Killerfest

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Yes, yes. Twice. ‘Challah Akbar, Challah Akbar.’ How many times you going to tell me. I don’t even know what it means.”

  The driver shook her head. Challah fucking Akbar! Jesus. The idiot shouted that Jewish bread is great! Well, what can you expect? Good help is hard to find. It would take more than a novelty-store mustache to turn a dumb Ukrainian into a Muslim terrorist. Hopefully, no one in the Waspish country club was paying attention. After all, a man was being skewered to death.

  The ex-waiter was now down to his underwear.

  “Where are my other clothes?”

  “In the other car I rented. I want to switch out of this van. Someone might have called it in. Put those clothes in that bag and just sit there. It’s only a couple of miles.”

  “And the rest of my money?”

  “With your clothes.”

  She could feel his hot breath on her neck. She pulled the van down a side road heavily canopied with trees.

  “You know, baby,” he said, “I could give you a little of my cut if you do the right thing for me. We have time. It’s deserted around here. Nobody will bother us. Plenty of room back here. I know you been wanting to.”

  Vendela Noss reached a hand back and stroked his crotch. She could feel his erection. The murder had made him horny. She’d seen it before in other men. And she knew the response wasn’t restricted to men alone. She occasionally became “wet” after a job she did herself.

  “You be a good boy and sit back,” she purred. “This may be your lucky day.”

  He did as he was told, chucking softly. This was one crazy broad, he knew, but she was goddamn gorgeous. He’d been hot for her since the first day. He couldn’t wait to get his hands in her flowing red hair. He wondered if she was a natural redhead. Well, he’d soon find out. Of course, a lot of them shaved down there now. Got a Venezuelan or whatever they called it. That thought further inflamed him.

  Noss pulled the van into a small cutoff next to another car and got out.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get your clothes and your money,” she said, “and some condoms. Why don’t you get out of your underwear?”

  Condoms? Plural. The man ripped off the rest of his clothes. He lay down and smiled at the roof, slowly stroking his erect penis. He heard the trunk of the rental car open. A moment later the rear doors of the van flew wide. He sat up. The woman smiled at him. She had a paper bag in her hand. It looked heavy. How many condoms did she have, he thought. Her eyes went to his groin.

  “My God,” she said. “That’s really impressive. Perhaps I should have rented a bigger van.”

  The man laughed.

  “I hope you brought a lot of rubbers, baby, extra-large” he said, eying the bag. “As you can see, I’m ready to explode.”

  “Glad to oblige,” Noss said.

  She pulled off her wig and tossed it to the man. He looked at her uncertainly but then smiled. He put the wig on his penis.

  “How do I look,” he said.

  “Hot,” Noss said. “And about to get hotter.”

  She reached into the bag and came out with a canister and flipped it to the man, who reflexively caught it.

  “Challah Akbar, yourself,” she said, slamming the van doors closed.

  The man looked at the canister, which was hissing slightly, and saw the word PHOSPHOROUS just as it detonated.

  Outside, Noss calmly walked to her rental car. Behind her she heard a popping sound, then a whoosh, followed by unearthly howls of agony. She lit a cigarette. She sat in her car until the horrible screams died down. White fireballs of phosphorous shot out of the van as it turned into a Roman candle. Its windows started cracking and the side of the vehicle warped in the heat. She knew it was unprofessional, not to say, uncharitable, but she started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. Her last view of the man was of him, with a quizzical look on his face, holding a smoking grenade just above his wig-covered erect member.

  “Another shish kebob,” she said out loud. “Oh, Vendela, get a hold of yourself.”

  Still chuckling, Noss started her car and drove away. She was a quarter mile down the road when she heard a loud “whomp!” as the van’s gas tank ignited. Fortunately, it had been a rainy week and the ground was still soaked. She certainly didn’t want to start a forest fire. Glancing in her rear view mirror, Noss could see a glow. Momentarily distracted, she had to swerve to miss a car going in the opposite direction.

  CHAPTER 2 – INFIDEL DOG

  One Month Later – New York City

  “I’m moving to Europe,” Emma Shields stated matter-of-factly once she’d gotten her breathing under control.

  “I hope it’s not out of disappointment,” Scarne said, also somewhat breathlessly.

  She laughed and looked down at Scarne, whom she was still straddling.

  “I’m serious, Jake. Daddy wants me to oversee our French and German newspaper and cable operations. Then he’ll probably send me to China for a spell.”

  Scarne thought it was a ridiculous conversation to have just after a bout of particularly energetic sex, but these days Emma always seemed to have half her mind on the multibillion-dollar family media empire.

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “At least six months, maybe as long as a year.”

  Scarne carefully didn’t suggest that he could always visit her. That would have to come from her. Their relationship had deepened past its original physical components, but certainly not to the point of commitment. After her recent experience with a man who wanted to marry her but settled for trying to throw her off a building, she was not looking for love. Sex, yes, but that was it. Scarne knew that he wasn’t her only animal outlet. She was playing the field. In her case, the field included yachts, private jets, secluded islands and men with bank accounts with more than one comma between the zeroes.

  “What about Becky?”

  Rebecca was Emma’s daughter from her only marriage, which ended a few years earlier with the death of her husband from cancer.

  “She’s upstate at camp near Hyde Park. I’ll put her in a school in Switzerland. It will be an adventure. Then we’ll play it by ear.”

  “Could be tough on a kid her age.”

  “I’m doing this for her. She’s a Shields. She’s rich. She’ll adapt.”

  “It sounds as if Randolph is grooming you to take over Shields Inc.,” Scarne said.

  Emma wiggled her hips and sighed with pleasure, but then got back on point.

  “I guess I’m as much at home in the boardroom as the bedroom,” she said. “But I think my father has another agenda. He always does.”

  “And that is what?”

  “He wants me as far away from you as possible.”

  Scarne felt the twinge of annoyance that always surfaced when he realized someone was trying to manipulate his life.

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  “Probably the same as you, Jake. It may be time for a temporary break. But you must think I’m a cold, heartless bitch.”

  Scarne ran his hands across her breasts, still mottled red from her recent climax.

  “You feel pretty warm to me.”

  “You know what I mean. You saved my life.” She paused. “Wait. Did you just agree with me about the heartless bitch part?”

  “Hey,” Scarne said. “It’s not an insult.” He leaned up to kiss a nipple. It hardened in his mouth. “Why do you think your father thinks you have the ovaries to run the Shields empire?”

  “What kind of woman leaves the man she owes so much?”

  Scarne noted that she had not said “loved so much.” He didn’t know whether to feel regret or relief.

  “Listen, Emma, if every damsel in distress I saved from a madman thought they owed me something, I’d never get any rest. I’m only human.”

  “Oh, go fuck yourself.”

  “Looks like I may have to.”

  Emerald Shields laughed and began moving her hips.

  “Well, n
ot right away. I don’t leave for a week. Let me give you something to remember me by.”

  ***

  Emma was sitting on the edge of Scarne’s bed looking out the window across Fifth Avenue when he came out of the shower wearing a towel. She was still naked but had pulled a sheet across her front.

  “I can see right into that building across the street,” she said. “There’s a man working at a table.”

  “It’s a design studio.”

  “My point is, can they see us just as clearly?”

  Possibly. I think he gave me a thumbs up. He might be drawing a picture of your recent activities.”

  “Jesus. What must they think?”

  “Based on your performance during the last hour, probably that I have a trampoline.”

  Emma colored.

  “I’m serious.”

  Scarne kissed her forehead.

  “Take your shower, honey. I’m hungry. Let’s go over to Babbo. Farewell dinner. Your old man can pay. It’s the least he can do for torpedoing my sex life.”

  ***

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  Scarne and Emma had finished dinner and were sipping the last of their wine.

  “Don’t get all sappy on me, Emma. This is a big chance for you. Stay focused while you are over there.”

  “I feel lousy about this.”

  Scarne felt that she was protesting too much.

  “I’ll be OK,” he said easily.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “You’re not afraid of anything.”

  “It’s so easy for a man,” she said. “You’ll be screwing someone next week.”

  “Emma, I like you. On some days, I think I may even love you. But let’s get one thing straight. The only reason it may be easy for a man to get laid without really trying is because there are so many woman out there who are willing to lay them. At a certain point, it’s not even worth it unless there is some goddamn emotion involved. It doesn’t even have to be love. Just some sort of, I don’t know, feeling.”

  “You really loved her, didn’t you.”

  “As much as you can love anyone you kill.”

  Emma knew she had touched a nerve.

  “Jake. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We’ve both gone through hell these past couple of years. We’ll survive.”

  Even as he said it, Scarne wondered how long Alana Loeb would color his relationship with Emma Shields – or any woman.

  “OK. Then I’d like to talk some business with you.”

  Yes, Scarne thought, Emma will survive. He signaled to a nearby waiter.

  “I think I need something stronger than wine for this conversation.”

  He ordered cognac for them both. After it came, Emma said, “I presume you know who Sebastian Quimper is?”

  “Of course. He’s the worst writer in the English language.” Scarne twirled his cognac. “Maybe any language.”

  Emma looked surprised. Then laughed.

  “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think, Jake. Sebastian has more than 150 million books in print, in 40 languages. He just about owns the Times bestseller list. And I seem to recall you have a couple of Quimpers in your bookshelf.”

  “I only put them there so that some of my guests don’t think I’m a snob.”

  “Ah. A man who dumbs down his bookshelf to seduce. Who? A cocktail waitress? The books on fishing, golf and Dave Barry; who are they meant for?”

  “The Dave Barry was for you. He’s got your weird sense of humor.”

  “I’m crushed. I thought the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, or maybe Churchill’s Duke of Marlboro, were the bait for me.”

  “You forgot to mention the Longfellow.” Scarne did a fair imitation of Snidely Whiplash twirling his handlebar mustache and she laughed. “And as I recall, my dear, we never made it anywhere near the bookshelf.”

  Emma actually showed a little pink in her cheeks.

  “Now, back to Quimper,” Scarne said. “I’ll fess up. I used to read his early stuff. Brain candy, but entertaining. Lately, he’s been coasting. And what’s the deal with all his co-authors? Does he even write anything of his own? It’s all so formulaic, and interchangeable. He’s not an author, he’s an industry.”

  “Yes. That’s my point. Quimper is an industry and one that is important to the Shields family. You know that we own his publisher?”

  “Schuster House?”

  Emma took a sip of her cognac.

  “Yes. Sebastian is probably responsible for 60 percent of their profits.”

  “Right there, you’ve described what’s wrong with the publishing industry.”

  “I know that. But we have an investment to protect. That’s where you can help.”

  “You want me to buy more of his books?”

  “Keep it up, Jake, and I may never come back from overseas.”

  “Sorry. But what can I do?”

  “His life has been threatened.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Emma Shields let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Not by a critic. Islamic fundamentalists.”

  Scarne laughed.

  “Don’t tell me we force terrorists to read his stuff! There may be a debate on water boarding, but forcing someone to be Quimpered is out-and-out torture.”

  Emma Shields took a deep breath.

  “Can you try to be serious, just for a minute? Sebastian has lately been trying his hand at spy novels. To stay more current, I guess. Did you read From Here to Tehranity?”

  “Was that the one where the Jones Beach lifeguard swims to Iran and drowns the Ayatollah?”

  “No, Jake, it’s the one where Quimper, or rather his fictional hero, a C.I.A. stud who is half Bond, half Bourne and all ridiculous, mocks Islam and pokes fun at Allah.”

  Scarne stared at her.

  “I was joking, Emma. You mean there is actually a book called From Here to Tehranity?”

  Emma looked embarrassed, and then laughed.

  “I kid you not. It’s a goddamn bestseller, like all the rest of the crap he puts out.”

  They paused when another couple came over to their table to say hello to Emma. The man was black and thick through the chest. He looked vaguely familiar to Scarne. His companion was auburn haired and a head taller than the man. Emma made the introductions.

  “How’s the knee,” Scarne said to the man as he stood to shake their hands. He now realized who he was: the former star halfback for the Jets, sidelined by a variety of injuries.

  “It’s good. But I’m done,” the man said. “I’m getting out before I start drooling.”

  “Don’t blame you,” Scarne said. “But I’m sorry to hear it. You had all the moves.”

  “He still does,” the woman, whose name was Sally, said.

  “Curtis and Sally are on Dancing With the Stars,” Emma explained.

  “It’s a lot of work,” Curtis said. “Sally is the pro and is some taskmaster. But it beats the hell out of getting mashed by some 260-pound linebacker.” He looked at Scarne. “You play ball? That nose has been broken more than once.”

  “College rugby.”

  “Now, that’s a crazy sport.”

  After the pair left, Emma said, “Where was I? Oh, yes, a group called ‘The Arm of Allah’ sent a letter to Schuster House saying that they are going to kill, and I quote, ‘Quimper, the infidel dog’.”

  “Like Salman Rushdie? A Fatwah?”

  “Nothing official like that. There hasn’t been a peep from the so-called mainstream Islamics.”

  “Look, Emma, Quimper is certainly not the only writer taking shots at Islam. It’s almost a cottage industry. Perhaps it’s a hoax. Has he gone to the police?”

  “We have, on his behalf. Apparently, the authorities have never heard of ‘The Arm of Allah.’ Neither have any of our correspondents or their sources, which is strange because they are all pretty wired in about that kind of thing. But nutty fringe groups pop up all the time, or
split off from other cells. Many are full of hot air, but we have ample reason to believe these people are serious.” Emma looked embarrassed. “This was the second letter.”

  “Same group?”

  “Apparently. It referenced the first letter, the one that came a week after Ralph Arhaut was killed.”

  The name was unfamiliar to Scarne, but dead bodies always piqued his interest.

  “Who is, or was, Ralph Arhaut?”

  “He was Quimper’s co-author for From Here to Tehranity. He was murdered last month outside of Philadelphia.”

  “Philadelphia can be a rough town. Maybe some Islamic group is just trying to capitalize on a coincidence.”

  “It was way outside Philly, in Haverford. The last murder in Haverford prior to Arhaut’s occurred when Ben Franklin was flying a kite. A waiter stuck a shish kebob skewer in Arhaut’s throat during a book signing for Tehranity in front of a hundred Main Line matrons at a posh country club.”

  “Jesus.”

  “It gets better. The waiter yelled ‘Allah Akbar’ and escaped in a getaway car.”

  “Did it have Iranian license plates?”

  “Oh, do shut up.”

  “I don’t recall seeing anything about the murder.”

  “It made a bit of a splash in Philadelphia and some suburban media outlets but it was the same day as another gun massacre so it didn’t go national. We were kind of hoping that it was a random attack.”

  “With a getaway car?”

  “Well, not random, but maybe local. You know, some nut from a mosque or something. We thought it might blow over.”

  CHAPTER 3 - ALBATROSS

  Scarne considered what he had just been told. And didn’t like it.

  “Let me get this straight, Emma. Quimper and this Arhaut fellow write a spy novel that denigrates Islam. Arhaut is subsequently murdered by someone shouting ‘Allah is great!’ and you hoped it would all blow over? I hope you at least told Quimper about Arhaut and the first letter.”

  Emma saw the anger.

  “Jake, I know it sounds callous. And you have to believe I had nothing to do with the cover up. Of course we told Sebastian. He has been lying low, taking precautions. He already has a security service and both he and us augmented it. But it’s been almost two months and nothing else happened. We thought we might be in the clear.”