We made our way out of the airport and back to the Suburban and loaded up and started driving east. This was Doug’s first trip to Hawaii, or anywhere tropical for that matter, so I decided that he should have his first cocktail down on the beach in Waikiki or, better still, at the Outrigger. I pulled out my phone, dialed Frank Williams, and heard his voice after two rings.
“What’s up, Finn?” he asked.
“We just picked up my friend Doug at the airport, and we were hoping to take him somewhere special for his first drink on the island.”
“How about the Outrigger? I’m headed there myself.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
“Well head on over, and I’ll see you get the best table in the house.”
“Thanks, we’ll see you in a few,” I said, before hitting the end button.
“Who was that?” Doug asked.
“Frank Williams.”
“The Frank Williams?” Doug asked.
“Yeah, how many are there?”
“Only one that counts. He’s probably the single most powerful person in Washington.”
“Other than the president.”
“Shit, presidents come and go, but Frank is there for eternity. So, how the hell do you know him?”
“He’s an old family friend of John Matheson, and he’s currently in charge of his campaign.”
“What campaign? He hasn’t said he’s running yet.”
“Exactly, and it’s the main reason that I flew you over here.”
“Yeah, and speaking of that flight, what’s the long story behind why I was in first class?”
“Fucking Finn basically won the lottery, and he has as much, if not more, money than me!”
“That’s fucking bullshit. Guys like you get the looks, and guys like us get the money.”
“But you don’t have any money.”
“Well, I have more than you, or at least I used to, and I would have as much as Beeber if I sold out and moved into the private sector.”
“So, why don’t you?”
“I have a soul.”
“Working for the Agency? Doubtful.”
“Whatever—just tell me how you acquired all this supposed money.”
“Remember my Soft Taco Island job?”
“Yeah, the one you called me for help on.”
“Well, the Agency ended up hiring me for a follow up job, and they paid me with more than a hundred million dollars worth of jewels left over from the arms deal I sabotaged on Soft Taco Island.”
“So, it’s blood money!”
“Technically, it kind of came from a secret society, but the jewels aren’t even as valuable as my shares in cold fusion technology.”
“Dude, all I can say is fuck you, and I will be expecting really awesome Christmas and birthday presents. We’re talking Lamborghinis and Ferraris here.”
“Fine, as long as you help make sure my friend doesn’t get charged with murder.”
“Deal, now explain what the fuck is going on.”
I gave him a detailed briefing, and he listened intently, and his acute mind took in all the details and was probably already making connections mortal men could only dream about. He was a brilliant strategist and had graduated top of his class at MIT then remained at his alma mater to complete two doctorates—one in economics and the other in theoretical mathematics. He was soon recruited by the CIA, and that’s when I met him and Beeber, and we formed the Three Amigos. Since Beeber and I left the Agency, however, we had scarcely seen each other and were more like los tres extraños, or, in English, the three strangers.
“And someone tried to kill all four of you earlier today?”
“That’s why we’re in a Suburban.”
“Some vacation,” Doug said.
“Come on, wouldn’t you rather be killed in Hawaii than anywhere else?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you after I’ve had a drink.”
“Fine, a drink it is.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Beach Blanket Babylon
WE DROVE ANOTHER ten minutes and were soon pulling into the Outrigger parking lot, where I struggled to squeeze the Suburban into a normal sized parking, and the result was that the back end was sticking dangerously far out into the lane of traffic. Oh well, if anything happened, I had at least opted for the complete damage coverage. We walked down to the Outrigger entrance, and the hostess led us out to the Hau Terrace, where we found Williams sitting with a friend.
“Hello, Frank, this is Beeber, Rachel, and Doug.”
Frank stood and smiled warmly at our entourage.
“Nice to meet you. This is my good friend and aide Rex Pearson.”
Rex stood, and I saw that he was tall, probably about six one, and appeared to be in excellent shape, which, combined with his neatly trimmed hair and clean shaven appearance, did very little to hide his military past.
“I’m sorry to hear you were also in Afghanistan,” I said, as we shook hands.
He chuckled.
“Yeah, feels like a lifetime ago now,” he said.
“And not even a lifetime’s enough to adequately forget everything you experienced over there.”
Rex nodded his agreement, and I could see that far away look in his eyes that all men who’ve survived a combat tour shared.
“Please, everyone, take a seat and order some drinks. Rex and I have to leave soon, but we can at least stay for one,” Frank said.
Everyone sat, and a moment later a waitress arrived and took our order before returning soon thereafter with a tray of sweet alcoholic sunshine. She handed out our cocktails, then I held my glass up to toast.
“To the Three Amigos triumphant return to service,” I said.
Everyone clinked glasses and drank, and Doug, after looking out at the view, turned to me and smiled.
“You were right earlier. This would indeed be as good a place as any to die,” he said.
“Well, let’s hope no one else dies because of this fucked up situation,” Frank said.
“I’ll toast to that,” I said, clinking Frank’s glass.
We took a sip, then Frank smiled and regarded my new arrivals.
“So, what kind of help can we expect now that you’ve reunited the Three Amigos?” Frank asked.
Beeber started to answer, but I cut him off, as I realized it was probably a good idea not to let Frank know that I would be employing some illegal means in trying to clear Jessica’s name. As he was John’s campaign manager, I wanted to make sure he maintained total deniability regarding my investigation shenanigans.
“Mainly technical stuff relating to the Honolulu Police Department’s evidence chain,” I said.
“Well, I’m glad to have you aboard,” Frank said, tipping his glass to Beeber and Doug.
The table fell into conversation, and, with Rex in the next chair over, I ended up talking to him first.
“So, you were the PJ who rescued John. That was quite an ordeal.”
“Yeah, but then so was every other day over there.”
“Pretty much.”
“What was your unit?” I asked.
“Delta, and I was attached as part of Joint Special Operations Command.”
Delta was one of the Army’s most elite units and comparable to SEAL Team Six. It had been formed by charging Charlie Beckworth after he spent some time in England with their world renowned SAS, and, upon returning to the States, he set about creating an American version—namely Delta Force. So, if Rex had been with Delta, then he had seen and done some serious shit.
“We may very well have crossed paths. When were you there?” I asked.
“Two tours between 2004 and 2006.”
“I left in 2005.”
“Good time to get out. It only got worse.”
“I had no choice. Took a bullet in the hip rescuing John.”
“That will happen.”
“So, how is life as a civilian treating you?” I asked.
“Not bad. A l
ot fewer people trying to kill me. How about you?”
“It’s a little boring, but sometimes boring isn’t so bad. In fact, I wish today had been a little more boring.”
“Oh, what happened?” Frank asked, looking concerned as he tuned into our conversation.
“A crazy asshole in a truck tried to run us all off a cliff today.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, I think things are heating up.”
“Fucking Finn is a magnet for trouble,” Beeber said.
“No shit. I don’t get it. Life as a private investigator used to be pretty uneventful,” I said.
“Private investigator? So, you’re like Magnum P.I. now?” Rex asked.
Beeber and Doug started laughing.
“Not at all,” I said.
“Bullshit. Finn is totally a shitty version of Magnum P.I., and he wouldn’t have solved any of his cases if it weren’t for Doug and me constantly saving his ass.”
“Which means you two are like Rick and TC!” Frank said.
“Pretty much,” Doug responded.
In the name of my personal dignity, I decided to try and change the direction of the conversation.
“Speaking of Magnum P.I., Frank owns the house that was the fabled Robin Masters Estate in the show.”
“Seriously?” Beeber asked.
“Yes indeed, and as I already told Finn, you’re all welcome to come by and see it in person. Perhaps we’ll do a barbecue tomorrow evening?”
“That would be awesome, though I have to ask—do you have a red Ferrari?” Beeber asked.
“I do, but it’s a bit newer than the one in the show.”
“Would Rex qualify as your majordomo—or Higgins in Magnum P.I. speak?” Beeber asked.
“I suppose he would,” Frank said.
“Perfect! Now all you need is for Finn to move into the guest house and start leeching off you, and you’ll have a proper reenactment,” Beeber said.
Doug and Beeber giggled like idiots, but I decided not to chastise them, as their help was sorely needed, and, truth be told, it was nice being together again. I was also feeling all warm and fuzzy as I regarded my two old friends, for they were literally glowing in the warm light of the looming sunset. We continued to enjoy a lovely island evening until Frank gazed at his watch then nodded at Rex. The two stood, then Frank cleared his throat to get everyone’s attention.
“I’m sorry—Rex and I have to get going, but please stay as long as you like and feel free to order dinner. It’s all going on my club tab, so have a wonderful evening. It was nice meeting you all.”
Frank and Rex said good night, and the two men exited and left the Three Amigos and their two hot tamales alone in the beautiful Hawaiian night.
“See, Frank is actually a big teddy bear,” I said.
“Until you get on his bad side. Then I imagine he can be more like a grizzly bear,” Doug responded.
“Then it’s a good thing we’re friends. Anyone hungry?”
“Hell yeah,” Rachel said.
Our waitress came back around, and we all ordered dinner and another round of drinks, then the conversation turned to how Beeber, Doug, and I all ended up working together at the CIA. Apparently, the girls found it odd that the three of us would come together in a such a large agency when all of our skill sets were so removed from one another—and even more so in my case, as I was a field agent.
“Well, needless to say, what we’re about to tell you cannot leave this table,” I said.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Rachel said.
“I believe I have the clearance,” Violet added.
“Well, Finn, Doug, and I were all part of the CIA’s elite Special Activities Division,” Beeber said.
“The what?” Rachel asked.
“Special Activities Division or S.A.D. We did a lot of paramilitary missions—snatch and grabs, rescues, you name it. Anyway, a good operation relies on three critical areas. Step one, or intelligence gathering, is where I came in. I specifically used human intel, electronic surveillance, satellites, eavesdropping, spy software, and everything you can imagine to amass a great deal of data on critical targets. Then, Doug would utilize that data to form a plan, and Finn would be the action arm who went out and performed the mission. Thus, we were the Three Amigos.”
“As in the movie with Steve Martin, Martin Short, and Chevy Chase?”
“Exactly.”
“So, I still don’t see how the three of you overlapped,” Violet said.
Beeber, Doug, and I shared a smile.
“Well, in spite of working together, our true meeting was actually more about chance.”
Eight years ago, Georgetown, Washington D.C..
I had a little downtime between assignments and was unfortunately spending it doing debriefings at the Agency, and, after a long day, I decided to get a beer at one of the trendy breweries in Georgetown. It was also near the University, so it was rife with college students drinking and desperately trying to make a love, or perhaps lust, connection. I strolled inside and, as usual, unconsciously scanned the crowd for threats and, more importantly, attractive women. There weren’t any visible threats, but there were plenty of attractive women, and I ventured further into the chaos and took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer.
It arrived a short time later, and I took a sip, then had another look around and oddly spied two coworkers from the Agency sitting at a table a short distance away. I had seen them around but never spoken directly with them, because they were on the intelligence gathering and analysis side of the Special Activities Division. At the moment they appeared to be playing a game, and, as I looked closer, I saw that they were fucking playing Dungeons and Dragons right here in the middle of a crowded brewery. Worse still, they had all their various books, dice, and paper laid out on the table. Sweet Lord! What the fuck were those nerds thinking?
I turned my attention back to my beer and was soon joined by an attractive girl who had taken one of the open seats beside me. She was with some equally attractive friends, and I was guessing that they were probably graduate students, because they were in their middle twenties. She smiled and said hello, and I happily responded in kind, as it wasn’t often that I had time to meet women. Being in my line of work meant that I was in a new country every couple weeks, so this was a rare pleasure. We continued to talk, and I learned that she was indeed a grad student and was finishing up a masters in political science at Georgetown. She asked me about my profession, and I told her I worked for the State Department, which earned me points, as it kind of related to her major. There seemed to be some hints of mutual attraction, at least I was hoping so, but a sudden commotion brought my attention away from my lovely new friend and back to my two nerd coworkers.
A group of four fit-looking frat guys were standing at their table and apparently wanted the nerds to move. The nerds weren’t backing down, however, and told the frat guys that they were eating and drinking and therefore perfectly justified in continuing to occupy the table. The frat assholes weren’t happy, and worse, they were starting to get agitated, as frat assholes often did when they were out drinking in groups. It was a typical pack mentality, and I’d seen plenty of it back during my college days at Stanford.
The unofficial leader of the frat assholes abruptly slammed this hand down on the table, and everyone in the vicinity grew quiet and turned to gaze at the commotion. Still, the gentle nerds didn’t back down, and I was getting a bad feeling that they were seconds away from a frat asshole beatdown. To that end, I kindly excused myself from my lovely new female friend and walked over to make sure my coworkers avoided any unplanned trips to the emergency room.
“Hey, easy there, fratsters,” I said, as I arrived at the table.
“Who the fuck are you?” the lead frat asshole asked, as he turned his penetrating gaze to me.
“I’m just a good samaritan.”
“Oh—then are you here to tell these assholes that it’s about time they gave up the f
ucking table?”
“No, I’m here to tell you that should leave these gentleman alone and walk away while you can.”
“Oh, are you going to make me?”
“Well, it’s better me than them,” I said, gesturing at the nerds.
The frat asshole snickered and smiled.
“Dude, I assume you’re joking?”
“Afraid not.”
He sized me up for moment and saw that I was equal in height and perhaps a little ahead in terms of musculature, but, like all assholes, he figured the presence of his friends gave him the advantage.
“Look here, samaritan, these two fucks have been here for two hours already, and my friends and I would like their table.”
“I understand that it seems kind of lame on their part, but, as long as they’re eating and drinking, I’m afraid it’s their fucking table.”
“Well, not anymore,” he said, as he reached down and grabbed the twenty sided die off the table and prepared to throw it.
“Dude, no!” one of the nerds called out.
The frat asshole hauled back his arm and began his throw, but, as it came forward, I reached out and caught his forearm and stopped it cold. It made a loud smacking sound, and must have hurt a little because the asshole looked shocked.
“Now, I’m asking you nicely. Please put the die back on the table and leave,” I said.
“Fuck you.”
“Is that your final answer?”
“Yeah, so fuck you,” he said, as he tried to wriggle his hand from my grasp.
I utilized a jujitsu technique that entailed twisting his arm back over his shoulder, and it drove him onto his knees. He gave out a pained grunt, and his friends all tensed and looked as though they were ready to fight.
“Easy there, assholes. If any of you move even a fraction of an inch closer, I’m going to dislocate your friend’s shoulder, and, judging by your stupid matching T-shirts, you fucks, in addition to being frat brothers, are also on the lacrosse team. So, assuming your friend here is a halfway decent player, I suspect you’re going to need him for your next game.”
The Poi Predicament Page 17