by Seeley James
I shoved a knee between his legs, unsportsmanlike conduct meant to surprise even the most jaded mafia goon. The pain was evident in his repressed flinch.
He jabbed a hand in his pocket only to find mine already wrapped around the grip of his handgun, finger on the trigger.
“What story will you tell your boss when he picks you up at the hospital?” I asked.
Fear crossed his face in a short-lived flash. “Hospital?”
“After I blow your toe off—with your gun—it would be smart to have a professional stitch up the stump.”
He didn’t answer.
Using his thigh as a friction stop, I ejected the chambered round and the magazine while he fought for the weapon. The poor bastard managed to catch that soft piece of flesh between the thumb and index finger in the gun’s slide. My new friend’s heart rate rose fast.
I like to see fear in my adversaries. It helps establish my alpha status and improves my negotiating position. I turned my blade around, letting the sharp edge shave a small piece of his neck.
Pulling the weapon out of his pocket, I held it up for scrutiny. A Springfield Armory 1911 TRP. A century of proven American pistol technology in a .45 caliber. It was a beautiful piece with rails for lights or lasers. The weapon of choice for the FBI.
But this guy was hardly FBI material.
He tried to squirm out of my grip.
My kick landed just below the back of his knee. If you hit the spot hard enough you can deliver a compound fracture to the tibia, popping it out the front of your adversary’s leg and shredding his ligaments. I didn’t have the room for that violent a blow, but mine was effective enough to send him sprawling knees-first across the alley’s filthy asphalt.
I sat on his back and went through his pockets. He attempted a wrestling move or two that caused him to utter painful groans, which I attributed to his dysfunctional knee.
Jago Seyton of Duncan, Hyde and Koven had a nice white business card with no title next to his name. Interesting. Tailed by an employee of the very lobbying firm I was assigned to visit. The lobbying business was tougher than I thought.
Mercury said, Oh dude, this is going to be so awkward. You totally overreacted. I said he was following you, not trying to kill your mama.
I said, Your exact words were, ‘shoot him in the head.’
Mercury picked at his toga. That was before I knew who he was.
Rising, I kicked Jago. He craned over his shoulder with a look I’d only seen in the other hemisphere.
When you defeat an enemy without killing him, he’s either a) submissive; b) resentful but compliant; or c) driven to a new state of hateful revenge—like a jihadist. This guy was in the hateful revenge camp.
“Why the cloak-and-dagger crap, Skippy?” I tried to help him up.
He refused my hand. “Name’s Jago. On my way to work. You assaulted me.”
“You passed your office—twice.”
His knee refused to cooperate so I yanked his coat collar and brought him upright. I offered him a piece of chewing gum which he refused, so I chomped on it. “Talk to me, Skippy. Make up a good one.”
“It’s Jago.” He turned to hobble away.
I spun him back around. “Who wants to know where I go and what I do?”
He pulled back and said nothing.
“Tell you what,” I said. “You introduce me to Senator Hyde and I won’t say anything about your abject failure at tailing me today.”
Another fleeting look of fear crossed his face. Nothing scares a clandestine type more than telling his boss his target beat him. He twisted out of my grip and limped to the street. I followed a step behind and stuck my wad of gum deep into the barrel of his pistol.
We wove our way through pedestrians to his building and up the elevator. Our carriage doors opened into a marble-and-oak reception lobby resembling the Senate floor. A stunning young lady behind a huge desk smeared her makeup with a tissue.
“Wants to see the Senator.” Jago thumbed over his shoulder at me. He walked away.
The girl sniffled into a fresh tissue and held up a finger to put me on hold.
Another supermodel secretary rounded the corner. The two women looked at each other and burst into tears.
I took off my topcoat, folded it over my arm, and double-checked my suit. If Jago left his blood on it, I was going to be pissed. I only own one and it cost more than my first car. I was too cheap to spring for the shirt and tie and everything else the salesman wanted to nickel-and-dime me with, so I had on a t-shirt that read, WANT TO MEET ALLAH? PISS OFF AN ARMY RANGER. When you wear a shirt like that, you find out how many of your friends are Muslims. I wore it once and got an earful from everyone, but I skipped laundry day last week, so.
A third secretary came in, wearing a hijab. I pulled my jacket tight and buttoned it.
The crying was punctuated by statements of grief: he was so young; what will the firm do without him; he was the best boss ever.
Tom Duncan’s existence was as much of a shock to me as his death was to them, but Ms. Sabel texted a cryptic instruction and I was learning about the firm on my way. The guys from the Gottleib funeral would be pleased.
“Excuse me.” I leaned over the reception desk. “It’s been a while. He’s still in the corner office on the right?”
One of them nodded and pointed. I moved quickly through pale beige halls filled with mutually consoling co-workers until I saw Mercury leaning against a massive oak door.
Mercury said, You don’t have an appointment, bro. Maybe you should pull the fire alarm.
I said, I got this.
Mercury said, This place gives me the creeps. I’ll chill with the ladies at the front desk. Someone needs to help them with their grieving, give them a shoulder to cry on. You need me, just holla.
The door behind him swung open and a stately woman wearing an Akris business suit stalked out. I only knew the brand because Ms. Sabel bought one for her grandmother’s birthday and sent me to pick it up. The thing cost as much as a college education.
As we passed in the hall, the lady squinted at me as if I were mud on her shoe. She had a helmet of auburn hair without a trace of the gray one expects in a woman of her age. Some women are just lucky, I guess. I tried to place her familiar face. She’d been on the news. Maybe she was a prime minister or a queen somewhere. I leaned toward queen. She looked like the kind who would have your head chopped off with a wave of her hand.
I averted my eyes.
When I reached the door she’d exited, I cranked the knob and threw it open. An old guy with a beet-red, swollen nose looked up from a memo. A ring of white hair circled his head just above his ears. A smudge of lipstick stood out on his white collar, just below his ear. He was on the bottom end of his career, a candidate for retirement in any other company, his job safe only because his name was on the door.
“Senator Hyde, Alan Sabel sent me on behalf of Sabel Industries to offer a toast in Tom’s memory.”
He blinked his red, puffy eyes at me.
I stood at attention. “Jacob Stearne, at your service, sir.”
Hyde dropped his memo and leaned back, regarding me. “Bullshit.”
“I would never bullshit a senator, sir.” I reached in my coat pocket, pulled a sterling silver flask bearing Alan Sabel’s initials, and filled from his personal bar at Sabel Gardens. I set it on the desk. From my side pocket, I produced two shot glasses with sterling silver inlays of the big guy’s initials and set them next to the flask.
He smiled and let out a wet, congested laugh. He waggled two fingers at the flask.
I handed it to him.
He popped the cap and sniffed, raising one eyebrow. He recapped the flask and handed it back to me. “Alan Sabel sent me to fucking rehab. He did not send you to toast my partner’s murder.”
“Oh, sorry, sir.” I coughed. “I didn’t know. The tequila was my idea. I’m not good with Washington etiquette, so I relied on my upbringing. No offense intended.”
> “Where you from, boy?”
“Iowa. We toast on the news of someone’s passing, sir.”
Behind him, Mercury walked on the credenza and stopped at the crystal decanter. He picked it up, pulled the top, and turned the empty vessel upside down.
I said, I thought you were helping the ladies.
Mercury said, Bunch of goddamn atheists.
Hyde nodded and stuck out his bottom lip as he thought. “Just out of curiosity, what kind of tequila is it?”
“Trono Imperialista, Añejo, 1987.”
“As I recall, we had the same tradition in South Dakota.” He nodded at the flask. Then at the glasses. He sniffed and licked his lips and leaned forward.
I poured out a shot each, held one, and offered the other. He took it, downed the shot like a pro, and held up the glass for a refill.
Mercury said, You’ve done some sleazy shit in your day, Dawg, but this one ranks up there with sleeping with your best friend’s wife.
I said, Hey! She told me he left her. How was I supposed to know he only ‘left her’ for a weekend in the reserves? But yeah, this feels as bad as that turned out.
I poured Hyde another.
“What’s your toast then?” he asked. He held the glass under his nose and inhaled.
I stood up straight. “Tom Duncan lives in the hearts he left behind and therefore will never die.”
We clinked glasses. I sipped and Hyde gulped.
His eyes watered, he smacked his lips as he exhaled. “Sweet and aged, a worthy combination. Thank god it was better than your toast.”
He held up his glass. I poured.
Hyde turned to the ceiling and offered a toast of his own. “Until we meet again Tom Duncan, may God hold you in the palm of his hand.”
An instant later, he motioned for a refill.
He laughed his second toast. “Here’s to being single, drinking doubles, and seeing triple.”
My first shot was still half-full when he held up his glass for his fifth. The flask was light, but I poured with a flourish and saw his face fall when I shook out the last drop. He held his drink close to his chest as if someone might try to wrench it out of his hands.
“What do you know about these Velox fellows?” he asked.
“They’re competitors, Senator.”
He pointed to the chair behind me. “Sabel’s full of veterans, Velox is full of veterans. I’m sure you know some of them. I can’t believe they’d murder Tom for sport.”
“I know a few.” I took the offered seat. “One was charged with rape but got off on a technicality. Another one did two years for spilling classified intel. Those are the only guys I know.”
He sighed, patted his tie, and turned to the window. When my eyes followed his gaze, he downed his last drink.
“What kind of argument did you have with Gottleib, anyway?” he asked.
“Someone else had an argument with Gottleib.”
“Shame about that young man. He had a future. Not like some of these other guys.”
“He worked for you?”
“Tom pulled the staff out from under me after my last accident.”
Yet another supermodel with ruined makeup leaned in the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt. What should I tell people about a funeral?”
His watery eyes swam up and down her figure. “Take names and email addresses, tell them we’ll inform them when we know.”
“Who is going to make arrangements?” she asked.
“How the hell would I know?” Hyde said with a quick glare. He turned away. “Marthe Koven, I suppose. She’ll know what to do.”
With a scornful look at me, she pulled the door closed behind her.
“What did Gottleib tell you?” Hyde asked.
“He said I saved the 3/2 and now I had to save something else, but he died before he explained.”
Hyde nodded and looked at his empty glass. “You know what I hate?”
“No, sir.”
“Women in tears.” He stood, shrugged into his suit jacket, stuck his winter coat under his arm. “You’re a good listener and I need lunch.”
He gestured to the door. We hurried past the worker bees as if we were making a prison break and grabbed an elevator.
Powdered snow, light enough to float on the breeze instead of falling to the ground, swirled around us as we made our way up K Street. Traffic filled streets narrowed by slush.
“You got me thinking,” I said. “I don’t see the Velox guys shooting your partner in the face.”
“You don’t think they’re killers?”
“They’re killers all right, but they’d shoot him in the back.”
He laughed.
I was serious.
“Who was that woman who left your office before I came in?” Our feet crunched on the snow covered sidewalk and slipped on the ice underneath. “She looked familiar.”
“Katy Hellman, the former heiress to Fuchs News.” He laughed. “She’d kill to scoop headlines.”
“Former?”
“Her father, being an old-school sexist, recently announced he’s leaving the news empire to his lazy son instead of Katy. She’s not amused, to say the least.”
A man stepped into our path, opening the door to DC Coast, one of the finest eateries in the area. “Senator, it’s been too long. Your usual table?”
Hyde gave the man a polite nod. We followed him to a booth in back.
I ordered the goat cheese chili relleno and the catfish tacos because the chef inside of me wanted to steal the recipes. He ordered a shot of tequila and a piece of bread. The instant our waiter left, the bartender appeared and flourished a cocktail napkin on the table and set a shot glass on it. They exchanged appreciative nods.
“It’s not polite to stare at a man while he’s drinking.” He took half a sip of the gold liquid. “I’m grieving. I’ve lost a partner and my firm.”
I closed my mouth and felt bad for a second.
“Who do you think killed David Gottleib?” I asked.
He adjusted the napkin under his shot glass. “Who killed Tom Duncan?”
“Word is the crime scene contradicts statements made.” My chili relleno arrived, steaming. “What kind of thing was Gottleib into that someone would kill for?”
Hyde smiled and waved at someone across the room.
I dug into the relleno and nearly burned my tongue. Melted cheese can be deceptively hot.
“Do you know the founder of Velox, Shane Diabulus?” He downed the rest of his drink and waved his empty at the bartender.
“I shot him once, does that count?” I forked open the relleno to cool it. Wild mushrooms and corn relish topped with a mild salsa. “Unfortunately, he lived.”
Hyde kept his attention on the bartender until he was acknowledged.
I said, “What kind of lobbying do you do that calls for Shane’s type of protection?”
Mercury slid into the booth too close for comfort. Dude, so uncool. Not only are you feeding alcohol to an addict, you’re letting him pump you for information? Get your sorry act together.
I said, I can handle this if you just let me concentrate.
Mercury said, I know how hard that is for you. Just pay attention this time. He’s a high functioning binge drinker.
Hyde said, “Daryl Koven pushed the Oman deal to your firm but Pia Sabel hasn’t had the decency to send a thank-you note much less schedule a meeting. A hundred-million-dollar contract and she’s not even asking about special instructions. What an ill-mannered diva. I heard Alan’s out and she’s in, taking over everything. Is she dumping her father’s business partners?”
I chopped up the big pepper and blew on it. “What did you guys expect her to do with the extra $20 million?”
“I asked you a question,” he said.
“No change in the executive offices.” I dug into my food.
He stared at me long enough to make me uncomfortable. I dropped my fork and stared back.
“The cops accused me of murd
er,” I said. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
“Alan Sabel didn’t send you.” He cackled his way into a hacking cough. “He would’ve sent a polished exec who appreciates subtlety.”
He watched me eat as if the sight of solid food revolted him.
Between bites, I turned a wistful gaze toward the ceiling and let a finger wave to the beat of my words. “You know that thing the Midwestern moms do, where Mary brings Cathy lettuce from her garden one day and Cathy returns with tomatoes for Mary the next? That’s the part of back home I miss. Neighborly exchanges like that.” I turned my gaze to him. “Wouldn’t it be neighborly to answer one of my questions since I’ve been nice enough to answer yours?”
Hyde downed his shot, exhaled, and rolled the empty glass between his palms. “That was subtle.”
I ate while he thought. “I’m not afraid of you because you didn’t kill David.”
“How do you know?”
He sighed and looked three different directions before reluctantly meeting my gaze. “Blackson vouched for you. Said they knew you from some battle the jarheads are always bragging about.”
“What is Ms. Sabel supposed to do with the $20 mil?”
“I couldn’t tell you the details.” He paused to shoot a mean glare at the bartender, who was busy hitting on a woman at the bar. “Koven took over some of the contract negotiations while I was away. But when a contract reaches those proportions, there are special circumstances that executives at the highest level need to discuss in person. Not in writing. Not in email. Not over the phone. She should meet with Koven and work it out.”
I polished off the last bite and pushed the plate to the side.
The waiter brought Hyde another shot of tequila and dropped off my tacos. Avacado crèma and pineapple salsa would be laughed out of Mexico, but smelled fine to me.
“How did you meet Shane Diabulus?” I asked.
We eyeballed each other while I chewed.
“He was recommended by staffers on the Senate Intelligence Committee.” He nursed his drink. “Apparently, the CIA has them do all kinds of special work. We found him some investors to grow his business, and he assigns men to keep us covered.”