Fatal Exchange

by Russell Blake

  “Look, one bill isn’t proof of anything. Maybe they’re freaking out, but that’s a long way from everyone having to fold up shop. Any indication they know where the bill came from?” Gordon was trying to talk himself down—this was a disaster of the highest order for them. Or was it?

  “She didn’t know. Far as I know, they don’t have a clue.”

  “Well, then, it’s not that big a deal in the scheme of things, is it?” Gordon rationalized.

  “Gordon, these guys aren’t idiots. They’ll keep pulling on the thread until they find out where it leads.”

  “There’s no thread to pull; it’s just a solitary bill of indeterminate origin. Come on. You know how the government works. They’ll be having meetings about this for the next year. Christ, they couldn’t even predict the Berlin wall coming down the week before it happened. I’m supposed to be worried over one lousy bill? Please.” Gordon felt calmer as he spoke. He was right. These weren’t the best or the brightest he was dealing with—they were government wonks, guys who couldn’t make it in the private sector.

  “This is your heads up. I’m telling you I’m concerned, and I don’t like any of this.” The man still sounded scared. And Gordon knew it was not good to have a scared guy around, especially if he knew your number and your part in a plan that could be misconstrued in an ugly way if it ever came to light.

  Gordon made a note with the man’s name on it and circled it. He’d have to tell the Asians what was happening, for self-preservation. The Treasury guy would have to go.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it—it’s one bill. Take a pill, have a couple of drinks. This is nothing. Trust me.” Gordon sounded convincing.

  “I’ll keep you posted if anything else surfaces.”

  * * *

  Ken received a phone call from the Director, which had been an increasingly frequent occurrence since the bill surfaced.

  “Ken, I just spoke with an old friend of mine who has a line on a million dollars worth of the Asian counterfeits.” The Director sounded fatigued.

  “Wow. Let’s get Secret Service on it, have them picked up before they make it out into distribution.”

  “Ken, this is a special circumstance. The person holding them wants to sell the bills to us.”

  Ken was incensed at the idea of being blackmailed. “Absolutely not. The law is clear. If he doesn’t turn them over immediately, he faces serious jail time. Period.”

  “We’ve reached an agreement. We’re going to trade them three hundred dollars per bill, for a total of three million bucks, Ken.” The Director was resigned to it.

  “Wha—”

  “Look, the alternative is fighting in the court system for weeks or months to find out who’s at the end of the trail, and in the meantime risking an article showing up. You want to read about the end of the dollar’s integrity on the front page of the Wall Street Journal? We can’t let that happen. The White House made the final call. Three million buys us a written commitment to never divulge the transaction and gets us the bills. I’d say it’s a deal.” The Director paused. “Hell, Ken—the Pentagon pays that much for a few cars.”

  Ken processed that thought. He supposed it was mice nuts in the scheme of things, and they would be clamping a lid on the most embarrassing scandal to hit Treasury in a hundred years. “So it’s settled?” Ken asked.

  “It is. And no trickery, either. I made an arrangement to have the exchange done in New York on Monday. We will honor the agreement, Ken. It’s a done deal.” The Director was firm.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  * * *

  It was four o’clock and the various tails were on the Red Cap girls. Most of them stopped in at the Corral after work, and they dispersed around six. Ron was at headquarters receiving radio reports from the officers in the field; he knew what the girls had ordered to drink, who they were hanging out with, what they were having for dinner, and where they were. As the evening wore on, most went out to bars, and three of them went to a concert at one of the clubs in the Village. Two stayed home; one could be seen working on a sculpture in her window, and the other was with her boyfriend watching TV.

  As the night wore on, Ron got tenser. It would have to be one of the girls still out. They had kept track of all of them, so the killer would be apprehended within minutes of making his first move. Eight o’clock turned into nine o’clock turned into ten o’clock, and nothing happened.

  It was a slow, mundane evening for everyone, but at any second that could all change.

  His whole task force was on duty, and most had put in fourteen hours so far. The calls continued to steadily come in from each spot as the evening progressed. Apparently being a female bike messenger involved a lot of drinking, smoking, drugs, and partying, and Thursdays were a big night out. Not exactly new information.

  Ron’s cell vibrated. He looked down and swallowed hard when he saw the number. He walked out of the main room to field the call.

  “Ron? It’s Tess. Sorry to call so late.”

  “That’s okay, Tess. Tell me you’re someplace safe.” He could hear a crowd in the background.

  “I’m over at a restaurant on Third Avenue nursing a glass of wine and wondering what to do next.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ron—I don’t have anyplace to stay tonight. I don’t feel safe at my loft since the killers who got Nick are still out there, and the place I lined up fell apart on me. I don’t have anywhere to go. So I was wondering if the police station is open twenty-four hours, and whether there’s a couch I could sleep on for a while. At least until it gets light out.” Her voice was very small.

  “Um—we’re kind of in the middle of something right now, Tess. I’m still at work. Let me call you back in a few hours and we’ll figure something out, okay? Are you fine where you are till then?” Ron had to stay focused.

  “Sure. Nick and I used to come here once every few weeks. They’re open till midnight or so. You’ll call later?” Tess was feeling nervous now that it was night. Duff had apologized for not being able to extend any more hospitality, but she understood—he’d been placed in a difficult position.

  But now it was nighttime in the city, and the serial was still loose, as were the Asians—and she had no one. She was alone. So after dinner and a glass of wine, the only person she had to call was Detective Ron. There wasn’t anyone else.

  “I will, Tess. Promise.”

  Well. He’d just been lamenting his luck on the female front, and now Amy was making mating calls, and Tess was asking him where she could spend the night.

  Life was strange, he thought, and then re-entered the conference room and task-force communication center to focus on the job at hand: catching a killer before he struck again.

  * * *

  The killer had been sipping his beer in a dark corner at Lucy’s since 8:50. It was one of the original watering holes on the alphabet streets, which used to be among the worst areas in town. Like all the rest of the city, it was getting cleaned up. But there were still blemishes like Lucy’s, places that catered to the dregs of humanity, making them feel comfortable.

  And Lucy’s was comfortable.

  He’d ordered a Jack and Coke for Sherry, figuring that was an appropriate first drink for her personality type, and had dropped in a few Klonopins. More than enough to knock her out with a follow-up drink. It was sitting ready when she showed up at 9:15. She’d gotten tarted up, he noticed, though the effect was more sad than arousing.

  “Hey, look who’s here,” she said when she saw him.

  “Hey, what’s up? I got you an adult beverage.” He smiled at her. “You made it.”

  She laughed. “You bet I did. Thanks. I smoked that weed you gave me—it’s pretty killer.” She took a few swallows of her drink.

  “Yeah, it is. I picked up the blow, it’s rocket fuel. I don’t know where he gets this stuff. It’s like pharmaceutical grade.” The killer figured he’d keep her thinking about coke until she drank enough to
fall off the stool.

  “I can’t wait. You look hot tonight,” she said. Not particularly subtle, but she wasn’t exactly a debutante, so what did he expect?

  “You know what would be cool that I haven’t had for a while? A shot of tequila. You want one?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  She downed her drink in two more swallows. “You bet. I love tequila. Tequila, coke and cock. A good cocktail. Get it? Cocktail.” She threw back her head and brayed her laugh.

  He went to the bar and bought two shots of Cuervo and brought them back to the wretched little table. As he put them down, he looked at the door in alarm. A man and a woman had walked in.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “My ex and some idiot. That’s just fucking great. Look, I don’t want her to see me, I’m gonna duck out. Meet me by the front door in two minutes?” He didn’t want her to be seen leaving with him.

  “Uh, okay…What about your drink?”

  “You can have it. I’ll see you in a few. I’m going to go out for a smoke before they notice me.” The killer got up and pretended to scratch his head so his “girlfriend” couldn’t see his face.

  Sherry looked at him as he left, and then back at the shots. Waste not, want not. She knocked back both without any hesitation, then stood up unsteadily and walked out the door. He was standing down the street, smoking. She felt buzzed. Tequila. Woo-hooo.

  “Hey, baby. You got a cigarette for a lady?” She was starting to slur. He figured he had five minutes before she was out cold. Perfect. “I’ll blow you for it,” She grinned crookedly at her joke.

  “Sounds like a deal.” He flipped out a smoke, lit it for her, and noted her pupils didn’t contract from the match. Good. She’d be down for the count soon, and he’d never have to hear her again.

  “You wanna head to my place, get high?” He asked as though he’d just thought of it.

  “You betcha.” She was having a hard time with her consonants.

  “That tequila can sneak up on you—here, take my arm. Let’s hit it.” Next she’d start weaving, and then her knees would buckle.

  He’d done this before.

  They staggered up the block and around the corner and passed an alleyway. She was in trouble, head spinning, but was still game.

  “You serious about a BJ for the smoke?” He guided her into the alley.

  “Sure thing, baby.”

  He guided her to her knees and let her fiddle with his zipper. She was fumbling with it, rapidly losing motor function; she couldn’t seem to get her hands to work. Her eyes went glassy and she slowly slipped into a heap at his feet.

  Grabbing her under her arms, he pulled her deeper into the alley, behind a reeking dumpster, then extracted his kit from beneath it and went to work.

  He had it down to a science now. Injection; give it a few minutes; hair took less than a minute; eyes, another minute; breasts, twenty seconds. He carefully placed his trophies in the bag and hefted her corpse into the dumpster.

  He was golden. Another night’s work completed. He exited the alley and made his way back to his place with the best parts of Sherry safely tucked away.

  * * *

  Gordon called the minister a few hours after the conversation with the Treasury agent. He’d needed time to digest the news, think through its implications, and figure a way out. Now he would see how the Asians wanted to proceed, and what they could do about the mess.

  “Minister, it’s Gordon.”

  “Yes, Gordon. It must be late there. What can I do for you?”

  “I got a disturbing call from our mutual acquaintance at Treasury. Apparently one of the bills surfaced, and there’s now a task force.” Gordon waited for a response. None was forthcoming.

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  “Yes.” the minister replied.

  “I’m worried about our conduit there—he sounds like he’s panicked. I’m also worried about the last conversation I had with you, where you assured me everything was under control and we had nothing to worry about.” Gordon said.

  “I see. Well, Gordon, up until you just called, I thought this was handled. I talked to our agents this afternoon. They experienced a minor logistical setback, but feel confident they will have the situation concluded soon. Apparently that might be overly optimistic.” The minister sounded spooked. His calm singsong voice was obviously strained.

  “Look, my net worth is at stake here, as well as most of your country’s account. The oil futures and options will lose a fortune if the plan comes apart. I don’t like surprises—and I’m starting to think you aren’t giving me all the information you have.” Gordon’s voice hardened.

  “I don’t know anything more than you do. But I would caution you that we are in this together, and that you work for me, not the other way around. Drop the insulting tone now or I may have the account transferred elsewhere. Do I make myself clear?” The minister’s voice hadn’t increased in volume or pitch, but the menace in it was unmistakable.

  “I’m sorry. But I can’t be effective if you keep me in the dark. And you need to do something about the man in Washington—he sounded like he was going to crack. And you need to keep me up to speed, so I can maneuver.” Gordon had been checked, but the stakes were high and he wasn’t going to back down completely.

  “You have many needs. I will call tomorrow once I have a full report on what is going on in New York.” The minister continued, “And Gordon? Thank you for the advice, but I would caution you again—you are close to crossing lines best left uncrossed.” The phone went dead.

  Well, now, that was just fucking great. Cryptic threats, non-statements, no communication, and a tone that said you’re our servant so suck it up.

  He had a sinking feeling.

  He considered how much he’d lose if he sold his options and futures—at this point, almost half his net worth. A fortune that had taken decades to build, gone in a few days due to the goddamn Asians.

  Then again, there wasn’t necessarily any reason the plan couldn’t continue as scheduled. Just because Treasury was on the alert didn’t mean they could do anything. What to do, what to do, that was the question. He washed down a valium with a glass of scotch, and figured he’d deal with it once he saw what tomorrow brought.

  * * *

  The killer was dancing to the music, the candles were lit; all the eyes were watching him, the breasts shifting against his chest as he sang his anthem in the odd falsetto. He’d been twirling and keening the song for fifteen minutes, and the transformation wasn’t taking place. The music started again and he tried to clear his mind.

  It was no good.

  He’d gotten something wrong. He knew it, felt it. He’d made a wrong call somewhere, misread a sign, and now it would have to start all over again.

  He became increasingly agitated, then enraged, sweeping the candles to the floor and stomping on them, screaming in a shrill high voice, kicking the chairs. He tore Sherry’s hair off his head, threw it on the ground, jumped up and down on it and then fell on it, sobbing. He was crying for his lost self, the self he was trying so desperately to become, that he was so close to becoming. He shrieked his rage into his arms and then gradually pulled himself together. He’d misjudged before. Maybe this was part of the journey.

  His evening wasn’t over yet; he had to take care of an important piece of business. The cleanup would take a while. He carefully scooped up the hair—always wearing the gloves—and proceeded with the packing of his kit and all the trophies.

  There was one more thing to do.

  * * *

  “Yeah,” answered the male voice.

  “I need to stop by. I need two bills worth, and I got a taste of some new shit for you. It’s from the guy we talked about, my cousin. He says he can start at a grand a week, minimum, or it isn’t worth his time,” the killer explained.

  “No problem—I’m rolling five times that, easy. If the shit’s as good as you say, we’ll all be
golden. Why you need my stash if he’s got some?” the messenger asked.

  “I already did some earlier, after work. There’s only one more line left from the sample, and I saved it for you. But I need some for the weekend, and he only slings weight. No two-bill bullshit.”

  “Awright. Come on by. I’m just chillin’.”

  “Ten minutes.” The killer hung up the pay phone, just a block from the messenger’s apartment. He was wearing gloves, and would take them off once he was at the door. The fool suspected nothing.

  The buzzer rang and the messenger obligingly beeped him in. The killer walked up one flight of stairs to the rathole of a flat, removing the gloves as he approached the door. It opened before he reached it.

  “Hey, buddy, it’s getting late. I hope this shit’s not as good as you say, ’cause otherwise I won’t be sleeping tonight.” The messenger laughed.

  “It’s godhead, my friend. You got my stuff?” The killer didn’t want to appear too eager.

  “Yeah, it’s on the table. You want a beer?”

  “Nah. Gives me a headache.”

  “So where’s the magic? Bring it on.” The messenger was anxious to see what the killer had scored. He dealt to a lot of the other members of the Red Cap crew, as well as to various stops on his regular route. If this stuff was as good as advertised, he would be able to put a good cut on it, and make a lot more profit while maintaining his quality.

  The killer pulled out a small vial and dumped a line onto the mirror. “Careful, now. You might want to sit down before you huff that if you’re used to your regular shit.” He laughed.

  The messenger laughed too. Right. Like he couldn’t handle it. He snorted it all in one movement, and then shook his head. “Whoooo…that’s fucking—oh my…” He went into convulsions, and after a few moments his heart stopped.