by Phoef Sutton
Unfortunately, it was the single un-coolest phone in the short history of mobile communications. To America’s youth, it screamed, “I’m on an electronic leash, and my parents won’t let me off it.”
It lasted eighteen months on the market.
Seventeen months into the phone’s life, Bob sat alone in his distressingly empty store when the phone rang. Hope used to spring in his chest every time the phone rang—would it be a potential customer asking for directions to the store? Someone calling to reserve a phone? Now, he knew it would be a wrong number or a prank call. They were all he ever got.
“Bob Steinkellner? Stanley Trask here.”
And it was. Bob knew that voice from innumerable appearances on Larry King and that one time when he was a guest fire-er on Celebrity Apprentice. Bob’s heart leapt to his throat—the Great Man was actually calling him.
“I need your help, Bob. And you need mine.”
All he was asking for was a show of faith. If Bob would order as many phones as possible to help the company through the next fiscal year, then they would prosper together. “You have two choices, Bob,” Stanley (for they were on a first-name basis now) said. “You can either help this company we’ve built together, or you can help destroy it.”
Bob looked around the store at the walls full of cell phones, many of which had sat there for months. Could he afford to double that inventory? No, he could not.
“I’ll do it,” Bob said. How could he say anything else to Stanley Trask?
So he ordered the phones, doubling his inventory; he showed the world that he still had faith in Feniro.
One month later, the company went bankrupt.
The press termed the telephone calls that Stanley Trask placed to all his distributors “channel stuffing.” This is a practice in which the seller forces as much product possible into its distribution channels. Coca-Cola has done it. Sunbeam has done it. Even Chrysler did it. It wasn’t strictly illegal. Not strictly. It was a simple strategy for survival—better someone else gets stuck with inventory than you.
The Feniro bankruptcy was the first failure of Stanley Trask’s career. He took it philosophically. “It was a bad idea, badly executed and badly marketed. To be honest, I took my eye off the ball. But I’ve learned from my mistakes. I assure you, it won’t happen again.”
And he went on to mounting success.
Bob Steinkellner? Not so much. He lost the store—but not the phones. He was forced to go back to live with his mother. And worse than that, far worse, he had to return to magic. But in the new economy—when parents stopped throwing lavish birthday parties for their kids, when companies stopped hiring entertainment for their corporate retreats, when the competition for gigs grew greater and greater—there just wasn’t much room for a self-hating magician.
So with his money running out, with his mother weeping in the next room, Bob Steinkellner watched a news report on Stanley Trask and his growing empire. Feniro Wireless was mentioned in passing, humorously, as his one misstep.
Bob Steinkellner decided, then and there, that he had to make a statement.
He went to the library to go on the internet (his home connection was cut off due to lack of payment) and did his research. He learned how to make a pipe bomb from watching videos on YouTube. He found out about Trask’s yacht from TMZ. He located it on Google Earth and got directions to it from MapQuest. All in an afternoon.
From his mom’s Ford Taurus, he waited and watched at the marina while Trask came and went, day after day. Trask was living there while divorcing his third wife, a budding TV star. The divorce got more press than Feniro’s bankruptcy ever had. Security was tight, and the guards were awesomely proportioned. He nearly gave up, nearly decided to kill himself, nearly decided to give magic another go, when he saw his chance.
The gangplank (or whatever they called it) was empty. No massive guard stood at attention. Before he knew what he was doing, Bob Steinkellner jumped out of his car, ran across the dock, and slipped on board. Presto!
Rush had gone back to his station after the discussion with Stanley and Tianna. He’d stood there for about twenty minutes when all hell broke loose. A crash from below decks. And a high-pitched scream. Rush was down there in a second, flinging open the door.
Trask was holding Tianna down and slapping her. Tianna was crying. Trask was naked and red as a lobster with rage.
Rush stepped inside the cabin and locked the door behind him. In a situation like this, a bodyguard has to use his best judgment to decide if this is a role-playing game or the real thing. Tianna’s tears and bloody lip told him all he needed to know.
He reached down and plucked the naked Trask off her like a bear off a salmon. Trask’s limp dick told him this hadn’t been about sex.
“She was looking through my papers!” Trask shouted, enraged.
“I wasn’t!” Tianna said, weeping. Rush saw now that she was naked, too. Lithe and lean like a cheetah. Not instinctively covering herself—nudity was clearly not an unusual state for her. “I was looking for a condom. I forgot mine.”
“I was just paying for a blowjob,” Trask said.
“You expect me to suck that bareback?” she said, with disdain.
Trask went for her again. Rush held him back.
Rush heard a rapping at the door, followed by Guzman calling, “Mr. Trask?”
Trask was bending over to pick up his pants and pull his wallet out. Rush saw more of him than he would have liked.
“There’s a merger coming up. If it leaks, I’ll lose billions,” Trask explained. He offered Rush a fistful of hundred-dollar bills and glanced at the girl. “Make this go away. I don’t care how.”
Rush looked at the money.
Donleavy had joined Guzman outside. “Mr. Trask, is everything all right?”
Rush still looked at the money. “Is that how much you paid her?”
Trask grinned with his bonded teeth. “It’s what I was going to pay her. I’m giving it to you now. For services rendered.”
Outside the cabin, Donleavy and Guzman were startled to hear the sounds of struggle, punctuated by low-pitched grunts and spitting noises. Guzman threw his big frame against the bulkhead, once, twice.
The door flew off its hinges. The first sight that greeted them was Tianna standing buck-naked and with her jaw hanging open. The second sight was the one that put that astonished look on her face.
Rush was sitting on a naked Trask and shoving hundred-dollar bills in his mouth, one at time.
But as he said to Donleavy when they pulled him off Trask, at least he wasn’t talking to The Principal. Didn’t that count for anything?
“You’re fired,” Donleavy said. Given the circumstances, Rush couldn’t blame her.
Guzman and Stegner were escorting Rush and Tianna off the boat, to the sound of Donleavy’s effusive apologies to Trask, when Rush saw it. A pipe bomb taped to the railing of the hallway outside Trask’s cabin. He thought about moving on without saying a word, but he had Guzman and Donleavy to think about. And even Stegner. The guy was a total douchebag, but Rush didn’t really want to see him with metal shrapnel studding his face.
They didn’t believe him at first, at least Stegner didn’t. He thought Rush was joking or playing for time or trying to get his job back. Then Guzman went back to have a look.
They evacuated the yacht just in time. The last of the kitchen crew was crossing the gangplank when the bomb went off. A loud pop and billow of drifting smoke. What the hell, Rush thought. It looked like a something out of a magic act. Something to, what was the phrase, divert the eye? At that moment, someone stepped on deck from below. Two someones. One close behind the other, holding an arm around his neck. As the smoke cleared, Rush could just make out his fish-like features. In the mad rush to evacuate the boat, one man had been forgotten: Walter Trask, the always neglected younger brother. Wouldn’t you know it?
There was a huge hunting knife held tight to his neck, and the man behind him kept leading him for
ward until they were clear of the smoke and in full view. Then the man stopped, cleared his throat, and positioned Walter Trask a little to the side, so that he could take the stage.
“I want television cameras here!” the man declared. “I want to make a statement. I have Stanley Trask, and I’m prepared to kill him.”
“Fuck you!” Stanley Trask roared from beside Rush on the dock. He had a bathrobe on now, but it was hanging open in front, and Trask didn’t mind one bit. “You don’t have me, you fat fag!”
The man looked troubled. Then he took a good look at his hostage. Despite being identical twins, Walter and Stanley weren’t hard to tell apart. For one thing, Walter didn’t shave his head—he kept a monkish ring of gray hair around the crown of his skull. For another, Walter didn’t live the life of a rock star as much as his brother did, and consequentially, his face had a more relaxed, healthier glow about it. It also sagged a bit more, since it hadn’t been artificially lifted and Botoxed. In short, Walter looked like a sixty-three-year-old man, whereas Stanley looked like a sixty-three-year-old man who was desperately trying to look forty.
Bob Steinkellner knew in a glance that he had the wrong Trask.
He cursed under his breath, and then he tried to put a good face on it.
“All right,” he said, using his best stage projection to make sure he was heard. “It doesn’t matter. I have your brother. Do you want to see him die?”
Stanley didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked one of his own: “What do you want, asshole?”
“I want a television crew. I want to tell them what you did to me.”
Walter was whimpering now. He’d been left out of the conversation, as he had been left out of so many others, and he was making himself heard. “Do it, Stanley. Give him what he wants,” he blurted out.
“You stay out of this,” Stanley said. “This is between me and the fag.”
“My name is Bob Steinkellner! Do you remember that name?”
Rush watched the exchange between the two men with cool interest. It was clear who was getting the better of it. He also watched Stegner as he took cover behind a pylon next to Rush, with his Steyr Scout sniper rifle at the ready, watching for a clean shot through the sight. Stegner had waited years to play Navy Seal sniper with that thing. Now it looked like he was going to have his chance.
“No,” Stanley Trask said. “Why would I remember that name?”
“You called me,” Steinkellner said, sounding like a jilted lover. “You made me buy more phones. You channel stuffed me!”
Stanley Trask laughed. “Is this to do with Feniro? That fiasco?”
A bee was buzzing around Steinkellner and Walter now, and that only added to Steinkellner’s fury. “Yes, that fiasco! That fiasco ruined my life.”
“Well, you got the right Trask for that. That was all Walter’s idea. Tell him, Walt.”
Walter’s eyes bulged with fear. “Stan!” he cried.
“Go ahead, Walt. Punch him in the gut and walk off the boat. He hasn’t got the guts use that knife.”
Steinkellner stiffened his hold of Walter. “Try me,” he said.
Then Walter went for it. He tried to break free from Steinkellner’s grip and, in doing so, brought his throat, hard, against the knife. A bright rush of red blood flowed suddenly from his throat. He looked down in shock and horror as it spread south over his aloha shirt. Steinkellner drew the knife the rest of the way across Walter’s throat, then looked up at them with an expression that could only be called embarrassed. The wandering bee landed on the blood as if it was honey and began to drink.
Stegner, stretched out on the deck, drew a bead with his sniper rifle. Rush kicked it aside just as he fired—the shot missed wildly. Stegner turned furiously on Rush. “What the hell are you doing?”
Rush didn’t answer. He was too busy running onto the yacht.
When he got there, he found Walter Trask wiping the blood away from his throat, feeling for the mortal wound. There wasn’t even a scratch.
They rushed onto the boat behind him, Donleavy, Guzman, and Stegner. Donleavy and Guzman grabbed Steinkellner, who didn’t resist. He knew he was beaten.
Rush took the knife from Steinkellner’s limp hand. “It’s a trick knife,” Rush said. “They use them in movies and in magic acts. The blood is in the blade.” He pressed the blade and the center of it retracted, squirting fresh blood onto his finger. “The blood’s made with Karo syrup and food coloring.” He put a finger to his mouth and sucked. “Sweet. Bees don’t drink blood.”
Walter Trask sat on the deck, stunned. He looked up at his brother as he came on board. “How did you know—?” Walter asked his brother. “How did you know that the knife wasn’t real?”
Stanley Trask gave his brother a long look. It was clear to Rush that he hadn’t known any such thing.
“I took a calculated risk,” he said calmly.
SIX
The Lamborghini came at them on the right, nearly sideswiping them. Amelia flew around in the back seat, trying to keep her balance, loving the thrill of the chase.
“Who are these guys?” Rush asked.
“Them.”
“Yeah, but who are they?”
“I never saw them before in my life.”
“They’re Russian Mafiya,” Rush said, keeping his eye on the road.
“What? Come on.”
“Those tats. They’re Russian prison tattoos.”
“Why do you know that?”
Rush changed lanes abruptly. “Why are they following you?” he asked.
“They’re following you,” Amelia replied.
What could he say to that? He piloted the GTO across to the exit ramp, careening to avoid a late-model VW. Powering down the ramp, he cursed. The Lamborghini was roaring after him. Side by side, both cars flew through a red light and down Temple Street.
The GTO peeled off to the left. The Lamborghini skidded as it tried to keep up. Rush tore through a back alley and under the overpass. The Lamborghini righted itself and was speeding to catch up. Rush took a sharp turn into oncoming traffic. Tires squealed and horns blew as cars scattered to get out of the way.
Amelia took a small object from her back pocket. A computer flash drive. She slipped it into the crease between the back of the seat and the bench for safekeeping. She’d retrieve it later. Amelia was big believer in doing things later.
The GTO burned up the ramp onto the 110. The Lamborghini tried to follow but misjudged the turn and plowed into the yellow barrels on the median strip in an explosion of plastic splinters and water.
“Whoa!” Amelia exclaimed. “Morphin’ time! Go Pink Ranger!”
Rush shook his head. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t pay you to ask questions.”
“You don’t pay me at all. Now, where do you live?”
Amelia shook her head. “Uh-uh. You’re not taking me home.”
“Fine. I’ll drop you off here.”
“No. You’re too noble to drop a half-naked girl off on the freeway.”
“You’re not half-naked.”
She pulled her top off and threw it out the window of the car. Check and mate.
The GTO pulled into a garage full of rebuilt, half-built, mint-condition muscle cars from the glory days of the performance era. Firebird. Le Mans. Catalina 2 + 2 convertible. Grand Prix. These cars were Rush’s passion. He labored over them for years, getting them to top condition, better than the day they rolled off the assembly line. Then he drove them for a few months. Then he sold them. The journey was the reward, as Gail said.
Amelia got out and looked around. “What is this place?”
“I live here.” He tossed over an oily towel for Amelia to cover her tits. He wasn’t going to let her distract him that way. “Come on.”
She tied the towel around herself and followed him to the freight elevator. He slid the door open and waited for her to follow him.
She paused. He reached into his pocket, pulled out h
er gun, and offered it to her, butt end first.
“Make you feel better?” he asked.
She took it, but slipped it into the back of her pants. “A little.”
She got in the elevator, and he slid the door down and pressed twelve.
At thirty-five Zerbe still had a full head of hair. That was really all he had going for him, so he kept it long and styled like a Shakespearean actor’s. He wore thick glasses and was fighting a paunch, no matter how many sit-ups he did—which wasn’t many and wasn’t often. Zerbe had a lot of time on his hands and spent it mostly in regret.
He was sitting in front of his computer, watching faces fly by as the LAPD face-recognition program tried to find a match for the blonde from the Nocturne, and eating a blue cheese and salami sandwich and drinking a diet root beer, when Rush walked in, followed by the pretty blonde herself. Here she was, in the flesh, with only an oily towel covering her upper half. She was even fresher and more beautiful in real life than she was in a Verizon Wireless photograph.
“Brother!” Zerbe said. “You finally brought me something home from work!”
Rush walked into his bedroom without pausing. “Don’t talk to her. I’m getting her a shirt and then I’m throwing her out.”
Zerbe looked at Amelia. “Well, I like you.” He shouted to Rush. “I like her.”
Rush moved from his bedroom to Zerbe’s. “Fine, then, I’ll give her one of your shirts.”
Amelia was taking in the place. The loft’s décor was Spartan. Not Spartan like 300 Spartan, with Gerard Butler wearing a leather diaper and screaming at the top his lungs to a bunch of CGI Persians. Spartan like simple, clean, masculine. Burnished metal sliding panels divided a long, cavernous room into various spaces: bedrooms, kitchenette, living room. A large pool table doubled as dining room table on those rare occasions when Rush or Zerbe entertained. Hoods and side panels from Mustangs, Camaros, and Thunderbirds lined the walls. Martial-arts weapons—nunchakus, tonfas, sectional staffs, a bo, a samurai sword—served as the artwork, as did posters of Toshiro Mifune, Sonny Chiba, and Jet Li.