About Cleaning Up (Added From: Artistic Decline)

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Artistic Decline: A Novel (Added Content)

Chapter 1: The Angel and the Caveman       

            Ben Billings snapped open the Sunday Dallas Morning News. He was seated at the breakfast table with a perfect line of sight through the house to the front door. A quick look at the Rolex adorning his tanned wrist offered added ammunition. Scattering inky pages to the floor, he stood with bluster and leaned forward. “You have some nerve, woman. Maybe just move in with the guy!”

            “What time is it?” she asked, sliding down the thick glossy mahogany door as it thumped shut. Her enormous handbag was close enough for enlistment into pillow service. She buried her sunglass-covered face in the cavernous opening.  

            Now he was past the dining room and through the parlor into the foyer, a sudden statue, as if he’d been there forever to catch her in mischief. “That’s all you have to say?” he asked. “It’s as if you don’t even care about my feelings. Don’t do this to me, Tabby.”

            “Are you done?” she mumbled, excavating her head from the purse and rolling onto the carpet, flat, limbs sprawled out and head aimed up at the wood beamed ceiling.

            “Ah,” he crooned, imperiously claiming a fresh piece of the room in which to pose. “You look like someone about to make a snow angel. Wouldn’t that be something, if you were the type of person that made snow angels?”

            “That would be something,” coughing as the mockery left her mouth.

            “Unlikely, though,” he continued. “Snow angels are more of a thing for people with souls, consideration for others. Foreign concepts, no doubt.”

            She answered with a middle finger from one of her wings. “Had enough fun, Benji? And am I in a Tennessee Williams play?” With herculean effort she turned her head to the side, causing her sunglasses to catch on the floor and go crooked. With half a red eye revealed she muttered, “Are you wearing shorts? I’ve been meaning to say something about your hairy legs.”

“My legs. I see. How long have you been storing that snipe?”

“Oh, at least a decade.” Her sarcasm was interrupted by a stifled belch, but soon enough she summoned the will to finish. “Sooo frigging hairy. And dark. It’s like a black bear bottom and aging Greek man top. As a whole, not so hot.”

            Ben was looming, arms akimbo. She flopped her other wing for him to help her up, but he remained stalwart and marble adjacent. “Take it back.”

            “The thing about your legs? Can’t. It’s like living with a caveman. No. The caveman. The super hairy one that scares all the other cavemen away.” After a pause and a short but grating fit of coughing, she finished. “Because of all the hair.”

            Her critique sent a psychosomatic urge through the air imploring Ben to scratch his itchy shins. Through pride he fought the sensation, finally grabbing her overly moisturized outstretched hand. As he pulled her yoga body vertical, her forehead came to rest on his shoulder. “Be gentle, Benji Bear.”

            “Benji Bear,” he whispered hotly into her tousled auburn hair. “That’s insulting. Several levels insulting. Me and dogs everywhere, shocked and aghast.”

            “I’m sorry,” she said, drooling down his favorite fall brunch shirt. It was a perfect shirt for the day and suited for the important task ahead; tight enough to make his arm muscles known and loose enough to hide certain parts of his midsection he’d been letting go untended. Now, dammit, he’d have to change.

            “What’d you say?” he asked, unable to mentally pivot from the shirt.

“I said I’m sorry,” she rejoined, almost childlike. “The night was more than I expected.”

He steadied her wobbling frame and carefully pulled back the disarrayed hair falling down past her eyes. “Did you and… did you and him… you know?”

            “It was a long night. You don’t get to ask about the nuts and bolts.”

            “Gross. Nuts and bolts? Seriously, Tabitha. You’re giving Benji Bear an upset stomach. He may have to vomit.”

            “Speaking of that,” she said, slinging the ponderous handbag over her shoulder like a military duffel, leaving half the contents strewn on the floor. “I’ve got good news.”

            “Is the good news about money, Tabs? That’s what this is supposed to be about. I only remind you in case you forgot it somewhere between the liquor store and the pharmacy.”

            He watched her struggle up the stairs in the previous night’s heels with a hand cupped over her mouth. “So, vomit is good news,” he sighed. “Suppose that’s possible under the right circumstances...”  

            She stopped at the landing, one hand on her stomach and cheeks puffed out, gathering just enough of herself to release two smelly syllables. “Golf club.”

            “I know. We’re going to be late.” He tapped the crystal face of his watch twice to be extra annoying. “Their brunch is good enough to make me say brunch minus my customary contempt.”

            Tabitha tried to expand on her statement, but the impending biological geyser drove her to the half-bath at the top of the stairs.

            Ben frowned at his shirt and hummed a song to drown out the retching. It sounded violent enough to initiate a bubble of concern in his soul, but he brushed that aside. “Can’t get too caught up in your role, Tabby,” he whispered, strolling back to kitchen for another cup of coffee. Judging by the continued flushing from upstairs, it was going to be a bit. “Can’t get too caught up,” he repeated, trying to remember what know-it-all along the way bequeathed to him that particular nugget of repackaged greeting card wisdom. It was something of a creed to Ben; like most creeds to most people, it went against his nature in almost every way.

            Picking up the sports page to dive back into the latest travails of the Dallas Cowboys, he felt his phone vibrating down the pocket of his Gucci wool blend shorts. Reading the screen caused a tensing of his posture, consolidating a range of thoughts before letting them go. “Hey, darling,” Ben whispered, looking up at the ceiling. “One second,” he said, pulling his head away from the device to listen for Tabby. Good. Still puking. “What’s going on, Senna?” he asked, walking hurriedly to the kitchen backdoor.

            “Baby. I want you to come over so bad. The thought of you turns me on.”

            Stepping out into the cool fall air, Ben went a little weak in his hairy knees. Senna Lassiter was in her mid-twenties, hot as hell with a voice just a little rougher and deeper than her age. Billings was completely pervious to her from an audio/visual perspective.

And…

She was from some of the dustiest oldest money in Texas, finishing up her law degree at SMU just a few miles down the road. In a few turns around the sun Senna would have a CV hefty enough to justify decent placement in her father’s corporation without too many cries of nepotism from the bougie rank and file. Serving a year as a corporate functionary would just about do “the trick.” She’d meet a smart man from their business or one with a similarly good track record on the New York Stock Exchange. The smart man would be attractive and dutiful and always wear the correct tie with the correct suit. “One who walks the path.” The smart man would work out in the mornings and have tepid sex with her once a month after the first year of marriage. She’d convince him of her own orgasms until the need for pretense faded away altogether. As the kids arrived she’d of course jettison the job, spending their formative years giving strict instructions to various Norwegian caregivers. The smart man would most likely give her a boy and girl, with stupid names like Bristol or Bree or Birch if stupidity didn’t lose out to stodgy family antiquity, something along the lines of Sedely or Langely or Ashby.

This was the pre-determined story of her life, plotted in the time before time. In every society since the dawn of history, Senna said, there had been pretty girls of means. The head caveman’s daughter. The princesses of yesteryear. The debutante. The celebrity influencer. Whatever epoch one referenced, she was there. A vibrant woman drained of life force by the overlord with a big boring club. The second girl from the right at Genghis Khan’s social events. And so forth.

She recited this sad story line for line each time they’d met. Benjamin (she used his full name) found her soliloquies a tad tedious and self-indulgent, but there was something noble in the fact that the girl was smart enough to know the life-traps and courageous enough to try and avoid them. Of course, more than anything, she was hot. A standout amongst the upper crust of Dallas, a locale notorious for people with conveniently loose respect for the Bible but strict deference to appearances. Ben met Senna at a little concert in a pretentious bar with an oppressively low ceiling in Greenville, a section of town for rich kids in their twenties and forty-five-year-old sad sacks with long graying beards and vintage t-shirts of bands that were never cool and never ever would be.

            “Sweetheart, you know, I think I’m going to be a little tied up today. Really close to finishing the modifications to my boat. You know how transoms can be.”

            “My big strong adventurer. Does that mean the funding for the charity came in?”

            “Adventurer,” he answered, applying just enough self-deprecation to sound charming to the landlocked law student. “The funding. Still trying to tie that last bit down.”

            “You think it’d be easier. I wish you’d let me pitch in.” A moment’s silence. “I’m sorry, I know I promised not to offer.”

            “No, it’s sweet,” he said, plopping down in a squishy deck chair, already tired of the ruse. A story about sailing solo around the world to raise cash and awareness for some disease or another. But this was the tale to tell for the time being. He was Benjamin the chivalric sailor until changes could be made or the reasons for the story ran out. “People just don’t care about Leishmaniasis like they used to.”

            “I thought it was Crohn’s,” said young Senna.

            “Of course it’s Crohn’s,” he responded, eyes wide, palm tapping his head. “That was a test. You passed. Suuuuch a great listener.”

            “So are—”

            “Hey, they’re telling me I’ve got to go. Something about a gaff or a bilge. Talk later, babe. And Senna,” he said with a hint of seriousness. “Be ready for anything. Things are in motion.”

            Ben ended the call during a goodbye that would’ve tried his calm and deleted it from the phone’s history. No need, probably. Just a reflex.

            “This damn thing sticks.” Tabby’s voice was muffled as she tried to push the backdoor open.

            “Give it a good shoulder!”

            She finally plunged out onto the patio of their smallish backyard. It was tidy, cared for by a reliable guy named Julio and his son Julio. The edges were trimmed with scientific precision and the grass grew evenly, but there was a lack of flair to the landscaping. If any of the useless bleached housewives in the neighborhood were to visit, they’d whisper acidic words like blight and stain to their disillusioned husbands when they got home, drinking iced tea and staring at flowers planted in their yards by a highly-respected horticulture studies doctoral candidate named Trish because Trish was the best. Ben and Tabby didn’t care much. They never had guests and Julio and Julio did a great job by any reasonable person’s estimation. “Can’t you fix that?” Tabby asked, bending her thumb back at the obdurate door.

            He fired off a glare menacing enough not to be taken seriously. “Looking better already,” he said. She really did. Although the metamorphosis was appreciated and, in this case, altogether necessary, it was almost disappointing given his ever-present desire to take her down a peg.

Tabitha Johns was made of singular stuff. Most beautiful women her age would’ve surrendered themselves over to two or three marriages or three or four plastic surgeries. Not her. She still had her dreams and wanted to enter into them unshorn. For a few more years, at least.

            “Thank you, Ben.”

            “Got all the puke out? How about down below? You make sure to go potty too?”

            “Yeah. And now I don’t have to purge on purpose.” Tabby smiled and pulled out the oversized sunglasses from her purse. She crossed her strong feminine legs and let one foot playfully dangle.

            Ben turned up his head to the sky, attempting to take her for granted by addressing her without looking. “Every time I think you’ve finally crapped out for good, you shine back up like a new penny.”

            “As always, too kind,” she added, throwing out a theatrical hand his way. “I’m sure I’ve told you. Sooo kind.”

            “Really. You’re like an easy to clean ashtray.”

            “That last one I’ll let go because I’m in a good mood.”

            “Generous. Brunch?” Ben asked.

            “No. I mean yes. But no. What I was saying earlier. The good news. I think we found the big one.”

            “That guy from last night? You’ve been seeing him for weeks. Weirdo. And he’s got a few million liquid at best.”

            “Not him. Someone he’s working with. Or for. Something like that.”

            “You got a name yet?”

            “Dina Santorelli.”

            Ben took a sip of coffee, trying not to react. “The Dina Santorelli?”

            “Yes, Benji. The one you’re thinking of.”

            “She’s like in the top fifty richest people in the world.”

            “Number thirty, as of this month. And getting richer all the time.”

            “It’s too dangerous, TJ. Even if this mope you’ve been stringing along has the premium information, the profile is huge. We’d be targets the rest of our lives.”

            Tabitha looked at Ben as he sank into his lumpy seat. He was tapping the cell phone through the fabric of his shorts. “You talk to the college girl today?”

            “No. Maybe.”

            “You old sailor you.”

            “At least my play is realistic.”

            Tabby leaned forward and began speaking with her fists clenched up by her chin. “Yes, it could be dangerous. But our walkaway money isn’t going to come from some Lupus scam.”

            He sighed. “Leishmaniasis. Or Crohn’s. That’s… it doesn’t matter.”

            “God. Listening to you right there made me sad. Think about it. You write up the playbook. We put on an epic performance. We’ll be in the Mediterranean in a few months, living the real life. In real life.”

            She was putting on a good show, and her nothing ventured nothing gained point had merit. Still. “Pulling a job on someone like this—we could die. You know how I feel about dying.”

            “What are we doing here?” she said, looking around at the dormant grass and the untended bushes.

            “Dying slowly.”

            “See? Your wit is coming back already.”

            Ben Billings was no stranger to moments like this. Someone coming at him with the full-court press, explaining how things were going to be better from now on. Dreams. Glory. All you can eat bullshit.

            “What are you thinking?” she asked, watching him puzzle through.

            “I’m thinking about step one. What is it?”

            “The golf club.”

            “Brunch?” he asked.

            “No. The golf… just put on some pants. We’ll talk in the car.”

            “Did you use Listerine? Because that was some serious yacking. Probably the least ladylike thing I’ve ever had to endure.”

            “Get those legs moving, simian. We’ve got work to do.”

Chapter 2: Make Like Kang

            The ride to Evan Henk’s house was brief. Tabby Johns had a heavy foot, and they basically lived in the same neighborhood. Highland Park. One of richest zip codes in the country. Planting a flag in affluent habitats was usually a sound methodology for making inroads to even bigger money; months ago, Ben had found an older woman who spent most of her time living overseas, offering to take care of the house they were currently staying in. It needed a lot of work and it was surprisingly cramped, though the location alone lent the property a value around four million. And they lived on the outskirts.

            Evan Henk’s place was palatial and immaculate, smack in the middle of the community, next door to asshole investment bankers and dodgy corporate lawyers at the top of their dirty games. “I don’t like this street,” Ben said, buttoning his sport coat as he stepped out of the car. “If Hitler wanted to live somewhere near downtown Dallas, he’d pick this exact spot.” Billings scanned the perfectly trimmed hedges and unnaturally perfect dispersion of colorful flora, fighting a nasty taste in his mouth.

            “Are we having a Hitler day? I think you skipped Mao day. Did I forget Pol Pot week? I’m such a dummy. Women. We’re the dumbest ever.”

“Okay,” he said, trying to focus on the role. “I get it.”

“No, I think it’s great how you regularly include despots in our repartee.” She rolled down the passenger side window and looked around her partner. “Seems dictatorial and inclusive at the same time. I just love it.”

            “Mock away.”

            “You’re either jealous or just an ass,” Tabitha said, checking her makeup before opening the door. “Oh yeah. Both. Sorry. Slipped my mind.”

            As they walked up the snakelike redbrick path, Ben shrugged in a particularly pouty way.

            “Don’t do the hurt child. That’s not how we go into this one.”

            “What? Some of the stuff you say, it can get pretty nasty. Times I even think you mean it.”

            “I do mean it. You’re a criminal and extremely judgmental. How does that even work?”

            “You’ve lost me.”

            “That’s for damn sure,” Tabitha said, ringing the doorbell while waving at the camera angled down at them with overactive shoulders and a warm smile.

            A buzzing sound went off and the heavy door opened slow and steady. No greeter to be seen. “Yeah,” Ben muttered, “that’s not creepy at all.”

            “Come on in,” said a squelched voice from an intercom underneath the camera. “I’m toward the back of the house. Just go by the den and the library and make a right at the sitting room. Oh, and a left at the parlor.”

            Tabby slipped her arm through Ben’s as they stepped inside. Everything was polished and shiny, from the ceramic floors to the chandeliers. The taste was eclectic. It was the house of a man who’d taken decorating advice from at least four girlfriends from different countries. The entrance had a bright flair. The remnants of hooking up with a Latina. The dining room was functional and minimalistic, most likely on the advice from someone tall named Ingrid. The artwork was impressionistic. There was a real Manet in a place it didn’t belong and a fake Monet displayed under decent light. Either a French chick or a chick that wished she was. There was strange, plucky music coming from somewhere. It sounded Chinese to Ben.

            These were a few of the things he pondered as they made their way through Evan Henk’s mansion. “A parlor, a library and a sitting room,” Ben whispered, still scanning every inch of the cross-cultural hodgepodge. “Guy thinks he’s in a BBC series but lacks the class to pull it off.”

            The music got louder as they neared the back. Tabby raised her perfect light-brown eyebrows at the massive heated pool in the backyard before coming to a fretful stop. “Wait a second. Is that the score?”

            “What score?”

            Before the words could dissolve, he knew what she was talking about. His carefully-tanned face went white as a sheet. “Oh my God. This isn’t going to work. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

            “We can’t just go. What about the club?”

            “He’s watching it. And the sound is like, on!”

            “Hey, you two!” said Evan Henk, bursting through a set of double doors in a brilliantly white karate gi. He bowed to Ben and gave a Tabitha a quick kiss on the cheek. His smile was full of commitment and as bright as the stupid outfit hanging from his short, stocky body.

            “Are you watching Dynasty of Danger in there?” Ben asked hesitantly, looking over Henk’s brown bald head toward the source of the sound. “In a karate outfit? That’s. Interesting.”

            “I’m not watching it,” Henk said, playfully stopping a punch short of Billings’ midsection. “I mean, I’ve seen it. Way in the way back of the day. Hahahmm.” His laugh was singularly strange. The first part was of it was fake. The second part sounded like he was moaning from some secret satisfaction. “The Kang and I were training in the media room and had it going in the background. Wow. What an astonishing piece of crap. Hahahmm.”

            Evan Henk was referring to the film that had served to sink the once burgeoning careers of Benjamin Billings and Tabitha Shaw. With the hottest writer and director in Hollywood, a massive budget, and two beautiful and talented leads on their way to the top, what could possibly go wrong?

            Turns out, pretty much everything you could think of.

            Riding the success of their previous projects, the vaunted writer/director duo spent most of preproduction, production, and postproduction drunk and high. The script for Dynasty of Danger included a treasure hunt in Manchuria, an incessantly helpful monkey, and a blind Buddhist guide with whiskers too long not to be bigoted. The studio’s blank check only worsened the stacking problems, adding fuel to a conflagration of epic proportions. The rough cut was racially and artistically offensive in every way possible. The final edits made it even worse. The distributor sent it straight to video and wrote off the loss, only releasing it in Canada. The few copies that got out mostly ended up in Alberta truck stop bins, purchased by the occasional drunk mistaking it for an adult film of one sort or another.

            After Dynasty, Ben and Tabby’s careers in showbiz well and truly dried up. Her agent ran for the hills. She lost her record deal within a year. Ben’s father, who was also his agent, died six months after the movie flopped, mostly from guilt over his son’s botched prospects. The song publishing deal he was signed to was bought out and three other scripts in development were shown the scrap heap like so many others.

            And so they stuck together, two dejected casualties of the Hollywood thresher. They found some solace on the stage. Off Broadway, in the way that Neptune is Off Earth. After a few tries at redemption and a few more crushed hopes, they chucked it when a new character entered their lives. Someone who taught them other ways of converting talent to money.

            “So, for inspiration or something?” Tabby asked, pointing at the screen. 

            Dynasty did have some fight scenes.

            “Inspiration, hahahmm?”

            “Oh,” she said, put off by the way Evan Henk could ask a question and do his stunted laugh thing at the same time. “I was wondering why you had the film playing.”

            “Not for inspiration, my dear. I only wanted to study up on my new partners during the workout. Two birds. Hahahmm. Two birds. That’s funny.”

            “New partners?” Ben asked, looking sternly at Tabitha.

            “She didn’t tell you much, did she?” asked Evan Henk, dabbing his right eye with the lapel of his gi while daintily poking Ben in the chest.

            “We really didn’t have much time, Evan. Mostly, Benjamin has been complaining about brunch.”

            “I’m starving,” Ben said, trying to forget about the poking.

            “We’ll be off to the club in a few shakes. First, let’s go back. I don’t want to sweat on this rug. It’s precious to me.”

            As they followed their squatty host into his media room, they saw their own youthful faces on the backside screen, bigger than life.

            Ben put on his sunglasses and closed his eyes. 

            Tabby looked down at the floor.

            In the middle of the room stood a stiff-faced Japanese man standing on a large training mat. “This is Kang,” said Henk.

            “Hello,” Kang grunted, bowing in an inhumanly fast manner. “You two. Movie. Interesting.” Ben almost opened his eyes out of sheer wonderment. Kang spoke perfect English. Breaking his thoughts into little staccato bursts was a bit. A transparent, strangely self-degrading bit. 

            “That’s enough, Kang. Training session’s over today. Pack it up.”

            Another bow and the sensei was moving like divine wind. His shit was packed and he was out the back door with the quietude of an expert in B&E.

            “He’s quick,” Tabby said, truly impressed, tamping down the urge to use the word ninja.  

            “Oh yeah, hahahmm. Quigley is a force of nature. He also has other skills.” Henk was standing in the spot just occupied by Kang, holding the remote up to his deeply dimpled chin.

            “Wait a minute,” Ben interjected, squinting as he pulled down his aviators. His posture was indicative of a man longing for death. “Kang’s first name is Quigley? And can you turn off the damn movie?”

            “Boy, Tabitha. He’s surlier than you let on. Handsome enough, still. But just a real firebrand.”

            “I think we’re done here.” Billings tapped Tabby on the arm and did a motion to make like Kang.

            “You’ve been done a long time, cowboy,” said Henk, hitting the pause button. The image of a monkey sitting on Billings’ shoulders as Ben rode an elephant was frozen in the background behind their host. “A long time.”

            “All right, Evan. Is this you trying to get me riled up? Not going to work, pal. I’m a professional.”

            Tabitha put a hand over her eyes. It was hard to hear a grown man talk about professionalism with a scene like that paused on the screen.

            “Tell me, Benjamin. Did you do many of the stunts for this film? Any stunts at all?”

            “What’s the difference?”

            “Just looked like you might have some training. Think you can take me?”

            “I don’t know much, Henk, but I know I don’t want to take you anywhere.”

            “Afraid there’s no choice, my boy. I want to fight the hero of Dynasty of Danger. It’s been a burning desire of mine since I saw it for thirty cents on hotel pay-per-view in the late 90s. Hahahmm.”

            “We’re gonna go, thinking. Have fun playing with yourself, Cobra Kai.”

            “Shame. The payment will have to come from our lovely Tabby. Maybe a toe. Perhaps a whole foot. What do you think, hun?”

            Billings sank into himself, fully apprehending the quick turn into seriousness. Tabitha must’ve tried some sort of short con on Henk and gotten caught. This was a penance call. The compulsory kind. That said, he couldn’t appear to acquiesce. He needed more information. A look at Tabby’s frightened face told him just about what he needed to know, but the boundaries needed another shove. This wasn’t their first tight spot. There was a process.

            “Sorry, Benji.” Tabitha was clutching her purse like it was a stuffed animal that could protect her from life’s evils. If he hadn’t been furious, Ben might’ve found it endearing.

            “You’re not talking to me. The time to talk would’ve been an hour ago.”

            “Enough,” said Evan Henk, snapping his fingers above his head. Two large men in loose suits and half-turtlenecks filled up the doorway to the media room. They looked exactly like men a guy like Henk would hire. Desperate and on enough steroids to pretty much roll with anything. Ben had seen them on shitty security details during his career; the types that always asked if there was any “stunt work” available.

            Eh.

            Ben stepped inches away from Henk’s bare feet and pointed at his eye, trying to explain without words that their host’s condition was rearing its head. “You want to fight, that’s fine. But afterward, we’re gone. Whatever Tabitha took, price of—”

            The next thing to come out of Billings’ mouth was a hideous moan. Evan Henk delivered a straight, stiff punch to his gut, causing him to double over. Ben found himself with an arm wrapped around his pitched-over neck. The pressure was unbearable.

            As he flailed his arms in a pathetic attempt to wrest himself free, the world began to fog over. He could hear Tabby faintly in the background, apologizing for getting him into this.

            “I—hate—you—Tabitha,” he managed, now on the precipice of Charon and the River Styx. He’d played Charon in a tonally schizophrenic musical comedy about the underworld of Greek mythology. His last two acts in life: expressing exasperated contempt for Tabby and thinking about another project that he never should’ve been involved in. Seemed just about right.

            “He’ll do it, Evan,” Tabby cried, beating on the two bodyguards with balled fists. “If you kill him, I won’t give it back. You hear me! If Ben dies, you can go ahead and kill me! What happens to your plan then!?”

            Henk kept Ben’s neck cinched in the crook of his arm and looked over at Tabitha. He wore the face of a man making a decision of ultimate unimportance. The kind of mug a person pulls while looking at a drive-thru menu.

            “Good good,” he chirped, releasing Ben and allowing him to collapse to the floor. The short man grabbed the remote and turned off the television before helping Billings to his feet. “You’ll get your breath. It may hurt to talk for a few days, but you’ll be fine.”

            “Thanks for the concern,” Ben whispered in the grating tone of a throat cancer patient.

            “I wanted you both to understand that I’m not to be trifled with. And that you are now firmly in my debt.”

            “Here,” Tabby said, pulling a simple gold necklace with a single small diamond from her purse. “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s probably not even worth that much.”

            Evan put an arm on Ben’s shoulder and gave it a few pats, as if that would help restore his breathing to normal. “She’s quite something, your Tabitha.”

            “She’s not mine.”

            “She says the same about you. Funny arrangement you two have. Very funny.”

            “Yeah. Frigging hilarious,” Ben offered, rubbing his neck while walking over to his partner. He didn’t like how close the two bodyguards were hovering over her. Billings took the necklace and tossed it at Henk. “There you go. Something sentimental?” Ben asked, nodding at the jewelry now dangling in its owner’s hand.

            “I told her this belonged to my departed mother,” Henk said, letting the piece swing in the fashion of a hypnotist. “And with no compunction, she took it. The fake she made wasn’t the caliber that could fool.”

            “He showed it to me at a party last week,” she shrugged. “What? He leaves it out. I made the copy and swapped them out yesterday. Apparently it didn’t go unnoticed. Sorry.”

            Ben spent a moment for a caustic look, but no more. “Tell us what we’re really doing here.”
            “It’s not enough to want recompense for my lost possessions?”

            “That necklace wasn’t your mother’s,” Tabby said. “The second you showed it to me, I knew that story was a lie.”

            “Is that so?”

            “It’s so. And I figured if you were a liar, I might as well take the stupid little thing for fun if nothing else.”

            “Wow. Hahahmm—amazing the way your mind works. Is there a hint a logic in your line, my dear?”

            “She thought you were a joke, seems like,” Ben said, wanting more than anything to scrape their way down to the bottom of the matter. “And I don’t blame her.”

            “I need smart people. That’s what I told Tabitha. Smart people don’t steal from each other on the verge of a job.”

            “Honor,” Ben whispered. “Thieves…”

            “Hahahmm. Let’s be off to the club. Once you two get it for me, they’ll be no hard feelings. We can go forward as partners.”

            The giant bodyguards made a little space for them to squeeze through as Ben asked, “Get what for him?”

            “The club.”

            “I don’t know what that means. That’s where we’re going.”

            “No, Benji. That silly old pitching wedge that sits in the middle of the trophy case. The one in the main hall. He wants us to steal it.”

            Ben made his objection loud. “It’s the middle of the frigging day. That thing is surrounded by rich bastards. It’s like Excalibur for the unimaginative.”

            Henk was following close behind as they weaved their way back to the foyer through the aesthetic dissonance. “That’s not my problem. You’ve got two hours to get me that wedge—if not, Karl and Ken will find a nice housing development to bury you under. They’re experts with a backhoe.”

            Tabitha came close to slipping as her heel caught in the grout between two Spanish tiles. Ben hooked her arm and the pair walked carefully to the car. “We’ll meet you there,” Billings said, stretching his throbbing neck and opening the door for Tabitha.

            “Tell them to seat you at my regular table. I just need to change.”

            “Really?” Ben croaked, waving with all the ostentation he could summon. “Not gonna roll up like Karate Kid?”

Chapter 3: Club

            “I hate hanging around these people,” Billings said. They were seated at a corner table. An overproduction of flowers was border-jumping their place settings. The room was large with a white ornamental ceiling, impractically and imposingly high. A chandelier fall would cause startling mutilation from such heights. It did something to the acoustics; seemed as though Ben and Tabitha were privy to pieces of every conversation in the room.

            “You hang around these people for a living,” Tabby said, taking in the menu.

            “Thus the hatred. Joint smells like inbreeding and over-perfumed matriarchs.”

            “But you love the brunch.”

            “And now that’s even ruined,” he said, angrier than he intended. Tabby shutting down was the signal of his transgression. “I’m sorry, Tabs.”

            “Then just accept that I was baiting him,” she whispered into his ear. “And it worked.”    

            Billings turned from the pictures he was examining on his cell phone, snapped surreptitiously while taking a few lazy laps in the trophy room. “This thing looks old as shit. I don’t know how you’re gonna find a copy. Should’ve stopped at an antique store or something.”

            “I’ve got my tools. And I’m sure we’ll make do. There’s bound to be a million wedges laying around this place. Just make sure you’ve got your end.”

            “Yeah,” Ben said, returning to the images. “And he was baiting you.”

            Tabby smacked the end of the linen covered table with her long fingers. It was the strongest form of protest she could apply in the stuffy environment without drawing onlookers. The argument had gone back and forth and no progress had been made. The theft of the necklace was simply a test, according to Tabitha. A way to discern the skill level and criminal aptitude of Evan Henk, once she’d sniffed him out as a thief. According to Ben, she had sniffed nothing and had simply got caught stealing by someone she never suspected of being anything other than a rich douche with criminal aspirations. Billings based this on Henk’s ability to spot Tabby’s fake necklace. She was no slouch at copies and forgeries—the little maniac was talented or had someone in his employ with a top-notch eye.

            “I don’t think I want you to join me in the Mediterranean,” she said. “I can’t be made to countenance your attitude any longer.”

            “Fine with me. While you’re living the good life, I’ll be happy to spend my time not getting choked out by hairy-armed bowling balls.”

            “Serves you right for not taking care of yourself.”

            “Says the aristocrat who spent half the morning yacking out her guts and the other half not giving me all the facts.”

            The truth was somewhere between them, but Tabitha knew they weren’t about to get their arms around it. She had been making a play with Evan Henk, but perhaps proper research hadn’t been done. She had moved too quickly to the mark. Amateurish work at best—at worst, something to earn a quick death. Tabby and Ben didn’t have many rules, but running games on each other was verboten. If they had a prime directive, she had skirted the edge. Perhaps stepped over. She blamed her lack of caution on a lack of practice more than anything else, but that wouldn’t sound any better to her partner. Simpler just to move on. Get done what needed doing. “Here he comes,” she said, peering over her menu at the figure of Evan Henk. He was taller now but not enough to matter, wearing shiny shoes with huge heels. Tabitha had a fleeting memory of the time she hung out with Tom Cruise. “Text me those pictures. Ten minutes.” She held out two fingers for Ben to see. He nodded and stood up from the table in unison with her.

            “Am I that revolting?” Henk asked, holding out his hands for a hug that wasn’t coming. Tabitha walked around him and out of the dining area, graceful but loaded with purpose.

            “Probably better she didn’t answer you,” Billings said, hand covering his mouth as he retook his chair. Henk followed, sitting directly across. “And she’s working.”

            “This is exciting, hahahmm.”

            Ben smacked his lips like he’d swallowed something unsavory. “A few quick things. Then I’m off.”

            “Go ahead.”

            “Who’s your inside guy here, and why do you want this thing so bad?”

            “To answer your question—”

            “You got thirty seconds to answer both questions,” Ben said, checking his watch. “No speeches.”

            “I golf a lot,” Henk said, leaving the playfulness out of his voice and demeanor. “Being a fan of the game, I asked two of the trustees if I could have a look at the club. They wouldn’t let me.”

            “Doesn’t seem like a big deal.”

            “Later that day I heard them laughing about the presumptuous little blackie as they chomped on their cigars. Seems they didn’t know I was in the next row of lockers.”

            “Okay,” Billings nodded, looking again at his watch and then up at Henk’s leaky eye. “Sorry that kind of shit still goes on.”

            “Well, redress should help balm my heart.”

            “You talk weird. Text me the number of your man. It’s going to get busy around here. He needs to be at the ready.”

                                                _____________________________

            Tabitha made the handoff to Ben five minutes later near the stairs leading to the trophy room. He watched as she made the long walk across the ornate carpet, swaying her hips just in case anybody’s attention hadn’t been captured. He leaned against the wall and smiled. She ordered a mimosa and sat down with the piano player on his bench. A whisper in his ear and he changed the tune to a mid-tempo version of “Blue Skies,” Ella Fitzgerald style. Heads turned when she hit the first note. The three or four conversations taking place in the trophy room came to a halt as everyone not near the bar area migrated. Billings rolled his eyes and smiled a wry smile—Tabby was damn good, but she could be a little showy. He made a note to criticize her for scatting too much during the first instrumental break while he glided to the metal door next to the trophy case. With the swipe of a keycard he was inside a long hallway as fluorescently white as a psychiatric ward. Access panels to the display went down the length of the corridor, but he’d counted the amount of panels from out front in order to know where to access the wedge. With his little lock-picking kit it was only a matter of seconds before the backside was open. He took a quick look at Tabitha’s fake and said a silent prayer, exchanging it by setting it gently in little felt holsters where the original had been.

            “Ben!”

            Billings almost had a heart attack as he turned toward the door. The blood rushed from his face and he almost dropped the antique.

            “How’s it going back here?”

            Closing the case, he walked toward the questioner. Senna Lassiter was standing by the door with a mischievous little look on her unspeakably gorgeous face.

            “Senna!” Ben whisper-screamed. “What’s up with the cameras?! And why are you standing there?!”

            “Mr. Billings,” she said, strutting forward as he put an oversized putter cover on the wedge, “you are way too tense. I thought this was your milieu.” The young law student removed the clip from her dirty blonde hair and let it fan out and dance over her slender shoulders. “Shouldn’t there be a coolness vibe going on here? Sort of a James Bond thing?”

            Ben checked his watch and held up his keycard. A gift from Senna the day before. “Thanks for this. Now, one more time. The cameras?”

            “They’ve been off for twenty minutes. Paul—the head of security—he faked some sort of computer thing that started to really get boring—I thought he was going to get fresh there for a second.”

            “Didn’t you promise him sex?” Ben asked, finishing up with the club by sticking it down the side of his pants. Senna moved closer and put both her hands on his chest. She smelled good enough to make him dizzy. Between her beauty and an oscillating blood sugar level brought on by the delayed brunch, his calm had all but left.

            “You obviously haven’t met Paul. He’s sweet and all, but it’s not like I’m going to do it. You on the other hand.”

            “I need you out of here. Henk could be watching. You can’t be seen. This is dangerous stuff.”

            “I know.”

            “You don’t know shit, Senna. This is a job. You talked your way into it. See it through.”

            “Don’t have to get nasty.”

            “I’m not your daddy. People get killed in this line. Now go quiet and keep your head down. We’ll meet up later.”

            She pushed him where her hands had been resting. “Your girlfriend’s putting on quite a show out there. She’s pretty I guess, if you like old.”

            “Yeah,” Ben said, pushing the club’s grip down into the outside of his shoe. His walk to the parking lot would be awkward and robotic. That’s what the cane was for. Tabitha had brought it along with the fake wedge. No one would question a guy walking funny with a cane, no matter how strange the gait.

            He put his ear up to the door. Tabitha was doing an Alicia Keys tune now. He imagined her out there, leaning on the piano man’s shoulder, enrapturing all the blue bloods with her warm voice and relaxed posture. She could make it look easy. A trait of all really good performers. Song or stage, just another kind of con—the lie was in hiding all the work.

            He sent a text to the number Henk had sent him: It’s time. Go ahead.

            Nothing to do but wait. He listened to little hints of the song as the seconds rolled by like hours, making sure the club was secure against his leg and in his shoe.

            Finally, the little lights near the corridor’s ceiling starting flashing. A voice came over the intercom instructing everyone that there was a fire in the kitchen and to exit the building as soon as possible.

            A text from Tabby: Outside.

            She was holding the sides of her jacket out as he slipped out the door. The people walking by didn’t notice a thing. He took her left hand with his right so she would be near his “bad leg” and started forward, using the cane on his unencumbered side. They were slower than most people, but the crowd being mostly older and mostly liquored, the pace of the group wasn’t exactly breakneck. “Everything okay?” he asked, leaning close as he adjusted to the metal trying to punch a hole through his pant leg.

            “So far so good,” she said, helping him down the stairs and through the foyer, out past the covered valet area. Turning back toward the building she asked, “Is that real smoke?”

            Tabby would receive an answer. Evan Henk’s two thugs were blocking their way, as they did when she tried leaving Henk’s media room. “We’ll take the item,” said the one named Karl. Of the pair, he had less gray hair and a slightly thicker neck. He held out his fat hand and made a motion with his sausage fingers to give the wedge over.

            “We were just on the way to meet him,” Tabby said, trying to inch away from the burning building. “And you guys didn’t have to actually light the joint on fire. An alarm would’ve sufficed. We really liked to brunch there.”

            “The club.”

            “Fine,” Ben said, reaching into his pants. Karl and Ken got red-faced and jumpy, reaching down by their waists. “Easy. You want the damn thing, here you go.” Ben handed the wedge to Ken. He ripped off the leather cover and examined it. “Hey, chief. How about you hold up our stolen merchandise to the sun. Just in case the exterior cameras don’t get a clear shot of your conspicuously square head.”

            “It really is quite square,” Tabitha added.

            Karl gave his partner an elbow and the two were off into the crowd, no doubt pleased with their contribution to the caper.

            “I’m going to get the car.”

            “Thanks, Johnsy. I’d come along but you know.”

            “Don’t utter another word,” she said, moving toward the parking lot. “I’m willing to wait a few ticks for a cripple.”

            “Your goodness knows no bounds,” he said, fairly unsure it went unheard. Old rich people were bustling and distraught, now that it seemed their precious meeting place was turning to ash. Billings put his head down, limping after his partner.

            A beep came from the car. He saw Tabitha’s hand shoot out from the window, waving him on. He got in with the slow deliberation of a man in chronic pain. “Where’d you get this?” he asked, gripping his tight leather seat.

            “I think his name was Ted. He left the keys next to his bag on the driving range.”

            “Poor Ted.”

            “I complimented his swing.”

            “My apologies then. Lucky Ted.”

            She fired up the sporty Mercedes coupe and checked the rearview camera. The lot was clearing out, minus a few men in sweaters and women with runny makeup. “Come here,” she said, pulling Ben by the back of the head. The kiss was hard and wet, including a lot of unnecessary head movement. The timing caught Ben off. It had a hint of that awkward demonstrability mastered back in the days of black and white. Tabby always got excited after a score. “I hope that wasn’t premature,” she said, releasing him with a sultry breath. “You got it?” Her eyes moved down as the question escaped her messy lips.

            Billings patted the cane. None of the trust-funders had noticed its unusual shape and size. Who looks at a cane? About as many people who want to deal with a guy who limps. That’s why it was the perfect hiding place for the real wedge. During the handoff, Tabitha had given him two fakes. One for the display case, and one for Henk and his henchmen.

            “Much fun as this is.”

             “I know,” she said, dropping the transmission into reverse. “We celebrate when living’s a sure bet.”

            “I don’t always say the same catch phrases,” Billings mumbled, once more patting the cane.

            “Simmer down, stud. But seriously. You do need to write some new lines.”

Chapter 4: Talents and Problems

            Only ten minutes later, the hype of the job had flaked off. Their fifteen-minute ride to an eastside body shop had Ben feeling less than ecstatic. He leaned against the passenger door, talking furtively into the phone wedged between his face and right shoulder. “Davy, he’s not backing out. Don’t tell me the guy’s backing out.”

            Tabitha checked her rearview and switched lanes like she was on the circuit. “Are you hoping I can’t hear you?” she asked, purposely too loud for the little cabin of the luxury coupe. “Because I can hear you. Really well. Hello, Davy,” she announced, tilting her head toward Ben. “What’s the problem? You two morons figuring out another way to screw things up?”

            Ben put a hand over the phone and whispered, “Don’t be a jerk.”

            “Because I didn’t think that was possible,” she continued, louder now. “After all these years, it didn’t seem like a feasible scenario—supposed professionals finding new creative methods to sabotage a deal. Uncanny. Completely take back that kiss, by the way.”

            “She kissed you, bro dog?” Davy asked Ben, confirming that the old hand over the phone thing lacked its intended efficacy.

            “Don’t worry about it,” Ben mumbled, going full fetal in the bucket seat.

            After a strange period of quiet from Davy: “Anyway, hustle sauce. The buyer’s totally backing out. I put in calls to my competition, none of them want anything to do with it. I’m offering mad commish and these jabrones still won’t play. I’ll keep plowing fields. Maybe get the extract on what’s the h is going on.”

            “Okay. I’ll call you back after we hunker down a bit. We’re on the way to Lars. There in—” Billings cut himself off, looking over at Tabitha. She held out three fingers from the hand-stitched steering wheel cover. “Three minutes, Davy. Call you after.”

            Tabitha made another lane adjustment and kept silent. A time-tested way of soliciting information from Ben during a bout of emasculation and failure. “There goes our market,” he muttered.

            “We needed that,” she said, calmly exiting I-30 to turn south.

            “Yeah, but a preset buyer’s a luxury.”

            “A luxury that we needed. So not really a luxury. Definitions, Benji.”

            “There’s got to be someone we can unload the thing on. Davy must be off his meds. He was acting strangely normal.”

            “I’m going to talk,” Tabby said, adopting an ironically lighthearted tone. “We just stole a three-million-dollar golf club, contested over by Ben Hogan and Byron Nelson, known to reside in the same exact place for over half a century.”

            “Look,” Ben started.

            “And the only way the club is worth three million is if there’s an asshole out there willing to pay for it and keep it to himself, just so he can.” Tabby was almost laughing now. “So, after a month of setting up this score, we have a club that neither of us give a shit about, worth nothing—excuse me—worth years of our lives if we’re caught.” Her grip was tight on the wheel. As she slowed and willfully shifted into a lower gear, Ben thought of ways to avoid her mounting ire.

            Tabitha glided off the road into what looked like an abandoned car repair shop.

            Ben gathered himself what little he could and said, “We’ll figure something out.”

            “Heard it before,” she said, slowly pulling into one of the carports as a tall corrugated metal door rolled up. A short man with olive skin and a slight build dressed in greasy gray overalls waved them on, smiling warmly underneath a thick mustache.

            Ben rolled down his window and waved back. “Hey there, Lars.”

            “Hello my friends,” he answered, almost bouncing as he spoke. “This car. It’s very nice. The Germans make beautiful things. Almost as good as Italians.”

            As they exited the vehicle, the door came back down. The garage was as spacious as it was grimy. There were no other cars inside. Wooden tables were everywhere, cluttered with little pieces of metal and wiring. “Lars,” Tabitha said, making a face one makes when looking at a new puppy. “My beautiful Roman man. How are things here?” They embraced with a kiss on each cheek and a cautious hug to avoid getting grease on Tabitha’s finery.

            “You look most lovely in silk. And I—I am good. Many projects. Every single table in here is another project of great doing. My hands are happy. Exciting things.”

            Ben watched the exchange of pleasantries from the hood of the car, arms crossed. He didn’t mind the familiarity his partner displayed with their old friend, but he wasn’t in a good mood. “Are you trying to imitate a Mario Brother?” he asked, loud enough to be unmistakably rude. “The mustache?”

            “Why with the tone and the attitude and the comments and the face?” Lars asked, managing to maintain a lighthearted aspect.

            Ben caught a chiding expression from Tabby and hung his head. “I’m sorry, my friend. That wasn’t cool.” He walked toward Lars, arms opened. “The tone and attitude and the whatever else I was doing, nothing but apologies.” Tabitha backed away and allowed the men to shake hands. “Not good enough,” he said, pulling the smaller man in for a hearty embrace. “Never mind the grease,” he said, rubbing his cheek on Lars’ oily hair while throwing a sarcastic gaze at Tabitha. He was showing off for her, ostentatious about his affection for their friend. Demonstrations aside, though, he loved the guy. It was hard not to.

            Lars Ramona had been an unwavering companion over the years. Born poor as dirt in a corner of Italy they don’t put in postcards, he somehow managed to find his way to Hollywood around the time Ben and Tabitha were making their initial foray into the fetid fold. Before he could speak a word of English, he was working for major studios, designing props for movies and any sort of gadget a stunt might require. If a snot-nosed director needed an effect or some other brand of “movie magic,” he’d explain it to someone who knew Italian and that guy would explain it to Lars. After all that song and dance, Lars would design something better than the snot-nose could’ve ever conceived. After all that song and dance, the director would be hailed as a visionary by some snot-nosed critic or snot-nose geriatric with a trophy. Ramona didn’t care about trophies, except maybe for the World Cup. He was getting paid well enough to live in Hollywood; the place that churned out everything he’d ever seen with subtitles back in Italy. He found his love for films after resurrecting a decaying and discarded TV using only a few rusty tools. When it first came back to life, a dubbed version of Die Hard was playing. The young man’s life was decided right there, using his skills to call down a magical signal into an abandoned box, watching men shooting at each other while finding the time to remain pithy and charismatic. His calling had been forged with no less drama than anything his town of destiny could produce.

            Things were good for a long time. A few years after Tabby and Ben had been cast away, he was still at the top of his game. He had a pool and a place in the Hills. Two steady girlfriends and an actress on the side that did everything they could to make his life miserable.

            Living the dream.

            That all came to a close rather suddenly. If Billings and Johns went out with a metaphorical whimper, Lars Ramona exited with a literal bang. A visionary snot-nosed director (who will remain nameless) demanded the biggest explosion in film history for his final action sequence, set in downtown Cleveland. Lars refused to do it, sighting engineering, physics, safety, and the fact that Cleveland already looked something akin to a war zone.

            He was fired immediately. Blacklisted. Dalton Trumbo without the politics. No matter how good Lars was, the snot-nose was a partner in one of the biggest production companies in the business. For anyone else in showbiz, dealing with Ramona would mean guilt by association.

            For a time Lars was sad. The girlfriends, both Germans, left for better prospects. They took his cars, which were both Italian. Months went by, and he found himself surrounded by stacks of bills and crumpled packs of cigarettes.

            Ben Billings was the only one to visit the bereft little immigrant. The discarded actor walked around Ramona’s house, shaking his head slowly at the dust and the piled up takeout and generally pathetic state of things. Eventually he stood over Lars. The little genius was in a stained silk robe and some sort of underwear too small for any American man to consider wearing.

            “Mr. Ben?” he asked, trying to see through weeks of drinking and drugs.

            For a minute or two Billings didn’t say anything. He took a few slow steps back from the couch, trying to act unaffected by Lars’ body odor. A minute or two was all that could be afforded. The smell was too offensive, and Ben wasn’t that great of an actor.

            “Yeah, buddy. Ben Billings.”

            “It was said you died.”

            “Not quite. Well. Manner of speaking.”

            “Non capicsco. Cosa vuoi dire con questo?”

            “That’s beautiful,” Billings said, walking over to a sliding glass door to let some air in. “Anyway, I’ve been through this stage. It doesn’t get any better. You’re either going to kill yourself, or you’re going to find another way to make it down the line.”

            “It’s incorrect. What they’ve done to me. I come from nothing. Now back to nothing.”

            “That’s a proverb, my friend.” Billings tried not to breathe as he placed a card with his number in one of Lars’ delicate, clammy hands. “Call me. We’ll make some money.” Ben pulled down the lapels of his sport jacket and straightened out his sleeves. “I’ve been on that couch, Ramona. It’s no good, letting talent go to waste. I don’t think the universe likes it.”

            Before Lars could answer, Billings was out the door. He sat there for a few more days, doing the last of the drugs, drinking the last of the booze. After all that, he figured he’d try to explore that thing Ben said about the l’universo.

            One phone call. They’d been working together on and off ever since.

            “So you tell me now,” Ramona said. “This face. Maybe the job didn’t go as all was planned?” He pulled a small wand-like object from a waist pocket and starting waving it up and down Ben’s body. Nodding with satisfaction, he moved over to Tabby and gave her a similar treatment. “The purse,” he said. She handed it over without a word. It was wider than his waist and half his height. He waved the wand over every surface, finally proclaiming a satisfied, “Yes!”

            Tabitha took back her bag and pulled out a device similar to the one he’d just used from her back pocket. “I already checked.”

            “Yes I know,” he said. “But these are delicate devices of my own mind. No one else makes them.”

            “Well, they worked perfectly. We knew exactly when Henk planted the bug. Your little gadget here started buzzing in my pants. It was thrilling.” Tabby gave Lars a few mock elbows. Ramona blushed. Billings frowned, walking back over to the hood of the Mercedes. 

            “So this is when you begin the acting and the pretending.”

            “This morning,” Tabby said. “I’m assuming he had one of his lackeys drop it in my purse last night, after I took the necklace.”

            “The thing did fine, Lars,” added Billings, rather abruptly. “What is all this stuff?” he asked, scanning the separate messes around the shop, trying to differentiate one from the next. It was like being in modern art gallery, only Ben had a feeling that each pile of junk he was looking at actually had a purpose. “Many movies call me. The TV now, with the budgets bigger than before. I can’t say no.”

            “So they’re outsourcing their effects?” Tabby asked.

            “Let me guess,” Ben went on, “they get to slap their name on your work.”

            “I think the money is what is the important thing,” Lars said. He looked hurt. Almost scared. Billings had been his friend. His savior, even. Now it seemed the con artist was determined to be angry. “Why is the face?” Ramona whispered to Tabby, turning away from Billings and his brooding.

            “The job went well,” Ben said. “Everyone did a great job, but Davy and I are running into some problems on the buyer side.”

            “Did you use Mr. Arab?” asked Lars. He bent down and held out his hands, like he’d been carrying around a heavy platter and was now serving it up to some magistrate.

            “Tried,” said, Billings.

            “Mr. German?”

            “No go.”

            “Mr. Argentina then you should call.”

            “Before you run the atlas, just assume we’ve already thought of it. If there’s a stone, Davy knows to turn it.”

            Ben could see that another fence’s name was on his lips and was grateful when the talented tinkerer stopped short. Moving pilfered goods was not in Ramona’s wheelhouse. That would require knowing names and putting them with faces, skills hard to sharpen with a soldering gun in a workshop eighteen hours a day. For instance, Mr. Arab was a man named Alessandro. He was from Puerto Rico. Mr. German was actually a Swede. Mr. Argentina was a heavyset woman from Tunisia.

            “Maybe we go back,” Ben said. The words were hardly audible. His mouth was over his hand. Tabby didn’t register what he said. She took a few steps to ensure she could hear him over the generator in the basement and the fluorescent lights swinging from cheap metal chains.

            “What was that?” she asked.

            “We go back to Henk. Try to make a deal.”

            “Now you’ve officially lost it.”

            “I don’t know what else to do. We’re running low on funds. I’m sick of staring at middle age with nothing to show for it. I’m sick of the nothingness and the nowhere of everything. I see the void, Tabs. I see it wrapping me up like a dreadful cocoon. It’s not good when the vacuum starts to make sense.”

            Tabitha was ready to fire back, but she tempered her keenness to shout Ben down. His face was turning from tan to a hot red. It looked particularly odd in the unevenly lit garage. “Lars, be a love and hand me my purse.”

            She held an arm out until the effects specialist placed the bag’s handle around it. She started digging. Ben’s color wasn’t returning to normal. He wasn’t speaking. The sound of jewelry and keys and makeup clattering together didn’t help, but the bottle of pills she finally mined would. “Here you go,” she said, handing Billings two 0.5 Klonopin tablets. He threw them down without hesitation or discussion. He placed one hand on Tabby’s shoulder and another on the hood of the Mercedes. Lars ran up with a bottle of water. She thanked their dutiful friend and helped Ben take a few short sips.

            It wasn’t often, but Billings was prone to these little breaks. Whenever he started talking about nothingness or an abyss or anonymity, she knew to have the pills on standby.

            “Thanks,” he managed, rolling around the hood of the car, looking ridiculous and not caring, trying to catch his breath.

            “You know, this is the thought I had.”

            “What, love?” Tabby said, averting her eyes from Ben to listen to their diminutive companion.

            “The best might be to call Mr. Philadelphia. He’s very good at the buying and selling.”

            Tabitha smiled sadly. Ben continued to struggle for normalcy under his skin, swearing at Lars between tiny, strangled breaths. 

Chapter 5: The Place You’re In

            Evan Henk ended another attempted call to Tabitha, all the while understanding the pointlessness. He smacked his lips and tried in vain to ignore his dripping eye. He’d been played all the way through. They were in the wind—an expression he hated for several reasons. Pretend cops were always using it in TV shows and movies after someone got away and it was time for a snippet of music and a scene change. He didn’t notice the trend at first, but when they’re in the wind drifted down to the unwatchable network shows, he couldn’t help but wince at its hearing. Also, and more importantly, it perfectly described his knowledge of the two failed entertainers’ whereabouts. He was trying to think of a more suitable phrase, but in the wind was just about perfect. Far as he knew, they could be anywhere. The trackers and bugs had all been ditched following the heist at the club. Their cell phones and SIM cards were obviously destroyed. He had a guy trying to find the slippery pair, but he held out no hope.

            As a hustler and thief, being fooled by other criminals left an especially raw wound. He’d overcome so much; to get fleeced was a slight that was embarrassing.

            Wholly embarrassing. Unequivocally embarrassing.  

            Ben Billings and Tabitha Johns were outside his sphere of his influence; the famous Hogan-Nelson wedge was out of his hands. The fake, however, was gripped firmly in his left. The stocky businessman-criminal looked at the worthless club and then at a newly opened pack of cigarettes calling out to him on side table to his right. No, he thought, but it didn’t do much to hold back his urge. Soon he was lighting up, taking a drag that generated equal portions of self-loathing and relief.

            If one was to stumble on the scene having no prior knowledge of the players, it might stupefy. Henk, five and a half feet tall on a good day, was exercising mental and physical control over two men of enormous weight and stature, muscles and aggressiveness amplified by myriad powders and injections ranging from the latest synthetics to Chinese cat urine.

            Karl and Ken sat on little stools like eye doctors during an examination. They were in the absolute center of the basement, surrounded on all sides by concrete walls. The floor was also concrete, though it was treated and smooth. Karl leaned over and glanced at his feet, growing tense as he noticed the drain near the wheels of his little stool.

            “You just took the club?” Henk asked, smoking with one hand and running his thumbnail inside the grooves of the wedge.

            Ken straightened his giant back. “I did, sir.”

            “After examining it? Even after all the study we did on the actual piece? Study is preparation. Preparation is done so things like this don’t happen.”

            “It was chaotic,” Ken said. “People everywhere rushing to their cars. Billings mentioned the cameras pointing outside from the country club. We didn’t want anything leading back to you.”

            “You didn’t think back to the plan! The cameras were turned off, you simple fool! This whole thing was foolproof.”

            Obviously not. He stood up with marked deliberation and looked over his large-bodied minions. “What do you have to say?” he asked Karl.

            “I thought it seemed off.”

            “Oh you did?”

            “But Ken had the club, and I try to respect my elders.”

            “Your elders? My God.”

            “We can get it back,” Karl pleaded. “I know some buyers in the area they might’ve gone to.”

            “Is that right?”

            Henk’s swelling rage wouldn’t allow another response. Using every sinew and all the frustration and hate coursing through his veins, he buried the blade of the club into the top of Karl’s head. The giant’s eyes went shifty as his blonde scalp turned red. One of his arms was twitching violently, slapping the stunned Ken in the leg over and over.

            “Help me with this,” barked the boss, summoning his remaining employee to action. He’d done too good a job; the club was proving troublesome to free from Karl’s skull.

            Ken wasn’t much good. He was leaning away, crying what he could logically assume were his final tears.

            Henk abandoned his attempts at extraction and leaned down to meet Ken’s watery eyes. He wiped a few flecks of blood from the bodyguard’s face and pressed a large portion of the giant man to his chest. “It’s all right, now,” he whispered. Karl’s body had stopped gyrating. The strange electrical convulsions immediately following death had run their course.

            “Please don’t kill me,” Ken wailed.

            Henk pressed him tighter. “I’d never hurt you.”

            As soon as he finished this statement of reassurance, Karl’s body toppled over backwards onto the floor with a disturbing thud.

            After a lingering kiss to his bodyguard’s forehead, the boss stood up and surveyed the scene. “Loyalty,” he said, announcing the word as if it were the beginning of a speech he was making to a room full of onlookers. “Our journey is fraught by vicissitudes that can’t be seen or accounted for—unpredictable landmines and turns of chance. Finding things to rely on in this perilous struggle—it’s the key to life. One of them, anyway.”        

            Evan Henk was calm now. In his mind, the proper sentence had been passed. Karl wasn’t anything but a symbol of unreliability; a landmine diffused.

            His seemingly sociopathic reaction didn’t come out of nothing. Despite wealth, reputation, and the big house that served as his current seat of power, Mr. Henk’s “journey” was one in which he’d seen an unyielding series of betrayals. His father was a scoundrel, more than once telling him to clean his room when he wasn’t in the mood. The torture was only just beginning. Raised by a Christian mother, young Evan was forced into caring for the poor twice a month at a local soup kitchen. The sights and smells suffered in the service of the broken and meek became stains on his memory. He once was forced into hugging a man with one arm who hadn’t shaved or bathed in over a week. As one might guess, his parents’ fire and brimstone approach to childcare made for a palpably unpleasant home life. Beset on all sides by the obdurate middle class lifestyle of idyllic Fayetteville, Arkansas, Mr. and Mrs. Henk managed a perverse form of mental gymnastics, asking Evan more than once why he was so unhappy. It would’ve been an insult to mention the horrific private school education he was forced to endure. Bravely, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

            The drudgery of his early years was broken up only by the friendship with a boy named Terrell Smoke. Terrell didn’t seem to mind Henk’s perpetual scowl. They became what some might call friends. In truth, however, the relationship was one-sided. Young Evan would engage Smoke as protector while stealing from the other children. An insurance policy, if he was ever to get caught. Smoke was beaten bloody and removed from the school after Evan convinced him that the larger boys were attacking him for being black and different. Terrell wouldn’t truck with such bewildering injustice, and thus was plunged into a fight where he was permanently scarred and almost lost his life. Through the entirety of this bloody encounter, Henk was down the hall, purloining what he hadn’t already taken from the older boys. He never saw his friend again, and only thought of him when wondering who he could conscript into his next scheme.

             Terrell Smoke would be his first and last friend. The noble child protector was sentenced to a life of eating through a straw, surrounded by overweight and underpaid health care providers in a long-term care facility wedged between a Denny’s and a Cracker Barrell in Little Rock.

            Evan was again alone. It felt right and good. The first time he read “No Man is an Island,” he couldn’t stop laughing at the unmitigated stupidity of its writer. John Donne was some sort of weirdo, obviously…

            Henk used his isolation to study others from a remove. His only interactions were those he used to help bolster whatever manipulation he was currently working on. He blackmailed teachers and principals. Young Henk used girls and boys for lascivious and financial ends. They obviously deserved whatever they got. Like his parents, they didn’t even try to understand him. He wanted so fervently to be loved and for that love to be reciprocated. He couldn’t understand why his luck had never panned out. 

            “Ken. Pull the club from Karl’s head. Come, now. Get it together. Go upstairs, tell Kang to get down here. Oh. Make sure he brings his swords.”

            Despite feeling something akin to seasickness, the giant leapt off the stool and ran up the basement stairs with an escapee’s fervency.

            Henk rolled his eyes. Looked at his hands. They were bloody, but not bloody enough. He had fresh betrayers to dispatch.

            It seemed time for another cigarette. He felt a slight sense of peace. If he couldn’t before, he could certainly rely on Ken. As for Kang, there was no more loyal servant. He sat back and breathed in a fresh helping of smoke to mask the rising scent of new death. Maybe they don’t love me, but blind allegiance is a start. Is that so much different than love?

            Seeing that his phone was buzzing, he put out the cigarette and tried to clear his throat. He needed water. Smoking, reminiscing and murder was thirsty work. “This is Henk.”

            “Evan, my boy.”

            “Hi.”

            “Do we have a bad connection, or are you being intentionally terse?”

            “I’m sorry. How are you, ma’am?”

            “I’m quite well. Calling to say they’ll be coming back with the club. I think the best thing, and this is your decision of course, the best thing might be to pay them a fair price and let bygones be.”

            “I’m not sure.”

            “You sound a little off. You haven’t done anything, have you?”

            “What does that mean?”

            “We all get loose once in a while. Nobody sees all the angles all the time. Hubris to think otherwise.”

            “Everything’s fine.”

            “Tabitha Johns and Ben Billings were trained by the best. They’ve beaten the best.”

            “Yes, I know.” The admission was poison in his throat.

            “Well, let’s not stand over smoking remnants of wounded pride. I think a meeting is in order.”

            “How do you know they haven’t unloaded the club?” Henk asked.

            “Because I made sure every decent fence in the world won’t do business with them. He’s got a good boy for that, but a little light on experience. A lot of favors accrued over the years.”

            “Good. Set it up.”

            “The prize is Dina Santorelli, Evan. Don’t let hurt feelings get in the way of that.”

            “You’re right.”

            “Good. Just don’t go lashing out. That temper of yours.”

            “Set it up.” Henk said, ending the call.

            Telling me what to do. How to behave. I’m in control.

            Kang stopped abruptly behind him after descending the stairs. A tight, constipated little bow. “Sir.”

            “Did you bring swords?”

            “Two swords.”

            “Good. We need to make Karl smaller.”

            “Smaller.”

            “The last body barely fit in the incinerator.”

            “Bigger incinerator.”

            “Thank you, Kang. But for now, smaller Karl.”

Chapter 6: Extended Stay

            Ben and Tabby weren’t interacting with their usual rapidity and spirit. The listlessness hovering between them was the result of their ultimate failure to fence the antique, followed by an attempt to make up for the tension with a roll in an extended-stay hotel. It had been a long time since they’d yielded to each other’s bodies; the fact that the dam burst as a type of emotional Band-Aid made their rapport stranger. Billings sat on the end of the bed, naked, sweaty and cold. Like the ones found in most hotels, the noisy little climate control unit had two modes: frozen tundra and off.

            “I’m sorry,” Ben said. He was staring at a nonsensical picture on the wall, trying to make sense of a square in the midst of a few other oblong shapes set against a pale brown canvas. “If it was weird—I’m sorry.”

            Tabitha was sitting up against the headboard, covering her breasts with the rough sheets. She wanted Ben to feel sorry about the stalled job, but not for the sex. Weird as the before and after tended to be, he always managed to give her more pleasure than anyone else. It all went back to talents. She possessed an ability to shut out the world when making love, and Ben was a tender lover. She watched as he stared at the mass-produced piece of modern art crap on the wall and knew where his mind was. She stopped short of saying you don’t need to be sorry. He was wandering mentally and still completely aware of the present; one of his talents. She’d let him wander a bit more.

            Johns tried to turn off the little lamp next to the bed but the switch was ineffectual. The room remained bathed in a ridiculous amount of light, shooting across from multiple sources. It reminded her of an independent film set—some experimental director with holes in his pants and ideas of being Orson Wells and avant-garde. The type that never took the time to realize art was work more than vision. “Place like this, you think they’d want to keep people in the dark.” Tabby was referring to the bad bedding and fraying carpet but considering herself as well. She remembered the days (not so long ago) when covering up didn’t enter into her thinking—now though, no matter how many heads she turned, it wasn’t as many as before. Her body was starting to sag. Inevitability didn’t make it any less depressing. Tabby equated decline with failure, no matter the rate. Stop with the thinking. Try getting laid again.

            “You’re more beautiful than ever,” Billings offered, unmoved except for a few shivers, still staring at the picture. “More beautiful than ever.” He was whispering facts, almost like he had no choice. For Tabby, it made the words matter more.

            How does he do that? He’s not even looking. Damn his sensitivity.

            He turned his head but not enough to look at her. “My mother had a painting just like this.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            “It had a poetic name. Some Upper East Side moneychanger bought it for a hundred grand. Probably worth a couple million now.”

            “Must’ve been pretty good.” Tabitha knew what not to say. She’d continue with insipid retorts until the ground shook loose.

            “That’s the thing. It looked just like this one. I never could tell the difference. It was all crap. Lines and circles. Random variations of color. And yet—the Great Rhonda Billings was the toast. The must-have at any benefit or party.”

            If they were going to get back to work or anything else, Tabby would have to pick up the ball. Ben was in a cage with his mother’s success as a modern artist and his own failure as an (actual artist). This was a dangerous space, considering most if not all art employed some level of fakery, and their current line of work required lying about pretty much everything.

            The ironies were sort of piling up.

            Billings shook his head and slid back down the bed, wanting to stare at her in the afterglow; a picture far lovelier. It seemed cavalier to let the moment slip. He chided himself for his historical wanderings. There was no good life. Only good moments. Currently, he was being wasteful.

            She ran her hand along the top of his head. He had the haircut of a younger man, close-cropped on the sides and back with plenty of length above. She thought it was a little too hipster, saved only by his effortlessly handsome features. 

            “You recharged?” Tabitha asked, nodding down his body. “Maybe another round?”

            “Maybe,” he said, trying to bite down on a smile. Their lips met and they became tangled up in each other’s bodies. Billings said something about the sheets sucking ass between kisses. Tabitha laughed quietly and they carried on until three sharp knocks on the door railroaded the process.

            “No thanks,” Ben said. “We’ve got plenty of everything.” He was on top, covering Tabby’s mouth gently with his hand while she playfully smacked him on the chest and neck.

            “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. Things are in motion, beautiful children. Plus, I can imagine how desperate you are for a reunion.”

            Billings and Johns looked at each other underneath the bright lights and mouthed shit in unison.

Chapter 7: All Heart

            They weren’t given time to put on any clothes. In seconds they were sitting on a coarse little sofa on the far side of the room. Tabby was wrapped up in a messy heap of bargain sheets. Ben was using an absurdly small decorative pillow to cover up what he could. “Can we at least make this a bit dignified?” he asked, looking up and holding out his hands. As he did so, the stiff little cushion slipped down from his lap. He made no effort at recovery. An extremely stupid and inglorious attempt at defiance. 

            “I think that would take more time than I have.” She didn’t look down. Or maybe she did. It was hard to tell behind the sunglasses. They were Gucci, as was her dress. It was an elegant and understated green, almost shiny but not quite, almost ridiculous but not quite, with large amounts of material in the shoulders. It fell elegantly just above her knees. Ben looked at her heels and necklace. The whole ensemble would’ve been comically opulent on anyone else, but not her. Not even in an economy hotel room. That was one of her creepy gifts. Never out of place but always noticeable. Distinguished and dignified. The sort of dignity that Billings and Johns were miles from.

            “It’s nice to know there’s consistency in the world,” she said, taking stock of the humble surroundings.

            Tabby bore a straight posture and a stolid expression. “What are you doing here, Remi?” she asked.

            Her question went unanswered. “My children, still leaning on each other for—moral support. It gives me heart.”

            “Heart,” Ben said, grabbing awkwardly for his fallen pillow. “That must be a novel sensation.”

            “My poor Benjamin. Never the performer you fancied yourself. Blood flushing those lovely cheeks red. The lessons didn’t quite take.”

            “How many lackeys do you have out there?” he asked, trying in vain not to betray the defeat running roughshod through his insides.

            “Just the one.”

            “Talk about consistency. How long have you had that little psycho watching your back? She must be losing a step.”

            “Not at all. Fact is, Lizzie is better than ever. But I’ll make sure she hears of your concern.”

            “Great. That gives me heart.”

            Clapping her hands with Victorian gentility, she sat down on the bed and crossed her smooth, freshly-tanned legs, adopting a teatime posture. “There’s that pedestrian wit. I won’t lie. I’ve missed it. Now—what have you figured out? And TJ my sweet—there’s no need to keep acting.”

            Billings dropped his head and placed his hands on the pillow, a signal to let his partner take center stage.

            “It must be a grand plan,” Tabitha said. “You obviously froze out all our fences and buyers. Engineering it so we’d have to go back to Henk. Allowing it go this far, so all the players are beholden to you. I wouldn’t call it wizardry, Remi.”

            “Whatever the end game, we’re not playing.” Tabitha adjusted her sheets and held her head up with a tightened jaw, refusing to look directly at the surprise guest.

            “I understand your feelings. Even so, there’s so many reasons to play.”

            “Is this where you start rattling them off?” Ben seethed. He wanted to jump up and use his power to smother the woman to death with his little pillow. It would be a wonderful turn, watching as all that dignity was stripped away. He could think of no better instrument than a dingy cushion used to cover his sweaty balls. Pure fantasy, of course. Violence wasn’t in his repertoire—besides, Remi’s little angel of death wouldn’t stand idle. Lizzie Halsey was the sort that took pleasure in bloody unpleasantness. The epilogue would be horrifying. 

            “I could list the particulars,” she said, still the perfect picture of refined equanimity. “But what’s that writer’s rule? You know the one—show, don’t tell.”

            She pulled out a silver handgun and a cellphone from the tight suede handbag still slung around her neck. Ben and Tabitha stiffened as the door to the room opened.

            “Dammit,” Billings said, rising from the sofa. Senna was standing weak-kneed on the other side of the bed, face stained with mascara. Lizzie Halsey was behind her, holding a Ka-Bar combat knife to the girl’s delicate throat.

            “This one cries a lot, Ms. Dryer,” Halsey said.

            “What the hell, Ben?” Senna whimpered. She said something else but it didn’t register through the shaking and tears.

            Billings was frozen, standing there naked. Completely helpless.

            “She’s got nothing to do with this. You need to let her go. That’s an innocent kid, Remi. Way out of bounds.”

            “Ms. Lassiter is more than that. Always underestimating women,” said Dryer. “Something else I tried teaching out of you. I mean, take a look around. Nothing but women.”

            “Take that knife off her,” he said, pure pleading. “For God’s sake.”

            Remi Dryer stood up from the bed, tapping the silver pistol against her leg, addressing Billings but fixing on Tabitha. “You slept with her how many times, Benjamin?”

            For the first time, Tabitha met her gaze. “Let her go, Remi. Let her go and we’ll do whatever it is you want. I imagine it’s Dina Santorelli you’re after. You obviously want us for the job or you wouldn’t go through this show.”

            “Of course,” Dryer said, snapping her fingers. Lizzie pushed the law student to the floor. “Did you really think I’d resort to murder?” She adopted the tone of a chastising schoolmarm. “I hate that our reunion had to play out like this. Given what the two of you did to me—well, let’s just move past it for now. Remember what I always said. Dwelling doesn’t do.” She looked down and saw Ben’s pants crumpled by the foot of the bed. “You can put these on, now. We have work. Plans to make. I hope this was a wakeup call.”

            “What’s next?” Tabby asked, slowly moving to comfort the hysterical young woman curled up against the wall. “Santorelli, no doubt.”

            “Call Mr. Henk. He’ll compensate you for the pinched piece. Fair price. I worked it all out for you. Think of it as an olive branch.”

            Ben snapped his pants straight before pulling them on. “Yeah, Remi. You’re all heart.”

Chapter 8: Soldier

            There were several locales in Dallas-Fort Worth for legitimate fight training. Al’s House was not on that list. It was a licensed business where people worked out, true enough, but the membership wasn’t comprised of the UFC’s elite or burgeoning boxers. The fighters that of Al’s made their money in underground clubs and impromptu gatherings; venues where stingy overweening rules and regulations of the cage and ring didn’t apply. Al’s went by a few other names. The House. The Roadhouse. It served as a last stop for those who enjoyed having their noses broke like most people enjoy a foot rub.

            A haven for the type that had either given up any semblance of normality or were never born with it at all.

            “I’ve heard bad things about this place,” Ben said, pulling into the gravel parking lot. The Audi was the only car. It was surrounded by thirty or so giant pickup trucks and the odd SUV.

            Davy Lucas was sitting next to him in the passenger seat, drinking sloppy from a bottle of cheap vodka. “Oh yeah,” he said, wiping his thick lips dry with the back of his free hand. “This scene goes for lunatics. You have to be all spectrum to even go in there.” He opened the door with his foot, smacking it into the truck parked beside the Audi.

            “Come on,” Billings admonished his companion, looking around for any witnesses like a malfunctioning periscope.

            “Nothing. Not a scratch. No worries, stud brother.”

            “No worries. That’s ironic,” Ben answered, stuffing his hands into an old denim jacket. It was the most threadbare thing he owned—he didn’t want to be walking into Al’s looking like anything but another anonymous loser.

            “What’s ironic, big sauce?” Lucas asked, turning the bottle up and finishing it with three protracted gulps.

            “You telling me not to worry. Davy, you got on a plane the second you heard Dryer was cutting off your contacts. I don’t know how coming here’s going to help, anyway.”

            “Trust, bubba. Gotta roll with peeps you trust. Cards gonna fall all the which ways.”

            “I guess I’ll take that for a compliment. Though—and don’t take this the wrong way—most of the time I have no idea what you’re saying. There’s something medically wrong with your brain.”

            “Yeah. Well. It’s my network. The world is my network. Lots taking in and putting out.”

            Billings was stiff. Blank-faced. “That right there. Frigging glyphs.”

            Standing in front of Al’s graffiti-littered door, Ben rolled his eyes at Davy. “Just be quiet and point out when you see him. It’s been years.”

            “It’ll play cool, B-dog.”

            “You should’ve worn something else,” Billings said as they stepped through Al’s threshold.

            “My brain, now the duds. Beefing my vestments?”

            “You’re wearing a leather motorcycle jacket worth more than most people make in a month. Anybody that rides motorcycles knows that’s not a jacket worn by motorcycle people.”

            “How?” Davy asked, randomly tugging at one of the jacket’s superfluous zippers.

            “It’s my job to know things other people are going to know.”

            “Now you’re the deficient.”

            Billings smiled, thinking he actually understood Davy. The expression was ill-timed. A scarred man in his 50s big enough to fill two telephone booths was staring down at them from behind the front counter. He too was wearing a leather jacket. The real kind.  The white light of a cloudy late morning layered everything, flattening out the tones of Al’s Roadhouse.

            “What are you smiling at, asshole?”

            “Nothing at all,” answered Ben, standing at attention. “We’re looking for Fowler Dane. Is he here, by chance?”

            The sound of gloves pounding bags provided a tense soundtrack for the interaction. The scarred man seemed to grow taller as the seconds ticked. Billings could feel the fear coming off little Davy. “We don’t let just anybody in the gym. Not without a membership.”

            “Sure,” Billings said, pulling out his wallet. He needed to get proceedings moving. “Can I do a monthly thing, or is it more of a commitment? Either way, no problem.”

            Without speaking, the giant snatched Ben’s bank card and ran it through a little white scanner plugged into his phone. It was incongruous, watching an extra from Easy Rider utilizing dainty, modern technology. “Get gloved,” he growled, pointing at a sign just above his hairy head that read First Day You Fight.

            “Let me just talk to Al. Is he around? This is a little unnecessary, don’t you think?”

            These were the last words Billings was able to speak. The large man told him that he was Al and that there no exceptions to the ridiculous arbitrary rule about fighting. As Ben was pushed and yanked toward the largest ring in the gym, he tried to understand what was happening. Do they think I’m a narc? Is this the equivalent of having to do drugs to prove to the other drug people that you’re cool? Do these meatheads understand that working out is not a crime? I don’t think they do. I think I’m going to die. This better work.       

            He looked up while punches and kicks directed him through a feral crowd and under the bottom ropes of the ring. A metal walkway made a square above, serving as a gallery. Billings thought of Beyond Thunderdome, then realized that he’d never actually seen the whole movie. He’d probably lied about seeing it at one point or another, because he was a liar. He was a stupid person who was about to die. A pretty boy with mommy issues who was about to be beaten by a monster as a battalion of savages watched on, glee amplified by human growth hormone and old-fashioned steroids.

            He turned to see his opponent and took a measure of heart. It was a short skinny man with fledgling facial hair. Then shirtless man with a disturbing scar across his forehead ripped off Ben’s jacket and threw it on the turnbuckle before starting on the con man’s hands. “I don’t need gloves,” Billings whimpered.

            “You need to fight. So you need gloves.”

            “I just came to find someone. Fowler Dane around?”

            “Yeah,” the stranger said, negotiating Ben’s fingers through the little finger holes of the MMA gloves. “Wait. What time is it?”

            “Around ten.”

            “Well, he’s either sleeping one off, or he’s here. It’s not like we do roll call. It’s come and go as you please.”

            “Ah,” Billings said, on the verge of tears as he scanned the room, feeling assaulted by the dirty smells and dirty men. “It’s a regular free-spirit’s paradise. In and out as you like, forced combat—”

            “It’s just the first day. An initiation. Al likes it.”

            The ring was being buffeted on all sides as the fighters snapped and snarled like a pack of starving junkyard dogs. A single tear leaked down Ben’s face. “Al’s a sadist. Tell me about this guy I’m fighting. He looks young.”

            “He is,” said the stranger, slapping a final piece of tape across Billings’ wrist before exiting the ring.

            “Thanks for the advice.”

            No bell rang, but apparently the fight was underway. The wiry little man came bouncing toward Ben, angling one way and then another with his shoulders hunched up. Billings stayed flatfooted, circling the outskirts of the ring while the animals snatched at his ankles in an attempt to spur him on. “Listen,” he whispered, moving gingerly toward his opponent. “This isn’t my deal. Just make it look good, but nothing permanent.”

            The young fighter smiled and turned his hips, snapping a kick against the meat of Ben’s thigh. The pain wasn’t instantaneous, but once it registered, Billings was overcome. He threw up on the young man’s bare feet and starting writhing on the bloodstained canvas. “I’ve been shot. Oh God! It’s broken. Broken! Noooo!”

            It was a sad scene. The junkyard dogs had their cellphones out, recording the display. None of them had ever witnessed a grown man react so poorly to pain. The cries and pleas only grew more intense as the agony spread through every fiber of his body. “What the hell did you do? Why? What’s the point?”

            “If you’d been this dramatic back in the day, you might’ve made it.”

            “Who’s there?” Ben asked, holding one arm up.

            “Open your eyes. Increases your chances of making a positive ID.”

            Ben’s eyes were cloudy and wet, but they began to clear. Still clinging to his leg, he managed “Fowler” before resuming with his whinging.

            “C’mon up now, Hollywood. Let’s go outside.”

            Billings continued to sputter and gasp as he was lifted to his good leg. He felt the leather of Davy’s ridiculous jacket on his right side and Fowler Dane’s bulging back muscles to his left. “Hold on a sec,” said Dane, clapping his hands, transferring most of Ben’s weight to the struggling Davy. “If I find anyone sends that video out, I’ll be meeting them in the ring. You got me!?”

            The dogs seemed to whimper and fade off into the mist. Even in a place like Al’s, no one was going to argue with Fowler Dane. The man was a warrior in every sense. After sailing through three tours in the Iraq and Afghanistan, he came home a vaunted hero of the Special Forces. When his missions became declassified in the subsequent years, it became common knowledge that he was the owner of 197 confirmed kills, most in close-quarter situations. Dane wasn’t a great long range shot and therefore couldn’t rack up numbers from a distance. If asked, he’d sigh and say he did what he had to do, just like any soldier.

            Once outside, the former Army man threw Billings over his shoulder and carried him to the bed of his GMC pickup truck. It was one of the only ones in the parking lot without some sort tire or lift embellishment.

            “Oh my God,” Ben said, clenching his eyes closed. “It’s broken. That fucker split my femur. What did I pay him for? I need the hospital. Son of a bitch.”

            Davy hopped up on the pickup’s tailgate and yanked back on his flask. “This probably would take some of that wackness away, bro jam.”

            Billings grabbed it and muscled down the remaining contents, doing his best not to throw up again. “This is what happens hiring outsiders. Cracked bones.”

            “Didn’t crack anything. Just a lot of nerves in that part of the leg. It hurts like hell for most people.”

            “That’s great. Where is the little bastard? And why didn’t you step in earlier? The whole thing was unnecessary.”

            “Could of. Didn’t feel like it. Don’t play dumb.”

            “You’re still mad about that? I didn’t know she was yours. How long with that girl? She was crazy. I did you a favor. End of story. You said you were over it.”

            “I was. I am. But when you reached out. Old wounds. You obviously anticipated it, hiring the kid.”

            Davy nodded his head and listened intently with his feet dangling free, in awe of Dane’s presence. “So you guys are rocking some stories. That’s what’s the deal.”

            “What?” Fowler scowled.

            “This is Davy Lucas. He’s good people.”

            “He’s weird.”

            “Well, judge away I guess. Are you sure it’s not broken?” Billings hoisted himself up. He wasn’t playing up the pain. It really was intense.

            “I’m sure. I could put my hands on it and check.”

            “No don’t!”

            “Yeah. Didn’t think so. It’s not broken, because I’ve seen a guy break one. More accurate, I’ve broken a few legs. Your color’s coming back. There’s didn’t.”

            “Dude,” said Davy, nodding his head. “I knew hopping back to hang with you bros was the schooled move.”

             “Shut up for a second, Davy,” Ben winced, seeing the wiry youngster walking their way with a satisfied bounce in his step.

            “You got my money?”

            “Whacked my guy a tad hard, huh kid?” Fowler towered over the younger fighter. The bounce was dead and buried.

            “Sorry, Mr. Dane. He said not to hurt his face. Maybe I got amped up. You know how many guys I had to fight off to get a crack at him. The whole place wanted a piece.”

            “That makes sense,” said the veteran.

            “Makes sense?” Billings followed.

            “Go ahead and pay him. He did okay.”

            Ben started to protest, but a look at Fowler stalled him out. He dug into his pocket and thrust a healthy roll of hundreds into the hands of the fighter.

            “I’ll be going,” he said, nodding politely at Dane. “Hit me up if you need anything else.”

            “Oh yeah,” Billings said, making a feeble attempt at putting weight on the injury. “Frigging speed dial.”

            “Can we go eat?” asked Dane, pulling out his keys. “There’s good barbeque, place just east of the Trinity River. I’m starving.”

            “Sure,” Ben said. He’d be there until forever if he was looking for sympathy. “Lead the way.”

            As they followed Fowler’s truck west toward the heart of Fort Worth, Davy asked if he could “resume riffing.”

            “I’m not your boss. Go ahead.”

            “That play was straight about getting your grace numbers back with big dude, wasn’t it?”

            “Yep. Hoped it wouldn’t come to getting my ass handed to me, but the possibility loomed. I need him.”

            “We, homie. We. That should be your drift. I’m on ship.”

            “Got it. On ship.”

            “Soldiering hard is the way to roll?” Lucas asked, examining his pockets for any extra mini bottles of alcohol he’d purchased on the plane.

            “Hopefully not, but Dane is a guy you want on your side. I don’t work violent. You know that.”

            “That’s real soldiering. Why BB is known as the man.”

            “Let BB finish, Davy. This might go there before it’s all wrapped. Fowler’s adaptable and smart. If he suits up on our team, that’s an asset hard to match.”

            “And if down payment is pride and pain, you go there. That and getting him off the board, in case the other grandmasters go shopping for rooks and knights.”

            Billings nodded quietly as he exited I-30. Davy was an eccentric alcoholic, but after all the bullshit, the twenty-four-year old possessed sneaky levels of clever. He’d won a national chess championship at thirteen. Game theory was certainly his specialty, but he was just at the beginning. He’d hardly begun to discover all the profitable ways he could misuse his youth and talent.

            It was good for Ben. Him being there.

            “BB, just roll with me for a second.”

            “Rolling.” Billings rubbed his leg. Maybe it wasn’t broken.

            “Who’s the soldier? Like, for the reals?”

            “You know about Fowler. Everyone has.”

            “About Fowler. But the true shiz stuff. Shiz you flow with.”

            “Shiz is shit, correct?”

            “I’m trying to speak more professional. Less swears.”

            The idea of Davy trying to speak professional was deeply odd, but Ben let it go for the time. “He was a military hero. Sneak attack, covert stuff. People I’ve talked to said he was the go-to for planning the shiz that needed an extra layer of slick.”

            “Yeah, I’m hip street on that. But slick and body piles don’t add up.”

            “Huh. Never thought of that.” He honestly hadn’t. “But what the hell do we know about war? Low impact might mean bad guys stacked to the ceiling.”

            “Word. But how’d you guys get the connect?”

            “He was a military consultant for a couple years. Everybody wanted him. Made a name for himself teaching actors how to look like soldiers until the next jump cut.”

            “Sounds pimp town.”

            “It was pimp town, Davy. But then an A-list asshole said the wrong thing on a set. One of those method nutcases. He put the guy in the hospital. Beat him with a prop gun. Got sued. Wife left. Usual proceedings.”

            “Duder.”

            “Yeah. Though, always thought the prop gun thing was pretty funny. I knew the big shot he whacked when the guy was a nobody. Total jerkoff when he was poor, so I’m sure fame and fortune didn’t make him a reformed humanitarian.”

            “Straight up. So...”

            “What?”

            “The soldier dog. You slipped it to his old lady?”

            “Essentially. It’s a little more complicated than that. Don’t talk about it around him. Or anyone else. Do me a favor and never bring it up for the rest of your days, actually.”

            “Bro,” Davy said. He was motionless in his seat for the first time. The quest for the missing bottle had been abandoned.

            “What?”

            “Getting criminal ain’t the staircase to the cloudy gates, but it’s pretty mom and pop next to showbiz.”

            The kid was touching it with a needle, but Ben didn’t feel like doling credit. As they pulled into yet another rocky parking lot full of pickups, Billings said, “You’ll love this place. They’ve got giant beers in those mugs that’ll give you frostbite.”

            “And righteous tequila?”

            “Tequila for days, young man.”

            “BB. You go straight baller.”

Chapter 9: Dina and Ego

            “The goal is simple. To get the most out of life and to transfer my success to as many other people as possible. Winning isn’t something to be maligned, but it shouldn’t be the end all. It’s the lives you can change. The connections that you make. They’re more important than a mountain of gold. Value can be measured however one chooses, but I believe that the value of a man or woman is measured best by how they help and lift up those around them.”

            Tabitha was at the kitchen table watching a promotional video for TrajanCorp on her laptop. She sighed as floating rock music served as the audio outro. Picture after picture of the petite Dina Santorelli doing something noble and taxing in perfect makeup. In one, she appeared to be digging a trench in Africa, surrounded by jubilant, starving children. In another, she was reading to a group of kids somewhere in Southeast Asia. They were also jubilant and starving. The final image featured a hundred or so jubilant and starving children expending their few remaining calories to hold up a cumbersome TrajanCorp banner in the midst of what looked like a bombed-out village in the middle east.

            She heard Ben coming down the stairs and closed the computer. The sun wasn’t up yet and he was already on his feet. It gave her comfort to know he was as anxious as her.

            “You hanging in?” he yawned, blinking his way toward the coffee pot.

            “I’m not so sure the ego play is our best move.”

            “But it was your idea,” Ben whispered, almost pouring coffee on his hand. “And it was a good idea.”

            “Stop talking so soft.” Tabby hated having to whisper in her own house. Especially for the sake of Senna Lassiter. The girl had been staying with them for the last few days, ever since her abduction by Remi Dryer. There was no better way to keep an eye on her, but it didn’t make the situation any more comfortable. Ben appeared undisturbed by the current housing situation, but Tabby could only guess what that meant.

            As he sat down opposite her, she tapped on the computer. “The more and more I look into Santorelli, the less sure I get about any kind of read. What do we know about someone like this?”

            “We know what we’ve heard.”

            “Which is shockingly little.” 

            We know what we’ve researched.”

            Tabby pointed at the computer. “Which is blatantly contrived.”

            “And we’ve got what Henk has told us.”

            “Which we can’t trust.”

            “So we do the ego play. Snip away some variables.”

            She dropped her head. “Yeah.” They’d already had this conversation at least four times.

            “It’s just a start. Most important, room to breathe.”

            “I know.”

            “All the things we’ve picked up along the way, the ego play is still the most solid entry move.”

            Billings knew Tabby didn’t want to hear him drone on, so he kept shut and watched her thinking, remembering the first time they’d met. The night the producers informed them that they were going to the be the leads in Hollywood’s biggest new adventure franchise. The pair floated from one seedy bar to another, hour after hour, buying lonely drunken regulars free rounds as they talked broadly about how wonderful life was, unable to go into the specifics due to disclosure clauses in their contracts. At the last stop, Ben looked into her dancing eyes and asked what had really sold the big shots on her being the one for the part.

            “It wasn’t my talent.”

            “I’m sure that’s not true.”

            “Do you want me to answer the question?”

            “Sorry.” Ben leaned away and smiled. This was the greatest night of his life. She was the greatest woman he’d ever met. Dreams did come true. Everyone that told him it was all bullshit was all bullshit. He’d be happy and let her talk. God. What a girl. He was drunk but holding on and she was the reason. He hiccupped and silently convinced himself not to ask for her hand in marriage right there. He could wait a week or two. “Go ahead.”

            “I was running through a scene, and I stopped.” Tabby held up a shot of whisky and stared at it so she wouldn’t fall victim to Ben’s beautifully simple good looks and voracious appetite for life, then continued. “I stopped because the script was terrible. The dialogue didn’t match what was happening in the scene.”

            “Oh no.”

            “Exactly. That should’ve been it. Not like these people have time to let some nobody stumble through a reading.”

            “What happened?”

            “I’ll tell you,” she said, closing one eye and taking down the whisky. “I started crying.”

            “Was there crying in the scene?”

            “Not at all. It was the part where I save a street urchin and his ferret from a river of lava.”

            “Oh yeah. That part is a little weird.”

            “Exactly. So I start crying, because I know I’ve blown it. Another chance gone, and another day older. Swear to God it felt like there was a ticking clock was in my head.”

            “But you got it.”

            “Yeah. The director is sitting there behind the table with the writer, and they ask me what’s going on. I say that I’m crying because the scene brought it out of me, and because the piece is so well done.”

            “No.”

            “Best acting I ever did.”

            “No.”

            “Oh yeah. They start whispering, then tell me to read a few more scenes. Two hours later, touchdown.”

            “That’s crazy. Actual acting.”

            “You see, Benjamin Billings,” she continued, wobbling with one eye closed, “I appealed to their vanity. Those two assholes have money and respect, but their egos are just as delicate as ours. When we get rejected, at least we expect it. For a minute I showed them what idiots they were, and then I took away the nightmare.”

            “But it wasn’t planned.”

            “No. Still. Worked.”

            They floated on through the perfect night a little longer, at once a torture and a mercy before the floating stopped and their careers in entertainment evaporated.

            “I didn’t know anything back then,” Tabby said, tapping on the computer. Ben seemed to be lost and she had a good idea where.

            “You’ve never given yourself enough credit, TJ.”

            “Just being honest. You realize we were younger back then the jailbait upstairs?”

            “OK.”

            She took a breath. “Sorry. I mean. Maybe I’m sorry.”

            “I already know what you’re going to say, but I’ll say it anyway. The ego play got you that gig.”

            “The one that ultimately ruined the prospect of me living the life I put everything into having?”

            “And,” he coughed, “I walked into that obvious rejoinder because the logic is still sound. Extenuating circumstances, far as back then goes. We couldn’t see the end of that shitty road. Like you said, we were kids.” 

            Tabitha leaned back in her chair and tried to limit herself to the moment. “What about your ego? Is it even there anymore?”

            He didn’t answer.

            “Back against the wall, living in an old woman’s house, fawning law student upstairs, criminal allies and enemies. Middle years, if you make it a ways.”

            Ben took a final sip before rising to his feet. “Better get going. Thanks for putting on the coffee.”

            She’d apologize later. The shots to his self-esteem were unnecessary, whatever truth they held. And of course, he could say basically the same thing right back to her.

            But he didn’t. Despite everything, he was trying to save their asses. Ego? I don’t even know what I was going for.

            Of course, Ben had an ego. His made him get up from the kitchen table. Hers was making her cringe, thinking about the apology later. Dina Santorelli had one, and they’d put it under a microscope tonight.

Chapter 10: Cinque Minuti

            “Mr. Ben. I’m at the place across of the street. We and all the others are all prepared for the plan and the rest of the things that you have made ready and in store for the evening.”

            Billings had a finger in one ear as he listened to Lars Ramona’s tenth status report of the hour. He nodded hello to a group of strangers in formal wear and moved through the sepia atmosphere, the bustling crowd, trying his best not to collide with any champagne glasses. Finding sanctuary behind a small bar, he did what he could not to express frustration. “Lars. Can this be the last time you check in? Like I said, I’ll tell you when it’s time.”

            “I’m sorry, Mr. Ben. The nerves get to me. Maybe a drink to calm me down.”

            “No. No drink. You have to be sharp, Lars.”

            “It’s dark down here. I get lonely and then I start losing the track of things. I’m sorry, Mr. Ben. I will watch the movie on my IPad until it is time.”

            “Just hang in there, pal. You’re a genius. Don’t forget it. Nobody better. I got to go.”

            Ben took a deep breath and rubbed his eyebrows, trying to calm his nerves. The tall kid behind the bar with the hipster beard gave him a strange look before a foursome of polished big shots came over and drew him back to his job serving high end spirits.

            “Everything all right?” Tabby asked. She slipped her arm through his and looked down at her purse. It was small and ridiculously overpriced, like her low-cut dress. “You need a pill?”

            “I probably need the bottle. Three days to throw something like this together. It’s not enough.”

            “It’ll be enough. Was that Lars again?”

            “We need to give him something more complicated next time. He can’t handle basic. Gets fidgety.”

            “He’s always been like that. Remember Montreal?”

            “Electroshock couldn’t make me forget.”

            “But he came through. And look on the bright side. You don’t even have to speak French.”

            “My French is good.”

            “Of course it is.”

            “You’re a real peach.”

            “Well, I don’t lie about everything. For instance, believe me when I say you look rather good tonight. It’s been a stretch since you’ve donned a tux.”

            Ben rubbed a lapel with one of his sweaty hands. “I shouldn’t have gone with the white. I feel like Bogart and any minute the Nazis are going to shut us down.”

            “So dramatic.”

            “That’s,” he started, shaking his head before lowering it. “That’s true.”

            “How do I look?”

            “Better than Bergman.”

            “Now who’s the liar.”

            Billings gave her a wink. She really did look like a classic. The off-white dress stopped just above her knees and was tight enough to go with every curve. “Okay,” he said with another wink. “Play me a song, Sam.”

            Tabby returned the gesture and raised a glass of champagne, whistling “As Time Goes By” as she cut a path through the crowd toward the stage. Men stopped their conversations and women mumbled jealous under their breaths while a spotlight followed her up the steps to a vintage mic set in front of a shiny eight-piece band. The overhead lights illuminating the large ballroom dropped as she turned and gave the musicians a mid-tempo four count. The song was something modern, arranged to sound like a cut off a Sinatra album. She gave the drummer a wink as his sticks danced on the Hi hat. The symbols sizzled together while the rest of the instruments met up. The opening lyrics were a well-controlled explosion. Anyone that hadn’t been looking now was. Everyone except Ben. He was headed to the back stairs and the office that overlooked the venue. As he locked the door behind, he nodded at Fowler Dane spoke into his lapels. “Lars. You read me?”
            “This basement is very dark. I think maybe also there is a small animal that ran across my foot. I’m not liking this, Mr. Ben.”

            “Five minutes. Starting now. Then you’re out of there.”

            “Cinque minuti.”

Chapter 11: Inside Man

            Across the street from Ben and Tabitha and upstairs from Lars, Evan Henk dabbed his leaky eye and shrugged his husky shoulders. The formal setting made him more on edge than normal. He preferred relaxed settings. Places like the golf club.

Having to burn it down was unfortunate, though he was still living off some of the satisfaction.

            It was all part of a maelstrom of feelings that he’d been forced to endure. Coming to terms with his defeat to Billings and Johns was bad enough, but then being forced to pay them for the Hogan-Nelson wedge, even at a discounted rate, felt like acid in his little paunch. Not to mention the murder and dismemberment of one of his employees. Body disposal was interesting but tedious work.

            And yet, here he was, sitting next to Dina Santorelli and some of the richest people on the planet. Evan Henk, the inside man. That’s what Remi Dryer called him. Inside Man. A rather pedestrian appellation, but he endured it, considering the source. Dryer was a legend. His work with her over the last few years had gained him healthy portions of wealth and knowledge. Reserves of conjurable charm and confidence the world had spent years convincing him didn’t exist.

            And yet, he was sweating. Only one job for the night, but it was the most important. Without it, they’d never even get off the ground.

            “Is something not to your liking?” Santorelli asked, poking him gently in the side. He was seated next to her at small circular table, one of five. A thick-haired man in his forties with a Mandarin accent named Mr. Yang was making an impromptu speech in the middle of the room, facing each small table in no particular order. He was ranging over a litany of topics, exchange rates and international corporate hegemony, paying homage to the fruitful partnership his firm had forged with Dina’s TrajanCorp, etc.

            “What’s that?” he asked, not realizing that perspiration was dripping from his spherical head onto the tablecloth.

            She smiled at the speaker and continued to pay attention while she tapped her own forehead and leaned a little in Henk’s direction to help him understand the nature of her inquiry.

            “I’m wonderful,” he answered, using a napkin to wipe away the sweat as nonchalantly as possible. “Perhaps it’s the formidable company you keep. Thank you again for including me in this.”

            Yang made his final remarks and the group of eighteen businessmen and politicians began to clap until the lights went off. Outside the opulent restaurant, they could hear a series of loud cracking sounds

            The sudden darkness and indecipherable noises were enough to yield responses from many in the group as their eyes adjusted to the meager candlelight spread across the dining room:

            What is going on?

            I knew we shouldn’t have come to Texas. Who does a big meeting in Texas?

            Calm down. I’m sure it’s just a power surge.

            Light some more candles.

            Your foot is touching my foot. Get your foot off my foot.

            Should we go outside?

            Maybe we should go outside?

            The manager, an attractive short-haired woman walked over and whispered to Dina Santorelli, handing her several flashlights. “Okay everyone,” said the CEO of TrajanCorp, I’ve got a few more lights here. We all just make our way out to the front. The bulk of our business was to be conducted tomorrow, so perhaps it’s best we call it a night. Evan and Lisa the manager will direct you out to the front. 

            It was a more dramatic spectacle than one might’ve anticipated. The years of pomp and prominence had hard-wired the elites to the ultra-complicated tasks required of world leadership, but something as pedestrian as a power outage had them sprawling out limbs like frightened children wearing unjustifiably expensive clothing. After a line finally formed and they’d nearly gained the door, two men with flashlights of their own came in. A commanding male voice took over the room: “We’ve had a rupture off some kind in the water lines. Nothing to be alarmed about, but the road’s flooded until we can shut off hydrants up and down the street. Looks like whatever burst took out all the lights as well. Best you hang tight. Frankly, there’s nothing else you can do.”

            “You can’t be serious,” whined Yang. “We aren’t going to just sit here in the dark. We aren’t animals.”

            The man with the hefty voice lowered his flashlight, allowing Dina and Evan to see he was one of two cops occupying the entranceway to the restaurant. “Sir. I don’t know what hanging with your pals by candlelight has to do with having sex with animals, but me and my partner are going to let you work that out on your own.”

            “You’re leaving us?” Yang pleaded.

            “Yeah. When you see the road barriers clear, you’ll be free to go. We’re off to check if anyone actually needs help. Hell, maybe y’all try across the street.”

            The cops were out the door before further inquiries could be made.

            “What did he mean?” Santorelli asked Henk. He said he’d find out, squeezing his way by the agitated members of the group and outside. As the door closed behind, he felt the cool fall air laced with the water from shooting out from the hydrants. The gleaming cars that had brought all the dignitaries to the dinner were all bunched together in front of the restaurant, forced into overlapping at funny angles by the barriers set up on either side. 

            Henk wiped the sweat and damp from his brow with the sleeve of his tailored dinner jacket. “Unbelievable,” he whispered, looking up and down the premier block of clubs and restaurants in the Dallas nightlife scene. Across the street, a beautiful beacon of sound and fury. In all the surrounding chaos, Henk was feeling proud to be a piece of something bigger than himself. His eye dripped from positive emotions as he tugged down on the lapels of his jacket. He took out a pocket flashlight and turned it on and off three times in the direction of the glowing building across the cordoned-off road. He wanted badly to turn back to Dina and the rest of the apoplectic bigwigs in the restaurant, but he rooted his feet to the wet concrete, repeating the advice from Benjamin Billings like a mantra: Let her wonder what you’re up to. Let her wonder why you aren’t rushing back. The prestigious don’t like to wonder. They like to know. It’s an ego thing.

Chapter 12: Neighborly/Rubicon

            “That’s the signal, BB. Crazy bald bro tripled down on the torch.”

            “Thanks, Davy,” he said into his cuff mic. “Stick to your post. Look like a proper door guy.”

            “No probs on the jobs. I’m out the police garb, switched into Dapper Dan at the Door.”

            Ben decided to let Davy’s last phrasing choice go. As important as time was, he didn’t move an inch, choosing to stand beside to the stage, waiting to catch Tabby’s eyes. When her gaze finally to rest from the crowd and made it back to his, Billings flashed her a smile and nod. His partner looked and sounded too good; for a moment he forgot about the game and felt a little bit sorry for the rest of the world, not having his view.

            “You better get moving, Billings.” It was Fowler Dane, sounding more agitated than normal. Hard to blame him. He was out there in the soggy air, pretending to be a cop amongst other cops, getting honked at and cursed at by frustrated pedestrians. “I put on a pretty good show in there, but they’ll need some more coaxing if you’re aiming to get them to your shindig. I might’ve said something about bestiality. Might not have made much sense. This isn’t my usual thing, dammit.”

            “On it,” Billings answered, grabbing two bottles of chilled Dom Pérignon and trying to forget that he’d just heard bestiality in the middle of a job. “Plan’s a go. Let’s stay quick, ready for anything.”

            Ben glided through the foyer, just another night, nodding as he passed little Davy at the door, walking from portico and down the steps to the street. When he reached Evan Henk he continued to glide, whispering for him to hold back a little.

            “Billings!”

            “Not now,” Ben said, waving his overzealous “compatriot” away as he neared the door with a heavy breath. With a smile fixed and a little hair down amongst his eyes, he entered and offered a cheery hello. He was met with blasting lights and a fusillade of questions. It reminded him of his fourteen minutes of fame leading up to Dynasty and the fourteen weeks of infamy that followed. Everywhere he went with Tabby, they hounded them. Until they were desiccated, nothing left to feed on. In those days, after the world had turned him into a husk, Billings had little to say. Now, at least, he had a rough outline. “I don’t mean to intrude, but it seemed neighborly to come over and see if y’all were getting along okay.”

            “Who are you?” The question came from a woman with a frazzled Eastern European accent. Billings thought of a Bond girl. Or a Bond villain. Someone from Bond.

            “My name’s Tony. Tony Zetland. From across the street.”

            “We don’t know you,” declared a man in pointy Germanic tones.

            “Okay. So y’all are a bunch strung mighty tight. C’mon, now. Mind turning those lights down? I’m not going to bite. Even brought Champagne. Pretty good stuff.”

            Billings felt a hand on his chest before he could see it. “Do as he asks.”

            When his vision returned, he saw a group of finely-dressed folks looking pretty ordinary, packed together in the little space the entranceway afforded. He also saw Dina Santorelli. It was her doing the speaking. Her hand on his chest. “Mr. Zetland, you said?”

            “I did,” he answered, blinking away the remaining spots clouding his eyes. “Funny old name, but that’s another conversation. How’s about you kids come over and join us at our party?”

            “How is it you’re so festive, sir? All this madness.” It was the German again, grumbling through sharp, tiny teeth. Billings, even as affable Mr. Zetland, was beginning to form stereotypical thoughts.

            “We happened to have a generator that can keep up, is all,” he answered, holding out the champagne bottles as wide as the little entrance would allow. Rolling out a welcome mat with a sophisticated posture was hard in a space not much bigger than a phone booth, but he was giving it a whirl. “If you’re asking why you, come out and take a look. We can’t get to anyone else. Otherwise, we’d ask the whole block.” Billings looked down at Santorelli, impressed with her calm, curious look. He was turned on a little, big brown eyes aimed up at him, the way she wore her hair short because it was obvious her face could take the weight of proceedings. Easy, Zetland. You damned devilish rogue. Back off a piece. “Or maybe I just came in like a freight train. Apologies, really, and do have a good,” he stopped, looking over the group and the quiet chasm of the restaurant, “night.”

            Billings set the bottles of Dom on the entranceway runner and gave a nod, making sure Santorelli was the prime beneficiary of the gesture. He was out in the cool air before anyone could make more inquiries, stridently walking through the gauntlet of trapped cars and concrete depressions filled with the still subsiding water. Passing Henk, he said, “Don’t blow it, douchebag,” smiling the whole time with a raised chin and one hand covering his tux buttons, just like a proper gent.

            Henk felt like launching himself into Billings’ back, permanently crippling him with a move imparted by faithful Kang, but before his thoughts could turn to total darkness, he heard Dina calling his name. Don’t blow it douchebag. He stood as tall as his frame would allow and walked through puddles on the path back to the restaurant.

            “Do you know that guy?” she asked, watching Billings and his white jacket ascend the stairs back to his party without a care in the world. “He seems familiar.”

            “I’ve seen him around town, this club or that,” Henk answered. The task was to sound nonchalant, but it was almost impossible with the honking and intermittent cop sirens breeching his concentration. “Inherited money. Mostly does causes and that sort of thing.”

            “He’s handsome enough.”

            Henk agreed but didn’t want to. “Yes. Yes, he is.”

            “Maybe we should take up his offer.”

            “I don’t know. We don’t anything about their security. With this bunch…”

            Before she had a chance to shoot down his worries, the fire alarm inside the restaurant went off. A little much, thought the diminutive crook as the other bigwigs streamed outside.

            The bellicose German almost stumbled against them. “Our dealings are not off to an auspicious start, Ms. Santorelli. What are we to do about this situation?”

            She held out her phone for him to take. “If you look at this map, you’ll see that it’s a five-mile walk to the nearest helipad.”

            He pursed his lips and nodded, appreciating that she’d done more than just complain about their predicament. “I see.”

            “Now I’m willing to make that walk, but I’m not so sure we’ll be of one mind.”

            “It is unlikely.”

            “Mr. Sauer, the bulk of our business is to be conducted tomorrow, isn’t that right?”

            “I suppose.”

            “Then,” Santorelli said, putting on her best smile and motioning with her head across the street. “I hear music. Perhaps for one evening, our only option is to have a good time. It could be efficacious. Build more trust and understanding with one another.”

            Henk watched as Mr. Sauer and Mr. Yang began to mull it over with the group. They were clinging to each other, incapable of remembering what it was like to have plans change. Dina took him by the arm and said they were going.

            “What about the rest?”

            “Don’t bother turning. They’ll follow along. Ducks in a row in the end.”

            Evan Henk couldn’t help but smile as they passed through flashing lights and potholes, thinking about influence and manipulation. Far as he knew, it was the only way to get on in the world. Dina had used it to set up this meeting of international powerbrokers. Now she was using it to get them to cross the street.

            Of course, he had manipulated her to cross the street, the result of Billings’ and Remi Dwyer’s manipulation and influence.

            And on and on.

            When they reached the walkway leading up to the stately old white building, the smile faded. The water and shit-stained street they’d just stepped off was the Rubicon. If things didn’t pan out, there’d be no forgiveness from Dina Santorelli and no place on the planet he could hide.

Chapter 13: Wake

            She hadn’t woken up to a hangover since college, and that was nearly thirty years ago. It was easy to remember; the scolding Mrs. Kern was giving her sounded word-for-word with the one back then. Hard to forget being a freshman at fourteen. Oh, the fun she never had. Thanks Papa. Normal human development be damned. Normal human development was for the normal, and Papa said normal be damned.

            “You need to have me around you at all times. These are not your people. This Texas isn’t safe. What’s the point of family if you don’t lean on it?”

            “Get the girl. The one who dresses me,” Dina moaned. “And the one that bathes me. And…”

“I’m not your servant,” Mrs. Kern said, ripping the last pillow from Santorelli’s achy clutches.

“No,” Dina seethed, “you’re an old bitch who never had a life.” Despite the headache and the turning stomach, she threw off her covers and stood before Mrs. Kern, wobbly but defiant, growing more attached to her rage the cobwebs fled. “The next time you give me advice, I’ll beat you.” Her hands were fiercely tight, a mixture of hot red and pale white. “To snap those brittle bones. God, I wish you’d die already.”

“That’s better.” Pola Kern ignored Dina’s nakedness and applied a weathered palm to her damp face before having it slapped away. “Much better.”

“Stop talking. What happened last night?”

            “Would you like me to stop talking or tell you what happened last night? You can’t have both things, child.”

            “Call me child again and I’ll slap you until your mouth fills with blood. God! My head hurts.”

            “A strange man drove you home. I… watched. He smiled far too much for my liking. Considering our various levels of security, you must’ve been quite adamant about having him bring you to the door.”

            “Blinds closed,” Dina said, looking up at small sensor in the ceiling, “and set lights to dim.” The entire estate was rigged to her specific voice. She was still getting used to it, not sure if it was her style. Santorelli was old-fashioned in certain ways. There was dignity in having actual people attend on your every need; talking to inanimate objects, however efficient, seemed less than noble. It put an uncomfortable distance between her and her Roman ancestors, history’s perfectionists in the art of subjugation. “So, did he come up, this guy?” She was remembering, but only pieces.

            “You don’t recall his name?” asked Mrs. Kern, a hint of satisfaction in her bouncy bassoon voice.

            Dina wanted to say something clever, but straight ahead would have to do for the moment. She was cold, sick of standing there naked in front of the woman who had been there almost every morning of her life. “Of course, I remember. Tony Zetland. Anthony. He was hosting a charity gala last night. Not my usual type.”

            “I see.”

“I doubt it, and before you lodge some withered, unwanted opinion, that was the point.”

“What was the point, Bella?”

“He wasn’t usual. We had what I’ll assume normal people call a good time.

Everyone from the partnership went.”

            “Strange.”

            “What’s strange?”

            “A few things.”

            “Please expand,” she yawned. “I’m brimming with anticipation over here.”

            “It’s strange to imagine that bunch at anything charitable, let alone having a good time.”

            Dina tried not to show her displeasure to the help. The old woman was getting at something, and though Pola Kern was something higher than the normal slaves she owned and manipulated, she was still infinitely lower than her, not deserving credit or the pleasure of knowing she contributed on any tangible level. Even if were obvious. In fact, the more obvious the contribution, the more Dina was inclined to brush it aside. This was the point of superior breeding, two-thousand years of her people keeping a boot on the neck of people like Pola Kern, the less-than. That most of the Santorelli family history was a savage tale of poverty-stricken Sicilians scratching at scraps didn’t figure in. The mob could rewrite the past, and even if they couldn’t, she would.

            “And it’s strange that a man that took the trouble to drive all the way out here and escort you through three levels of security didn’t take you to bed.”

            “Guess I wasn’t in the mood.”

            “He kissed you on the cheek. You watched him drive away like a teenager, pouting at door.”

            “You’re at death’s door.”

            “I’m very healthy, actually. The doctor here on the estate told me yesterday I have the constitution of someone twenty years younger.”

            “You’re at death’s door, and you still have the time and inclination to wait up spying. Like this is the high school prom.”

            “Now you’re being ridiculous, Bella Medina. I was very much asleep when you got home. It was the camera footage that told me the rest. I’ll send it to your bathroom screen if you’d like to review it, though it might be best not to.”

            “Tell me.”

            “He was quite the gentleman, Mr. Zetland. Quite so.”

            “Which is your grim Pole-Slav stewed way of saying I was rebuffed after offering up myself up like a dirty whore.”

            “My Rude Bella.”

            “I need to get ready. There’s a partnership meeting at ten.”

            “I’m glad to see you setting your mind to proper priorities.”

            “Get out. Send in the morning crew. You disgust me.”

            “My sweet Bella. You never could be sweet in the mornings.”

            “Did it ever occur that you might be the cause of my foul moods? What kind of saint would I have to be to look up at you looking down on me and smile?”

            “You’ve said that one before, Bella Medina.”

            “Some things merit reiteration, hag. Now go.”

Chapter 14: Three Stares

“That’s some harsh smack sauce she’s laying down. Old lady’s getting brushed back more than a breeze.”

            “What is the problem where it is you cannot speak like a normal person from the United States?”

            “Y’all boys need to shut up before I start snapping necks.”

            On a hill two miles from Santorelli’s estate, Davy Lucas, Lars Ramona and Fowler Dane were sitting in a parked maintenance van, listening through headphones and watching a bank of screens. It was a warm day for October and the air conditioning wasn’t all that effective in the back where they were sitting. It wasn’t nervy work, but it wasn’t comfortable, either.

Lars could’ve hacked into the estate’s security network with time, but Billings had saved him the trouble by cloning Santorelli’s phone before dropping her off the night before. It contained a treasure trove of encryption and password information.

            “Is there a way for them down there to know we’re listening and watching up here?” Fowler asked, eyes locked on the feed to Santorelli’s bathroom with understandable interest. Three young women in there with her, all gorgeous. One was drawing a bath. Another was rubbing her toned back with some sort of pre-wash oil. The third was using a variety of instruments to get rid of any imperfections in her nails.

            “A trace is not possible, Mr. Fowler, unless they had the exact code for this program. Mr. Davy says it’s unique for each customer, so it couldn’t be so.”

            “My homie’s the best techno in the game. Designed this premium to do us the deeds. Fifteen-years-old and he’s already got two-yacht mad money.”

            “Three yachts maybe,” Lars said, clicking away a keyboard on his lap to double check that everything was recording. “After what Mr. Ben paid for you to enlist his services. Just about all the monies left from their baseball bat take.”

            “Nah, brother Lars. That green was product of a golf club.”

            “Ah, yes. They should’ve stolen one of Andrea Pirlo’s boots from the World Cup. This would have gotten much more.”

            “Faggotry. Nobody cares about soccer, Lars.” The ex-soldier rubbed his gray eyes, trying not to blow a gasket. Ramona had his respect, having earned it years back on a stunt for some piece of crap action flick. The little Italian had built a specialized suit for a car crash sequence, against budget and against the producer’s explicit instructions. Fowler still broke his back, but afterward the doctors said it could’ve been much worse. He did his best to keep their history in mind as he bit down through the nonstop prattle between Davy and the technical specialist.

“Mr. Fowler. It is the beautiful game. Yes. A Goalkeeper, I think.”

“What’s that?”

“A man as you, strong and big, so powerful. You would’ve scared the ball away.”

“Sure. So Lucas, you’ve met this computer punk?” he asked, not even half interested. The majority of his attention was fixed back on the screen.

            “We hooked it up on the interwebs, Super Hoss. The deep and dark part. Shaking skin ain’t how it rolls these days when it comes to connects.”

            Fowler kept his focus on the bathroom scene. All but one of the girls had left Santorelli to her giant oval bath and was now disrobing to get inside. “Damn,” he said, placing one of his scarred hands over his mouth. “Right there’s more than your average bath.”

            Davy and Lars looked over and crammed themselves against Dane’s giant frame to get a better vantage. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

            It was the first thing Lucas said that Fowler didn’t want to punch holes through.

            “This is not appropriate,” Lars muttered.

            Davy and Dane answered in unison: “Shut up.”

            As they sat in reverence, a cell phone began buzzing next to the monitors. When Lars put it on speaker, they each pulled one ear away from their headphones.

            “How’s it going there, gentleman?” It was Ben, sounding like he was just getting up.

            “Things are solid sauce,” Davy answered.

            “The… the software is working as it should, Mr. Ben. Their own security imaging has been converted to a complete thermal layout of the structure. Security measures. All the necessary. It is very good, this.”

            “That’s great, fellas. How’s the mark? She having a tough morning?”        

            “She was,” Fowler said.

            “Yeah, your Bella Medina woke straight brittle with a mad hangover, BB. You showed the good times, left her wanting more like a straight stud.”

            “Bella Median, huh… I’m going to text her,” Ben yawned. “Try and see how she reacts. I know it’s early, but let’s see if she blows it off.”

            “Maybe you should wait,” Dane said. “You know. She’s getting ready and everything.”

            “Nah, gut tells me strong moves. We can’t afford to sit back and watch. Hold on.”

            A collective sigh filled the back of the van.

            The big screen across the bathroom lit up, displaying a short text from Tony Zetland. Santorelli slapped the girl away and pulled herself from the trance she’d slipped into. Lars switched angles and they saw a youthful smile reform the tycoon’s features. She reached for a tablet sitting on a wooden stool next to the tub and sent a message back.

            “You get that?” Fowler asked Ben. “I think she responded.”

            “Yep. Wants to know when we get together again. That could come in handy.”

            They threw up their hands like Christmas had been canceled as she rose from the water and put on a robe.

            “You guys get everything you needed?”

            Almost, Dane thought. He looked over and saw Davy’s little mouth sagging open.

            “We did, Mr. Ben.”

            “Okay, Lars. Great work all of you. Get some rest, we’ll do a meet early evening. See where we go from here.”

            After the call ended, Fowler couldn’t help letting it out. “That son of a bitch. What is it with him and women?”

            “He is Mr. Ben,” Lars said, smiling. “He is a charming one for the ladies. Always this way since I’ve known him.”

            Davy put a hand on the little Italian’s shoulder, thinking of the story Billings had conveyed concerning Dane’s ex. “Cool going, Inspector G. But best leave it in the barrel.”

            Fowler gave them each a hard look, waiting for the one dumb enough to say something else. After a heavy, awkward half minute, he slowed his breathing and climbed through to the front seat. “Get your shit packed and racked,” he barked. “Train’s leaving.”

Chapter 15: The Serious 

            “It was good work last night,” said Remi Dryer, turning off a large flat screen and rotating her chair to face the group sitting at the conference table. If anyone had been in the mood for comedy, the situation might’ve been worth laugh. One side was filled with bodies: Ben and Tabby, Lars, Senna Lassiter, Davy and Fowler. On the other: Lizzie Halsey and Evan Henk. Remi sat at the head, dressed in a blinding white pantsuit, hair pulled back into an impossibly tight bun. She looked like a politician would look, Ben thought, if politicians could pull off evil and attractive at the same time.

            “I get that we’ve got our differences,” Remi said, lighting a pretentiously thin cigarette, “but a genial atmosphere might serve us best.”

            “Collegial would be pushing it,” Billings said. “Genial, more like a pipedream.”

            “I think there’s some things even this group of bullshitters can’t fake,” Tabby followed. She’d placed herself tightly next to Fowler and all his bulk. It was the only place she felt safe. Lizzie Halsey wasn’t someone you circled up with before a big game. Johns knew the bloody things Remi’s junkyard dog had done. Worse still, she’d seen them firsthand.

            “After last night’s multiple successes,” Dryer went on, “it seems blackmail might be the simplest way to maximize our profits. No muss, no fuss. Nothing with too many moving and parts.” She smiled at Billings and tapped a space on the shiny table equidistant her and her protégé, watching him as he tried not to cringe. “I know how you like your plot twists, Benny. They’re cute, but sometimes rather pointless.”

            “What do you think, Mr. Henk?” Tabby asked, deciding to break up the tension before her partner said something ill-advised. “Don’t you think it’s a little premature, considering we haven’t heard what deal these people are getting together for?”

            Henk sat back in his chair and started playing with knot of his tie, finally looking over to Dryer.

            “She’s got you by the balls, pal.” It was Fowler. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table as a signal that he was afraid of absolutely nobody looking back his way. “Got ‘em squeezed up nice and firm, far as I can tell from your ugly mug.” The ousted stuntman drew an outline of Henk’s face in the air with a crooked finger. “By the way, your eye is dripping. That’s weird, dude.”

            “Enough, Mr. Dane.”

            He leaned back smirking. “Afraid I don’t march to your orders, woman. Don’t go thinking that’s gonna change, neither. Whatever respect you think you’ve earned. Yeah, that doesn’t apply to me. And you wear too much perfume.” He crossed his massive, tattooed forearms. “Always thought was kind of gross.”

            Dryer tilted her head to address Ben. “Interesting choice, bringing this one along.”

            “Is Evan going to answer the question?” Tabitha asked. “Fowler has a point. If the guy can’t talk for himself, what’s the purpose of him being here? Less money for the rest of us is all I’m seeing.”

            “Mr. Henk is free to talk,” Dryer said, lighting another cigarette. Between the perfume and the smoke, it was like watching someone trying to permeate every inch of their environment. Her goal was ubiquity; airborne the endgame.

            “Wow, she gave you a hall pass, sport,” Fowler laughed.

            “I’m very much on the inside of things, hahahmm. Without me—I’m important as anyone here, hahahmm. More so, even.” Henk was speaking too fast, trying to catch up in a verbal race he was manifestly losing.

            “So, what’s the deal?” Tabitha asked, growing more impatient with every word. It was hard to know how much longer she could stand to be in Remi’s company. Billings could sense it in his partner’s voice and bearing.

            “Get to it, Henk,” he said.

            “It’s a high-speed rail project. Right here in Texas.”

“That’s an ongoing rumor,” Ben interrupted. “They’ve been talking about it for years.”

The bald grifter was unphased. “They’re really close. On the doorstep close. The money will be astronomical. Government and private company partnerships, foreign investment. If you need to know about the potential for corruption and cost overages, misappropriation of funds, opportunities for bribing officials, look to similar projects around the world. A sheep we can sheer over and over, because it’ll take years. Decades. By the time they get through with the thing, it’ll be time to start over and rebuild it.” He pounded his fist on the table in triumph. “Hahahmm.” Henk was proud. Especially of the sheep part.

            “To where is this fast train to be built?” Lars asked, deciding if there was any moment to get involved, now was it.

            “Houston to Dallas and Fort Worth. Stations in Austin, San Antonio, even Waco. Plans to even go to Oklahoma City. Yeah, it’s a huge project, but the speeds are going to be faster than anything before. Supposedly. Whether it gets done or not, it doesn’t matter. Just that it starts.”

            “It’s too big,” Remi said. “You’re talking about a con only a government can pull off. “We go with blackmail. Use what we already have.”

            Billings looked at his people. Senna Lassiter was there at her own insistence and against his wishes, something about standing up tall to the people that nabbed her just a few days ago. Fowler was on the verge of fulminating, doing a great deal of unnecessary stretching with his shoulders. Tabitha looked acutely aware of the danger but still in for a fight. Lars seemed to be running equations in his head as he played with the thickest part of his mustache.

            Billings sucked in a plume of Dryer’s smoky discharge to make himself uncomfortable, just to remind himself of the stakes. He was sitting at a table with at least two (probably three) murderers and a trained killer of the highest order. They were playing a game, and funny it as it might be, it was no joke. He looked at Henk. “You got any ideas on how we turn this potential bridge to nowhere into a score?”

            “A few. I think there’s at least a few really big opportunities. I’m right in there, Dina likes me for her point man. Of course, you’ll probably have ideas of your own.”

            Billings wasn’t going to let it weaken his wits, but he could almost swear there was a measurable hint of humility in Henk’s voice. Perhaps a bit beaten up over the golf club thing. Good.

            “I don’t get it, Remi,” Ben said, standing up and letting his chair roll frivolously against the conference room wall. “You engineer this situation, getting us and Mr. Henk together. Now you want us to take the ball and go home after some really low-level grifts? I like an easy score as much as the next guy, but who here wants to make the serious?”

            Everyone on his side of the table immediately raised their hands. After a few seconds, so did Evan Henk.

            Remi wasn’t going to sit there watching the clock while her own guy was voting against the other way. Rather than betray her discomposure, she said, “Two days, we meet back here.”

            Henk and Lizzie stood sharply and followed her out of the room without another word. Billings offered a subtle nod at Henk. Fowler offered a less than subtle expression of malice toward Lizzie. Tabitha started to say something once they were gone until Lars put up a hand. He started waving one of his gadgets around, ending up under the table. The others waited until he popped up on the other side with a smile. “Now it is fine, Miss Tabitha. To make sure they didn’t plant something so they could hear.”

            Tabby smiled warmly at Ramona. “Good thinking. And good job, everyone. They didn’t leave looking too comfortable.”

            Billings was still standing. He clapped his hands together. “Yeah, nice work. You guys get some rest, take a load off tonight. Fowler…”

            “Yeah. I’ll make sure they all get back in one piece. I’m assuming you’re going to eventually tell us what the hell just happened?”

            “Of course,” Ben said, rubbing his eyes. “We’ll catch up tomorrow.”

            As the group filed out, Billings took the chair next to his partner. “You okay, TJ?”

            “I’m fine.”

            He grabbed the arm of her chair and rolled it playfully from side to side. “You’re not fine, but thanks for saying it anyway.”

            She put her feet down to stop his attempt to make her relax. “Well, there’s no way Remi didn’t notice. Pretty blatant.”

            “I wanted it to be. For now, she knows she can’t bully us with Fowler around. More important, she’s doubting Henk’s allegiance. Any distance between those two is a good thing.”

            “I don’t know. The divide and conquer bit is a little on the nose. Some might call it transparent.”

            “Nothing she didn’t teach us, is what you mean.” Ben sat back in his chair with his hands intertwined comfortably in his lap, looking a little too satisfied for her liking. “Can you believe she called me Benny? What an asshole.”

            “Remi Dryer isn’t going to simply let us run the show. Some serious pushback is coming down the line.”

            “I know. But the sooner it comes, the sooner we can deal with it. An hour ago, we were in agreement on this thing.” He leaned in and tried to take her hand, only to see it snatched away.

            “Don’t do that.”

            “Sorry.” The following moment was a chasm, like they hadn’t spent a bulk of their adult lives walking the same path.

            Tabitha’s eyes started to water over. “Being in the same room with that woman, I don’t know how to pretend. When she ambushed us the other day, there wasn’t time to think about what happened. Now, there’s all the time in the world.”

            She was right. He shared her feelings completely, but it didn’t seem helpful to agree. “It could be a real score, Tabs. We knew those rich pricks weren’t meeting for a book club, after all.”

            “We’ve never made these kinds of enemies. Assuming we figure out a way to the serious, it’s gonna have to be one hell of an exit plan.”

            “Okay,” he said, offering his hand for her to rise. This time she took it. “We can talk about it later. Maybe we just go with simple blackmail.”

            “I need to put on pajamas and watch something stupid, Benji.”

            “That’s my girl.”

            As Billings followed her out down the hall to the elevator, his mind was heavy enough to make walking a chore. It made him sick to see Tabitha so burdened by the past. Though he’d suffered from Remi’s wrath, his partner had taken the worst. Beaten. Nearly killed and threatened with rape for days in a dark room until he could figure out a way to get her back. He was tired of being in danger, tired of doing the wrong thing. The usual justifications weren’t holding up anymore. Maybe they were getting too old, or maybe it was simply what Tabitha had said; they’d never presumed to take on these kinds of enemies.

            It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he needed to have a good hard think. He couldn’t let his friends down or let them get hurt. Not to mention, he had a reputation to maintain. “Give me a sec,” he told Tabby, pulling out his phone to text Henk: Send me all the details. You can ask your mistress first if it makes you feel better.

            The shit was getting serious.

Chapter 16: A Normal Breakfast

            The next morning, Ben was back at the breakfast table, drinking coffee and reading the paper like any guy. It was a ritual he’d cultivated over the years, a way to allow himself a few moments every day to be like average folks. The practice was suggested to him many years ago by Gregson Hubert, a famous actor from the old days and one of the only people in Hollywood who’d managed a long and prosperous career while remaining wholly decent. No one in the world ever had a bad thing to say about the man: Married to one woman for fifty years, a couple well-adjusted and successful kids, psychologically untarnished by the fame of their father.

Hubert met Tabitha and Ben at an industry party just before the filming of Dynasty officially kicked off. In the short time they were able to know him, the old school movie star became something of a mentor. He imparted many wisdoms to the young upstarts, ways to stay level-headed. Billings thought of him every morning while he read the sports page or looked over the metro section. Certain days, he’d smile. Other times, he’d have to push back clouds of sadness. Though still in great shape, Gregson died suddenly of a heart attack just days before the opening of the film that would finish their careers. Though he’d never admit it aloud, sometimes Ben was glad God had spared the legend the humiliation of watching two of his proteges in such a ragged piece of cinematic garbage. He hated that feeling. It never failed to make him hate himself.

            “Thinking about Gregson?”

            Ben pulled down the paper. Tabby was standing next to the table, hair pulled up, eating a strawberry.

            “How do you always know?”

            “Benji, I came down five minutes ago. You’ve been on lockdown. Same posture, same page. It’s completely obvious. The same thing every time. And… we’ve had this conversation before.”

            He folded up the paper and uncrossed his legs. “I guess we have. It’s weird, what sticks with you.”

            “I don’t think it’s weird,” Tabby said, taking the seat across. She felt rested as she assessed the condition of her partner. “The man was the greatest. And still handsome, even then. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

            “No. They don’t. Why is it you never took his advice? The whole breakfast thing.”

            “He never told me that one. That was for you. He loved you.”

            “Nah. He was cool with everybody.”

            “I know. But he thought you were special. Knew it. He told me as much.”

            “Guess the man wasn’t right about everything.”

            Tabitha finished chewing her fruit and smirked at Ben’s fallen countenance. “Okay, big guy. How about some sleep? Looks like you didn’t get much.”

            “Didn’t get any, TJ.”

            “What were you doing?”

            “Henk sent me a file for the rail deal. Miles of news articles. It actually might be happening. I was up all night learning about infrastructure bills. How they work, the different ways private investment groups fund projects in tandem with local and state governments.”

            “God. That sounds awful.”

            She wasn’t wrong. Research was always the worst part of their job. Also, the most vital. Ben rubbed his weary eyes. He wasn’t sure if he’d even made a dent, but he wouldn’t be admitting it just then. “It wasn’t easy, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got the gist.”

            “That work ethic,” Tabby said. “It’s exactly why I stick around with you. Even when my mother tells me the whole thing’s just not worth it.”

            Billings yawned and pushed his partner away. She was up from her seat, trying to mess up his already unruly hair. “Your mom hasn’t talked to you in decades, Tabs. Hey. Stop it.”

            He was glad his partner had caught another wind, but exhaustion had him about ready to fall from his chair.

            “How dare you speak that way about my beloved mother?” Tabby laughed, continuing with her attempts to aggravate Ben. Soon she was settled in his lap with her hands on either side of his face.

            “Should I come back?” Senna Lassiter had made her way down. She had a burdened posture, but it was understandable. Between the backpack on one shoulder and the massive purse and gym bag on the other, she looked to be hauling her own weight.  “Thought I’d get some coffee before school but screw it if I have to see this.”

            Ben and Tabby were embarrassed. Tabby hopped up and tried badly to regain some dignity. “Get your coffee. Me and Ben were just talking.”

            The law student and heiress walked by and rolled her eyes. “It’s amazing how bad you guys can be at lying. You’re supposed to be the like absolute best at this stuff.”

            “Come on,” Ben said, trying to get back to his paper. He felt like he was playing the part of parent to the sulky young woman. It was weird. “We were just having a laugh for a second. It doesn’t all have to be misery and looking over your shoulder.”

            “Right. Says the guy that has me holed up in his stupid shitty house. Is that bodyguard going to be creeping around me again today?”

            “You know he is. And you should be thankful for Kitt. He’s one of the best.” He was one of the best. Billings didn’t know him except that he’d never heard a bad thing about the guy. It was easy enough to find former Special Forces guys to look after people, but Mike Kittridge was the type you didn’t see until it was absolutely necessary. In most cases, his presence went undetected. “For all we know, he’s killed two or three of Remi’s people for you already. Maybe you should be a little more grateful.”

            “Grateful? When you said I could learn and be a part of this, there was nothing about it being totally boring. Kinda sucks.”

            “Don’t be such a child,” Tabby said, adopting a motherly tone. It was disturbing for Billings to hear. If it was a bit, she was doing it a little too well for his comfort. “You came into this with your eyes open. I remember you begging in this direction, not the other way around.” Johns turned her back to Senna and peered down at Ben. He shrugged his shoulders in a way that suggested he was out of ideas.

            Billings was beyond relieved when his phone began to buzz and shake against the wood of the breakfast table. The relief was short-lived. “It’s three texts. From Dina Santorelli,” he said, looking wide-eyed at Tabitha and Senna and back again. Lassiter dropped her bags and took a position next to Tabby. It was amazing to watch them studying the words. Amazing and a little bit strange. “She wants to see me tonight. Guess I’ll just say yes and that I’m looking forward to it.”

            “God, please tell me you’re not that dumb,” Senna said, not bothering to look up from the phone. She was whispering furiously with Tabitha. Whatever it was, he seemed to be almost completely irrelevant to the process.

            “You two want to let me in on the discussion?” he asked.

            “Keep the conversation going,” Tabby said. “I need to call Lars and Davy. See if they can set up surveillance at this restaurant for tonight. Senna, you take care of it.”

            Tabitha was at full throttle as she discussed the location with Lars while Senna sent a reply: Hi there. It’s great to hear from you. Was hoping you didn’t forget about the other night.

            Ben leaned over and held up hands. “That’s not an answer.”

            “Sure it is,” Senna said, smiling with satisfaction that Billings didn’t understand.

            He got up to pour another cup of coffee. “Maybe I said that wrong. It’s not an answer to her question.”

            “You need to flirt a little. People don’t just say yes and leave it at that. Dude, don’t be so old.”

            Tabitha ended her call with Lars. “He thinks they can get a few cameras set up around the room. It’s a small place with several private tables, but there’s enough time.”

            The phone buzzed again. I didn’t forget. Had a really great evening. So… tonight?

            They all stood around the phone. Tabby’s hand was on Senna’s shoulder. Should I wear the tuxedo again?

            “Really?” Ben asked, scratching his forehead and looking at Tabitha to back him up.

            Tabby dismissed him and smiled at the law student. “Not bad, Senna.”

            “Thank you.”

            A few seconds later, the phone lit up once more. Clothing optional. You know what I mean. Lol. See you tonight, Tony.

            “There it is,” sighed young Ms. Lassiter. “Mr. Zetland is straight working it.”

            Ben stood idle while Tabby and Senna high-fived. With all the tension filling the house of late, he supposed it was best to be grateful for the sudden teamwork.

            Senna grabbed her keys and said goodbye with a bounce in her step. Tabby smacked Ben on the backside and told him to get some sleep. She’d man the ship for the day and make sure everything was set up for his dinner with Santorelli.

            “Glad to see you two having so much fun with this.”

            “Benji,” Tabitha started. “You know what, never mind.” She snapped her fingers and pointed upstairs.

            “I’m going. Read me a bedtime story?”

            “Get.”

            “Snapping? I’m a grown man for God’s sake. I did research. Lots of research.”

            She grabbed the paper and took over his original seat. The proceedings were over. “Sleep well, Benji Bear. You’re the best.”

Chapter 17: You’re the Best

            With everything going on, Evan Henk was determined to keep to as much of his routine as possible. After a rousing workout with Kang in which he learned two new judo throws, he took to a large chair in his media room and donned a pair of headphones. He liked to have at least one uninterrupted hour playing his favorite video game, Killer Death Squad 2: Killing For Joy. It was an elimination game in which one played as part of a team against other teams around the world. His squad was comprised of six Asian teenagers. They were currently ranked tenth and moving steadily up the charts. As they did in most matches, verbal slurs were flying in broken English and cracked Mandarin. Henk used the game to strengthen his strategic mind; Death Squad 2 was designed to award both team performance and individual achievement. It was important for his squad to triumph, sure, but he also wanted to make sure he was the one with most points and kills at the end of every session. This required a degree of underhandedness and feigned allegiance to his virtual brothers and sisters in arms.

            For Henk, it was the closest he ever got to good clean fun. As he leaned forward gripping the game controller in his stubby hands, he instructed one of his team members to move in a direction that would get them killed. More points for me. You’re the best, Henk. The best.

            The doorbell rang. He ignored it at first, trying to avoid explosions and bullets coming from all angles. You’re the best.

            It rang again. He muted his speaker and yelled for Kang or one of the servants to answer it. Shit. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten that it was the staff’s afternoon off and Kang was at his other gig, teaching underprivileged youths how to beat the crap out of each other. “I’ve got to go guys,” he said. “Save it here.”

            With the screen locked and the game progress secured, he walked barefooted through the length of his enormous house, eager to resume his ritual. The bell continued to ring, now at shorter and shorter intervals. When he arrived at the door, he opened the video console on the wall. The relentless visitor was a woman he’d never seen before. She was wearing business suit pants and a no-nonsense blue blouse. “Who is it?” he asked. The woman looked up at the speaker and waved. “Hi there. I was wondering if I could speak to Mr. Evan Henk?”

            “I’m busy.”

            She waved again, looking slightly confused as to where she should direct her voice. “I’m sure you are, sir. If I could just have a couple minutes, that’d be really great. Be a big help.”

            “What do you want?”

            She stopped waving and pulled something from her back pocket, holding it up in the direction of the speaker. “Oh, I see the camera now. Not sure how sharp that gadget is, but maybe you can get a look at my badge here.”

            Henk grimaced. The camera was more than good enough to make out three big letters. FBI. After a few seconds of silence, she continued. “My name’s Special Agent Lita Salcedo. I’m with the Federal… FBI.”

            Henk ran through the last few days and months, attempting to single out any mistake that would’ve led a federal agent to his door. “How exactly can I help the FBI?” he asked, now with better manners. “I hope I didn’t do something wrong, hahahmm.”

            She returned the badge to her pocket and smiled, waving again. “No, nothing like that. Actually, your help is what I’m looking for. Maybe five minutes and then I’m off. I know what a busy man you are. Great house by the way. Could I come in?”

            Henk would’ve preferred to almost anything in the world to letting a fed enter his home, but it didn’t seem prudent to stand her up. There was nothing incriminating on the property. He decided to disable the automated door mechanism and open it himself. More of a personal touch. “Hi there,” he said, smiling as the agent made her stepped through the threshold. “Can I get you something?”

“No thank you. Again, sorry for the disturbance. I just wanted to keep you in the loop and see if you could offer any insight.”

            “Into what, exactly? Agent…”

            “Salcedo.” She handed him a card and took a few steps deeper into the house. “This place is really great. Your decorator must be a really interesting person. Lots of different vibes. Neat stuff.”

            Henk looked over the card. Under her name it read Organized Crime Task Force. He tried not to swallow and prayed that his bad eye wouldn’t start leaking. “I really am busy, so, if it’s all the same.”

            “Sure,” she said, touching his arm like they were old friends. “Sorry, I’m kind of nervous.”

            “New on the job?” he asked. She had to be. Henk figured Salcedo was in her mid-twenties.

            A smile accompanied her response. “Not as new as it probably seems. Everyone at work makes fun of me. I’m sort of the airhead. You know I’d never even heard that term when they started using it on me?”

            “Is that so.”

            “Anyway, I’m mostly here about one of your employees. Karl Unger. Apparently, he’s gone missing. That’s my boss’ theory, anyway.”

            “Your boss?”

            “Yeah, he’s got a style that’s like from way back in the day. Thinks this Karl guy got into some trouble and maybe lit out or fell into some nasty business.”

            Henk had to think quickly. He steadied himself. Surely he could outwit this precious little neophyte. “Obviously, I know Karl Unger. Not well.”

            “Right,” she said, pulling out a notepad. “Because of your Second Starts Program. Can I just say, that’s so cool. Not everyone is so nice.”

            The young agent was referencing one of his many charities. On its face, Second Starts helped state and federal criminals get work after their terms of incarceration ended. It was one of the ways he kept up his visage as a good person, and of course, it helped him single out recruits to do his bidding. Nothing like a pool of at-risk degenerates desperately in need of work. “It’s obviously troubling, if what you say about Karl is right.”

            “It is,” she said, eyes still unpredictably darting around the front room. “You wouldn’t know where we could find him, by chance?”

            The memory was still fresh. Burying the fake wedge into Karl’s giant stupid head. Yelling at Kang for giving him the dull sword when they were chopping him into pieces. “I’d love to help, Agent Salcedo, but it’s been some time since I’ve seen Karl. As you may know, I try to meet all the men and women that come through Second Starts, but unfortunately there’s not enough time to keep up with everyone.” He offered a regretful sigh. “Perhaps someday I’ll be able to devote myself entirely to charitable works.” You’re the best, Evan Henk.

            The agent smiled like she’d just been handed a new puppy. “That’s so sweet.”

            “Well…”

            “The thing is, our records show that he was in your direct employ. Between you and me, he was supposed to give our office some information on a possible wanted criminal that he’d seen or been in contact with. That’s a great karate uniform, by the way.”

            Henk could feel his eye on the cusp of leaking. “It’s possible, and truly I’m not sure, but he might’ve been working security at one of my construction sites. I’ll have to check with our human resources coordinator and get back to you. Would that be okay?”

            “Sure it would,” she smiled, hinting at her own embarrassment. “It’s most likely a goose chase anyway.”

            Henk found encouragement in her mannerisms. They were conciliatory. Deferential. She wasn’t out to get him. Quite the opposite, even. “I don’t know if it’s procedure… but I’ll ask anyway.”

            “Oh, go right ahead.”

            “What’s the name of this wanted criminal? Must be pretty dangerous. I ask because of your card. Organized crime.”

            “I shouldn’t say, but the what the heck.” She looked to her left and right, as if they weren’t the only two people in the room. “You being a pillar of the community. Her name is Remi Dryer. Sort of a mysterious character, if I’m being honest.”

            Henk was completely motionless, staring straight through the pretty face of the junior agent. “Hmm. Can’t say I’ve heard the name, but then again, why would I?”

            “Exactly. Between us, my boss has a thing for this lady. It’s like a pet project or something. That’s why they send little old me, I guess.”

            “Wish I could be more help.”

            She shook his hand and asked him to keep her card, just in case. “It was so nice to meet you, Mr. Henk.”

            “And you, Agent Salcedo. Keep up the good work.”

            After seeing her out the door, he gave in fully to his nerves, pacing around the house from room to room, mumbling disjointed ideas aloud. He had to call Remi. No. He had to call Billings. No. He certainly couldn’t call Dina. Ah, there was nobody to talk to. Kang was faithful but absolutely dreadful at conversations involving any topic besides the various applications of blunt force.

            Was one of his minions a rat? He snapped his fingers and stopped pacing. If so, he’d killed the right one. That was the good news. Perhaps he could spin it to his cohorts in order to make himself seem like the man he knew himself to be; the one on top of things. No, not yet. He started pacing again. No, not yet. That would be admitting he’d committed a murder.

            The criminal businessman was alone in his big Dallas house with nothing but incongruous décor and a hurricane of thoughts. He decided to take a Xanax and lay down for an hour. He’d think of something. You’re the best. You’re the best. The more he repeated the phrase, the more it had the ring of bullshit.

Chapter 18: Tony Must Die

            As Ben Billings pulled up to Dallas’ most exclusive Italian bistro, he was finishing up a conversation involving the entirety of his team. There were roughly four directions his early dinner date with Dina Santorelli could go; from there, it could branch off into various other realms. The team tried to ready him for as many variations on the theme as they could. It had been a busy day; the nap he was desperately needing never came. This job was bringing out old nerves and birthing new ones. 

            As the valet kid approached the door to his convertible, Ben checked his face in the rearview mirror. Not very impressive. The research all-nighter had definitely cost him a couple years in appearance. He was every bit a man toeing his forties. One forehead line in particular had him aggravated. It was diagonal, falling down to the top of his eyebrow, as if even his wrinkles weren’t strong enough to hold their own.

            “Good luck, Benji.”

            “Thanks, Tabs. Thanks everyone,” The call ended automatically when he opened the door. He was a little surprised by the location. It was in an older part of the city at the edge of downtown’s shadow, an area that had gone through various stages of decay and renewal; currently it was on the way down, overlooked for newer and more vibrant areas uptown.

            “Nice car,” nodded the valet.

            Billings handed him a fifty and told him to keep the vehicle close. “What lot do you park it in?”

            The kid pointed across the street. “There’s a spot behind that three-story building. It’s hard to see from here.”

            “Just don’t bury it in the back. You know what, do me a favor and keep it on the street.” He handed the kid another fifty.

            “You got it, sir.”

            Billings watched the kid carefully coaxing the European transmission as he inched it up to the curb. Satisfied with a hundred well spent, he buttoned his sport coat and shrugged his shoulders in preparation. He didn’t expect any danger, but it was never unwise to plan for a quick exit. When he walked inside, the low light was disorienting. He almost stumbled up to the pretty girl taking reservations. “Hi. Anthony Zetland.”

            The girl’s smile grew in intensity and size. She leaned close and whispered, “Just go on through to the back.”

            The place wasn’t very crowded. Three or four well-dressed couples and a larger group talked quietly. The candles flickering on the tables hinted at faces but did nothing to illustrate them. As he entered the private room through a pair of saloon-style doors, Dina Santorelli offered a little wave. The business magnate was seated at the table farthest from the door, looking at some photographs on the wall.

            After a polite kiss, he took the seat across from her. There wasn’t much distance. The tables were typically too small, quaint and romantic. “I love old places like this,” she said, refocusing on the haggard old timers in the pictures. “They all seem to have these same photos. Perhaps there’s a company that mass produces them.”

            “I like to think they’re all unique.”

            “You may be right. I tend to be cynical, Tony. You look nice, by the way.”

            He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure she’d actually looked at him. “I’m glad you opted not to wear the tuxedo.”

            He nodded and curled his lower lip. “It was tempting, Dina, be assured. And I don’t believe you’re cynical. It’s true about the pictures. Everyone back then just looked the same. Like the last thing they needed was someone hauling out a three hundred-pound camera, asking them to pretend like they weren’t about to die.”

            Dina tapped the table and gave Billings a flirty look. “You like to be funny, don’t you?”

            “I prefer it to sullen.” Ben sat up in his chair a little. It was a little early in the night for character questions, but so be it. “Though, I can be serious. Say the word and I’ll just skip over the remaining five minutes of uninterrupted witty banter I had allocated for the evening.”

            “I think you should be yourself.”

              Ha. If only.

            “The circles I run in, the people I’m around, everyone is pretending to be something else. It’s all a work. Games. Getting over. Exhausting.”

            Billings smiled and raised his eyebrows as he feigned interest in the wine list. He’d just been presented with a classic. The Maybe They Know scenario. Pretty common in his line. Santorelli was either talking about herself earnestly or him obliquely. It was quite possible she knew exactly who he was and what he was trying to do. Someone less experienced might rattle. That is, they might show they’d been rattled. Billings was fighting the urge to pee his pants like any other warm-blooded human, but the craft held and he maintained a placid veneer. It was like playing a game of chess. A game of chess that could be stopped at any moment by a bullet to the back of the head. “Well,” Ben sighed, “let me be completely honest here. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing with these wines. Probably best that you pick.”

            “Don’t worry, Tony. I already did.”

            “Whew. That’s a relief. The pressure was killing me.” During the back and forth, his phone buzzed. “Apologies,” he said, quickly checking the text message. It wasn’t wordy, but there was a line of exclamation marks following the phrase. “Let me put this away.”

            “I doubt you let pressure get to you,” she smiled, tapping her glass lightly with a perfectly maintained fingernail. “Doesn’t seem your style. Seems like you kept your cool pretty well the other night. I thought for sure we’d end up in my bedroom. It’s been a long time since someone walked me to the door and left like a regular gentleman.”

            Santorelli leaned forward with one elbow on the little table. Billings felt her foot rising up his leg until the toe of her shoe met with his crotch. “Inappropriate?”

            “No complaints.”

            “We could go into the bathroom. Work up an appetite.”

            “Yeah.”          

            “I’m sensing some apprehension.”

            “No, not at all. Surprise, maybe. It’s just… you’re so refined. Seeing your commercials, reading about all the huge accomplishments.”

            “Doesn’t quite square with banging like a horny high-schooler in a dirty bathroom?”

            “We don’t have to do this,” he said.

            “What do you mean, Mr. Zetland?”

            He backed up his chair so her foot was out of reach. It was time to bury the charming Anthony Zetland. “You know who I am, Dina. No need to keep up the ruse.”

            The pause that followed had Ben’s stomach turning. Her oval eyes narrowed. The candlelight added an extra degree of menace to her hardening countenance. “Speaking of surprise,” she said, leaning back slightly, “I thought you’d try sticking to the act a little longer.”

            “When did you find out?” he asked, noting the not so subtle presence of three men; two by the entrance of the room and one more blocking the hallway leading to the back entrance and offices.

            “Earlier today. But after I invited you here. I won’t lie, it was a little disappointing.”

            He knew the answer to his next question, but he made a decision to let Santorelli say it anyway. “Can I ask how?”

            “Of course, I had my suspicions. Dashing man floats in to invite us to a party. Roads shut down, only one place to go. That was quite the production, by the way. You have a great deal of imagination.”

            He smiled and gave her two thumbs up. “Thanks for noticing. Not everyone does.”

            “It must’ve taken a lot of time and effort. More than they put into that famous movie of yours. The documentary was actually harder to find than you might think.”

            She was referring to an independent film made several years back about the myriad disasters that all came together to create the epic bomb that was his last feature film. A group of young film students had unearthed a repository of behind-the-scenes footage, along with interviews from some of the cast and movie executives before they’d all been made to sign non-disclosure agreements. It was uploaded to YouTube for a short time, but the studio had it taken down for copyright infringement. They also sued the documentary filmmakers into oblivion. It was an all-out campaign by Hollywood execs to eradicate Dynasty’s existence from history. Now the film was essentially impossible to find, though every now and again some kid would upload the thing. There was a guy at the studio whose sole job was to watch message boards and video sharing platforms to make sure that whenever it resurfaced it was immediately removed. He was good. And the studio paid better than the NSA. It was the reason Billings and Tabitha were able to keep their covers when pulling off a job. With Santorelli, however, it was only a matter of time before her people got a hold of it. The text he’d received moments earlier was from Davy. He’d been scouring through the security feeds at Santorelli’s house in an attempt to find out what she knew. Internet searches, phone calls, texts, meetings with her legion of subordinates. It was too much work for one person; thus, the lateness of the message. 

            “You look quite a bit different,” she sighed. “But there was something familiar about that face. My people did a background, of course, but you knew that was going to happen.”

            “I did.”

            “By you, I mean you and the woman. The one singing at the party the other night. Tabitha Johns.”

            His eye was starting to quake. Was he developing Henk’s tick? “Tabby. I call her Tabby.”

            Santorelli appeared ready to puke. “Is there a thing with you and Tabby? I’m curious.”

            “I doubt it. And, I doubt it.”

            “Maybe I really am,” she said with a dismissive look away. “It could be boredom.”

            “We’re good pals,” Billings snapped back. He might be about to die, but at least he’d go out controlling a lion’s share of the sarcasm. “Mostly I keep her around because she’s an extremely good bowler. That’s our main connection. We’re in a league and everything. This could be our year.”

            The two men near the saloon doors had walked the distance of the room and were now hovering off each of his shoulders. “Whatever petty scheme you had planned, I’m afraid it’s not going to work out.”

            Ben craned his neck back and said, “Hey fellas. How’s this go? One of you holds me down, the other breaks out the piano wire?”

            “Awfully cavalier for someone about to die.”

            “Still following in your father’s footsteps, Dina? Guess the whole mafia bit still runs through your blood.”

            “Be thankful, Mr. Billings. Ben. The old ways were a lot more brutal. We would’ve made it last for days. Taken you apart one tiny piece at a time.”

            “So all those people I walked past in the restaurant work for you? No witnesses? You thought of everything, no doubt.”

            “This has been fun, but frankly, I’m all out of time.”

            She stood up sharply and nodded. One of her men hit him with backhand across the jaw as the other pinned him down in his seat. “You might not want to kill me just yet, Dina,” he said, blood pouring from his hanging head. “Check. Your phone.”

            Santorelli held up her hand signaling her men to stop. She pulled her cell from the little purse sitting on the table and showed it Ben. The screen was blank.

            Billings blinked, but things weren’t getting any clearer. “Give it a second. You’ll want to see.”

            She pulled back the phone as a text came through from an unknown number. The message contained the phrase Hi Bitch, but the important part was a series of attached video files. “What the hell is all this? And how did you get this number?”

            “Uh, you gave me your number. I don’t know, maybe it was the champagne, but seemed like you thought I was a catch. Can you get these boys to release their claws?”

            She didn’t respond except to scroll through the files.           

            “Those were taken from the night of the party,” he said. “You were right. It was quite a production. It seems the partners on your latest venture got caught up in the all the excitement. A lot of really dirty activities on those tapes. Obviously, not the type of thing high-powered folks want out in the open.”

            “So you aim to blackmail my partners? I don’t see how that keeps you alive.”

            “I think it does. You were the one that convinced them to come over to our little affair. Scandalous stuff. Could get people looking hard into the company you keep. Plus, they may not look too kindly on you. Not the forgiving types, those folks. Though the German fella seemed like he had a winning personality.”

            “You imagine you’re the first person to try and pull this sort of thing on me? You’re a goddamned shitty actor.”

            “Was a shitty actor. I do this now. And don’t be such a critic. My Henry the 5th wasn’t all that bad. Tens of people enjoyed it.”

            “Kill him.”

            Billings held up his hands. “Wait. You’re not thinking clearly. Maybe it didn’t occur. This whole thing is being recorded.” He waved to the ceiling where Lars had placed several fiber optic cameras. “If I disappear, our dinner date goes to the press. Now check your phone again.”

            She looked down, fuming. Another message. Let him go, bitch.

            “You’re not going anywhere until I know you won’t use these against my colleagues.”

            “You don’t have a choice, Dina. And the game isn’t to ruin you. We just want a tiny piece of the action. You want your deal to go through. Your bullshit reputation. Everything your daddy and his scumbag leg breakers couldn’t quite manage.”

            “What do you know about the deal?”

            “More than would make you comfortable.”

            Another message to her phone. He’s leaving, bitch. She motioned for her men to back off.

            Billings stood up and handed the bloody napkin to one of Santorelli’s henchman. “There you go, buddy. Great use of violence, by the way.”

            “You just walk out? And then what?”

            He was seething from physical pain, but she was the one on the ropes. A little attitude and some planning had gotten the better of her. The tycoon had been outplayed by an underestimated opponent. Billings meant to let her feel the sting and leave her scratching in its aftermath.

            “Like I said, we’re not here to jam up your life. Long term, that doesn’t work for me. But now that we know where things stand, we can have one of those mutually beneficially relationships. There are people you trust that are working against you.”

            As Ben turned and walked across the room, he could feel the anger coming off Santorelli. “We’ll be in touch.”

            “When?”

            “I’ll give you a ring tomorrow. Best not to make any moves until then, tempting as it might be. For now, my face hurts. Must’ve tripped on something.”

            “This is too big, Billings. It’s out of your league.”

            “Enjoy your dinner, Dina. I hear the veal is particularly good, and I doubt you have any moral compunctions.”

Chapter 18: Angels

            The next morning, Ben woke up to find Tabitha packing. She had three large suitcases spread out on her bed. It was clear his partner was planning for a long trip. He leaned against her bedroom doorframe watching. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen this bit. “Were you going to mention that you were leaving?”

            The question didn’t even cause a stutter in her progress. Dresses followed blouses; shoes followed scarfs. She was worried, but not about stowing things in any sort of order. “We should talk, Tabs. Please look up at me for a second.”

            Again, she failed to respond.

            “There must be something you want to say to me. At least tell me where you’re going. I need to know you’re safe.”

            She mumbled safe two or three times before her emotions took over. He found himself dodging a pair of high heels just before she rounded the bed, colliding with him with a painful amount of momentum. It was all he could do to keep the two of them on their feet. Then the hands started flying. His chest became a punching bag until whatever remained of her energy was expended.

            “You are such an asshole! You get us into this, nearly get killed last night, then have the gall to talk about safety!?”

            Tabitha was desperately trying to keep it together, but a look up at his battered face pushed her fortitude beyond the brink. She leaned against his chest crying. “Yesterday I sat there watching on a screen while you almost died.”

            “But nothing happened. It went pretty good, considering.” He pulled her close, but her body didn’t settle against his.

            She wanted to hit him until he regained some sense.

            “Ben, what Santorelli said was right. This is too big. We’ll never get out alive.”

            “What about the plan? It’ll work, TJ, as long as our nerve holds.”

            “Well, you’ve got some nerve. That’s for sure.”

            “Hey,” he said, doing his best to steady her writhing. “If you run, we can’t protect each other. The whole thing crumbles. I don’t say it enough, but I’m no good without you. I’m dead. If you hadn’t texted her yesterday, I’m dead.”

            “Anyone could’ve done that.”

            “But it was you. We’re partners. Do we need to go over what happens when you skip out on a job?”

            Billings didn’t want to bring it up, but it seemed like the inevitable point he had to make. Years back Tabby had left him when a gig in Vancouver started to get too hot; he ended up finishing out the score alone. When he caught up to her a month later, she was drinking herself to death and taking pills, holed up with some abusive burnout musician in New York. The next time she bailed, things went the reverse. He couldn’t finish the play. She ended up rescuing him from the brink, promising all sorts of things to get him checked into a cocaine rehab center. Maybe they were a couple full of shit criminals, but they were way worse without each other. That much he knew.

            “I don’t want a history lesson,” she cried. “And don’t make comparisons. This is totally different.”

            He decided to give it a minute. As the tears flowed, he thought honestly about what she was saying. In the final analysis, Tabby wasn’t as emotional as him. He wasn’t witnessing the breakdown of a wilting flower; this had to do with instincts. Her instincts were saying that they weren’t going to make it through this one. Not something to take lightly.

            With her head still on his chest, he said, “You’re right, Tabs. This is totally different.”

            “Don’t play me.”

            “It’s not a play. Whenever you get around to looking at my face, you’ll be able to tell.”

            “Your stupid face.”

            “It is pretty stupid. And it hurts. That guy knocked something loose, I think.”

            Tabitha slipped out of his arms and sat down on an antique trunk at the foot of the bed. “I don’t want to die for money.”

            It was a hard thing for Ben to hear on several levels. The idea of Tabby dying was enough for him to lose it. The fact that she was so scared. That they’d ended up this way at all. They had started out with dreams and talent, but it had all turned dark. A little bad luck and a little too much spite toward the world. A world that, turns out, didn’t give a shit about their grand notions. “If I thought you were going to die, do you really think I’d be trying to stand in your way?”

            “I’m not really sure. About anything.”

            Ben stepped toward her and knelt down. “Can I tell you something?”

            “Have I ever been able to stop you? God. You’re relentless. Where does it come from?”

            “What you said about this being different. Completely true. We’re the good guys, here.”

            “Give it a rest.”

            “For real, Tabs. Everyone involved in this thing is bad. They all need to get what’s coming. For once, we’re completely on the side of the angels.”

            Her reserve of tears was gone. She wiped her cheeks and shook her head saying, “You’re kidding, right?”

            “Fine, you win. We’re thieves and scoundrels. But this… this is the con I’ve always wanted to pull. The one where we get out. The big cliché. The people that need a good dose of the short end finally get it.”

            She touched his forehead. “Your stupid face when you go for a dramatic delivery.”          

            “I apologize for my face and I wish it made you happier.”

            “Shut up.” Tabby never said it, but she loved him, foolhardy notions and drama and all. The man had the most intractable way of clinging to the hopeful edges of things. Though half the time it made her sick, it was ultimately something she admired. More than once she’d lived off of it. “We need to go over the plan before the meeting later.”

            “Are you sure?” he asked, obviously surprised by the sudden turnaround.

            “I’ll stick around, but don’t think it’s for you. I’ve got a thing for Lars.”

            He smiled and put a hand on each of her cheeks. She pulled away, but only a little. A short enough distance to make it clear his touch was desired. “Lars, huh. I was almost sure you had the hots for Davy.”

            “Nah. Turns out he’s a lousy lay. The second time was better, though.”

            “Gross.”

            “Yeah. That was gross.”

Chapter 19: All Kinds of Wrong

            Although she’d managed to stabilize herself, Tabitha still needed some time. When she insisted on going to a quaint little coffee house next to the SMU campus, Ben acquiesced right off. He told her that Senna’s man would be shadowing, now that the student was back from class. His insistence was a nonstarter and as much privacy as Johns anticipated on having. Her assent came quick; she preferred Ben being honest about the fact that he wasn’t going to let her be all the way alone. Every gig had a point where things became dangerous. They were exposed to the elements. Elements with mostly bad intentions and not a shred of propriety.

            Before she left the house, he fumbled over a few nice words. He also said, “Told the bodyguard not to stop you if you decided to go to the airport. I know you said you’re going to stick around, Tabs, but… he’ll watch you until you’re all the way through the gate, if that’s how it plays out.”

            She didn’t respond. Looked at her feet, looked at the keys hanging next to the door, closed it behind. They’d said enough that morning. After her snap decision to run and the emotional dump that followed, a few awkward kisses had been exchanged. There was something strange in them, a difference that made them pull slowly away.

            She didn’t want to think about it. An hour with a good book and a good cup of coffee, surrounded by quiet, normal people. That’s what she wanted. That’s all she wanted. After fifteen minutes, the café allowed her to slip into a better version of herself. Perhaps it was the real version of herself, though it was hard to be sure. All the roles they’d been forced to play. The false backgrounds, lies and adopted personalities. Peeling them all back would take years and a lot of sunlight. Being surrounded by quiet, normal people. Probably a lot more yoga than she currently had time for.

            That’s what she wanted. Hopefully, she’d get the chance.

            It was quiet. A tall young man with layers of thoughts behind his bright eyes and veins in his biceps walked by her table, innocent and interested. She’d seen him and many like him before at the café. Johns wondered what they were considering when they offered their looks, other than the obvious. Who is this woman? She’s not someone’s mom. Not a student. Something different. She always dressed down there, jeans and something comfortable for a top, but it was hard to hide the obvious. Dressed down wasn’t how she normally went about things.

            The book was French and fairly good. It was about two lovers in the time of the Bourbon Restoration. The story was far enough away and far enough in the past to draw her back in, even when the occasional glance made attempts for her attention.

            “How’s the coffee?”

            The question came from behind. “I thought I smelled something.”

            “Besides coffee, you mean?”

            “Obviously.”

            “Oh, but it’s so classy. And French. Like that little book you’re trying to hide in.”

            Tabitha set the book down but didn’t turn. “What do you want, Remi? I know it’s not a drink.”

            “It’s nice, the ability to remember little things like that. My aversion to coffee. One of the reasons you’re so good. The best that ever worked with me. But I’ve said that so many times.”

            “The best that ever worked for you. I’m sure that’s what you meant.”

            Dryer stood up and sat carefully at Johns’ table to her right. She kept her arms wrapped around her body, like every surface was a possible contaminate. “Don’t tell me that old tale. This is the life you chose.”

            Tabitha let out a short scoff and left it at that. No looks. No arguments. Dryer’s statement was ridiculous in the real world, but it made perfect sense in her own. That’s what being crazy did to people, and Johns was certain her former employer was barking mad. Remi wasn’t fake because the job required lies; Tabitha suspected there was nothing actual to be found, even if the layers were pulled back.

            “Are you going to ask where your watcher is?”

            It was a concern that Tabitha had planned on addressing, but she was sifting through a shitload of concerns. “Did you kill him?”

            “That’s not a very smart question. Tell me why.”

            “Here we go. I don’t want to play the student. This isn’t the place for… whatever you’re doing.” They weren’t being loud, but Dryer’s presence was drawing eyes their way. She was a beautiful woman, yes. Also, she was dressed for an opening at the Guggenheim.

            “Tell me why it wasn’t smart, and we’ll move on.”

            “Let’s see. Something about us being on the same team. Though, and it’s hard for me to imagine what an insane person thinks, it’s probably hard to commit a clean murder on a busy street on the edge of a college campus. Where there’s young people born from rich parents, there’s more questions than usual. You can’t move the body in daylight, so eventually it’d be found. The fact that you’re dressed like that means that anyone questioned about strange things happening around here would probably bring up the woman with the obvious nose job and the four-inch heels.”

            “That’s the girl I love.”

            “Well, I’m not a girl anymore. And you can’t feel love. Your biology prevents it.”

            “The guard’s fine. My Lizzie is just keeping him company. This will be quick.”

            “You’re right about that. I’m leaving.”

            “Don’t do that.” She placed something on the table. A picture, probably, but it was upside down. “You need to hear a few things. It won’t take long, my dear.

            “One damn hour. That’s all I wanted.”

            “There’s a reason I’m the way I am.”

            “We’ve all got sad stories. A few of my own, actually.”

            “The first time I had sex for money, I was fifteen.”

            “Remi, whatever this is…”

            “It wasn’t so bad, really. Compared to starving to death in a trailer in Mississippi, really quite an improvement.”

            “Can you keep it down? This isn’t Mississippi or, God knows, Hollywood. People here have a little decency.”

            “Anything for you, dear. Well, after about the fifth time, it was obvious that I had some control over these men. I was on my own. They came to me, they paid, and they behaved. Nobody was running me. It was the first time I felt stable in my life.”

            “That’s nice. God. There aren’t enough pills in the world.”

            “One day Kenny comes in. He was a regular. They all were, really. I only had eight. It was still a new operation, keep in mind. Anyway, they were always polite. Paid what was owed and left. I was in control. With him more than all the others. But that one day, it was different. He burst through that flimsy trailer door carrying a drunken anger that wouldn’t be warded off by any charms, sexual or otherwise. Most of the time they were drunk, but this was too much. They didn’t have dick pills back then, or maybe they did, but we were out in the middle of nowhere—”

            “I’m pretty sure I get it, Remi. You finally thought you had control, but then Kenny beat you up really bad and messed with your head and made you realize the control was illusory. When you finally got out of the hospital or off the floor or whatever. Maybe you remember coming to some epiphany.” Tabby leaned in closer, despite her bone-deep aversion. “But people always think that they had epiphanies when they’re looking back on life. More likely, it took a long time to sink in. What you were, what he was. How you were going to face the world. It’s stale stuff, Remi. Stale.”

            Tabitha closed her eyes and cursed herself for being so cruel, even to someone who was owed her cruelty a hundred times over. One damn hour. Five minutes ago, she’d been in France, all romance. Now this. Some sordid double-wide horror story that would give her a fresh set of nightmares to contend with the rest of her days.

            “You’re so smart, dear,” Remi said, voice calm and flat. It hadn’t gone up or down or wavered since her first word. “A few things, though, just to add to what you’ve already figured out. When I woke up, they were all there. All the men that had paid me up to that point. I bet you’re seeing it even clearer. I thought it was clever, being an all referral business. Not the case, here. When Kenny beat me to within an inch of my life, they all got scared. All of them had wives or girlfriends. Families. Positions in that shitty little community. If Kenny got in trouble, they’d all get in trouble. People would find out. But one of them, I’m not sure which, decided they’d just keep me there. The idea was to fix me up and send me out of town so no one would find out, I guess. We aren’t talking about the brightest gene pools in the world. Maybe there was some logic to it. I was young and alone, and if I didn’t have any marks, who would believe me.”

            “Remi, this really isn’t my business.”

            “In the end, I didn’t leave that trailer for something like two years. By the time I was healed, the idea to let me go had vanished into thin air. They couldn’t do anything that stupid. Then again, the trailer was set way back in the woods, on some private property a dead uncle had given to my mom before she left me to fend for myself.”

            Tabitha watched for any cracks and listened for any undulations in tone. Nothing. Dryer was looking right at her, but her heart was back there.

            “I was always bound, except to go to the bathroom. They had it so I could walk around three or four steps back and forth, until the pacing ran a bare track right down through the carpet to that rusty metal floor. I needed to be just strong enough, you see. Sometimes it was one visit a day. It could’ve been all of them or none of them. They’d have parties. I could wash, but not very well. There’s a point where you can’t tell if you stink anymore. It’s baffling to think they could do what they did through the smell, though. People are capable of the strangest things.”

            Tabitha found herself asking what happened. She couldn’t believe it, but she was asking.

            “Two men on four-wheelers wandered on the land. They must’ve been very lost. Like I said, this was way set back. It was Christmas day, I guess, and that’s deer rifle hunting season in the South Delta. Also, it meant I was alone out there in the trailer. Anyway, they called out, probably to apologize for getting lost, or maybe they were just curious. I didn’t recognize their voices, and it threw me. Of course it did. But not as much as you’d think. The fight hadn’t left. I wanted to die all that time, I suppose, but not enough to kill myself. All that time in that place, I would’ve figured it out by then. I called back. They came in and found what they found and said what they said. Oh God. Oh Lord. I didn’t mind. They were nothing like Kenny and those men. They set down their things and talked and talked and talked. It was gentle talk. I remember being amazed how gentle a person could sound, and how they knew exactly when to use that tone. The world was tilted and it was sudden, but it was obviously good. After the restraints were off and I was wearing one of their thick jackets, they started talking more. We’re gonna get you out of here. No cell phones yet, remember. They couldn’t call the cops from out in the sticks. And then the man whose jacket I was wearing. We’re gonna take care of you.

            As I said, they’d set down all their gear to attend to me, rifles and all. That phrase didn’t sit right. One of Kenny’s friends used to say that all the time while he spent his time, until it meant the same thing as pain or suffering or torture. I stood up on my wobbly feet. That caught them by surprise, because I looked weak. They stepped back. And then I picked up the closest rifle. I shot both of them dead before I could think of a reason not to.”

            “They were more of the same. It’s all you knew.”

            “There’s some truth in that. But it’s not completely true. Like I said, I understood they weren’t the same. I understood gentle. It’s hard to know how to interpret it. Not everyone would’ve pulled the trigger without saying a word. Other things could’ve happened. Sometimes I just wish I had fainted. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you’re weak and malnourished and finally saved?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Me neither.”

            “Anyway, they were dead. I wasn’t. Nobody came after them. But two of the other ones came, the next day. Happy to get free of the family. They said something about the four-wheelers outside before they came in, and I realized I’d made a mistake, not getting rid of them. They stepped in huffing and I shot them both, just like the other two. After that, the pattern repeated, only now I knew to hide the vehicles deep in the woods after I was done. Five more.

            And then Kenny came. My reason for being… what I was. I heard him coming and got outside, wearing different hats and pants and shirts and socks. This was probably a week after Christmas. I’d eaten the hunter’s food. Been warmer than usual. My mind was sharper. I let Kenny go in. The door had one of those old handles that you could padlock. I snuck up and shut him in and listened. It must’ve been an hour. Whatever he was saying, it was helping my memory. I’d said those things, but I’d forgotten until Kenny reminded me. Screaming about the stiff sheet metal covering the windows. Saying please, over and over. Clawing that door that couldn’t possibly be so tough. He had his seven dead friends in there with him. And the other two. I sat in the tall grass and the cold air, listening to my prisoner all night. He probably broke half the bones in his body trying to knock that door off.

            “Did it feel like revenge?”

            “No. I was still a long way from understanding how I was feeling. Still am. It was more perfunctory than pleasure. Maybe that’s not the word, but it’s close. This was a thing that needed doing. I’m almost sure that went through my head as I watched the flames rising.”

            “But wasn’t that torture, locking him up like that?”

            “Could be. I wasn’t thinking like that. I needed to live. He needed to die. It didn’t last the whole night, anyway. Most of them had lighters, and one of the four-wheelers had a spare gas can. It burned fast. Kenny screamed loudest at the end.”

            “Why are telling me this?” Tabitha could hardly speak. Forget nightmares. She’d never get the chance. Nightmares required the ability to sleep.

            “You’ve got the best all-around game I ever saw, Tabitha. That’s why I came here. You can deal with this information. Benjamin is wonderful on so many levels, but he tends toward sentimentality and all sorts of other things I don’t feel belong in our world.”

            “The information you just told me?”

            “No, dear. That was just something I thought you should know. If I’m crazy, which is the word you use, maybe Kenny and his friends made me that way. Or maybe it was killing those two men who were trying to help. I don’t know, and neither do you.”

            “Okay.”

            She straightened her back uncrossed her legs like she was about to leave. “I’m getting older, and you two have gotten better. I can’t help feeling like you’re going to make sure I get screwed on this deal.”

            “That’s not true.”

            She stood up, imposing as ever in her heels. “We always argue. It’s just like family.”

            Tabitha felt threats behind every syllable Dryer spoke. A chill took her and she clenched her fists to stop from shaking. “Family. God.”

            “You’re going to be straight with me from now on.” Remi nodded at the table. “Turn it over.”

            Tabitha’s big eyes grew wider as she suppressed a gasp. She was holding a picture of a famous artist, photographed many times by many people and therefore unmistakable. Ben’s mom. “What did you do?”

            “Nothing. We have her in a safe place. Untouched. If you don’t play straight with me from here, she’s gone. I have people on her all hours, all days, etc…”

            “He’ll lose it.” Tabitha was whispering and screaming all at once.

            “That’s why you don’t tell him. Or tell him. I’m not sure it matters either way.”

            “Fuuucckk. I can’t believe I fell for that story. I was actually pitying you.”

            “The story is true. But I can’t believe you fell to pity. I had you locked away. Have some self-respect. Apparently, you still need a few lessons.”

            “Fuuucckk.”

            “See you at the meeting later.”

Chapter 20: Odd Couple

            Senna Lassiter was too smart for her gilded cage, too beautiful for any man to be around and keep his head straight, and just about too rich to have any understanding of limits. Not like a normal person, or what a normal person might call normal. While most of the group set off to gather at the tower, she was being escorted by Fowler Dane to the Fort Worth Convention Center, about an hour away from Dallas in the midday traffic.

            “How do you know where he’ll be?” Senna asked, arm hooked tightly through the soldier’s.

            “I don’t, exactly. It’s a big place, but all you have to do is follow the people that look like me. The more you start seeing my type, closer you’re getting.”

            “Thanks for coming with me,” Senna said, voice softer than normal as they weaved their way against a thick herd moving toward the front doors.

            “This isn’t volunteer work, princess. We’re on the job. Please and thank you aren’t part of the SOP.”

            “Oh. So, it was Ben’s idea for you to come along. I thought maybe you actually cared.”

            “Stop.”

            “Fine. I’ll take it seriously.”

            “No. I mean, we should go in here. They’ve done a lot of work to this place over the years, but this door seems right.”

            “Wouldn’t there be someone like you guarding it if he was close by?”

            Fowler looked down at her and smirked. “Got me on that one. Let’s just get inside.”

            “So this is you improvising. I see.”

            “I’ve tracked terrorists in caves, little lady. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal.”

            “Whatever you say,” she sighed, pulling off her sunglasses and leaning into his body as they approached the service door. It was barely noticeable, between two clusters of high shrubs. Downtown Fort Worth ground central for shrubs. Someone along the way decided that enough of them might allow a person to forget that they were still in the forever-long concrete slab known as DFW.

            Fowler pulled out a lockpicking kit from his suit jacket. He hated wearing it, but Senna insisted on him looking proper. Just a few hours ago, they’d been on the verge of an argument. Billings shut it down. He had too much to deal with. And Tabby had recently come back looking like someone had given her the date and time of the apocalypse. “You two work together, and don’t be pains in my ass.”

            They were left in Ben’s old lady’s living room to work it out, watching Billing rush up the stairs.

            Senna commented about none of this being much fun. Fowler looked at her like if they stood there for a thousand years, they’d never find a thing in common. “I’ll wear a suit,” he grumbled. “But you’re paying for it.”

            She stood between the shrubs, looking perfect in a black skirt and gray top. Her appearance was dominant enough to distract anyone from paying attention to the hulking man ten feet at her back, cursing and fighting to best the stubborn lock.

            “Come on, princess,” he whispered.

            Senna smiled at a large working-class family and retreated toward Fowler’s voice and the open door. They found themselves in a dim maintenance closet, lousy with the smell of cleaning chemicals. “This is lovely,” she said, careful not to let her clothes come in contact with the metal shelves on either side. As Dane ducked down to avoid a hanging light bulb, he pulled out a large black automatic pistol and slid back the action to make sure a round was chambered. “You could’ve just told me we were avoiding the metal detectors.”

            “Yeah, I could’ve.”

            “We won’t need that.”

            “Probably not,” he said, stopping in front of the inner door and holstering his pistol. “Then again, famous last words.”

            They stepped into an empty corridor that curved slightly left along the outside of the main convention hall. “Imagine they blocked this section off. Guess we’ll just walk until we see somebody.”

            “Then what?” Senna asked.

            “Then you do whatever it is you were going to do.”

            “Ben didn’t tell you what we were coming here for?”

            “He tried. He always tries. I don’t care. I get a task, I keep it simple. In this case, it’s watch your ass.”

            “Amazing.”

            “Listen princess, I’m too old to try keeping up with that guy’s schemes. Even if he told me what we were doing, he wouldn’t be telling me everything. Don’t imagine he knows everything himself. Billings has methods, if you can call ‘em that. They’re all over the map. Somehow things tend to work out.”

            “You people are unbelievable,” she said, walking just off Fowler’s right shoulder.

            “Maybe,” he answered, moving his head right to see if anyone coming around the bend. “What do they call it, begging the question?”

            “What’s that mean?”

            “Means why’s a princess like you in the middle of this shitshow?”

            Before Senna could unburden herself, they came across two men in smart black suits standing on either side of a door. The one closest put up a hand and came toward them with short, aggressive steps, ordering a quick stop to their progress. His other hand was by his hip.

            Make yourself useful, Dane whispered.

            “Is he back here?” Senna asked with a carefree tone. “Geez, Trey, I knew we should’ve called ahead.”

            Fowler kept still and raised his eyebrows. He knew a guy named Trey in the service and didn’t much like the name. The guy was half a fag, didn’t how or when to shoot.

            “You can’t be back here. This area is closed to the public.”

            She smiled at the guard, appearing as relaxed as Trey was tense. “Oh. We’re not the public. Just call back, I’m sure he’ll want to see me before the big speech. This is so exciting, isn’t it?” Senna looked up at Dane, nodding at a high enough tempo to signal him to nod back.

            “No guests are scheduled to see the senator,” said the guard. Fowler could see he was in command, though not without a hint of nerves. Probably a recent hire from a local security firm. He wasn’t completely sure what to do, Fowler thought. Not as imperious as one of those Secret Service pussies. 

            Senna sidled up against Dane and did a wiggling thing that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. He tried smiling but stopped short, figuring it would come off as ridiculous as he felt.

            “I’ve been to these things before,” she said, adopting a more serious tone. “Talk into your little radio and tell whoever he’s with that Senna Lassiter is here to say hello. Tell her Bob Lassiter would just be so grateful.”

            “He’s speaking…”

            “He doesn’t go on for a half hour,” she said. “I’ve known him my whole life. Trey, don’t you think he’d be upset to know we were standing in this silly hallway for no reason?”

            “Oh, hell yeah. Real upset.” Fowler could see that although the guard hadn’t moved an inch, he was in full retreat. Young Ms. Lassiter was proving to be a damn good surprise.

            The guard summoned his partner over and whispered something with irritation before returning his attention back to Senna with a forced smile. It took all of thirty seconds before they found themselves ushered into a small conference room the politician’s retinue had carved out as an area to prepare for the address. “Little Nana,” he said, stretching out her name affectionately and lowering his posture, holding out his arms like a man returning from years in captivity.  

            “Uncle Kent.” She hurried in his direction and gave herself over completely to the embrace. “It’s been ages.”

            The longtime senator ordered his staff out with two words and a curt nod of the head. Fowler noticed that no one gave the slightest hint of protest, extricating themselves as quietly and efficiently as possible. His operation was oiled. Years of practice. Dane stood with his hands in pockets, looking straight into Kent Durham’s pale blue eyes.

            “Who’s your friend?” he asked, releasing Senna from his grasp.

            “That’s Trey. We’re dating. It’s off and on, whatever, but he really wanted to meet you. It was his idea to come today. Daddy doesn’t know I’m here. You know him, he thinks I’m a bother.”

            The politician touched Senna on the shoulder as he walked over to Fowler with an outstretched hand. “Dating, huh. Well. Howdy, Trey. Kent Durham. I’m glad you convinced our girl to come. She’s like one of my own. I could tell you some stories.”

            Dane met the senator’s hand with a vicelike grip. “Senator Durham. It’s a pleasure. I’m sorry about barging in like this.”

            “Nonsense,” he answered, trying in vain to hide his relief when Fowler finally let go. “It feels like we’ve met.”

            “I think I would’ve remembered, sir.” The retired soldier was lying. They had met, many years ago at a medal ceremony where Dane had received more than a few commendations and accepted many more on behalf of fallen brothers. He had nothing but contempt for the senator back then; a shitbird perpetual yes vote for every pointless incursion the military found itself in. Another man of principle who’d never served a day but was more than happy to send men made of infinitely better stuff to die attempting to solve insoluble problems in places they had no good reason to be. Over time, Fowler learned to forget about assholes like Durham. Or so he’d thought. 

            He smiled unconvincingly. “Well, suppose it’s the cost of doing the peoples’ business. So many faces.” He did an about-face toward Senna. “I was going to call your daddy while I was down here, but there’s not a lot of time for catching up.”

            She waved dismissively. “Of course not. Reelection season. He understands.”

            Durham sat down in a simple padded cloth chair and cinched up his tie. 

            “I wish I had more time to talk. Ruthie will be jealous when I tell her I saw you.”

            “That’s sweet. Give Mrs. Durham my love.” Senna reached into her little purse and set down two items on the long table next to the politician.

            “What’s that you’ve got?” he asked, smiling up at her. “You bring me a present, Nana?”

            She answered his smile with one of her own. “Not exactly, Uncle Kent. The mini tablet there has some video files on it. Friends of yours from different countries talking about one or two business deals some in the press might call nefarious. Do they still call it graft? Such an old-fashioned term, but anyway. Some fancy train scheme, something like that. But what do I know?”

            Durham yanked the knot of his tie back down as he rose up on his wingtips.

            “The other’s a phone,” Senna said, undeterred by her “uncle’s” seething demeanor. “You’ll want to answer it when it rings.”

            He laughed mockingly and flashed a contemptuous look at Fowler. “Blockhead. Are you behind this bullshit? What is this man making you do, Senna?”

            Fowler shrugged his massive shoulders. “I’m not running the show here. She doesn’t tell me anything, but from what I gather, you’re the one behind the bullshit. About what I expect from a chicken-hawk. Fuckin’ pussy. Nice suspenders, by the way. Fuck.”

            “I’m calling my security. They’ll take care of this.”

            “Please do,” Dane said, crossing his arms. “Pretty please.”

            While the two men exchanged visual daggers, Senna stepped back toward Fowler. “Boys, I think it’s best we calm down.”

            “I don’t understand, Senna.”

            “Watch the video. I’d do it in private. I have a feeling you’ll agree that great big bill of yours is dead.”

            “I can’t do that.”

            “You’re right. Not yet. Keep that phone on you. Until then, act like everything is smooth sailing.” She giggled. “Look at me, so silly, giving advice. You’re the politician.”

            “It’s not that simple. I can’t just turn national legislation on and off like a tap.”

            “I hope you’re wrong,” she said, returning to Fowler’s arm. “Otherwise, you might as well cancel the rest of your speeches. Constitutional Law isn’t my best class, but I’m almost positive it’s darn near impossible to hold your seat from behind bars.”

            “Senna! Come back here, dammit!”

            Fowler waved as they made for the door. He felt proud to escort the woman who’d just sent Durham into sweaty convulsions. “Later, jerkoff.”

            Senna walked down the corridor light as a feather. “Now that was fun.”

Chapter 21: Assassins are Assholes

            “Who do we know that kills people?” It was Billings’ third time asking. Little Davy and little Lars were sitting inches from each other on the living room sofa as he paced across the length of the hearth. Fowler and Senna were posing near the stairs with bent faces. Tabitha had her arms crossed and clenched to her body, sitting on a windowsill away from the group, head down as her partner lobbed one more plea. “Is anyone going to answer me? This is my mom, people.”

            Thirty minutes prior, Ben’s spirits were high. Senna couldn’t have done a better job with the Senator. The politician was scared and confused, perfectly placed to do their bidding.

            Half an hour, and now this. Tabby had returned and taken a scythe to his growing positivity. She watched him call his mother in vain, even with the picture wobbling between his thumb and forefinger. Every member of the group took a shot at calming him down, but Tabby told them to let it run its course.

            The one now pacing and talking about killing was the calm version. “Do any of you assholes know someone that just kills people? All other questions and comments can be tabled for the moment.”

            “Your poor mama,” Lars offered, palms flat to each other, fingertips in his mustache, the perfect Italian supplicant’s pose. 

            Billings stopped pacing and snapped his fingers. “Not helpful.”

            “You and the moms tight with your shiz?” Davy asked, hands stuffed into the pockets of a skin-tight pleather jacket riddled with metallic diagonal zippers. His torso looked like it had been reassembled by a mad scientist with intentions over the power of life.

            “She’s the light of my life,” Ben answered, hands digging into his shaggy scalp. “Has anyone heard me?”

            “Just waiting for you to start thinking like yourself, chief.” Fowler shrugged his shoulders and leaned against the steep bannister flanking the staircase. Senna touched the former special forces operator’s tattooed arm gently, an instinctive warning that too much medicine served the same as poison.

            “Well thanks, Dane. This entire gig, you’re a contrarian at best. Now that there’s been an abduction, steady as she goes. It’s perfect.”

            “So, you’re like talking straight assassin type shiz, right Daddy B?”

            Ben made a face like it was Christmas morning. “Yes, Davy getting the ball rolling! Finally, a word I want to hear. Assassin. How many do we know?”

            “From where I come, these are many. It is one of the stereotypes that is insulting, but also that has trueness.”

            “Good.”

            “Napoli alone I can think of three or four dozen easy, just in same one part of town.”
            “One is all we need. Well. Maybe two. Okay. So how we get in touch with one?”

            “This would be a hard thing for me to make do.”

            “You just said ‘many.’”

            “Yes, but I tried to not be around those so much. I’m not sure of the words that explain.”

            “I gotcha, Larsio,” Davy interjected, patting his couch companion on the knee.  “Assassins are persona non grata at any table worth grubbing. We’ve all heard the stories. They ain’t the good kind of bad, Big Ben.”

            Billings looked over at his partner. “Who was that guy out in Hollywood… he was like a ghost story, but not. He was real enough. He’d show up at parties every now and then sitting in corners, sipping seltzer. Everyone knew what he was, but he just did his thing. The whole town was fascinated with him. Strange sort of embrace.”

            Tabitha’s head fell at the mention. She spoke through her hair. “Grange Little.”

            “Yes.” Another snap of the fingers. “Grange Little. He wasn’t much older than us. Probably still in good shape. I bet we can get him to come here, get Remi and her attack dog. Take them out, or down. Whatever they call it.”

            Dane laughed disdainfully. “If you call Strange Grange Little, I’m out.”

            Tabby pulled her hair back but continued to look down. “Take it easy, Fowler.”

            He wasn’t budging, and he was miles away from caring about tact. “Serious. If you enlist that freak or anyone even slightly like him, I’m AWOL.”

            “What are you talking about?” Billings shouted, arms spread wide. “We’ve got a situation.”

            “I appreciate what’s going on, but God help me, I’ve got to agree with monkey one and monkey two over there. Assassins are shit. The absolute worst. And the only reason those freaks in Hollywood were fascinated with frigging Strange Grange—that place is straight up evil.”

            “Says the stuntman who knows everything now.”

            “I don’t even know what that means—goddamn hotshot. I was out there for a lot of years after y’all started doing jobs. Hollywood’s a shit town with shit people. Half of them probably had someone knocked off by Strange Grange. Probably some poor actress off the bus or a junior executive getting in the way of production. Maybe a waiter made their food wrong. Bunch of weirdoes, so no telling.”

            “Very judgmental all of a sudden.”

            “Nothin’ sudden about it.”

            “Hollywood has actual assassins?” Senna asked. “That wasn’t on the tour.”

            “There’s a few,” Dane answered, lowering his voice to answer her. “Sounds weird, but there it is.”

            Davy looked back at Fowler. “Just wanting to say, props to the soldier for taking up with me and the Lars. All that was straight fire. And right on.”

            “I’m having a hard time with this,” Ben said.

            “What?” Tabitha asked, barely a whisper.

            “This stigma against hit men. Where did it start?”

            “It started because all they do… all they do is kill people,” Fowler answered. “Once you bring them in, might as well say the job’s scrapped. You hire one of these clowns and you’ll never see your mom again, bottom line. They are assholes.”

            “Yes, Mr. Ben. I must be agreeing. The same is said in my country. They are assholes. No one likes these people.”

            Billings dismissed Lars with a waving hand, resulting in a look of red dejection from the Italian as he shrunk back into the cushions. “I’d do anything for any one of you if someone had your family. And Dane, what a load of shit. A lecture about assassins from an assassin. You’ve killed more people than the Spanish Flu.”

            “I was a soldier. It’s different. Even with that said, you want to go on the limb saying I’m the most stable son of a bitch ‘round?”

            A thick silence followed as Billings took stock of his team. The room was clearly set against him. Below layers of belligerence and reactivity, he knew they were right. He could be a lot of things to a lot of people, but hiring out contract killers was not in his repertoire. This baseline self-awareness was all well and good, but it didn’t help him get back his mother. How did I not see this coming? He took another look at the picture and had to lean against the stone mantel over the fireplace, fighting involuntary mechanisms telling his body to vomit. You always knew this could happen. You just didn’t care.

            The team watched as he gathered himself and returned his attention to the matter, eyes tearful from the overcharged emotions and stifled retching. “Well, class, this is where you give me some hope…”

            “We’ll get her back,” Tabitha said, standing up from the windowsill. “I have a few ideas.” She knew Ben well enough to see he was on the one-yard line before cracking in half. “You’re going to need more patience than you think you’ve got, but she’s going to be okay.”

            Fowler stepped into the middle of the room. “What are you thinking, TJ?”

            “I’m thinking it starts with the pet.”

            “Lizzie Halsey?” Senna asked, moving forward. For now, at least, her place seemed to be next to the soldier. “What do you mean?”

            “I mean she’s following us, so we follow her. Scoop her up and get some leverage.”

            “That psycho would never talk,” Ben said. “Remi’s like her religion.”

            “True, but if we get Lizzie, I bet that puts our Ms. Dryer in a tough spot. When’s the last time you saw her alone? It doesn’t happen.”

            Ben was starting to run some plans through his head. It was dangerous, dealing with someone as feral and tenacious as Lizzie Halsey, but maybe Tabitha was onto something.

            “I can handle her,” Dane said, rubbing the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other. “Just need the plan. And no, Billings, I won’t take chances on account of her being a little girl.”

            Ben was beginning to stand straighter. He set the picture on the mantel and vowed never to look at it again. It clouded his ability to think ahead and planning ahead was all.

            “Another thing,” said Tabby, “I think maybe it’s time to see about that wedge we’ve been driving between Henk and Remi.”

            “It’s early,” Ben said.

            “Better too early than too late.” Tabitha didn’t mean to make it sound so final, but Billings seemed to take it on the chin. He nodded and put his hands down the pockets of his chinos, conscious he was already close to breaking his vow of returning to the photo. He’d always been at odds with his mother in person, but the woman pictured in restraints was absolved of all wrongs. She was his obligation. He was sworn to protect her. Whether or not she’d ever protected him, Billings could figure out another day.

            “So how do you want to play Henk?” Ben asked Tabby.

            She started going over her initial ideas but was interrupted by the doorbell. It was sad sounding and fell off halfway through its ring; one of the many things Billings had sworn Widow Harwood he’d fix on the house.

            Tabby stopped talking as each member of the group expressed their tension in similar immobilizing ways. All but Fowler. He walked with confidence to the door as the bell continued to ring and crap out.

            “I can fix this problem,” Lars whispered, tapping his ear.

            Ben had moved back, unconsciously placing himself between Tabby and the door. “Who is it?”

            Fowler turned, pulling out a large black pistol from the small of his back. “Y’all relax, now. It’s your golfer. He looks alone. And scared.”

            “That timing’s weird,” Tabby said, moving by Billings and motioning for Dane to lower his weapon.

            She opened the door freely, with a smile, as if it was just another day in the idyllic Dallas suburbs and she was a housewife expecting her daily cache from the Amazon guy. “Hello, Evan. How have you been?”

            “That’s funny,” he said, squeezing his thick frame by her with his head down. He was being moved by some force, but it wasn’t enough to keep him going past the immovable object that was Fowler Dane.

            “Easy there, little fella.”

            “Billings, get this thing out of my way!”

            “Evan,” Ben said, voice full of condescension, “what’s got you so flustered?” Considering the pressure he was under, it wasn’t easy for Billings to slip back into his role as Henk’s unflappable superior.

            “I can’t do this anymore. I’ve been keeping it to myself. I’ve been keeping it from Remi. Why does this happen to me? I don’t deserve to be treated this way. It’s because I’m actually involved in the community. Outreach. Charities. I attend functions, shake hands, give my time. You people have no idea what I’ve brought to the table. Remi has no idea. Oh… it’s racial. It’s always racial. Those smug FBI bastards think they can get the best of me. People of color. They have no idea who they’re dealing with, hahahmm.”

            Tabitha looked at her partner and cleared her throat. “Evan, why don’t you sit down and tell us what’s going on.”

            The little man was wearing a running jacket with four pockets. As he zipped and unzipped, apparently looking for something, he mugged at the group gathered in the living room. “It should be you people, dealing with this,” he seethed. As he finished the statement, he pulled out a card and handed it to Tabby with a trembling hand.

            From the couch, Davy commented: “Hey bro stuff, your eye thing is on the fritz sauce. You want maybe some napkin action?”

            “Why is this weird person speaking?”

            “Easy, Evan.” Billings took the card from Tabby and put a hand on the crook’s meaty shoulder. It was steamy flesh, moving up and down like he’d just finished a sprint. “Davy’s just trying to be nice. Now… who’s Agent Lita Salcedo?” Ben bit his lower lip worriedly as he waited on Henk’s rejoinder.

            “You can read. She’s out to get Remi. Or her boss is. I got my second visit today.”

            “And we’re hearing about it now?” Tabitha asked. The question sent Henk back a step and snapped everyone in the room a little more awake. It was rare to hear Johns conscript such a hot tone. “You’re a stupid little man.”

            Ben held Henk in place and asked for more of an explanation.

            “She’s just a kid. I didn’t think it was more than poking around, but it’s hard to be sure.” He puffed out his chest. “You can go to hell, Tabitha. As if you guys tell me everything. Wouldn’t that be something, hahahmm?”

            Billings made himself an impediment between the two. “We’re in the middle of job.”

            “So?”

            “You might have an FBI tail?”

            “What’s your point, actor man?”

            “Instead of picking up a burner phone, you come over here. If the feds are watching, now they have this house and everyone in it.”

            Beads of sweat formed on Henk’s bald head with a quickness that seemed impossible. The godlike power of embarrassment in full force. “No. I wasn’t. No one followed me.”

            “Fowler,” Billings said, turning away from their guest, “mind checking him?”

            “Yeah. I was ‘bout to get there.”

            As Dane threw Henk up against a wall and patted him down with the extreme attention to detail, Ben whispered to Tabby and held out the card so she could see. “This isn’t good.”

            “No,” she said, squinting at first and then fully closing her eyes. “It’s not good.”

            In the background, Henk was braying, “How dare you manhandle me!”

            Tabby whispered, “He’s stupid but probably not stupid enough to wear a wire over here.”

            “Yeah, but there’s that thing about taking pleasure in the discomfort of others. You should watch this.”

            She whispered again, “That’s sick, Ben. You say sick things sometimes and I assume you think you’re being funny. Really, it’s just dark.”

            “What could I possibly be hiding up there!”

            “Admit it, Tabs. A few seconds to laugh, even if it’s on the inside.”

            She opened her eyes and gave him a light elbow. “Yeah, it’s pretty hilarious.” After a little smile, she walked to the wall. “Thorough job, Fowler.”

            “I thought so,” grunted the big man, taking proud and heavy steps toward the bathroom near the kitchen to wash his hands.

            Tabitha leaned over with crossed arms to meet Henk at eye level. “We’re all here, Evan. The whole crew. You heard Ben. Tell us more about Agent Lita Salcedo.”

Chapter 22: The Helm and the Overl0rd

            “Lamentably dim. Damn boomers.” He ended the call and pushed off the floor with the toe of his vintage Puma’s, swiveling back to the primary keyboard. The workstation was an artful example of controlled chaos, roughly shaped like a horseshoe—the lone operator at its center knew precisely where everything was and why it was there. Guests might think him lacking organizational acumen.

            Not that anybody had ever seen his helm, save one. Besides his precious, nobody even knew it was a HELM. He started using that name several years ago, and with no one to object, he kept on using it. One of the perks of cordoning off a large chunk of life.           

            He used three large monitors to do his work, but the one set off to his left was primarily enlisted in the service of online arguments. He was currently posting biting comments in a contentious thread about crypto-currencies and whether or not they were “the real.”

            “Dim,” he said, typing furiously while looking at the FBI’s ridiculously unsophisticated website. “I’m surrounded by low lights. Of course. Bitcoin is bullshit, even if it’s not.”

            Overl0rd2050: Stop being such a moron. The Fed will only allow your precious crypto to get so big. Just big enough for dummies to keep buying in. Oh, yeah… the banking cartel leviathan that runs the planet is going to cede control of the entire world order to a decentralized bunch of muscle-atrophied posers that worship at the altar of binary. No frigging way.

            Y0uSuckSF16: Maybe things would change if people like you would hop on the crazy train, Overl0rd. The community needs you.

            Overl0rd2050: There is no community. There will never be a community. I’ve done the numbers. Make real money. Yes, it’s fake. But make it. Enjoy it until the inevitable, magnificent end. And get laid. You’d love it.

            Y0uSuckSF16: You’re not Nostradamus. The world isn’t ending.

            Overl0rd2050: Keep telling yourself that. GO AHEAD. Have some kids. They need more witnesses for Armageddon. Wake up, and Y0uSuck. 

            He closed the thread and turned his attention back to the FBI. “Ben Billings,” he mumbled, committing a number of agent profiles to memory. The fact that they all had similarly bad haircuts and dressed exactly the same made separating and storing the information in his brain a degree harder than he liked. “The great Ben Billings,” he mumbled, this time with mockery and disdain dripping off each syllable. He didn’t favor working with such a motley group of weirdoes, but Davy Lucas had a strange likeability, different and more innocent than the lion’s share of vulgar miscreants he was forced to interact with. Even with Davy’s affable weirdness it still took a considerable amount of back and forth on the “other” web and a lot of flattery. Billings could sell a person something, no denying. They had paid upfront. He had to give them that. And the back end—if they pulled it off, holy shit.

            He heard a knock on the door and swiveled around in his chair, arms open. “You may enter.”

            “Hey, baby. I brought you a snack. You’re working too hard.”

            “There’s the light,” he said, loosening his expression while he watched her across the room, carrying a plate of apples slices and peanut butter. She always knew what he needed when he was allowing the idiots to upset his equilibrium, be it succor or salvation.

            “You’re the best wife in the whole wide world,” he said, grabbing the plate with one hand and using the other to grip her waist as she used his thigh as a bench. Four years of marriage and she hadn’t gained a single pound. Hadn’t lost one. He still had what he’d paid for, and what better deal was there. “I’m too lucky.”

            “Cecil. I can feel that. Not right now. I just got all ready for the day.”

            “What? Can’t a hardworking guy get horny for his woman anymore? What happened to this society?”

            “My mother always said you were incorrigible. ‘Cecil Dunes is incorrigible,’ she said. Your woman?”

            “Damn right, mine. And I don’t know if I believe that story. I think your mom likes me and perhaps has ulterior motives. Wants me for herself. A story as old as time.”

            “I think I’m going to leave. Your brain is obviously low on blood flow and oxygen.”

            She got up and flashed a playful smile over her toned shoulder before closing the door. “I love you, Letty!” he yelled, rotating in his chair like a kid. She was a great wife. Perfectly moral, but not in the way most people would imagine. She was perfectly moral for him. A really wonderful person who was able to ask a very limited amount of questions. He knew that she knew he did more than tweak operating systems for Silicon Valley firms from their comfy three-story brownstone in Manhattan, but she was polite enough not to ask too many questions.

            “Love you too!”

            Sometimes things just worked out. Cecil believed this in his heart, all the while believing in the impending apocalypse. 2050 would be the year Earth finally got its ticket punched. He’d run the numbers using an equation that factored in world economic fluctuations, arms buildups, plus the rampant speed of technological growth.

            Just to name a few variables.

            Despite being just shy of thirty, he was fairly confident that his dire prognostication was the culminating result of cold intellect combined with a healthy amount of experience. He broke from the monitors for a second and enjoyed his snack, looking at a little wooden placard he once made in middle-school shop class. It read, You’re Fucked Until You Find Out Otherwise.

            He could still remember Mr. Bill the teacher laughing. He was the only teacher Cecil ever had who wasn’t a complete idiot.

            “Okay, Billings,” he said, blowing by gnarly government encryptions in a way that would never lead back. That was Cecil’s gift. His art. A lot of dimwits could break down doors; very few could do it without anyone ever knowing it happened. “Dealing with some heavy hitters, actor man.”

            Having just spoken to the guy for the first time, he put their odds of moderate success at 50/50. Total success was too much to hope for, though total failure seemed improbable. It was hard to know. Though he’d done some work for serious con artists in the past, it was never ongoing. This sort of continuous consultation was virgin territory for Overl0rd2050.

            No big deal. He was insulated. He was smarter than everyone. He had his Letty and his apples and his plans to live it up until the Day of Days. “Let’s see where they’re hiding you,” he said, eyes wide and fingers moving steady. He was finding his rhythm.

            There was a lot to do, and he’d already promised Letty that they were going to the movies later. She loved her romantic comedies. “Here we go…”

Chapter 23: Sacrifice

            Dina Santorelli didn’t like the position she was currently occupying. TrajanCorp hadn’t grown into one of the planet’s greatest global concerns by acquiescing to the likes of Benjamin Billings.

            And yet.

            Here she was, listening to him tell her how things were going to go. She argued with herself about his low calm voice, unsure how to characterize the tone. It was either condescension or respect, but there was no point in asking. The man lied. His entire existence was held together with bullshit.

            Santorelli didn’t consider herself an angel, but at least she had the decency to let her enemies know who they were dealing with. There was honor in conquering a foe. Dignity. Plots and fabrications were void of dignity.

            She nodded her head. Knowing who she was and who Billings was, why did she still find him so attractive? Was it the pure idiotic gall? Perhaps it was the fact that it had been a long time since a man had really challenged her. He was handsome in a disheveled I just got back from the beach and will be going back soon sort of way. Also, there was a strange ironic innocence wrapped up in his endemic mischievousness.

            Dina couldn’t pin it down, but she wanted him. And then, of course, she wanted him dead.

            “Do you think we could get Senator Durham to look into this FBI agent’s boss? I want to know why Remi Dryer is so important to him.”

            Santorelli didn’t respond at first. She was distracted and unmoored by their surroundings. Billings had called a few hours earlier and set up the meeting. It was an open park in the middle of the fancy neighborhood near the SMU campus. Some kids were playing on swings and various other squeaky contraptions. Parents hovered around in groups of two’s and three’s drinking overpriced insipid coffee wearing overpriced insipid clothes. “The senator…”

            Ben scooted sideways on the lacquered wooden bench they were sharing. “I really need you to pay attention.”

            “I am paying attention. And don’t get any closer. I don’t care where we are. I’ll have my men come over and kill every person here just to kill you and make sure there are no witnesses.”

            “That’s not even reasonable.” He scooted back to his original position and looked at the children running around the playground with total abandon. “Did you ever want any?”

            “You mean kids?”

            “That’s what I mean. You can tell me. Just because you tried to have me murdered the last time we saw each other doesn’t mean we can’t discuss the things that matter most.”

            “What are you, Benjamin? I suppose you don’t have any idea, so it’s a pointless exercise.”

            Billings was picking up on a touch of listlessness from the billionaire. He could roll through all kinds of adversity, but he needed the people around him sharp. Despite the need to get Santorelli back on the tracks, he decided to withdraw a bit and simply answer her question. “Maybe it is a pointless exercise, but I’ve been trying all my life. Could be that I was drawn to acting and writing because I thought the answer to who I was could be found in assuming the roles of who I wasn’t. It’s something like that, perhaps.”

            “God that is crap. It’s total—crap.”

            “Well, here we are. And I need you to press Kent Durham to push the feds into giving up that information.”

            “Fine,” said Santorelli, crossing her leg. She was wearing a black fur coat and knee-high black boots with thick two-inch heels. It crossed her mind to bury one of them into Billings’ crotch, but she thought it best to wait. “I’ll take care of it. The man’s like paper right now, anyway. What did you people do to him?”

            Ben smiled slightly and shrugged his shoulders.

            “You enjoy all this. You take pleasure in the games. Is it making your own luck? Sort of a middle finger to the luck you never got gifted?”

            “That’s not bad,” said Billings. “Maybe you should’ve been a therapist.”

            “I read people well. Or at least I thought I did.”

            “You still do.”

            “What about you?” Santorelli asked, deflecting the compliment outright. “Do you want kids?”

            “Five years ago, I would’ve told you no. Now, not so sure.”

            “So that’s a yes. And you want to have them with your sweet Tabitha.”

            Ben crossed his legs interlaced his fingers, adopting a more relaxed posture. “Think maybe you’re getting a bad read with that one.”

            “You’re in love. It’s actually disappointing.”

            “I’m not.”

            “You are. And you’re blushing. Unless this is another part of your scheme. There’s always that possibility.”

            “I do love her.” Billings said it hard and straight, feeling odd to be free of pretense if even for a moment. “Since the first day we met. I imagine I’ll die feeling the exact same way.”

            Santorelli smiled cagily. “Makes for a complicated existence, I’m sure.”

            He nodded and shrugged, like it was just one of those things and they were just a couple of regular people at the park.

            “It’s getting too chilly. The plan’s been heard. I think I want you to follow me back to the car and screw me in the backseat.”

            “Funny.”

            “Which part in particular?”

            Billings didn’t know what say, so he didn’t.

            “Don’t look so defeated. Am I that unattractive?”

            “Of course not,” he said, trying not to swallow his tongue. He couldn’t guess at Santorelli’s motives. He’d of given anything to look into her big dark eyes, but no luck there. They were completely obscured by gold-trimmed sunglasses.

            “Well, let’s get moving.”

            “We can’t. I can’t.”

            “I’m getting bored,” she said.

            “I was sort of picking up on that.”

            “Let’s see. You want me to manipulate some of the most powerful businessmen in the world in the coming days.”

            “True.”

            “Sell them out, putting my reputation and the future of my company in possible jeopardy.”

            “Kind of true.”

            “And let’s not forget the manipulation of foreign and domestic members of government.”

            “Let’s not forget. Because that would really make the whole plan go up in smoke.”

            “Still with the jokes.”

            “I’m trying to quit.”

            “If I’m going to do all that, I think I should get rewarded.”

            “You’re getting half. It’s a crap ton of money. More than you would’ve gotten otherwise. We already agreed.”

            “You’ve never heard of a sweetener?”

            “Sex in the back of a car doesn’t sound sweet. It sounds sorta dirty and classless. Not a label I’d pin on you, Dina. You’re dirty, of course, but with a classy sheen.”

            “Call it a statement,” Santorelli said, “or a sacrifice. A gesture of commitment. I’m offering more than my share on the altar.”

            He waited and watched her face, feeling like she might remove the glasses. No such luck. “You’re actually serious with this, aren’t you?”           

            “Not all of us are such gifted humorists.”

            “That—was actually—funny, in a way.”

            Santorelli stood up and tightened her coat to her slender body. “These children never shut up.” She held out her hand. “Let’s go, Benjamin.”

            Billings was calculating the costs as he stood and followed her across the park to her car. When the door closed and it was only the two of them in the back, he was still calculating, though it was just an exercise in distraction. He knew the cost. As Dina climbed on top he tried in vain to strike Tabby out of his mind.

Chapter 24: The Arbiter and Doors

            “Hey. You told me no assassins. ‘Assassins are assholes, assassins are assholes.’ I took your frigging advice. The Arbiter is the only way to make this thing work. There’s too much bad blood and too much money changing hands. Who else handles this kind of thing? Who would even know who to?”

            Billings was addressing Dane, Senna, and Tabitha. They were leaning against a chest-high barrier, watching from a safe distance as Lars and Davy fought a field of teenagers for supremacy on a circuitous high speed indoor go-kart track. It was the biggest venue in the world of its kind, packed with plenty of upper-class families watching as their privileged adolescents burned through cash and fuel on a good-time suburban Saturday. Ben’s idea to do a little unwinding, pressure mounting as it was. Watching little Lars weaving through traffic with calculated fluidity, he couldn’t help but itch for a turn. Anything would be preferable to talking about the job. His mouth still felt infected with the taste of Bella Medina Santorelli.

            “I’m needing the lowdown on this dude,” Fowler said, smirking in Davy’s direction roughly fifty yards away. He was currently in last place behind a sixty-pound girl. “The Arbiter?” Dane continued. “What’s his real name?”

            “Yeah, what do you know about him?” asked Senna. Ben thought it was nice to see her and Dane bonding, but it was also annoying. More often than not, it seemed she was simply parroting the soldier. Billings consumed a breath and tried to think of the bright side; too much individuality, especially from the least experienced person on the team, could be a detriment.

            “No one knows his name,” Tabitha said, taking a bite from a vanilla cone. “That’s part of the reason he can operate the way he does. By staying so opaque, it’s hard to find leverage.”

            “No leverage makes him a hard mark to bribe or coerce,” said Senna, nodding through the thought process.

            Tabby winked. “You’re getting there, little sister.”

            “How is that even possible?” Fowler asked, turning away from the race. A group of clumsy teenagers were coming their way, laughing as they clutched their cell phones. One glance at Dane and they shut up and instinctively broke off like a school of fish fleeing a killer whale. “Telling me this dude brokers serious shit for serious people, and no one gets wind of even a piece of his history? Hard to believe.”

            “I know,” said Billings. “If I’m being honest, the idea of the guy sort of scares me.”

            “Don’t,” Tabby said with admonishment. Doubt from Ben wasn’t going to do the rest any good.

            “Well,” Senna said, sensing Billings’ trepidation and Johns’ desire to hide it, “now we have to know the goods.”

            “Fine. But it’s all rumor and legend. I’m pretty sure he’s just a really private guy living like a monk on some remote island.”

            “What’s the other story?” Fowler followed.

            “He was betrayed by his business partner. They say he was in the diamond trade, but that’s tangential. Somehow this partner got it in his mind to cut out The Arbiter. Killed his wife and kids. His mom. All the people that worked for him. He wound up surviving, but just barely. Word is, he’s not much to look at.”

            “This sounds lovely,” Senna smirked.

            “So after he got his revenge, he vowed never to work with anyone else again. Became a hermit or some such. He comes up for air on rare special occasions to facilitate, then disappears back into the mist. Takes a good percentage, then adios.”

            “I’m gonna spare myself the details of how he got his revenge,” Fowler said.

            “Probably for the best,” Billings answered. “Most likely myth, anyway. Could be he’s just got a knack for privacy and a good reputation with the criminal wing of the Better Business Bureau.”

            “How do you even know about this guy?”

            “Davy’s been on the outside of some deals The Arbiter closed. He made the suggestion, I took it to Santorelli. She agreed. There’s going to be too many egos in one place for anyone that doesn’t have a massive rep. The Arbiter’s rep, apocryphal or real, is massive.”

            “So it went okay with Santorelli?” Fowler asked. “Figured she might snatch your balls.”

            “Nah, I was never in any danger with her.”

            The soldier opened his narrow eyes as wide as they’d go. “Billings, the last time you two were alone she ordered a couple of meatheads to piano wire your pretty neck.”

            “That was just fencing,” Ben smiled sheepishly as he scratched the stubble underneath his jaws, wanting to get as far away from the subject as possible. He hadn’t talked to Tabby since his latest engagement with Dina. Not really. “Wow, look at that,” he said, pointing out to the track while average families and unremarkable groups of friends continued to pass by their spot on the fence. “Davy’s making a push for second to last.”

            Even though the building was roughly the size of two 747 hangers, there was still a great deal of noise and distraction, making it hard to notice the young woman who’d slipped up next to them on the fence. “Hey everyone,” she said, stepping back and putting her hands on her hips. “It’s no good coming to loud places if an FBI agent can sidle up and press the record button. Sloppy stuff from a crew with your pedigree.”

            “You’re pretty slick,” Billings said, “but we knew you were right there.” He did his best to conceal the lie. “Though you are more petite than I pictured. Nice to meet you, special agent.”

            “I didn’t notice her,” Fowler said, red-faced at having a cop privy to what was supposed to be a guarded conversation. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

            “Was any of that stuff about The Arbiter true?” asked Lita Salcedo. She was full-faced and pretty, but there was something behind her big brown eyes that told you it would take a great deal to make them light up. “Sounds pretty much the same as the rumors I’ve heard. He’s on the other most wanted.”

            “Other?” Billings asked, holding up a hand to steady the groups nerves.

            “Yeah, we have a top ten for suspects that don’t actually exist.”

            “I get it.” Billings was red in the face as he held up a hand.

            “You know,” she continued, “you got your Loch Ness Monster, the ghost of David Koresh, Jimmy Hoffa’s transmigrated soul. The Arbiter’s on there somewhere.”

            “Did you tell her to come here?” Senna asked. There was a tremor in her voice. Fowler put an arm around her and puffed out his chest—a not so subtle indicator that he required an answer.

            “We did,” Tabitha said, surprising Lassiter and Dane and shifting their focus from Billings and the junior FBI agent. “We reached out to Ms. Salcedo some time ago.”

            “Right after me and Tabby stumbled across Remi’s path, we made a few calls. Just concerned citizens giving the authorities a heads up.”

            “That’s crazy.”

            “They did their research,” Salcedo said. “Found out I worked for maybe the biggest asshole at the FBI.”

            “That’s gotta be a pretty big asshole,” Dane said, looking around for confirmation. “There’s gotta be thousands of other big assholes all over the FBI… right?”

            “You got that right, soldier. But this big asshole also happens to have beef with Remi Dryer. They used to do some dirt back in the day. Dryer screwed him over, now he wants revenge. Same old criminal bullshit.”

            “Are you saying that you’re not a bad guy and this boss of yours is?” Senna asked.

            “I’m a small fish and don’t want to be. That’s my game, princess. You’re gonna help, and maybe I’ll look the other way on your thing. I’m thinking a bunch of you end up in the ground after this deal anyhow, so I won’t sweat it too hard.”

            Billings stepped toward the agent and put his hands in pockets, offering his customary shrug. “No need for cheap cynicism, Agent Salcedo. And… no reason why this can’t turn out golden for everyone that deserves it.”

            She didn’t acknowledge Billings, instead choosing to offer her hand for Tabby to shake. “It’s nice to finally meet some of the crew in the flesh.”

            As Tabby consented and then tried to release herself, she was pulled back. “But I’ve done nothing but work a case so far. Don’t think for a second I won’t put a bullet in each and every one of you. I’m not the one you play here.”

            “Let my partner go,” Billings said. He could see the pain on Tabby’s face.

            “You think this is bad? Don’t underestimate me, Ben. That goes for you too, Ms. Lassiter. Mr. Dane. I will ruin your lives in an instant if I feel I’m being frozen out. Keep this in mind: I don’t have to bend to win. I’ve got the motherfucking FBI and big sweaty cajones, plus overreaching government authority on my side. All those big assholes we were talking about. That’s the kind of shit you don’t run from if I don’t let you.”

            Tabby winced as she shook out her hand. “A little advice, FBI. We understand a show of strength, but it’d be wise not to get cocky. There’s a lot of pieces on this board.”

            “Thanks for the guidance. Nothing like middle-aged wisdom.”

            Johns did her best to understand the young agent’s fire by remembering that she used to have something similar stirring inside. “Three doors, Salcedo. That’s how this thing works.”

            “We’ve been over it.”

            “How we are doing on door number one?” Billings interjected, trying to ameliorate the tension flowing between Tabby and Salcedo.

            “I’ve got friends in the NYPD. They’re running down leads on your mother’s location. Just about there.”

            Billings squinted to indicate he wasn’t pleased. “You said it’d be worked out by now.”
            “Things take time,” said the agent. “It’s not like I can put this out agency-wide. Not if we’re going after the big fish.”

            “I don’t like this,” Fowler grunted.

            “I don’t like you, soldier boy. Most of me thinks I’m crazy to go along with this crazy-ass scheme. No offense,” she said, pointing at the track and tilting her head incredulously, “but y’all don’t exactly come across as the A-Team.”

            Salcedo pulled her hair back into a ponytail and said she’d be seeing them real soon, making sure it came across with patented law-enforcement imperiousness.

            “Wow,” Fowler said.

            “What’s wow?” Lars asked, lowering his little first place trophy. He’d rejoined the group as Lita Salcedo left, Davy scurrying though the crowd just behind.

            “Nothing much, Lars,” Dane answered, hands on his head. “We just got a visit from the frigging FBI is all.”

            Ben held up a hand and looked around. “We were always going to need someone from the law.”

            “True or not, BB, I’m not about no matchmaking settlements with the federales,” Davy said. His hair conveyed his disposition, going in every direction.

            “It’s all part of the plan,” Tabitha said. “And don’t blame Ben. This was my idea.”

            “That’s supposed to make us feel better?” asked Senna. “Maybe it’s time to shut this whole thing down.”

            Tabby started to object, but Billings cut her off. “Maybe it is. You guys have been amazing as always, but the situation is getting more volatile every day. I’ve never done a con this big. Not even close.”

            “I think I preferred it when you were bullshitting,” Fowler said, looking down at the flushed cheeks of his new companion. “Could be best. I can get us out of town. After that, we go our separate ways.”

            “If that’s how you want to play it, I totally understand,” Billings said. “But I can’t run.”

            “Because of your mama,” Lars said somberly, like Italian mandolins were accompanying every one of his overly-affected syllables. 

            “Yeah. Because of my mama. I’m at this table with a forced hand.”

            “I’m not going to run forever,” Tabitha said.

            Ben wouldn’t have taken it personally if they’d all left him then and there, standing in a crowd of strangers with principalities and powers bearing down on him from every angle. After a strange and protracted period of non-verbal gesturing, Davy decided to add his singular analysis: “Well, BB, it’s looking like the fam’s going ride or die. Can we get that drink on while you tell us how this deck gets stacked?”

            Billings smiled and tried not to betray his desperate appreciation for each one of them sticking by. “Yeah, Davy. Let’s go someplace a little less kid friendly.”

            “You got your ass kicked out there,” Fowler said, ruffling the young fencer’s already tousled hair.

            “This younger generation ain’t about respecting the road.”

            “When’s the last time you drove?” Tabby asked with a playful elbow into Davy’s ribs. “Because that was… not great.”

            “Nunca, me lady. Never the once in all my days.”

            “Literally nothing you say surprises me,” Fowler sighed.

Chapter 25: Never Hit a Girl

            Dane’s attention was fully fixed on a building across the street and six stories below. Some sort of derelict warehouse, the sort of place nice folks drive by wondering at the kind of dark shit that might be going on inside until the next block or the next song allowed the nice person to forget. 

            He’d been watching for the last half hour, keeping tabs on Lizzie Halsey, Remi Dryer’s protector and full-service bad girl. He had to keep an eye on her, sure, though taking the task seriously was proving difficult. Lizzie struck him as more of a wasp than a lion. Perhaps a little dangerous, but he could imagine one well-timed swat would put her down. Then again, he thought, looking through the rifle scope, there were the stories.

            Like the one where a particularly brassy Remi Dryer bilked three different drug operations in the Los Angeles area. They were all gunning for her at the same time. A trio of hit squads, all with their own special ways of dealing out the dirty. Remi wasn’t supposed to last the day, said the criminal hotline.

            Sure as sunrise the crews turned up conspicuously dead in their own particular fashions. Burned. Chopped up into barely recognizable pieces. Buried alive in graves shallow enough to find but deep enough to do the trick of torture. Dane heard that Remi spent the day at a spa or some shit while Lizzie dealt death to all comers. He’d heard it a hundred times. No frigging way. No way that cold piece of work trusts her life to some thirty-something goth girl.

            “You’re wondering if the stories are true.”

            Fowler put his right hand down on the cement and turned his head with great care over his left shoulder. He’d been laying in a prone position while shouldering the rifle in the manner of a practiced sniper. “Hey Lizzie. Sure. A little bit of me wonders about the stories. Only natural, girl.” He moved only a little, hoping it went unnoticed. “Most of me thinks it’s a lot of bullshit. Look at you.”

            He was blustering, but the bluster had sense behind it. Halsey was five and a half feet tall and maybe a buck fifty. Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t shoot. He was surprised he didn’t have a round up his ass already.

            “You’ve been following me a while,” she said, moving slightly to her right. The tight leather jacket she was wearing could be concealing any kind of small pistol or knife. Fowler thought it best to just keep watching from his awkward pose, letting his eyes take the notes. How she stepped. The way her brow moved under the sun. Weaknesses. Shit. Anything. He was pretty much fucked unless he could pull a rabbit out his ass.

            “Why don’t you come work with us?” he said.

            Her thin laughter was meant to mock and grate his senses, but at least it bought him time. The little monster was taking a big risk not having a weapon already in her hands. Maybe he could get to his sidearm, but it would take a strange series of motions. Think you big dummy. “She gave you up, Halsey.”

            “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

            “I’m not kidding around. Her and Billings cut some sort of deal. You were on the chopping block. Honest to God. How else would I know where you’d be?”

            “Walking up behind you, you mean? I’m disappointed, I suppose, though it’s not surprising. Getting the best of another mindless oaf is—”

            Fowler reached across his hip to the pistol on his right side and rolled left, firing three times from his back. Considering the maneuver, he was happy that one shot found its target.

            The way she staggered forward through the impact and reached for her own weapon, it was clear to Fowler she was wearing a vest. He fired two more times center mast, enough take whatever wind was left and drop her to her knees without killing her. “Stay down,” Dane said, rising like a man of fewer pounds and fewer years, keeping his weapon tight but steady as he approached and groped her for weapons. Unsurprisingly, she was none-to-pleased by the proposition of a search. He punched her sharp and short, breaking her already crooked piggish nose; the writhing stopped, replaced by the sound of coughing and drowning in blood. “Damn woman.” The former soldier fished out a clownish series of deadly objects from under her jacket, boots and pants. “Really?” he said, holding a curved tool that looked like it might come in handy at a mummification.

            Dane turned Lizzie’s compact frame over and held down her legs with a heavy knee as he cuffed her. “That was fool behavior, letting me get that shot off.”

            She spit a mouthful of snot and blood onto the roof and grunted from the weight of the big man as he sank harder down against her frame. “Complete luck. Besides, I had a feeling you’d want to go at it proper.”

            Fowler looked around at the array of instruments she’d brought. Knives, a small club, piano wire, brass knuckles. Just to name a few. “I got a feeling you don’t play by the rules when it comes to a cage match. I’ll take a pass.”

            “How’d you make that shot?” she asked as he pulled her to her feet.

            He stayed silent and checked her bindings with a tug. As she said, it was luck. But there was more to it. His feelings for Senna Lassiter and the fact that she’d been abducted and misused by Halsey and Dryer had caused him to be incautious in his surveillance. It’s what allowed him to get caught out. It was also the reason for the extra rush of adrenaline that served to make him as quick as the man he’d been, the one quicker than every single scrawny Taliban or Al Qaeda hardass that had ever been unfortunate to meet him.

            “Remi didn’t sell me out,” she snarled. 

            “Of course she didn’t,” Fowler said, pushing her forward with a grimace. It was clear he’d bruised his tailbone rolling over to fire his weapon. “Admit it, though. Threw you off, even for a second. Ever thought of getting your own life? Maybe one that doesn’t involve kidnapping young women and ripping out pieces of their hair?”

            “The pretty pretty one. That’s what’s got you acting so… unsoldierly. Damsels in distress. Like a fairy tale.”

            “Never was much of a reader,” Dane said, jerking her cuffs. “Now get moving. I’m not supposed to put you down, but I’d be more than to chalk up your demise to the fog of war.”

            He looked back remembering the scope he’d left behind. It was enough of an opening for her to backheel him in the knee, turn, then sink a rabid bite into his gun hand. As he yelled and dropped the pistol, his other hand came up and around and connected flush with one of her slight cheeks. The blow temporarily lifted her from the ground. When she landed, Fowler had to make sure the bloody little butcher was still breathing. The back of his hand felt it shallow but steady. For a moment the thought occurred—a few more heavy shots and she’d never wake up again. The world would be a better a place. Then again, you weren’t supposed to hit girls.

            Dane took out a rag from his back pocket and tied it around his hand before throwing Halsey over his shoulder. She’d gotten the drop on him and he’d barely managed to see it through. This needed to be his last job. He was getting too old for grifts and fights. Walking slowly with his load to the stairway door, he made a call to Ben. “Yeah, I got her. She’s fine. Like I said. No problems. And Billings… all this shit better work out. I think I broke my ass.”

Chapter 26: The Notebook

            Ben was pacing barefoot in the unkempt backyard of the Highland Park house, talking to himself and writing down the occasional thought or idea. He had a journal for every play he’d ever written, every role he played, every job he’d pulled. It was somewhat idiotic to write down criminal plans for anyone to stumble across or find; truly questionable that he still held on to the old ones.

            But it wasn’t thoughtless sentimentality that made him cling to past exploits. Each job was a notebook full of lessons, not just plans. Some lessons required reacquaintance; for someone with a sharp mind, Billings didn’t have the best of memories. The schemes and stories piled up on top of each other in uneven stacks often getting jumbled in his mind.

            Tabitha walked out with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders with an educated view of Ben’s process, having seen it in action from the days of acting to the present. It was brisk for the middle of November. She waited for him to notice her; she too was barefoot, standing on the cold concrete of the back patio. Shifting most of her weight back and forth and watching, it was clear there were only three things in his universe. His pencil, the damn notebook, and whatever the hell river of madness was running through his head. She’d seen this routine so many times. It was annoying and self-indulgent.

            Like most of the things he did.

            It was also maddeningly comforting.

            Like most of the most things he did.

            The setting sun gave the sky a gentle orange hue. Tabby tilted her head and scanned the atmosphere, took in a breath for calm, then decided to venture through cool ankle-high grass toward her partner. She promised herself that Ben’s eccentric devotion to his methods would not be a source of frustration tonight. Tonight she’d only see the good and play the part of dutiful partner.

            He was scribbling something into the notebook feverishly when she called his name for the fifth time; enough to shake him from the trance.

            “Hey, Tabs,” he said, blinking to capture her fetching image in the failing light.

            “Can I take a look?” she said with an abbreviated laugh and a long smile, stretching her hand from underneath the thick blanket.

            “Yeah, of course take a look,” he said, handing it over immediately and holstering the chewed pencil over his left ear.

            “You realize it’s cold and you’re not wearing a shirt?” She held the smile, conceding happiness and even pride despite his propensity to fall to odd reveries. Proud that Ben was at the helm of their unwieldy vessel and managing to keep the crew afloat in his own idiosyncratic way. Happy to be the only one he’d allow behind the curtain to see his weird notebook and weirder behavior.

            He looked down at his chest like a little boy given some wonderful revelation about the universe, shaking his head and opening his eyes to their limits in surprise. “That’s kinda crazy. I didn’t even notice.”

            She responded inversely, completely unsurprised at his surprise. While he covered his pecs cross-armed, she squinted at the pages in the drugstore journal. There was no vacancy to be found, not a sliver of white left. A sentence in cursive here, a paragraph in fastidious block lettering there. It looked like the scribblings of a madman, or rather a gang of madmen. Ben used the hands of hundreds he’d forged. Arrows and symbols and underlines filled the rest. The notes were as convoluted and circuitous as the plan they’d hatched, kinetic and fervent where they weren’t droopy and borederline hopeless. If an enemy or the law were to come across it, they could spend years and only glean an inkling. A silver lining.

            There were always key pages where the plan was more or less summed up, and only Tabby could locate these pages, let alone decipher them. She turned the journal sideways. “So, there’s a few different ways to go with Salcedo.”

            “Yeah,” Ben answered fast, kaleidoscopic scenarios still fresh in his mind. “It depends on what we can get from Lizzie. And Davy is burning it at both ends, getting help from our New York friend.”

            “The mysterious Overl0rd.”

            “He’s not as mysterious as he thinks. Sort of cocky. Did you know he’s got an actual theory about the end of the world? I’ve been on the message boards. Pretty hilarious.”

            “We’ve all imagined doom days.”

            “He goes a little bit further than recreational prognosticating.”

            Tabby could hear her partner’s teeth starting to chatter. He was corporeal again, subject to the same sensations as every other mere mortal. She handed him the blanket but didn’t break her focus from the frenetic notes. So many players. It was all balanced on the tiniest point. A most fragile ecosystem. An outsider might consider it a fraught series of inhuman mathematical equations, but that was only partially right. Johns was aware that certain things took emotional priority.

            The threat to Ben’s mother, for instance.

            The strange story Remi had conveyed in the coffee shop, which was tantamount to another threat, also served to flip the script. Billings was doggedly loyal when he wasn’t caught up in himself and the tangles of his webs. She wasn’t completely sure he held onto some virtue to spite anyone who might be judging or if he did it out of a real place of caring. Probably a little bit of both.

            She pulled up from her examination. “The scale of this.”

            “Pretty big,” he said.

            Tabby laughed. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious anymore. I’m getting too old for this. Not so sharp,” she sighed lightly, like it was okay and even healthy to concede a few things to time.

            “How can you say that?” he answered, yanking his covering tight against his skin. “You’re the only one that can read those hieroglyphics. I’ve spent most of the last hour trying to figure out what the hell I meant with all this crap.”

            “Come on,” she ordered, waving him over with the notebook. Again, nothing new. “Which parts?”

            “Who is this?” he asked, pointing to a square with two eyes. Two arrows moved away from the square and two toward it. Three exclamation marks were driven into the page just over the top right edge of the square at a forty-five-degree angle.

            “It’s Henk. Because he’s boxy.”

            “Oh yeah. What about the—”

            “The dots are for the tears when his eye does that thing.”

            “Wow. How do I let that slip by? You know, weird as old Henk is, he’s easy to forget in all this. Goes to character.”

            She proceeded to quiz him on the rest of the page, starting by pointing to what looked like a saggy, hairy rear end.

            “The feds.”

            Next she tapped on a hatchet drawn with great observance to detail.

            “Remi. Potential axe-murderer. Or battle-axe. Sub and swap at your pleasure.”

            In a big box at the center of the page he’d written The Worst boldly, almost punching through paper. Her eyes panned in his direction waiting for an answer.

            “I’m not likely to forget The Worst. That’s our estimable and wonderfully corrupt Senator Kent Durham.”

            “This band of degenerates and he takes the cake, huh?”

            “Of all marks in all the towns in all the world, is there anyone worse than a politician?”

            Tabby didn’t answer. No need. She agreed and he knew it. Politicians gave cons a bad name, flaunting their plumage like grift was high-minded and for the greater good. It was insulting to honest crooks, the ones who took issue with the world but at least had the decency to go away after the job was done. “Where’s Lars, Fowler and Davy?” she inquired.

            “They’re represented on the Team Us side by the three lightning bolts.”

            Despite her best effort her eyes rolled. Luckily the sun had dipped below the horizon and it was too dark for him to see. “Maybe it’s that you’re a genius but the whole development thing got stunted around age twelve.”

            “That’s as good as any theory I’ve heard,” he answered, teeth white enough for her to pick up through the nightfall. Over the fence, she heard the neighbors playing with their two boys. The kids sounded around five, giggling relentlessly, up and down with their pitch, signaling rifts and valleys of excitement. The parents matched their children with laughs and encouragement of their own. Ben stepped to his partner and gave her a helping of the blanket. Tabby couldn’t help but consider—no—feel how she fit so perfect against Ben while they listened to the happy normality just a yard away. “Maybe it’s time we got into something like that.” His face tightened after the declaration while he waited for a response.

            “That’s a new one,” she said.

            “Sorry. I think I’m sorry, anyway.”

            “It’s your mom. Has you thinking about family stuff.” Tabby was fighting him. She didn’t want him having any cheap revelations. 

            “Headspace. Could be,” he said, careful not to squeeze her any tighter. She might interpret it as a signal that he wished to force the issue. It was complicated of course by the fact that he wished precisely that. Why, he wasn’t completely sure. His tongue and brain seemed to be on different wavelengths. There was no script and it wasn’t a game. No planned or predetermined outcomes. He was like everyone else that had ever lived, fearful of the unknown. “Could be…”

            Tabby turned and tilted her head so her ear rested on his shoulder as she looked up at him. The family soundtrack had less effect on her, but feeling a portion of Ben’s feelings was unavoidable after all these years, especially when something new gripped him. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Ben. We’re in the middle of the craziest job we’ve ever tried. Sort of a weird time to spring raising pups on me. You realize we’ve never actually been together, right?”

            “And that’s weird,” he said, softly and with as little affect as possible. He wanted to get some things out, but he’d concede her every point. That would be the toll for venturing down this road. Especially now, in the middle of their craziest job. “We’ve never been together.”

            “So, what are we talking about here?” Her tone wasn’t dismissive. She sounded lightly amused, he thought. You’re thinking too much. And you don’t even know where you’re going with it. Just speak. Could be there’s some honesty left underneath the layers of fakery.

            “I’m think I’m saying we’ve always been together, even though, you know. The job—it wouldn’t let us be the way other people are, but after this.” He nodded at the fence as the family played on. “There’s that. Or not. Believe me, this isn’t something I rehearsed.”

            “No kidding. You’re making a pretty good mess. It feels like I’m at an open mic night.”

            Billings laughed and couldn’t help but pull her tighter against his body. He knew how amateur comedy caused Tabby to be angry and sad at the same time. “I’m not doing so good.”

            “This isn’t what I’d call your A-game, big guy.”

            “I shouldn’t have said anything, you’re saying.”

            “Probably not.”

            “But I love you, Tabs.”

            A predictably awkward silence followed, but Ben was grateful; the time allowed him to gain enough sense to realize what was going on. He remembered asking Dina Santorelli about kids. How much she despised them. Tabby didn’t despise anyone, save Remi Dryer, and that was born from a historical, deserved place.

            “Wow. Jumping into I Love You.” She didn’t separate herself or fidget in any way. Strange water, but they could tread it together better than they could apart. So, there’s a point in his favor.

            “We’ve lived without each other before. And I’m too old to be starting a family.”

            “That’s not true, Tabs. Still got years. And without each other, that’s pretty much been a failed experiment every time.”

            “This is just a passing feeling. Too much pressure, weird things start coming out. That’s my diagnosis.”

            “Diagnosis. Damn. I’m that far off the mark then?”

            Tabitha stepped away and looked at Ben. He was beautiful and silly, shaggy-haired and shirtless and a million other things she’d thought and forgotten. She held up the notebook as if to say let’s get to what matters and hoped that he wasn’t observant enough for the nascent tears in her eyes. “This is about what happened with Dina.”

            She’d read it exact. “After we talked, yeah, maybe it stirred some things up. Perspective.”

            “After you talked,” Tabby whispered, fighting with the stubborn emotions trying to betray her present cause. “This isn’t about words. It’s about what you did. Something happened.”

            “Tabitha.”

            “I can tell, so don’t. I would’ve left it,” she said, turning to walk back to the house. “But then you come at me with this shit. You’re an asshole.”

            “Tabby.”

            She didn’t bother to turn back as she said her final piece. It was loud enough to bounce off the back of the house, loud enough even to interrupt the paradisiacal proceedings in the tiny realm of happiness next door. “And put me in a position to be the bitch. Real nice, Billings.”

            He was weak in the knees standing there alone. The notebook was sitting in the grass by his toes. Picking it up, Ben looked contemptuously at the disorganized mess. “She’s right,” he said with artifice, knowing he couldn’t outwit the truth of himself. “You are an asshole.”

Chapter 27: El Tigre

            “Can I get you anything else, Mrs. Billings?”

            “No, Rocco. I’m fine for now.”

            “Maybe you want I should turn the heat on? It’s a cold one out there for October.”

            “Darling, if you think the heat should be on, go ahead and follow your instincts. What did I say concerning self-trust?”

            “You said it was like, more important than anything, Mrs. Billings.”

            “And those weren’t just words. That was a recipe to really turn things around.”

            “I don’t know. Things have been pretty good for me lately. I was saying before, you should’ve slapped eyes on me years ago. I was a frigging piece of shit, if you know what I’m saying. And pardon my language. I keep forgetting, but it’s like, hard to remember certain things.”

            Rhonda Billings nodded her head tightly. Not a hair on her head moved. It was part of her ethos, that wasted motion, wasted anything was the greatest of all possible sins. If one had the strange luck to come upon this conversation, they might think that Mrs. Billings was in charge and Rocco to be some sort of subordinate or junior family member. Clearly she possessed the wit and poise, but ultimately it didn’t matter. Rocco had a big shiny gun, and he was muscular in ways that wouldn’t have been scientifically feasible just a few years ago. Now the newest injections, powders and pills made Rocco feasible, along with the angry-voiced prodding of his fellows at Grady Palazzo’s Hardass Gym in Lower Manhattan. Insane cries of give me one more bounced around the former meat packing plant, off every dumbbell and metal plate in the place. Now and then an amphetamine-aided Wall Street mope with a superiority complex and a shiny bag and shiny hair would wander into Grady’s, but their stay was never long. After a few seconds of looking at the stone men and smelling their airborne endocrine systems and hearing a thousand guttural versions of GIVE ME ONE MORE stacked on top each other, the mope’s journey to find an “authentic experience” was over and done.

            “Don’t try to get me talking like you did the other day,” Rocco said. His dark hairline almost touched his eyebrows when he intensified his expression. Rhonda marveled at it. She’d never seen such a massive face sitting beneath an almost nonexistent forehead. Not looking was proving to be a challenge as he continued. “About my mama and all that. I shouldn’t have told you none of that stuff.”   

            “Rocco, I’m only interested.” The famous artist looked across the little table at her guard and then considered the entirety of her situation, scanning the low-lit empty floor. It was some type of finished but unrented high-rise office building in Manhattan. The windows were covered but still she could feel the New York of it and even hear down to the street level. She guessed they were about seven stories up and that none of the building was occupied. Calling out for hours to no response had gained her that clue. Then again, it was the center of the world. People were trained to ignore and press on. It was one of the things she loved about it—the independence of thought and action—right now, though, it was proving inconvenient. But she wouldn’t blame her city. It was her ridiculous son. Rhonda didn’t know quite how, but Benjamin was somehow behind this; his form and fashion weren’t interesting enough to be misconstrued by someone with her indefatigable senses of form and fashion. Even now, after three days of confinement, she looked as wildly beautiful and precise as her venerated work. No one could suspect that she was old enough to even have a son as old as Ben, and she did her best to keep their relation a strict secret to the best of New York’s aristocracy, the kinds of people that wouldn’t spend a hundred million dollars on garbage modern art made for money laundering but knew that one of her paintings or sculptures was probably worth every penny of five million.

            Taste. Discernment. Rhonda had spent her life trying to teach these things to the people of the world, trumpeting her remarkable skills out into the universe from the hub of the universe. It went unappreciated, for the most part. No matter the words or how slowly she explained, Rocco would never be capable of understanding that having a neck overpopulated by protruding veins and shiny skin was aesthetically unacceptable. That kidnapping and holding women was not only illegal—it was extremely bad form.

            “I just don’t see the point of our time together if you’re not trying to get something out of it,” she pressed.

            “What do you mean? Point is, it’s my job. This ain’t time together or whatever you’re calling it.”

            She implored with her small, strong hands, holding them out. They were expressions of their own. No painted nails. Strong and beautifully simple. “It’s not a very good job, Rocco. That’s one point of entry. We can start from there and take it any place you like.”

            Rocco tapped the left side of his body just below one of his engorged pectorals, making sure his gun was still in the holster and ready for a quick pull. “No taking it to any places.”

            She sighed and crossed her arms. The chair was stiff wood and overly varnished, making it easy to slide off. The whole situation was uncomfortable and unacceptable. “But we have to do something, my love,” she said. “What else is left in an empty building but to examine ourselves? I’m certainly not going to read this book.” Rhonda leaned forward and picked up a copy of the popular paperback with the end of a finger and her thumb, scoffing at the catchy title. “Garbage.” Rhonda wouldn’t admit it, but she’d already read it out of sheer boredom and in fact enjoyed it more than seemed possible. The story zipped right along. The hero stopped the bad guy on the ranch and made love to a woman before leaving for no good reason, presumably so there could be another book just like it. The world was filled with bad guys on ranches and women that needed hero strangers to make love to, apparently.

            “I liked that book,” said Rocco, snatching it away. “He’s cool. The guy kicks ass. Takes names and shit.”

            “Is that what reading is for?” she asked, trying to deny herself the fact that she liked something that Rocco liked. It didn’t seem possible. He was from New Jersey, for God’s sake, and probably never even went to college. Not even community college.

            “You think you’re smart. It’s probably easy, your deal.”     

            “What does that mean, Rocco? My deal?”

            “It means you throw some paint on a canvas or build a whatever and people toss cash because you’re in the club. Maybe you go to a few parties with old gray white guys and Jews and politicians and they tell you you’re the greatest until you start to think it’s actually true. Bunch of boys from my neighborhood wouldn’t tell you nothing good until you did a little something for the respect. I’ll leave it at that,” he said, pointing past her face in a way that was insulting but not threatening. Rhonda knew men that hurt women. Rocco was prehistoric in most things, but he wasn’t a woman-hitter. She was certain. Sure, you could tell by the eyes, but it was something in the shoulders. A hunching when she spoke. Rhonda imagined a series of canvases in her mind. A man dragging a sled through the snow, desperately lunging forward, every powdery lunge a titanic feat. His wife opens the door and asks where he’s been. He tells her the last of the sled dogs died and he barely made it. He’s leaning against the hut he built, breathing entirely new atmospheres of expelled energy toward the ground as the wife stands there watching him, still waiting on the explanation she deserved. That’s the one; the picture she’ll paint someday. That moment before the hunched man smacks her for asking questions and not coming to the door “proper” with food and a kiss. 

            Rhonda refocused and pounded the table with her little fist, but it didn’t have much impact. The surface was too thin and the legs were too cheap to send a respectable shockwave down to the cement floor. “You.”

            “Me, what?”

            “You sound just like my son. Is he the one that hired you?”

            There was a creak as Rocco stood up, the chair version of a sigh of relief following a protracted spell of overwork. He moved back a slow step and raised his heavy-knuckled hands. “I already told you. I don’t know your son, Mrs. Billings. I got this job through a guy who knows a guy.”

            “That doesn’t even make sense. Is there some sort of kidnapping network to make crimes easier to commit?”

            “Sure,” said Rocco, “that’s pretty much it. A network-type deal. You’ll get back home safe to your penthouse in no time.”

            As his last sentence landed, the class-centric disdain smarted a little too much. “You’re just like him,” she said. “A vessel for Benjamin’s tired message.”

            Rocco’s countenance was unmoved. “No idea what you’re talking about, lady, but you obviously got a problem with your boy.”

            “He’s my son,” she sneered. “And don’t pretend. It’s not your one of your skills, young man.”

            “Whatever.”

            His face was granite in shadow, unwavering at her pointed mentions of Benjamin. It had her concerned. Perhaps this wasn’t about the prodigal at all. One of her many ex-lovers, perhaps? They ranged from aloof princes to leathery laconic oil men and everything in between. She rubbed her dark eyebrows trying in her mind to pick out the face of one man offended more than the rest. Rocco was giving her nothing.

            The ding of the elevator captured both their attentions. Rocco barked at her to hide behind one of the steel columns near the table while he crept over to investigate. She peeked around cold metal and saw him light up as he whipped around toward the fully illumined elevator car. There was something too stiff and deliberated about his movements. Rhonda was convinced that despite his size, she was being guarded by the lowliest of amateurs. With one eye closed, she waited confidently for him to be shot. From her vantage there was no way to see who or what had arrived on her lonely floor.

            When Rocco returned with two envelopes and a bemused face, she came out from the spot waking with an impatient clap. “They’re from El Tigre,” he said, fanning the envelopes out so she’d have easy access to one.

            She squinted. Why couldn’t they have decent light? This was horrible. Her guard/captor was useless and a total black hole of information. For some reason the horribleness of the entire thing hadn’t hit her until that moment. She’d been treating the entire situation as some strange adventure. Rhonda was an artist, after all, and much of the time her incredibly robust critical side could become overshadowed by the side that gave whimsy and reverie and novelty the first places in line. Not now. Now, stripped down reality was all. It was Rocco, an empty building, and notes from El Tigre.

            “Do you know El Tigre?” she asked, ripping open the envelope and pulling out the single sheet of mostly blank printer paper.

            “What does yours say?” he asked, running up on her and snatching it away. “What does he mean, ‘Find a corner and sit down?’”

            “Is that not what yours says?” she asked. Before Rocco could pant out an answer the room was thrust into an arresting darkness, the kind where your eyes wait to adjust but you know deep down that adjusting will be in vain. Without any options better than the one just given to her by the mysterious letter, Rhonda put her hands out and went for the nearest corner. Someone new and gentler whispered low, “I’ve got you.”

            When the lights came back on, a total of something like fifteen breathy and confused seconds had passed since the initial reading of the letter from El Tigre. A slender man of about thirty had her by arm but wasn’t squeezing. She saw another man, this one shorter, standing over the body of big Rocco, as flat to the floor as his bulk allowed. “Did you kill him?” she asked the slender man, surprising herself that she cared.

            “No,” he answered, removing a cumbersome contraption from his head. “These are night vision. All we had to do was walk up and give him a knock behind the ear once the lights went out.”

            “Go make sure he’s okay,” she ordered, assuming she had the right to make demands until someone said otherwise.

            The slender man stepped away and said something into his shirt while looking the ceiling. The gestures were enough for Rhonda to understand that they were not alone in the room. Rocco had hinted that someone else was watching, but she’d tried every route to that man’s mind.

            “Can I go home now?” she asked, looking up in the same direction as the slender man.

            “We’re leaving.” It was the short man. He walked up with long heavy steps. His bottom half was dense enough to collapse the floor. “I’m Brad. The tall one is Ron.”

            Rhonda took a step back. The artist in her had taken to the wind and those all-discerning senses had reassumed the captain’s chair. “Who are you talking to?”

            The short man made a several little circles with his finger and pointed to the elevator. “We’re on the move.”

            “I asked you a question. Was that El Tigre?”

            “There’s no El Tigre,” answered the slender man. “I think Overlord just thought it would be funny.”

            Rhonda followed in line behind the two men toward the elevator like a duckling, feeling like a duckling. Who was Overlord? She didn’t want to know. She was shaking while they descended the elevator, longing for the regular roaring good old days of five minutes ago when it was just her and Rocco.

Chapter 28: A Carlos

            Evan Henk was in the mirrored changing room of favorite suit shop, surrounded by images of himself as he waited for the tailor to return. He was wearing maroon and white dress socks and boxers along with a simple undershirt. “Where are you, Carlos?” He checked his watch as light rock from the 80s (Henk’s preference) played in the background. Carlos imported the best suits in the world to the Dallas store. His handmaid creations were even better, constructed out of fabrics sold by the square inch because of their rarity, materials on the flip side of the periodic table of fashion. Carlos only took two clients per day and he charged an exorbitantly high flat-rate price for his time and work.

            It was worth it.

            Carlos was an artist. He didn’t have the bourgeois inclination to haggle with the richest and most fashion-conscience men in DFW. He skipped the tedium by charging what he charged and they all had to look at each other at parties and functions with understanding nods, no dandy able to lord over the other in the realm of proper attire. Except those unadorned by a Carlos.

            Those poor bastards. Those unimportant, uninitiated, uncivilized bastards.

            Carlos walked back into the change room and held up a beautifully muted gray single-breasted jacket with subtle pinstripes that caught the light as he dangled it in front of Henk’s ravenous eyes. “I told you I wanted to see the blue,” Henk said, almost at a whisper, starting to reveal a smile of surrender as he continued to examine Carlos’ creation. “But you knew what I really wanted.”

            “Certainly, I knew what you wanted,” said Carlos, holding his whiskered chin high as a prince. Though still a Spanish citizen, he spoke lovely English save the odd expression here or there. Also, his t’s had a special flair. They were accented consonants, sharper and lasting longer than anyone else Henk could recall hearing. “Yes. I was correct in total. This is the perfect gray to set upon and wrap around your dark skin.”

            The businessman stepped down from the platform and put his hands through the jacket. Carlos brushed down the arms and told Henk to resume his position.

            “You’re not much of a listener, are you Carlos?”

            The suitist pulled down on the back of the jacket. “You’ve gained a little weight since the last time, Caballero Henk. My beautiful creations will look better on your person if you take better care of yourself.”

            How dare he? How dare this merchant criticize me? I could destroy this foreign piece of shit, send him back Barcelona or Pamplona or wherever the hell he’s from. Spain. España. What a worthless, shit country. Maybe they were good at one time, but no business sense whatsoever. Who corners the world market on GOLD and still goes bust? The Spanish Armada, what a laugh. Give me a break. Spanish assholes. I should say something. Just so the prick knows, in case he’s somehow let the decrepit history of his people and civilization slip his mind between fittings.

            He took one more look at the suit and decided not to give voice to his thoughts. Carlos was a singular talent. Sure, he waddled around on a clubbed foot and had an annoyingly ratty face and annoyingly lustrous dark hair, but being irreplaceable was overriding all. Henk buttoned the beautiful gray jacket and ran his muscled hand down and over the hump of his belly. Maybe Carlos was right. He could use more MMA sessions with Kang, scrambles on the mat, the unique cardiovascular grind of grappling body against body. With everything happening and everything about to happen, he simply hadn’t found the time for anything but curls. He noticed Carlos reverting back to his native language, speaking only to himself as he smoothed out the fabric near Henk’s elbows. The customer flexed in response, wanting to challenge the crippled Spanish genius to say something cute about his triceps.

            On the stool to his left the phone rang. The name at the top of the device read SHITHEAD. “I’ve got to take this, Carlos.”

            He watched as the suit maker drifted out to the front of his inconspicuous little store like a boat with a busted keel.

            Accepting the call, he said, “I’m busy, Billings.”

            It wasn’t much of a conversation. The former actor said he wanted to give him an update on what Tabby was working on with Lars and Davy. Henk said “fine” after every new piece of information was relayed. Maybe Billings could pull a good con, but the general reputation about him being an avant-garde freewheeling risktaker was completely off the mark. The man was as tedious as an audit and sometimes wholly lacking in flair. Henk understood the need to cover one’s bases, but give it a rest. When Billings asked if he was doing his part, Henk snapped so hard his body almost flexed out of the new suit jacket. “I see, asshole. You didn’t want to keep me informed. This whole conversation is about checking up on me.”

            Billings laughed superciliously and told him to calm down. He told him he was being ridiculous and, frankly, insecure.

            “I don’t have time for this right now, Benjamin. I’m doing everything the way it’s supposed to be done, and don’t make me remind you that none of this would be possible if it wasn’t for me.”

            He didn’t hear whatever Billings had to say next. Henk was admiring himself for the beautiful force of nature he was, bulky-legged and broad-shouldered, vested in one of the finest pieces of tailored clothing ever worn by a human being. As his head panned from mirror to mirror, he remembered the many things that had gotten him to this glorious tipping point, on the verge of more money than even he with his massive sense of self could’ve hoped for. He thought fondly on the sham golf club he recently buried into another man’s skull; it was just the sort of thing he was great at, making use out of something useless. He was indispensable, as much as any on Billings’ crew of failures and freaks; certainly as much as Carlos the goddamned Spanish tailor.

            “I am thinking that we are done for the day, Caballero.”

            Henk hung up the phone in the middle of another one of Billings’ patented pieces of longform pedantry. “I have you for the rest of the day, Carlos.”

            “Yes, I know what I’m working with.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            Carlos sat on his little stool to take burden off his misshapen limb and wiped his forehead. “No, caballero. All I mean is that I’ve taken the measure of every inch. Length, circumference. Made careful notes of every angle and undulation, as ever I do to fit fabric to man. It’s all in my hands now.”

            “All in your hands. Is that right?”

            “Si.”

            Henk turned around and faced the Spanish artist, looking down from the carpeted pedestal. Carlos had measuring tape dangling around his neck. The numbers were barely visible, worn away by time and the diligence of the master’s hands. “It’s pretty pathetic.”

            “Señor?”

            “The sad devotion to your method. Here you sit with your shit foot and gorgeous hair, the top of your game. But it’s pathetic. This shop is as old and disgusting and unremarkable as that tape hanging off your body.”

            “Perhaps it’s been a long day.”

            “They’re all long days, Carlos. You know that as well as any man who calls himself the best.”

            Henk was inflating with every word. He watched the tailor supreme’s eyes grow wide with wonder and then with concern, recognizing the otherness of this diatribe. “Perhaps I will begin working very hard on your suit and we will see after that. I’ve seen men come with too much stress.”

            “You’re very interested in handing out advice, aren’t you, Carlos? You tell me I’m not fit. You tell me when we’re done. Is it possible that in the tunnel you call your life you can understand that saying we’re done is the same as kicking me out? How much do I pay you?”

            “You pay me the same as everyone else, Señor.”

            “Spanish fucker.” On Carlos’ antique workbench, the one he always went on about in his native language, Henk spotted a gleaming pair of shears. He hopped from the pedestal and grabbed them with wild in his eyes. Carlos yelled something in Spanish and pushed away from his charging customer. It was a sad attempt at escape, and bad luck. His clubbed foot skidded him to a stop, allowing Henk to grab him by his beautiful hair. “Spanish fucker,” Henk screamed, eyes wilder now. He came down with the closed shears with brutal, messy force. The first thrust nicked the tailor’s collarbone before sinking into the meat and sinew. The blood was minimal at first, but as Henk continued to stab, he eventually hit an artery or two.

            “Señor…”

            This, after at least a dozen stabs. “Die, you precious Spanish shit!” Henk abandoned the shears and moved behind the convulsing Carlos, grabbing the measuring tape with his big bloody hands to choke out whatever life was left. The more he squeezed the more blood shot up and out. He couldn’t open his eyes because of the sting. He couldn’t open his mouth because of the taste.

            When all the numbers were tallied and Kang had been called in to assist with the cleanup, Henk admitted to his underling that it was one of the worst murders he’d ever performed. After separating the body into pieces and dumping them around Dallas County, the con man and his underling went back to his mansion for a sweaty session of Jiu jitsu and grappling. After sinking in a particularly nasty chokehold which forced Kang temporarily unconscious, he felt power. Just like the power he felt killing Carlos.

            It wasn’t only about taking away life. It was about taking away the ability for anyone else to ever own a new Carlos. From now until forever there would never be a man walking around town feeling that singular feeling. Evan Henk made that happen. Evan Henk made it unhappen. Stealing away the future had a good ring to it. Benjamin Billings was the next subject of his wrath. The pretty bastard, calling with updates. The pretty bastard, keeping me apprised. None of this would be happening without Evan Henk.

            “Where are we?” Kang asked, mouth drooling and eyes swimming as he started coming to.

            “We’re in the good part,” said Henk. Evan Fucking Henk.

Chapter 29: Tabby Things

            “Ben!” Tabby called out, coming in from the garage decorated in sweat and grease. She was crafting with her hands, in the zone, but she wrenched herself away purposefully for his opinion. The practical phase could be rough on him, she knew. Without fail, it was the part of the job when Tabby became more useful and Ben precipitously less so. She needed to keep him engaged, ready for the game. They needed to be perfectly organized and perfectly flexible, ready ready ready. Wiping her hands against her overall-covered stomach, she climbed the stairs continuing to call out his name. After a few knocks on she went in his room. Despite several remodels, the floors creaked. They creaked as she checked the bathroom, and came out again, noticing a blue notebook on the corner of his unmade bed. She stuffed her hands in her pockets and crept toward it with a smile. It would be lovely to bust his balls about it later. One of his better rules was to never leave the written plans of criminal conspiracies lying about for anyone to see. “You told me you burned these,” she said out loud, remembering exactly what he was wearing and where they were when he promised to burn all his old notebooks. Monaco. Seven years ago. Her in a red dress that was quite literally meant for attention, as it was part of a job they were pulling. He’d been complaining about wearing Italian shoes without socks, how “so very European” it was, “so very stupid.” His idiosyncratic American idealism coming to the fore. 

            Opening to a random page, Tabitha found herself breathless, frozen on a rendering of herself drawn in pencil. She was resting her head on the back of her hand, looking out at something with eyes closed halfway in some sort of deep thought with a tiny smile of contentment, like she’d just found a blanket to combat a slight chill. The sweeping strokes of graphite were bold on the page and then delicate but never random. She wished she could see herself this way. Written at the bottom: Tabby Thinking, Spain 2009.

            Delving two minutes more into the notebook only made her more emotional. There were journal entries about their adventures—not the nuts and bolts—the feelings that went along with the job. A poem about her. More drawings, one from 2004 and another done recently.

            “It’s not creepy, Tabs.”

            She shuddered. The notebook made an inordinately loud splat on the hardwood. Her head was consumed by her shoulders as she turned with the attendant embarrassment of getting caught. “I was looking for you.”

            “And you found yourself,” he said, picking up the notebook slow and solemn. “I shouldn’t have left it out.”

            “You promised you wouldn’t sentimentalize, Ben. You shouldn’t have that at all.” She raised her chin defiantly, making the choice to act mad rather than moved.

            “I’m sorry.” He walked over and placed her new discovery into a silver ice bucket. “You’re right. I’ll burn it right here.”

            It was the opposite of what she wanted, but she had to let him do it, to appear undivided against herself. Watching his elegiac posture overseeing the flames, she ached to ask him how he could see her so differently than she saw herself, layered and worthy of noble depiction.

            The final pages turned black. She stood over his shoulder as the smoke lingered over them. “What did you mean, it’s not creepy?”

            He didn’t turn to her, choosing instead to pour a drink. “All that stuff was done over the course of years. Don’t stand there feeling so pined after.”

            “Maybe we should just forget about it,” Tabitha said, pinching her nose to avoid inhaling the fumes.

            “Maybe we should.”

            “Fine.” She felt the opposite of fine. Forgetting about it would be impossible. Tabby wanted to be his, but tomorrow she might not. She wanted to know what drove him to write things about her and draw portraits, and she wanted more of it. Mostly.

            Life on the job was the problem. Life before the job was another problem. Each had forced her into learning the art of forgetting, of staying unattached, of being constantly and perpetually ready to move on to the next thing.

            She heard the clinking of ice as he finished his drink. “Are you and Lars about finished?” he asked.

            “Yeah, just about there. That’s what I came up here to tell you, actually. I wasn’t going through your stuff, Ben.”

            “It’s good that y’all are on track. Let me know the second it’s done. I’ve got my end sorted.”

            She saw nothing but the back of his head as he walked out, left alone in the room with smoke and embers, contemplating the dysfunction. Going into any dangerous job, the idea was to be one with your partners, all polished parts of a perfect machine. Ready Ready Ready.

            That was the idea.

            She plopped on the bed and grabbed a thick chunk of her hair, pulling it like a frustrated teenager. She wanted to punch Ben in the face leaving that thing sitting out. More than that, she wanted to see it again, to understand what he saw.

            “Bella! Tabby!”

            Lars was calling from the kitchen, no doubt needing another hand to finish their work. Thank God for something to do. Tabitha would put off the emotional rift between her and her partner, save it for another time.

            Because the strategy had worked so well and everything.

Chapter 30: Occupational Hazard

            Remi Dryer hollered at her driver to drive, kicking the back of his seat and scuffing a thousand-dollar shoe. She was burned and beaten and needed out of town. Though Lizzie Halsey was still in contact through texts, something was off. The last straw was losing communication with her people in New York. Without Billings’ mother for leverage, she had no good cards to play. She thought about making late-inning alliances with Santorelli or even the Senator, but there was no clarity to her plans. Trying to make deals with heavy hitters wouldn’t end well unless you were sharp and knew all the corners. Dryer was ragged and angry and the only thing she had going for her was that she knew it. North Texas was big and she had a lot of contacts at local airports, but she couldn’t could count on any of them after being so thoroughly outplayed. Instead of calling in a favor, she chartered a private jet through an actual corporation. It was standing by at a mixed-use airport outside the metroplex.

            “No, you idiot. It’s north on 35, not south. You’re going completely the wrong direction.”

            After calling the driver a few more names, she pulled out a knife from her purse, thinking about cutting his non-responsive throat, deciding instead to start carving into the upholstery of her luxury SUV. Her first and most powerful killing stroke was meant for Benjamin Billings. As she plunged the blade through the leather until it hit the metal frame, skin and organs and finally bone was what she dreamed of. “Turn around!”

            The driver’s name was Lyle. It was a stupid name and though he’d been with her over a year now and was a capable servant, she wouldn’t scream his name. Remi twisted the knife, picturing the bowels of Tabitha Johns, the blood rushing up and out of her pretty puckered mouth. Billings and Johns represented the biggest failures in her life. She’d taught them too well. That, or she was getting too old. It was time to lick wounds and forget about the game, simmer down and plan, simmer down and take the passion out of it, get to a place where she wasn’t stabbing car seats and trying to keep herself from forming Lyle on her lips.

            By the time things snapped back, they were on the southeast side of the city and the car interior was completely destroyed. The bucket seats were outlines and the bench seat behind looked blasted by multiple shotgun rounds and/or attacked by a pack of intentionally starved Dobermans. When the door opened, the subjects of her ire were standing there at angles, like they were posing for a movie poster that never was. She leapt through fluff and leather with knife high, ready to make her vengeance toward Benjamin and Tabitha real and bloody.

            “Lyle!” she yelped, finding herself de-knifed and smushed against the car door. “What are you doing? Lyle!?” She was starting to understand her situation, but that didn’t make it any easier for her to say his stupid name.

            “Easy, Lyle,” Ben said. “Don’t break anything. She’s getting up there in years.”

            “What are we doing here, Benjamin? Tell me.”

            Billings leaned his back against the SUV so his freshly tanned and lathered face was there for the smelling. “You shouldn’t have messed with my mother like that.”

            “You’re kidding. I wouldn’t.”

            “You did. And for technicality’s sake what I mean is that you shouldn’t have messed with her using such amateurs. Enlisting whoever you did, nabbing her up, that did two things. Got me and mine more focused and showed me your slippage.”

            Tabby nodded for him to scoot over and assumed his place, hands inside the pockets of a fashionable half-length sport jacket. “We got Lyle because we got your little minion. That was set in motion the moment you hurt that guy that was supposed to be protecting me.”

            “I would never hurt you, Tabitha. You were always the special one.”

            “I heard that,” Ben said, looking at his watch.

            “That story about you in the trailer—was that real, Remi?”

            “Would you believe me if I said I don’t remember?”

            “I might. Then again, I’d have to ask myself if I’m capable of believing anything anymore.”

            Ben gave big Lyle an equally big pat on the back and shot Tabby a thumbs-up. “Occupational hazard, am I right?”

            Tabby threw him a look he was used to. A glare. A glower. Something unpleasant hiding a scintilla of playfulness so he wouldn’t lose complete faith in the universe.

            “Anywho,” Ben said, “sometimes you lose. Lyle’s going to store you in that warehouse across the way until we figure out a use for you or decide that killing you is the better alternative.”

            “You two aren’t the killing types.”

            Tabby slapped Remi. Hard and open-handed. Ben was a little proud and unnerved and slightly turned on. “You went after his mother. That changes things.” She grabbed Remi up under the chin, still thinking about that sick story, how much she wished she had never heard it. “No families. There are rules. Get her out of my sight, Lyle.”

            Ben put his hands down his pockets as the two of them watched Remi writhing, slung over mountainous shoulder of their newest helper. “That felt personal, kid.”

            “Even though we are completely full of shit, let’s not act like it doesn’t get personal.”

            He put his arm around her and kissed her on the head. She cringed even though it was a welcome feeling. “Stop thanking me.”

            “Appreciation comes with the job.”

            “Another occupational hazard.”

Chapter 31: So Very Roman

            Like any place in the middle of the country lacking the allure of nature or nice weather, North Texas relied on events. One of the biggest to ever hit the area was kicking off that day, a brand new week-long invention of TrajanCorp. A year ago Dina Santorelli decided (at the strong insistence of the senator) that they have an event that left no area of the metroplex without something to do. There were several football games at the Cotton Bowl and AT&T Stadium, a baseball series, and two races at Texas Motor Speedway north of Fort Worth, and live art and music festivals in Dallas and Fort Worth and all the big little cities in between and around. The scale of it fit the state’s reputation, the publicity good publicity for her company. No better time to make the rail deal. They would see to the signatures and no one would look at her as anything but a benevolent benefactor. Nagging questions about legality and corruption were unlikely under the halo of the festival. This was another photo opportunity, like the ones with the kids helping build a well in Sudan or Croatia or wherever, only this was on a bigger scale. The witless, gutless members of the media would actually show up to cover this. They’d ask her softball questions and the radiance of her being would be confirmed on social media and sopped up by the unwashed in all four corners. She was in the best shape of her life, as gorgeous as she’d ever been. Embarrassing pictures weren’t possible. Every angle of her was chiseled perfection. Michelangelo couldn’t have worked a finer miracle. Her agony and ecstasy had brought her to this glorious pass.

            The festival was a good idea. It was also where Ben Billings and Tabitha Johns would attempt to steal from her. Or worse. That she didn’t know the exact nature of the scam was the only thing in the world keeping her from feeling a sense of total control, that she was the master and everyone else a slave. The way things were supposed to be.

            Long before the week was over and the event concluded, she’d be in an undisclosed location on an undisclosed beach with sun and unclothed servants for her only companions. It was a miserable place, North Texas. A billion-acre parking lot. The allure, apparently, was the people. they were supposed to be a friendly and accommodating sort. Hating people, the joy didn’t exactly land on her. One of Texas’ favorite sons, Senator Durham, was making excuses over video chat from Washington as one of her naked servants oiled and massaged her.

            “I promise I’m not looking,” he said, speaking from his office cherry-wood senatorial office in Washington D.C.

            She was facing the floor tiles of her bathroom as two pairs of hands kneaded the tightness from her back. She addressed the senator by addressing the floor, impressed with him as she was the grout. “I don’t care if you look.”

            He already voiced his discomfort at the need for video but thought to try once more. “I can call you back on a regular line, Dina.” He was almost shrieking. Probably desperate to sneak a peek at her servants; she knew all about his perverse proclivities, just one amongst the legions of lecherous scum stinking up the feted halls of “power.”

            “You’ll have to endure it,” she mumbled under the work of her servant. “Are we having any problem with the votes? If there’s anything that might surprise me, you should tell me now.” Dina could tell her body servant’s hands were having to work inordinately hard this morning. So much was riding on this. A way to shed the Santorelli stink forever, whatever old country racism that made people with names like Durham look down on her and her people. This was for her father and mother. There was something ridiculous about it though, that she was forced to consort with people as vapid and monumentally stupid as congressmen and little graspers like Ben Billings and Tabitha Johns.

            They’d be memories very shortly. And most of them dead. How much time would she give Durham? Two months? Six? He’d die in a car crash or overdose, something tragic and weepy. The idiot media wouldn’t connect it to her shady transportation deal. One way or another, his death was imminent. Like the rest. She’d enjoy the sequence, however she worked it out in the end.

            “What were you saying?” Santorelli asked.

            “The votes are there. It should fly through.”

            It was amazing how little it took to purchase the allegiance of representatives in Washington. They didn’t read anything they voted on, of course, but neither did any of their people. Not really. The complete and total lack of moral responsibility and adamantine focus on self-preservation was impressive and probably perverse to a normal shmuck, she thought. “Durham, you’ve done well. We’ll throw them bread and circuses and steal more money than they could ever imagine. Call me with any problems, but there better not be any.”

            “Thank you, Ms. San—”

            She was feeling so very Roman. Using the state to enrich herself, lulling the mob with spectacles. The steamy rubdown from a beautiful, silent slave—employee. Whatever.

Chapter 32: Fat

            “There’s another one.” It was the fourth man of irregular size and irregular athleticism spotted by Benjamin Billings in the last hour.

            “That makes seven in total, Mr. Ben. Santorelli’s got her men out many tonight for keeping watch.”

            “I can count,” Ben snapped. Realizing he was being a dick and that the entire crew was listening, he said, “Sorry Lars. It’s just more guys than I thought she’d have skulking around.”

            “Doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole,” Tabby said from a couple hundred yards away.

            “BBeeeeeee, Chill that sauce down,” Davy contributed.

            “Sorry,” Ben said, wiping off a second layer of sweat. This was a logistical nightmare, and the music coming from the innards of the stadium was perfectly horrible.

            It was the kickoff event of TrajanFest, arguably the hottest all-day concert in the history of the world. Tickets were crazy, and literally every prominent young artist was there, along with any still above-ground legends. From noon to midnight the fawning crowd would be on the receiving end of terrible songs dressed up and great songs mashed up and broken down into little bits, so as to make room for more garbage. The backing tracks were ubiquitous and the feckless lyrics flowed. Harmonies with no source and symphonies unseen. Any talented new artists who insisted on playing an entire song had already been removed from the bill but paid not to play so that there would literally be no other concerts of note occurring in the free world on that day. It was a monument to the vapid. A shrine to the ephemeral. Santorelli liked to go all in.

            Taking out the competition for an entire day was quite an achievement. One group from the Balkans with subtly poignant political lyrics and a decent rhythm section had already been caught livestreaming from Croatia, been IP-traced and taken down within minutes, TrajanCorp International personnel already in the area working on some sort of “infrastructure.”

            “Not to be a prick like Ben, but is anyone else about to kill themselves from this music?” Tabby asked over comms.

            He would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so nervous. He always got scared the day of a big score. And this would be the biggest score of their lives. They’d be legends. The members of the criminal class would be talking about the Billings crew forever. Pickpockets would toast him. Safecrackers would sing songs. Keyboard villains would type exultant coded messages in secret chats.

            That, or they’d get caught, be tortured, and unceremoniously murdered. The graves would be shallow out in the middle of nowhere, a place where bones get found eventually, after two generations. Minimum.

             At least Dina Santorelli’s henchman were easy to spot. Although she had picked AT&T Stadium as a clearinghouse for the meeting, it had its advantages. The average person watching the shit performances or waddling through the fancy non-stadium corporate concourses were overweight and unfashionable—mostly both. Hunky men in black suits with olive skin didn’t exactly blend. Either Santorelli hadn’t thought of that, or she didn’t care.

Chapter 33: The Garbage People

            It was a lot to do for a kid. Kid. That’s what everybody called her. At first she objected to the title, but now it was a sort of a badge of honor. The kid was directing a lot of the traffic for this caper. The kid was out to make a lot of shitty human beings choke on their shit.

            “You can’t be in my office,” said Senator Durham. He was pointing like a hairy-knuckled scolding parent at Senna Lassiter, now dressed in black-rimmed glasses and a barely acceptable skirt and blouse. The senator was attempting to avoid the indomitable glare from Fowler Dane, clad in a suit that was tailored but still a bad act. “How did you even get into my office? This is unacceptable. Where are my people? Where is my security? Where did you come from?”

            He stopped asking questions at the sound of his private toilet flushing.

            Senna regained his attention with a question of her own. “We’ve got a surprise for you, Uncle Kent.”

            “I don’t want another surprise.” He was close to honest tears. He’d set out to be play the part as man of the people. He did not set out to be surprised.

            Fowler took the seat next to Senna. The senator looked to his left, wondering who would emerge from the bathroom. The tension was exhilarating for the beautiful young law student and excruciating for the aging politician.

            “You have a mustache in every one of these pictures,” she said, pointing to the various photographs occupying the wall behind Durham’s desk. They included all the greatest hits. The last five presidents. Most foreign leaders America still called friends. A few useful idiot country musicians that believed the senator cared about anything beyond himself. A small cadre of writers and painters, a few with real talent, draping their arms around the man she had known since she had memories. “See how he has the mustache in all of them?” she said to Fowler.

            Fowler grunted something like a yes and moved slightly in a slippery leather chair custom made for senatorial sycophants.

            “Uncle Kent never wanted to have a mustache, but his wife thought it looked good back in the 80s or whenever, back when he first ran. My mother told me this story before she died.”

            “It doesn’t look good,” Fowler said. “Creepy side, I’d say.”

            Senna slapped her companion’s sturdy arm playfully. No, it doesn’t. Bless her heart, his wife has terrible taste.”

            “We should get things moving along,” Fowler said, standing up. They all listened to the bellowing sound of his chair expanding to its former glory.

            “The point,” Senna stopped, using the small silence for dramatic effect, “is that he got elected with the mustache.” Her laugh was intentionally haughty. “And ever since, he’s been too scared to shave it. He hates that mustache with all his heart. Looking in the mirror is not the usual chore that it should be—no, it’s a goddamned nightmare on repeat.”

            “I could shave it,” he said, face red where there wasn’t hair.

            “No! You’re afraid it might spoil your image. And that’s why you’re not going to double-cross us today.”

            The bathroom doorknob jiggled. Durham reached for a paperweight on his desk and was stopped by Fowler’s unalterable grip. Senna giggled.

            “You don’t understand the pressure I’m under,” said the senator, rolling his head around like a hopeless child disappointed on Christmas.

            The door finally opened. “See you got yourself in a little spot, Senator.”

            Durham’s body slackened and he let go of the paperweight. Dane allowed him to slink back into his chair as he processed the man emerging from the bathroom. He was handsome for his age, hair almost gray but thick and styled sensibly. Senna had to get her near perfect looks from somewhere. He was the living half of the equation. “Bob?” Durham gasped, sounding relieved, embarrassed and mortified all at the same time. “What are you doing here?”

            “Trust me,” said Bob Lassiter, CEO of Lassiter Industries. “I’d like nothing more than to be back in Texas.” He stood right in front of the senator’s chair and waved his fingers upward. Durham stood awkwardly despite the lack of room to move comfortably and accepted a hug from his old friend.

            “Remember when we were friends?” asked Lassiter.

            “Are we not?” asked a sheepish Durham, still under his clutches. “I hadn’t realized.”

            “That’s Washington talking. Talk like you’re still from Texas. Never mind Texas. Pick anywhere humans live.”

            The senator wriggled free and backed up into the corner of his office, knocking over a set of golf clubs. “I don’t want to hear lectures, Robert. Since the day we met in college, it’s been kill or be killed. Don’t stand there like you’re sanctified.”

            Lassiter looked at his daughter and put his hands in his pockets before answering. He was either relaxed or really good at faking it, somehow casual in a ten-thousand-dollar suit. “The killing thing wasn’t supposed to be literal. Hell, I’ll do what I must to get ahead in the game. But I won’t steal. And I won’t deal with scum like Dina Santorelli.”

            “So noble.”

            “Not noble. But there has to be a code. Any real businessman has a code.” He looked around the office, taking in all the pictures and plaques in a few seconds, like that was all the time they were worth.

            “You let your daughter get involved with this?”

            “Heck, it was half her idea. Well. Almost half. I signed off. I’m too permissive with her, I know.” He shrugged. “My little girl. She’s what I’ve got left. God knows her mother would’ve killed me.”

            “We were family.”

            “We were family, and then you ran for office. We’re here to remind you to kill or change that bill like they told you before. Full stop. Then you can go back to playing golf with the garbage people.”

Chapter 34: In the White Room

            In the belly of the stadium, Bella Medina Santorelli walked silently with Evan Henk to a hidden VIP room, surrounded by large men with guns clattering beneath untailored suit jackets. No conversation, a result of the pair having a lot on their minds.

            For instance:

            Dina had to stay sharp and make sure her deal went through. Money and empire were things hard won by the great ones and easily lost by the unworthy and forgotten. There was also the less significant but still nagging matter of deciding if Evan Henk was worth keeping around. By the end of the day he’d either be a secure fixture in her inner circle or he’d be dead. He’d helped put the deal together, of course, but then there was the fact that he was dreadful company and wore the desperate stench of a grasper. Not to mention the thing with his eye. Not to mention the strange trailing laugh.

            Henk felt pretty sharp, all things considered. Despite there being a diverse cast of schemers and myriad machinations, he was right at the center. He knew Billings would try to use him and screw him over, knew that Santorelli didn’t think of him as anything but a lackey. Stepping up to a door that looked like another piece of the corridor, he pulled down on the lapels of the final Carlos to ever be made, nervous but certain that he would get respect from these people the only way it could be earned. He had to get out before the fallout. That was the game. He’d made it this far. From the peers of his youth to Ben Billings and Tabitha Johns, they’d all laughed and poked. Persistence was his watchword. Perseverance his mantra.

            They received simultaneous texts instructing them to go to the back of the dark room and to leave all their security and any weapons behind. The message came from A.

            “That must be The Arbiter,” said Henk, squinting at his phone like there might be a possible hidden message in the simple command.

            “Your speed of thought is something to behold,” answered Dina. Henk couldn’t see in the low light but he imagined a supercilious look on her perfectly moisturized face, enough sneer to show a few lines of age under chemicals extracted from rare baby animals considered “endangered.”

            They readied themselves as a vault-like door swung open and an unlikely man walked out to meet them, smiling with brilliantly perfect teeth and buttoning his slim-cut jacket like the host of a late-night talk show. “I’m The Arbiter. Follow me Ms. Santorelli, Mr. Henk. The others are waiting.” His accent was British but faded, like he’d been living somewhere else for years. Or all over.

            Dina couldn’t help it. “You’re The Arbiter?”

            He stopped and smiled that TV smile again. His black wave of hair shifted and came back to its home base. Hundreds in attendance. Millions watching at home.

            That sort of thing.

            He looked down at his shiny brown shoes, either embarrassed or feigning it. “You expected different, I suppose. Everyone does. I ask that everyone kindly forget my face after a deal is seen through. It’s actually, more like an oath. One I have unfortunately had to occasionally enforce with violence.” He looked up and let out a breath. “Over the years it has had the effect of creating an image that is based solely on a lack of information. People can’t help but be creative. They conjure. Project.”

            “Or we going to proceed?” Dina asked. She wasn’t very impressed with The Arbiter, whatever image he was trying to project, though his paper-thin threat garnered a modicum of her respect. Something out of the Santorelli Family Playbook, masters of threats, gold medalists at making good on them.

            Evan Henk scanned the room as the door sealed behind. It was a brilliant white, even the chairs, everything except a television on the wall and single computer at the center of the table. Already sitting down were Tabitha and Ben, along with the grim Chinese and German partners. They were representing the interests of all the international money.

            “Hey, you two,” said Billings from the far end. “Dina, looking good. Evan, hell of a suit. Is that a Carlos?”

            “Nice to see you again,” Tabitha added, less cheekily than her partner/companion/lover/whatever.

            The Arbiter put out his hands as a signal for them to sit as he took position in front of the computer. Santorelli thought about her purse again, how much she wished it was packed with at least one of her usual weapons. Not this time. She’d kill her enemies later. They all deserved it, thinking they could afford a spot at the same table as her. She was the 26th richest person in the world, after all, and after today, she’d be making inroads for the top ten.

            “Let’s do this deal,” she said.

Chapter 35: Nice and New York

            Rhonda Billings woke up to find herself wrapped in a homemade quilt. There was a hot cup of tea next to her head. Her first impression, which in her experience was seldom wrong, was that she was in a home boasting a rare combination of taste and comfort. As she pulled herself upright on a firm cream-colored Scandinavian couch, a comely young woman sat across what looked to be a normal domestic sitting room, reading a housekeeping magazine with a celebrity photographed on the front cover. The celebrity, a little overweight, somehow was caught by the camera, jumping in the air and smiling with oh so many gleaming white teeth. 

            “What is this now?” she asked. “Was I drugged?”

            The stranger put down the magazine and crossed the room quickly before sitting down alongside her. Rhonda hopped away as much as the high armrest would allow.

            “Of course not. Never, Mrs. Billings. We would never do that to you. My name’s Letty.” The deferential stranger stood up, wearing jeans and a smart white button-down that fit her form tightly enough to indicate a lovely, strong body.

            “Will you tell me where I am? Imagine you’re me and then imagine what you’d want to know.”

            She steadied herself. “Yes. You’re in Manhattan. Like I said, I’m Letty.”

            “I don’t care who you are. And…” Rhonda said, gathering up menace. “Unless you’re ready to kill me, I’m going home now.” She stood up and headed for the first set of double doors. They were old and had been refurbished with care. From this small clue she imagined she’d find herself on a neat row of brownstones once walking through the outside doors. “Why aren’t you stopping me?” she asked, hand on the doorknob, wondering why she was taking the time for inquiries. This Letty woman seemed about as threatening as a newborn kitten. She’d made her tea and wrapped her up snug, Christ’s sake. “You’re not going to stop me?”

            Letty answered with a guileless smile.

            “That’s it?” For a “creative,” Rhonda had a nagging logical side. It was currently tugging on her guts. Now that her head was clear, she’d put the pieces together. Either pretty Letty (or Letty’s people) had taken her from some very bad guys, or… or nothing. She couldn’t think of any alternatives. Thus the confusion at the door. Why help her from her travail? Leaving wouldn’t bring answers. “Shit,” she said, ripping her hand from the knob and striding back toward Letty. “You didn’t drug me?”

            “You feel asleep in the car, they said.”

            “Who said?”

            “The men who got you from that building. I’ve never actually met them myself. They’re watching the building, actually. My husband says they’re nice enough guys. He’s very particular about who he works with.”

            “That’s just about fucking perfect.”

            Letty seemed hurt. She excused herself with a nod and returned minutes later with a plate of sandwiches and another cup of tea. “This is going to sound so provincial, but I’m a really big fan.”

            Rhonda wanted to dismiss the young woman as a dolt, but her smile was delightful and the sandwiches were tiny and smelled delicious. “What’s on these?” she asked, not knowing how long it had been since food.

            “Oh, trust and try.”

            The artist needed no further prompting. It was a good decision, a simple and effective combination of flavors combined idyllically with her ravenous hunger. “Do you have any soda?”

            “Soda?” Letty asked, taut as spring, ready to be of service but obviously a little surprised by the request.

            “I haven’t had a soda in days. Once you get on thing back you start wanting everything.”

            Lessons from captivity.

            They stood there in the receiving room, standing on a smart little microfiber rug like it was a little stage leaving enough space for a production in the round. Rhonda made it most of the way through a 2-liter cola bottle without flinching.

            “I never would’ve figured you for soft drinks,” Letty said, childlike wonder in her violet eyes.

            Rhonda handed back the bottle, just sad leftovers and backwash now. “How do you think art gets made?” she asked, stifling a belch brought on by the influx of carbonation to her system. “Drugs and irrationality. A few other things, but that covers most of it.”

            “I’m glad you decided not to leave,” Letty responded carefully. “Can I ask why?”

            At the end of the room opposite the door was an old fireplace. Over it hung one of Rhonda Billings’ most famous works and still probably her personal favorite. Even without her glasses, she could tell it wasn’t a copy or a fake. It was like being in the room with an old piece of her heart. There are instincts humans have for their little creations that are metaphysical and strange but still cause hairs to raise. “That’s why I didn’t leave,” she said, pointing at the canvas. “I’d love to know how it came your way.”

            Letty set the bottle of soda down where she was standing and asked if they could return to the couch. “It’s my favorite painting ever. People assume hyperbole these days but believe me when I tell you. I’m telling you.”

            “I assumed you didn’t hate it, considering it’s the first thing you see through the door.” Rhonda wanted to be free of whatever the hell it was she was involved in, but this strange girl and ultimately the painting and its prominence factored into her staying. How long she stayed was another matter.

            “You really are the most amazing. I’ve dabbled my whole life.”

            Rhonda followed Letty’s eyes around the room to several small paintings and a sculpture of a bird in flight. Not bad work for a dabbler, but nothing to dwell on. “You have good instincts. Now, again my dear Letty, if I walk out that door, will I be stopped by the men that brought me here?”

            “No one will stop you.” A young man with a tan, polished face entered from hallway. He had a dramatic hipster haircut, combed over on top and short to the skin on the sides. His swagger denoted confidence or indifference, Rhonda thought. His expression softened as he bent over to kiss Letty. “I love you. Forever and ever, Amen.”

            “Odd is a never-ending well,” Rhonda remarked, pulling her knees close while during their embrace.

            “I apologize,” Mrs. Billings, Letty said, pushing her husband back to his feet. “Cecil likes old country songs. That’s one of his favorites. I’m more visual.”

            “Yes, well. You make an interesting couple. Anyone that tells you otherwise is being disingenuous, believe me when I say.”

            The husband crossed his arms and exchanged a loaded look with Letty before starting: “I should’ve been here when you woke. Apologies for that. My men told me you simply went to sleep on the way over. That’s pretty unusual, considering the situation.”

            Rhonda almost laughed at the use of the word unusual but decided not to break from her iron stare. Her sudden sleeping wasn’t narcolepsy—just simple habit and mental training. For years now she’d been working intensely and sleeping in sudden, short shifts. She’d heard great artists and inventors had adopted this way of doing things in the past. Perhaps they just got old the same way she was getting old. As the years ticked off, her focus was best utilized in sprints. Without a race, she switched off quite dramatically. “I was told I was safe and that there was nothing I could do,” she said. “Cecil, is it?”

            “Cecil Dunes. I’m glad we were able to find you.”

            “So I was kidnapped?”

            “One of your son’s competitors. He told me to tell you.”

            “Well,” she said. “Very brave of him.”

            Rhonda’s voice was growing hotter with each syllable and Letty was shrinking into another piece of the furniture.

            Cecil nodded and looked gave his expensive watch a look. “Mrs. Billings. There are several reasons to stay, several to go. I’d advise the former, but when it’s all said and done none of it matters. I won’t get emotionally invested. I’ll be working at my HELM. Join me if you wish.”

            He gave his pretty wife a wink and disappeared down the hall. Letty offered Rhonda an apologetic look and rubbed her thighs nervously, knowing her husband had left her with lots of explaining to do. “When he says it doesn’t matter, don’t listen. That’s just him talking about the world ending.”

            “I won’t ask.”

            “It’s better if you don’t,” Letty smiled.

            “What are the two reasons?” asked Rhonda.

            “First, for your safety. Then, well, I hate to be indelicate, but you’re technically still kidnapped.” He was perfunctory with his delivery, enough to indicate that avoiding indelicacy was rather low on his list of priorities.

            “I don’t understand.”

            “Since your abduction, the worldwide interest and value of your art has gone up dramatically. Cecil said something about your captivity being nothing but a good career move. He has a hard time with the human touches, I’m afraid.”

            “What’s the helm?”

            “That’s where he does the majority of his work. He’s very good with computers. That’s how he found you. Cecil can just pull things out of the air. I’d be lying to say I understood any of it.”

            “What’s your role in this?”

            “Well,” Letty said, starting to blush. “We’re doing better than fine for money, so we thought it would be a good time to start a family.”

            The all-of-a-sudden look of matronly satisfaction on Letty’s face was out of fashion, completely out of place, perfectly and strangely endearing. 

            “Let me see if I follow.”

            “Yeah. Please.”

            “Your husband, who thinks that nothing matters because the world is ending, wants to start a family?”

            “It’s what I want. He argues, but in the end and for better, the man usually listens to me.”

            “Alright.”

            “He’s brilliant, my husband, but he can get so myopic. I told him to stuff his silly predictions and focus on making me happy.”

            She was from another spacetime, her hostess. Rhonda wanted to sharpen her critical eye for further judgments, but what did she know? She was considering staying here a little longer. Being one of the hottest names in the art world again was a tantalizing thought; it made her skin warm. These are crazy people. I’m a crazy person.

            “They’re in the middle of something big.”

            “I don’t want to know.”

            “Are you sure you hadn’t better go back and see what’s going on?”

            “Crime. Criminals. If it’s to do with my son that it can’t be good. I’ve been abducted and misused because of him. My life nearly ruined. He’s never thought of me or my career. He’s selfish. They all are. If you have any sense, you’ll get out. Get that unborn child away from your husband and never look back.”

            Letty stood up and held out a silencing hand while she paced the room. One ill-fit plank of hardwood would creak each time she passed over it. Rhonda gave her the time, knowing she’d just thrown down a heavy hammer.

            Before Letty could introduce a defense of her lifestyle there was a gentle knocking on the door. Rhonda clutched her hands under her chin and moved back by the fireplace underneath her painting. “Is there a back door?”

            Letty smiled with her hands on her hips, once again wearing a face full of charm. “It’s just one of the men that rescued you.”

            “How do you know?” Rhonda wanted to grab the young woman as she started walking to the threshold. “How do you know?”

            “There were five knocks. Two, then a pause, then three more. Like a signal of friendship.”

            Signal of friendship. Letty’s stridency was enough for a momentary cessation of clanging nerves. It was all too much to do to herself, and the need to forget about her son and find refuge in a nap was coming on strong.

            Letty returned to the room a different girl, stiff and careful, wearing a woman holding a knife to her throat. The new arrival’s other hand was occupied a bulky black gun that seemed to tauntingly rattle as she wielded it in Rhonda’s direction.

            “What is this?” the artist asked, almost running away on impulse before receiving a stern warning.

            “I’m the woman who had you kidnapped.”

            “Then you’re the one who fouled things up.”

            “Inaccurate, Mrs. Billings.” The voice was proud and scathing. It was the voice of Remi Dryer. “And inaccuracy is disgusting where it’s not intended.” She pushed Letty forward and nodded for them to sit on the couch. “I’ve read your book on perception and illusion in art. I tended to agree with a lot of it. It’s not that we create fakery or that we ourselves are fake; it’s that we engineer the fake to seem real, or, at least, to seem what we intend.”

            “Not exactly what I meant. I’m not even sure if that was coherent.”

            “Well, it’s what you would have meant, had you any brains.”

            “What are you doing here?” asked Letty. She had a single rivulet of blood running down her soft neck and tears welling up around her eyes.

            “I had to find your husband, Mrs. Dunes. The men who thought they’d rescued our eminent artist friend here, the men now dead in the back of a trunk—they led me to this lovely home and even provided that handy little knock code. Now. Let’s go see what Overl0rd2050 is getting up to.”

Chapter 36: Bad Manners

            Tabitha hoped the lights were low enough in the room to hide the flush assaulting her cheeks. As much as she told herself that Dina Santorelli was a low human being and nothing more than an amplified mark, those were partially false feelings. She was jealous of the businesswoman; Tabby tried to dress it up, but that was the long and short. Santorelli had a big role and knew how to play it. High international business wasn’t a world for pretend graspers. Much had been given to the CEO, true enough, but much was required and she had proven herself up to the task time and time again, hardly a wrinkle to show.

            Tabby knew Ben could feel her burning skin across the table, somehow sense her feelings of inadequacy. She resented his insight even more than usual and tried to snuff out the lingering thought that she would do anything to call the whole job off. It was too dangerous, forwards or back. Too big. All too much.

            Most people would probably have trouble finding the source of their biggest character flaw, but not Tabby. Her inability to accept criticism from others or from her own psyche came down to a very specific time. A movie named The Called Upon, a small-budget project with a very limited cast. This was her shot at redemption after Dynasty of Danger. She gave it everything. The story was sparse enough so it all came down to her performance. She was the movie. The writers and directors agreed. Everyone on the project was excited while filming. That is, until word got out that Tabitha Johns from one of the biggest fails in Hollywood history was trying to make a comeback. A few prominent critics and industry big shots got a look at some of the dailies and couldn’t jettison the images of her swinging around with a monkey on her shoulder, avoiding diminutive Chinese stuntmen as they came at her with fretful noises, sticks of bamboo and angry little steps. These pocked-faced men and Botox-inflated women of taste and class, these deciders, decided her performance in the film was desperate, smacking of some hopeless hayseed trying to put it all out there for some smelly backwoods dinner theater. The director decided not to release the film. Everyone else backed away like the whole thing never happened. Her career as an actress was well and truly over, but the greater tragedy for her was never finding out if she really had chops for the big time. Ben saw a rough cut of The Called Upon and said it was beautiful work, good enough to make him laugh and cry, sometimes at the same time, but he couldn’t be trusted. She couldn’t trust herself. The filmmakers and critics all had skewed vision as well. It was torture. For a long time after Tabby decided that there was no good or bad, no talented and untalented. It was all just bullshit. With nothing else to go on, it seemed like the most reasonable and livable philosophy.

            But then to be presented with someone like Dina Santorelli and her ability. It made Tabby question the subcutaneous relativism always simmering. It made her cheeks red and her heart beat too fast not to sweat a little on her brow.

            “Are you feeling well, my dear?” asked Henk, smiling too much not to be taken as creepy/sinister, rubbing the fabric of his jacket near one of his bulgy pectorals. He seemed apposite for the situation. Composed. Then again, he was wearing a Carlos. “It is a big day and all, hahahmm.”

            The Arbiter raised his hands calmly and held them up as he did a brief scan of all parties. “I’m going to insist on limiting the communication to business.” He smiled and let out a breath, like everybody would of course follow along. No one did. Tabitha did a scan of her own: Santorelli looked ready to spit nails, Henk was full of piss for one reason or another, and Ben’s face was tight through the eyes. His warmly languid way of taking in the world had fled the room.

            She’d been in some tense spots. This was up there, and it was only just beginning.

            “Is this really the best you can do?” asked Dina. She was addressing The Arbiter with loathing eyes that shifted suddenly to Ben. “Don’t tell me this is the best you can do, Bennie.”

            “Let’s get back on track,” said the Arbiter with a sharper tone and a drumming of his knuckles that reverberated each way down the long table.

            Evan Henk stood up and sunk a nasty punch into the Arbiter’s stomach. Tabitha gripped the table and cried “Stop!”

            “There she is,” said Santorelli, walking around and behind Tabitha’s chair. “I feel like I can understand Bennie,” she said. “But you’re a little more than what is manifest, more than pretty and clever, aren’t you?” The back of Santorelli’s hand went down rough against Tabitha’s face, fingers cold and dry. “Wisdom from unending disappointment. That’s what it is.”

            “Get your hand off her,” Ben said, hitting the table hard.

            “This is highly irregular,” The Arbiter interjected. “If this doesn’t stop I’ll be forced to withdraw my services.”

            Henk gave him another punch. Santorelli laughed. “I never burned anthills as a kid. Imagine it would’ve made me feel like I do right now.”

            “I wouldn’t laugh,” Ben said, nodding slightly at Tabitha to stay cool.

            Santorelli took over the seat next to Tabby and put her five-thousand dollar heels up on the table. “Why wouldn’t I laugh? This isn’t our little date at the restaurant. I’m not underestimating you this time, Bennie. Now I’ve got all the bases covered.”

            “This is highly irregular,” said the Arbiter, spitting blood on the table. A small amount found its way onto the sleeve of Henk’s Carlos and earned him another smack in the guts. The murderous businessman was as happy as Billings had ever seen, breathing in and out with animal contentment, only smiling and letting slip the odd “hahahmm.”

            “Your name is Leo Selke,” Santorelli said, now with her hands crossed behind her head. “Just another failed actor, like these two.” She winked at Tabby and continued. “I guess you were thinking he was so obscure even my people wouldn’t find out about him. Mr. Selke,” she laughed, “it was nice of you to take time off from your coding job to come down here and play such a high-stakes role.”

            He gasped for air and managed to answer. “This is unacceptable. Highly irregular. I have no idea what you are saying. It’s—nonsense. Nonsense. There are rules. Rules that must be followed.”

            Ben spread out his arms and banged his head on the table like a petulant student. “Leo,” he groaned. “Give it a rest. Nothing worse than an overlong performance.”

            “Oh, don’t be too hard on him,” Santorelli laughed. “Being his last day on earth.”

            “Ben,” Tabby said, jaw clenched and eyes welling up.

            “Your woman is crying, Ben.” Santorelli answered a call smiling, observing the heavy exchange of expressions between Billings and Johns. It filled her with sadistic joy. “And getting back to those covered bases.”

            She slid the phone across the table and told Ben to take his time with it. The images were difficult to stomach. His mother was sitting between a pretty young woman and a man he assumed to be Cecil Dunes. They were lined up in front of an old hearth, tied up in wooden chairs with high backs. Remi Dryer held a knife and gun and walked from one side of the screen to the other. “Hello Benji,” she said, moving closer to the phone’s camera. “You didn’t honestly think I was going to stop, did you? Where’s Tabitha?”

            He handed the phone to his partner. She closed her eyes as Remi said something scathing about loyalty and underestimation and so on.

            Henk was overcome with laughter now. Tabby was subdued and crying. Ben’s cheeks overheated as he fought to keep his brain working. Everyone he cared about was in danger. He was on the verge of death. Lots of shit was going on. He longed for his trusty notebook and longed to get his people the hell out of there.

            “So, we’ll stay put and make sure the deal goes through,” Dina said, kissing him on the forehead long enough to be creepy.

            “Why would I cooperate in any way?”

            “I don’t really need your cooperation, Bennie. I’ve proved myself better in all ways. But this is just in case you have any more petty tricks up your sleeve. If everyone behaves, I promise a quick death. Any shit, and your mother gets tortured while you watch.”

            She really is a super bitch, Billings thought. He was annoyed as he was scared. It was like Dina had seen too many self-indulgent Tarantino scenes and they’d somehow seeped into her bad guy DNA.

            “And dear, quiet Tabitha. Did your hero tell you he screwed me in the back of a car? I’m pretty sure he liked it.”

            “You really don’t have any manners, do you?”

            Henk wanted to join in the main conversation. He hit poor Leo again, this time behind the ear. It knocked the fake Arbiter out. He grabbed Billings by the lapels and smiled wide enough to show his gold tooth. “Since the moment we met, you’ve thought you were superior.”

            “I didn’t think that.”

            “Don’t lie, hahahmm. Not now. What’s the point?”

            “I’m not lying. I’m saying that it took several minutes for me to be sure. Then I knew I was better than you.”

            “I’ve killed.”

            “That’s… great.”

            “This is the last Carlos.”

            “You didn’t.”

            “He’s gone. Buried along with the others. Maybe you and your friends will end up next to him.”

            “Hey, at least we’ll be in good company.”

            It was hard to pick the most contemptible player on the stage. Santorelli was a sociopath. Remi Dryer was certainly a psychopath. Henk was probably a combination of the two. Mostly, just an asshole. Hell, he was bigger asshole than the politician. Ben couldn’t help himself. “You got blood on your Carlos, jackass.”

            Henk looked down and his smile went away. It was a tiny consolation. If Ben was going to die, he needed something to take with him.

Chapter 37: Game (Davy)

            He never liked the cold. Growing up in roughside Chicago, packed on top of all the other snowed-in souls for half a year, he’d had his fill. Moving out to California seemed cliché but natural. Instead of Hollywood, he went for Silicon Valley. It was all going well enough until they started asking employees to “fit in.” Finding it impossible to fit in with tech people because they weren’t really people by the common definition, problems arose. He was too “different” and non-dronelike and found himself quickly blacklisted from any company goosestepping their way into the future. Eventually, this led him to Los Angeles, working for celebrities who needed to get out of trouble. They were as vague and uninteresting as the people in tech, but at least he came across a little excitement every once in awhile. He knew how to erase digital footprints and could throw law enforcement off the scent of a bad deed. He could handle himself in a fight, though nobody would call him a fighter. You didn’t come through his neighborhood without learning how to handle your fists. Some other tricks, he learned along the way.

            He liked games. Manipulation. The world he grew up in was full of liars and cheats and that didn’t make him mad. It just made him want to the best liar and cheater he could be. He met Benjamin Billings on opposite ends of a job. He was playing fixer for a Hollywood executive who was being blackmailed for a million dollars. Ben was running a smooth con but not smooth enough to get past him. He remembered the first time they met, at an all-night burger place at the foot of the Hills. “Hey,” he told Billings, sliding into his booth.

            “You should—”

            “Ben, if you’re going to warn me that you have somebody watching the place, save your breath. I neutralized your bodyguard outside.”

            “Huh. What’s neutralized?” He saw real concern on Billings’ face.

            “Relax. Only sleeping. Nasty headache when he wakes up.”

            “You hit him?”

            “Nah. Drugs in his coffee.”

            “Fair enough. So, what’s this? I feel like I’ve seen you around.”

            “You have. But I sort of blend into the background.”

            “You’re working for Silverstein.” The way Billings said his employer’s name made him smile. There was contempt in the pronunciation.

            “Today I am.”

            “That guy is trash.”

            “Ben, you’re a Hollywood washout who takes things and lies for a living. Save the sermon.”

            “You’re not from around here.”

            “Really? Don’t do that.”

            “What?”

            “Give me the ‘you’re not from around here’ bit. We’re in Hollywood. It’s kind of the point. And stop trying to place my accent. This isn’t how I usually talk.”

            Ben set his burger down looking positively without appetite. “You’re not a lot of fun. It appears I’ve been outplayed.”

            “Don’t beat yourself up, pal. I like the work you’ve been doing. There’s a certain theme to it.”

            “Thanks. It’s nice to be appreciated. I’d thank you by name but you’re far too clever to just volunteer that kind of information.”

            “Not necessarily. Not if we work together. Then we can hit Silverstein for two million.”

            “Not much of a fixer if you sell out this easy.”

            “I’m tired of fixing. I’d prefer to fuck some shit up.”

            Ben took another bite of his burger and asked the waitress over. With a half full mouth he asked, “Can I get you anything?”

            “Still serving tequila?”

            “We’re not supposed to,” said the waitress.

            “How about for a hundred-dollar bill?”

            “Tequila coming right up.”

            “I like your style,” Billings said, watching the waitress waddle away like it was something to behold. He liked that about the failed actor. He had a sense of wonder, that everything was interesting. That’s why he knew he could join his team of players. “So, can I have your name?”

            “I go by David Lucas. Just call me Davy.”

                                                _________________________

            He stood outside the room waiting for her Remi Dryer to hang up. Oh, the pure joy in her voice. The pride at getting over on the Billings crew. It was making her forget to be ashamed. She was Santorelli’s lapdog, all in, a genuflection she’d never have to make were she on her old game. He snuck a quick look to make sure everyone was still breathing, listening to her go on and on about how she had Ben’s mother and Overlord in the same room. I’ve got all the cards, she told Santorelli. Whatever you’re going to do, Dina, do it. Can I call you Dina? Sorry, I’m just so excited, Dina.

            Davy pulled back the slide on his pistol a quarter inch to make sure he had a round chambered. Better to double check. All right then. Remi finally hung up and started talking big. Your son got you into this, Rhonda. I’d like that to be the last thing you think about before you die, though I suppose it’s a free country. No not yet. I still need you around little longer while things get tied up. That’s funny, because you’re all tied up. Oh Letty, poor thing. It will never make sense to anyone, the two of you. You’re Good Housekeeping and he’s—what he is. I’m sparing you from a life of disappointment, trust me. It’s disappointing enough already. And I’ve done well for myself.

            “I can’t take anymore,” Davy said, entering the room with his gun raised. Remi hadn’t heard his Adidas-soft footfalls. He was calm and agile, not engaging in the amateurish histrionics of their blustering foe. There was a rule Billings had drilled into his head. Never think you’ve won until you’re alive in another country and declared dead in the one you just came from. Remi Dryer had broken that rule. He was an agent of consequence.

            “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, retreating behind Rhonda Billings for a shield and placing her pistol barrel at the artist’s temple. Her breathing was hot and her cheeks swollen red. “You,” she said, recognizing him as the little one that followed Ben Billings around and really had no purpose. Only now his eyes beheld something changed, more settled and mature.

            He was counting on her surprise, but he had to be careful now. Ben’s mom was in danger. They all were. Remi Dryer was a certifiable psychopath any day of the week, let alone when pressed into a corner and beaten at the con. He was only ten feet away. It was the time for held nerves. The most important asset for anyone in the game, sometimes the only thing you had left.

            Another lesson. That one from Tabitha.

            Her gun was in her right hand as she crouched down to make herself hard to hit. This needed to end. Davy let out a long breath and focused on nothing but his target. Cecil Dunes was tied to the chair on Rhonda’s left. Okay. “Cecil, fall over.”

            Dunes recognized the steadiness in Davy’s eyes and immediately did what he was told, tipping himself hard to the floor. Remi had to rise up to clear Rhonda’s head and train her gun on him but never got the chance. Lucas’ target was her shoulder and it didn’t change as she elevated. One shot was enough. The gun dropped and she fell back into a disorganized bookcase. As the smoke slowly cleared he worked his way to her dropped weapon. “All right,” he said aloud, realizing he hadn’t done the work of completely freeing the former prisoners. They gave him varying looks as he took out the gags and undid the ropes.

            “Thanks for not hesitating, Cecil. For trusting me.”

            “Yeah,” said the computer genius, reaching out for his beloved Letty. “Nice shot.”

            Davy stuck the gun in his rear waistband and nodded at Rhonda Billings. She looked worn out and he didn’t blame her. Nothing he could say would make things “good” at present, but they were safe. Cecil could be trusted. His young wife was unharmed. Things were okay.

            “Overlord,” Davy said, avoiding the thousand angry disorganized thoughts behind the eyes of Rhonda Billings, “you ready to go back to work?”

            “Give me a second. Falling over hurt like a bitch.”

            “Are you injured?”

            “No.”

            “I’ll give you thirty seconds. Then we got to get you back in the game.”

            Davy tried to tamp down the charge of adrenaline he was feeling. No good. It would have to work its way through his system. He’d shot another person. Like everything about this job, it was something prepared for. That didn’t make it any easier. He deliberately approached Remi Dryer and knelt down, careful in case she pulled out some other weapon. No. She was making a slight noise, close to a beaten dog’s whimper.

            “Well played,” she managed. “You were pretending the whole time. But you should’ve killed me.”

            Davy gave her a dry little smile as he checked her wound, making sure the bullet had gone through and nothing vital was hit. “Not all of us can be murderers, Ms. Dryer.”

            Over his shoulder he heard Cecil saying he was ready to get back to it.

            Davy stood up and let his able brain run a swift checklist. He nodded politely at Rhonda and Letty. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry for all the—things going on. It’s a lot, but you’re safe. For good this time.”

            “Who are you?” Letty asked.

            It would’ve been nice to get an introduction from Cecil, but he was back at his HELM and frankly not much of a people person to begin with. “Davy Lucas. Nice to meet you both.”

Chapter 38: When You Choose to Play

            Last minute legislation changes were commonplace, but the bill that he’d sponsored and had other people write for him was more complex than he could ever understand. His top aide was out on maternity leave. Another aide was in rehab for some type of designer methamphetamine addiction, the one that was either constantly complaining about being tired or working really, really hard. There was a lot of pressure at home and his senate seat wasn’t automatic like it used be. His mistress was cheating on him with a younger senator which would be hysterical if it wasn’t the kind of irony able to break an aging man’s will. He just wanted to cash out, and it’s not like every other politician in the country wasn’t on the take. Life as a public servant could be hard, way harder than the private sector. All the interviews and the people begging you to carry their interests as burdens upon your back when you knew there was little a measly elected official could do for them. Really, the politicians like him deserved pity, not ire. He was a serf, indentured to make the impossible happen for an impossible people with impossibly different views about everything. He was a victim. And nobody cared. Why on earth would anyone care?

            Before he was rendered unintelligible by an onslaught of tears, these were some of the things Senator Kent Durham of Texas said to Fowler Dane in the bathroom attached to his office. The man had so many excuses and complaints at the ready, his pain seemed genuine. Durham was not someone made happy by their position. Fowler couldn’t recall meeting a guy having his balls squeezed so hard from so many different parties. The weeping ceased for more sad words.

            “These people will kill me. They’ve already threatened to do it. I mentioned—mentioned to Dina Santorelli that the bill was a bad idea after you and Senna came to see me at the rally.”

            “Well, you work with criminals,” Fowler said, rubbing his eyebrows and slamming his fist through the nice little wood door to the senator’s gold-plated toilet. “Lots of criminals. But maybe I can help you out once this is over. You don’t necessarily have to die.”

            Durham slumped to the tile and howled to be left alone. Dane bent down and wiped some of the slobber from his chin. He was having a hard time being a tough guy with someone so pathetic. Damn Billings. He was always going on about how politicians were the worst humans on the planet, a perfect mixture of self-serving and servile. After this display, Fowler would make no argument.

            Senna tapped on the door and poked her head in. “His people couldn’t get the rail line taken out of the bill in time. They’re voting on it right now. Yay after yay. It’s going to fly through, Fowler. This is bad.”       

            Durham’s eyes went wide as he looked up at the beast lording over him. He held his hands up for protection while his anatomy tightened from irrepressible dread. “I tried. I tried. But I’m not the only one involved here. These are powerful people. I’m nothing. Nobody. Senna, my little Nana. Tell him. You know. You’ve known me your whole life. I’m nobody.”

            “You weren’t always this,” she said with a genuine hint of sorrowful reflection.

            “Give us another second alone.”

            “What are you going to do?” she asked. “What are we going to do?”

            Fowler didn’t answer but for a subtle nod. It was sufficient. She abided his wish and told him not to take too long.

            The lock on the door was tough. When it finally snapped into place Durham’s body convulsed like he’d been hit with a defibrillator. Fowler paused and pondered Senna’s two questions: What are you going to do? What are we going to do?

            “What are you going to do?” Durham sobbed. Fowler pondered a bit more. It would take nothing to kill the guy right there in his office. A sudden squeeze of his milky throat. A crushed trachea. Or he could make it look like a suicide. Hell, that wouldn’t be a stretch. The sad sack looked ready to off himself already.

            “Move your legs,” he said, kicking them away before Durham had the chance. He ran the sink and washed his hands, drowning out the lawmaker’s mutterings and trying to just focus on the warm water on his hands.

            He wasn’t the smartest guy on this job, but he was one of the smartest tough guys playing the game. The job had just taken a bad turn. He couldn’t see all the angles but there was certainly nothing tangible to be gained by hurting the senator. Not right now.

            “Please just get it over with.”

            The soldier stopped the water and calmly took a nice soft towel with a carefully embroidered seal. “I’m afraid it’s not over. Not yet. Take care, hotshot. You definitely have my vote.”

            He unlocked the door and left the senator shaking against the back wall. Senna was pacing, heels digging heavy into the luxuriant blue carpet. Her father sat on Durham’s desk with a concerned face. They were arguing. Dane listened for roughly twenty seconds, long enough to figure out that they took similar approaches. There’d be no clear winner until someone punched themselves out or he stepped in as referee. “We’ve got three choices,” he interrupted, making sure he wasn’t polite about it.

            “I’m trying to talk to my daughter.”

            “Dad. Don’t. What did you do to him?” Despite everything, Senna seemed to care about shitty Uncle Kent’s well-being. She had heart. He didn’t hate that. Not even a little bit.

            “I didn’t touch him.” He was taking a calmer tone. Calm as he could. It’s not like he was made for babies and kittens. “Two choices. Hey now, it’s like we talked about. You either go with your dad and his people protect you or you go with me to the safehouse and then on from there. Third option, your dad can come with us.”

            “I think my security staff is more than adequate.”

            “Figured you say that.” Lassiter paid for good people, all former operators. But Dane still worried.

            “I’m coming with you,” Senna said.

            “Just wait a minute,” he said, previous charm fully stripped away. “You’re not taking my daughter anywhere. This entire thing has gone completely up in smoke and now she’s going to have the devil at her door.”

            Fowler understood the need for a father to protect his little girl. But this wasn’t typical. Not at all. “We made plans for this. Specific protocols to follow if the plan goes south.”

            Though Lassiter was taller than average and in good form, Dane made him look meager. That didn’t keep the CEO from squaring up without fear. “So one plan fails and I’m supposed to trust my daughter to another one?”

            The man didn’t make money by being stupid. Lassiter had a point. And Fowler could see she was torn. And so young. He was stupid to think that there might be anything real between them, and he cared about her too much to make it cheap. His time had passed for anything as hopeful and good as Senna. The last weeks he’d been happy, off his game. Maybe that was one of the reasons they were in this mess. God, she’s storybook. You’re you. Be real.

            “Yeah, go with your father. But don’t fuck around.”

            Lassiter nodded with thankful eyes as Senna started to lodge a protest.

            “Hey now, the senator’s a piece of shit coward, but he’s right to be scared. We didn’t win, so they’re out there. Whatever your security is, triple it. Change everything for a good long while. You got the money to do it, so get it done. I’m not fucking around.”

            “I understand,” Lassiter said. He knew Fowler’s pedigree and was wise enough to take him seriously.

            “Don’t,” she said. He couldn’t believe how genuine she sounded, like he was necessary for her. “This is crazy, Dane.”

            “It’s a crazy game, and you chose to play.”

            “Do you think Ben and Tabitha—”

            “It’s not good. Can’t expect to hear from them again.” He delivered it cold. What choice was there? After shaking Lassiter’s hand, he found Senna hungrily pressed against him. He tried not to smell the hair under his chin or feel her trembling warmth. “You’ll be okay. Listen to your dad, now. I’ve got to go.”

Chapter 39: The Wall

            Lars was always behind the scenes. Behind the camera. Behind a door. This time, behind a wall in an elevator shaft. He waited with monkish patience, breathing quietly, using an amplification device to make sure he didn’t miss a single crumb of the conversation. And then the word came from Santorelli. The bill, which Lars didn’t completely understand, had gone through. He heard a man walk in and open a briefcase and start asking for numbers from people on a conference call. These were the numbered accounts of the international investors. It was a lot of money. An astronomical amount. Apparently the tax dollars of the people of America were meant to match it. Again, Lars didn’t completely understand.

            He heard the briefcase man say that the money had been transferred. Dina thanked everyone on the call and said something about this being the first step toward an empire that would help shape the future of the world. He had his hand over a small homemade device hung around his neck, waiting to mash down a big red button.

            All he needed was the word from Mr. Ben. Then it came. The signal. Fucking now. Not clever, but it didn’t need to be.

            The button was attached to two tanks of a powerful sedative gas, rigged up special to pump at a high rate without becoming volatile. It was a mixture of his own making, something he was quite proud of. The speed and potency had to be high because of the tiny hole and tube used to deliver the gas. Mr. Ben and Tabitha had insisted, knowing that Santorelli’s people would check every nook and cranny of the room previous to the meeting. It’s why he was using an analog listening device as well; in case they checked for a closed-circuit camera signal. All very precautious. All smart.

            Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Six slumping bodies. He listened a few more seconds just to be sure, then gave the soft panel of wall he was positioned behind a little push.

            The next few minutes were physically demanding for the diminutive Italian. He had to drag the pretend Arbiter, Tabby and Ben back through the wall and hook them up to a harness system designed by him and Tabby back at his shop. It lowered them down the shaft ten stories and in through the open top of an “elevator car in need out of service,” down in the garage beneath the stadium usually reserved for VIPs. As soon as each body reached its destination, the lack of pressure would send a signal for the lowering devices to release. With the wall panel back up and the tiny little hole sealed, there’d be no trace that Lars had ever been there.

            A nondescript panel van waited near the elevator car. Lars opened the backdoors and grunted and heaved until all three bodies were in the back. He sent an OK text to Davy as he passed through a few checkpoints and away from the stadium without so much as a cross look from security.

Chapter 40: Complements 

            After all, Ben had never been one to shy away from a drink. Tabby walked over with another, some kind of ridiculous scotch wastefully too precise for his egalitarian taste buds. He was glad to see her spirits lifted, smiling in a dress that caught the warm wind, dancing about her hips. It was hard not to be happy. They were more than alive, standing on a five-star restaurant balcony overlooking Lisbon, Portugal. Angled red roofs that looked fragile yet durable in their ancientness. The hills and sea set against each other as perfect complements.

            Had they pulled it off? Probably. “Complements,” he said, accepting the glass and kissing her on the forehead. Sometimes in the past Tabby would pull away. Not this time. She put on arm around his waist like they were a regular couple enjoying a remarkable view, a few weeks away from kids and suburban drudgery.

            “Thanks, pal,” she said with a pat on his stomach, “but it’s not like I made it for you.”

            “No, Tabs. The other complements. The type where one thing goes with another.”

            She pulled away a little, still smiling but with a judgmental squint in her eyes. “Are you going to make a grand speech, Ben Billings?”

            In fact he did want to make a grand speech. It seemed like a good time to tell her that she was his complement, him the sea and her the hills, or vice versa, or however the hell she preferred to arrange it. He wanted to do it right there, to leave her with no doubt—the biggest score in their lives wouldn’t be worth a thing unless they could enjoy it together. The money was great but only because it freed him to do the thing he wanted most: Making her happy and safe was the only job worth doing for the rest of his life.

            He wanted to give that speech. But there were a few things remaining.

            “Mr. Ben and Bella Tabitha.” Lars made his way out onto the balcony, singing something Italian and sounding a little drunk. Good for him, Billings thought. The little genius had done seriously fine work and lots of it. What a talent Hollywood had lost when they blacklisted him. Their loss. Our gain. Hell, he can buy the studio that blacklisted him now.

            “How are you feeling?” Tabitha asked him after they kissed cheeks.

            “I’m feeling like this town might be the place where I stay for myself for much time. It could be more beautiful than my own sweet home.”

            Ben raised his glass and nodded. “It competes, at least from up here. But you might want to stay mobile for the next six months or so. See the world, but with a little caution in the back of your mind.”

            Lars looked out into the sweet colors of the setting sun, seeming to think hard on Ben’s advice. Billings knew he would take it to heart. Tellio wasn’t going to pull a Goodfellas and stupidly go buy a giant Cadillac a week after the heist. He’d been in the game long enough to know the basics and his longevity meant he could actually stick to them. “Mr. Ben, I have a phone and tablet. Press play on the tablet. The phone is on hold.”

            “The FBI?”

            Lars nodded and bowed, holding out a courtly arm for Tabitha to take. Ben watched them as they strolled the marble balcony and shook out his head. He couldn’t allow his voice to be tinged with the sound of victory. It would be too brazen. The kind of thing that pisses off authorities to an unnecessary agree.

            He set down his drink and inserted an earbud. The video on the tablet was a cable news story from back in the States outlining the arrest of Dina Santorelli and her cohorts. Like most breaking reports from the media, the details were slipshod where they weren’t wholly inaccurate. Still, the images of Bella Medina being handcuffed and placed in the back of an FBI cruiser were enough to make him smile.

            “Hello, Agent Salcedo,” he said, remembering what he’d just told himself about gloating. This was her win. It was her triumph. He would be a cog in her great wheel, just another piece of an intricate puzzle she had constructed by her wits alone. “How’s the case looking?”

            She wasn’t showing any restraint. Some huffing and puffing preceded her opening salvo: “You didn’t say these scumbags would be unconscious when we found them, asshole. That part was a little hard to explain to my superiors. Did you maybe think about that before gassing them?”

            “I’m sorry,” Ben said, a little smile on his lips. He wondered if she was trying to trace his call. That would most likely require help one of the bureau’s tech people. Billings doubted she trusted anyone to help, though maybe she had a guy. No matter. The young agent wouldn’t find success. The phone given to him by Lars was way past state of the art, untraceable for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand. “They may not be your superiors for long, Lita.”

            “What was that?” she asked, still with a bite to her tone.

            “I mean this is one massive case. Worldwide news. Worldwide implications. They’ll be working for you before long.”

            A silence followed. He let it be, imagining her girlishly trying to suppress a smile on the other end of the line. Finally, she answered. “Speaking of the world, should I even bother asking where you’ve gone to?”

            “No harm in asking.”

            “I don’t even know why I wasted my breath.”
            “Do you have everything you need from my end?” he asked, humility and reserve still dominate in his delivery.

            “We’re good for now. But you be available. There’s a lot of holes that still need filling in. Things will drag on like a motherfucker.”

            “I expect nothing less from the United States government.”

            “Enjoy your freedom, Billings. And your money. Asshole.”

            “If it means anything, I think we worked well together. Real complements. Have a nice day.”      

Chapter 41: Suite

            The entire top floor of the Lisbon Ritz belonged to the crew. Billings made his way up the elevator. He was pleasantly surprised to find most of them with their glasses raised as he entered the main suite.

            “There he is,” Davy Lucas said, standing next to Overlord2050 and his pretty young wife. Fowler was next to Senna and her father. They looked a little judgmental and in need of an apology. That they’d been an unwitting smokescreen for the rest of the plan was a tough pill to swallow, though Ben figured it would eventually go down. Millions and millions of dollars beat the hell out of a spoonful of sugar.

            “To Mr. Ben and his very crazy notebook of very crazy ideas,” Lars toasted with a slight hiccup.

            “Amen,” Davy said.

            Fowler drank down a massive glass of whisky and walked over to Lucas. “So you were just acting like a jackass the whole time? I about killed you over that shit, little man.”

            “Sorry. We thought it would be good if everyone underestimated me. Including y’all. We could’ve played it another way, but it worked out pretty nice.”

            “I say we do the postgame,” Tabitha shouted, declining the tension and refocusing the group to the reality of their situation.

            “Did you make up a board?” Ben asked.      

            “Figured you’d want to.”

            “What’s the board?” asked Cecil Dunes.

            “Roll it out,” Ben said. The already initiated started clapping. There it was. A particle board with pictures of all their foes, along with information detailing their current statuses. The kind of thing they put in movies so dumb audiences can keep all the information straight.

            Ben felt a tinge of pride. They were all taken care of. Santorelli and Henk were looking at serious time. Senator Durham was being put out to pasture by an oversight investigation into his conduct. Remi Dryer was in the hands of the NYPD, about to be turned over to the feds. The members of Santorelli’s dirty investors were either in custody or in hiding. Lita Salcedo had done some fine work. Of course none of it would’ve been possible without her confidential informant: Benjamin Billings.

            With the announcement of each name sounds of joy and toasts went around the plush room. Even Fowler was getting into the levity. Ben just about spilled his drink as the giant man started carrying Lars around the room.

            With a bursting smile, Tabby asked everyone to calm down. She asked six or seven more times before the room came back down to a manageable level. “Okay,” she said, still with the same smile, “I think it’s time for Mr. Dunes to have the floor. Explain a few of the nuts and bolts going forward.”

            The group started an Overl0rd chant until it threatened to vibrate the walls and bring down the chandelier.

            “All right,” he said, stepping in front of the board to great applause. “And it’s Cecil in real life. Overl0rd sounds really stupid anywhere but the internet.”

            “Overl0rd!” shouted Lars.

            “Well done!” shouted Davy.

            “Fucking right,” Fowler boomed.

            Even the dignified Mr. Lassiter made an offering. “Fine work,” he said, glass of whisky raised high.

            “That’s… nice. Okay, here’s the deal folks. And actually try to listen. I don’t like to repeat myself.”

            Ben moved over to Tabby as the room got quieter. Dunes wasn’t exactly a warm guy, but his information was like the most beautiful blanket. He went over a lot, explaining how he’d digitally covered their tracks. How the FBI and Justice Department had been given everything on Santorelli’s scam from sources he’d built for the sole purpose of dispensing the information. They never actually existed, and now they were well and truly erased.

            “But we have hard evidence as well,” Ben inserted, not wanting them to forget about all the blackmail they had on the investors. Not to mention the fact that Henk was getting ready to crack on his murders. If he flipped, the whole thing would crash. There were a lot of ways it could play out.

            “What about Salcedo?” Dane asked. “She could decide to come after us.”

            Tabby fielded the question before Ben had the chance. “She could, but then she’d have to explain her very friendly association with a group of criminals. She’s ambitious and she knows what we can do. We’ll watch her, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

            “If she tries anything I’ll ruin her in five minutes,” Cecil said. “I’ve already done the research. Lita Salcedo has skeletons. I could send her an anonymous threat and really fuck with her head.”

            “Cecil, that’s enough.” Letty went over to him and rubbed his shoulders, whispering something in his ear that made him nod and smile.

            “Sorry. I’m not much of a people person. And you people should know, none of this really matters. It’s all going to be over—”

            “In 2050,” the group said in unison.

            “So the money.”

            As Cecil explained how to access their accounts, how to stagger it to minimize risk, Ben felt Tabby’s fingers slowly interlocking with his. “I want to talk to you after this. Just us.” His heart was full. He didn’t have the words. He’d help put his friends in near or into the billionaire club and hadn’t lost a person. He’d done a little good for his country too, shining a spotlight on graft. A justification of course, but it helped.

Chapter 42: You People

            Bob Lassiter seemed fairly relaxed now. As Cecil was finishing up, the businessman asked to see Ben and Tabitha in one of the adjoining rooms. They separated hands after a celebratory shake and slipped off, careful not to interrupt.

            “So,” he said, closing a set of white double doors filigreed with gold, the doors of a Russian imperial palace. “We haven’t really had many chances to talk since this thing began.”

            “I know the separation has been frustrating, Mr. Lassiter, but we felt it was best.”

            He went over to a glass bar and examined a few whiskies before making a choice and pouring. He had an elegant power about him. He did everything, even the little things, as if he’d been trained by masters and instructed until proficient. He was arrogant, sure, but he was also plenty capable. Lassiter was essentially self-made—maybe even more impressive, he’d taken a family dynasty that was completely in ruin and resurrected it, reanimating a corpse of a company.

            “It all worked out though,” Tabby said, sitting next to Ben on a dainty wood-framed sofa in the middle of the room. “That’s the important thing.”

            “It’s just,” said Lassiter, picking up a desk chair and setting it down firmly near the feet of Ben and Tabby. “It’s just…”

            “What is it, Bob?” Ben’s neck muscles were tightening as he watched Lassiter take to the chair, too close to be anything but imposing.

            The question precipitated a sinister laugh from Lassiter. Tabitha crossed her arms and sat back in the sofa. Ben was completely still. “I’ve got to give it to you two,” he said, shaking his glass out in front of their faces so that the sound of the big ice cubes was uncomfortably loud. “You think big. For little people, you think big.”

            Tabitha spoke just as he finished. “Don’t do it, Bob.”

            Although Ben was sensing the same thing as his partner, she was apparently less inclined to hear what the man had to say.
            “Do what?”

            “Just take the money,” Tabitha said. She wasn’t loud. She was measured. “You’re getting the biggest cut. Over 200 million and a shot at really building something for your state. Not some taxpayer-funded boondoggle. That was the plan from the beginning. Jobs for your state. Enough of our country selling out to foreign corporate interests. That was your vision.”

            “I want all the money. I do build things. I need it all. I create. You people just take.”

            “You came to us,” Ben said. “This whole thing was your idea.”

            “And your plan, Billings. I’ll admit it, well done.” He set down the drink and pulled out a small pistol from his jacket. “Did you plan for this?”

            Ben watched Lassiter’s hand, a little shaky. The gun was pointed at Tabitha’s chest. “Please put that away,” Ben said, trying to stay calm. Really? He brought a gun in here? “Point it at me, at least.”

            “You’re done calling the plays, con artist. I will say though, an artist you are. Both of you.” Lassiter smiled at Tabitha and let out a breath.

            “Don’t,” Ben said.

            “Quiet.” Lassiter moved closer to Tabitha until his pistol was touching her stomach. He slowly moved his face around hers, going so far as to put his lips to her cheek and neck. With the gun stuck to her, she had no choice but to endure it. Ben thought about lunging but couldn’t take the chance. In seconds he tried to think a hundred things. But this wasn’t complicated. Just a greedy man with a gun pressed against the woman he loved.

            “We’ll give you the money.”

            “I know you will.”

            “What’s your plan?” Tabitha asked, rubbing her brow in frustration, as if she was more annoyed than scared. “This isn’t exactly your homefield. Are you going to convince the others by keeping the two of us hostage? They’ll probably just walk out of here.”

            “I have some associates that should be arriving very shortly.”

            “Associates. You don’t mean the four guys out of Tom Clancy casting from your security team, do you?” Tabitha shook her head as Lassiter backed up and off her, wielding the pistol with sterner purpose.

            Ben stood up. “Please point it at me. You resent me. Probably you’re jealous.”

            That did the trick. Lassiter changed targets. “What did you do with my men?”

            “Not me. Fowler Dane. The man jumped out of buildings and crashed exploding cars in Hollywood mostly for kicks. He was too good of a killer for the United States military. People think that’s a joke. It’s not really a joke.”

            “How did you know?”

            “You need to be better about checking for listening devices if you’re going to swim in these circles.”

            “You people.”

            Ben needed focus above all else, but he was finding it hard to muster. He didn’t like what he was about to do. “What’s Senna going to say?”

            “Senna’s smarter than you give her credit for. Adaptable.”

            “Oh, I know she’s smart. Adaptable. All that. You know what, let her decide how she feels about daddy double-cross.”

            Lassiter backed away as the doors opened. His beautiful daughter who so much resembled the woman he’d married assertively stepped in with her cell phone high in one hand, high heels near piercing the floor and tears welling in her eyes. Ben let out a sigh of regret. Tabitha let out a sigh of disappointment. Lassiter was speechless stunned, almost falling over a fragile end table and lamp. Understandable. Until that moment, he’d been the hero in his daughter’s story. Now in one act he was just another greedy asshole wearing a blue suit pointing a gun.

            “So you heard everything?” he asked his daughter, nodding at her phone.

            “Dad, why are you doing this? Just put down the damn gun. You hate guns.”

            He grunted in response. Ben was taken aback. It was a terrible, primordial grunt. Not what you’d expect. Perhaps a scoff or even a scathing retort. Not a grunt. It was the opposite of control and class, opposite everything Ben had ever seen from Lassiter. The great man was falling like a rock, down through the clouds, a rich guy who’d lost his golden parachute.

            Tabitha took a step toward Lassiter. Ben started to object but was silenced when she held up her hand. “This wasn’t your plan all along, Mr. Lassiter. I know it wasn’t.”

            He regripped the gun and pointed it at her chest. “Maybe I never thought it would get this far.”

            “Well, here we are,” she said calmly. “Just stop before anything bad happens. You’ve accomplished too much to throw it all away like this.”

            While Tabitha was bravely talking him off the ledge, Ben saw Senna start to move toward him. Before he could tell her to stop, Lassiter backed away and fired a hasty shot. Tabitha dropped to the floor. There was blood on the carpet and she wasn’t moving. Ben crashed into him and they toppled over furniture. Senna cried out as the doors crashed open and Fowler and Davy rushed in, helping to wrench the weapon out of Lassiter’s hand.

            “You got him?” Ben asked, not waiting for a response. He crawled over to Tabitha, overcome with tears. In a few seconds his whole life was turned upside down. Everything that mattered was in his arms. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing. He could barely breathe. With her head in his lap, everything turned to fog. It was over and the wrong person had paid the price.

            “Billings!” Fowler yelled, kneeling over Tabitha. “Billings! Y’all pull him away from her.” By now the whole crew was in the room, each acting in a particular state of shock, fear or confusion. It required the combined strength of Lars, Davy and Cecil to separate Ben from Tabitha. He fought until his strength was totally gone, screaming unintelligibly and breathing with bullish madness until his legs gave way and the four of them collapsed in crooked phases to the floor.

Chapter 43: Heaven

            For the slightest moment, Ben thought it might be heaven. Having just woken up, he found himself staring at a frescoed ceiling reminiscent of Michelangelo’s best work. After a few seconds and some rapid blinking, reality broke back in. It was hell. Not heaven.

            “What’s going on?” he called out feebly. His voice and mouth were dry. He sat up and shook his head, completely sure that he was feeling the aftereffects of being drugged.

            Davy into the room and stood by the footboard. He looked serious. “How’s your head?”

            “Was it you that drugged me?”

            “You wouldn’t settle down. I had to.”

            Billings started to rise but it was no good. His recovery would take more than a few moments.

            “Sorry about that, man. It was a good solid dose. You’ve been out—okay, I’m not a doctor. You’ve been out for about a day.”

            Something more than his equilibrium was off. Ben had the feeling that he’d been played. He was on the outside of something, looking in. It was a feeling he specialized in provided to others; now it was his turn.

            Apparently.

            “Davy, what the hell? Don’t mess with me.”

            “Tabitha’s fine. The bullet didn’t do much more than graze her arm, thank God. She’s just outside. And so is your mom.”

            “My mom? What are you talking about?”

            Davy set his hands in the front pockets of his motorcycle jacket, looking not even a little bothered. “I’m going to let them tell most of the story, Ben. But I’ll run you a little checklist. Nobody on our side is dead or arrested. We’re all filthy rich. The bad guys are in jail or are about to be. It looks like we’re in the clear.” He started walking away and then stopped with a smile at the door. “And you’re a lightweight when it comes to narcotics.”