Saboteur: A Novel

by J. Travis Phelps

  He paused. You could hear a pin drop in the auditorium and almost everyone was leaning forward in their seats. He somehow found Samara’s face in the crowd again. He locked eyes with her this time. It was like a page, he realized, ripped from the endless conversations he’d had with Charlie, much of it in fact material Samara had probably heard him develop while he was still Charlie’s protégé. In truth the word protégé was inaccurate. Charlie had always treated him as an equal, even when they’d first met. Downy was only a twenty-six-year-old bartender then, but he already knew more about history than most academics. His gift for storytelling was just that--a gift. His grandfather had shared with him the stories of the glorious ancient Romans; he’d also steeped him in the great Greek mythologies, told to him as bedtime stories when he was only a boy. He had absorbed every word. Somehow he always managed to turn his own enthusiasm for a subject into a reason why everyone should listen. And listen they did.

  “Gaius made his first true stab at fame when he staged a run for one of the state’s most coveted positions: Pontifex Maximus. Those of you who are friends of the pope will recognize the prefix pontiff, which we still use today for the head of the church. It was a lifelong appointment and it did something else that Caesar wanted. It put him at the center of Rome, both physically and spiritually and gave him a permanent seat in the senate. It’s fair to point out that Caesar wasn’t a deeply spiritual man, certainly not by the dogmas or standards of his age. We know of at least one episode in his life when he felt compelled to openly taunt sages who claimed they could read the future by looking at the livers of a sacrificed animal. This was not the famous warning to beware the ides of March, by the way, which is most likely a piece of retroactive fiction. Probably someone claiming clairvoyance had warned Caesar about every other day on the calendar as well. This episode came earlier in Caesar’s life when he had first achieved great power and wider fame. When the sacrificed animal in question was found to be without a heart, a bad omen, Caesar claimed: ‘you can tell nothing about the future by looking at a heartless beast’ and that the sage ‘might instead just ask whether Caesar willed it or not.’ Caesar seems to have had a healthy contempt for the supernatural and so was a practical man for his age. He corrected the entire Roman calendar, which had been woefully inaccurate with regard to the seasons. We still use his version, the Julian calendar, today. We derive the name of the month of July from Julius. His nephew Augustus, who seized power after his assassination, lays claim to August. In spite of his pragmatism, it cannot be overstated how much the notion of fate or destiny still dominated the Roman imagination. The flight of birds was monitored constantly as an omen. The author Suetonius claims portents of Caesar’s death were so well documented one gets the impression predicting the future was something of a cultural obsession, like the weather.”

  Downy put on his best fake newscaster voice, which landed somewhere between Howard Kossel and Ron Burgundy: “News at eleven calling for dangerous afternoon assassination attempts, possible daggers, more at eleven, Bob.” He had to wait for the laughter to subside on this one. “Are we not just as superstitious in some ways now, Sylvia Brown anyone? Nostradamus? Ok, I forgot you guys are high-brow, horoscopes then.” He was in the groove.

  “Caesar also had a scary eye for talent. Only weeks before his assassination he put his young nephew Octavian (later Augustus) as his primary in his will, giving the barely seventeen-year old boy the keys to Rome, effectively jilting Mark Antony in one fail swoop. No one had seen it coming; but Caesar’s genius was always in outwitting his opponents, always being one step ahead.”

  He took a quiet breath. “That’s true of every day but one,” he said. The lights in the auditorium dimmed. “All of Caesar’s luck ran out at once it seems. But that’s for later,” he said with a wave of his hands.

  Then a voice interrupted. People turned in their seats grumbling, as it was understood questions should be saved for the end. It was the strange man in the hat again. He sat closer now.

  “I have read your book professor, but not everyone agrees with your sympathy for Caesar you know.”

  “I’m sorry, excuse me?”

  “You speak of this man as an almost hero, not a ruthless dictator. Surely you don’t mean to elevate him to such heights professor?”

  “Well, many of his contemporaries, the best men of Rome in fact, sided with him in the civil war, many of whom were friends to the aristocracy. There was something about Caesar that drove people to either love him deeply or hate him with equal passion. Even the people of Rome expelled his assassins and rioted at the news of his murder. You see, even after the civil war, Caesar pardoned his worst enemies and returned their estates to them. His sense of clemency was admired by most, but it absolutely drove his enemies crazy. It took away their pretext for painting him as a ruthless tyrant. In any case, I welcome the criticism and Caesar does not need my support; his actions speak for themselves in most cases. You make a nice transition to my next point, actually. Your name is?”

  “I am Taro.”

  “Taro, I will answer more questions at the conclusion, if we can revisit this then?” Downy smiled warmly. The man smiled back.

  “I have rudely interrupted again it seems, my apologies.”

  “No worries, not at all, that’s what we’re here for Mr. Taro, to challenge ourselves, to try to find the truth in our shared history.”

  He went on telling the story of Caesar’s early life, his daring military exploits, his being captured and ransomed by pirates, who he openly ridiculed for not liking his poems, which he read to them incessantly while captive. His outrage that they had only offered fifty talents for his ransom, claiming he was worth five times that. His promise to return and capture and crucify them, which he made good on. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Samara, who now seemed focused on the man in the hat too. Downy turned toward back to the screen to pull up a slide of the Campus Martius, where Roman politics had played out in the first century and then of course the slide of the newly discovered Theater of Pompey, where Caesar had actually been slain. It was Charlie’s discovery in fact, his last contribution to the field he so loved. He had completely forgotten that Charlie was in the picture pointing proudly at the very spot where Caesar had probably fallen and of course Samara was in the audience. Downy looked up at the picture and went silent. He put the clicker on the podium in front of him.

  “This final slide shows our own Professor Charles Patterson, known affectionately as the man with the Midas touch, pointing to the location of Caesar’s assassination at the foot of the statue of Pompey the Great, his rival, one of the great archeological finds of our century. Caesar himself had the statue erected to honor his slain adversary. It was his style to be gracious in victory, overly so in fact. More on that later. Let it be an inspiration that there are still many great discoveries to be made by studying the past. I’m sorry,” he said, “that’s all we have time for today.” An hour went by faster than he could believe sometimes. Few moved in their seats though and he knew he would be staying around to answer lots of questions.

  He looked for Samara, but her seat was now empty. He hoped he hadn’t upset her. He turned and standing in front of him was the man in the hat.

  “Hello, it’s Taro right?”

  The man stepped closer, which was unfortunate. The smell of body odor hit him like a wave. Downy tried to plug his nose, but to no avail.

  “Yes, yes professor. My name is Guy actually, but friends call me Taro. I know what an incredibly busy man you must be, but I wonder if you will accept this letter of recommendation? I know it is somewhat an old custom, but where I come from such a thing is still highly valued. I would like to schedule an appointment to speak with you, once you have had a chance to read it of course.” He handed a rolled parchment to Downy.

  “Thank you, thank you, please come by my office any time though, really no letter is necessary.”

  “How wonderful of you, still the letter may help explain some t
hings in advance. I will schedule an appointment then.”

  The man’s English was good enough, but he could tell it took great effort for him to put his thoughts together in what was clearly a foreign tongue for him. There was Italian in there, but Italian from the country, rustic even. He tried to place the accent, but it too was somehow indistinct.

  The man bowed a half bow and turned to go. Some of the other students waiting in line watched suspiciously, snickering and laughing as he walked away, half at the smell and half at the bow. There was something overly formal in the man’s demeanor, but he smiled as he left, seeming unfazed. Downy felt bad sometimes for older students who faced the wrath of the younger one’s sense of what was cool and what wasn’t. Downy stared at the line of students and sighed. He needed a chair. It looked like he wasn’t going to be leaving anytime soon.

  Chapter 12

  The moonlight made it possible to see in both directions and most importantly up the hill to the carriage. The horses would be spooked if anyone disturbed them, so the man felt free to taste the first true air of relief. The water was very cold, but it didn’t matter. He stripped off his clothing. In his state he needed something to slow down his heart, the heat of his fevered mind. In the darkness he lay on his back and floated toward the center of the stream. Stars darted in and out of clouds and the night sky looked immeasurably vast. He suddenly remembered a story told to him as a child about the boy Icarus. It was a very old story, Greek actually. The boy Icarus had flown too close to the sun after his father had fashioned for him wings made of wax. Icarus had flown higher and higher, in spite of his father’s protestations, until the wax melted, then plummeted to his death. It was a metaphor of course for the dangers of acquiring abilities that were meant to be the sole province of the gods. The story had been useful to him all his life. It was the difference in a man’s temperament that dictated how he would view the moral of the tale. Romantic souls tended to focus on Icarus’s achievement, which was beautiful, but tragic. He had flown closer to the sun than anyone, had peaked into the realm of the gods. The pragmatist saw only folly. The man swam toward the bank. He was no romantic. He would be the divine punishment then.

  The man fully submerged himself in the water, swimming down as deeply as he could. The dark and the silence were peaceful, but as he cleared his mind, he thought he heard the sound of muted voices from above. Where had they come from? There had been no one only moments before. He held his breath and waited. It was definitely voices. He wasn’t sure how long he could stay under, but decided to test himself. He thought of the time in Egypt, his only real disaster. He had swum many miles, too far really. Finally, after what seemed like minutes had passed, the talking seemed to be getting further away; then he gulped in his last breath, deciding to push himself to the absolute limits of his endurance. In case his body grew too weak he dove down to the deepest part of the river into the darkness, pumping his arms wildly through the silence. All he had to do was not lose consciousness. If anyone had seen him go under, they would never believe he could survive so long. He would wait longer still. But suddenly his limbs stopped responding. His head felt like it might explode. He felt himself rocketing rapidly to the surface. He finally burst through the canopy, exhaling in a mighty gasp, then guffawed inward. His rib cage was on fire. He commanded his arms to swim, to move, but only his left arm meekly responded. Sideways now, he felt his knees scrape against the rocky bottom and he knew that he had survived. He was in the shallows. He crawled to the water’s edge and lay in the sand breathing heavily. There seemed to be no one about. Had it all been his imagination? He turned his head to look up the hill. The horses seemed undisturbed, which was a good sign; their silhouettes he could see against the faint light of the moon. He crawled to his cloak and wrapped himself in its warmth, moaning. He remembered the teachers recounting of the story,

  “Lying there on the cold floor all alone,” the teacher had said, “wrapped only in the dignity of his cloak.” The man cried out in agony. Wild night animals from far away howled back in response.

  Chapter 13

  “Come on,” Tackett said, “let me take you to your new digs.”

  He was slightly buzzed from their drinking and didn’t realize Tackett wanted him to actually get out of the car.

  “Goddamn Southerners can’t hold your liquor,” he shouted as he finally staggered out of the car. Tackett jangled with the keys on his belt as they walked toward a small, old house at the end of the driveway. It looked almost abandoned, but it was neatly kept.

  “When the budget was better we had this as a safe house for the narcos. Then when the budget was cut we stopped paying, but the owner has never said a word. He’s older than Cootie Brown. The city records don’t even list the place as existing at all.”

  Tackett pointed toward the couch. “There’s a bed in there, just pull it out. The ice-box is full of beer, but don’t touch the cheese. It’s mine. Or the Ritz crackers. Also mine. There is a stack of playboys and penthouse in the drawer, though watch out cause Rodriguez keeps them in a particular order. If they get moved she gets furious.”

  “Oh,” he said, “she lik--”

  “She likes the articles. Don’t mention you’re staying here, ok? Tierney has forgotten this place even exists. You’ll be safe. Look, tell me if anything unusual comes up on this case, ok? Tell me who you speak to, just so I can watch your back and keep an eye on you.”

  “Ok, Dad.” he said saluting awkwardly.

  Tackett raised his head squinting at him. “Man you are sure one goofy bastard for a supposed genius. Then again maybe you’re just a country genius. You better get some sleep.” Tackett said opening the door. “The train comes by here at about 7 am, so don’t worry about setting an alarm. Drink a bunch of water before you pass out. See you bright and early sunshine.”

  He was all alone at last on the couch. It wasn’t bad actually. There were candles placed randomly around the room. It smelled of a woman’s touch, even if it looked like a complete flop-house. He opened the refrigerator. It was full of beer, and good beer at that. There was a piece of moldy cheese wrapped in plastic in the corner, which smelled mightily bad. On top, a pack of Ritz crackers, only slightly stale, which he opened and proceeded to eat with reckless abandon. He finished all but two, trying to remember where Tackett had said the playboys were, before passing out on the couch covered in crumbs.

  ***

  The blast of the train’s horn caused him to think he was in Richmond and for a few strange seconds he thought he could smell the fall leaves. He heard a football game band playing to cheers off in the distance, but then the sound all seemed to roll together into the breaking of waves, and he realized where he actually was. California. He had slept at least. His head felt tender though, and if he moved too fast he knew he might cause a real headache. Suddenly the coffee maker kicked on with a beep, but there was no water, so it only hissed. He was too tired to bother. He sat up running his hands through his hair. He wasn’t a Richmond cop anymore; he had to remember that. San Diego had certainly been eventful so far. It technically wasn’t illegal for Tierney to lie to him, but it sure was a helluva way to start a job. He walked to the window and peered out across the street. It was empty. A child rode by on a bicycle and waived across at someone he could not see. He looked on the table and saw the folder for case 1032. He sat down and opened it. It was not much to go on. He had already called and left messages with anyone even remotely connected to the case. It was a short list of names. It was a long way from the crime. Probably no one remembered anything accurately after so much time. He stared at the pictures of the scene of the break in and of course the apparent struggle, blood literally splashed all over. Whose blood was it? No body was ever found and it hadn’t matched anyone in the database. During the follow up investigation by Detective Jensen they hadn’t even considered there was any connection between the two events---the disappearance of Fleming and the apparent murder without a body. Why would they? Sullivan wanted a lo
ok at the scene, even if it had changed completely. Maybe there was something about where the crime took place that was important. Maybe the homeowner could remember something valuable. Sullivan remembered that his car was still at impound. Shit. He was going to be late for sure. Just then the front door flew open.

  “Rise and shine, Valentine!” It was Rodriguez. “Time to get your hung ass up, homey,” she said handing him a coffee and donut.

  He realized he wasn’t wearing pants, only his shamrock covered underwear. Rodriguez looked down.

  “Those are cute, but the chief hates the Irish, so put on some pants.” He looked down and laughed.

  “Not that you care.” he said without thinking.

  “No, no I appreciate good equipment,” she said walking around the room, apparently unfazed by the remark. “This place needs a cleaning. Beer?” she said opening the fridge.

  “Isn’t it a little early?”

  “Suit yourself,” she said cracking the lid off the countertop. “I gotta get into character. Wanna hear a joke?” she said after downing some of the beer.

  “Sure.”

  “What do you call a hooker with fresh breath?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “An undercover cop.”

  She threw his pants at him. “Get dressed. You’re gonna make us both late. The only thing I hate more than being late is fucking late people.”

  “Me too,” he said, but Rodriguez was finishing her beer all in one drink, ignoring him. She slammed it on the table and pulled out a tube of fire engine red lipstick and started to apply. Then she let out a giant burp. Sullivan put his hand over his face in protest.

  “Oh yeah,” she said, “sorry you’re a southern boy right? I suppose I must ufh forgotten my mannahs, Rhett. Please do forgive a silly little peach like me for upsettin your delicate sensibilities.”