What Comes Around: An Alex Hawke Novella (Alex Hawke Novels)

by Bell, Ted

  Long story short?

  He knew the Muslim mind-set, their language, their body language, their brains, even, knew the whole culture, the warlords, where all the bodies were buried, the whole enchilada. And so, when his pal W needed someone uniquely qualified to transform the CIA’s Paris station into a first rate intelligence clearinghouse for all of Europe? Well. Who was he to say? Let history tell the tale.

  His competition? Most guys inside the Agency, working in Europe at that time, right after the Twin Towers? Didn’t know a burqa from a kumquat, and that’s no lie—

  CHAPTER 5

  “MONSIEUR TORRANCE? Monsieur Torrance?”

  “Oui?”

  “Votre whiskey, monsieur.”

  ”Oh, hey, Maurice. Sorry. Scotch rocks,” he said to the head bartender.

  “Mais certainment, Monsieur Torrance. Et, voilà.”

  His drink had come like magic. Had he already ordered that? He knocked it back, ordered another, and relaxed, making small talk, le bavardage, with Maurice about the rain, the train bombing in Marseilles. Which horse might win four million euros in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe at Longchamp tomorrow. The favorite was an American thoroughbred named Buckpasser. He was a big pony, heralded in the tabloids as the next Secretariat, Maurice told him.

  “There will never, ever, be another ‘Big Red,’ Maurice. Trust me on that one.”

  “But of course, sir. Who could argue?”

  He swiveled on his bar stool, sipping his third or fourth scotch, checking the scenery, admiring his fellow man.

  And woman.

  Wouldn’t you know it? It was a rainy Friday night and he’d told his wife Julia not to expect him for dinner. Something troubling had come up with the state visit of the new Chinese president to the Elysée Palace on Sunday. And something really bad had come up. But . . .

  “Sorry, is this seat taken?” she said.

  What the hell? He hadn’t even seen her come in.

  “Not at all, not at all. Here, let me remove my raincoat from the bar stool. How rude of me.”

  “Thank you.”

  Très chic, he registered. Very elegant. Blond. Big American girl. Swimmer, maybe, judging by the shoulders. California. Stanford. Maybe UCLA. One of the two. Pink Chanel, head to toe. Big green Hermès Kelly bag, all scruffed up, so loaded. Big rock on her finger, so married. A small wet puffball of a dog and a dripping umbrella so ducked in out of the rain. Ordered a martini, so a veteran. Beautiful eyes and a fabulous body, so a possibility . . .

  He bought her another drink. Champagne, this time. Domaine Ott Rose. So she had taste.

  “What brings you to Paris, Mrs. . . .”

  “I’m Crystal. And you are?”

  “Harding.”

  “Harding. Now that’s a good strong name, isn’t it? So. Why are we here? Let me see. Oh, yes. Horses. My husband has horses. We’re here for the races at Longchamp.”

  “And that four million euros purse, I’ll bet. Maurice here and I were just talking about that. Some payday, huh? Your horse have a shot?”

  “I suppose. I don’t like horses. I like to shop.”

  “Attagirl. Sound like my ex. So, where are you from, Crystal?”

  “We’re from Kentucky. Louisville. You know it?”

  “Not really. So, where are you staying?”

  “Right upstairs, honey. My hubby took the penthouse for the duration.”

  “Ah, got it. He’s meeting you here, is he?”

  “Hardly. Having dinner with his trainer somewhere in the Bois de Boulogne, out near the track, is more like it. The two of them are all juned up about Buckpasser running on a muddy track tomorrow. You ask a lot of questions, don’t you, Harding?”

  “It’s my business.”

  “Really? What do you do?”

  “I’m a writer for a quiz show.”

  She smiled. “That’s funny.”

  “Old joke.”

  “You’re smart, aren’t you, Harding? I like smart men. Are you married?”

  “No. Well, yes.”

  “See? You are funny. May I have another pink champagne?”

  Harding twirled his right index finger, signaling the barman for another round. He briefly tried to remember how many scotches he’d had and gave up.

  “Cute dog,” he said, bending down to pet the pooch, hating how utterly pathetic he sounded. But, hell, he was hooked. Hooked, gaffed, and in the boat. He’d already crawl through a mile of broken glass just to drink this gal’s bathwater.

  “Thanks,” she said, lighting a gold-tipped cigarette with a gold Dupont lighter. She took a deep drag and let it out, coughing a bit.

  “So, you enjoy smoking?” Harding said.

  “No, I just like coughing.”

  “Good one. What’s the little guy’s name?” he asked, looking at the little drowned rat trying to pass for a pooch.

  “It’s a her. Rikki Nelson.”

  “Oh. You mean like . . .”

  “Right. In the Ozzie and Harriet reruns. Only this little bitch on wheels likes her name spelled with two k’s. Like Rikki Martinez. Don’t you, precious? Yes, you do!”

  “Who?”

  “The singer?”

  “Oh, sure. Who?”

  “Never mind, honey. Ain’t no thing.”

  “Right. So, shopping. What else do you like, Crystal?”

  “Golf. I’m a scratch golfer. Oh, and jewelry. I really like jewelry.”

  “Golfer, huh? You heard the joke about Arnold Palmer’s ex-wife?”

  “No, but I’m going to, I guess.”

  “So this guy marries Arnold Palmer’s ex. After they make love for the third time on their wedding night, the new groom picks up the hotel phone. ‘Who are you calling?’ Arnie’s ex asks. ‘Room service,’ he says, ‘I’m starved.’ ‘That’s not what Arnold would’ve done,’ she says. So the guy says, ‘Okay, what would Arnold have done?’ ‘Arnold would have done it again, that’s what.’ So they did it again. Then the guy picks up the phone again and she says, ‘You calling room service again?’ And he says, ‘No, baby, I’m calling Arnold. Find out what par is on this damn hole.’ ”

  He waited.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Well, see, he’s calling Arnold because he—”

  “Sshh,” she said, putting her index finger to her lips.

  She covered his large hand with her small one and stroked the inside of his palm with her index finger.

  She put her face close to his and whispered.

  “Frankly? Let’s just cut the shit. I like sex, Harding.”

  “That’s funny, I do, too,” he said.

  “I bet you do, baby. I warn you, though. I’m a big girl, Harding. I am a big girl with big appetites. I wonder. Did you read Fifty Shades of Grey?”

  “Must have missed that one, sorry. You ever read Mark Twain?”

  “No. Who wrote it?”

  “Doesn’t matter, tell me about Fifty Shades of Grey.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I found it terribly vanilla,” she said.

  “Hmm.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s what men always say when they don’t know what the hell a girl is talking about.”

  “Vanilla. Not kinky enough.”

  “Not bad, Harding. Know what they used to say about me at my sorority house at UCLA? The Kappa Delts?”

  “I do not.”

  “That Crystal. She’s got big hair and big knockers and she likes big sex.”

  He turned to face her and took both her perfect hands in his.

  “I’m sorry. Would you ever in your wildest dreams consider leaving your rich husband and marrying a poor, homeless boy like me?”

  “No.”

  “Had to ask.”

  “I would, however, consider inviting you up
stairs to view my etchings. I like to screw. You do get that part, right?”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Long as we’re square on this, Harding.”

  “We’re square.”

  “I’m gonna tie you to the bed and make you squeal like Porky Pig, son. Or, vice versa. You with me on this?”

  He looked at her and smiled.

  Jackpot.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE ELEVATOR TO the Penthouse Suite opened inside the apartment foyer. It was exquisite, just as Harding would have imagined the best rooms in the best hotel in Paris might be, full of soft evening light, with huge arrangements of fresh flowers everywhere, and through the open doors, a large terrace overlooking the lights of Paris and the misty gardens below.

  Crystal smiled demurely and led him into the darkened living room. She showed him the bar and told him to help himself. She’d be right back. Slipping into something a little more comfortable, he imagined, smiling to himself as he poured two fingers of Johnnie Walker Blue and strolled over to a large and very inviting sofa by the fireplace.

  He kicked his shoes off, stretched out and took a sip of whiskey. He was just getting relaxed when he heard an odd hissing sound. Looking down at the floor he saw that the little fuckhead Rikki Nelson had just peed all over his Guccis.

  “Shit!” he said under his breath.

  “Hey!” he heard her call out.

  “What?”

  “Turn on some music, Harding, I want to dance!” she called out from somewhere down a long dark hall.

  He got to his feet and staggered a few feet in the gloom, cracking his shin on an invisible marble coffee table.

  “What? Music? Where is it?”

  “Right below the bar glasses. Just push ‘on,’ It’s all loaded up and ready to rip.”

  He limped over to the bar and hit the button.

  Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore!” filled the room.

  “Is that it?” he shouted over Dino.

  “Hell, yeah, son. Crank it!”

  He somehow found the volume control, cranked it, and went out to the terrace, away from the bar’s booming overhead speakers. The rain was pattering on the drooping awning overhead and the night smelled like . . . like what . . . jasmine? No, that wasn’t it. Something, anyway. It definitely smelled like something out here.

  “Hey, you!” she shouted from the living room’s open doorway. “There he is! There’s my big stud. Come on in here, son. Let’s dance! Waltz your ass on in here, baby boy, right now!”

  He downed his drink and went inside. Crystal stood in the center of the room wearing a skintight black leather bodysuit that would have put the Catwoman to shame. She had little Rikki Nelson cuddled in her arms, nuzzling her with kisses.

  “Where’s the whip?” he said.

  “Oh, I’ll dig one up somewhere, don’t you worry.”

  Harding collapsed into the nearest armchair and stared.

  “Why are you staring like that at me and Rikki?” she pouted.

  “Just trying to figure out whether or not that leash is on the wrong bitch.”

  Give her credit, she laughed.

  “I sure hope to hell you know how to dance, mister,” she said. “Now get up and get with it, I mean it.”

  He hauled himself manfully up out of the leather chair.

  You do what you have to do, he reminded himself.

  And he danced.

  And danced some more.

  CHAPTER 7

  HE WAS DRENCHED in sweat and panting like an old bird dog. Even the sheets were wet. Somehow he’d managed to give her three Big O’s, two traditional and, lastly, one utterly exhausting one. He’d never worked so hard in his life. “Outside the box,” she called it, that last one.

  He managed a weak smile. “Wow, you are something else, aren’t you, girl? I need a cigarette.”

  “No time. Back in the saddle, cowboy. You got me hot now. I’m itching to ride!”

  “Crystal, seriously. I need a little breather here.”

  “Don’t be a pussy, Harding. Mama’s waiting. Turn over.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. She took his wrists and tied them to the bedposts with two Hermès scarves she’d plucked from the bedside table.

  He didn’t even bother trying to fight her.

  “Are you trying to kill me, or what?”

  “Don’t you worry yourself, baby. The Cialis will kick in any minute now.”

  “I don’t take Cialis, Crystal.”

  “You do now, stud. I put two in your drink down at the lobby bar. When you bent down to pat Rikki Nelson.”

  “What? Are you kidding me? F’crissakes, Crystal—”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, hon. Big sex, remember? Okay, I’ll get on top this time. Oh, yes . . . somebody’s ready for Mama down there. That Cialis is a bitch, isn’t it? Just think, two pills, you might have an erection lasting eight hours . . .”

  “Listen, Crystal, you’ve really got to stop this . . . untie me . . . I’ve got a pain in my chest . . . I mean it!”

  “Pussy is the best cure for whatever ails you, son. Hang on, Mama’s gonna ride this bucking bronco all the way to the buzzer . . .”

  “Damn it, get off! I’ve got a cardiac condition! Doc says I’m supposed to take it easy . . . Goddamnit, I’m serious! Now my arm really hurts . . . call the doctor, Crystal. Now. They must have a house doctor on call and. . . . oh, Christ almighty, it hurts . . . do something!”

  “Like what?”

  “My pills! My nitro pills! They’re over there in my trouser pocket . . .”

  “Hold on a sec . . .”

  She reached over and picked up the bedside phone, never breaking her stride, and asked for the hotel operator.

  CHAPTER 8

  HE MUST HAVE passed out from the pain. Everything was foggy, out of focus. The room was dark, the rain beating hard against the windowpanes. Just a single lamplight from a table over in the corner.

  Crystal, still naked, was sitting with her back to him at the foot of the bed, smoking a cigarette and talking to the doctor in hushed tones. Her head was resting on the doctor’s shoulder. He couldn’t make out what they were saying. He was bathed in a cold, clammy sweat and the pain had spread from behind his breastbone into and out along his left arm. Fucking hell. His wrists were still tied to the bedposts? Was she insane?

  He heard a sob escape his own lips, and then a cry of pain caused by the elephant sitting atop his chest.

  “Sshh,” the doctor said, getting to his feet and coming to the head of the bed to stand beside him. He was naked, too. He put his finger to his lips and said “Sshh” again.

  “You’ve gotta do CPR or something, Doc,” Harding croaked. “My pills! They’re in the right pocket of my trousers. Please. I feel like I’m going to die . . .”

  “That’s because you are going to die, Harding,” the man said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Wait. Who are you?” He squinted his eyes but couldn’t make out the physician’s features.

  “Vengeance, sayeth the Lord, Harding. That’s who I am. Vengeance.”

  “You’re not a doctor . . . you’re . . .”

  “Dr. Death will do for now.”

  “Who . . . no, you’re not . . . you’re somebody else. You’re . . .”

  “Don’t you recognize me anymore, Harding? I’ve had a little surgery recently. A bit of Botox. But, still, the eyes are always a dead giveaway. Look close.”

  “Spider?”

  “Bingo.”

  “No, can’t be . . . You’re fucking Spider, f’crissakes,” the dying man croaked.

  “Right. Spider Payne. Your old buddy. Come rain or come shine. Tonight, it’s rain. Look out the w
indow, Harding. It’s goddamn pouring out there. Ever see it rain so hard?”

  “Gimme a break here, Spider. What are you doing . . .”

  “It’s called poetic justice. A little twist of fate shall we say?”

  Pain scorched Torrance’s body and he arched upward, straining against his bonds, coming almost completely off the bed. He didn’t think anything could hurt this much.

  His old nemesis knelt on the floor by the bed and started gently stroking his hair. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

  “You fucked me royally, Harding. Remember that? When I needed you most? When the French government, whom you always claimed to have in your pocket, nailed my balls to the wall? Kidnapping and suspicion of murder. Thirty years to life? Ring a bell?”

  “That wasn’t my fault, f’crissakes! Please! You gotta help me!”

  “That’s my line. Help me. You don’t get to use it. Way too late for that, I’m afraid, old soldier. You’re catching the next train, partner.”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t breathe . . . I can’t catch my . . .”

  “This is how it works, Harding.”

  “What—”

  “It’s so simple, isn’t it? Judgment Day. How it all works out in the end? In that dark hour when no bad deed goes unpunished.”

  “I can’t . . . can’t . . .”

  Harding Torrance opened his eyes wide in fear and pain. And as the blackness closed in around him he heard Spider Payne utter the last words his addled brain would ever register:

  “You fuck me, right? But, in the end, Crystal and the Spider, they fuck you.”

  CHAPTER 9

  A PERFECT DAY for a funeral.

  It was raining steadily, but softly. Dripping from the leaves, dripping from the eaves of the old Maine cottage on the hill. Tendrils of misty gray fog curled up from the sea, only to disappear into the steaming pine forests. Thin, ragged clouds scudded by low overhead.

  Hook’s burial service was in the overgrown family plot. A hallowed patch of small worn gravestones dotting a hilltop clearing overlooking the misty harbor. There were rows and rows of folding white chairs arranged on the grass surrounding the gravesite, filled with mourners hidden beneath rows and rows of gleaming black umbrellas.