by Dan Taylor
His response is serious. “No seriously, I wasn’t told where I was taking you before the gig, like usual. And you need some work on your sarcasm. That was a little sick.”
“Oh, I thought you were fucking around. LAX.”
“Which terminal?”
“Am I supposed to know that?”
“People tend to, yeah.”
“How do I find out?”
“Not my problem.”
I pick up the dossier, find an envelope underneath, in which is a flight itinerary—nonstop, fuck yeah!—and the tickets. “Is it on the ticket?”
He doesn’t answer. I look in the rearview mirror. He’s taken out a pair of tweezers and is plucking hair from his nostrils.
“Why haven’t you started driving? Isn’t this something we can discuss on the way there?”
“I need to program it into my Sat Nav before we head out.”
“The terminals are a stone’s throw away from each other, right?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Okay, you’re a real jerk, ‘I Could…’”
“You could what?”
“It’s what I’m calling you.”
He pops the trunk.
“I apologize…” I lean forward, look at his ID displayed on the dashboard. “…Howard.”
“That’s Mr. Howard.”
“So your first name’s McKinley?”
“Yeah, what of it?”
“Nothing, it just made more sense if they’d done that administrative switcheroo on your name. You know, put the first name last.”
“Why would they put the first name last on my ID badge?”
“Never mind.”
We wait in silence.
I ask, “So should I get out and close the trunk?”
He doesn’t answer.
I sigh, then get out. Close it.
I get back in the car, do a bit of googling. “Okay, it’s Tom Bradley International Terminal.” I realize something. “You knew that already, didn’t you?”
“I could answer…”
“Just drive, McKinley.”
He takes out a handkerchief from the glove compartment, wipes his pair of tweezers slowly and methodically and tucks them away in his breast pocket. I think he’s about to close it and start the engine, but he takes his time folding his handkerchief neatly, tucks that away in the glove compartment, and then takes out a pair of leather driving gloves. Takes his time putting them on, making sure each finger’s snugly inside and then, finally, starts the engine.
I say, “You’re the first man I’ve ever seen who uses the glove compartment for what it was intended in the fifties.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that you’re surprised.”
“Okay, I don’t know what you mean by that, so I’m just going to ignore you for the rest of the drive.”
The son of a bitch doesn’t respond, nor does he program his Sat Nav.
It’s about a thirty-minute drive to LAX, but I figure it’ll take McKinley ‘I Could…’ Howard about forty, and that’s if the lights are kind to us.
I decide to phone Gerry. “Gerry, hi!”
“You’re phoning about the dossier, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, about that…”
“I dug up everything I could.”
“Wait, did you do the actual digging?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because there are people way more talented than we are at this sort of thing. Times have moved on. Why didn’t you use Scottie McDougray or someone like him?”
Scottie’s a topnotch computer hacker and researcher who I use to do all the boring computer stuff while I do the fun stuff. If you rented a book from the school library thirty years ago and didn’t pay the late fee, he could find out.
“Because I don’t know who that is. Wait, have you been involving third parties in the Agency’s business?”
When I cancel dates at the last moment—or at least I did when I actually had dates—I punctuate the canceling statement with this Emoji of the little yellow man grimacing playfully, baring all his teeth in a way that just tickles my funny bone every time. I look in the rearview mirror and see I’m pulling the exact same face. “What did you say? We went through an area of bad reception.”
“Then how did you know I’d spoken.”
“Because I heard little bits of what you said.”
She repeats what she said.
“A third party? I haven’t had the first or second yet.”
“Don’t tell me it was bad reception again. I could hear you breathing through your nose in that way you do when you know you’ve fucked up.”
“That’s weird. Maybe I have a sinus infection—”
“Jake, don’t bullshit me. So you’ve been getting help from some sort of hacker or researcher—”
“Researcher. All above board.”
She sighs. “I’m going to surprise you by being cool about this. Just don’t do it again. The people we use should be background checked and screened for suitability and integrity.”
“I did do that.”
“I’ll humor you. What did it involve?”
“I got another researcher to check Scottie’s background.”
“And how did you background check the other researcher?”
I clench my fist, having not thought of that. “Damn it! I did not think of that.”
“Arguing with you is child’s play.”
“What, the eighties horror franchise that’s become a parody of itself and way too self-aware, but which is still a bit charming?”
“Why would that make any sense?”
“I guess it doesn’t. So, this Bertha Handvinkle person. I was kind of hoping for more info. I guess it doesn’t leave clues about this triple agent business.” I flick to one of the pages, find out that her favorite food is something called a donut burger. I wince.
“It doesn’t. Very little of it is useful, in fact.”
“I suppose I could use the donut burger tidbit.”
“Be creative.”
I wince again. Before she hangs up, I say, “Wait a minute. Help me get my head around this whole triple agent business.”
“What about it?”
“I get what a double agent is: someone who works for two mutually antagonistic countries,” I read from my hand, which I wrote the definition on earlier.
“I’m impressed.”
“Thanks. What’s a triple agent? How would that whole dynamic work?”
“That’s what you’re going to find out.”
“I was worried you’d say that.”
“And no Scottie McDougray this time.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Why?”
“You remembered his name on the first try.”
I think I can hear her shake her head. “Keep in touch, Jake.”
“One more thing: Why didn’t you say goodbye when you got out of the car—”
But she’s already hung up.
20.
CHECKING MY BAGS, going through security, and walking to the bar are all uneventful, as you’d imagine. Unless you consider a man unpacking his carry-on bag onto a tray at security, then being the second person to spot a four pack of Viagra he’d forgotten was in there—with one of the four removed. The first person was his wife. And by the expression on her face, she hadn’t been the one to wonder why his erection hadn’t gone down after he’d popped his champagne cork.
Okay, that was a little eventful.
But not compared to what happens now.
I’m just minding my own business, sipping what passes for beer at O’Riley’s, trying to guess the exact age of the twenty-something to the left of me. She’s traveling in Lycra pants—who knew airports had gyms these days?—and I’m using the lack of droop of her ass as a metric. Just as I’m about to guess, a nut comes and speaks to me.
He catches me unaware, sits on the stool opposite mine. He has a heavy Irish accent, so I don’t know what he says. And he’s caugh
t me unaware—did I already say that?—so my reply isn’t exactly appropriate. Unless he asks the question that I was thinking about. I say, “Twenty-nine.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry, I had something on my mind. What did you say?”
“I said if you take a picture it’ll last longer.”
I look down at my crotch. “I’ve never heard that one, but thanks for the tip, buddy. I have no problem in that department.” (The Viagra’s still on my mind.)
“You’ll have a hard time getting onto the flight.”
Again, I’m still thinking about Viagra. And that twenty-nine-year-old’s ass. I hedge my bets—sue me. “Thanks for the compliment, creepy dude, but it’s not that big. I think I’ll go and take a seat over there.”
I get two feet from the stool when he says something I’ve been expecting to hear at an airport since nine-eleven. “You take one more step and I’ll blow this airport to smithereens.”
“That’s funny.” I turn my head, using my rubbish peripheral vision to see a little of him.
“I’m not joking.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“Then why’s it funny?”
I go and take my stool again. “It isn’t. What I felt like was funny.”
I take in his appearance, which isn’t the most convenient time, I admit. He’s wearing tiny glasses and has a physique like he thought about bronze- and then silver-, but finally went for the platinum-option liposuction. He has a head of wiry, curly ginger hair. And last and definitely the least—well, half—is that he’s missing one ear. Not just a smidgen or whatever word this Brit would use—Ireland’s part of Britain, right?—but the whole thing. It’s gross.
“How did you feel?”
“I can’t remember now.”
“Why not?”
“This feeling is eclipsing that one.”
“Christ, you’re a vague one. How do you feel now?”
“Pretty nauseous. You should really clean your ear.”
He looks confused.
“Not the whole ear on the right side of your head.”
He must be one of those people who struggle with knowing left and right, as he brings up his hand to the side of the maimed ear, his left side, and despite my saying “whole ear,” to check which one I mean.
Then he says, “Did you mean me bad one?”
“I meant the one that was removed in a horrific accident of some kind.”
“Boating.”
“What?”
“It was a boating accident.”
“Anyway, back to the ear. I can see right into that thing. You should really clean it.”
He goes red, becoming self-conscious, despite having just told me he’ll blow me and the airport to smithereens.
I highly doubt that now, if I hadn’t before.
I feel like satisfying the nut’s curiosity. Plus, I just remembered. “What was funny was how empty I felt when you said you’d blow me up.”
“You didn’t feel the least bit intimidated?”
“Not in the least.” I take a sip of beer.
“Oh.”
I look at him sympathetically. “Have you done this before? Threatened to blow someone up, I mean.”
His reply is a defensive one: “No! And I meant it.”
“I bet you did. But still, I don’t mind one bit.”
He starts to look around, as though he wants to make a hasty exit.
“Not looking to leave, are you? I’m enjoying our chat.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. I mean, you’re not exactly amusing or humorous, and you’re not much to look at, with the missing ear and all. Nor are you a fine raconteur, expertly telling engaging anecdote after engaging anecdote. In fact, I can barely understand any of the drivel that’s coming out of your mouth. But I am enjoying our chat nonetheless. Do you want to know why?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you anyway. It’s been an enlightening one. Do you know why it’s been enlightening?”
He shakes his head as I give him crazy eyes and sip my beer.
Then I say, “Because you just made me realize that I don’t mind dying today. I’ve been driving around with a shitload of plastic explosive in my rental car for the last week—it’s my holiday from work—wondering when and where I’d use it. And if I even had the balls to use it.” I laugh, showing exaggerated enjoyment. “Now I know. Say, you don’t look like you’ve got too much money. Am I right?”
He shakes his head, his cheeks comically flapping from side to side.
“Thought not. Poor son of a bitch. Interviewers shouldn’t give a fly’s fart about that ear, but I bet they do, right?”
He nods, wide-eyed.
“Thought so. Tell you what, we go and sell the explosives you were going to use, and for a good price, and we give the money to…you don’t happen to have a wife, I suppose?”
He shakes his head.
“Thought not. To your mom, then. Back in Old Craggy Island Rock or wherever the fuck you come from. And then we’ll come back another day, blow this place to smithereens together. How does that sound?”
He starts to get up.
“Don’t leave. We can drain a few, start putting our plan together.” I take out my wallet, hold it out to him. “Here, go get us a round.”
He looks at my wallet like it might be the trigger he imagines is in my rental trunk, holds his hands up.
“I insist!”
But he’s run off, his head snapping from one side and then the next, looking for the exit.
I turn to my left, see that Lycra Pants is still standing there. To her, I say, “Whoever knew the Irish actually come to places like this?”
She looks over her shoulder at me, her eyes thin slits, and she’s raising her lip like Elvis in that rejective way women do when they think they’ve been approached by a rapist/psychopath. Then she turns back.
Still, I got a good look at her face.
Definitely early thirties. You can’t win them all.
21.
ONCE I’VE CALMED down after that fucked-up experience, I turn my mind to the flight.
It’s a nine-hour time difference between L.A. and Oslo. Mine’s a morning flight, which means I’ll arrive in Oslo in the evening, which doesn’t sound all bad. Apart from that I’ll probably be awake the whole flight, as Andre’s certainly got me in coach, and you just know I’ll be sitting in front of some kid who’s playing whatever is the modern equivalent of a Game Boy as he knees the back of my chair. The result will be that it won’t be a sensible time to go to bed when I arrive, and I’ll already have been awake for the amount of time I’m used to.
The more preferable way to fly from the West Coast to Europe is on something called the red-eye. You travel overnight, get your sleep while flying, minimizing jet lag.
All the time-difference stuff sounds confusing enough already without complications. Add in four beers, three gin and tonics, a baby two seats away that’s experiencing its first flight, and the air that they refuse to circulate as often as is humane, and you’re practically back at college, listening to lectures after three joints and two hits of a bong.
Anyway, enough with the encyclopedic drivel.
The flight is uneventful, as is the drive from the airport to the hotel.
I pay the cab driver and skip checking-in in favor of going straight to the bar.
Turns out it’s a nicer place than I imagined.
Not too shabby for Old Hancock. Not too shabby at all.
I grab a beer at the bar, accusing the barman of aiming for early retirement, and then take a seat and take out my cell to call Gerry.
“Gerry, hi. I’ve arrived safe and sound.”
“You sound drunk.”
“The cab driver said I should’ve taken the red-eye, and quite frankly I agree with him. I’m beat.”
“Have you checked in yet?”
“I’m not at the hotel bar, if that’s what you’re asking?”
She’s silent a second. “No…no, that wasn’t what I was asking. Why?”
I take a sip, then say, “Never mind.”
“We forgot to give you some information, the name you’ll be working under while in Oslo.”
“Oh, I already got that covered, Olaf Henrikson. Nice, right?”
“With an American accent?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“No, you hadn’t. The reason why I asked if you’d checked in yet is because your hotel reservation is in the name of Kent Smoothwaters.”
“Why is my reservation in that goofy name?”
“Because that’s the name you’ll be working under while in Oslo. I thought that was obvious.”
“The whole time?”
She ignores me, says, “Repeat the name back to me.”
“Kent Smooth-something.”
She sighs. “Try again.”
“What was it again?”
“Smoothwaters.”
“Smoothwaters. Got it.”
“The whole name.”
I sigh. “Ken Smoothwaters. Happy now?”
“Kent! Kent Smoothwaters!”
“There’s no need to shout. Isn’t Ken short for Kent?”
“Jake!”
“I got it. Kent Smoothwaters.”
“Good. Just to make it clear, that’s the name you’ll be performing under tomorrow evening. And the name you’ll give Bertha Handvinkle when you meet her.”
I roll my eyes. “Give me a bit of credit.”
“That was me giving you credit.”
“What else could you have spelled out for me?”
“Oh, I don’t know…that your briefs go under your pants when in Oslo. Things like that.”
I look around, checking to see if she’s messing with me, using reverse psychology or some shit. No one has got their briefs over their pants.
And while I am, I spot a guy at the opposite end of the bar looking at me. I assume it’s a guy, but I can’t be sure, as he’s cut two holes in his newspaper and is spying on me through them, but his hands look manly, at least by American standards.
To Gerry, I whisper, “I’ve got a tail!”
22.
“GOOD.”
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
“How is someone tailing me a good thing?”
“It means the enemy has made contact. It’ll make things easier for you.”