The Reflecting Pool

by Otho Eskin

  “I’d like to speak with a Susan Watkins.”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Marko Zorn …”

  “If this is about Sandra Wilcox, I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “I’m with the DC Police Department.”

  “I’m hanging up. Don’t call me again!”

  “Would you prefer that I come to your home? We can arrange to do that if you’d prefer.”

  “I wouldn’t prefer that. Don’t come here.”

  “Very well, we can just speak on the phone.”

  “No.”

  “Then we’ll have to pay you a visit.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to speak with Valerie North and I don’t have her phone number. I believe you can help me contact her.”

  “Valerie? On the White House secretarial staff ?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Who gave you my name?” The woman is angry.

  “That’s not important. What’s important is that I speak with Valerie.”

  “What’s this all about? Why do you want to speak with Valerie?”

  “This is a murder investigation. Can you help me?”

  There is a long silence at the other end, and I hear another voice engaged in a heated, whispered exchange. Suddenly a man’s voice is on the line. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Metropolitan Police.”

  “Susan told you she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Then I’ll have to come visit in person. Which is a waste of everyone’s time.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A telephone number.”

  “This is police harassment.”

  “If you want to experience police harassment, just refuse to give me the number I need in a criminal investigation.”

  “If we give it to you, will you leave us alone?”

  “You’ll never see me or hear from me again. Guaranteed.”

  Another long silence at the other end. Then the man’s voice comes on the line again. He gives me a local telephone number. “Don’t tell anyone you got this number from here,” he barks. “Understand! And don’t call again.” He hangs up.

  I immediately dial the number he gave me. After two rings, the phone is answered. “Hello?” a woman’s voice says.

  “My name is Marko Zorn. I’m with the Metropolitan Police. We need to talk.”

  “I’ve been expecting to hear from you,” the woman answers.

  “Are you Valerie North?”

  “I’m Valerie North. You’re calling about Sandra? Is that right?”

  “Correct. I need to talk to you.”

  “We can talk. Although I don’t think I have anything useful to tell you. I’ve already been interrogated endlessly by the Secret Service.”

  “Are you free to meet me today?”

  “I’m on administrative leave. I can meet with you any time. But not here. Not in my home.”

  “How about four this afternoon in the lounge of the Four Seasons hotel.”

  “Fine.”

  “How will I know you?”

  “I’ll be the one looking scared.”

  “Lots of people in this town look scared. Any other identification?”

  “I’ll wear a red beret.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  OTHER WORLDS ACTION Comics opens promptly an hour late. It’s located on a nice street on Capitol Hill. It is not a nice store. The front window is dusty and filled with old action figures from early Star Wars movies. The store itself is small and crowded with racks of comic books and sci-fi paperbacks and, mostly, porn magazines. There are several life-size mannequins; one is Spider-Man and another Batman. There’s an old movie poster tacked to one wall, its edges torn and curled. The text reads “In Space No One Can Hear You Scream.”

  At the back of the room is a door with a sign reading: “Staff Only.” A short, muscle-bound man in his early twenties, who looks like he works out in a gym every day, lounges next to the door, seated on a folding metal chair, tipped on its back legs. His arms and thighs bulge with muscle.

  Several men paw through the stacks of porn magazines. They look up at me anxiously when I come in, then turn quickly away.

  The man behind the counter is maybe fifty, his long gray hair tied in a ponytail that dangles halfway down his back. He has a bushy, tobacco-stained mustache and has small, piggy eyes. His belly hangs over his belt. He looks mean.

  The man does not take his eyes off me as I approach the counter. “Good afternoon, Mr. Black,” I say affably.

  “Who’s Black?”

  “I’d say chances are you’re Artemis Black.”

  “You’re a cop. I don’t talk to cops.”

  “I want to buy some guns,” I explain.

  “We sell comic books here.”

  “Who reads comic books?”

  “Lots of people. Kids read comic books.”

  I look around at his customers. “They don’t look like kids. They look like perverts to me. Is that what they are? Perverts? You cater to perverts here.”

  “Time you left, mister.”

  “We haven’t finished our business.”

  “Our business is finished.”

  “Normally when I want to make a business deal, I start off nice. Maybe exchange a few pleasantries. Maybe talk about the weather. I might ask how the Redskins are doing? You know, establish a trusting relationship between us. But I’m in kind of a hurry today, Artemis. So I’ll skip the garbage part. I’m told you know where I can get guns.”

  “I don’t know anything about guns.”

  “Oh, you disappoint me. Didn’t I just explain I’m in a hurry?”

  “I don’t give a fuck if you’re in a hurry. Get out of here!”

  “Or what? You gonna call the cops? That what you’re gonna do, Artemis?”

  “Cops don’t scare me none.”

  “Cops don’t scare you? That’s plain stupid. You ought to be scared.”

  “And I’m not afraid of you.”

  “That’s even stupider. You should be very scared of me.”

  The man’s eyes shift to the lug sitting by the door marked “Staff Only.”

  “What’s behind the door over there? That the way to a back room? Or is it a basement? You got more comic books down there? Some I might like to see?”

  “None of your business what I got down there.”

  “I think I’ll make it my business.”

  “Luke!” Black yells out. “Get rid of this prick.”

  The muscle-bound young man near the door lets his metal chair legs drop to the floor, stands up, and lumbers toward me.

  “Luke, escort this man onto the street. Feel free to use unnecessary roughness.”

  The man called Luke reaches out to grab my arm. I swing around and slam my fist deep into his gut. Luke is strong but he’s slow. My punch catches him by surprise and pumps all the air out of his lungs. Unless you’re trained for this kind of thing, this will essentially disable you for several minutes.

  Luke staggers back, clutching his stomach, and falls onto a table covered with magazines. The table collapses under him, spreading him and the magazines over the floor. He lies motionless, his face in pain, gasping for air.

  The customers in the store run for the exit, crowding each other in their panic to get out. Black stares at me, mouth open in rage.

  “You were saying about unnecessary roughness,” I observe.

  Black moves along the counter. He’s after something. Maybe a baseball bat. Maybe something like a shotgun. So I reach across the counter and grab hold of his ponytail. And slam his face onto the countertop. Very hard. He squeals in pain.

  “No games, Artemis,”

  “What do you want?” Black gasps, trying to twist away. It’s hard for him to speak with his mouth smashed onto the countertop.

  “I want to talk to you about guns.”

  Black is mute. His eyes flick hopefully to Luke who’s beginning to stir, desperat
ely sucking in air. I jerk Black around the edge of the counter where he is far from whatever weapon he was hoping to reach.

  “Luke, you had enough?” I ask.

  Luke nods, his eyes flicking back and forth in fear.

  “That’s very good. Very good. Now you go to the front door. You leave the store. You lock the door on your way out. Understand?”

  He nods vigorously, obviously relieved I’m not going to hurt him anymore. “Yes, sir,” he gasps.

  “Good boy. Now leave.”

  Luke scrambles to his feet, still gasping for breath, and stumbles among the scattered magazines to the front door. He stops and looks back at us blankly.

  “Lock the door on your way out. And don’t come back today. We’re closed for business. Mr. Black and I have private matters to discuss.”

  Luke flees, pulling the door shut behind him. I turn to Black. “Why don’t we take a peek at what’s in the room marked ‘staff only’?”

  The man tries to shake his head but can’t really move. I lead him through the store until we’re standing in front of the door Luke had been guarding.

  “Open it.”

  “It’s locked,” Black stutters. “Luke has the key.”

  “That’s okay.” I step back and kick the door open. The doorframe is made of thin, dry wood and the bolt tears easily through the frame. Beyond is a dark staircase.

  I pull Black around so he’s standing at the top of the stairs, facing me. I grab him by his shirt collar. “Now let’s get back to business.”

  He nods unhappily.

  “I’m told that you broker gun deals.”

  He stares at me, frightened. “Who told you that?”

  “Guns. That right? You deal in guns?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Right now you’re involved in the sale of a large shipment of weapons.”

  “You got the wrong guy.”

  “You’ve been contacted by someone. Right? A man who wants to buy guns.”

  Black is silent, his mouth twisting with fear.

  “I expect by now you’ve heard about what happened to Fast Freddie. I suspect there was a falling-out between Fast Freddie and the man who wants to buy guns. What do you think, Artemis?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Now, here’s the situation. I want the name of the people who’re selling these guns. And I want to know how to reach this man who’s buying them. How do I make those contacts? Telephone number? Email? Text? That’s not hard now, is it?”

  “You—you can’t do that. I’m a businessman.”

  “I’m sorry you said that. I’m real sorry.” I give Artemis Black a hard shove, and he stumbles backwards and falls, shrieking, rolling, arms and legs flailing, down the stairs.

  There’s a light switch at the top of the stairs and I turn it on. At the bottom of the stairs Artemis Black lies on the floor in a contorted huddle. I walk down the stairs and kneel over his twitching body. “Did you hurt yourself ?”

  The man is obviously in serious distress. Judging by the odd angle of his lower left leg, he has a compound fracture. There are tears in his eyes.

  “You could have killed me.”

  “I could have. But I didn’t.”

  “Don’t hurt me again.”

  “Who contacted you about those guns?”

  Black’s mouth opens and shuts wordlessly.

  “Okay,” I say, “I’m sorry to be so rude but I’m in a particular hurry today. Here’s the way it’s going to be. I’m going to drag you to the top of these stairs and push you down again. And then again. Until you tell me what I want.”

  I think Black groans.

  “Have I made myself clear?”

  “Okay,” he gasps. “Just don’t hurt me.” Black takes a deep, painful breath. “A guy contacted me. Said he wanted a major gun-buy.”

  “Who contacted you?”

  “A guy.”

  “What guy?”

  “Just a guy.”

  “This guy have a name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  I kick Black in the leg and he makes a muffled scream. “I’ll bet you remember now.”

  “Okay. He called himself Sweet Daddy.”

  “You normally do business with people with funny names?”

  “I do business with anyone who pays me. He’s the one with the money. He’s the one who’ll take possession of the product.”

  “What did Sweet Daddy look like?”

  “No idea. I never saw him.”

  I make as if to kick him again. “We never met. I swear. Everything was done by phone or text.”

  “What is Sweet Daddy looking for?”

  “A thousand automatic weapons.”

  “Did you say a thousand?”

  “This is a major buy,” Black chokes. “Took me weeks to find a supplier who could handle an order that size.”

  “Where do these weapons come from?”

  “North Korea. You can’t get this shit from anybody else.”

  “What kind of weapons the North Koreans selling?”

  “Skorpion machine pistols.”

  “What’s their price?”

  “Nine hundred for each weapon. With a twenty-round banana magazine and ammunition. Total of $900,000. Cash.”

  “How do you pay?”

  “I don’t. Sweet Daddy does.”

  “Do you receive the shipment?”

  “I never get close to the merchandise. Some guys I know handle the actual transfer. They meet the truck bringing in the guns, hand them off to Sweet Daddy. I don’t want to be anywhere near that stuff.”

  “Where are the weapons right now?” I ask.

  “Nashville. Loaded on a truck ready for shipment to Washington.”

  “Who are the guys who will handle the actual transfer?”

  “The main one is a guy named Cal Skinner. I don’t know the others.”

  “Where’s this Skinner right now?

  “He’s on his way to DC.”

  “How do I reach this Skinner?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  I kick Black’s broken leg, and he makes a very loud gasp.

  “Do you not hear me? How do I reach Skinner?”

  “There’s a cell phone number you call,” Black gasps. There are tears in his eyes.

  “Give me the number.”

  “It’s in my wallet.”

  “Get it.”

  “I can’t. I think you broke my goddam arm. The wallet’s in my back pocket.”

  I reach over Black’s fat belly and find a thick wallet in his pocket.

  “It’s on the back of a Starbucks receipt,” Black says. “It’s a 301 area code.”

  I search through the debris in Black’s wallet. Among several one-hundred-dollar bills, some crumpled blank checks, and what looks like an old condom, I find the Starbucks receipt.

  “This it?” I ask.

  Black nods.

  “How do I find Sweet Daddy?”

  “I have no idea. All contacts from now on are between Skinner and Sweet Daddy. I’m out of the picture. Which is where I want to be.”

  “What was Fast Freddie’s role in all this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do, Artemis. Put on your thinking cap.”

  “Freddie is a moron.”

  “I’ll bet. What was his part of the plan?”

  “He has a garage where certain people like to keep stuff. Stuff they don’t want certain other people to find. He was supposed to take delivery of the weapons. Hold them for the buyer.”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Freddie went wrong. Freddie demanded more money and that didn’t sit well with Sweet Daddy. This morning he put Freddie out of business.”

  “Where is the delivery set for now?”

  “I don’t know. Skinner will have to find a new location.”

  “I’m leaving you now.” I get to my feet and toss the wallet far away.

  �
��You aren’t going to tell anyone where you got the information about Sweet Daddy, are you? I don’t want to end up like Fast Freddie.”

  “The lesson is: don’t do business with people like Sweet Daddy.”

  Black gasps in pain, holding onto his broken leg. “What do I get out of this?”

  “You get to live.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  WHEN I LEAVE Other Worlds Action Comics I return to the restaurant I’d been to before and sit at the same table where I can watch to see if Action Comics gets any action. I see no evidence of any visitors, anybody who might come to check on Artemis Black’s welfare. I order something the menu describes as an omelet. Just before I can make my first call, I get two text messages: one from Arora that says: “Bingo! Call me.” The second from Miss Shaw informing me a car will pick me up at my home at five this evening. There is nothing about last night’s violent romp ending, if memory serves, on her kitchen countertop. The White House switchboard informs me Miss Shaw’s not available when I call her back.

  “We hit pay dirt,” Arora exclaims, enthusiastically, when I reach her. “The name you gave me last night—Crowley. He’s our guy.”

  “How did you learn that?”

  “We’ve gone to the Department of Defense. This is Delta Force material and it’s all treated as Top Secret. So Defense is not being cooperative. But I got something.”

  “First name?”

  “Dexter. Full name Dexter Crowley. But wait! There’s more. Crowley and our boy, Tony Wilcox, served in the same unit at Fort Brag for almost nine months. Crowley was Wilcox’s commanding officer until Crowley was court-martialed.”

  “What was the charge?”

  “Selling military weapons on the black market. The Army wanted Crowley tried and sent to prison, but because anything to do with Delta Force is highly classified, they didn’t want a public trial so they just cut Crowley loose.”

  “Does the Bureau have any record of what became of Crowley?”

  “That’s what I’m working on. So far we have nothing. I’ll let you know.”