◆◆◆
Mike’s ICU Memories
"My uncle came in yesterday for emergency surgery. I'm here to see him. Can you tell me how he's doing?"
"Are you related to the patient?" someone had asked.
"He's my uncle."
"Does he have a wife? Brothers or sisters?"
"No. Just me."
"They mumbled questions about your insurance coverage, but all I noticed was the smell. Some blend–disinfectant, bile, blood, maybe shit and piss. I just about puked... almost ran out."
She’d said something about someone from billing coming upstairs to talk to him, and his focus snapped back. "Someone from billing..." had pissed him off, he snarled later, as he unloaded the still-swirling storm on Lyle. That chic finally got a nurse who came to the desk, provided Mike a summary of care–Lyle'd received over two hundred and fifty stiches and staples, and the previous night they were cleaned up, re-dressed. She said he was stable, that Mike could go in to see him, directed him to a glass-walled room among several behind her desk.
Mike had been so nervous as he stood outside of Lyle's room. He needed to go in, was afraid to go in. He saw machines lined up along the back wall. Most were blinking green and yellow lights. One of them reminded him of ones he'd seen on TV, with jagged lines moving across from one side to the other–"fuckin' hiccups skittering across the screen", he'd said.
He heard at least two different sounds coming out of the room as well. One, a steady beep-beep-beep. It had given Mike a sense of calm, reminded him of an old clock ticking on a wall. Another sound he'd described as a hi-low tone. Its pace was slower than the beep, and it had creeped him out. He told Lyle it reminded him of foreign police sirens on TV. He also said he'd avoided looking directly at the form on the bed... just glances.
"You can go in if you'd like." A voice had snapped him out of his staring at nothing, lost. He turned his head to see a nurse standing next to him.
"You sure he's alright?" He remembered his voice croaking, guessed she could hear he was scared.
"It looks like he's going to be okay," she'd replied. "He took a bad beating, but his vital signs are strong, and physically, he's in pretty good shape, so I think he'll recover. Why don't you go in, say hello."
"Okay..., but what if I wake him up?" Mike had asked.
"He was awake, talked to me earlier, might still be. Go on in, talk to him."
Her voice had soothed him, and Mike allowed his eyes to settle on the bed's occupant. Bridging that body, the tubes and wires, to his uncle, remained a hurdle.
"Uh..., alright." He moved forward, stepped into the room. The smell soup hit his nostrils again, stronger. He huffed out air, started breathing through his mouth, pushed back against his gut's spasm. Crossing over to the bedside, he’d looked down at his only family.
Lyle's head had been wrapped in mummy fashion, from eyebrows up and somehow, wrapping extended down the left side of his head as if glued in place. Mike stared at the face, watching closed eyelids and as he watched, they fluttered open. Mike didn't tell Lyle that his eyes had flooded or that he had to choke back the sob that threatened to explode from his throat, his chest.
◆◆◆
Lyle appeared to focus on Mike, made a slight nod. Mike hands were shaking, even as he gripped the rail and Lyle had raised his hand, touched Mike's fingers where they fidgeted. That small gesture let the air out of an overinflated bubble, and Mike had been able to exhale a staccato sigh of relief.
"I've got the biggest fucking headache," Lyle had whispered.
Mike needed to refill lungs and completely let go of the suppressed sob, replaced it with a small, explosive laugh. They spent the next several minutes quietly talking, and before Lyle drifted back to sleep, he directed Mike to prepare the current apartment for his homecoming. Mike did as instructed, tactfully inquiring about what he'd need for home care. The nurse expressed concern about Lyle going home too early, but Mike managed to get the information he needed.
◆◆◆
Two days later, Lyle insisted on leaving the facility AMA, or 'against medical advice', but had to lay up at home for another eight days before starting to move around again. His concussion had no long-lasting effects, but the scars were his to keep.
He'd never be a poster boy in Hollywood, as he had joked, but he'd always wear a large horizontal railroad track across his forehead, and where it neared the end of his eyebrow, it intersected with a jagged diagonal track that descended his cheek like a lightning bolt. Mike brought him pain meds, made him eat and drink, helped him negotiate the bathroom. He played a vital role in getting Lyle back on his feet, and Lyle never forgot how well Mike had done in those caregiving days and nights.
By the end of the week, Lyle gingerly moved around the apartment, on the way to feeling "a hundred percent". Mike brought him take-out meals. Lyle's appetite had improved, no problems with solid food. On a Thursday afternoon, they both scarfed down some reasonably good lasagna and garlic bread.
As Lyle finished eating, Mike presented him with dessert. It came in the form of the local newspaper with a small article circled, describing the 'tragic death of a local business man' who had been working on the car in his driveway.
Lyle read further as the article continued, intimating that these things can happen, and from what they could determine, the jack had slipped out from under the car, pinning the victim. While suffering crushing injuries, asphyxiation was the official cause of death. According to the article, there were no jack stands or wheel blocks at the scene, and finding no evidence of foul play, officials had ruled it a tragic and unnecessary accident.
Lyle finished reading, set the paper down, turned to look at Mike who standing next to him, grinning.
“Hey Lyle, you wanna see my new jack stands?”
Lyle cracked a half smile, shaking his head. Over the next couple of days, he thought about this go it alone activity. Could he be linked to it? Privately, he harbored concerns and conflicted feelings about the use or lack of use of reasonable judgment.
◆◆◆
Lyle snapped back from his long reverie, returned attention to the task at hand, before him on the desk. His relationship with Mike had developed into a complicated co-dependence. "Uncle/Nephew" often felt like father/son and over time, their working relationship added the complexities of what could be roughly described as employer/employee, though that never felt exactly right.
These high-end jobs carried much more risk, more concern for the breadcrumb trails that might lead backward. The people at the end of those trails would experience sudden weight loss, as collateral heads rolled. Lyle knew all this like breathing. He would be damned if his life would be forfeit due to carelessness on his part, or revenge made possible by stupid blunders. Even after all these years, there were times when Mike slipped up, acting impulsively and from Lyle's perspective, out of control.
How should I rein in my partner?
58. A TWO-MAN OPERATION
Subterfuge is a layered cake. Cash is always best, but sometimes business needs a credit layer. In that case, good paper and plastic are used, in leasing office space, creating a front. A business card, letterhead and mail services all play a part in making the frosting, adding to the flavor of deception.
The disappearance of a high-profile target involved those sorts of duplicities and support. Early arrangements were already in place. An apartment rented, as well as a commercial-looking van, with realistic-looking handy-man service ads affixed to the sides. A ladder strapped to the roof added more realism. The cab had a pass-thru to the interior.
When he brought Mike into play, Lyle informed him that their primary was referred to as J.T. This would assure that in any discussion they had, anyone overhearing it would not hear the primary's real name. He provided his protégé with an outline of J.T.'s routine behaviors. They'd focus on those behaviors as they shared the job of tailing him, using the van to facilitate changing clothes and basic appearances as needed.
J
.T.'s Business
JCT, LLC. — Tuesdays through Thursdays- software/hardware controls- automobile, agriculture, aeronautic systems-
J.T.'s Home
Gloria, spouse- stay-at-home type, social activities-
Mistress- Cindy Alexander
Living in apartment-The Marc (below)- owner listed as J.T.-
The Yacht Club
S.B.Y.C.-any day/evening poss.-keeps '63 'vette, Turismo 44 sport boat here- premium parking, slip space at the harbor-
Social Evenings
The Savoy- favored restaurant- Options: Bella Vista, Stonehouse, Harry's Plaza- bourbon, neat, back wall (not well). Rhone (Chateauneuf-du-Pape), Pinot, soft jazz, blues-
Morning Coffee
The Grinder-sidewalk coffee kiosk-outside Chesapeake bldg.- Flirts with Linda, deeper relationship?-
Transportation
Linc. Navigator, primary- (Corvette, sport boat/Beneteau Turismo, stay at yacht club)-
Apartment-second home
The Marc- 3885 State St. Apt #1012- Cindy's home, J.T. on lease-
◆◆◆
Mike looked over the outline, tsk-ing his tongue as he read some of the details.
"This J.T. sounds like a fuckin' dickhead, Lyle. Wife and mistress, fuckin' yacht club, Corvette, ... what's this Turismo look like?" He asked rhetorically, affecting a snide accent. "I bet it's a fancy-ass boat, isn't it?"
Lyle nodded, waited for more, which didn't take long...
"I say good-fuckin' riddance. Let's do this!"
59. ALCOHOL'S ASSIST
Three nights later, Lyle and Mike sat at the far end of a bar where it curved back to the wall. Behind them, a lonely coin-op pool table hunched in the barely lit corner. Lyle nursed the last half of his first rum and coke. Mike swallowed big gulps of his fresh, third beer.
They'd followed J.T. and Cindy to the place, waited ten minutes, then came in, found the empty bar stools. They couldn't have planned the seating better. It put them on the far side of the lounge. A combo played blues on a raised platform. J.T.'s table sat in perfect location for privacy in whispers, music in louder vibrations. The band was deep into the set and a waitress just brought J.T. a fresh drink.
"What do you think, Mike? Does he drink too much?" Lyle had been surreptitiously watching Mike's drinking level, on the rise.
"Naw. Hell, I ain't never seen him even stumble!"
"Well, maybe not. But we've seen him pouring it in since this afternoon. It's getting late, and he's still at it."
"Now, that's true. Yeah..., when you add it all up..., he definitely does some drinking!"
"I'd say you're giving him a run for the money tonight."
Lyle was looking at Mike and when Mike turned to look back, it was a glare, with no words.
After several long seconds, Lyle added, "Hey, I'm just saying, I've noticed you've been hitting it hard lately."
"Yeah, well..., sometimes it helps… Dad." The sarcasm dripped like molten wax.
Lyle turned his head to neutral. In his mind, thoughts bubbled. Is this getting worse? Can I keep him in control? Lyle nodded in a slow bob that didn't quite match the background tempo.
60. THE NIGHT BEFORE
“Mike, how’s it going?” He placed a friendly hand on the shoulder. Mike mumbled something, didn't look up, and Lyle couldn't make out what he'd said.
“You going to come back, join me at the table?” He offered his partner an easy return to the patio.
That Tuesday evening, they'd tailed J.T. to the patio at the Bella Vista of the Four Seasons, where he'd joined a small, social gathering, including Cindy. As usual, he commanded center stage.
Lyle and Mike needed to pace themselves in these environments. They couldn’t do sit-down dinners. Sometimes they needed to get up, leave in a hurry, not always easy to do delicately. They'd nurse a cocktail, maybe an appetizer or bar snack, try to blend in. They always paid in cash, no running tabs.
They'd been sitting at an edge of the patio about twenty minutes. Mike had finished a beer when he had excused himself from the table, headed to the restroom. Lyle held down the fort, enjoying the general view, occasionally glancing toward their friend’s dinner party. He realized Mike hadn't returned to the table after several minutes.
Lyle glanced at the group, and satisfied they were not going anywhere in a hurry, got up, walked into the building. He'd spotted Mike sitting at the bar. Looked like a margarita in front of him.
“I’ll be there in a minute.” He took a long draw on the drink. Lyle didn’t respond, turned and walked back to the table outside. Five minutes later, Mike came out, pulled his chair back and plopped down, a fresh drink in his hand. Lyle looked at the glass, then up at Mike, who was staring back at him.
“What?” The word was drawn out, laced with sarcasm. His stare appeared to be focused at the back of Lyle’s head, rather than on his eyes.
“What’s eating at you? Wanna talk about it?” Lyle thought this sounded way too much like a father talking to his son, but it came out that way. Something had changed. Lyle didn’t know what. It didn’t feel right. As he watched, Mike turned his head in a sneer, then suppressed whatever was lurking beneath the surface.
“Did I do something, or say...?”
“It ain't you. It’s him." Mike interrupted, voice a little too loud, and he actually pointed over toward where J.T. sat.
“Okay. Time to get outta here.” Lyle rose, put ten bucks on the table. “You ready?” Mike chugged his drink in two swallows, then, with hands on the table, shoved his chair back. It looked like the table helped him when he stood up, a wobble that might have been more without it. Obviously, he'd downed a couple drinks while at the bar.
Lyle turned and walked toward the parking lot, hoping that his protégé followed, minus stumbles. When he got to the far end of the lot, standing next to the driver’s door, he looked at Mike, just approaching.
“Tha guy makes me sick!”
Lyle opened his door and slid into the seat and Mike dragged himself onto the other. As soon as he'd slammed his door shut, he turned to look at Lyle.
“Shut your god-damned mouth!" Lyle pointed at him. "You're pissing me off.”
Mike turned to stare ahead, a sullen look mixing with his scowl.
Fifteen minutes later, they walked up to the apartment and neither had said more. Lyle walked inside ahead of Mike, entered the bathroom, where he soaked a washcloth in cool water, then used it to wipe off his face, rub across the back of his neck. He returned to the living room where Mike sat, staring off in the direction of the television. He didn't appear to be watching it but rather, something unseen, beyond the walls.
"You gonna be ready tomorrow?" Lyle asked as he opened the bag sitting on the table. He checked to see if there was anything else they'd need.
Mike rose, went into the kitchen, came back out with a store bag.
“Put this in there, too.”
Lyle looked up, took the bag, opened it to find a small hatchet and a machete, still in their cardboard sleeves.
“You think we're gonna need these?”
Mike nodded. Lyle didn’t respond, dropped it into the duffel. He zipped it closed, looked at Mike.
“I'm going to hack that fucker to pieces.”
Lyle didn’t know when the switch flipped, but it was clear in that moment that Mike was no longer the cool, calm partner he'd been over most of the past several years. He wanted to suggest that Mike go to bed, but being unsure where it might go, he opted to make it his own action instead.
“I’m going to get some sleep. It’s going to be an early start tomorrow.”
He walked out of the main room. As he lay on his bed, thoughts returned... Can I keep him in control... what's going on in his head? but that ponder stopped, distracted when he heard Mike shuffle down the hall, walk into his room, then drop onto the bed.
As sleep approached, Lyle reviewed the decision process for the how, where, when.
61. LET’S TAKE A RIDE
Pred
ictability would be the main factor in J.T.'s near future demise. Lyle didn't know why J.T. wore a bull's eye, did his best not to know those things. All he knew for sure—the money was right and everybody dies.
They'd explored ways and places where the job could be done. At home, they'd likely be forced to eliminate the spouse. Home break-ins happen, but home alarms, security services and neighborhood watch programs were big monkey wrenches. When he didn't always come home, it became a crap shoot. They ruled that out. Similar issues eliminated the office.
"What if we grab him when he comes out of a restaurant?" Mike tossed on the table. "He'd be relaxed, maybe drunk. I could wait in the van. You walk him over, I'll pull him into the back."
"That might work if he's alone," Lyle replied, "but it seems like eighty percent of the time, he's got company."
It became clear that the best way to complete the job would be to get J.T. out on his boat, away from the harbor. At least in that way, they could prevent most opportunities for witnesses. Away from the harbor, away from other boaters, and away from people fishing.
They’d watched J.T.’s practices when he took the boat out and returned to harbor. He'd fill his fuel tanks when he returned. They surmised that this served J.T.'s impulsiveness. It would serve them, too. Neither were experienced boaters, but Lyle had watched guys operating boats. Didn't seem that difficult.
Predators and Drones Page 13