by Arno Joubert
“Dead.”
Fitch disconnected the call and sucked his teeth. He shook his head and snorted. Good-for-nothing little shit, the gorger blood ran thick in his veins. He should have left the little bastard with his mother. He had thought he could make a man out of him, but that was simply a genetic impossibility.
He dialed another number and waited for the call to be answered. “Mac, Anderson Fitch. I need you to set up the scene exactly as we discussed.” He sighed. “Like we did five years ago, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Fitch.”
He disconnected the call and slipped the phone in his pocket. Here we go again.
Neil’s heart hammered in his chest. He picked up the pace, the crisp morning breeze on his face cooling him off. He felt slightly ashamed of his emotional outburst, but he also felt liberated, somehow lighter, as if a massive burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He was ready to wipe the slate clean, start anew.
He glanced at his watch. His pulse was good, on a hundred-and-twenty. He quickened his pace, his footsteps pounding the sidewalk. The dark sky had an orange tinge on the horizon. He passed Prairie Lookout. A man stood against a tree, holding on to it for support. He looked up at Neil when he heard the footsteps, a smiled flickered over his lips, and then he bent over as his chest convulsed and he got sick. He heaved and spat pieces of old food onto the sidewalk.
Neil decided that he had gone far enough and turned around. He sprinted up Jefferson Street, and greeted Voelkner who was sitting in a chair in front of their door. They had taken turns being on lookout duty. Neil did the midnight shift, Alexa relieving him at two AM and Voelkner at four. He unlocked the door and closed it behind him. Alexa was asleep in the chair, a blanket pulled up to her chin. He undressed and ran the shower, trying not to wake her.
Neil slipped on his dark glasses and flipped the visor to block the harsh glare of the morning sun.
To get to Fitch’s ranch, Missy had said that he should head past the refinery and look out for the signboard. Apparently he couldn’t miss it. And then she said with a wink, “be patient.”
Now he understood why. He drove past a sign that read, ‘The Ranch’. Along the road, he saw a whitewashed fence made from wooden poles. Horsed grazed in the fields; Neil stopped guessing how many there were after he counted a hundred.
Five miles later, the horses made way for cattle and still no sign of an entry road to the ranch. He passed more than a dozen gates, but they were all marked ‘No Entry’.
Finally, he saw a gate entry-arch made from polished dark marble. The words ‘The Ranch’ were engraved at the top. It reminded Neil of the large gate at the Fitch Academy. He glided to a stop in front of the massive wrought iron gate and it swung open a few seconds later. He looked up at the dome camera mounted on a pole to the side. Somebody must have been expecting him.
The car crunched down a neat graveled road shaded by oaks. It continued its rolling way for two miles and finally opened up in a circular driveway in front of a majestic pillared mansion. A statue of a gypsy woman clapping her hands stood in the middle of the circle, and a basketball goal stood planted to the side of the driveway.
Neil parked in front of the stately château and bounced up the white marble stairs, past a colonnade made from a dozen pillars three stories high and up to the double-swing door made from a dark wood, probably teak or something expensive.
Neil tapped the lion-head knocker twice and turned around to inspect the surroundings. On each side of the massive marble-tiled porch, a large pond stretched between groups of garish statues at its edges. The statues featured scantily dressed or nude men and woman with jets of water sprinkling from mouths or nostrils into the ponds.
The pièce de résistance in the center of the pond to his left was a muscled and well-endowed male holding his erect member in his hand. Water exploded from the phallus in a powerful stream straight up into the air. To his right, the main feature was a long-haired, voluptuous female squeezing her breasts. Water trickled delicately from her nipples.
Neil whistled and shook his head. He was a traveler himself, and now he knew what would happen if he were entrusted with an unlimited decorating budget. He decided he would leave any future decorating to Alexa.
Neil turned on his heel as a short middle-aged man with dark hair parted to the sides opened the door. The man bowed and greeted him with a friendly smile. “Good day, sir. Giles at your service.”
“I’m here to see Andy Fitch.” He glanced at his watch. “I guess I’m early.”
The butler beamed at Neil. “You probably are, sir.”
Neil shrugged. “So where is he?”
The man shook his head, interrupted from his reverie. “Oh my, how stupid of me.” He laughed and waved a hand at Neil, stood back and pointed to a large doorway. “Mister Fitch is already in the dining area; he’s expecting you. You’re welcome to join him there.”
Neil nodded and brushed past the butler, scanning the luxurious interior of the château. It exuded opulence, thick dark red carpets and walls decorated with golden moldings and cornices.
“You be careful now,” the butler said with a grin.
Neil glanced back with a frown, then shrugged and strode toward the paneled double glass door. He pulled it to the side.
Andy Fitch sat at the end of a luxurious dining room table large enough to seat thirty guests. A dozen large double-hung windows were open, the early-morning sun bathing the room with a soft light. A group of elderly men were seated at the head of the table, huddled around Fitch, joking and speaking amicably with the oil tycoon.
Fitch briefly looked up when he saw Neil, then pushed his chair back with a scraping sound and casually stood up. “Mister Allen, please have a seat,” he said, pulling up a chair up to the side of the table.
Fitch smiled at the other men. “Gentleman, please excuse us.” He jerked his head at Neil, a slight grin on his face. “Mister Allen and I have some important business to discuss.”
They grinned knowingly and slipped their jackets off the backs of the chairs. The men smiled and shook hands, clapping Anderson Fitch on the back and shoulders as they left.
Neil sat down.
Once they were all gone, Fitch strode to the entrance of the dining area and closed the doors firmly. He walked back to his seat, eased into it, and leaned back, smiling at Neil. “So Mister Allen, how do we make all of this go away?” he asked with flourish of his hand.
Neil considered the question for a while. He met Fitch with a level gaze. “You tell me the truth and I decide if I throw your ass in the slammer or leave you in peace.”
Fitch grinned. “No grey areas, Mister Allen?” He rolled up his sleeve and revealed a tattooed arm. “From one traveler to another?”
Neil had a similar tattoo, a simplistic picture of a tiger’s head, drawn with ten thick lines. The lines converged around the head to form the spokes of a spiraling galaxy.
Fitch assessed Neil objectively. “Why does an Irish Traveler decide to become a musker?” he asked as he removed a cigar from his breast pocket. He struck a match and puffed a couple of times.
Neil smirked. “Why does a Texas Gypsy decide to become an oil billionaire?”
Fitch smiled, offered Neil a cigar. Neil shook his head. “Besides, I’m not a cop; I work for Interpol.”
Fitch nodded and squinted as the smoke curled up his cheek. “Once a mercenary, always a mercenary, eh?”
Neil shrugged.
Fitch pulled an ashtray closer as he lifted his eyes to Neil. “Turri us you're nijesh sharrig for the gammy eyniks we greydied?” he asked, inhaling the smoke and blowing it through his nose. He leaned back contentedly, chewing the cigar.
Neil frowned, trying to recall the line.
Forgive us today our daily sins.
Neil sighed. “Let’s stop kidding around here, Fitch.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “We’re both travelers - so what?” He leaned forward. “What you did was wrong, and you’re going down.”
Fitch frowned. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
The corner of Fitch’s mouth twitched up. “Oh, but how soon the young forget.”
Neil studied Fitch closely. “What the hell do you mean?”
Andy Fitch shrugged. “Our families passed through here decades ago,” he said, biting the cigar between his teeth. “As Gypsy families so often do, forever wandering the forlorn vales, searching for happier climes and times.” He took the cigar from his mouth and hacked a phlegmy cough.
Neil waited patiently for the coughing fit to subside.
Anderson Fitch wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, then glanced up at Neil. “You were barely six years old. I stayed on. Your dad continued on to White City.” He ground the cigar into the ashtray. “We’re from the same clan, lad.” He studied Neil with piercing blue eyes. “We’re family.”
Neil examined Fitch closely. “Impossible.” He imagined Fitch thirty years younger, without the beard and mustache. His eyes widened. “Uncle Pete?”
Fitch smiled and pressed his index finger against his lip. “Don’t call me that, my boy. A gypsy only tells the truth once in his life, with no small modicum of self-imposed duress.” He leaned closer to Neil. “I hope you’re not going to make me regret my confession?”
Neil studied the man. “Why did you stay?”
Fitch gave a throaty laugh and leaned back in his chair. “Black gold, dinosaur blood, Oklahoma cocoa, Texas Tea.” He winked. “I bought a piece of land from a farmer. Struck a vein, the rest is history.” He chuckled. “Within a decade, I owned everything from here to Yarokee County.”
Neil shook his head. “But why go undercover?”
Fitch snorted. “Travelers weren’t allowed to own property back then, my boy.” He licked his lower lip. “By the way, how is your father?”
Neil shrugged. “Dead. Don’t change the subject. I need to know if you bought the snuff movies or not.”
Fitch studied Neil. “Okay, lets talk greenbacks if you want. The brass bell, so to speak.” He sat up straight. “One million.”
“One million what?”
“Dollars. How much I’m willing to pay you to make this go away.”
Neil frowned. “C’mon, I’m not for sale.”
Fitch studied his fingernails. “People are always for sale, Mister Allen.” He pursed his lips. “Five million.”
Neil smiled slowly and shook his head. “Screw you. You don’t have enough.”
Fitch banged the table with his fist. Plates and cutlery bounced in the air. “Don’t talk to me like that, boy.” Fitch leaned forward and poked a finger in Neil’s face. “I’ll rip your heart out and feed it to the dogs.”
Neil stared at Fitch for a moment, then laughed. “You can try, I don’t care.” Neil stood up. “Point is, you’re going down. You’ve admitted to your crime.”
Fitch pulled him down by his sleeve. “Listen boy, I’ll take out the silly bitch girlfriend of yours,” he hissed through his teeth, “One phone call and she’s a goner.”
Fitch removed a brown envelope from a pocket inside his jacket, opened it and dropped some polaroids on the table in front of them. Neil flipped through the photos. He felt his face heat up. They had been taken last night, when Neil and Alexa were making love. Someone must have gotten into their room.
“How did you—?”
“Never mind,” Fitch said, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a sneer. “I make one phone call and Snow White is gone. Capiche?”
Neil grabbed the older man by his chest. “You so fuckin’ much as touch her…”
Fitch poked Neil’s chest defiantly. “Or what. You willing to take that chance, tinker?”
Neil breathed heavily, then threw Fitch back onto his chair.
Fitch smiled and pulled his jacket straight.
“Where is Latorre?” Neil asked.
Fitch put his hat on. “Dead.” He said and stood up. “Both of them.”
Neil eyeballed Fitch. The older man walked toward the door, swinging his walking stick. “Not both.”
Fitch turned around and raised an eyebrow.
“We found Voelkner.”
Fitch pondered the fact for a moment, then shrugged. “Makes no difference. You still have nothing on me.” He pulled the door open.
“Okay, I agree, we have a deal.” Neil shouted at his back. Fitch stopped in his tracks and turned around.
“Pavee to Pavee?”
Neil nodded.
Fitch grinned and took out his phone. “Pete? Andy here. All hits are off. Pull back now.” He disconnected the call and smiled at Neil. “Good doing business with you, Mister Allen. Feel free to let yourself out.” He winked at Neil and walked out of the room swinging his cane.
Alexa heard the door to their room open and slam closed.
“Alexa,” Neil called urgently. “Come here, please.”
She sauntered into their bedroom where Neil was ripping their clothes from the cupboard, tossing them on the bed.
“What is it?”
Neil grabbed their belongings and stuffed it into the duffle bags. “We need to get out of here, now,” he said urgently, holding the duffle bag strap with a white knuckled grip. “Come on, hurry up and get dressed.”
“Why?” she asked with an uncertain grin.
Neil rushed to her and held her shoulders. “Trust me on this Alexa, we need to get out, now.” He kneeled and fished a shoe from under the bed.
Alexa walked to him, tugged on the collar of his shirt. “What’s wrong, Neil?”
He stood up. Alexa looked up at him, holding the back of his neck. “Calm down and tell me what the heck is going on.”
He nodded, scanning the room furtively. He took a deep breath. “Okay, I met up with Fitch.”
Alexa jerked her head back. “What, without me?”
He pursed his lips, but didn’t say anything.
Alexa put her other hand on his chest. “Okay, what else?” She probed gently.
He sighed, bowed his head. “He had photos of us.” Neil put both his hands on Alexa's hips, glancing at the door. “Last night.”
“But how did…?” she asked, stopping mid-sentence. She narrowed her eyes. “What time?”
Neil shrugged. “At about ten. I’ve gone through this in my head. No one was on watch. Voelkner only came this morning. I started duty at twelve.”
“But the doors were locked. Someone had to be here, physically.” She scanned the room. “Have you checked for cameras?”
Neil nodded. “It’s the first thing I did.” He scanned the room. “I did the last sweep last night, as usual.”
“What else?” Alexa asked.
Neil locked his eyes on hers. He brushed his short hair with his hand. The crows’ feet around his eyes compressed together as he narrowed them. “He threatened to kill you.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “So what?” she said, cupping his chin. “I’ve been threatened before, and this sure as hell won’t be the last time.”
Neil shook his head. “Don’t you see, Alexa? This is one of the most powerful men—”
Alexa's green eyes flared. “Bullshit,” she spat. “Running away from our problems won’t solve anything.”
Neil cupped her chin. “Alexa, what if…?” He stared down at her, imploring her to understand.
She pursed her lips. “What if nothing. We came here to do a job. We finish the damn job!”
He stared at her for a long time. “Okay, you’re right.” He bowed his head, resting his forehead against hers. “What do we do now?”
Alexa threw both her arms around his neck. “We eat. I’m starving.”
Chris Fitch poured another cup of coffee as Kushi Mogat rewound the video footage. The diner was empty and the street outside was devoid of all movement.
Kushi had locked up and sent the cook and waitresses home. Chris examined the roof of the diner. “Where are they?”
The old man looked up, fine lines
appearing beside his eyes as he squinted. “They’re state-of-the-art.” He pointed to a speck on the ceiling. “There’s one,” he said and pointed two more times. “And there, and there.”
Chris shook his head. “You can barely see them,” he said as he glanced between the tiny cameras in the ceiling and the footage on the laptop, “and the video quality is excellent.”
Kushi nodded. ”Your dad spares no expenses when it comes to surveillance equipment.” He glanced down at the computer screen. “What do you think they’re talking about?”
Chris shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my dad.” He pushed the play button and listened for a while. “What is this peak oil they’re on about?” he asked, glancing up at Kushi.
Kushi cleared his throat, his eyes still narrow slits as he concentrated on the laptop. “It’s when the available oil reserves start dwindling.” His fingers danced over the keyboard. “I’ve emailed your dad the footage.”
Chris Fitch nodded. “Thanks.”
Kushi Mogat looked intently at Chris Fitch. “Look, Mister Fitch, your dad has always been good to my family.” He waved his hand around the diner. “Without him I wouldn't have had any of this.”
Chris Fitch nodded.
“But I don't want to get involved in anything illegal.”
Chris smiled broadly. “Mo, you know my dad. You worked up at the refinery. What is it you think he's doing?”
Mogat shrugged, his narrow eyes studying Chris suspiciously. “I think he’s stockpiling the stuff for a rainy day.” He shrugged, then stood up and slipped a white apron over his neck. “Where the hell he's keeping all of it is another matter altogether,” he said, tying the apron belt around his stomach.
Fitch slid out of the booth, popped on his Stetson and shook Mogat’s hand. “Thanks again, Mo. Our family appreciate everything you’ve done for us.”
Mogat nodded curtly and waved his finger in front of Chris Fitch’s nose. “Nothing illegal, now. You hear?”
Chris Fitch smiled and waved goodbye. He sauntered out of the diner and waited for a truck to speed by before crossing the road.