But Nobody Wants To Die

by David M George

  Carlos flushes the toilet, a warning, hollering back louder than necessary, “Sorry man, my stomach is really messed up.”

  “What’s taking so damn long? the mob guy said.

  “I’ll be right out,” Carlos said, unfastening his belt so the mob guy can see him fasten it as he comes out of the john, slamming the door. He goes to the sink to throw some water on his face. “I’m never eating at Del Taco again,” Carlos said. The mob guy backs off, not sure if he heard anything suspicious or not.

  When they go back in the warehouse, Carlos touches the bill of his cap, and then quickly touches it again as Mitch watches them come through the double doors.

  “I told you not to order those beef tacos,” Mitch said.

  “I should have listened to you,” Carlos said.

  It takes Mitch less than ten minutes to install the smoke bomb and the fuse and timing device. He is just fastening the plate on the back when the spokesman comes through the double doors. But this time he’s got somebody with him. Its mob guy number four, the one they have not accounted for up until now.

  Now they have all the players. But there is something unsettling about this guy. Carlos turns away, rummaging through the tool box, desperately trying to place him. Carlos is good with faces and finally he figures it out. The bakery. This is the guy who broke the glass window of the bakery door, the one who stuck a gun in his face and called his partner ese.

  Carlos keeps his head turned, not wanting to give this guy the opportunity to see more than his profile. Carlos measures the distance between them, six feet, maybe more. Carlos reaches for the closest Phillips screwdriver and thinks about how long it would take him to cover the distance between them and bury the screwdriver in his chest. Two seconds, three? Would he be able to stick him before the guy could get to his gun?

  He’s hoping this guy is not as good at faces as Carlos is, and that maybe the stereotype is at least partly true that all Mexicans look alike. Mitch is starting to gather his tools, putting them back in the tool chest. Carlos can see the outline of a screwdriver in Mitch’s front pocket. Carlos keeps the Phillips by his right knee, and as he’s putting the rest of his tools away, he warns Mitch that things may suddenly go south.

  “You know, it may not have been the tacos. The hot sauce tasted funny, maybe it was old?” Carlos said. Mitch looks up, briefly meeting his eyes, holding his stare less than half a second longer than usual, those two words, like the imperceptible flap of a butterfly’s wing in the Guatemalan rain forest that somehow has worldwide repercussions, cause Mitch’s lips to tighten by the smallest fractions of an inch.

  “Yeah,” Mitch said, “could have been the hot sauce.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  COLONEL YEUNG, PLA 61398

  I t was two more days before Colonel Yeung returned to work and not until just after lunch that he finally got to the bottom of his In-Box and saw the memo from Lieutenant Shen about the 200,000 RMB being diverted to a bank in Macau. The doctors advised him to eat more fiber, less meat and saturated fat, and the boiled cabbage soup he had for lunch was giving him gas. He thought maybe it was better to have hemorrhoids than to have to eat boiled cabbage soup every day for lunch. He picked up the phone and dialed Jian’s number, telling him to come to his office right away. Even the upholstered office chair was much harder than the pillows he had grown used to at home and sitting for more than just a few minutes at a time was still painful.

  He was standing when Jian appeared in his doorway only a few seconds later and Yeung asked him to come in. “I just saw Lt. Shen’s memo,” Colonel Yeung said. “Do you have any details before I call the General?”

  Jian noted that the Colonel was standing rather than sitting, something he had never done, as the Colonel was known for expending as little energy as possible. Perhaps for once the rumors regarding the reason for his absence were true.

  “Sir, we were able to establish that the e-mail was sent from Alphonso’s office computer shortly after midnight, Mountain Standard Time,” Jiang said. “The majority of the funds continue to transfer to our bank account in Beijing, but around 200,000 RMB a day are going to an account at Banco Comercial, a Portuguese Bank in Macao.”

  “Do we have any details regarding this account in Macao?” Colonel Yeung said.

  “No sir,” Jian said.

  “Alright, go ahead and put one of our best technical analysts on it; see what you can find out. I want to be able to at least tell him we are working on it before I ruin his day.”

  “Yes sir, right away,” said Jiang.

  “Very well then, keep me informed,” Yeung said.

  “Yes sir,” said Jian as he turned and left the office. He decided he would ask Sgt. Wu to find out all he could about the bank account in Macau. When he got back to the office, Huang Fu greeted him with a raised eyebrow. Jian tried to ignore him, but Huang Fu was not so easily put off.

  “Are you going to tell me about the Colonel or not? Huang Fu said.

  “Don’t you have a weekly report that needs to be submitted?” Jian said. “You enjoy gossip more than the old crows that play mahjong with my mother every Thursday afternoon.”

  “I finished it while you were gone,” Huang Fu said. “So, was he standing or sitting down?”

  Jian threw up his hands in defeat. “Standing,” he said.

  “Aha,” said Huang Fu, exultant, “That means I win 10 RMB from Lt. Cheng. Can you believe he actually thought the Colonel was taking time off to attend the War Games in Jilin Province? What a dump. Who in his right mind would want to go there?” Jian could only shake his head.

  Meanwhile, Colonel Yeung picked up the phone once again; Shanghai style sweet and sour pork with fried rice, his favorite dish, was no longer on the dinner menu. It was being replaced tonight with tofu and mixed vegetables. He hated tofu almost as much as he hated talking to the General. It was rumored that the General was so ill-tempered because a succession of wives had given him only daughters, each one uglier than the last. He knew the General was not happy that his youngest daughter was dating Lt. Shen. He decided he would not mention Shen’s name unless he had to.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  THE ARCTIC SPRINGS WAREHOUSE

  C arlos puts the Phillips away, thinking if he has to, he will kill this guy with his bare hands, break his neck. They snap their tool boxes shut. They rise; Carlos can feel the blood pounding in his temples. Time slows. They begin to walk past, Carlos measuring the distance, planning how he’s going to do it. The mob guy from the bakery is looking at him.

  “I know you?” he said.

  Carlos shakes his head, “Don’t think so,” he said, looking him in the eye for the first time, showing he has nothing to hide.

  “You look familiar,” the mob guy said.

  Carlos shrugs, the adrenaline a raging flood, “We work up and down the strip, maybe you seen me around,” he said.

  The mob guy nods, considers it, “Yeah, maybe that’s it,” he says, not convinced.

  Mitch tries to intercede, wants to get the guy thinking about something else. “Here’s our card,” he said, handing it to the guy. “You have any problems give us a call.”

  “I already got one,” the mob guy says, shaking his head, “but thanks anyway.”

  They walk out the door to the truck; put the tool boxes away, get in. Carlos is waiting for the mob guys to burst through the door, guns drawn. The seconds fall in slow motion, like watching somebody squeezing a dry sponge, trying to coax that one last drop of water.

  Mitch turns the ignition, backs it up, and taking what seems like forever, finally drives away.

  Carlos exhales loudly, and slumps in the seat, drained.

  What was that all about?” Mitch said.

  “That was the guy that came in the bakery, the one who stuck a gun in my face,” Carlos said.

  “And you let him live?” Mitch said.

  “No,” Carlos said. “You did when you tried to give him the business card.”

 
Mitch shrugs, “We can go back if you like.”

  “No”, Carlos said, “maybe it’s his lucky day.”

  Mitch laughs, runs his hand through his hair, and checks the rear view mirror.

  “Not your lucky day?” Mitch said. “No,” Carlos said, smiling, not believing a word of what he was saying, “his.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure. I have to return this truck to its rightful owners anyway,” Mitch said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  WHERE DO YOU HIDE A

  FIRETRUCK?

  “S o tell me again,” I said, as Carlos wound his way through the streets of Las Vegas.

  “Okay,” Carlos said. “I tapped out CHESTY on the bathroom wall in Morse code. The first time, there was no response. But when I tapped it out the second time, I got a P, a U, and an L, in return before the mob guy burst into the bathroom.”

  “P,U,L as in Chesty Puller,” I said, “Marine legend and hero of the Corps. Something my Dad would instantly recognize. So just how was it that your brain, stuffed as it is with Navy propaganda, countless inflated tales of SEAL daring do and far too many girl’s phone numbers could remember such a thing about such an antiquated old school branch of the military?”

  “Let’s just say I have a special mental compartment for useless facts and trivial information about a largely irrelevant branch of the service,” Carlos said.

  I punched him in the shoulder, hard.

  “Ouch. Damn, that hurt,” he said, rubbing his shoulder.

  “Say I punch like a girl and there’s more where that came from.”

  “What was that for anyway?” he said.

  “Partly in defense of the Marine Corps, and partly because there was no official denial regarding the girl’s phone numbers,” I said.

  “That is one thing you don’t have to worry about,” Carlos said, turning right at the light.

  “That’s what they all say,” I said.

  The plan was for Carlos and I to pull up at the Las Vegas Fire Department Maintenance Yard just minutes before they closed. We were hoping that it would be too late for anyone to call, or double check, after all, even in a so-called rebounding economy, good government jobs were hard to come by. No one wanted to be responsible for letting even a used 2001 fire truck waltz out the door without first crossing their ‘t’s’ and dotting their ‘i’s’.

  “So where did Mitch get this City of Henderson pick-up? Not to mention these official City of Henderson uniforms,” I said.

  “He borrowed them, said somebody who works for the City owed him a favor,” Carlos said.

  “Mitch has his fingers in more pies than Marie Callender’s,” I said

  “Lucky for us he does,” Carlos said, glancing at me. “That uniform fit?”

  “Barely,” I said. “I could hardly get into it.”

  Carlos looked at my breasts and nodded, scowling as he did so.

  I don’t know about you, but if your potential new boyfriend is scowling when he is checking you out my understanding is that it’s usually not a good sign.

  “Something wrong with the scenery?” I said

  “Just that your blouse is much too tight,” he said.

  I guessed that he was unhappy because not only the guy at the gate but all those horn dog fireman at Station #13 were going to be staring at me later this afternoon. Maybe Mitch had been swelling his head with stories about the many sexual conquests by the boys at the station house.

  “Relax will you, let’s not get to far ahead of ourselves worrying about a few over-sexed fireman, especially since we don’t even have a fire truck yet,” I said. “Remember I only came along as a diversion and if the guy at the gate lets us in because he’s too busy staring at me instead of calling to double check on a totally forged purchase order than I’m only doing my job, right?”

  “You’re right, forget I even mentioned it,” Carlos said.

  “Okay,” I said. “But just for the record you know Mitch just dropped them off and I don’t like trying to fit into a shirt that’s a size too small any better than you do.”

  “Okay”, he said, “just for the record, I think it’s more than one size too small. But regardless of how tight it is, I give up. Look, this is me waving a white flag.”

  “You’re doing the right thing by surrendering,” I said. “But since this may be my only chance to feel like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune, can I at least smile and bat my eyes? You don’t mind if I do that, do you?”

  “Do you mean those same big beautiful eyes that stole my heart from the moment you broke into my bakery, are those the eyes we’re talking about?”

  “Oh, you silver tongue devil you. How can a girl resist your many charms?”

  “Yeah, it’s hard to believe you’ve held out this long, huh?” he said, rounding the last corner, the Maintenance Yard coming into view. “So what is it that Marines say before they go into combat?”

  “Plenty of things that are ‘X’ rated, but if you’re looking for something ‘G’ rated, lock and load would probably work,” I said.

  “Lock and load it is then,” Carlos said.

  Carlos pulled up the gate and waited for the guy to come out. When he did, clipboard in hand, Carlos said, “Hi, I’ve got a purchase order for a 2001 Pierce Quantum Pumper. I think it’s the one sitting over there in the corner,” handing the guy the purchase order.

  “No one told me a thing about it,” the guy said.

  Carlos smiled, eyeing the guy’s name plate, F. Garcia.

  “Some things never change right?” Carlos said, “We’re always the last to know,” saying it in English but with a little more of a Spanish accent.

  “I’m supposed to get a fax confirmation of any approved purchase orders,” the guy said, not taking the bait.

  “Well,” Carlos said, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess we could come back. But the mayor and the entire City Council are supposed to pose in front of it tomorrow morning at City Hall. There could be hell to pay if you can’t explain why you didn’t release the truck when I’m giving you a perfectly valid purchase order.”

  The guy took his time making up his mind, and spent most of it looking at me. Thinking this was my one moment in the sun, I smiled, and batted my eyes.

  “Oh what the hell,” he said finally. “Take the damn thing,” handing Carlos the keys. “Maybe they just forgot to fax it.”

  “Thanks, we sure appreciate it. Be sure and keep the pink copy,” Carlos said. We drove to the corner where the Quantum pumper was sitting.

  “Did you bat your eyes?” Carlos said.

  “If I had batted them just one more time, I would have dislocated my eyeballs,” I said.

  “You might just become an honorary SEAL yet,” he said.

  “Don’t do me any favors, like Dad always said, we only root for Navy on two occasions. The first is when they play Army in November and the second is when we’re at war, and since Navy is not playing Army this weekend you got nothing coming. Do you know how to even drive a fire truck?” I said.

  “Hell no,” Carlos said.

  “Just try and get out of here without running into anything, okay?” I said.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” I said.

  “Roger that,” he said

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  STATION #13

  I followed Carlos to Station #13 and parked the City Of Henderson pick-up in the lot while Carlos drove the fire truck it into the open bay and I watched as the door closed behind him. So the answer to the question, where do you hide a bright red 2001, 32 foot Pierce Quantum Pumper, is in a fire station, where else?

  Station #13’s regular rig, an even bigger and brighter 2012 Overland was now sitting in the driveway.

  A few minutes later Carlos came out the side door and walked towards me, “Well, how did I do?” he said.

  “Not bad, I only counted two close calls, one near fatality and three one finger salutes. The phones are lighting up down at city hall eve
n as we speak,” I said.

  “So, I did pretty good then?” Carlos said.

  “You were terrific, all things considered.”

  “What things are you talking about?”

  “Oh you know, the poor attitude, the inadequate training, and the typical slovenly Navy discipline,” I said.

  “Ocho, ochenta,” Carlos said, shaking his head.

  Seeing my blank look, he said, “That’s the Mexican slang equivalent of blah, blah, blah. But please, come on in, Mitch wants you to meet everybody. They want to see how badly the hype surrounding your over inflated reputation exceeds the reality,” he said.

  I let that slide. I suddenly had another concern, “Are we using real names?” I said as we walked towards the station house.

  “What, Johnson doesn’t sound phony enough?” he said.

  “I know it sounds phony, but it happens to be my real name,” I said.

  “It’s up to you, but these guys are using their real names, right?” Carlos said.

  “Yeah, good point. Forget I mentioned it, okay?” I said. Carlos, bless his heart, tried his best to alleviate my concern. “Why don’t you just use your ring name, Hurricane Johnson? It’s like an alias and a nickname at the same time, the best of both possible worlds. That way you’ll fit right in.”