Niceville

by Carsten Stroud

  Deitz was drinking a lime slushy and waiting for a wiry Filipino kid to scrub Mr. Thad’s nose blood off the leather passenger seat of the Hummer.

  He had a new BlackBerry and was trying to get it to dial a number for him, but it didn’t really want to. He had to use his thumbs to type the number in manually. He had extremely large thumbs. Things were not going well.

  Finally he got through to his IT section.

  “Andy there?”

  A moment of silence, and Deitz had time to wonder again where the hell that walnut-cracking sound was coming from.

  “Sir?”

  “Andy. You got anything yet for Tig Sutter?”

  “I’m afraid not yet, sir. It is very complicated. The sender was—”

  “I need something for Tig, Andy,” he said, literally in a growl. “Something fucking soon. I need Tig to owe me big. I need it fast. This is not the time for you to fuck up again, kid.”

  “I will most definitely not fuck up again. I am on it very hard.”

  “How long?”

  “End of the day, I hope.”

  The walnut-cracking sound inside Deitz’s head got very loud and the Tulip River went all reddish.

  “End of the day? Fuck that. Get it now. Get it right fucking now. Be back to me in one hour or start clearing out your desk. You follow?”

  A long silence, while Deitz wondered where he was going to get an IT guy as good as Andy Chu, deciding finally that the woods were full of IT geeks just as good as Andy Chu. Maybe better. In the meantime, like any good manager, you had to motivate your people.

  Andy’s voice again, cool and calm.

  “I follow, sir.”

  “I’m fucking clear?”

  “Yes sir. You are … extremely clear.”

  “Good. Get it done,” said Deitz, clicking off.

  He stood there, staring down at the screen, thinking, as had been his habit lately, black and complicated thoughts, including an inventory of everyone he had ever met who owned a pair of navy blue cowboy boots—not many—when he heard his name called, in a strange lisping accent.

  He turned to watch as a long black Lincoln Town Car—the one that looked like a turtle in a tuxedo—came to a stop at the curb by the car wash, a lean and sallow face peering at him out of the rear window—another goddam zipperhead—an Asian man with narrow wrinkled eyes as black as buttons, the too large head completely bald, on closer examination, a distinctly unpleasant look, with a large misshapen forehead, bumpy irregular cheekbones, a squashed mushroom of a nose, and a thin-lipped slash of a mouth with an incongruous soul patch under the lower lip.

  Deitz threw the slushy into the Tulip and came over to the curb, his expression not welcoming and his mood unimproved by this unexpected arrival.

  “I’m Byron Deitz. Who the fuck are you?”

  The head bobbed and showed its teeth, tiny, even babyish, stained with tobacco, fencing off a fat white tongue that bobbed around inside the man’s bloodred mouth like a moray in a cave.

  “Will you join me?” he said, opening the door and pulling back inside the rear seat to give Deitz some room to slide in. “It is much cooler inside.”

  Deitz looked at the man for a moment, feeling the weight of his Sig in his belt holster, considering the man’s expensive pearl gray suit, his satiny shirt, a much paler gray, the lavender silk tie, and the gold collar bar, the slender Italian shoes, the lavender silk socks.

  The man made an ingratiating head bob and flashed those teeth again, and the name came to Deitz out of an old black-and-white film with Humphrey Bogart.

  Joel fucking Cairo, he said to himself. In the flesh. What next? A fat man with a black bird?

  “Who are you and who you with?” he said, in a steely snarl, staying firmly planted on the sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry. My name is …” Here he mumbled something that sounded to Deitz like Hickory Dock.

  “Come again?”

  “I am Zachary Dak,” he said, more carefully. “Here is my card.”

  He reached into his suit jacket and brought out a silver card case, extracted one, offered it to Deitz with both hands, palms up, smiling at him.

  Deitz took the card, read it.

  Zachary Dak, LLB, PhD

  Director of Logistics

  Daopian Canton, Inc.

  2000 Fortunate City Road, Shanghai

  PR China 200079

  86.022.63665698

  Deitz slid the card into his suit jacket, looked around the place, giving each car and every person in the area a careful appraisal.

  He slipped into the car, leaving the door open, keeping one foot on the curb. The interior of the car smelled of Chinese cigarettes, which smelled exactly the way he figured they would smell.

  “We’re supposed to meet at the Marriott.”

  Dak nodded his head, glancing briefly at the back of the driver’s head, a cannonball head that rode on a hairy neck as wide as a tree stump.

  “Yes. That was the arrangement. And I am sorry to alter it. May I ask, do you have the item with you at this time?”

  Deitz looked around the black leather interior of the car, thinking mikes and wires.

  “I have no knowledge of any item, Mr. Dak.”

  Dak squirmed in his seat, indicating his extreme embarrassment and discomfort.

  “Quite right. I misspoke. I refer only to the meeting which we have arranged. As you know, time is important here. Our Learjet waits at Mauldar Field. We must take flight on Monday morning.”

  “What if we’re going to need more time than that?”

  “Sadly, not possible. The deadline is fixed. Urgent business takes us to Dubai. Accordingly, my people are anxious to have this … consultation … take place as soon as it can.”

  “How did you find me?” asked Deitz, cutting in.

  “Your car is most singular, Mr. Deitz.”

  “Horseshit. I don’t get this. Why show up here, and why show up now?”

  Something flitted across Dak’s face, and it changed in a subtle but memorable way. Deitz was suddenly glad he had one foot on the curb and a Sig Sauer in his belt. What Zachary Dak looked like was less than what he was.

  “Please get in and shut the door,” he said.

  Deitz got in and shut the door. The car immediately accelerated into traffic. Deitz was watching Dak’s hands but did not see how the Glock got there. It was just there.

  “This is only a precaution,” said Dak, “so that you might listen with attention and do nothing rash. We are aware that you have had a problem with the item. We are aware that you cannot produce it.”

  Deitz managed to keep his expression steady. Dak smiled and went on.

  “This upsets you. I understand. This is upsetting to us as well. But there is no point in being disputatious, as our interests happily coincide. You wish to regain the item promptly. We wish it to be promptly regained.”

  “OnStar,” said Deitz, having worked it through. “You’ve had my truck phone hacked. You’re inside the OnStar system. You heard me get a call about the … item.”

  Dak looked pleased.

  He literally beamed.

  “The People’s Republic has made heroic strides in opening up certain areas of the communications systems of several of our trading partners. There is no hostility in this. It is simply prudent to know the positions of your good friends in business. To illustrate, we know that you are acting in perfect faith and that the theft of the object was as unexpected and distressing to you as it was to us. You share our sense of urgency. You are making energetic inquiries, as is your associate, Mr. Holliman.”

  Christ, thought Deitz. They know how to turn on the OnStar microphone even if I’m not on it. They’ve heard everything I’ve said in the truck.

  “We are here to help, in any way we can, which is why we have come out into the field to assist you.”

  “Moving around Niceville in this limo will just attract attention. The best thing you could do is to go back to the Marriott and wait. I’ll g
et the thing. You can count on it.”

  “We do count on you, Mr. Deitz. But we must still have it in our possession by Sunday evening at the very latest. To properly analyze the device will take several hours, and its extraction from the Slipstream vaults must never be discovered. You must return it without discovery, or the entire project will lose much of its value. Many millions are in play. Much effort has already been expended. I must answer to my superiors. We have discussed this matter of the robbery among ourselves. Have you reached any conclusions?”

  “Yeah,” said Deitz. “I have.”

  Dak inclined his head, glanced at the driver, and then brought his attention back. “They are?”

  “It was partly an inside job. I’m sure of it. So far I’ve eliminated the banker—”

  “The unfortunate Mr. Llewellyn?”

  “You heard that?”

  Dak smiled.

  “A most vigorous interrogation. We gather he had drugged himself? He is recovered, we hope?”

  “I dropped him off at his house. He’ll live.”

  “The matter of the blue boots. Was that useful?”

  “Not a lot. But Phil found out that there was blood at the barn where they were hiding. We figure one of the guys on the job was hurt.”

  “So. Inside job, you think. One man hurt. You have only to determine who among the list of possible insiders has sustained an injury.”

  “Not quite. The insider could have provided the info. That doesn’t mean he was actually on the job. Any two pros could have pulled that job.”

  “We are assuming that either one or both of them was wounded by the police in pursuit—”

  “Or the two of them had a fight.”

  “A pistolero disagreement?” asked Dak, who was studying Spanish as a slight diversion from the toils of international espionage.

  “They recovered several brass casings from the fire at the barn. Melted, but a lot of them.”

  “So, many rounds? And blood on the ground?”

  “Yeah. A real firefight.”

  “But no hospital calls, naturally?”

  “No. Not one.”

  “It would be useful to know the current state of the official investigation.”

  “Yeah. Fucking useful.”

  “You can accomplish this?”

  “Not easily. What about you?”

  “We could do such a thing, given time. We do not have time. Our search must become more vigorous. We have only a few hours in which to succeed. However, we have great hopes of success. May I make a prediction?”

  “Sure. Need a fortune cookie?”

  Dak presented a smile which showed no amusement of any kind, only a flicker of impatience.

  “The item was contained in a box of some sort? With identifying signs of some type?”

  “Yeah. A steel box, with a Raytheon logo.”

  “So this device would clearly signal its worth to any intelligent thief?”

  “Yeah. Sure as hell.”

  “And you would describe the people who accomplished this robbery as intelligent?”

  “Yeah,” said Deitz, grudgingly. “I would.”

  “Then our prediction is that you will shortly be contacted by the thieves, or by a representative of the thieves. The object has no value to them, and is actually a clear and present hazard to their security. The penalty for being found in possession of such a thing would be very dire, would it not?”

  “Fucking dire,” said Deitz, thinking about how much he personally would dislike thirty-to-life in Leavenworth.

  Dak inclined his head. “So. Two scenarios are likely. One, they have destroyed it, and you and I find ourselves in a difficult position. Two, they will attempt to return it in exchange for a consideration. Since you are chief of the security apparatus for the research park, their next logical step would be to contact you.”

  He held up a hand as he watched Deitz’s temper flame up again.

  “Vengeance is an indulgence, Mr. Deitz. A form of weakness, if it is allowed to derange our affairs. You must not allow this to happen. When you are contacted, you must agree to whatever terms are asked and proceed with the utmost dispatch—”

  “Terms? The terms will be damned expensive.”

  “No doubt. You are being generously recompensed for your exertions on our behalf. You will pay what is asked promptly and without—”

  “I’ll pay—”

  “You will pay, Mr. Deitz,” he said, with serene emphasis, “since the original responsibility to deliver the item to us lies with you.”

  “What if they want too much? What if they want more than you’re giving me? What if they want more than I can pay?”

  Dak made a so-sorry-too-bad gesture.

  “If for any reason you are unable to effect the exchange then you will be set aside and we will deal with them directly.”

  Deitz had a pretty good idea of what Dak meant by the phrase set aside. He had to admit that when it came to threatening somebody, Dak was a hell of a lot better at it than he was. Dak was looking at his watch and Deitz, glancing out the window, saw that they were back at the car wash. The limo rolled to a stop. Deitz popped the door, and the steamy heat of the afternoon poured inside.

  “What if they don’t contact me in time?”

  “You will of course continue to make your inquiries. As will we. We have some resources you do not have. We will call upon them. In the meantime, you should even now reestablish contact with all of your means of communication, at home and at your offices. It is quite possible that a contact has already been initiated. If so, act on it in a swift and certain manner. Be effective and do not give in to revenge fantasies. Your sole concern must be to regain possession of the object. You have my card. On the back there is a cell number. Be in touch with me in sixty minutes.”

  “Or I could just talk into the roof of my fucking truck,” said Deitz, with an edge.

  “Or that,” said Dak, with a polite smile. He closed the door and the car powered out into traffic. The Tulip rolled on and so did Niceville. The Filipino kid had the seat cleaned and Deitz gave him a fifty for his trouble.

  He got into the truck, slammed the door hard, and sat back in the interior, which smelled of acetone and saddle soap and Deitz’s cigars. He started the car, turned up the air conditioner, turned his BlackBerry back on. There was a text message waiting for him, with no sender ID.

  PIGGLY WIGGLY

  VINE AND BAUXITE

  THE CORKBOARD

  NOW

  Nick and Beau Get Word

  Beau and Nick were only a block north of where Byron Deitz and Zachary Dak were concluding their discussions. Nick was still brooding on Bock.

  “You get a look at that guy at the table by the railing? All in black?”

  Beau stopped to think.

  “I saw him,” he said. “He drove up in that lime green shit-box Camry. Why?”

  “I know the guy. His name is Tony Bock. He’s the guy in the Dellums custody case. Kate handed him his ass on Friday afternoon.”

  “Weird-looking guy.”

  “Yeah. Did you see what he had shoved down the crack of his ass? He had one of those collapsible steel batons. What do they call them? An ASP? Must have been damn uncomfortable.”

  Beau nodded. “Or maybe he had his dick on backwards.”

  “Yeah,” said Nick, pulling out his cell phone. “Happens to me all the time.”

  Nick’s cell phone rang as soon as he turned it on. He got into the car on the passenger side—a couple of Advils had eased the pain in Beau’s butt cheek enough for him to drive.

  Nick hit ANSWER.

  “Lacy?”

  “Nick, I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  Her voice was tight and urgent, but not the tone she had when she was calling with a problem.

  “I can see that. Four times in the last hour. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. No. Well, maybe.”

  “That pretty much covers the ground.”

  �
��Nick, Rainey Teague woke up.”

  The words ran around in his skull like those tigers chasing the black kid in that book nobody was allowed to read anymore. For some crazy reason he remembered it from his childhood. Little Black Sambo. His mother had waved it around as an example of what she called endemic racism. On some level Nick knew he was thinking of that stupid book right now because what Lacy had just said completely rocked his world.

  “How awake?” he asked when he could speak.

  “They’re saying he’s responsive. He’s talking. He’s been immobile for a year, so he can’t sit up or control very much. But he’s definitely not in a coma or a caledonia or whatever it was.”

  Nick turned to Beau.

  “Lady Grace, Beau. Right now.”

  “What’s up?”

  Nick told him.

  Beau took it in, made a U-turn to a chorus of outraged honks, accelerated into the street with the siren on. Cars on both sides swerved to the curb to give them room. Nick, busy getting the story from Lacy, only half registered Byron Deitz in his big fat yellow Hummer driving slowly north, staring at them as they flew south down Long Reach Boulevard.

  Lacy had gotten to the part about Lemon seeing a man in the elevator.

  “What does he mean? Like, a ghost?”

  “No,” said Lacy, who wasn’t sure what the hell Lemon had been trying to say. “Just a guy with a really wicked vibe. Lemon said he sort of radiated crazy. Crazy and spooky. I don’t know. Whoever he was, he scared the hell out of Lemon, which is pretty hard to do.”

  “He get a description?”

  “Yeah. He’ll tell you when you get there. He’s in the lobby, waiting for you.”

  “You got his cell?”

  Lacy gave it to him.

  “What was Lemon doing there in the first place?”

  “After he talked to you, he wanted to go see the kid. He says he went to smoke the room.”

  “What? You mean like that bug-killing stuff?”

  “No, you mutt. It’s a tribal thing he does. All the Indians have it. He takes some sweetgrass and burns it in a bowl and calls the kid’s name.”