by Myles Knapp
Two weeks after Morano had finished researching Operation Midnight Climax, his lawyer delivered a sealed letter to Homeland Security. The envelope contained a proposal offering Morano’s services to fight domestic terrorism. It suggested taking advantage of an unexploited terrorist practice: male suicide bombers were often treated to a celebration at a topless bar or brothel a few nights before a Semtex loaded vest was strapped to their chests.
In the letter, Morano proposed installing covert video recorders with facial recognition in San Francisco’s “Adult Establishments” to watch for rag heads. He’d also incentivize doormen, bouncers, club security and dancers, to report any suspicious activities.
The idea was simple. Identify ‘about to die’ terrorists so the government could haul them off to Guantanamo, or some other dungeon for fresh water facials before they screamed Allah Ahkbar and rocketed themselves to a date with 90 virgins. And it was none of HLS’s fucking business if he used the same network to fish for marks he could bleed with Monster’s video blackmail scam.
One month after Homeland received Morano’s proposal, he received a formal letter. Three crisp pages of bureaucratic legalese that essentially said, “No fucking way.”
Apparently covert facial recognition video of upstanding citizens getting lap dances was so odious, no government bureau would officially touch it. But the idea was clearly good, and Morano wasn’t surprised when, a week later, Dougy delivered a Newsweek with a flimsy off-white envelope tucked inside. The single sheet looked like a ransom note—the letters cut from a magazine and pasted to the page: “You will be released on Mon. Go to Elk Hotel SF. Paid room waiting.”
At the hotel he was handed a key, and an envelope containing a contract that said he would provide anti-terrorist activities as agreed. Such activities were to be limited to potential terrorists, and non-violent in nature. Nowhere on the “agreement” did it indicate who he worked for.
Per the accompanying instructions he signed the agreement with an illegible scrawl, licked close the pre-stamped envelope addressed to a PO Box at a UPS Store in Memphis, and waited for the next contact. Three days later he received a box with fifty grand in small bills and another ransom demand-style note.
“More $$ if u prove this works.” It ended with a phone number he was required to report to every day. The number changed daily. So did the voice that answered.
For two years, from an encrypted desk phone in his warehouse, Morano had made his nightly calls, providing information about what appeared to be rag head nut cases. On the side, he quietly ran a blackmail operation that was bringing in cash faster than a stable of gorgeous, horny, bisexual whores.
At 2 am Tuesday, Morano made his call for the day. “No towel heads.” He slid his thumb over to punch the disconnect button, waiting for the standard response which was always: “OK. Call this new number tomorrow.” But got a surprise.
“Your operation has helped prevent several significant terrorist incidents. Management wants you to expand the program to New York.”
“Fuck ‘em.”
“Wrong response. Stupid, too. My boss’s boss could order an operator at the U.S. Army’s Nevada drone facility to fly an electronic butterfly in your bedroom window, spray a fast dissolving, quick killing gas on you while you sleep, and replace you with an even bigger asshole by midnight tomorrow.”
“Gonna cost.”
“They thought you’d say that. Here’s the response I was told to give you, and I quote: ‘Fuck you. Use the money from your unauthorized activities.’”
That was the moment when he realized that in prison he hadn’t been anyone’s bitch. Now, he was a government whore.
CHAPTER 33
Pay and Chase were deep in the chaos that was Mary Ellen’s studio apartment. Mounds of paper, medical books and magazines, overwhelmed the desk, spilling onto a TV tray. Pay sat in the desk chair, bruised calf elevated on an open drawer, deciding what to do next. Examining every piece of paper, one at a time, would take the rest of his friggin life. Or he could douse the whole mess in lighter fluid and toss a match.
On hands and knees in the sleeping alcove, Chase was rooting around under the queen-sized bed looking for anything that might help them figure out who mugged Mary Ellen. So far he’d discovered paperback romance novels, old issues of Cosmo, wadded up tissues, and three boxes of tampons. Pulling his hand out from under the bed, he found a lacy lavender bra hooked on his index finger. It looked dainty and out of place in his huge mitt. Shrugging, he tossed it in the general direction of the closet. “Has this Richard guy paid us yet?”
“Five hundred for the gun and lessons. Haven’t discussed the rest yet.”
Chase groaned and stretched, wind milling both arms overhead. Even kneeling, at full extension his hands almost hit the ceiling fan. “You sure we shouldn’t get paid before we start searching?”
“Ah, you know me. Better if he pays us, but if everything keeps looking legit we’re gonna take the case whether he can pay us or not.”
“Yeah, I know. If he can’t pay us we always end up at your version of that convicted felons line. What is it? Oh yeah—‘a man with a gun should never be hungry or broke.’”
“If he can’t pay, we’ll take whatever we can from the bad guys.”
“Like Robin Hood.”
“Exactly.”
Chase blew a cloud of dust off the nightstand. “Thought women were supposed to be the neater sex. You know…take care of the home, clean, organize stuff.” Glancing at the clothes spilling haphazardly out of the closet, and a dresser with drawers stuffed so full two of the three would never close, he sighed. “This could take forever.”
Pay laughed. “Wanna trade? You know how I feel about paperwork.”
“Oh, hell no.” Chase scanned the tower of paper. “Fire Marshall sees this place he’s going to declare it a hazard.”
“Isn’t as bad as the frat house I lived in. No moldy pizza crusts. No rats. What do you want to do with the laptop?” Computers were always left to either Chase or Jon D.
“Jon D’s got time on his hands. I thought we’d give it to him.”
“OK.” Pay yanked the power cable from the wall sending a stream of paper crashing to the floor, uncovering a small pink notebook with a drawing of a rose on the cover. A cute little padlock hung from a tab on the front. Pay snapped the lock open with his fingers and scanned the first few pages. “Diary. Looks pretty up to date.” He tossed it on top of the laptop. “I’ll give it to Brooke.”
Chase finally gave up feeling around the mattress edges and flipped the mattress against the wall. “Well, lookee here…old mail and a thumb drive.”
“Give that stuff to Amy.” Pay looked at his Tag Heuer. “We’ve been here almost an hour. Could spend another month just on this paper. Let’s do a quickie on the bath and then take whatever we can carry to some place where the police aren’t going to bust us for burglary.”
“What about Richard Johnson’s place?”
“I’m hungry. And thirsty. Let’s drop this stuff in the car, get some food, and then search Richard’s place.”
“You worried the cops might find this stuff in my Bugatti?” asked Chase.
“Naw. Takes a pretty good reason for a cop to search a rich guy’s car.”
“Being black, my experience is a little different.”
“Can’t tell you’re black if the car’s empty.”
“Ok. Rock-Paper-Scissors for the lunch check?”
“Why not?” Pay laughed. “I gotta win one of these days, don’t I?”
Lunch was broiled fresh halibut, steamed vegetables and a King Estate Pinot Gris for Chase; two large meatball subs extra cheese, extra peppers, extra sauce, and two creamy pints of Harp draft to wash it down for Pay.
“Anything you want me to do about the guys who mugged you?” Chase had searched the area where Pay was attacked, but a
ll he’d found were blood stains and a cheap Saturday night special. “Kinda surprised Blade didn’t kill at least one of them.”
“Probably too busy protecting me.”
“When are we going to go after those guys?”
“On this leg I’d have a hard time catching them. Have Jon D keep on the cops and the hospitals. When he gets a lead you and I can decide what to do.”
“Not like you to leave guys like that walking around.”
“Don’t think any of them are going to be walking much. Pretty sure I broke one guys face. Fucked up the other guy. Plus, the damage Blade did.”
“What if I see a dog bitten scumbag or two when I’m out walking with Sam?”
“Make sure Sam’s safe, and then do whatever you need to do to convince the little bastards to give up their life of crime.” Pay laughed.
“Break their trigger fingers? Their necks? Give me a little help here.”
“Break their collarbones so they can’t wipe their own asses. Kick ‘em in the nuts till your foot gets sore. Break a bunch of ribs and maybe a leg or two. I find ‘em, I’m going to do to them what they were going to do to me. But I’m not going to ask you to do my killing for me.”
Chase ordered a non-fat cappuccino sweetened with Splenda for desert. Pay got a Godiva chocolate brownie and a double espresso, no sugar.
After Rock-Paper-Scissors, Pay pulled a hundred dollar bill from his money clip and set it on the tray, sipping the dregs of foam off his second espresso.
“Why do you do that?” asked Chase.
“What?”
“Drink espresso black. No sugar, yuck.” Chase gagged at the thought.
“Gotta cut calories where you can.”
“Could have skipped the brownie.”
“Mom always said it isn’t a meal without dessert.”
“Could have skipped the extra cheese, or the extra sauce, or the entire second sub. Could have even skipped the Harps.”
Pay gasped in mock terror. “Skip the Harps? Skip the Harps? Thought I was being good only having two.”
“You saved about fifteen calories by not putting sugar in your espresso. Then added about two or three thousand between the cheese, the extra sub and the beer.”
“What are you, the black Richard Simmons? Give me a break.” Pay grabbed his change and they headed out.
CHAPTER 34
After lunch, Pay decided it was time to call Richard. “Hello, Richard.”
“Hello, mister…uh, Pay.”
“Matt says you made it to the range.”
“Guess I did all right. Shooting’s harder than it looks.”
“Gets worse when the targets shoot back. We searched Mary Ellen’s studio. Got her diary, laptop, a couple of USB drives. It will take a while to go through everything. We also searched your apartment.”
Pay paused, waiting for the panicked intake of breath he was expecting.
Richard’s whine started up, right on cue, and it all came out in one continuous rush. “You what? You searched my house? Why did you do that? Don’t you trust me? Why didn’t you ask? Why my house? I mean, it is my house. A man’s house is his castle.” Richard took a series of shallow, rapid breaths.
“Richard, chill. Slow down. Slow, deep breaths; slow, deep breaths. In slow. Hold.”
“What do you mean you searched my house? Why? Why would you do that? I don’t understand.” His voice had become a little more controlled, but he was still reeling.
“Too fast. You’ll get dizzy, Richard.”
Pay heard a slow, deep breath; then a second. Just as he thought things might be calming down, Richard’s whining started back up. “What were you thinking? Searching my house? It’s my house. I’ve got private stuff in there.”
“Richard, you gonna get all pissed off every time I tell you something?”
But Richard kept right on whining—each time just a little bit louder.
Pay thought he might be growing a pair. Taking a first tiny step towards manhood.
“You searched my house. Without my permission.”
“Shut up and listen.” Pay’d had it. “Who do you think you hired here? A new accountant or something? It isn’t like you hired Batman and Robin, either. I’m no freakin consultant you tell what to do. I do what I do. I don’t ask anyone’s permission.” He could tell Richard was getting ready to whine some more. “So take a deep breath. I’m going to explain this to you. One time. You still have a problem after that, you can fire me.”
The other end of the line grew quiet.
“I had to know you were real. The team has lots of enemies. You could be a plant or a setup. And you might not even know it. You might be the nicest guy in the world. Hell you could be Jesus, Mary and Joseph all rolled into one. In my world you only trust people once you have proof. The team and I could wind up in jail or dead.”
“You could have just asked me what you want to know.”
“People lie. I can’t take that risk.”
“OK. I’m sorry. So how is my place?”
“The good news is the front door still locks. Police released the crime scene. You can go back if you want.”
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to go back there. I’m pretty sure I’d be too scared.”
“That’ll fade. Stuff we teach you will help. Give it a while. Place is a wreck. Fingerprint powder, yellow tape, everything turned upside down. Lots of dried blood.”
“No.”
“Yeah. We’re still searching through the stuff we took from Mary Ellen’s. Later today, I’ll talk to the cops and see what they can tell me about any progress they’ve made.”
“Hey, I know their names.”
“They’re out of it now. Case has been given to the inspectors.”
“Inspectors?”
“That’s what they call a detective in San Francisco.”
“What happens next?”
“The team finishes looking through Mary Ellen’s stuff and talks to the cops. You keep visiting the girl. We need to know as soon as she regains consciousness.”
“Last time I went to the hospital they wouldn’t let me in.”
“I’ve got a friend there. Mary Ellen’s in Room 512. Just dress nice and act like you belong there.”
“It doesn’t seem like I’m doing enough.”
“Stop by Mary Ellen’s twice a day and keep working on the shooting. It’ll get busy and bloody soon enough.”
CHAPTER 35
Tuesday was a typical workday for Morano. It started about 11 AM with calls from greedy whores, texts from whiny pole sliders, and sleazy stupid crooks spewing mounds of bullshit trying to wheedle him out of a few dead presidents, drugs, or a freebie with one of the hookers. Stuff that went with the life. The kind of street thugs and sex workers he used were long on schemes but short on work ethic and brains.
After a late lunch, he took a long nap. Since his business mostly happened at night he found a two or three hour snooze helped keep him sharp during working hours.
After his siesta he headed over to the warehouse.
When Morano arrived, the sliding entry door was cracked open. Which was good, because Morano’s spotter was paid to be there every day, except Sunday, from 3 PM until Morano either called to say he wasn’t coming or showed up to work out.
The current flunky called himself a personal trainer, but Morano wasn’t interested in being trained. He never bothered to learn any of the guys’ names, just called them all Fitness. This Fitness was an actor wanna be. Short dyed blonde flat top, unnaturally white teeth, diamond stud in his left ear—wearing black Lycra shorts under cut off gray Nike sweats, he was running madly on the elliptical machine. Full out, full bore, at full resistance. Sweat dripped down his face in streams. Morano thought the guy looked like he’d been running for hours and could go for another two or
three without taking a break.
As soon as he noticed Morano, Fitness jumped off the machine. “Like to join me in some cardio today, Mr. Morano? It’s very important for your heart.”
Morano cut him off before he had to hear any more. “Last time I’m gonna tell you. Sissy’s go for that cardio crap; I’m here to lift. Big iron. You’re here to spot me and to make sure nothing happens while I do. Now shut up and load the bar.”
Morano had never needed a spotter, but in prison he’d watched a lifer bench press 615 pounds. Close to a world record for a guy that size and a lot of weight, for sure, but really nothing special. The dude had lifted that much hundreds of times.
Everything started ok. The guy sat on the bench focusing, huffing air in and out fast doing the things you had to do to get your mind and body ready to lift a huge weight. He’d tightened his weight belt, rolled back on the bench, squirmed under the bar, huffed out some more air, and pushed the Olympic bar up off the black metal stand.
The bar drooped slightly at the ends and the lifter was careful to keep the weight balanced evenly over both arms. Then, he lowered the barbell until it touched down lightly on the folded towel he used to keep from bruising his chest.
Morano was taking abuse from a guard when the guy screamed. It was a sound Morano hoped to never make himself. The guy’s pectoral muscle had torn off his breastbone and rolled all the way up his chest into his deltoid. Morano hadn’t heard pain like that since he’d gut-shot a wild boar.
The bar crashed down, crushing the guy between it and the bench. He’d have died if a couple of prisoners hadn’t snatched the weight off him.
Prison docs patched up the guy’s broken ribs and dealt with his collapsed lung. Nobody knew what caused the muscle to fail. The prison docs weren’t the best in the world to begin with. For most of them, bedside manner meant they used almost enough anesthetic and didn’t drink while they were sewing somebody up. Nobody expected the docs to explain anything.