by Paul Moomaw
The guard slides open a window and looks me over. He is past middle age, and has his wispy gray hair combed carefully over his bald skull. He has a drinker’s nose and eyes, and looks as if standing up hurts his joints.
“Help you?” he says.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a business card.
“I heard this place had lousy security.”
The guard’s eyes narrow at the implied insult.
“At night,” I add, with an apologetic smile. “When you’re not here. They tell me there’ve been some break-ins.”
“First I’ve heard,” the guard says.
“Well, that’s what they said, and that’s why I’m here. I work for these guys.” I hold out the card. He looks it over, but doesn’t offer to take it. The card has the name of a non-existent firm, and identifies me as someone called David Stark. I extend the card toward him again, and this time he takes it. As he looks it over I scan the layout. The gate house itself has two doors, one that opens to the road, and the other on the inside. The camera appears to be fixed, and aimed at an angle that gives it a clear view of the road directly in front of the gate; but anyone under the roof extension would be hidden. The houses are all ersatz Mediterranean. I assume the developer thought that would fit the Spanish Lake setting. Each place has a large brass number in to the side of the front door, and the middle house sports the number four.
“I’m not the person to talk to,” the guard says.
“I understand that. But you’d be doing me a great favor to tell me who I need to see.”
The guard shrugs. “Property management, I guess.”
“They have a name?”
“St. Charles. St. Charles Properties. They handle all that stuff, as far as I know.”
“Hey thanks,” I say, and reach out my hand. “Suppose I could get that card back? I always seem to be running out of the damn things.”
The guard gives me a look that says clearly what he is thinking—if I were any kind of success I would not worry about a card. What I worry about, of course, is leaving my fingerprints behind. He hands the card back. I smile and give him a wave, then start the car up and swing around toward the road. As I drive away, I glance back and see that he is picking up his magazine again.
I drive back to town and park the car in the underground lot at my hotel. I decide I will have to reconnoiter again after dark, to see if hitting Trego at home is a reasonable idea. I do not like the lack of seclusion. In my work, privacy is a nice thing. And he will not be alone. He has family. I do not like that aspect. The body guard may be there, too. If you need one at all, you don’t give him the night off. Bad things can happen at night. If I thought someone was trying to kill me, I would be especially alert at night. I have to assume that Trego will be as well, or at least the man guarding him. I do not like the feel of any of this. It makes me restless. The hotel is right across the street from the small park where the arch that has come to symbolize St. Louis rises. I decided to take a walk. There are hiking paths through the park and along the river. I pick a direction at random and begin to walk, taking long strides, putting a little effort into it. By the time I have gone half a mile I begin to calm down and enjoy myself. The job sinks into the recesses of my mind and I start to take notice of my surroundings. Seen from here, St. Louis is an attractive town. There are enough high rise buildings to give it a city feel without closing things in. The big arch is in a class by itself, remarkably graceful. I wonder who thought of it, where the idea came from, and I promise myself to find out. It is probably one of those promises I will forget I ever made, but at the moment it feels good to be lost in ideas like this, and to step away from whatever the next couple of days hold for me.
At a quarter to ten I leave the hotel again. I reach The Orchards before ten thirty. I get to the neighborhood park, pull into it, and turn off the engine. I get out and begin walking down the side of the road that leads to the gate house. Just past the first curve I sense headlights coming up behind me and duck into the shrubbery on the side of the road. A car goes past. The windows are down and hip hop music fills the air. Teenagers on their way home, I think. I give the car a couple of minutes, then start walking again. When I come in sight of the gate house I stop for a moment and look things over. The place is empty and dark, and that is at least a good start. I move through the bushes and approach the building from the side away from the driveway. I stand close to the wall and then move carefully around to the gate. Staying as much as possible under the roof extension I pull out the key card for the gate and pass it in front of the scanner. Nothing happens. I curse try to look at the card in the dark. I realize I may be holding it backwards, or upside down. I reverse it in my hand and try again. This time their is a click and the gate begins to swing open. At the same time a brilliant security light flashes on. I press myself back against the gate house wall. I had not noticed the light during the day, and I curse myself for my carelessness.
I take a deep breath and sprint through the gate, then duck into the shadow of the hedge and arbor vitae. After half a minute the gate begins to close again, and the light goes off. I wait, and force myself to count to one hundred. Nothing else happens. No one in the houses seems to have noticed anything, and I hope that if anyone did they assumed it was just someone coming home.
For me the urgent question is, what now? I had not counted on the light. It is just one more thing that is not going right with this job. I wait a little longer, then sidle up to the door that is on my side of the gate house. It has a standard knob, and I see no indication of a lock. I take the knob in my hand and give it a twist. It turns with a screech that in reality is tiny, but that sounds to my ears like a banshee wail. I open the door, step inside, and close it behind me, grateful that the security light is not also linked to this door. I reach into my pants pocket and pull out a small key ring light. It is something I bought on impulse a year before, the kind of trivial impulsive act I allow myself on a regular basis. Doing that drains off any excess energy that might lead me to do something big and impulsive and foolish. It is much the way a cat on the hunt allows its excess nervous energy to spend itself in tiny flicks of its tail, so that the rest of it can crouch in utter stillness. This is the first time I have used the light, but now I am glad I have it. I emits a fairly focused, blue light that should not be visible from a distance. I use it to examine the other door. It has a knob with a standard security lock, the kind that locks and unlocks by turning a button in the knob. It is not much of a barrier, something I can get through easily with or without the pick gun I was supplied with.
I begin to believe that this approach may be possible. It will still be tricky. Now I have a way to get onto the property quietly. After that I have to reach Trego’s house. I cannot exactly march up to the front door, knock, and introduce myself; but all houses have back doors, and back doors are often left unlocked. Even when they are not, they are usually fairly easy to get through. I wish I knew if Trego has an alarm system. I would like to think that he trusts the gate for security, but I cannot know that. If he has alarms, I can disable them, given enough time, because at the back of the house I will be out of view of Trego’s neighbors. The way the houses are arranged assures that. I open the inner door and step just outside the gate house. As far as I can tell, the hedge and shrubbery runs the entire length of the fence, even where it curves out of sight and heads toward the little lake. That offers cover. It also allows me to do things one step at a time. I can get into the gate house and out the other side again, then stay in the shelter of the shrubs as I move toward the rear of the development. Then I can slip up to the Trego’s house and look for signs of an alarm system. If there is one, I can find a way to disable it, then slip into the house, find Trego, and kill him. The bodyguard will probably have to go, too, but life has its risks. At least I do not have to worry about dogs.
Just as I step back into the gate house I see headlights reflecting on the bushes that line the access road. I drop t
o the floor and wait. A car rolls up to the gate and I hear the whir of a window going down. There is a loud click, the gate starts to open, and the security light goes on. I crouch lower. The car passes through and after a while the light goes off and the gate begins to close. I sit for a moment longer, and realize I have been holding my breath. I stand up cautiously and watch as the car moves along the circle drive and then turns in at the house to the left of Trego’s. Just as it reaches the driveway, a bright security light goes on at the garage, and another at the front door; and as it starts up the driveway, two more lights go on at Trego’s house.
“Shit,” I mutter. I realize there is no way I can do the job here. I might as well march up to the front door blowing a bugle.
I wait until the car goes into its garage and the lights go off again. Then I slip out of the gate house and walk back to my car. By the time I get back to my hotel I am in a foul mood, and it gets worse when I enter my room and find the message light blinking on the telephone. The message gives me a number to call, and says it is urgent. The number is one of the two I was given at the beginning, not Gordini, but the other one.
“Fuck that,” I say to the telephone as I hang it up. Right now the only urgent thing is figuring out how to get this job done. I go to the bar and grab a bottle of Scotch. It is the last one, but I assume the staff will replenish things. If they do not, I will just drink whatever is there. I become aware that I would enjoy getting drunk right now. It is an unusual feeling. I do not like being drunk ordinarily. Maybe I am desperate and do not know it. I smile, shake my head, and pour the Scotch into a glass. I add a touch of water, settle into the softness of a chair, and raise the glass to my lips. I catch myself taking tiny sips, and wonder what I am trying to prove to myself. I raise the glass high. “Here’s to desperation,” I say, and drain it.
The telephone rings. My impulse is not to answer, but I know I will. I am being well paid, after all, although maybe not enough for this job. I pick up the phone, and before I can speak, a voice says, “You didn’t call.”
“I was occupied,” I say.
“We worry. When are you going to meet with our friend?”
“Meeting him at his home isn’t going to work.”
A long pause, then, “There isn’t much time.”
“I know.”
“You got a plan?”
“I have a plan.”
“Good. Be sure and let us know as soon as you have the meeting.”
“You’ll know,” I say, but he has already hung up.
I slam the phone down, then chide myself for doing that. Losing my temper will not help. I decide that if this were the corporate world, I might be Dilbert, and the man on the other end of the telephone would be the pointy-haired guy. The thought makes me laugh, and right away I feel better.
I open a bottle of Makers Mark whiskey, put an ice cube in the glass, and pour the liquor over it. Then I sit down again. I do have a plan. It is one of last resort, born of desperation, or at least the lack of options. I feel hemmed in. Things have gone out of control, if they ever were in my control to begin with. Now the only way to take control back is with audacity.
I have one last task for the night. I sit down at the computer, go on line, and find American Airlines. I check flights from St. Louis to Seattle and find one that leaves at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I nod in satisfaction. If this works, the timing of that flight will be very good. If it does not work, I may not need a flight tomorrow or any other day. I punch in my ticket number and make a reservation. The flight is not very full, and there are four aisle seats available in first class. I select one, click the “finish” button on the screen, and wait. A couple of minutes later an e-ticket flashes on the screen, with a boarding pass. I print them out on the little ink jet next to the computer. Then I shut the machine down and sigh. It is a deep sigh. This whole thing is making me more tense than I want to be.
I go to the overstuffed chair next to the room’s window, sit down with my drink and let things take form. The job will have to be done quickly, in and out, with no second guessing, and no room for error. I decide that if it works I will have to reward myself, and the reward pops into my mind right away. If I get this done and make it home in one piece, I will buy a new fly rod. I have always wanted a good cane rod, but I have told myself it was too extravagant. Now, I will have earned it.
I get up, pour myself more to drink, and then am hit by a sudden, irresistible impulse. I pick up the cell phone and return to my chair. I hold the phone in my hand for a long time, trapped between impulse and common sense. Finally I succumb to the impulse and, slowly and deliberately, punch in Katherine’s telephone number.
The phone rings several times, and then I get her voice mail, telling me to leave a message. I shut the telephone off and sit their with it in my hand. Nagging doubts assail me. What if she is out with someone else? What if I have been making a fool of myself? I shake my head in amazement. Maybe I really am returning to my teens. Or not returning, because I think I never really experienced them the first time. Maybe I am having a delayed onset.
I laugh grumpily, finish my drink and get ready for bed. I fall asleep quickly and easily, as I almost always do, but some time in the night I dream of Katherine. She is standing in front of me, holding my hand, a soft glow in her eyes, and saying softly, “Daniel, Daniel.” When I wake, the dream lingers, and I lie in bed for a while, savoring its caress.
Chapter 35
In the morning I walk to a stationery store on Market Street three blocks from my hotel and buy a cheap briefcase of brown vinyl trying to look like steer hide with thin metal latches anodized in brass. I purchase a fifty-sheet package of typing paper and a file pocket of brown cardboard with a lace to tie down the flap. Then I return to my hotel to make my final preparations. I go to my car in the basement garage and retrieve the gun case, then go back to my room. I open the case, pull out the gun and silencer, and screw them together. I do not bother with gloves because I will not wear them on this job; they would make me stand out when I need to blend in. If everything goes well I will have time to deal with the gun afterwards.
I unwrap the paper, place it into the file pocket and tie down the flap. Then I put that and the gun into the briefcase, close it, and latch it. The latches are a little out of line, which should be no surprise in such a cheap product, but it irritates me. I take a deep breath. Probably everything will want to irritate me this morning. I will have to not let such small things matter. I go to a chair by the window and sit down with the briefcase in my lap. I spend some time trying to think of nothing, a form of meditation that I am told the Samurai used to clear their minds and spirits before entering a battle. I gaze through the window at the St. Louis Arch. It soars serenely over everything, sublimely indifferent to the worries and doubts of the people who pass below it. I try to lock that feeling into my mind, and mostly succeed. Finally I get up and walk to the door of the hotel room. I pause momentarily with my hand on the ornate brass knob, take a deep breath and let it out, and then open the door and step into the hallway.
Trego’s offices are on Olive Street, about five blocks from my hotel. The sidewalks are crowded, which is good. It would be easy to have a paranoid fantasy of running down an empty sidewalk while people in the buildings around me stare down from their windows and point. I actually laugh out loud at my imagination’s efforts to get a rise out of me. A passerby gives me an odd look and I shut my mouth and pull myself together again. The building that houses Trego’s work space is about fifteen stories high, a black glass structure that looks out of place on a street that has mostly turn-of-the-century buildings. There are two sets of large glass doors opening into the building—one pair automatic, the other not. I push through a door and step inside. The ground floor is large and open, with a news stand on the left, a small deli on the right, and a bank of four elevators directly across from me. A directory of the building’s occupants hangs on the wall between the two centermost elevators.
The entrance to Trego’s office is grand, double doors of oak with antiqued glass windows. On the wall to the left of the doors is a discrete sign in polished bronze that says “Harlan Trego, LLC.” I push the right hand door open and walk through. Inside I find a large, comfortable room with heavy carpet and dark wood. Two low tables are surrounded by leather and wood chairs. Next to each table is a magazine rack. Another table against the wall supports a coffee urn and several cups, and a tray with packets of sugar and creamer. At the far end of the room is another door, also of oak. To the left of that is a desk where an attractive blonde who looks to be in her forties sits and waits for a telephone to ring or a visitor to enter. She looks up and smiles as I approach.