Dues of Mortality

by Jason Austin

  Glenda gave some manner of facial twitch that said “No, I'm the one who should be sorry” and let it go.

  “Downside of using web or ANI for primary communication,” Roberts noted. “All they have to do is get the hub.”

  “It’s all I can afford right now. My other compieces got turned off since I’ve been out of work.”

  Roberts pulled a PDA from his coat. “You said he sounded nervous; talked kind of crazy, like he thought somebody was after him. That he said, quote, your name came up and that he wanted to meet with you when it was safe and...don't trust the police?”

  “Yes. Those were the words that stuck in my head. He said that they ‘had’ the police.”

  “They?”

  “Don't look at me; I don't know what it means.”

  Roberts tried, again, to block from his mind the corruption scandal that had been plaguing the force the last few months. He'd obsessed over it enough and he couldn't begin to fathom a connection with a Millenitech lab coat with no criminal history.

  Glenda pushed on her forehead. “Uh, I don’t even know why I mentioned it. He stutters; he always sounds nervous and anyone that repressed...The more I think of it, the more it seems like he just finally snapped. But even so, I can't imagine him doing something like this.”

  “Well, most likely the robbery was just thieves poaching a crime scene because they saw an easy target. Happens all the time.” Roberts paused, doing a gut-check. “But coincidences being what they are, it might be a good idea to talk to this Richard Kelmer, see what he has to say.”

  “What do I do in the meantime?”

  “There’s not a whole lot you can do. If you feel uncomfortable about staying here, then you might want to camp out at a hotel or at a friend’s place for a while.”

  “Oh, great. Now this walking growth hormone gets to scare me out of my own home, all the way from a jail cell no less.”

  Roberts shrugged. “Do you own a gun?”

  Glenda looked surprised. “Oh, for God’s sake. What is it with you men and your guns? You know, contrary to popular opinion, women are not as paranoid or prone to hysteria as you think, even if the other half is. No, I don’t own a gun. I hate them. I have no intention of getting one.”

  “Okay,” he said, absorbing the tirade. “I just wanted to know because guns have a tendency to turn up on the street with more frequency than most stolen property. I thought it might help to have a serial number.”

  Glenda looked like she was almost about to apologize, but then wondered why, figuring Roberts had to be used to it by now.

  Roberts looked her over. “It’s all right to be scared, Ms. Jameson,” he said, “in case you were wondering.”

  ****

  Malcolm Block angrily circled the floor of the 10’ x 10’ room like a hungry lion awaiting his pail of meat. His skin crawled against the fabric of his apple-green jumpsuit. He was appalled at having to walk around in such crap. Whenever he passed the head-high barred window, his nostrils flared so wide it was a wonder his eyeballs didn’t drop onto the floor. Not even the raw second-degree burns to his salved and bandaged face hurt more than being confined in this pitiless enclosure.

  Opposite the window that silhouetted him was a single security door with a red coronet strobe light fixed to the wall above. The prisoner menaced the door with every ounce of his pointless fervor. This is where his imagination ran away with him. If he could just make the door burst into flames with his mind or something.

  Almost as in retort, the light above the door flared brightly, letting out a petulant squawk. Malcolm Block watched as the door opened and a short, sharply dressed man entered the room. The man had one of those politician haircuts, crisp and glossy, and was coated in that familiar stench unique to lawyers with no nose for decent cologne. He clutched a thin, metal briefcase to his right side like a shield. Behind him stood a muscular guard with a hairy hand on the outside lock.

  “It’s about damn time,” Block hawked. “Where the hell ya’ been for shit sakes?”

  “Take it easy, Mr. Block,” the lawyer responded, addressing the air, as if Block was some disembodied voice. “This was a last-minute case for me. It took time to rearrange my schedule.”

  The lawyer nodded to the guard with a quick “thank you” and the door was closed. He walked forward, adjusting his tie, and sat himself down. He placed the briefcase on the table.

  Block pulled at his bandages. “You’re not the lawyer I talked to before,” he said inquisitively.

  The lawyer tittered. “You didn’t actually expect him to show up, did you? My name is Ian Shaw. I'm here as a favor.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel so much better.” Block was brewing with sarcasm. “When am I getting out of here?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “You’re working on it? What the hell does that mean? I don’t want to hear ‘working on it!’ I want to hear security doors opening and pissed off guards cussing under their breath as I walk past them onto the street!”

  “Have a seat, Mr. Block.” Shaw waved lazily. “There are a few things we have to discuss.”

  “If this conversation doesn’t end with me puttin’ on some decent clothes and walking outta here, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Mr. Block...” Shaw made a series of robotic arm gestures, directing Block to sit.

  The big man footsied the chair like it was too slimy to touch and then forced his backside into it.

  “Thank you,” Shaw grinned. “Now, I’m sure you’re familiar with the routine; all we have to do is to make sure that you refrain from saying or doing anything stupid until we can secure your release.”

  “Wonderful,” Block said, swaying his head. “Get me the fuck outta here and I won’t have to say nothin’.”

  Shaw cocked an eyebrow. “I’ll do the best I can to secure your bail, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Your priors will make it difficult.”

  “What kind of bullshit...? You're not in the door two seconds and you're already making excuses?”

  “Your original attorney could’ve probably pulled some easily accessible strings to, at least, get you bail. I suspect he chose not to because such maneuverings would’ve established a relationship between him and your case, which I assume he’d rather not have happen. He’s no doubt less than flabbergasted that a 120-pound woman gave you so much trouble.”

  Block bit into his cheek. It was all he could do to keep from wringing Shaw's snotty little neck like a wet towel.

  “Look, there’s always—what do you call it?—unexpected variables in work like this,” he said. “I’m not a fortune teller. She got lucky. Besides, what makes you think it was so damned easy? You see what that bitch did to me?” He turned his head to the side, using his bandaged hand to point at his bandaged head. The burns on his face spoke for themselves.

  “I see your point,” Shaw said deadpanned. He was in the mind to further chastise Block about the semen stains the police found on his half-zipped pants, but quashed the notion in the interest of time. “The problem is, your arrest history dictates an overzealous nature with regards to women. And if that weren't enough, there are the drugs they found on you. That's practically a guarantee of denied bail since the county has been cracking down on H-ball related crimes.”

  “It wasn't all for me, you know.”

  Shaw looked royally annoyed. “I didn't need to know that.”

  Block averted his eyes, fondling his nose with embarrassment. It was eerily similar to how he fondled his dick in Glenda Jameson’s closet, watching her trim body stretched out on the sofa like a sunbathing beach bunny. How giddily unaware she was as he released himself practically on top of her. What choice did he have but to seize the moment? To do otherwise would have been a sin. A smirk snaked up his lips. “Ay, I was just trying to go easy on her at first. Shit, it’s hard enough just putting a mark on something that looks that good, let alone what I was there to do. I mean, you wouldn’t use the Mona Lisa to wipe your ass, would you?�
��

  “First of all, don't ever give me information I didn't ask for,” Shaw said with obvious reproach. “Secondly, no matter your reasons, you've managed to place certain people in a very precarious position. I only know enough about this case to make some appeals to the judge, but I know more about the kind of people you work for. My guess is they’re not very happy with you right now. That’s why I’m here. Your reckless indulgence has made people think twice about helping you.”

  Block’s neck swelled like a bullfrog’s. “Well, you tell those certain people that they’re gonna be in a much more precarious position if they think they’re gonna just leave me here!” He took a moment and then said, “You think I don’t know who he is?”

  Shaw immediately felt the sting of his ulcer. Block was about to say something he didn’t want to hear; something...over the line. “Mr. Block, I don’t recommend that you...”

  “Don't think I'm just another dumb head-breaker that your boss hired off the street. That you need to understand more than anything before you leave this room.”

  “He’s not my boss and it was my understanding that you never met him.”

  Block lilted back in his chair and gazed up at the pegboard ceiling. His thick forefingers became drumsticks tapping out a non-rhythmic beat on the table’s edge.

  “Now let me see,” he said facetiously. “What was that name again, Keller, Klemer?” His ugly eyes popped wide in Shaw’s direction. “Kelmer! That was it, Kelmer!”

  Perplexity was spelled out in cursive on Shaw’s troubled forehead. “What?”

  “That’s what the guy said his name was. He even called back while I was there. Said he worked for Millenitech.”

  Shaw recoiled. Wallace. Gabriel’s biggest and these days, only client worth mentioning. Who the hell else? he thought. In Cleveland, Jerome Wallace was God...and, by comparison, men like Shaw were but lowly pagans. Do I really need Gabriel so badly as to risk involvement in Wallace's extracurricular activities? Shaw asked himself. The short answer was “yes”. The way things were looking, Shaw's gravy train was about to be derailed and Gabriel's A-list clientele was the closest and quickest way to keep the mortgage paid, the strippers grinding and the pain-killers in the cabinet. Shaw pressed his fingers into his eye. I hate Gabriel. I hate Gabriel. I...hate...Gabriel.

  “I don’t see where this is going,” Shaw said. Perhaps he could play it down and make Block think he had nothing to bargain.

  “Well, why don’t you take it to your boss? Maybe he can tell you. Or maybe I should just ask the state prosecutor.”

  Shaw's finger migrated from his eye to his temple. State prosecutor Camille Cosgrove was no fan of Jerome Wallace or Millenitech. She was still salty over the years of court tie-ups that were preventing her from righteously prosecuting Wallace on the illegal dumping of medical and radioactive waste that supposedly came from his mothballed research labs. Though, Block probably didn't know that; he was just another dumb lump of flotsam that got off on jumping into half-empty pools. He had gotten the Glenda Jameson job through the usual nameless, faceless contacts, probably just another loser—like Shaw—who owed Gabriel a favor.

  Block smiled and said, “You see, while I was...'visiting' the young lady's apartment, she checked her phone calls. She has one of those, in-home land lines with the widescreen. Now, I didn’t see no picture, but I heard this guy on the other end with a little bitch-ass stutter. Said his name was Kelmer.”

  Shaw added a slow shake of his head to his temple massage. I hate Gabriel.

  Block grinned with satisfaction. “Know him, do ya?”

  Shaw said nothing.

  “Anyway, he sounded reeeeeeally nervous, like he was tryin' to warn the babe about something.”

  Shaw turned away from Block’s bad breath.

  Block just leaned closer. “They don’t know I was hired,” he whispered. “They ain’t gonna put it together. You gotta figure she's already told them about the phone calls. But when I tell them I was hired, man, them gears are gonna start rolling and it won't be long before they make their way down to Millenitech’s front door.” Block was foaming with priggishness. He grinned even wider, safe in the knowledge that in a few hours he’d be downing shots of Gran Platinum with a large-breasted stripper at his favorite nightspot.

  Shaw stared blankly at the table; it was the only thing in the room that didn’t hurt his eyes now. This was going to get messy and he was fresh out of hip waders. I hate Gabriel.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Block cackled, “a lawyer with nothing to say. Will wonders never cease?”

  “Was that all he said?” Shaw asked, knowing he’d rather drop a firecracker down his pants than hear the answer.

  “What?”

  “The man who called...what else did he say?”

  Block wiped his hand down his face to keep from pimp-smacking Shaw into the corner.

  “Fuck me!” he blared. “You still think I'm the stupidest shit on the face of the Earth, don't you?”

  You don’t really want me to answer that, Shaw thought. “Look, Mr. Block...”

  “Naw, you look muh’fucka’!” Block shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. “I’ve told you everything you need to know and everything you’re gonna know until I’m on the street! Now you tell the man to cut the shit! Tell him to get off his ass and get me out, now! Otherwise, by the time he sits down to dinner tonight, the cops are gonna be serving him dessert!”

  “All right!” Shaw said and felt a twinge of relief. Let this moron dig his own grave, he thought. Shaw was basically just the messenger. Gabriel couldn't blame him for Block being an idiot. It would be easy for Shaw to cover his own ass and let the cow-chips fall where they may. Shaw motioned for his client to retake his seat. “Now, if we could please finish things?”

  Block complied, snatching the chair from the floor and straddling it backwards.

  Shaw obligingly threw open his briefcase and began removing papers.

  “I don’t suppose any of your arresting officers roughed you up or forgot to read you your rights or anything?” he asked snidely.

  Block just smirked. “My asshole was kinda sore when I came to. You think I should read anything into that?”

  Chapter 9

  Washington, D.C., August 25, 10:25 p.m.

  Beaumont's BMW, rented by proxy and under a false name, cruised into the motel parking lot and occupied a space by a vending machine. The senator killed the engine, stepped out and put his head on a swivel. He was nervous, felt exposed. He peered up at the cloudless sky. The golden rays of sun may as well have been spotlights. He turned and scanned the balcony for the room number. On the far right corner of the second story was a door with a number five to the left of an eight. The eight was twisted on its side to resemble the symbol for infinity. Beaumont buttoned his blazer as if he was strapping on body armor and walked quickly to the door. He stopped in front of it and swelled his chest. The meeting would be a tense one. He would have to make it absolutely clear how deep in the shit they were and that hunkering down until the heat wore off was the only real option. Neither of them would like it. Beaumont had had the president against the ropes, for weeks and this “misstep” with MIT had dealt the agenda a stinging rabbit punch. The senator gave two methodical taps on the door and three more taps after. The beep of a code lock then sounded, followed by a click. Beaumont opened the door, slipped in and closed it behind him.

  Piss-yellow walls and ugly carpeting stung the senator’s eyes on contact. Two full-sized beds braced one wall while a television panel was mounted on the opposite. Beaumont saw a thirtyish man with slick-backed hair and deep-set eyes sitting on the bed farthest from the door. The man's back was pressed to the headboard and his legs were crossed at the ankles. He wore a brand new pair of jeans, a black T-shirt and a black leather jacket. He looked like someone who’d spent his formative years watching too many episodes of Happy Days. The man was snacking on a block of yellow cheese, shaving off one small slice after another with a f
olding knife. Beaumont was about to address him, until he heard the orgasmic moans oozing from the television. Its pornographic display consisted of a heterosexual couple engaged in the human rendition of a two-digit number.

  “Ross, I see you're working hard,” Beaumont said.

  “Ha. Working 'hard',” Ross laughed. “That's funny.” He thought it so, not for the obvious erection pun, but because Ross was never not working. If anything, Beaumont's insistence of face-time was delaying Ross's plans. The embers of MIT were still burning and he hadn't intended on hopping the first red-eye from Boston to Dulles International just to hold Beaumont's hand. Ross yawned parenthetically in the senator's direction. He then tapped on the closed fliptop computer sitting next to him on the bed. “Thanks for the upgrades by the way.”

  “The software is updated from the Bureau’s tech sector,” Beaumont replied. “It should alert you of any attempts to hack your secured network directly or otherwise and if any such attempts carry FBI signatures.”

  Ross lapped another cheese slice. “God, I love this stuff. Natural, aged, Brunkow cheddar. You know it’s just about the only food we got left in this country that hasn’t been injected with more chemicals than a janitor’s mop bucket.” He stuck out his arm, pointing the bar of cheese at Beaumont. “You want some?”

  “Don't pretend this isn't important,” Beaumont snapped. Ross’s “everything’s cool”, pitch-and-roll made him sick. “An innocent man was killed for Christ sakes!”

  “Hey,” Ross said smoothly. “Calm down, senator.” His steady hand raised and lowered in the air, the tiny knife’s blade catching the light.

  “This is going to set us back,” Beaumont grouched. “The biotechs are going to use this as an opportunity to gain sympathy.” He gesticulated fiercely, his fingertips pressed against one another like he was addressing a crowd of voters. “How did this even happen?”

  Ross refused to answer, instead continuing, to devote his attention at the pornography on the wall.

  “This is ridiculous,” Beaumont said. “Would you turn that off?”