by Glen Carter
“Your machine had the rhythm,” Suspenders said. “The lights work into the symmetry first. It’s all chaos until you catch it. You just have to see the pattern.” Suspenders turned to Bolt. “Two million, plus. Right? You saw the lights and the chaos and the pattern.” He stabbed a finger into Bolt’s chest. “You were waiting, like me, for the big lug to fuck off. Then you got rid of him. How’d you do that?”
“Shut your mouth,” Bolt said fiercely.
Suspenders was only getting started. “This guy just won more than two million dollars on a progressive slot machine that you were pumping money into all night. He saw the pattern. You walked away, biker man. What in the fuck were you thinking?”
Mister Goatee wailed like a wounded animal, then punched Bolt in the face.
* * * * *
Bolt did as he was told, which was to get up and walk and not do anything that would make someone want to be a hero. Like hotel security or some stupid do-gooder who, according to Goatee, would be given to the fucking angels. It was only then that Bolt spied the Hells Angels patch on his vest. These guys hunted in packs and held grudges until you were dead.
Thirty seconds later they were in the same tucked-away parking lot where Bolt had laid down Goatee’s beautiful bike. The Harley was back on its wheels, scratches and dents from nose to tail.
Goatee stared at it with a father’s grief and drove his small silver revolver even harder into Bolt’s ribs. “You make one fucking move . . .” Goatee didn’t bother to finish the line.
Bolt produced hands. “Don’t get crazy.”
Suspenders giggled. “Crazy the way you duped my poor friend here. That’s what crazy is. Crazy, crazy, crazy.”
Goatee waved his gun. “Not your friend, you fucking nutcase.”
“Without me, he would have fled, fled, fled.”
Bolt pictured him in a bouncy wig and a big red nose, and he wanted to punch the asshole right in the face. He took a step at him.
Suspenders jumped back, screeched. “Shoot him. Shoot the fucker for what he did to us.”
Suddenly, Suspenders was also a victim, which in Bolt’s view certified him as barking mad.
“Two million, gone, gone, gone. You dumb redneck.”
Goatee moved on him, providing the opportunity Bolt needed. His foot came up in a wide arc and connected with the gun, which clattered across the pavement.
“Kill him,” Suspenders shouted.
Bolt moved in fast, driving his elbow into Goatee’s nose. Cartilage snapped. Blood gushed. Goatee went back with a loud grunt. He recovered quickly and swung, connecting with the side of Bolt’s head. Stars filled his vision. He stumbled to the ground, then shook it off and dived into Goatee’s guts. Arms came down like sledgehammers on Bolt’s back, driving the air from him. Bolt gasped for a breath and then squeezed his hand into a solid fist. Coiling his strength along the right side of his body and pushing from his legs and back, Bolt unleashed everything he had into Goatee’s jaw. There was a loud crack, and Goatee tailboned to the pavement.
Bolt caught a couple of breaths, astonished by what he had just done. He walked over to the gun and booted it into the bushes. He turned to Suspenders, who smiled weakly.
“I’ve got more chaos if you want it,” Bolt wheezed.
19
When the seat belt sign chimed off, Bolt eased back his chair and stretched his legs. He stared out the window and slowly expelled a long, tired breath. His body was sore, and his brain hurt. He didn’t know if the headache was because of Goatee’s wallop, or everything from the night, banging around his skull.
He’d collected the things he needed from the tunnel and then spent a few minutes with Li’l Ray. Bolt didn’t tell him about the screwed-over biker who was now gunning for him. Likely with lots of buddies. “Time for a change of scenery,” he said simply, which was generally the truth and not a bad idea.
“You do what you gotta do. How long you be gone?”
“Not sure.”
“I’m there, you need me,” Li’l Ray had promised. “Just let me know.”
Bolt appreciated the offer.
Li’l Ray then gave him a quick man-hug. “Keep your head down, Bolt.”
He said goodbye and then took a shuttle to the airport, where he boarded a red-eye. He had the humblest of plans. Fly, land, and find a place to hunker down. That was it. His knapsack was stored in the bin above his head. The best part of fifty large was neatly secured in an inside pocket, which was half of what he’d stuffed into his jeans at the casino. Another fifty grand was in the envelope he’d sent to the room where Gunnery Sergeant Nathan Badowski was sleeping off a catastrophic drunk. There was a note. Thank you for your service. Oorah!
Bolt had purchased a travel book at the airport. It sat on his lap, dog-eared at a section on quaint New England towns. Harbour Rock was given scant treatment, just a few photographs of little waterfront shops and a lobster boil on a rocky beach. But it was home port for Mystic Blue, and William Rutter was her skipper. As a kid he had carved the same boat, as an adult he had confronted a stranger with pure hatred in his heart. Bolt was connected. He would find out how. What choice did he have? And he would also escape the vengeance of a brutal biker.
He ripped open a packet of candy and popped them, one by one, into his mouth. He snapped open a soda and swallowed half its contents. Drug addicts and sugar. It was a neurotransmitter thing. Back in the day, heroin sluiced along the same pathways, helped to soften the damn ruckus in his head. How sweet, that silence, while it lasted, even though it was a dead-end way to live, and eventually Bolt got the dope before the dope got him.
The big jet punched through a dense layer of black cloud and settled on smooth comfortable air. The moon dangled brilliantly and seemed close enough to touch.
An ageless inspiration for romantic fools and madmen.
20
The little snug was a structure of dark logs perched on posts sunk deep into a shoreline of jagged rock and seaweed. Tall windows overlooked a wide, sturdy deck and a stilted walkway, which led to a private wharf. Smoke from a wood fire floated like gauze into the still night.
Senator William Rutter placed another log in a large stone fireplace and walked to the bar. He took two crystal tumblers and poured amber liquid into both. “Straight up?”
“Thanks.”
Rutter walked to a couch and sat. He placed the drinks on a coffee table between them. “So, what’s on your mind?”
For a moment, David Stoffer remained silent. It was his way. Getting things sorted out before he spoke. Usually, the longer it took, the more serious the things.
Rutter begrudged him the leeway, as he always did.
Stoffer opened the briefcase at his feet and withdrew a manila folder. “First of all, only two people know the contents of this file. You’ll be the third.”
Rutter furrowed his brow, reached for his drink.
Stoffer placed the file on his lap. “Our photo op at the homeless shelter.”
“Brilliant move,” Rutter said. “Love the Times editorial.”
Stoffer nodded and pushed on to something much more important. “There was the incident. Do you remember?”
Rutter shook his head. “A full day. That’s what I remember. And a bad smell.”
“The homeless guy came at you.”
“Yes.”
Stoffer paused. “Did you know this man?”
Rutter shrugged.
“Senator, I was there.”
“And?”
“You went white. I thought you were going to pass out.”
“The man was aggressive. I was concerned.”
“Understood,” Stoffer said. “And ordinarily it would be accepted as such. A minor security blip.”
Rutter sipped, swallowed. The man had appeared out of
nowhere. So many faces did. Most he barely acknowledged. So many hands to shake, which required an endless supply of sanitizer. Of course he didn’t know the man. But there had been something which he quickly cast aside. Something that he wasn’t ready to admit, even to himself. “The man was a bum, a nobody.”
Stoffer met his stare. “Ordinarily I’d agree.”
“What’s your point?”
Stoffer downed his drink. “This man was a bum and a nobody, but there is something, and I’m stumped by it. I was hoping you could explain.”
“Now I’m concerned,” Rutter said. “Do we need a top-up?”
“That might be good.”
Rutter went to the bar and returned with fresh drinks. Stoffer pushed aside his glass and laid several sheets of paper on the coffee table.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
“And might I point out, it’s classified.”
Stoffer shook his head. “That was before you became a candidate for President of the United States. Your service record was declassified some time ago. Some reporter took it to court.”
Rutter was offered the papers, which he took. His gaze dropped upon the record of his valorous deeds. “Thanks for the memories,” he said. “Why are we looking at this?”
“Because it’s the beginning, or the end. I don’t know which.”
“It’s getting late,” Rutter said. “We’ve a busy day tomorrow.”
Stoffer nodded.
Moonlight filtered into the room through large plate glass windows. A Secret Service agent stood post-like at the end of Rutter’s wharf. The silhouette of a fine sailing vessel bobbed lazily. Her name was Mystic Blue. “What has any of this got to do with our vagabond? What’s his name?”
“Bolt. Samuel Bolt.”
“Like lightning.”
“And thunder,” Stoffer said, lamely. He lifted a page from the folder. “We obtained his prints.”
“How?” The last thing Rutter needed was a scandal. Even one involving the hired help, especially his campaign chair. It had happened before with a bunch of dim-witted burglars. It was called Watergate.
“Standard gumshoe stuff,” said Stoffer. “Our guy’s a pro.”
“Our guy?”
“Deniability will not be an issue, Senator. He’s being paid by a company with no connection to us.”
“Get on with it.”
Stoffer told him there had been a thorough background check targeting several government databases, some too sensitive to reveal. There were several hits. But the bingo moment came at the National Personnel Records Center, which was the repository of military records going back decades.
“Samuel Bolt may not be who he says he its” Stoffer said.
“Is he, or isn’t he?”
“He’s not. At least, not according to our investigation.”
“Then who is he?” Rutter shrugged. “And why should we give a damn?”
Stoffer took the luxury of suspense. Choosing his words. “He’s a soldier you served with in the Gulf War twenty-five years ago,” he said. “He was a member of your unit. He was captured along with you, killed in that shithole Iraqi outpost, and if the records are correct, he’s buried in that quaint little cemetery overlooking the ocean on the other side of town, and as crazy as it sounds, a dead soldier has made it home, not so dead. That’s why we should give a damn. Senator.”
21
The powerful engines went quiet. Bolt gripped the armrest as the jet softly dropped. The landing gear struck with a loud thump, and the plane rattled and shook down the runway. Bolt took a deep breath and opened his eyes, a survivor once more. When the aircraft came to a stop, he unlatched his seat belt, grabbed his knapsack, and took his place in the aisle. The line was barely moving. A female passenger was having trouble getting to something in the overhead bin. No one offered to help; instead, they squeezed past her. Bolt reached up and grabbed her carry-on.
She turned to him and smiled. “Nice to see there’s one gentleman aboard.” Large brown eyes held his gaze. “Thank you very much,” she purred.
“No worries.” He followed her down the aisle in the wake of some light seductive fragrance that was as unforgettable as she was. A minute later she disappeared through the exit and was gone.
Passengers were wandering around the small airport waiting for their luggage. A coffee kiosk appeared to be the only thing open, and Bolt saw the woman with the carry-on in the lineup. He stepped up to take a spot directly behind her.
“The most expensive coffee in the world is made from elephant poop.”
She turned. Killed him with her eyes. “Excuse me?”
“It’s called Black Ivory Coffee, and it sells for about fifty dollars a cup.” Bolt cringed even as he was saying it.
“I’ll keep that in mind, but I’m more a dark roast person.”
“It’s been a long flight. Sorry.”
Sympathy suited her more. “Because you were nice to me on the plane, I’m going to cut you some slack. Can I offer you a coffee? How about dark roast?”
“That would be fine,” Bolt said with relief. “Since I don’t see any elephants in the vicinity.”
They both laughed.
“Samuel Bolt,” he said, extending a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Samuel. Elizabeth Munroe.” Her smile dominated everything on her face, except those eyes. Lashes tickled her cheeks. Her perfume was an intoxicating dalliance for anyone caught in her orbit.
“Sorry about that lame opening line,” Bolt said meekly.
“I’ve heard worse.”
She ordered two cups, both black, and handed one to him.
“Thanks,” he said. “May I?”
“A gentleman through and through.”
With that, Bolt took her carry-on and led her to the luggage carousel. “You from here?”
“No,” she replied. “Business. And you?”
“Vacation,” Bolt said. “It seems like a nice place to spend a few days.”
Munroe smiled politely.
Suitcases began spilling onto the belt. People tugged them off and wheeled them away. Munroe reached for hers, but Bolt got to it first and placed it at her feet.
“Thank you again, Mister Bolt. Enjoy your vacation.”
Munroe turned and walked out.
Nice one, Bolt. Idiot.
The sea air hit him once he stepped outside. Cool, briny. It stuck to his skin, wet his throat. After the blast furnace of Vegas, his cells were rehydrating, returning from dust. He was enjoying the simple act of breathing. There was a lineup for cabs. Bolt took his place at the end. He wondered what business Elizabeth Munroe had in Harbour Rock and whether they might meet again. There hadn’t been many women in Bolt’s life. There was a public health nurse who came twice a week to the mission. They’d gone out a couple of times, but Bolt couldn’t see the point, and neither could she. It was a while back.
When his turn came, a cab pulled up and Bolt jumped in.
“Where to?”
“A good motel.”
The driver gave him the once-over in the rear-view mirror. Too long a look. Bolt wanted to tell him to mind the road.
“How was the flight?”
“Flight was fine.”
“Where you coming from?”
“Las Vegas.”
“Lady luck, spinning wheels. Sin City.”
“That about covers it.”
The man chuckled. Was still all eyes in the rear-view. “Got family in Harbour Rock?”
“Nope.” Bolt closed his eyes, hoping the driver would take the hint, which he did. The drive took ten minutes. The car turned off the highway into a motel parking lot potted by broken asphalt. There was an empty swimming pool and c
ars parked along a string of red doors. Even for a man who slept in a tunnel, it was grim. The neon sign flickered. No Vacancy.
The driver raised an eyebrow. “This was the last hope for a motel.”
Bolt stared forlornly ahead. “Do you have a homeless shelter?”
The driver chuckled again. “No homeless in Harbour Rock, but stay where you’re at. I’ve got an idea.”
Bolt drifted off. When he awoke, the cab was pulling to a stop.
The driver squinted one last time in the rear-view. “I called ahead. She’s waiting for you.”
Bolt handed the man a fifty and pulled himself out. The cab rolled down the road and disappeared around a corner. Bolt walked through a gate to the front door. He stood there for a moment, in the dark.
The door quietly opened.
“Shhhhhhh.” A finger at her lips. Soft blue eyes and a thin, smooth face. Her fluffy white housecoat was tied tightly at her waist. Blue slippers. “Come in,” she said, wiping away a tendril of white hair. “Everything’s ready.”
Bolt felt immediately welcome. “Sorry for the late hour,” he whispered.
“No worries, dear. You’re the second late arrival, so I was already up. Let’s get you straight to bed.”
She led him up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. There were two guest rooms. His accommodations were at the end of a hallway. She opened the door and motioned Bolt into the room. It was surprisingly large, with a king-sized bed, a pair of antique dressers, and a decent-sized flat-screen television. A thick oval rug was laid at the foot of the bed. The room smelled like the hotel soaps in Li’l Ray’s shower.
“The bathroom is through that door, and that’s the closet,” she said, without venturing into the room or even looking at him. “Breakfast is at seven. And if you need more towels or blankets, they’re in the linen closet at the top of the stairs. Good night.” She closed the door.
Bolt realized once she was gone that he didn’t even know her name, and she hadn’t asked for his. Small towns, he thought. The last repositories of blind trust. A moment later, he dropped face first onto the fluffy bed and fell asleep immediately.