by Vince Milam
“I may head your way springtime,” I said. “When it warms up. That would be around August?”
“Catch may be right. The wussification of America on full display.”
“It’s just that I don’t own a pair of mukluks.”
“I’d suggest you don’t own a pair of something else,” he said, smiling. “But recent overseas activities would point toward you still clanging when you walk.”
“We all clanged for a short time. One last time, I suppose.”
“You suppose right. Are you looking to take another job from your strange Swiss client?”
“Yeah. Soon enough. The coffers are running a bit dry.”
We stood for a while, enjoying the evening, bonded in silence.
“Well, you let me know when I can help,” he said.
He cracked the door open, a rare Marcus confession.
“Always have.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, son. I’m not heading off for any godforsaken bullet-flying place again. But I’d look forward to lending you a hand on domestic turf.”
He’d been a huge asset in California during the aftermath of an Amazon job. I’d sensed at the time he’d enjoyed the action, the engagement. Our conversation confirmed it. And I would call him if required. Couldn’t ask for a better man.
Catch departed the day after Marcus—his knee on the mend, the other wounds healing.
“When are you bringing Willa to meet us?” Mom asked. “With a ring on her finger.”
“When are you and Peter going to visit us in Portland?”
“That’s the other side of the world, Juan. And I’m still undecided about your beard. What does Willa think of it?”
“She says it fits.”
“Well, she’s the one who has to live with it. And with you. I’ll have you both in my prayers.”
I drove him to the airport.
“You are visiting us again, right?” he asked.
I’d had a blast with him, Willa, and Bo in Portland during the last visit.
“No doubt. Hope the knee recovers.”
He waved a dismissive hand.
“You know, right? You know to still call me 24-7 for anything. Anything at all.”
I would, and I let him know. It tore me up saying goodbye, but I’d see him again. When and where, unknown. But for all the moving pieces on life’s chessboard, one item shined bright. Juan Antonio Diego Hernandez would remain as is, regardless of time or place. I took a great deal of comfort in that.
Bo stayed the longest, which made sense given he required the most healing. I’d change his dressings twice a day, and he’d return the favor, the bedroom door locked. I didn’t relish sharing his, or my, condition with Mom or CC.
My best friend and I took long evening walks. I’d fix a stiff go-cup of Grey Goose on the rocks; he’d smoke a bowl of weed. Our conversations were soft, insightful, filling.
“How’s JJ going to handle this?” I asked.
There was no hiding Bo’s wounds and injuries.
“As she does most things. A hard eyeball followed with admonitions followed with love and nourishment. I luxuriate in each facet. Especially the love and nourishment.”
“It may help if you affirm everything happened on foreign turf.”
“I will do so if it calms her personal roiling waters. She does have an old soul, my Georgia peach. An old soul that feeds a larger perspective.”
“A cosmic perspective.”
“He learns. You must hang with me more often, brother. Now tell me a tale. Love yet realized, passion plays waiting in the wings.”
Bo-speak referencing Jess Rossi.
“I don’t know. Just flat don’t know.”
“Goober-speak for personal trepidation. Fear not and rise above it, my brother.”
I did. Not then, but once underway on the Ace of Spades. I was aware the Ace acted as Case Lee’s isolated firmament, albeit firmament that rocked from side to side on open water. An anchor, home, a buttressing of faded hope. She answered after three rings.
“Hi, Jess. How are you doing?”
Hesitation. Not a good sign.
“I’m fine. And you?”
“On either a magnificent vessel or my old tub. Depends on perspective. And yes, it’s a tad chilly for the shower facilities.”
“Elliot is dead.”
Not a challenging interpretation—her statement demanded to know what I might have had to do with his death. Fair enough.
“It wasn’t me, Jess. Don’t know what else I can say. But you have my word I didn’t kill him.”
Silence as she processed this. Passed Case Lee’s word through the Jess Rossi grinder.
“Where have you been?”
Excellent—she moved on. Whether further processing was required of Krupp’s demise, unknown. But at least she asked about me.
“Overseas. An old issue taken care of. It’s over and done. Where are you? Still in Hawaii?”
Further questions about loose ends spelled bad news. I wanted nothing more than a look forward. Toward the future.
“No, Joanna’s world’s changed dramatically with Elliot’s death. It’s all estate management, now. A new batch of lawyers and no need for a private investigator.”
“So you’re back in North Carolina?”
“I am.”
Tepid at best, but at least not cold.
“Any chance we could meet for a cocktail? I’ll be in New Bern in a day or so.”
“That’s a four-hour drive to Charlotte.”
“Not a problem. At all.”
A long pause. A deal-breaker pause, maybe.
“No on the cocktails.”
My heart fell. I stared toward the Outer Banks as small whitecaps played across the saltwater surface. The Ace’s diesel continued its blue-collar rhythm. Oh well, it rolls and it tumbles. Life moves on.
“I don’t want booze to fog what will be a serious chat,” she continued. “How about coffee?”
“Done.” I smiled and delivered a silent fist shake. “I’ll text you when I get to New Bern. You can tell me where and when. Coffee sounds great.”
She agreed, and the first steps of our personal détente were established. Whew.
Before heading south from Chesapeake on the Ace, I dropped by the Clubhouse. Personal reasons as much as professional. Jules displayed the widest smile I’d experienced from her, although the expression of joy was planted above the shotgun’s twin barrels pointed toward my midsection. I performed the usual pirouette, pockets and hands empty.
“Not too shabby, indeed, Case Lee. Well done, you. Well done you and your compatriots.”
Shotgun placed on the desktop, she plucked a smoldering cigar from the desk’s edge. Her personal spiderweb would have known our adventure’s pertinent details by now.
“Glad it’s over. Man, I’m glad it’s over. Speaking of which, any remnant bounty hunters wandering about?”
“None. Consider it a closed chapter, the Janjaweed in turmoil. Khartoum remains, as always, in flux.”
Great news. Affirmation and relief. We smiled toward each other, silent, our strange bond tight and true.
“Now, dear boy, tell me all about it. Leave nothing out.”
I did. She lingered on the Hellfire missile incident.
“Quite an amazing bit of timing on the Company’s part,” she said. “Ascertaining when and where the four of you might be least affected. My, my. Quite amazing.”
She wasn’t buying it. Taking the four of us out along with the Musa Kibir clan created a clean slate for the Company… in Jules’s world, the logical approach.
“They could have followed with a second Hellfire when we limped our way back to Goz Beïda. Although I figured it would have required a second ops directive.”
“Yes, well, there is a rather large operational difference between collateral damage and a direct attack.”
She puffed the cigar. Her insinuation we were targeted along with the Janjaweed contained several lev
erageable layers, not the least of which was affirmation that the Clubhouse, unlike the Company, had my best interests at heart.
“They had been instructed to leave me alone in Hawaii.”
I wasn’t defending the Company. Far from it. My statement opened the door for further Clubhouse input.
“A separate and distinct operation with a unique objective. One does wonder how the spoils were divided.”
“And why the plug was pulled on Alaton. And Krupp.”
“Hubris, dear. It is not complicated.”
Not in her world. After a few more well-placed questions for clarification, she asked about the future.
“You should, of course, rest and recover.” She puffed the cigar and painted on a one-sided grin. “I well imagine recovery for a man your age is a lengthy process.”
“What happened to not-too-shabby?”
Her eye crinkled and she chuckled before asking, “Will you accept the next offer from the gnomes of Zurich?”
“Maybe. Probably. It depends.”
“My heart soars at witnessing such commitment.”
“Yeah. I’ll likely take the next gig. Need the money.”
“And?”
“And I’m good at this stuff, Jules. Don’t mind saying so.”
“Nor should you. Bravo and huzzahs toward the man from Savannah. Perhaps you shall also consider an added element regarding your decision.”
“What’s that?”
She leaned forward, forearms on the desktop.
“We, you and I, do make a formidable team.”
I returned a large grin.
“That we do, Jules. That we do.”
I arrived in New Bern early evening, docked at my usual spot, and texted Jess. She replied with a time and place for the next day. A coffeehouse at two o’clock. The next day’s four-hour drive was pleasant enough. It provided quiet time and schedule consideration. I figured it would be a month or so before I was prepared for the next job, aware that Jules’s words regarding recovery held more than a cup or two of truth.
I arrived at the coffeehouse five minutes early. Jess had beaten me there and occupied a far corner table. She looked better than fine as she lowered her coffee cup and eyeballed my approach across the room, expressionless.
I wore jeans and a light fleece turtleneck jacket, zipped all the way. I stopped five paces short, smiled, unzipped the jacket, and held it wide open. Ensured the bright tie-dye shirt underneath was on full display. Jess busted a laugh, and with a wide grin looked at the ceiling and shook her head.
Sometimes—perhaps more often than I accepted—it rolls and it tumbles my way.
The End
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I’ve lived and worked all over the world, traipsing through places like the Amazon, Congo, and Papua New Guinea. And I make a point of capturing unique sights, sounds, and personalities that are incorporated into each of my novels.
The Suriname Job
I worked a contract in that tiny South American country when revolution broke out. Armored vehicles in the streets, gunfire—the whole nine yards. There’s a standard protocol in many countries when woken by automatic gunfire. Slide out of bed, take a pillow, and nestle on the floor while contemplating whether a coup has taken place or the national soccer team just won a game. In Suriname, it was a coup.
There was work to do, and that meant traveling across Suriname while the fighting took place. Ugly stuff. But the people were great—a strange and unique mixture of Dutch, Asian Indians, Javanese, and Africans. The result of back in the day when the Dutch were a global colonial power.
Revolutions and coups attract strange players. Spies, mercenaries, “advisors.” I did require the services of a helicopter, and one merc who’d arrived with his chopper was willing to perform side gigs when not flying incumbent military folks around. And yes, just as in The Suriname Job, I had to seek him out in Paramaribo’s best bordello. Not my finest moment.
The New Guinea Job
What a strange place. A massive jungle-covered island with 14,000 foot mountains. As tribal a culture as you’ll find. Over 800 living languages (languages, not dialects) making it the most linguistically diverse place on earth. Headhunting an active and proud tradition until very recently (I strongly suspect it still goes on).
I lived and worked deep in the bush—up a tributary of the Fly River. Amazing flora and fauna. Shadowed rain forest jungle, snakes and insects aplenty, peculiar ostrich-like creatures with fluorescent blue heads, massive crocs. Jurassic Park stuff. And leeches. Man, I hated those bloody leeches. Millions of them.
And remarkable characters. In The New Guinea Job, the tribesman Luke Mugumwup was a real person, and a pleasure to be around. The tribal tattoos and ritual scarification across his body lent a badass appearance, for sure. But a rock-solid individual to work with. Unless he became upset. Then all bets were off.
I toned down the boat driver, Babe Cox. Hard to believe. But the actual guy was a unique and nasty and unforgettable piece of work. His speech pattern consisted of continual f-bombs with the occasional adjective, noun, and verb tossed in. And you could smell the dude from thirty feet.
The Caribbean Job
Flashbacks of the time I spent working in that glorious part of the world came easy. The Bahamas, American Virgin Islands, Jamaica, San Andres, Providencia—a trip down memory lane capturing the feel of those islands for this novel. And the people! What marvelous folks. I figured the tale’s intrigue and action against such an idyllic background would make for a unique reading experience.
And pirates. The real deal. I was forced into dealing with them while attempting work contracts. Much of the Caribbean has an active smuggler and pirate trade—well-hidden and never posted in tourist blurbs. Talk about interesting characters! There is a weird code of conduct among them, but I was never clear on the rules of the road. It made for an interesting work environment.
One of the more prevalent memories of those times involved cash. Wads of Benjamins—$100 bills. The pirate and smuggler clans, as you can well imagine, don’t take credit cards or issue receipts. Cash on the barrelhead. Benjamins the preferred currency. It made for inventive bookkeeping entries.
The Amazon Job
I was fortunate to have had a long contract in Brazil, splitting my time between an office in Rio de Janeiro and base camps deep within the Amazon wilderness. The people—remarkable. The environments even more so. Rio is an amazing albeit dangerous place, with favelas or slums crammed across the hills overlooking the city. You have to remain on your toes while enjoying the amazing sights and sounds and culture of Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon.
The Amazon rainforest is jaw-dropping in its scope and scale. 20% of the earth’s fresh water flows down the Amazon River with thousands of smaller rivers and tributaries feeding it. The Amazon rainforest is three million square miles, and during flood season is covered with ten to twenty feet of water.
The wildlife is, of course, amazing. After a long field day, I'd often take one of the small base camp skiffs and fish for tucunaré (peacock bass). I’d figured out their preferred watery environments. And learned where the piranhas were less plentiful (although it’s worth noting those fierce little chompers are both easy to catch and quite tasty—karmic justice, perhaps). So I was fishing a remote lagoon a mile or so from the base camp. Lily pads, tannic water, dusk and isolation. Howler monkeys broke into a verbal ruckus among the treetops circling the lagoon. When those raucous critters took a break—dead quiet.
Then soft blowhole exhales no more than five feet away. Scared the bejeesus out of me. It was two botos. Rare Amazon river dolphins. Pinkish-white, curious and content to check out the new addition to their lagoon. We shared the space a full four or five minutes until they eased away. A magic moment, etched forever.
The Hawaii Job
I’ve always relished visits to the Big Island. What’s not to like? Gorgeous beaches, rugged coastlines, a 14,000 foot mountain, and terrain that varies from lo
wland scrub to tropical vegetation to grasslands to alpine turf. And, of course, an active volcano. How could I not put Case Lee smack-dab in the middle of an active lava flow?
Then there is the vastness of North Africa and its Sahara Desert. The Sahara is about the size of the lower 48 US states. I’m talking vast and empty and scattered with isolated bands of tribes and nomadic herders. The cultural chasms are enormous as well, and something I’ve had to deal with in the past.
About Me
I live in the Intermountain West, where wide-open spaces give a person perspective and room to think. I relish great books, fine trout streams, family, old friends, and good dogs.
You can visit me at https://vincemilam.com to learn about new releases and insider info. I can also be visited on Facebook at Vince Milam Author.