by John Locke
“Cancel them,” she says.
“Outside this club, you’re on my turf,” he snarls. “Bad things happen on my turf. You been warned.”
Willow gives him a look of her own. Then says, “Roy, you’re a bug on my windshield. Nothing more.”
When he leaves, Carmine says, “You got balls, I’ll give you that. But you better re-think this thing with Roy.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a mean son of a bitch.”
Willow shrugs.
“I won’t lie to you. He beats the shit out of the girls sometimes.”
Willow yawns.
“I’m serious. He broke a girl’s jaw once, for talking back. Crushed another one’s cheekbones.”
Willow says, “I’m not afraid.”
“Why not?”
She bats her goldenrod eyes at him and says, “You’ll take care of me.”
Carmine gives her a long look, then says, “The other girls think Roy’s the power around here.”
“Why should you and I care what they think?”
Carmine scrunches up his face in thought and says, “Roy thinks I’m ripe for the plucking.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He’s one step away from making a run at me.”
“Then maybe we should put him in his place.”
Carmine gives her a long, wistful look.
His voice softens. “You remind me of things from long ago.”
“What sorts of things?”
“Honey-suckle. Swimming at Blue Lake. Stick ball. Kick the can. You know, kid things.”
He smiles.
Willow says, “Who’s the first girl you ever felt up?”
“Excuse me? Did you just say ‘felt up’?”
She nods.
“You mean kissed?”
“Nope. Felt up.”
He laughs. “Seriously?”
“I’m told you never forget your first feel.”
“Mary Jane Milligan.”
She smiles. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“And she was?”
“The same. During lunch she’d stand by the oak tree in the school yard, let you feel her up for a quarter.”
Willow laughs. “A quarter?”
“Don’t laugh. That was a big number in those days.”
“Did she lift up her shirt, or what?”
“In the early days she’d flash you for a quarter. But the boys grew wise to it.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’d keep an eye on her. When she got a customer they’d run over and surround her and try to catch a free peek.”
“So she modified her business plan? From flashing to fondling?”
Carmine throws his head back and laughs. “Modified her business plan!” he says. He laughs some more.
Then says, “What, you attended Harvard Business School?”
“I wish.”
He laughs again, and dabs the corners of his rheumy eyes with his sleeve.
“Milligan,” Willow says. “Irish, yes?”
He nods.
“Catholic girl? Red hair?”
“You’re good, I’ll give you that!”
“Freckles?”
He nods again.
“Big boobs?”
He throws back his head and roars with laughter.
“What?”
“She was only fourteen!”
“So? Big boobs, or no?”
He laughs. “My father had bigger tits. But Mary Jane was the only game in town.”
“Did she let you touch them, or just her blouse?”
Carmine shakes his head and chuckles. “You really want to hear this?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“I’ve known you five minutes, I’m tellin’ you shit my wife don’t know after fifty-five years of marriage.”
“You’re going to tell me lots of things your wife doesn’t know.”
“You think so, huh?”
Willow smiles.
“I never met anyone like you before,” he says.
“I know,” Willow says. “And you never will.”
8.
Washington, D.C.
Donovan Creed.
I WORK FOR Sensory Resources, a clandestine branch of Homeland Security, headquartered eighty-five miles south-west of Bedford, Virginia, on two hundred acres of government land. My job is to recruit, train, and supervise assassins to help me kill suspected terrorists on American soil.
How do we determine the death-worthiness of a group or individual?
Good question.
Because there’s no one-size-fits-all among terrorists, and no handbooks, and because information is often spotty, we follow the advice of the celebrated early-American folk hero, frontiersman, soldier, and statesman, Davy Crockett, who said, “Be sure you’re right, and then go ahead,” which for us roughly translates into “Kill first, ask questions later.”
Because the government doesn’t recognize us, they can’t pay us. But we’re resourceful. We steal from our victims. Perform free-lance hits for the mob. Use insider information to enhance the return on our investment portfolios.
The importance of today’s meeting is underscored by my private jet’s receipt of clearance to land on the Sensory Resources airstrip, which is normally reserved for the two fighter jets we keep on twenty-four-hour alert. Though I’ve been with the agency more than a dozen years, this is only the fourth time I’ve touched down on the home-field runway.
Let me catch you up to speed. The former head of Sensory was a guy named Darwin, whom everyone thinks was killed by my one-time facilitator, Lou Kelly. Lou was all set to take Darwin’s place, but he turned up dead.
Here’s the twist: everyone thinks Darwin was the code name for my friend, Doc Howard, but the real Darwin is alive and well. His name is Dr. Eamon Petrovsky. He’s a retired surgeon living in Vegas.
I call him Dr. P.
Dr. P. will soon be heading up Vegas Moon, the plastic surgery center and spa I plan to open as a sideline business in a few weeks.
With Lou Kelly suddenly dead, panic has set in among the six people on earth who possess detailed knowledge of our little group of government assassins. Those six are currently sitting on the other side of the door I’m staring at, in the agency’s conference room. Their meeting started at ten this morning. Shortly thereafter they called me, told me to come immediately. Charter a private jet. Land on site.
I get that. Time is of the essence. Decisions need to be made.
But in typical government fashion, they’ve got me sitting on my hands in the ante room while doctors, scientists, and members of Sensory’s elite security staff enter and exit the room practically nonstop.
After two hours of sitting, I tell the young guard if they want me they can find me in my office down the hall.
“My orders are to keep you here in the ante room, sir,” the guard says, nervously.
“Why?”
“To protect you.”
I laugh.
He laughs.
I say, “I’ll be in my office, son.”
He looks uncomfortable.
“I’ve got bourbon there,” I say, then add, “You can join me, Tommy, if you like.”
He bites his lip.
This is a nice kid, Tommy Cooper. I knew his dad. I’m the one who got Tommy this guard job at Sensory. Though he’s young, he’s a stone killer, an elite fighting man.
I see the fingers of his right hand twitch ever-so-slightly.
“Tommy,” I say.
“I take my job seriously, Mr. Creed.”
I sigh. “I know you do, son.”
“Then please, sir. Stay in the room with me.”
“I’ve been here two hours.”
“Yes sir.”
“It’s Pappy Van Winkle bourbon, Tommy.”
“I get off duty at midnight,” he says. “In case that offer’s still on the table.”
I like this kid. He
reminds me of me, except for the part about following orders.
I look at my watch.
“Tommy, out of respect for your father, I’ll give them two more hours. Then I’m drinking.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You understand what I’m saying, son?”
“Yes sir.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re giving me two hours to live.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
9.
AN HOUR LATER the conference room door opens and everyone walks out.
“Bathroom break,” Sherm Phillips says, as he walks past me.
Sherm’s failure to shake my hand wasn’t a slight. He knows I don’t shake hands. In my line of work I have to assume any attempt to touch me is an attempt on my life. The other members of the Homeland Security team know that, too. They won’t even make eye contact with me.
The Sherm Phillips here is the same one you know as the U.S. Secretary of Defense. When he returns from the bathroom he says, “Sorry for the wait. Give us five more minutes, okay?”
“Okay.”
Sherm’s a good guy. One of the few I’ve met in government who actually thinks our country is more important than his job title.
Twenty minutes later the door opens and I’m invited to join them.
“Good luck, sir,” Tommy says as I pass in front of him.
I stop a moment and look him in the eyes.
“Am I being set up?” I say.
“I don’t know, sir.”
I search his face for deception, but find none.
“Don’t do it, son.”
“We’re on the same side, Mr. Creed.”
“They always say that. Until we’re not.”
“Understood.”
I continue into the conference room where the Big Six are seated around the polished oak table. Sherm’s there, as is Randolph Scott, Director, Homeland Security. Senator Colin Scherer gives me a nod. Annie Lorber and Emerson Watkins virtually ignore me. They’re the children of Sensory’s co-founders, Bill Lorber and Bob Watkins, both deceased. The sixth member is chairing the meeting.
“Mr. Creed,” he says, “I’m Preston Mooney, agency director, LSR. I think you know the others. Please, take a seat.”
The table seats twelve. Mooney’s at the head, with the others flanking him, which means there are six empty seats between us. I sit at the foot of the table, keeping as many seats between us as possible. At the same time, I realize my back is to the door.
I don’t like having my back to the door, and it probably shows because Mooney says, “You seem tightly wound, Mr. Creed.”
“If you’ve summoned me here to kill me, you’ve made a big mistake.”
“I don’t understand,” he says.
“We’re in the same room,” I say.
I remove three quarters from my pocket, stand, walk to the door, and push them into the door jamb, effectively locking us all in the room together.
“Donovan,” Sherm says. “Relax. No one’s trying to kill you.”
“I want to believe you,” I say, “but my senses are on high alert.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mooney says.
Sherm says, “It means if someone suddenly farts, none of us will live to smell it.”
Annie Lorber wrinkles her nose in disgust.
I reclaim my seat.
“What’s LSR?” I say. “What do you do?”
“That information is beyond your pay grade,” Mooney says.
“You don’t pay me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t get paid for my work, here. I have to moonlight to pay the bills.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You said your agency’s initials are beyond my pay grade. I don’t have a pay grade.”
Preston Mooney rolls his eyes. “It’s a figure of speech,” he says.
“I don’t really care about the initials,” I say. “But I do want to know what happened to Lou Kelly.”
Mooney gives me a sour look.
“I’m told you’re a primitive man,” he says. “But be advised there are parliamentary rules and procedures for conducting a meeting. As long as I’m chairman, we’ll follow those rules.”
I look at Sherm Phillips, who shakes his head as if to say, “See what I have to deal with every day?”
10.
“AS THE OTHER members of the committee are aware,” Mooney says, “Lou Kelly accidentally contracted dimethylmercury poisoning.”
“Accidentally?” I say.
Sherm Phillips says, “Miles Gundy’s work.”
I nod. Miles Gundy, now deceased, was a disgruntled corporate chemist-turned-urban terrorist.
Sherm adds, “The poison was spread by physical contact. Apparently Gundy combined it with a five hour virus.”
“What about Lou’s girlfriend?”
“Sherry Cherry?”
I nod.
“Dead.”
Sherry was Rachel Case’s mother. Rachel being my former girlfriend. Current girlfriend, if you’re asking her. Rachel’s being held in an underground bunker in the government facility at Mt. Weather where government scientists are harvesting her eggs.
But that’s another story for another time.
“Do you have a final body count?” I ask Sherm.
Sherm’s answer is interrupted by a banging sound. All eyes turn to Preston Mooney, who has a little circular cylinder of wood on the table that he’s hitting with—I shit you not—a miniature wooden gavel.
“Order!” he shouts.
“Seriously?” I say.
“Gundy’s total body count was eight hundred sixty,” Sherm says.
Mooney gives him a withering look.
“Sorry,” Sherm says.
Mooney clears his throat. “The reason we sent for you—”
“I’ll take the job,” I say.
“Excuse me?” Mooney frowns. “You can’t just come in here and—”
“Can someone else in here do the job?” I say.
They look around the table at each other. The short answer is no.
“Does someone here want the job?” I say.
They search each other’s faces again.
I say, “Do you have any outside candidates in mind?”
Mooney says, “There are a number of gifted people we can transition into the job.”
“Seriously?”
He smiles a thin-lipped smile. “Does that surprise you, Mr. Creed?”
“Yes. And delights me, as well.”
He frowns. “How so?”
“I can’t tell you how many things I’d rather do than be head of Sensory Resources.”
I stand, preparing to leave.
“Wait. Sit down,” Mooney says. “We haven’t begun the questioning!”
“With all due respect, I have no interest in being Director of Sensory Resources.”
“None?”
“None.”
“Why?”
“It’s a shit job.”
Mooney says, “You were informed by phone you were a candidate?”
“I was.”
“But you aren’t interested in the job?”
“That’s correct.”
Mooney looks around the table. “Who else has a prospective candidate?”
Emerson Watkins and Annie Lorber look at each other, but say nothing. I wonder what that’s about.
Mooney looks at me. “If you don’t want the job, why did you say you’d take it?”
“I thought you needed me.”
They look at each other. Some are indignant, others puzzled.
Annie Lorber says, “Why would you volunteer to do a job you hate?”
“To protect my country.”
Director Scott says, “Good answer. You’ve got the job.”
Mooney says, “He needs to be interviewed first. There are procedures.”
Senator Scherer says, “Fuck the procedures. He’s got us by th
e balls.”
Director Scott says, “There are no other candidates, Preston. You know it, I know it, he knows it.”
Mooney says, “The committee has spent a great deal of time and effort preparing a list of questions to determine the candidate’s suitability for the job!”
Sherm says, “Those are your questions, Mr. Chairman, not ours.”
Mooney bangs the gavel and raises his voice. “I’m the government liaison to Sensory Resources. I report directly to the President! I will be heard!”
Sherm says, “Creed already answered the only two questions that count. He hates the job and loves his country. Anything else you ask is as helpful as whale shit on a hockey rink.”
Mooney says, “These questions need to be asked. It’s part of the process. His responses will be sealed in his permanent file.”
“Maybe you can just look up all the shit I did in elementary school,” I say, trying to be helpful. “The principal assured me it would all go on my permanent record.”
“Question number one,” Mooney says, looking at his notes. “Which political party do you endorse?”
“Neither,” I say.
“No one’s neutral. You either lean one way or the other.”
“I kill Democrats and Republicans alike. And anyone else who needs killing. And yes, that includes religious persuasions, in case that’s your next question.”
Mooney frowns and reads from his sheet. “Question number two. What is your religious preference?”
His face turns red.
He scans three pages of questions and finally comes up with this:
“Have you ever killed a man?”
The committee members look at each other, then at me, then burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Mooney says.
“You want me to ask him a real qualifying question?” Sherm says. “Suppose a dozen secret service personnel are jogging with the President, and we get a rumor one plans to kill him. What do you do?”
“Kill them all.”
Mooney blurts out, “What is this, a joke? The secret service is the most highly-trained security force on earth!”
“They’re easy targets,” I say.
“Why?”
“Their job is to protect the President.”
“So?”
“Who’s protecting them?”