery.

  Greenfriars scratched the back of his neck. “Well, Chantal, you sure as hell look like the little girl I knew, all grown up. But maybe my memories are fuzzy. Too much mescal. Hey, sweetie, did Algy strut his stuff yet for these guys?”

  “He aced it, dear. He wasn’t bothered at all by the long drive.”

  From here, the conversation moved easily and without any lingering awkwardness to a recap of our plans, for the sake of Greenfriars. He nodded attentively throughout, then said, “I can get Lina and Glen through that cheap old fence faster than a thirsty tart tonguing out a Jell-O shot. And I’ll leave it looking like no one ever snuck in.”

  With everything falling into order, I felt more sanguine about passing Crespo’s test two days hence. Our infiltration tomorrow night could not come soon enough for me. But there was a lot to do before then.

  Suddenly, I felt really beat, not having slept well on the plane. But I knew I couldn’t falter now. I looked at my phone and saw that it was nearly lunchtime.

  “Why don’t you four go out to eat,” I suggested, “and try to think of any details we may have overlooked. Meanwhile, Stan and I will visit our trail boss.”

  I was halfway out the door and a few feet into the hotel corridor, with Stan already punching the elevator button ahead of me, when Chantal caught up with me. She pitched her voice low.

  “Could I see you tonight sometime? Alone?”

  “Of course. I’ll call.”

  Riding down in the elevator, Stan whistled cheerily and tunelessly until I was forced to say something.

  “You’re happy I’m riding shotgun for Lina and the rat instead of you? Is that it?”

  “Not at all. Just trying to picture what’s gonna happen when you visit Cherry Goldschlager tonight.”

  “You think Greenfriars nailed her real identity?”

  “C’mon, could there be any doubt? I never really bought that ultra-ultra accent and hokey backstory anyhow. But I hadda shut him down. We’re counting on Miss Cherry-Chantal to help us put everything over on Crespo, and we can’t have her waving her arms around with her nerves all shot to pieces. Not that I figure she woulda stayed spooked too long, even without me stepping in. She is one cool cucumber. She’d have to be, to carry off a fake identity for so long and get as far as she has. But whether she sucked her mama’s tit in the USA or Europe, she seems to know her stuff. So I was happy to smooth things out for her.”

  Back in the car, I said, “Can we stop for a hamburger before we see Santo? I feel kind of low-energy.”

  “A burger? As in Mickey D’s? And you claim you got good taste. No sir, I got just the cure for you, boy.”

  Stan delivered us to a funky place called Rudy Spline’s BBQ. The warm, savory smells when we opened the door made me quake at the knees. One whale-size pulled-pork sandwich and a mountain of collard greens later, I felt ready to arm-wrestle Army Ranger Lina Llull to at least a draw.

  * * *

  Vin Santo received us with a mix of annoyance and curiosity. “I never had no partners before who needed so much goddamn hand-holding,” he grumped. “What the hell is it now?”

  I explained ever
ything to the tubby mobster as he drew down the level of his ever-present soda. I had never yet seen a fresh Big Gulp delivered here, and was beginning to suspect that he had a pony keg of the stuff concealed in his desk. I concluded my speech with our scheme of having the Mara Salvatrucha boys attack the guards around the test site—not necessarily in a totally fatal manner, but just enough to lure them away for a while. We didn’t want Crespo’s attention the next day to wander from closing the sale to further thinning the ranks of MS-13.

  Santo said nothing for what seemed an eternity, and I mentally prepared myself for a verbal reaming. So I was taken aback when he said, “Your timely suggestion, my friends, is like being handed the head of my enemy on a silver platter. I been trying to think of how I could make nice with the MS-Thirteen boys after Crespo cut a swath through them, and this is perfect. Consider it done.”

  We departed after receiving a barely discernible congenial quirking of lips from the two guardian goons at the door—the equivalent of a whoop and a high five from anyone else.

  “Where to now?” Stan said.

  “I want to see Luckman and impress on him that his performance day after tomorrow has to be flawless.”

  We headed to the factory, where we found Caleb, Sandralene, and the professor in the office. Sandy and Caleb sat side by side at a long table, going over some printouts together. She had one lower leg pressed lightly against his. I looked to Stan to see if he noticed or cared, but he seemed untroubled by any innocent intimacy between the childhood sweethearts.

  “Sandy! Johnny Reb! Look who I brung home.”

  Caleb stood, and Sandy jumped up and hugged me, then pushed me to arm’s length, her hands still on my shoulders, and demanded, “Well?”

  “It’s all cool with Nell,” I said, “thanks to both your caring intervention and my innate irresistibility.”

  She squealed, which for Sandy amounted not to an adolescent’s shrill warble but to something more like a lioness’ exultant red-fanged chuffing cry upon bringing down a gazelle.

  “I knew you two could make up nice! I’m so happy, Glen.”

  Caleb shook my hand solemnly. “Congratulations, Glen. It’s always nice to see lovers reunite.” His voice held a note of melancholy, though.

  I turned then to Luckman, who had not joined in welcoming me back. He had been sitting apart from the others, evidently studying the cutaway LBAS demo model. He continued to peer solemnly into its guts like a wizard trying to unriddle some chicken entrails, and with about as much success. He looked haggard, with uncombed hair, two-day beard, rumpled shirt—worn down by the demands put on him and his dream device, its failures, and the compensatory cheating required.

  “Ronald, it’s good to see you again,” I said. “I hope you’re ready to impress our buyer day after tomorrow. You’ve got to do us all proud.”

  “‘Vanity of vanities; all is vanity. What profit hath a man of all his labor which he taketh under the sun?’”

  This was not exactly the rah-rah attitude I had been hoping for and that would glide us to success. I pondered how to buck him up.

  Caleb came over to Luckman, leaned down, and whispered in his ear. The professor sighed, seemed to shake himself temporarily out of his fugue, then reasserted at least a pale shadow of the enthusiasm he had shown us that day we first saw his device.

  “Glen, I intend to do my best to get through this trial without disgrace,” he said. “I just wish it were not necessary to fudge matters so. If you were to trust me on fine-tuning the LBAS—”

  Stan interrupted. “No way, José! You just set it for that ANFO stuff and follow the plan.”

  “All right, all right. But, Glen, I did have one more item of concern. These Sombra Negra people—are you sure they’re on the up-and-up? I’ve been reading a few disconcerting things about them online. You know I won’t stand for my invention to be perverted.”

  “Oh, sure, they’re good people. Don’t you worry about that. Listen, why don’t you go home to Rosa and rest up for at least a day? No more work for a while. Take it easy.”

  Luckman wearily stood. “Rosa, yes, that’s a good idea. Although she’s been a little impatient with me lately. Says I can’t get out of my own way. I suppose she’s right. She always is.”

  Caleb and Sandy walked Stan and me out to the car. None of us had anything useful to say regarding Luckman’s unsettling decline.

  “When ya coming home tonight, babe?”

  “Caleb and I have to work a little late, Stan. You know how it is.”

  “Sure, sure, it’s all so’s we win, and win big. I get it. I’ll see ya when I see ya, then. But in the meantime …”

  Stan and Sandy went into a passionate clinch that reminded me of Bigfoot sexing up an Amazon. Caleb and I each found imaginary things elsewhere that required our attention.

  Driving away, Stan said, “Jesus, I couldn’t get by for one second without that woman. I’m glad you and Nellie hooked up again. Meant to tell you that before now.”

  “Thanks. Let me see the time … almost four. Let’s head back to the condo so I can get a little rest before tonight.”

  * * *

  I never passed out so swiftly or experienced such a deep, almost sedated sleep. When my alarm went off at 9:00 p.m., I had to reassemble my personality from pieces scattered across several distant dimensions. But I felt like a million bucks—or five million, actually, given our impending score.

  Out in the living room, Stan, in a frowsy tracksuit, was slumped like a lazy leopard on the couch and eating ice cream from the carton. The TV was tuned to Ice Road Truckers.

  “What a great life these guys got. Didn’t you kinda like when you and me was hauling freight, Glen? Things were simpler, that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s good to know we have job options if we fail. Yukon Territory, here we come.”

  “Say hi to Cherry Goldschlager for me if you see her.”

  * * *

  I had texted Chantal I was coming, so I was not surprised when the door to her and Les’ suite opened swiftly to my knock.

  Les was not present. Maybe in the other room? Sent away on some errand? No matter, Chantal’s presence filled this space. Her expensive scent beckoned me in, and this time her traditional Euro greeting of parallel kisses made firm contact with my cheeks and not with the air over my shoulders.

  She wore what I would call harem pants, although they sported a subtler cut. Lilac georgette crepe with an elastic waist. Her pale-rose silk pullover blouse stopped short to display her navel. Her feet were bare.

  I tried to joke, although my voice sounded a little squeaky at first.

  “Did you emerge like smoke from a bottle, or what?”

  Chantal’s laughter was effervescent and delightful. “That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me lately, including Les.”

  “Speaking of, where is he?”

  “Oh, around. Here, sit down. I’ve ordered us some real drinks from room service.”

  I took up a spot on the couch, and Chantal sat about a foot away. A frosted pitcher disbursed margaritas as strong as my desire to help her out of what few clothes she wore.

  She sipped her drink, then said, “I was worried you would be put off or lose trust in me because of that silly incident earlier today. You know, when Lina’s husband thought he recognized me. How utterly ridiculous that was!”

  “Well, really, Chantal, I don’t care about your past. It’s only your performance now that matters. And you haven’t let us down. Your plan to defuse Crespo’s test—just brilliant, really. We are in your debt.”

  She sidled closer. “How I hoped that would be your reaction! It would have been so inconvenient and, yes, disturbing to me if you had given any credence to the bizarre notion of my being some gawky suburban girl who had sought to remake herself into a cosmopolitan creature. Who would ever do such a thi
ng? It would smack of desperation, I think.”

  “Oh, I agree completely. Better to be whatever we’re born to be, I say.”

  “Well, perhaps I wouldn’t go so far as to say in all cases. But for me, I’m very happy with what I am and what I have, and I would hate to see it put in jeopardy. I have found that reputation is everything in life. So, again, you have my deepest gratitude for your faith in me.”

  When she leaned forward to proffer a small kiss emblematic of that gratitude, there was still time and resistance enough for me to apply the brakes. But when she laid her hand on my thigh as she had that night in the car, I was a goner.

  She toppled backward on the wide, long couch, pulling me onto her. The silk blouse whisked away, my shirt unbuttoned itself, and the harem pants slithered to the carpet.

  And then, in my carnal fog, I sensed someone beside us.

  Boyish Les Qiao stood watching with his typical wry expression. Without speaking a word, he pulled his dress shirt off over his head.

  I wanted Chantal, sure, but maybe not this badly.

  I’m not sure what I expected to see, but it wouldn’t have been a too-small sports bra tight enough to press into Les’ narrow sides and chest.

  Off went the bra to reveal the loveliest pair of middling-size natural breasts.

  “Oh, it feels like heaven to get that off!” Les said, rubbing the red marks where the bra had dug in. I wondered how I could ever have thought that voice was male. It appeared that, this time anyway, Les was indeed more.

  44

  Les hadn’t even bothered to change her name—just abbreviated it from “Leslie.” She had begun dressing like a boy in middle school. Her unadorned explanation was that she just found male clothes more comfortable and authentic-feeling, reflective of her inner spirit. No deductions about sexual preference were to be drawn. In college, however, where she and Chantal met—which college and how never came up—she had come out as bisexual. She and Chantal became lovers, although Chantal likewise refused to define her mutable appetites by the usual labels. And as I could now attest, she was not averse to male attentions of the carnal sort. In fact, I felt as if I had done a three-way with the Mata Hari and Catherine the Great.