by E. Z. Rinsky
Not dry enough, apparently.
“You think Rico was these guys’ stooge?”
“Well it sure seems he wasn’t too enthusiastic about doing any of this.”
“Or he’s just a great actor,” I say.
Mindy shakes her head and ashes her joint.
“They’re all stooges. Sophnot’s stooges.”
I frown.
“What do you mean? He’s in prison.”
“That didn’t stop James from drinking his Kool-Aid,” Mindy says.
“C’mon,” I say. “You think he ‘tutored’ all those guys too?”
Mindy licks her lips.
“If they have nothing to do with Sophnot, then someone is really good at imitating his leatherworking and binding style.”
I stiffen.
“What?”
“I can’t be sure,” she says, “everything happened so quickly, so I can’t be positive. But it sure looked the same as the others.”
Courtney draws in a long breath through his thin nose.
“Well, that’s a rather unsettling observation. But no reason to cause ourselves any additional angst by speculating.” He smiles tightly, in a way I find a little frightening.
“James keeps calling me,” Mindy says, displaying her own iPhone, flashing “James” on the screen. “Shall I tell him how badly you two performed?”
“I don’t see how this is on me,” I say. “You’re the one who said we couldn’t swap until you spent an hour with them. You said if they pulled out even one page—”
“Are you kidding me?” She drops the nub of her joint and grinds it beneath her heel. “Am I the one who threw forty-eight million dollars into a penguin pond?”
“It’s an amphibious environment.”
“If you don’t make this right,” she says, “the only person protecting you from the law is going to become your worst nightmare. And believe me, I won’t be defending you to him when—”
“Enough,” I growl. I felt queasy before, but now I’m getting truly light-headed as the implications of this afternoon sink in.
“I need to talk to James,” she mutters, half to herself. “Maybe I can save myself.”
“You can’t tell Sampson yet,” I say. “He’ll do something crazy. Just give us a chance. A little time.”
Mindy squints at me like I’m some sort of inferior life form she’s having trouble understanding.
“Even if you find them, you think those men are just going to politely return them to you?” She laughs. “Oh, terribly sorry. Here’s your forty-eight million dollars back. Perhaps now we can try swapping again?”
My vision goes red.
“Listen, you ungrateful shithead.” I shoot off the bench and stick my face so close to hers that I can smell her weed-breath and all-natural body wash. “If I hadn’t done what I’d done when I did it, we might be dead.”
“That doesn’t make this okay!” she cries. “Those books are the last seven years of my life.”
“You think I don’t want to get them back?”
I sit back down and check the GPS tracker again. Slide it into my back pocket.
“Courtney and I are gonna go see if we can get security camera footage of the aquarium parking lot, and surrounding areas. Maybe we can see them leaving and get a license plate or something.”
Courtney frowns at me like we are?
Mindy snorts.
“It’s come to that, yeah? Fine. Let me know when you give up. I’m taking the Hummer.”
“You’re not going back to Aspen are you?” I say. “Honestly, if we don’t get those bags back, and Sampson goes ape, I don’t think you’ll want to be anywhere near him. I suggest you check into a hotel.”
She frowns, and looks at Courtney for his opinion. He nods.
“I agree with Frank. Buy food, text only us where you are, and don’t open the door for anyone.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t think James would—”
“I’m not just worried about the Senator,” Courtney says. “Whether they’ve spoken to Sophnot or not, it’s a good bet those men are interested in what’s written in those books. They’ve been holding onto them for four years, and maybe have even been able to extract a little meaning from them. But they’re not linguists. You’re the expert we brought along. I’ll bet they’d like a word with you.”
She mulls this for a second.
“You’ll call me immediately if you have anything, right?” she asks Courtney.
“Of course,” he says, looking her square in the eyes. That look could sell snow to an Eskimo.
“Fine. Good luck,” she says, and walks off toward the parking garage.
Courtney turns to me.
“It’s going to be tough to get security footage, Frank. And even then, you’ve only got a prayer of being able to catch a license plate.”
“I know.” I grin and pull the GPS tracker out of my pocket. “And tedious and hopeless enough that Mindy wouldn’t feel compelled to join.” I show him the dropped pin on the screen. “The chip showed up five minutes ago. The bags aren’t moving. They’re forty-five minutes east of here.”
He blinks at me. He’s about to say something—about Mindy I’m sure—but swallows it.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s go.”
We rush to hail a taxi, take it to the closest rent-a-car, and are in a Honda Accord, heading east by eight thirty. The beacon hasn’t moved. It’s in a rural area called Deer Trail.
I drive while the GPS navigates. Courtney is silent in the passenger seat, hands folded in his lap.
The phone is in the cup holder. Sampson has changed tack, and is now texting us:
Where are you!????
What’s going on???
How dare u ignore me!!
The phone is on silent, but illuminated by a string of perpetual, increasingly unhinged messages. I can’t even look at it.
I take us from the western edge of Denver to the eastern city limits in near silence, interrupted only by the robot instructions from the GPS. As night descends, my shoulders and neck tighten in anticipation.
Is this a trap?
“You shouldn’t have lied to her,” Courtney finally says.
“I don’t trust her, and I didn’t want her around,” I respond. “Don’t forget, by her own admission she wants to take the books to London.”
“So we should have discussed that with her.”
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
“Dude. I’m your partner. You didn’t even back me up back there about what I did in the aquarium. You’re acting like Mindy is on our side. She’s not. She doesn’t give a shit about us, and she has her own agenda. We took her with us to identify the books, and after the aquarium I’m confident enough I know what they look like. So that’s it. We’re done with her.”
“I just don’t like that kind of deception.”
“Let’s just call a spade a spade, Court. You wanted to preserve the possibility of you getting into her kidney pie, eh? Or so you figure. Well let me save you some time, champ: She’s never gonna fuck you.”
“Frank, please don’t be crude.”
“Maybe if you were fifteen years younger, and somebody completely different. But I’d say your chances of getting in her pants are like, subatomic level. Like the odds of a mouse surviving on the surface of the sun long enough to play a complete game of solitaire.”
“You’re being really abhorrent.”
“Three-card draw.”
We lapse back into a silence punctuated only the automated directions: “In 500 feet, take exit 328.”
I direct the Accord onto a two-lane rural highway. No street lights now. The roadside landscape could just be a loop of drainage ditch, green mile markers, and wood fences. I listen to Courtney’s fast breathing.
“Sorry, Court,” I say. “I’m nervous.”
“It’s alright,” he says. He’s way too sensible to let something as silly as feelings distract him
for too long. “Me too.”
“You don’t think they found the chip do you?” I ask. “And are waiting for us?”
“It’s possible. But I don’t plan on just rushing in, guns blazing.”
I rub the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger.
“Rico mentioned Oliver Vicks. Well, ‘Sophnot.’”
“I know,” Courtney says quietly, staring through the windshield at the King Soopers truck ahead of us, like it’s some work of art. “And I know he’s in prison. But what if he’s orchestrated all of this. Converted Sampson, trusted him with the books, and then manipulated Rico into stealing them. Then for years he keeps asking Sampson to bring the books back to him, while upping the pressure on the other side . . .”
I little shiver runs down my spine.
“That’s a pretty clever way to make forty-eight million dollars.”
I turn right off the highway, and we drive five minutes on a bumpy dirt road. Courtney’s slight form bounces up and down in the passenger seat like popcorn in the pan. 9:25.
“Stop here,” Courtney says. “Quarter mile away.”
I pull over and turn the car off.
“Hardly anything out here,” I say.
“Maybe it’s buried?” Courtney says hopefully.
“The dot hasn’t budged right?”
“Right.”
Courtney walks first, following the GPS. I’m right behind him, Magnum drawn. We walk slowly, the only light some faint stars, not daring to give ourselves away with flashlights.
The landscape here is flat, and we see the two-story house from 300 yards away. Lights are on upstairs.
“That’s it right?” I ask.
Courtney nods, and swaps the GPS out for his Magnum.
There’s a driveway leading up to the house, which we give a wide berth. Crouch as we stumble blindly over rocks and high grass.
The air is crisp and dry. Mostly just follow Courtney’s lanky silhouette, Magnum in one hand, red acrylic satchel in the other.
Courtney stops about a hundred yards from the house. We stand side by side.
“What is this place?” I whisper. The building is a dome. It’s half a sphere, like the earth started blowing a bubble. By the dim light coming through a few portholes near the top, we can see that the exterior is thousands of rusty red metal shingles. They remind me of dead red leaves, trampled and flattened. “Is this a house?” I ask.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Courtney whispers back somberly, “I saw a picture of this place when I was browsing Oliver Vicks designs.”
My insides twist into a knot.
We continue slowly toward the dome until, about twenty meters away, I halt and show Courtney my palm. There’s a guy sitting outside the front door. Big baby kind of look, wearing a leather jacket, smoking, sitting in a plastic chair, looking at his phone. Hasn’t noticed us yet. I think I hear faint music reverberating inside the dome behind him.
“That guy’s a bouncer,” I say softly.
“A bouncer?” Courtney frowns.
“Yeah. And that must be one hell of a party, to have it all the way out here.”
I point to our left: a row of parked cars. Shitty, most of them. A gold Ford Bronco, a beat--up Volvo station wagon . . . this is no cotillion. I wonder if any of them is Rico’s car . . . which would mean him and both bags are still inside. I allow myself to fantasize about bringing Sampson back the books and the money. There’s no way he wouldn’t give us a million-dollar bonus. And if we don’t get them . . . if we don’t get at least one of those bags before Sampson figures out what happened, we might as well go down a few Drano and tonics.
I had the bags in my lap . . .
Again the events of this afternoon play, projected on my mind’s eye, and each time it looks more and more like a blooper reel.
Courtney brings me back to earth.
“Let’s scope it out,” he says.
We wade through a field of burrs and brambles to approach the building on the far side, opposite the bouncer. As we near the house, I realize it’s much larger than I’d thought—equivalent of maybe four stories tall, and at least the circumference of a baseball diamond. All the windows are small and round, like portholes on a ship. Pockmarks on the otherwise smooth red face of this dome. The glass is too thick to really make anything out besides some flickering lights and muddy shapes. There’s noise though. The whole dome seems to act like a subwoofer, amplifying a booming high BPM bass line. At some point we hear something that’s the muffled wail of either a human or cat.
“What’s going on in there?” asks Courtney.
“Rave maybe?”
“What’s a rave exactly?” he asks. “Like a party with loud music right?”
I stare at him.
“Didn’t you used to work for the DEA?”
We continue around the perimeter of the house. When we’re halfway around, Courtney stops and squints through the darkness at the building, hands on his hips like a prospector.
“We could try to quietly break a window,” he says. “Though it would be a tight fit.”
“I’m not sure that’s a very strong plan,” I respond, imagining his tiny butt squirming as he tries to squeeze his lanky body through one of those portholes.
“Do you have a better idea?” Courtney asks.
I lick my lips.
“Yes, the obvious one. Go in the front door.”
Courtney frowns.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
“Well . . .” I cough. “Let’s say it is a trap . . . That they found the chip and they’re waiting for us . . .” Courtney’s face contorts into anguish as he deduces my meaning. I spell it out anyways: “Rico and those men know what I look like. But not you.”
“You want me to go in alone?”
“Just for five minutes,” I say. “Scope it out. Then I’ll join.”
Courtney’s lips writhe like little worms, pale pink under the light from the dome.
“Fine. Keep your walkie-talkie on.”
We retrace our steps, back around to the front of the house, but taking a wide angle of approach. Feet crunching over dry grass, each snap sounds like the earth crying out for water. I crouch down on my stomach about ten yards from the entrance.
“Give me your gun,” I tell him. “In case the bouncer frisks you.”
Courtney looks like he might protest, but relents and unholsters his weapon. Hands it to me.
I watch him trudge to the front door, like a man headed for the gallows. He looks over his shoulder at me, shakes his head like this is a terrible idea, then engages the bouncer. I bite my lip and flatten myself against the dirt. Maybe it is a terrible idea, but it’s really the only choice.
The bouncer is immediately on his feet, his body language saying something to the effect of who the fuck are you?
Courtney extends an awkward hand in introduction like this is a networking event.
Oh boy.
The bouncer stares at Courtney’s outstretched hand with confused disgust, like he’s just been offered a cup of rancid milk.
Courtney then puts the hand on the shoulder of the guy’s jacket, like to inspire camaraderie. The bouncer stares at the hand until Courtney removes it.
This isn’t going well.
Courtney gesticulates like can I come in? Bouncer takes out a clipboard and asks Courtney’s name.
Invitation only.
I see Courtney rubbing his scalp with anxiety. Now he’s trying to sweet talk the guy . . . maybe I can just poke my head in . . . Oh no. Courtney’s taking out his wallet, offering the guy a few flimsy bills. Bouncer laughs, and his body language pretty clearly indicates that, as far as he’s concerned, this conversation is now over. Can’t say I blame him; I wouldn’t let Courtney into my party either.
Court awkwardly tries to peek into the ajar door behind the guy’s shoulder.
The bouncer stands up and puts his hands on his hips. Shakes his head in a pretty definitive you’re not getting in here.
Courtney holds up two fingers like let me just come in for two minutes. Bouncer points back into the night, shouts something whose import doesn’t require much guesswork.
And then another guy slips out the front door, maybe he heard the disturbance. He’s wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts. Must have heard the yelling. In his right hand is what appears to be a machete.
Oh boy.
Red Boxers immediately escalates, waving his blade in Courtney’s face. He’s obviously drunk. Courtney puts his palms up like okay, you win. But Red Boxers takes another step toward him, and the bouncer doesn’t seem like he’s in any hurry to help.
I’m on my feet, and close the distance between me and the action in seconds. I lower my shoulder and blindside Red Boxers like a linebacker. We crash to the ground, and I’ve got one hand on the machete hilt, tearing it away from him, the other on the back of his head, pushing it into the dirt.
I vaguely perceive the bouncer in my periphery milliseconds before I get decked in the jaw. I fall backwards, tasting blood. The world is momentarily an assortment of blurry shapes, one of them I think is the bouncer, closing in on me. Instinctually I roll away, which lets me recover long enough to rise to one knee. The bouncer is rushing at me. I can’t dodge him, and I’m immediately in his grip, head and neck being maneuvered into a well-practiced chokehold.
Maybe he’s not an amateur.
I try reaching for my gun, but my arm is trapped behind my back. I’m powerless. He has his bicep wrapped around my neck, about to start squeezing, when I hear a smack and his grip goes slack. He falls away from me, collapses backwards onto the damp earth with a thud. Totally unconscious.
Courtney is holding the machete like it’s a baseball bat, breathing hard. The bouncer is bleeding a bit from the top of his head, where Courtney hit him. Courtney’s hands are shaking.
“Nice swing,” I say.
“Did I kill him?” Courtney asks, horrified.
I kneel besides the bouncer’s limp form. Feel his pulse, look at his head wound, open one of his eyes. He stirs slightly.
“No, you didn’t kill him.”
Red Boxers squirms on the ground, groans in anguish. I kick him again in the gut, which shuts him up.