The Good Deed

by Doug Walker

  Then my thoughts turned to Kingman, maybe 80 miles away, and the notion that I should motor down that way and pay Betty Morgan a visit. But first I checked my e-mail.

  They say after a certain age there are few surprises in the world, but I found joy and wonder that morning in Las Vegas. Oumou and I had, if infrequently, regularly kept in touch by e-mail. Finally, it seemed, that Dakar girl was ready to come clean. I had a son.

  That she was pregnant by me had been a great secret and a great advantage in her way of thinking. It had kept her parents from carrying forward with an arranged marriage. So she was a single woman with a small child, whom she had named Andy Blake, but minus the junior. I was honored. Why was I honored, at my age?

  Her parents were upper middle class, and caring for the child was no burden. They even had servants. That we should wed was not in the cards because of the age difference. She knew that. Why had she waited so long? From her message, I gathered she was in high good spirits and thought we might get together sometime.

  Immediately I thought of a rendezvous in Paris at my condo, but not a sexual liaison. She deserved better. She should have a husband. Could I play matchmaker? Was it my responsibility to tell anyone what to do? I wasn’t her Dad, nor even an elder mentor. Briefly, we had been lovers.

  What to do? The condo was likely too small for her and the child, a nanny, the housekeeper and me. What did Oumou desire? She was the mother, we had been mates, her wishes should be paramount. So there. I could forget all cares, simply reply expressing my delight and let her make the next move. And, if she didn’t, I could suggest options.

  With that out of the way, I headed for the road and to touch bases with Betty Morgan. But my thoughts soared as I thought of fatherhood while driving over Hoover dam and then full tilt southeast to Kingman.

  Betty was in seventh heaven. She had chalked up two more properties to my dummy firms and now had lined up a third under my name. With this closing, scheduled in less than a week, I would have amassed almost 30,000 acres of seemingly worthless land, dry and rocky.

  “You’ve done good,” I complimented.

  “I dug up some large landholders and I’ve done well and I mean bucks in the bank. And I’ve only just begun.”

  “Don’t go overboard and try to fill in the gaps.” Looking at a large colored map she had assembled, the property looked more like an octopus than a great circle. I pointed to the gaps.

  “Some can be bought, some not. I’ll have to almost double the per acreage cost on some of the critical plots.”

  “Leave that until last. Let’s not start a panic.” I took a closer look at the map and considered the good job Betty had done. She was sharp and dedicated. “I’d like to give you power of attorney, like the bogus company lawyers have. Then you can close deals yourself. I’ll be within cell phone reach, but I may do a little traveling.”

  She looked up from the map with a trace of a frown. A lovely woman in white slacks and a blue and white printed top. “When are you going to clue me in on the master plan?”

  “Very soon. As soon as this land starts to take something of a homogeneous shape, that is lumped together in a usable form. Frankly. Betty, I’d like you to stay on as overseer. This project is costly, a billion-dollar crapshoot and close to my heart. But I can’t be the day-to-day hands-on manager.”

  “Whatever it is, Andy. I’m your girl. So far, you’ve done right by me.”

  “And you by me.” I was tempted to carry the relationship to a more personal level, but I resisted. Perhaps I did have a conscience after all.

  Using her computer, I checked e-mail. I had already sent a long message to Oumou from my hotel room suggesting we might get together with the child. Her reply was waiting: “just send the tickets.”

  Replying, I suggested that the three of us might meet for a vacation in Nambia. My little joke for the day.

  Her reply awaited me at my Las Vegas hotel. “You jerk, I thought you were in Paris. Are you talking about that south African country on the Skeleton Coast, with its sand dunes, bad food, corruption and poverty?”

  “Please excuse me for having a little fun. I am in the States, but returning to Paris. I will hire a nanny and send you tickets at the earliest time possible. Can’t wait to see you and small Andy, no doubt genius material!”

  After hitting the send button I ordered myself a bottle of good Chablis and a roast chicken and set about packing my small bag. Later I would arrange transportation. I must say I was whistling and a little giddy. The joys of fatherhood, and mixed thoughts about finding my lover a husband. OK, things will take care of themselves. And so they did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Half way through the Chablis, my hands greasy with chicken, there was a knock on the door. A pair of dark-suited men flashing badges asked if they could come in. My thoughts turned to Curly and Moe, resting 14-feet under. Surely they couldn’t have been dug up this soon.

  The two seated themselves and the older of the two, a trim man with slightly graying hair, slightly balding on top, said four words: “Matt Tripp, Homeland Security.”

  “We need to talk,” Tripp said.

  “About our relationship?” questioned I.

  If he was amused, he showed no sign. “You are a rich man, rich, retired and single.”

  “Three out of three,” I said.

  “You can help your country.”

  “You are tax collectors?”

  “No. Homeland Security. I’m FBI, Chet’s CIA. You can travel the world with impunity. You have a history of travel. We need someone like that.”

  “You seek a travel writer?”

  “Don’t be difficult. There’s a money laundering operation in that small nation of Monaco, in league with Pakistani terrorists. Your country cries out. You could enter that world and feed us information.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Many others serve their country, just as Chet and I do.”

  “Why don’t you two go over there and unmask that illicit venture?”

  “They would spot us in a New York minute,” Tripp said. “Then bingo.”

  “They would shoot you?”

  “Probably.”

  “So you’d rather they shot me.”

  “You’d be protected.”

  “Would I have a gun?”

  Chet, who had said nothing, spoke up. “Have you ever owned a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you see police and soldiers with guns. Pistols, automatics, revolvers. But they have all had extensive training. Matt and I have been trained. When to draw, when to fire, when not to draw and fire. It would take weeks to train you. No one would suspect a person like you.”

  “An older retired man, a rich man?”

  “Yes,” Chet agreed. “Also, if you did learn the basics. Shooting another human being is a daunting task. Even though you might think you could do it, when it comes down to it, very likely you wouldn’t be up to the task. It would be an awful experience, a horrific thing. I know it sounds easy.”

  “Have you and Matt shot many people?” I asked Chet.

  “None. Neither of us. We’re ready, but hope the opportunity never comes.”

  “It would not be considered a good deed, would it?”

  Matt actually chuckled. “A good deed? Far from it. It would be a profoundly devastating experience. You should thank the good Lord you are a civilian and won’t face such a decision.”

  “I thank God for many things. And here is one that I’ve just learned about. Some time back I traveled to Senegal and met a young lady on the train in route to Mali. I didn’t mean to tell anyone about this, but because you are here with such a bizarre proposition, I’ll tell you. We had a brief affair, a few days together. Now she tells me through e- mail a child has come out of the union.”

  Chet frowned. “This is an African girl?”

  “Yes, her family lives in Dakar, where she is now.”

  “Can you be certain the child is yours? Time has go
ne by.”

  The question did not offend me, quite the opposite. “I feel she is honest. So I am just packing to go to Paris to meet her and the child, a boy named Andy Blake, just like me. So those are my plans.”

  Chet smiled this time. “Perfect. A family outing to Monaco. Can you think of a better cover, Matt?”

  Matt was on cloud nine. “Absolutely fabulous.”

  “Just minute. Oumou is young, I am old. We are not the perfect couple. My intention is to help her find a suitable husband.”

  “But you are the father of her son, Andy. She would seem to be your standard trophy wife. A dream come true. Youth to cheer your declining years.”

  “What you say is not entirely without merit,” I agreed. “And you mention a family outing, or vacation. This is not out of the question. Monaco isn’t that far from Paris and the accommodations are without equal. A short vacation might be possible. But you are obviously referring to money laundering in casinos, and I am not a gambler.”

  “But you can play blackjack,” Chet said.

  “No problem.”

  “We can only offer you so much financing,” Chet explained. “But if you cover all other vacation expenses, we can make one hundred dollars a day available for gambling. It might take some time to lose that at blackjack.”

  “A hundred dollars or a hundred Euros?” I asked.

  “I suppose we can make it Euros. This is a very big deal for us. Are we on?”

  “Yes, I guess.” We shook hands all around and they asked me to stop by Washington on my way to Paris. There would be a briefing and certain equipment passed out. They left, and I tried to sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The night was wretched, witches and black cats. What had I gotten myself into? First off, the relationship with Oumou was forced to continue, something I had been ambiguous about, but had never firmly rejected. A man of my age with a beautiful young woman.

  Next, there was so much to tell Betty Morgan, unpeeling more of my plan, building a headquarters. Now an imminent deadline. No time to shilly-shally. Morning found me a mess, not bothering with breakfast in the hotel, I headed for Kingman, stopping at a McDonald’s drive-through for a cup of decaf.

  My brain was still unraveled when I reached Betty’s door. No response to the bell, so I knocked on an adjacent window. The street was deserted, morning newspapers lay in the driveways. Betty cracked the door open, took a look, closed it again and unhooked the security chain.

  “My, aren’t you the early bird.”

  “Something’s come up,” I gestured hopelessly. “I’ve been called away on short notice.” I caught my breath. What must she think? “Nothing illegal, mind you. Just a lot of things coming together at one time.”

  “Might as well come into the kitchen. We can have coffee.” She led the way, a small hall, a neat dining room and then the kitchen. She had slipped into a thin cotton robe that barely covered her body, caught up with a belt knotted at the waist. Obviously, it was her only garment and displayed a trim figure with ample breasts, although not overly large.

  My brains were bouncing off the walls, ceiling, and any other obstacle. “There’s so much I have to tell you. I’ve made a mental list, but I’ve had a bad night. Unsettled. I don’t know why I’m so disorganized. I suppose it was because I expected to spend quite some time here going over plans with you.”

  She stood listening, her arms akimbo, which worked to better display her body. “I think I can settle you down. Come with me.”

  Taking my hand, she led me through a short hall and into the bedroom. Turning, she undid her belt and let the robe drop to the floor. She was nude. “I’m getting into that bed. You undress and follow me.”

  I obeyed. We must have squirmed and writhed for two full hours, then I fell into a deep sleep, not waking until just past noon. For a long time I lay there, studying the ceiling. She had pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, no bra. Standing in the doorway, she said, “Time for lunch, partner. I’ll give you time to dress.”

  We ate tuna fish sandwiches on white bread and drank iced tea. She took notes on a legal pad while I talked.

  I briefed my ideas. Near the center of the properties there would be a headquarters, something like a large motel or hotel with a meeting room in the center, twenty to twenty-five rooms. A well had to be dug, probably a water tank installed, septic tank, generator for electricity initially. There would be at least five wind turbines, largely symbolic. Then solar panels, plenty of them on the roof. It would be a totally green project.

  “Who will design this monster?” Betty asked.

  “A good architect. I’m going, but I’ll be in constant touch by e-mail and maybe phone. We can talk things over, work things out. You’ll have access to millions through my accountant in London.”

  Finishing my sandwich, I got a refill of tea. I was hungry as a horse, a hungry horse.

  “So we have not hundreds, but thousands of acres with some sort of self-sufficient hotel in the middle.”

  “Right. As soon as construction begins, you must hire a watchman to live out there. If necessary, in a tent at first.”

  “And when it’s finished, do we invite the class of something or other in for a reunion? What’s it for, Andy?”

  “Headquarters, the center of a well-planned new town. Once construction begins we start to recruit city planners, the organic sort, your garden-variety moonbeams. A new civilization rises in the wasteland.”

  “My God. Who would live in such a God-forsaken place?”

  “Throngs. It will be partially self-supporting. There will be a theater, supermarket, arts center, schools, civic clubs, all planned to the last dotted I.”

  “But someone has to work somewhere.”

  “Aha,” I responded. “That’s the ticket. They work in Las Vegas.”

  “Miles away in another state?”

  “Yes, miles away in another state. I’ve got to work on that.”

  “You bet your booty.”

  “It’s simply a matter of transportation. Moving a large number of people from one place to another swiftly and at a low cost.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” she purred.

  “And speaking of booty, shouldn’t we take a post-lunch nap.”

  She nodded in the affirmative and led the way back into the bedroom.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Washington D.C. and the J. Edgar Hoover building. What secrets did it hold? Whatever they were, or are, they didn’t want to let me in. After a long wait Chet showed up and escorted me into the inner sanctum. Or the sanctum that wasn’t sacrosanct, that is where nothing was going on.

  The remainder of that day, plus another full one, was spent in that building. Evenings and nights were at the Mayflower. If it could happen that I was snatched by the enemy, whoever that might be, and perhaps waterboarded, there were no secrets that I could reveal to save my skin.

  Basically, I was told to keep my eyes open, check into a certain hotel-casino, play blackjack on a daily basis, think up some good cover story and keep in touch with Chet, my handler. I was given a couple of gadgets to assist me to that end. Was I a field agent, or what? The “or what” seemed to cover the situation.

  First class ticket in hand, I boarded a Paris-bound jet at Dulles and flew away from that chaotic scene that is our nation’s capitol. Before leaving, I had sent electronic tickets to Oumou and small Andy. They should be landing in Paris just after me. Hopefully at the same airport. In my haste, I had forgotten there were two.

  However we did get together, Oumou and me and the small Andy, and a handsome young man he seemed to be. We repaired to the condo, and thoughts of finding a splendid spouse for my mate and a dad for my son were soon forgotten. The reunion was joyful. Oumou may have matured a bit, but was otherwise unchanged, cheerful, loving, once again the world was my oyster.

  A day or two later when the excitement had fallen to a reasonable level and we had a nanny on board, I felt compelled to tell Oumou of our mission a
nd went through the steps that brought me to such a task.

  When I mentioned Homeland Security, I detected a small shudder. She was a student of history and said it brought to mind the Fatherland, shades of Nazi Germany uber alles. It was difficult to dismiss this line of reasoning, but I attempted to gloss it over with the thrill of Monaco.

  That tiny (less than one square mile) country nestled into the Maritime Alps on the Mediterranean Sea, presided over by a genuine prince, seemed to cast all doubts aside. Then there was the Monte Carlo Casino, a superb Opera House, a cathedral, a palace and even a Japanese Garden, plus festivals and music around the calendar and around the clock.

  The four of us, the nanny was an essential, would fly into Nice and grab transportation for the casino named by dear old Chet. And thus we settled into sheer luxury with the Harris fortune and gambling Euros supplied by Uncle Sugar.

  I was far from off the hook from the Nevada-Arizona project. E-mails and phone calls were a daily routine until Oumou began to suspect there was more than a business relationship between yours truly and Betty Morgan.

  Thus accused, something came over me and I decided to resort to the truth. “Yes, Oumou, Betty and I did share a bed once or twice.” I explained the circumstances, then went on to say I had originally decided to end the intimate relationship between the two of us and earnestly seek an appropriate husband for her.

  “And how would you accomplish that? And why would I have been cast aside and what caused you to change that noble mind of yours? I can just bet what it was.” She was a bit huffy, verging on unbridled fury.

  “You know as well as I.” Always nice to start an argument with that phrase, as if the person your words are directed to already knows they’re in the wrong. “Anyway, you know as well as I that our age difference precludes a partnership of most sorts with the exception of grandfather and granddaughter, which we are not.”