“I appreciate that.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Hopefully, it’s going to blow over in a day or two.”
“Do you really think it’s Al-Qaeda?”
Probably better that she thought he was an innocent victim of a terrorist bombing than the object of gangland revenge. “You never know these days,” he said.
“You should get some protection.”
“I can handle it, don’t worry.”
He wound up eating the casserole alone in front of the TV, watching the Lakers get their asses handed to them by Portland. He didn’t dare go near the local news.
Sammy was deep in an early-morning stupor, after a largely sleepless night, when his WITSEC phone rang. He had set the ringtone to “The William Tell Overture.” The Lone Ranger kept riding over the ridge until Sammy dragged himself out of bed to answer the cell phone.
No one was on the other end. Forgetting about his phone call with Marshal Dillon last night, he returned to bed and was nearly back under when there was a rapping at his door. Again, he struggled to get vertical and went out to the living room, scratching his ass and trying to figure out just what he was going to say to the fucking reporter who had the fucking nerve to fucking knock at his door at, what, seven in the morning?
Through the peephole, Sammy saw the clean-shaven face of Ernest Dylan, United States Marshal. In mufti. With sunglasses. And, unconvincingly, a souvenir Disneyland baseball cap. He let him in and closed the door behind him, stealing a quick glance beyond to see the news vans gone.
“Where are the vultures?”
“We had the police clear them. At least for the moment. They’ll be back.”
The marshal looked around the place with a Bette Davis what-a-dump! look and helped himself to a barstool.
“It’s seven in the morning?” Sammy complained.
“This is time-sensitive.”
As if in contradiction, Sammy delivered a monster yawn and went to put together some coffee.
“Washington’s not happy about this.”
“Not half as unhappy as I am.”
“They think you should consider relocation.”
“No way.”
“Sammy, it’s only a matter of time before you’re recognized. Sooner or later, there’s going to be a picture of you in the papers or on the Internet, if there isn’t already.”
“No one has taken a picture of me.”
“That you know of. Someone could have shot you with a camera phone at the supermarket.”
“What the fuck do you guys care? They do me, it’s one less guy you’ve got to take care of.”
“As I’ve explained to you several times, we don’t like to lose people.”
Sammy turned away from the coffeemaker and faced the marshal. As usual, he felt like he was talking to a wall, but nonetheless he said, “Listen, Marshal, I’m not going through this again. If they get me, they get me. You want, I’ll sign a statement saying it wasn’t your fault, that I was suicidal, that I had terminal cancer and three months to live . . . whatever. But I’m staying here, in Palm Springs, under the name of Sammy Dee. Okay?”
Dylan nodded slowly and took a deep breath. “I think you need to talk to one of our mental health professionals.”
“I’m not talking to anybody! This is what I want to do. I’m a fucking consenting adult who is choosing to live the way he wants to live, posing no danger to anybody but himself.”
“That’s not entirely true. What if they bomb the condo complex?”
“Who?”
“The people who put the bomb under your car.”
“That’s not the way they work.”
“How do you know?”
“I worked for them for forty years, that’s how.”
“Maybe it’s not them.”
“What’re you talking about? You know anybody else who wants to kill me?”
“The FBI is looking into the possibility that it may be the work of terrorists of some kind.”
“What? You buying that bullshit that the reporters are flinging? They’re just beefing up their ratings. C’mon, what does Al-Qaeda have against me?”
“You’re Jewish.”
“I’m Italian,” Sammy protested, momentarily forgetting that he was no longer Salvatore Didziocomo.
“According to your cover backstory, you’re an Eastern European Jew whose father changed his name on Ellis Island.”
“Who the fuck knows that but you and me?”
“It could be racial profiling.”
“You mean, Al-Qaeda decided that I looked like a Jew and decided to off me in the Vons parking lot.”
“It’s conceivable.”
“So is the fact that Elvis is still alive.”
“The FBI has launched an investigation. At some point, they’ll want to talk to you.”
“Tell them to take a number.”
“All right, Sammy. I can see you’re upset. I’m going to give you some time to calm down and rethink your decision. In the meantime, you need to avoid going out.”
“What am I going to do for food?”
“Order takeout.”
“We know how safe that is around here.”
Dylan suppressed a smile, or perhaps it was just stomach gas. “Keep your phone on,” he said, getting up and walking slowly to the door. He was gone as unobtrusively as he had arrived. Who was that masked man?
In the back of Sammy’s mind lurked the possibility that the hit attempt wasn’t the work of Phil Finoccio. But the only other explanation, besides the bullshit about Al-Qaeda and the Taliban, was that it was some random error on the part of someone trying to kill someone else.
If Diddly Shit’s car had been parked at Vons, if Diddly Shit had a car, or if he had taken a cab to the supermarket, then he could have possibly explained it as the work of Acme, mistaking Sammy’s car for the African’s car. But how incompetent could they have been in their line of work?
Still, the coincidence of someone trying to kill him while he was trying to kill someone else bothered Sammy. Walt was at the golf course earlier with him and could have had Biff put a bomb under his car that was timed to go off someplace else. But if it was Acme that tried to off Sammy, how were they counting on collecting their money after they offed Diddly Shit?
Whatever the case, Sammy wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life behind drawn blinds, eating takeout. He needed help.
Salvatore Didziocomo knew a lot of people who could get a lot of things done, but Sammy Dee didn’t have a long list of people to call on for help. He knew a United States marshal, a couple of neighbors, and two scratch golfers who moonlighted as hit men.
The only person he could think of whom he could call on was the same guy who had turned him on to Acme—the film producer down the hall. He had the impression that the guy was still wired, or at least knew people who knew people who were wired. It was worth a shot.
Sammy waited until eleven and then picked up the phone and invited Charlie Berns for a cup of coffee. The man wandered over an hour or so later and accepted a cup of Sammy’s espresso.
“So, tell me, Sammy, you getting calls about the film rights?”
“The film rights? To what?”
“Your story. You’re a famous guy—a national hero. The TV guys are going to be all over you.”
“I’m not answering my phone.”
“That won’t stop them.”
“I don’t get it. Somebody blows up my car—for all we know, if could be a complete accident—wrong guy, wrong car, random violence, and suddenly I’m a fucking hero.”
“It makes no difference—it’s a good story. And a good story doesn’t have to be true. Listen, if you want, I’ll put you in touch with someone to cut a deal for you.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I’d go for worldwide media—film, TV, dramatic theater, Internet, apps, the whole ball of wax. You get what you can up front and walk away smelling green.”
&nbs
p; “Charlie, I got a different problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I need this to go away.”
The film producer looked at him oddly, nodded slowly, took a sip of his espresso.
“Let me get this straight—you don’t want to cash in on this?”
“What I want is to be able to go outside without cameras pointing at me.”
Charlie Berns nodded, as if digesting this information with some difficulty, then said, “Why don’t you just take a vacation to . . . I don’t know, New Zealand? These things usually have a short shelf life.”
“I want to stay here.”
“Here? Like in Palm Springs?”
“Here. Like at Paradise Gardens.”
“You like it here?”
This time Sammy nodded.
“What I need is someone to make this disappear. I need someone to fix this for me.”
“Uh-huh . . . You need a fixer.”
“What’s a fixer?”
“You ever see Pulp Fiction?”
Sammy shook his head.
“Harvey Keitel shows up to clean up the mess that Travolta and Samuel L make. He scrubs down the car, gets rid of the blood, makes everything just the way it was before the shit happened.”
“You know someone who can do that?”
“Yeah,” Charlie Berns said, as if someone had asked if he could recommend a good dry cleaner. “Kermit Fenster.”
“Who?”
“He’s a guy who once got me out of jail in Turkmenistan.”
“You were in jail in Turkmenistan?”
“Long story. Anyway, this guy’s a little strange. He claims to be an ex-CIA agent who still has a pipeline into the agency. I have no idea whether it’s true or not, but I never met anyone who can get things done like him. I needed to find a telegenic warlord in Uzbekistan—he got me one. I needed to get out of Azerbaijan without a passport, he got me on a cargo plane to Brussels. You want an Estonian hooker? He’ll get you three.”
“And you think this guy can get this story to go away?”
“If anyone can, he can.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“So how do you contact him?”
“There’s a phone number in Montevideo. With an answering machine. You leave a message. He calls back. Or not. You never know with him.”
“He lives in Uruguay?”
“I don’t think he actually lives there. But that’s how you have to contact him.”
“The thing is, I don’t have a lot of money.”
“Oddly enough, that doesn’t seem to be his motivation. He tells you he’ll arrange what you want arranged and then one day he’s going to ask you for something. You’re in his debt. Like the opening scene in The Godfather. Remember? The undertaker comes to Brando and asks him to avenge his daughter’s dishonor, and Don Corleone agrees to do it, but tells him that someday he’ll ask him for repayment? And then when his father’s in the hospital, Pacino finds the guy to help protect him. Debt settled. That’s the deal with Kermit Fenster.”
“Has he ever asked you to pay him back?”
“About three years ago, he calls me. Out of the clear blue sky. No hello, how are you?—he just asks me to get him tickets to the Golden Globes. I had to pull every string I had to get it done. And then, he doesn’t show up.”
“Jesus . . .”
“Somebody should make a movie about him. I’ve thought about it, but no one would believe it. Anyway, if you want, I’ll call him, let him know you have a problem. If he says yes, you can call him directly.”
“I appreciate that, Charlie.”
“Just being a good neighbor.”
Charlie Berns got up, unfolding his rumpled figure from the couch, thanked Sammy for the coffee and left. Sammy crossed to the blinds, cracked them an inch, and looked out. Chris and Edie were sitting on chaise lounges by the pool talking to Tracy Tohito. A cameraman was filming the interview.
Taliban Target Swings! Details at Eleven!
After the police and the United States Marshals Service had interviewed him, Sammy was treated to a visit from the FBI. Two guys drove up from the San Diego field office to ask him a lot of questions he had no answers to. Mostly, they wanted to know about his travels, and when he told them he had never been outside the United States—except for a trip to a whorehouse in Montreal when he was twenty—they didn’t want to believe him.
“Never even been to the Caribbean? Or Mexico?”
“Nope.”
They had apparently been briefed by the DOJ about his real identity, though they continued to address him as Mr. Dee. It was refreshing to be able to reassume the persona of Salvatore Didziocomo, if only to talk to the FBI. It was as if he were referring to someone else, speaking in the third person about this man he used to be.
“No family abroad? Internet contacts?”
“Afraid not.”
The next question made him aware that they had already done some digging on him. “You spend a fair amount of time on porn sites, Mr. Dee, don’t you?”
Sammy wanted to ask him what the fuck business it was of his, but knew that the only way to get them out of his house was to be cooperative.
“No more than most men.”
“Some of these sites originate from Eastern Europe and Russia.”
“So?”
No response. They’d moved on to his Internet purchases, his cleaning lady’s name and nationality, the dealership where he bought the Lexus, before finally realizing that they were flailing around fruitlessly. They, too, handed him their cards and cautioned him to get in touch immediately if anyone contacted him or demonstrated unusual interest in him or the car bombing.
And they were gone, leaving nothing behind them but the fading smell of shoe polish.
The next time Marcy Gray came by with a casserole, she brought Diddly Shit with her. With a bottle of Château something or other. They sat around Sammy’s kitchen table, drinking the wine and eating Marcy’s overspiced coq au vin.
“Why do you not just give them one interview, and then they will go away?” Diddly Shit asked.
“These people don’t take yes for an answer.”
“In my business,” Marcy said, “there is no such thing as bad publicity. The phone starts ringing when you get into the papers. Doesn’t matter how. Eddie Murphy got caught getting blown by a tranny on Sunset Boulevard, and the offers didn’t stop piling up on his agent’s desk.”
“I don’t understand, Samee, why are you being so coy?”
Coy? Scared was more like it. Sammy was convinced that Diddly Shit was actually disappointed that he hadn’t been in the car when it blew. The African wouldn’t even wait till the body was cold. He’d be all over her the night of the funeral. If not before.
Would there even be a funeral? He was struck by the numbing realization of the possibility that there would be no one around to bury him. There was no reason to expect the United States Marshals Service to send him off in style. Would they even bother notifying his daughter? Or if they did, would Sharon show up? And would Howard allow her to pay for his burial? The government wouldn’t spend a dime on the cost of disposing of his remains. They’d cremate him in a nuclear waste facility in the Nevada desert.
When Sammy had changed identities, he had signed some sort of DOJ boilerplate will that left his assets, net of government expenses, to his designated heir(s). There was language about the government reimbursing itself for the cost of relocating him. At the time, he had figured that there would be nothing left when he croaked and hadn’t bothered to name anyone.
Now he wasn’t so sure that he wanted to make it that easy for them. He would make them go through Sharon and account for the fact that there was no money for her. That, at least, would leave some trace of his existence. The thought that he could vanish from the earth without anyone knowing or giving a shit was beyond depressing.
“I’m not being coy,” Sammy replied to Diddly Shit’s questi
on. “I just don’t like my privacy invaded.”
“If you tell them what they want, they will go away.”
“Not necessarily. You don’t know American tabloid reporters.”
“Believe me, Samee, they are better than the French. Have you forgotten Princess Diana, driven into the wall of the tunnel by that pack of chiens?”
“That was so awful,” Marcy said. “I was in this TV movie about her, back in the nineties. I played a tabloid reporter hounding her . . .”
“Look,” Sammy said, eager to get off the subject. “I was the victim of some random act of terrorism or whatever. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t deserve this attention, and I’m not going to encourage it by telling them anything. Period. By the way, this is very nice wine, Deedeeyay.”
“2009. A very good year in Médoc.”
“You know so much about wine, Didier . . .” Marcy purred.
The fucker was showing off again. And she was lapping it up. He hoped they’d poison his wine instead of his pizza next time. He could go out in style.
Then Marcy started with this cockamamie idea that he should let them make a movie about him. She came over, dressed to kill, and pitched him about all the money he could make if he let a writer come and talk to him.
“The story doesn’t even have to be true,” she said. “Just take the money and run.”
It would be serious money. Maybe seven figures. Seven figures could solve a lot of problems in his life. It would, at the very least, move him up over Diddly Shit in the Marcy Gray sweepstakes. And even after Acme removed the African from contention—if they ever fucking actually got the job done—it would be helpful to have enough money to wine and dine her properly. They could forget about early bird specials at the Olive Garden. They could gobble caviar and take Mediterranean cruises. They could move out of this dump and leave the odor of cat piss behind them.
Marshall Dillon would shit a brick, of course. He’d threaten to cut off Sammy’s lifeline, but by then Sammy wouldn’t need it. God, he would love to tell that asshole goodbye. Arrivederci, Fuckface.
He could give an interview in a ski mask to some screenwriter and make things up. He could hire another writer to write an imaginary biography to give to the screenwriter. It would all be bullshit and provide no insight into his real past or present. A cement executive who doubled as a CIA counter-terrorist expert, who was high on Al-Qaeda’s hit list.
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