by Tad S. Torm
"Around 12:30 I got a ring from Soldi's daughter. She called to warn me that you were back, free in the wild and with no controls. She told me to watch my back."
Lana … Lana … Lana.
I knew it from the start. How I wished it wasn't so.
But this can wait until I get back.
My throat is already dry as I drink the last coffee dregs. I froze up all inside when he told me about her, and how hopeless it all now seems, but this is not important. Not while I'm on the job.
There is no joy in my laughter, "Now you better just start thinking about the irony of your situation, Rene. Because if I let you live and Jack will find out, he'll be sure to kill you. He'll probably kill you anyway, on principle, no matter what he knows, even if you shush. He'll know you turned him in, once I get on his trail. So you see, Rene, I have only one advice for you, that you pray for my health and my success, pray hard and pray often."
I let him live, for now, and take my chances since the news of his death would raise an immediate alarm.
I drive back through the drizzle still trickling down, praying I'll extract a little more happiness back home until the awful truth will explode in all our faces.
At six o’clock in the morning, the road gets livelier. People drive to work in their small sedans. The big trucks roll noisily crossing over the lanes. I move into the slow lane and I stick there.
I need to think, and after I think of this, I have to start thinking about what I'll tell Lana, and what Lana will want to tell me.
But first and foremost, I need to think about Jack.
I met him about three years ago when he had just started to grow his business. He wanted to hire me.
"Jack, Jack, Jack … what mess have you gotten us into?"
I didn't like the man; I didn’t like his grating smile and pretend friendliness. I didn't like the way he didn't pay attention. Jack is the type of man that listens only to himself. And he laughed too much. And he was trying too hard to be ingratiating.
I couldn't blame him for being a sociopath; that goes without saying in my line of work. When I told him that I was a solitary wolf and I liked to work on my own he chuckled.
These kinds of invitations … you know … in my world, these kinds of invitations … they are not too smart to turn down.
But I am a free man and I don’t want anybody's leash 'round my neck. Especially not a scumbag's like Jack.
It was about the time Caro had disappeared from my life and the world had begun to change around me, and not in the prettiest sense of the word. A few months later, I found out about the family I didn't know I had.
I was not sure about my path in life.
I feel something is wrong as soon as I get home. I take the world as it is, never yielded to illusions. But when something happens in your life, and is perfect… I don't believe the old stories. I don’t believe, for instance, that everyone has somebody somewhere just waiting to be found. Somebody that you have to search for, and you might find if you're lucky; somebody that is perfect only for you, your other half. No, nothing like that exists. And I strongly believed it until I met Lana.
The quiet plenitude I felt before and the sense of well-being are both gone. There was a balance in the world that existed for me and now is no more.
This is how I know Lana has left.
I hurry to the entranceway and I rush inside. I run up the stairs. I look in my room, come back into the hallway and search through hers. I go into all the other places where she could possibly be and go through them one by one.
Finally, I stumble into the kitchen and almost knock down Germaine, who's making breakfast.
I try to speak, but I'm voiceless. The only sound I can utter is "Lana."
"She left half an hour ago," Germaine says.
"Did she say anything about where she was going?"
"No."
"Did she leave any message for me?"
"No."
I book the first flight to New York, a solitary flight. I buy my usual two seats in first class, and this time I don't invite any pretty girl to share them with me. And the only question I mull in my head for the full six hours of the flight is how I approach Jack Soldi and how I bring him down.
--
It's half a year later now.
I sit on my elbows and knees on top of a five-hundred feet cliff in Saint-Elmo-by-the-Sea, with my high power binoculars glued to my eyes. To my right with angry waves the ocean roars. In the deserted parking lot which runs along the beach, I can see my car. In the distance it looks like a toy. The winding footpath that ends at my feet will take me down to it in about fifteen minutes.
I watch a big mansion, a chalet really, formidable in size, at a distance of about half a mile; this being the reason why I need the powerful binoculars. The structure looks more like a fortress, with its thick steel-reinforced cement walls and bullet-proof windows, a gloomy fantasy issued from the dark imagination of Jack.
I've been inside once, less than two years ago, invited to a party, and I never plan to go back. An assault against the place seems foolhardy in the extreme. Once you get inside, you become a prisoner unless you can fly. But I wouldn't really give you a fighting chance even if you were a bird of the air.
Last spring when I returned, it was impossible to approach Jack. He had retreated in a defensive mode. He must have spent a fortune on the detectives and bodyguards who were swarming in all directions: ahead of him, behind and at his sides, wherever he went. I often wondered how he could stand it.
I had to bide my time.
Four months after my brother was killed, the waves of the Atlantic dragged a body to shore, five miles south of Bridgeport. The body structure, as well as the weight, height and musculature of the cadaver, were similar to mine. What's more, the police retrieved documents containing one of my identities, in the black plastic wallet found inside one of the dead man's pockets. They were remarkably well preserved, thanks to the material. The body could not be identified one way or another, but it served notice to Jack to stop being afraid and start living the rest of his short life.
It's hard to live with fear, fear of instant death; it's hard to spend your life surrounded by dozens of bodyguards, armed to the teeth, watching your every move. Those five months couldn't have been too easy on Jack. His quality of life must have suffered; his enjoyment of his trade fading away.
I was mostly away during this time, searching for Lana, but I spent the rest of it watching Jack.
Things slowly quieted down in the Soldi Empire, retrieving their regular tempo. Life returned to normal while the threads of his own were getting shorter by the day. But he remained blissfully unaware. Which is a good thing. Good for his mental health.
While I wait on top of the bluff, I pay special attention to the road. A black limousine comes every morning at 8:30 am to take Jack, accompanied by his two bodyguards, into town.
The chauffeur gets petted by one of his goons, who then gets into the front seat, looks around for anything unusual and moves to the passenger side once he's satisfied with his search. The other goon opens the back door of the limo, takes a peek inside and gets in. He is followed by Jack.
Zingor, the limo driver, is an original character. At first, I thought he was a pantomime artist, working with caricature.
I later found out that he was a real person, a recent Zingovian immigrant, as well as a former chauffeur to the stars of the young Zingovian Republic.
He spends most of his evenings in his favorite drinking establishment, the Zingo Bar, boasting about the old glory of the Regency, when he used to drive dignitaries of the old regime to their palatial estates in the countryside on weekends.
It's eight thirty and the black limo doesn't fail to materialize. But there is a change in plans.
For today, I get down my mountain.
I get into my car, pay my bill and exit the parking lot. I get on the highway and move into the fast lane.
The black limo is rolling steadi
ly a hundred fifty feet ahead of me and I don't care. For a full week, I followed it religiously, day by day, minute by minute. By now, the list of Zingor's customers is etched into my brain. I memorized his daily itinerary to the minute.
But today I'm not interested in Jack's limo. Today I'm interested in Jack's chauffeur.
I merge onto the 505 Freeway, cross the Saint-Elmo Bridge and zoom into town.
I find parking on the street, feed the meter, and spend the rest of the time until the black limo comes into view, lounging comfortably with a glass of sherry and a cup of mocha cappuccino at an outside table of the Café Promenade. I chose this place because it happens to be across the street from Jack's Office, which is bordered on one side by the Bank of the Pacificus and by a Beauty Salon on the other side.
I exchange my binoculars for a highly pixelated digital camera. Today I'm shooting pictures. Not Jack's pictures, I know the bastard well enough, like an ugly wart that threatens to become infected, and I'm already sick of his mug. Today's frames will all feature Zingor, my new Zingovian amigo.
I start taking his pictures as soon as he gets out of the limo and I can get a good view. He says goodbye to Jack and company, but I follow him on his itinerary and snap a few more frames whenever he stops.
I met a killer once, a long time ago, a man who changed his appearance before every hit. One day he made a bad mistake when he mistook my girlfriend for his next target. But in this job, sooner or later, we all make a bad mistake. He died in a park that very day, and I inherited his PO Box, which kind of started me in the business.
But aside from his main avocation, which was stamp collecting; this man had a particular talent. Using theatrical makeup, he could paint his face and become a totally different person. A priceless gift for somebody keen on preserving his anonymity.
I don't have his gift. But I know somebody who does. Her name is Gigi. She is my East Coast broker. I've known her for five years and a bit, and I believe we're rather pleased which each other.
I give Gigi a buzz after making sure I have everything I need from Zingor.
She will see me.
Gigi has a beauty salon out of town, in the River Creek Mall, located at about twenty miles from my current location.
She starts examining me as soon as I step foot in her shop. Then she takes the camera and flips through the frames. She asks me about Zingor's relative height and body structure.
I tell her they are roughly similar to mine.
She's curious about what I'm going to do about the uniform.
"I'll take his."
"Do you think you can fake his voice well enough to be believable?"
"Gigi, you won't believe it," I say, "but I always had a talent for voices. His control of the language is very basic. He's a driver, for God's sake. I don't think they have a lot of subjects in common to chat about inside the limo. It's precisely the Zingovian accent that gives me the edge. I spent last night listening to him in the bar for a couple of hours. I think I got it. Don't forget I will wear a uniform."
You always take for granted the person wearing the uniform.
"I think it might work, but you better leave the digital camera with me. Come to see me tomorrow at five in the morning. I'll make a new man out of you."
Bright and early, at six o'clock of the following morning, I'm knocking at Zingor's door.
He comes out half asleep, trying to suppress a yawn. He doesn't have his uniform on. I must have caught him at breakfast.
I push him inside and follow him into the room, dragging the door shut after me. I force him down on a chair, take out the syringe I prepared and inject the heavy sedative it contains into his arm. It all happens very fast. He doesn't have time to react.
"Don't worry!" I reassure him. "You'll be as good as new in a couple of hours."
It will take most likely five or six, maybe more. But he doesn't need to know that. The good as new part is true enough, though.
"Don't worry. I only need to borrow your car for a couple of hours. I'll make it up to you," I say, and place twenty-one hundred dollars banknotes on the table in front of him.
"But I need the keys."
By the twitch of his left eye, I figure I'll find them in the left pocket of his pants.
He's softening down already. His eyelids are getting heavy, and he can't keep his eyes open for long.
"Where is the bedroom? You better go take a nap."
But it's too late for the bedroom. He slumps over the chair and is fast asleep. I ease him down on the floor and let him rest there. Besides, sleeping on the floor is healthier than on a mattress.
I have some trouble finding the uniform. The house is a two-room, kitchenette and bathroom affair so it cannot be but a matter of minutes. I finally locate it in the living room closet. I put it on, and, I'm glad to say, it fits me like a charm. I check myself in the mirror and then turn to Zingor. It looks good, really good. I have to give Gigi credit for the work she did on my face. The resemblance is incredible. You can mistake Zingor and me for identical twins.
I leave the house and don't forget to lock the door. I get into the black limo and I'm on my way.
During the drive, I spend most of the time rehearsing Zingor's Zingovian accent. It doesn't seem like a lot of fun, but I have a pretty good time with it, besides it gives the whole adventure an air of bonhomie and a humorous flair.
I stop at the castle's gate and toot the horn three times.
"Good morning, Zingor," greetings come through the voice-box and I'm let in.
"Good morning," I reply in the bad Zingovian accent I've been rehearsing on my way in.
I roll the car down the winding lane to the main entrance, and stop in the driveway under the portico, in front of the marble stairs. Bad memories invade my mind. I try to keep them out.
When you work so hard. When you've been waiting for so long, there comes a point when your project, any project, becomes a vital necessity. As important as the air you breathe.
I get out of the car as I have seen Zingor do innumerable times, and wait with the chauffeur cap in my hand.
Out they come, one by one, Michael, the first guard, leading the way. He's followed by Jack, who is smiling absent-mindedly.
Michael gives me the go over, while Guard #2 hurries down the stairs behind Jack, opens the back door of the limo, searches inside and motions Jack in. Both Jack and Guard #2 get in the back.
The first guard opens the door on the driver's side and looks inside, then moves into the passenger seat. I get back into my seat and we're all ready to follow our destiny.
Out from the ocean, angry waves rush to greet us, their foamy crests lapping on the shore as they break against the piers of the harbor. I see the cliff to my right and salute it, my grouchy, inhospitable, but trustworthy friend.
We've been riding on the local road for barely ten minutes when things suddenly take a turn for the worse.
I haven't paid too much attention to Michael, who sits next to me. But now I notice he acts preoccupied. The man is unhappy. There is a sour, suspicious frown on his face. For the last few minutes, he's been taking quick, nervous peeks in my direction.
Then he suddenly develops an itch to talk, "Good Morning, Zingor," he rehashes his earlier greeting. "How is your day going?"
His eyes strain, as he's peering at my face.
I play enchanted by the opportunity of small talk and beam a big smile, ear to ear.
"Good morning, Michael, I have good day. And you?"
"It's all good, couldn't be better, my friend."
He gives me a curious look. Maybe my accent doesn't convince him, or maybe my posture at the wheel is slightly off.
I feel the pressure of his surly unhappiness.
This makes me nervous. I observe, out of the corner of the eye, the deep creases on his forehead, his eyes peering suspiciously when casting quick glances in my direction. Some doubt must be jostling inside his cranium, fighting against the tedium of the day.
; Yet he's undecided, and so far doesn't act on his suspicion.
"You know, Zingor," he says, "I used to have a Zingovian girlfriend, a while back."
"Zingovian beautiful girl," I approve enthusiastically his choice.
"You telling me?"
He lets out a soft groan.
This makes me take a closer look, down to my right and in his direction. I see his hand nervously grappling with the holster of his weapon.
"She always used to hum this song. How she loved it!" he continues nervously as he finally manages to unclasp the strap.
He's now humming the popular song while his hand is slowly sliding down his hip, and his fingers grip the handle of the gun.
"Good Day Love," I say, "is beautiful Zingovian song."
He suspects something is not right. Jack can be alerted any minute. I cannot allow Michael to spoil my game.
"There's something wrong here, boss…," Michael starts, turning his face toward Jack.
I grab one of Lana's cigarettes and flip it in the air.
This disconcerts him for a second.
"Good Zingovian cigarette… wanna' try?"
But the jig is up. I make a little more noise and unleash some creative chaos in our no longer cozy black limousine.
I plant the cigarette back into my mouth, a good luck charm from Lana, whom I haven't seen now in six months.
My switch-blade is hidden inside the car's left door pocket, under a greasy comb and a smattering of dirty used napkins, courtesy of Zingor.
I throw the burning cigarette in Michael's face after which I apologize humbly.
"Sorry, sorry, Michael… don't let cigarette burn."
At the same time, I grab the knife by the hilt, switch it open and throw my right arm, which is now holding it, in a large arching and ultimately devastating sweep. The blade slashes through Michael's throat in a fell swoop.
I turn my head and, forever polite, I apologize again, "Sorry for accident," while grabbing Michael's gun, which is dangling loosely in its opened holster, in my right hand. I slow the car down and turn onto the shoulder of the road. My left hand secures the wheel. I look back just in time to see bodyguard #2 raising his gun. I shoot him between the eyes and turn the gun toward Jack's head.