Eddie Mars: The Ongoing Saga of a Guy with Nothing To Lose

ADVENTURE THE 54TH: BURNT OFFERINGS

2009-10-28T08:24:00.000-07:00

ADVENTURE THE 53rd: MY LOVER'S OASIS

2009-09-14T17:28:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER for the first time reader:

For those unfamiliar with the posting structure of a blog: postings appear in the order they are made by their author, not necessarily in the order that would most benefit an ongoing series such as the one you are about to read. Since the purpose of this blog is to be an ongoing thriller, simply removing the previous chapter to alleviate confusion is not an option – since no one coming to the series after the first chapter had been removed would be able to follow the story line.

Therefore, if you scroll down or visit the archives in future months, you will be able to read this continuing drama in the manner and order it was intended to be read. For this reason and purpose each subsequent adventure in the ‘Eddie Mars’ serial will be marked by a number. If you follow these numbers marked at the top of each chapter in their numeric order - eg ‘Adventure the 1st’ - you will be able to follow this continuing saga.

For those savvy to the blog world – this disclaimer may seem redundant, and for that no apology is made. This disclaimer is meant to better acquaint new readers in how the entries in this blog will be posted and how best to follow the series from this point on. And now…

Adventure the 53rd: MY LOVER’S OASIS

I stood before my judge last night,
and prayed for sentencing, swift and sure,
unbowed, I awaited to take my lumps,
for the disease was most worthy of its cure...

What a difference a year makes. I discover this almost from the moment America comes into view off the port bow, materializing from the early morning Frisco fog, looking different somehow – changed; a lot less gritty and conflicted than the shore I left behind and very much more like the inspired ideal I remembered her as a boy. Weaned on Howdy Doody and Leave It To Beaver reruns will do that to a guy. Also, drinking plenty of milk and not losing your virginity until the age of seventeen. But I digress.

After my ship docks I don’t waste any time taking a cab to the police station. On the surface, the city still looks the same. The finer points still shine, only the darker ones seem less prominent. I start to think I’m viewing the world through rose colored glasses only I haven’t had that much to drink in the ship’s lounge.

Sergeant Mallory is now Captain Mallory – a trifle heavier than I recall, a little more jovial it seems and a hell of a lot more shocked to see me propped in his doorway.

“Dear God...” he mutters between the chomp on his cigar, “...the dead has arisen.”

I suppose it’s true enough. For all intensive purposes my living memory had been sealed for the records.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I’ve been?” I say, approaching Mallory’s desk with a certain sly drag to my walk.

Mallory takes notice.

“I can tell how you are,” he reasons, offering me a chair, “Where have you been?”

“Europe,” I say.

Better to leave the particulars to pure conjecture.

“The foreigners were rough on you I see,” Mallory replies as I slowly ease into a large leather chair facing his desk.

The captain’s office is a lot more posh than a sergeant’s; wall to wall carpeting, an imposing mahogany desk where I envision the Magna Carta being signed and a nice big window trimmed in stylish drapes to let the sun stream in.

“You’ll never know,” I admit, “I walk with the cadence of an ol’ Southern gent who recalls with a twinkle in his eye what life was like in the land of cotton before the war.”

“How do,” quips Mallory, “Get you a mint julep or alcohol rub?”

“Yeah,” I tease back, “Preferably from some southern belle frocked in her cotillion dress and cut so low down front that I can see her Mason/Dixon line when she bends over.”

“Well, glad to see you haven’t lost yer touch,” Mallory tells me.

It’s odd. He seems glad to see me only I sense that he’d rather be doing it through the plate glass window of an observation deck at the zoo.

“It’s okay,” I assure him, adjusting my back into the soft buttery comfort of that supple leather chair, “I won’t bite.”

I can tell that curiosity has taken hold of the cat by the tail. Mal’ has about a hundred questions he’d like answered only I have a keen mind and the good sense God gave a lemon not be give him anything more than a few tart replies. Keep him happy, make myself scarce and invisible. It’ll be better for both of us that way. After all, in his heart he’s still a cop walkin’ the beat. It wouldn’t do for him to be friendly with a murderer.

“Where are you staying?” Mal’ asks.

I detect a note of genuine concern. He needn’t bother. I have all the dough I need to stay in the best hotels indefinitely if I set my mind to playing the rich fop. Somehow, though, I have a hankering for more simple pleasures.

“I figure I swing by Deluca Street,” I tell Mallory.

It’s the one kernel of information that’s undeniably true. Those are my plans. But the news seems to have hit Mal’ like the cold nose of a Cocker Spaniel in his crotch before Sunday morning coffee.

“Deluca Street?!?” he exclaims with raised eyebrows.

. . .

Deluca Street is now Deluca Square: an outdoor market where starving artists and fresh farm produce share the spotlight with a bizarre blend of retro chic snake oil peddlers. The streets are now closed to anything but local foot traffic, with large decorative awnings jutting proudly into the street from most every shop lining the avenue. On the site where my apartment building used to stand is a brand new depot to pick up the red car trolley and a trattoria so damn colorful it looks like a Mexican fiesta designed by Walt Disney.

Mallory was kind enough to take me there, only nothing about the place reminds me of home. So, Stephen Leacock was right. Bastard!

“When did all this happen?” I ask Mallory, still with a note of disbelief caught between my teeth.

“Not long after your place burned to the ground,” Mallory explains. The dozers came through and flattened just about everything that couldn't walk, crawl or give head in the next district. All part of the Mayor’s urban renewal project.”

“I didn’t think McNorton had it in him,” I reason, “I mean, there were times when I used to see his car in these parts. And you and I both know he wasn’t here to soak up the local color.”

“More like get sucked by it,” Mallory concurs, “But Micky-N ain’t Mayor anymore.”

“Then who is?”

“Wendell Bridesman.”

Now there’s a name I never thought to hear in reference to public service. Wendell H. Brideman was a self made millionaire. The origins of those millions was open for debate and certainly over the years the codger was rumored to have been in deep with the mob; swimming with sharks until eventually they ate one another and only Wendell was left behind…like the grand old man of the yarn to tell the tale as though it were some forgotten chapter in the history of San Francisco.

Only, those types of influences never die. They just move on to another dark watering hole where their interests can continue to go unnoticed. But now Bridesman’s the mayor. It had to be next to impossible to hide all that prior filth in between squeaky clean manicures and glowing speeches – even if the venue had changed from back alley pubs to political arenas. Even so, there was no denying Bridesman had tapped into some good public works.

Deluca Street for one. Though I left my heart behind on the crumbling wet cobblestone of the old street, the new square is a place to lose one’s self in the bizarre quaintness of California life. I take notice of a psychic shop with its huge red neon eye flashing proudly atop a front pylon of bricks carved to look like an ancient pyramid. We’re standing at the corner now where Deluca Square intersects with a new street cut into the landscape: Marshall-Pepper.

“Mal’…” I start off, “I need your help.”

“That, I figured,” Mallory tells me, “You look like you can use all you can get. Incidentally, I knew you when and you used to get plenty without reprisals. How yah fixed these days, stud?"

I catch a glimpse of myself in the window reflection of a nearby book shop. In the pure light of day my recovery doesn’t look nearly half as complete. I’m thin and flat and my skin has the pasty pall of a wax dummy from Madame Tussaud’s. I don’t remember myself looking quite so peaked back in Montenegro. In fact, although it’s only been a year since I left this place I suddenly find myself feeling as though about nine more have passed.

"I've had about all I can take," I reason, "Now I'm ready to commit myself to the house of the Lord."

"You already look as though you've donated a couple a' kidneys to medical science," Mal says.

He's being a jerk deliberately. I'd hate him for it too, only I'm spent and tired and more tired than spent. He can go to hell inside somebody else's handbasket. Mine's full of determination to get back to nature's goodness - if only to ditch the whole damn sunshine mess right back into that burning ball of hydrogen.

Revenge isn’t going to be easy, though. Not now. I’m not ready for it. I need more time. I need to build myself back from the ground up. All in all, I suppose it’s not a bad place to start. I’m standing smack dab in the middle of my ol’ ground zero.

“You know what?” I tell Mal’ with a soft pat on his back, “I’ll be fine. I just need a little time by myself.”

“Come on, I’ll drop you,” Mallory says.

"Where?" I reason, "On my head?"

"Would it help if I did?"

He knows damn well that it wouldn't.

Only somehow I feel as though I’ve been dropped – hard and from a great distance.

“No,” I quietly reply, “I’ll find my way. You better get back to the office. I wouldn’t want the Mayor to have any good reason for firing you.”

Especially when knowing the captain of the guard might be extremely useful to my own master plan.

Mallory isn’t quite sure about leaving me behind – still, he does. But before that, he makes me promise to come to dinner that very night – a fancy new address on Knob Hill. He scribbles it down on a piece of paper and gives me a firm handshake before disappearing into the crowd.

I wait for a few moments, observing the pedestrian traffic as it filters past the booths and through the byways of Deluca Square – so unaware that the ground they now walk on with stylish heels was once the famed dumping ground for fresh kills and left over body parts that the mob needed to dispose.

Urban renewal…a fancy name for a fresh coat of paint and a few more cappuccino makers cranking out overpriced brew to the rich and gutless.

The electronic eye of the psychic shop seems to be bearing down on me. I wonder what it sees that I don’t. What the hell? It never hurts to explore the possibilities. Besides, there’s a ‘room for rent’ sign tucked in the lower casing of the window with an arrow pointing to the second floor of the shop that I just might be able to take advantage of.

I venture beyond the merry, multicolored daisy head patterned door jam. Inside the brightly lit shop is a glass counter full of books on everything from the occult, witchcraft and how to become a vegan to experimental age rejuvenating therapies – more myth than fact - and ‘how to’ guides on tantric sex exercises.

Just beyond the wooden beaded curtain that leads to the stockroom there’s the distant tinkle of some new age piano and flute music and gurgling water sound effects that make me need to use the bathroom. There’s also the faint aroma wafting off lavender incense burning from a few lit candles on a corner shelf, guarded by a protective plexi-glass façade to keep sticky fingers and fire bugs at bay.

“Make yourself at home,” a female voice calls out from beyond the beaded curtain, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

The voice seems familiar; welcoming, even. A few brief moments later I get the shock of my life when an all too familiar face and form materialize from just beyond that backroom hippie nirvana: Martinique Chezwyck – the only working girl I ever lost my heart to.

“Oh my God!” she says, understandably just a shaken as I am – maybe even more.

She’s wearing a sexy little white and navy silken kimono, a set of worn platform shoes and a pair of gold paint hoop earring I recall as being her favorite. Even with all her clothes on she’s still the vision most men would cream their wheat over given half the chance, an ounce of encouragement and only a few quick light strokes.

“Edward,” she stammers, collecting her thoughts and approaching me as though I were a stray that needed to be shoed out the door, “It is…Edward…isn’t it?”

“Martinique,” I whisper softly, “You’re still the girl most likely... "

"Don't I know it," she admits, folding her supple arms before her ample bosom, "Well...you can't be here for a freebee. Besides, my time is precious - remember?"

"And by the hour," I add.

"For you, by the minute," she teases, her face softening a moment as she studies me from horn to hoof.

"Just what the hell are you doing here?”

"I've come to have my palm read," I say.

Her harsh look of disbelief dissolves. She reaches over, taking my face in the smooth palms of her two hands and softly pressing her lips to mine. Her kiss, innocent and mesmerizing, sends a sudden numbness down from my head to my arms. I want to take her in my arms, but can’t seem to move. The kiss only lasts a second or two, but I keep replaying it backwards and forwards over the next few moments – determined to get as much playtime out of the memory as linear time will allow.

Afterward, Martinique takes a step back, surveying the wreckage that is my body.

“I’ve aged,” I admit.

It’s easier to defuse the truth that way.

“You have,” she admits, “But I don’t really mind. I just wish…”

She catches herself in her own daydream and reverts back to the form of a shop keeper.

“So,” she says, lips pursed as a young couple in their late teens breeze through the open door, “Can I interest you in something off the shelf?”

“Hey,” the man-child calls out to Martinique with his giggling plaything firmly in tow, “You got any books on kama sutra?”

“You’re not old enough to know what kama sutra is, sonny,” Martinique reasons.

“Then isn’t it about time I learned?”

With speedy restraint, casting her eyes upwards a moment or two, Martinique whisks the couple over to a bookshelf near the counter, pulls out a few choice volumes, while motioning for me to step into her backroom with a polite nod of her head.

“Can we get a psychic reading?” the girl asks as I move beyond the beaded curtain.

“Not today, sweetie,” I hear Martinique tell her, “The planets are not aligned in your favor.”

Some more small talk ensues.

Beyond the beaded curtain the mood of the shop takes on the dark and cozy appeal of a new age whorehouse. The walls have been painted in a dark velvety gray-lavender. A brief narrow hall opens onto a rather large sitting area with all four walls slightly slanted inward and covered in soft silver sparkles. A few dim sconces and one decorative table lamp provide what little light there is. There’s a rather large circular pin cushion-like seating arrangement in the center of the room with a series of gargantuan peacock feathers protruding from its center in a bizarre fountain-like arrangement.

In one corner is an old time gramophone on an ornate wooden carved circular shelf and just beneath it a beat up two speaker radio/CD player piping in some flute and water noise that I suppose is supposed to be feng shui.

In the other corner, an inviting chez lounge built for two is trimmed in the same plush red velvet fabric as the pin-cushion. The old hard wood floor beneath my feet creaks slightly, its sound muffled by the careworn Oriental rug that fills most of the space in a garish swirl of more flavors than a Baskin Robbins.

There are only two other doors in the room, one leading to a back stairwell going up to the second floor above the shop and the other opening onto a much welcomed lavatory so cramped that my legs barely fit on either side of the porcelain bowl. I can practically do my business and wash my hands in the sink at the same time.

I finish up and discover Martinique waiting for me on the chez; her kimono hitched just enough to reveal those celebrated gams of hers and a set of firm calves ageless to the life she used to lead.

“It’s okay,” she reasons, all business and no heart, “They’re gone and I’ve locked up for the day.”

Suddenly, however, the invitation doesn’t seem quite so enticing. In fact, I’m rather ashamed of my rumpled self.

“That isn’t why I came,” I admit, “In fact I didn’t even know you were here.”

“Then why…” she stops short.

“Your sign in the window,” I explain to her, “Room for rent.”

“To anyone but you,” she coolly tells me.

So much for that kiss. More like a kiss off.

“Okay, doll,” I suggest, pouring on the bitterness, “In my next life I plan to be born with the perfect bod’ and enough notches on the ol’ inch worm to satisfy even you. But in this life you get what you get. Neither may live up to your expectations. But you may want to start filling out your own wish list right now. Because I got’ta tell you, honey – there’s a lot a' room for improvement.”

A thin disruptive smile teases its way across her frozen puss until she can’t help but grin with admiration for the fact that, if nothing else, at least I haven’t lost my salty edge where women are concerned.

“Would you care to put your mouth where your money is?” she teases.

“Not even with a prescription,” I say, “Besides, if memory serves me correctly, you were the contortionist in our relationship. Now, how about that room?”

I’ve won her over with a good tongue lashing.

"You're all wet, Eddy," she reasons, "But that's the way I like you."

"How?" I tack on for good measure, "With eight to ten shots of Tequila and pass the worm until it's cut into tiny little pieces?"

"Mister, you got yourself a room," she tells me.

Without further delay, Martinique shows me up the back stairs to a brightly lit loft with a single bed in it that looks kitty-corner onto Deluca Square and Marshall-Pepper with large curtain-less windows. There’s a mini-fridge in one corner and enough space to fit some workout equipment and a small desk – both of which I’ll have to hunt down for myself. Martinique gives me a few brief minutes to make up my mind. She knows I don’t require much more than that to get started – especially when the host is so enticing.

“It’s five hundred,” she tells me.

“You’re a little steep in your pricing, aren’t you?” I suggest, eyeing her.

“For the room,” she coldly replies.

“Just the room?”

“Just the room!”

Room to grow - I hope. I open my wallet and fork out a cool thousand.

“Here,” I say, “That’s for first and last. We can discuss what comes in between when I’ve had a chance to settle in.”

“How long are you planning to stay?”

Long enough to answer my lover’s prayer – at least, I think.

THE END?

No way. Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure on Nov. 1, 2009.

@Nick Zegarac 2009 (all rights reserved).

ADVENTURE THE 52nd: THE TIME OF ANGELS

2009-07-29T13:13:00.000-07:00

ADVENTURE THE 51st: A PASSAGE TO MONTENEGRO

2009-05-29T09:55:00.000-07:00

ADVENTURE THE 50TH: THE CRIPPLING CONFESSIONAL

2009-04-20T06:08:00.000-07:00

ADVENTURE THE 49TH: THISTLE AND DARKNESS

2009-03-14T19:06:00.000-07:00

ADVENTURE THE 48TH: IN THE BLEAK, BLEAK WINTER

2008-12-28T15:15:00.000-08:00

DISCLAIMER for the first time reader:

For those unfamiliar with the posting structure of a blog: postings appear in the order they are made by their author, not necessarily in the order that would most benefit an ongoing series such as the one you are about to read. Since the purpose of this blog is to be an ongoing thriller, simply removing the previous chapter to alleviate confusion is not an option – since no one coming to the series after the first chapter had been removed would be able to follow the story line.

Therefore, if you scroll down or visit the archives in future months, you will be able to read this continuing drama in the manner and order it was intended to be read. For this reason and purpose each subsequent adventure in the ‘Eddie Mars’ serial will be marked by a number. If you follow these numbers marked at the top of each chapter in their numeric order - eg ‘Adventure the 1st’ - you will be able to follow this continuing saga.

For those savvy to the blog world – this disclaimer may seem redundant, and for that no apology is made. This disclaimer is meant to better acquaint new readers in how the entries in this blog will be posted and how best to follow the series from this point on. And now…

ADVENTURE THE 48th:
In The Bleak, Bleak Winter

No one would ever guess it now, but I was a sickly child; pneumonia at eight and a bout of rheumatic fever just before I hit my teens. I was a pasty little lad with about as much curb appeal as road kill. I remember those years only faintly now, perhaps in truth, because I’d rather forget childhood all together and move on to that moment just past puberty when my whole world started coming apart.

Mom bought the farm at thirteen and dad took to the bottle. He was a great guy when he wasn’t pissed out of his mind and blaming me, grandpa, the milkman…anybody and everybody except himself for his own predicament. But when I was fifteen I suddenly sprang up like a weed – a big one – and with enough pent up frustration brought on by puberty to really start something, one way or the other. It wasn’t so easy to take a pot shot at me anymore, no matter the quantity of cheap spirits consumed.

I’m not big on all the psychological mumbo-jumbo parents put their kids through on the road to adulthood. I suppose it helps if you have parents who have grown up first before they start spitting out offspring like the Von Trapp family commune. Oh, well; we take what we have and make the best of it, I suppose. But all that damn nonsense about life giving you lemons and what you’re supposed to do with ‘em once you know you’re never getting the hell out of hell is a lot of hooey!

If you’re in for the citrus crop there’s neither the time, inclination nor know how to do anything but suck on the lemon you’ve been force fed until you’re puckered on a sour stain of eternal regret. That’s just how it is. One in a hundred million will turn their compromised existence into something worth remembering. Maybe one in a million will learn how to erase or at least fabricate a successful façade. But these unfortunates haven’t overcome anything. They’re just the newest social frauds. They know everything about them is a lie, but figure that it doesn’t matter so long as the rest of us believe their myth.

Women are better at making up their past than men. They’re born liars. I observe this carefully as Maryilla and I take a noon day train from London to Derbyshire. I know Sergei’s on board, only he’s disappeared somewhere after the tickets were punched; the invisible man. It suits him.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Maryilla tells me.

“Not awfully,” I say, “Besides, what’s there to say? The friends in my pocket’ll do all the talking once we get there.”

I tap my coat pockets to reassure myself that the switchblade and pistol I’ve managed to smuggle aboard are still with me. A lesser fool would have ditched the knife or just shot himself in the leg with his firearm to get the whole damn mess over with. Guess I’m a masochist. I keep both close to that spot where my heart ought to be but know better than to let rashness overtake in the baggage car.

My answer hasn’t impressed her. In fact, I detect a distinct note of disgust as Maryilla leans back in her seat.

“Why are you so guarded?”

“I find I live longer when others don’t know what I’m thinking,” I confide.

It’s true. That is the reason.

“You’re not alive,” Maryilla mutters, her gaze turned out the window at the flashes of speeding scenery. Then, the clincher - “Neither am I.”

“I’m glad you included yourself among the missing,” I tell her, “I was beginning to get lonely.”

A thin smile materializes from beneath Maryilla’s tight upper lip.

“Life hasn’t been kind,” she suggests in a tone that’s supposed to get me to reveal more than I will.

I don’t fall into her sand trap, but can feel her tiny granules of curiosity swirling around my hips like a dizzying hula hoop full of prodding intrigue.

“Suppose you leave snap analysis at your own back door,” I suggest, “I’m not up for a couch session, doctor. Not unless you’ve managed a fine merlot and some soft canned music to set the mood.”

Maryilla closes her eyes, her long hair falling fresh and abundant across her cheeks as she buries the back of her head in the seat cushion headrest.

“Even then, I’m not sure that you would bite,” she teases.

“Oh, yes I would,” I tell her, without believing it entirely myself, “I’d leave teeth marks to. You’d know it.”

She laughs, her bright pink tongue darting playfully between perfect white teeth.

“Blood sucker,” she whispers, jokingly.

I let her have it – both barrels.

“I thought that was your department.”

. . .

Let it never be said that I can’t kill the mood. Playtime is one thing, but with the company I’ve been keeping playtime is reserved for the chisel and screwdriver set.

Without warning Sergei materializes; his brow, narrow; his scowl deeper than I remember. He’s a block of soulless granite, alright; chiseled from the pillar of hard knocks – the ones that attempted to crush him at an early age, but failed. Sergei hates the world. I can’t say I’m much for it, but in general I don’t wish it ill. I just want it to leave me alone. But Sergei – he truly despises anything that’s had the hand of man on it and that includes Maryilla.

I don’t know why or how, but these two are a curious alliance. I get the vibe that Sergei’d like to push his mistress off a tall mountain or weigh her heavy with a pair of cement Manola Blahniks only he doesn’t dare. It isn’t loyalty or even fear that keeps him in check. The aphrodisiac that keeps this animal on his chain? Don’t know - yet. I only know that Maryilla’s charm escapes me. It always has.

We get off together at Westerfelt Station in the North Country; an impossibly tiny hamlet that probably hasn’t seen any action since the blitz of ’42. The station is at a crossroads that quickly opens to rolling countryside on all four sides. As far as I can make out there’s only a petrol station, a pub and an abattoir to recommend the place. Eat here and get gas doesn’t begin to describe my thoughts.

“What now?” I ask.

“Now we get someone to drive us out to the Montague estate,” reasons Maryilla, “I hope you’ve had time to digest our plan of action.”

In point of fact, I have. I was saving the surprise for our arrival at Jeffrey’s, but I don’t really see the point in not letting this sterile cat out of the bag right now.

“You’re going to kill him,” I inform Maryilla.

I expected her to be thoroughly amused by my suggestion. She isn’t.

“The plan was…” Maryilla begins.

“Plans have changed,” I add, “Besides I’m not going to kill someone I’ve never met. I need at least a first visit to build up that much animosity for my fellow man.”

At this point, Sergei looks as though he might be willing to get a tad frisky with me, so I show them both that I mean what I say by cocking my loaded gat under my coat and slowly shaking my head.

“You’ve already decided on a corpse,” I reason, “But I’m not that particular. Any ‘body’ will do.”

Maryilla and Sergei exchange passing glances. There’s a brief moment of tension between us before she agrees to my terms – or, at least, agrees to placate them until such time as she can stick my knife in me for desertion.

“Then, why have you come all this way?” Maryilla says.

She’s entitled to that much. No, let me rephrase that. She’s not even deserving of that much, but I’m big enough to provide her with the information.

“Curiosity,” I admit.

“You know what they say,” Maryilla replies quickly, “I mean…what it did to the cat?”

I smile, a most pithy retort dripping from my lips.

“Well, maybe they just didn’t have the right pussy on tap.”

. . .

So, I layout the plan as I see it. Since I’ve never met Jeffrey Lynn-Montague, a.k.a. Das Englander, I’ll go along for the ride and use myself as the pass key to get everyone inside the estate. Once in, they’re on their own. If Jeff’s an average shot, then I take the train back to London with Slick and Ugly in tow, collect the Don and hightail it to some higher ground where local law enforcement isn’t so particular about hoodlums living right under their precinct. If, on the other hand, ol’ Jeff is a class ‘A’ marksman and flattens the competition, I’m not above learning a few tips and maybe getting a pass on walking away the winner by default. It’s that simple. Winner takes all.

. . .

We make a pretty out of place trio, piled into the back of a flat open surrey that’s punted through the countryside by a horse at least two years overdue for the glue factory. Our driver rates the same introduction; forty-ish and nattering on about the time Princess Diana asked if the baubles he had hanging off of ‘Ol’ Nellie’ were, in fact, genuine gold.

“Then I says to her Royal Highness…”

And so it goes; on and on and with no perceivable end in sight. The guy’s so one dimensional, paper cutouts have more depth. Still, he was easy to find and didn’t take to accepting too large a payment for this lift on account of he was lugging a few gallons of fresh milk to the Montague estate.

It’s cold. There’s a carpet of fresh fallen snow across most of the landscape that makes for a clean slate pasted against the backdrop of a flat gray sky. Every once in a while the surrey pulls to the left as its front wheels lock in the slush and are dragged crookedly toward the mud, only to jump back in line when they hook into the rough edge of the paved road.

Fifty-two minutes later, and we’re rounding the corner of a high rising hill that gradually gives way to a sprawling country estate.

“Nice work if you can get it,” I mutter at a moment’s lull in our driver’s monologue.

“You thinks so, sir?” our driver replies, “M’ybe. But I says to the Misses just last night that them what has the price of a packet of tea know on whose backside they spread their tissue. And them what has more than a few sheds to hang that tissue in probably know under which ones all them dead bodies is buried.”

I’m inclined to agree with him, particularly as he brings Old Nellie to a stop in front of the gargantuan front façade of an estate, marked VimView. The grounds are a frightful mess of entangled wild bramble and thistle half buried in swollen crests of new fallen snow. Only the house looks as though it’s had some repairs done to maintain it as best the new rich can.

We disembark the surrey. Sergei tips the cabbie. Funny, I thought he’d rather cut the ol’ boy’s head off once we arrived. Oh well, I internally reason, the day’s full of surprises.

I realize the brevity of that afterthought as the front door to VimView opens and an all too familiar face materializes from the home’s blackened interior. It’s Karl Talenburg; immaculately dressed and with more than an ounce of curious twinkle suddenly firing up behind the eye.

I’m no mind reader, but Karl looks particularly pleased with himself, like a fat house cat whose just put his mitts in the catnip and found the bonus of a dead budgie to snack on.

“Tell me,” he asks with that thin grimace stretching to the peripheries of his cheek bones, “What was your first thought…I mean, at that particular moment?”

“Writing a book on near death experience,” I quip.

My smug reply seems to please him. Stands to reason. We’re in the preliminary stages of our cute meet. The love affair’s still on.

“Is there no end to your talents?”
“There is,” I assure him.

“But I’m curious…”
“So was the cat. Remember what happened to him?”

Karl gives out with a polished chuckle. I’m about to take him down memory lane for a nightmare or two.

“I don’t worry about death, Mr. Mars,” Karl admits.
“No, I suppose not,” I agree, “Say, why not Eddie? We’ve known each other long enough.”

“Too long.”

I don’t expect the rather large Lugar Karl whips out from his velvet robe and apparently neither do Sergei or Maryilla. My mistake. I’ve made quite a few on this adventure and this may be my last.

“We meet again, Das Englander,” Maryilla says.

So that’s Das Englander. Karl, Jeffrey Lynn- Montague Talenburg…etcetera and so on. He’s the chameleon, which probably makes Maryilla his angel of death. Just what any of this makes me is wide open to interpretation. If looks could kill, old Karl would already be compost for the spring garden.

“My dear, Maryilla,” Karl reasons, “You are a luxury no man can afford.”

“Though I’m sure more than a handful has tried,” I reason, attempting in vane to break the tension, “What about friendship?”

I hear the click of another gun being cocked behind our backs. Sure enough, the old pudge-pot surrey driver has been workin’ the other side of the rainbow, taking notes from we three Munchkins in the back of his sleigh. I thought it was too easy getting him to commit to this trip in the frigid country for only a few quid and not much pro quo.

“You’re a genuine ripper, mate,” the cabbie tells me.

“And you’ve read too many Daphne Du Maurier novels,” I spit back, “Give it a rest and put your pea shooter where it’ll do the least damage – between your ears.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Karl commands, “All of you. Inside.”

How can such a gracious invitation be refused?

We’re corralled like three head of dim-witted cattle into a great hall with limitless possibilities for the next Halloween spook fest…if any of us lives that long. At one end the gaping mouth of a roaring fire yawns like the gates to hell. I suddenly have this vision of my head bubbling on the spit. It’s not a glamorous afterthought, I’ll grant you, but I’m too afraid to consider how close it might be to my future.

“By all accounts we ought’a be sharing daisies at Greenlawn instead of barbs across a gun,” I suggest to Karl, attempting to trade on my limited past intrigues as his confident, “Seems someone’s been exaggerating the truth.”

“Is that how it seems to you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who do you suspect as the liar?”

“You,” I openly admit, giving him a moment to get nervous before finishing my thought, “Me. Our mutual acquaintance standing here at the threshold of the ‘dearly departed’ club and maybe, just maybe…the man in the moon.”

“Why?” Maryilla interrupts.

I want to tell her shut up. I want to badly. Only I’m not sure I should be turn-coating on her just yet. Instead I just give her one of those looks my father used to give me after coming in late – it’s a look you have to master. Apparently, I haven’t yet.

“My dear,” Karl tells her, his clear cut annunciation hardly taking the edge off, “You are not in a position to question my motives.”

“Maybe not,” I reason, “But I’ll bet she’s been in that position before.”

I’ve hit a chord or a nerve or maybe just hammered home the rose-colored truth of the matter – that, at some point, Maryilla and Karl had been lovers.

“You amuse me, Mr. Mars.”

“Then my purpose hasn’t been wasted. You know, I’m nobody’s idea of purity, but on a good day I am forty proof.”

“What are you after?” Karl prods.

I think maybe I’ve struck a blow to counterbalance what only moments before must have appeared as my utter lack of sincerity – bringing an old flame and future assassin to his front door.

“The truth,” I admit, “Oh, theories are alright for suckers. In some cases, down right satisfying. Connect the dots. Fit pieces into a puzzle. Analyze the contents of a Petri dish. Only, roll the dice once too often and you wind up in a rich man’s boudoir starring down the barrel of a not so friendly and pondering secret lists, dead hookers and what you think will happen after the big man upstairs calls you home for his game of cribbage. House rules.”

I’ve softened the mood somewhat.

“I’ll not ask you if you’re afraid of death,” Karl reasons, “I believe I know the answer.”

“Maybe,” I continue, “But to answer your question, ‘not particularly’. Just how my remains will look splashed across the front tabloids may leave me sleepless and haunting this place though.” Then, nodding in the direction of Maryilla and Sergei, “Especially when I’m in with such good company.”

The cabbie laughs out loud. He’s not very good at concealing his feelings – just a fool who thinks a gat in the hand is worth more than a levy of impeccably timed logic. I don’t despise men like him. After all, they’re on the short list of the expendable.

“You’re no fool, Mr. Mars,” Karl tells me.
“Oh, thank you.”
“If you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. I’m listening. Where do we go from here?”

Somehow I’ve managed to win chits from a man who doesn’t usually regard others as part of the same crap game. It’s strange. I don’t know whether I should be flattered or disgusted by the compliment.

“I’ve got half a list that says this whole thing’s been the original goose that gave chase,” I begin, “Only, I manage a slow waddle a lot longer then any of us hoped for. You used me as a fail safe to keep your competition busy. This whole thing started with a man named Hemmingway; a busy guy – buying up half the port side of Louisiana and most of lower Manhattan and doing a whole lot of nothing with both…at least on the surface.”

“You found something?” Maryilla whispers.

“No,” I confess, “I knocked on a lot of front doors…only I didn’t check out too many backrooms. But Sergeant Malory of the 36th District Precinct did. Hemmingway was setting up dummy fronts for the distribution of Red China narcotics. Just like you.”

There’s a moment of deadening silence that I quietly reason could go either way. I’m secretly glad when my margin of error works in my favor and no magic bullets start bouncing off the vaulted ceilings of this mausoleum. There’s no going back now. This is an all or nothing deal and my hand’s yet to be played.

“Hemmingway wasn’t your competition,” I reason to Karl, “He was your contact. But he was out of control. He started skimming off the top. You couldn’t have that. Not when what you wanted was right under his nose.”

“Be careful, Mr. Mars,” Karl warns, lazily redirecting my attentions to his gun, “You’re dangerously close to not being able to see past the tip of your own.”

“Do it,” I call his bluff, “It’d be a favor, letting the whole lot of you in for a heap of grief.”

“How’s that?”

“Sergeant Malory again. He knows what I know. He’s agreed to let me figure things out for myself and that’s bought us both some time. How much sand’s in the hour glass all depends on if I turn up with a couple of holes that God didn’t put there at birth.”

Karl reconsiders his options. I can tell he’s intrigued, only I don’t think he’s buying any of my ‘missing link’ scenario. So I resolve to tie up my loose ends before I become one.

“You fueled the bloodlust between Hemmingway and Don Alverez to get even by planting a small time operator in his midst and then treating the poor dumb bastard as a double agent,” I explain.

“What operator?” Maryilla suddenly interrupts.

“Muzzle it, angel,” I reason with firm conviction, “I wouldn’t like to, but I’ll deck you one in the chops if you crowd me.”

“I suppose you know the name of this ‘operator’?” Karl reasons.

“We both do,” I confess for the benefit of those not up to speed yet, “Frank Brody. I haven’t quite figured out whether it was a double cross or just an out and out swindle. But Brody died just the same. Hemmingway had his body paved under six feet of asphalt on that stretch of dead end where the late Carolyn Trent was supposed to unload me too. One problem; your angel of death became my angel of mercy. She couldn’t bring herself into the killing zone. She didn’t have it in her. But I did. And that left yet another loose end.”

“You’re not making sense,” Maryilla interrupts again.

“That’s twice, angel,” I say, lowering my voice and brow at the same time to connect with that ledge of fear rather than curiosity dangling before her eyes, “Mark me. There won’t be a number three.”

Sergei’s lost. So’s the cabbie. They’re not in our league. If this were Trivia Pursuit, I’d collect their pie pieces and ask them to leave with some cheapo parting gifts and a voucher for the all night buffet at Denny’s. But Karl’s begun to sweat – not profusely, but those thin cultured beads slowly forming at the fringe of his tired widow’s peak.

“You should have been more careful about Frank,” I tell him, “While you were using Tony Menendez as a buffer, dear ol’ Ton’ was getting ready to cut out on you with Hemmingway’s woman. He was also partnered up with Brody. Should’a checked Brody’s pockets more carefully. While you were trying to get the goods on them they already had plenty on you.”

Karl can’t contain his smug superiority any longer. It spreads like a thick fungus, moss-covered grin from ear to ear.

“You haven’t learned much in all these months, have you?” he muses.

“I didn’t realize there’d be a pop quiz at the end of it all,” I reason.

Only I’m the one who’s likely to get popped. Frank Brody was no fool. Arguably, he was an even lesser a dupe than yours truly. And Karl didn’t get rid of an inept accomplice when he had Brody killed. But he did murder his own double agent – the only guy with all the answers to questions it’s taken him this long to figure out on his own. Brody was using that notorious list as bait to nail the whole lot of thieves to a cross. Happy Easter, Karl. Only his eggs weren’t all in one basket.

“The thing I don’t figure is the Don,” I interrupt, “You and he going at it for a prize you already had in your possession seems like an awful waste of your time, and on the night you came to my rescue off the coast of Morocco you tossed caution and evidence to the wind…or waters, as it were. Any way, why kill him, or at least try to, at Heathrow? It can’t be just for looks…that is, how it’ll deflect from the bigger crime for the authorities?”

“You still think this is just about drugs?” Karl reasons, shaking his head with an authoritative disdain for my limited imagination, “This is about power. As for the Don…once we were like brothers.”

“You still are,” I remind him, “Cain and Abel.”

“You fools!” Maryilla hisses from behind.

She’s a game girl with hidden talents, I’ll give her that. While Karl and I have been comparing egos and Johnsons by candlelit, she’s managed to bring out a weapon of her own; a smart looking revolver pointed straight at Karl’s head.

“Drop it, luv!” the surrey driver whispers from behind.

“Go ahead,” Maryilla seethes, her eyes never leaving the delicate indentation mark between Karl’s eyes – the spot she’s taken dead aim at, “Shoot. Sergei!”

Another gun comes out, this one from Sergei’s pocket and casually aimed at the surrey driver’s head.

“Kill me,” Maryilla tempts the surrey driver, “You’ll be killing yourself.”

“Suppose we just forget the roulette and move on to a straight game of spin the bottle,” I quip in a slightly nervous attempt to defuse the situation, “Sober man wins. Drunkard goes home happy but empty handed nonetheless.”

“Define drunk,” Karl replies.

I’ve amused him yet again. It’s true. The cheese does stand alone. I’m the jester here and it’s a part I’m willing to play to walk away from this showdown. I’m not sure I can even spell ‘drunk’ at this point. My mind’s elsewhere – mainly on self preservation.

“How good’s your imagination?” I tease, forcing a reluctant half smile to my cheeks.

“Better than my bourbon,” he admits.

“Drugs are just a sideline,” Maryilla explains, “The real focus is on weapons.”

“I’ll bite,” I reason, my hand slowly sneaking down into my coat pocket, not for my gun but for the switchblade I brought along just in case, “What weapons?”

“In Iraq,” Maryilla hypothesizes, but in a tone that leads me to believe she’s been doing some extracurricular home schooling just for the occasion.

My suspicions get confirmed a moment later as Karl explains.

His consortium had been sneaking biological agents into an underground nuclear facility at the border between Iran and Iraq for nearly a decade. There ought to have been enough toxins amassed by now to decimate a few major cities in the U.S. and Europe, only a few of Osama’s boys became greedy and impatient in the meantime. A botched plan to kill millions in a more traditional way and the whole plan to hold the world hostage with the threat of making at least three quarters of it uninhabitable, while wiping out mass tracks of its population, and everything else officially went to hell. Just where the toxins ended up after troops started marching in remains a mystery to this day.

“Impressive, my dear,” Karl admits.
“My father did not raise fools,” Maryilla tells him, “You used the list as blackmail. Invested the monies from payments made into the Asian drug trade; then liquidated the overhead to build your arsenal in the Middle East.”

“A pity you know so much,” Karl suggests, his brow narrowing as he cocks his trigger, “Because it’s going to cost you.”

Maryilla lets out with a devil-may-care grin of utter satisfaction.

“I’m dead already. I have been for years.”

Maybe she is among the walking dead, I reason to myself as the first shots ring out, only I wasn’t planning on an English funeral.

Out comes my switchblade, quick and slipped into the palm of my hand, taking fair aim and letting Karl have it in his shoulder blade. His grip loosens on the gun but not before he manages to hit Maryilla in the jaw. I catch the back spray from the gaping hole in her cheek. The surrey driver gets it next, from Sergei this time, but not before he pops off a couple of rounds at random. I feel a pinch, but don’t immediately realize I’ve been hit. Reeling in place, I see Karl regain the grip on his piece with his good hand, pointing directly and firing into my chest.

The rest is in slo mo. I feel loose, hot and sweaty. Dizzy, but not so out of it that I can’t find my hand suddenly on the gun in my pocket and out before you can blink an eye. I’m not sure what I’m thinking, but my hand seems to have a life and will of its own. It’s like I’m watching it defend me.

I fire into Karl, hitting him in the throat, before pumping at least four slugs into Sergei – chest wounds mostly, though as I buckle and fold at the knee like a deflated squeeze box I think I catch myself unloading a round or two into the surrey driver’s unconscious body.

It’s only then that I realize I’m starting to cough up blood. I glance downward at myself and notice I’ve a fairly large patch of blood covering my chest. Tearing at the buttons on my shirt, I come across the sight of two puncture wounds just below my breast bone; feel hotter and sweatier than I ought to, as the last gasps of consciousness seep from my body.

THE END…

…not quite, though Eddie Mars will remain on hiatus until April 1, 2009.

Thanks to all for keeping up with this series.

@Nick Zegarac 2009 (all rights reserved).

ADVENTURE THE 47TH: INVINCIBLE & GODLIKE

2008-11-22T16:52:00.000-08:00

ADVENTURE THE 46TH: A FOGGY DAY AND NIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

2008-10-09T18:51:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER for the first time reader:

For those unfamiliar with the posting structure of a blog: postings appear in the order they are made by their author, not necessarily in the order that would most benefit an ongoing series such as the one you are about to read. Since the purpose of this blog is to be an ongoing thriller, simply removing the previous chapter to alleviate confusion is not an option – since no one coming to the series after the first chapter had been removed would be able to follow the story line.

Therefore, if you scroll down or visit the archives in future months, you will be able to read this continuing drama in the manner and order it was intended to be read. For this reason and purpose each subsequent adventure in the ‘Eddie Mars’ serial will be marked by a number. If you follow these numbers marked at the top of each chapter in their numeric order - eg ‘Adventure the 1st’ - you will be able to follow this continuing saga.

For those savvy to the blog world – this disclaimer may seem redundant, and for that no apology is made. This disclaimer is meant to better acquaint new readers in how the entries in this blog will be posted and how best to follow the series from this point on. And now…

ADVENTURE THE 46th:
A FOGGY DAY AND NIGHT
IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

“Edward?” I hear a voice call me by my Christian name, “Where are you, Edward?”

It sounds so familiar, so inviting, and yet I can’t place it anywhere in my memory. How strange to be tempted in a dream; to imagine a moment never lived or find yourself as real as the rain, caught in the taste of blood slowly oozing from a split lip.

Who is it? I seem to be asking that question as I wander like a fool, a candle in one hand, through some dark and undistinguished hollow. It’s black, so black. And noiseless. Or am I really there at all.

My mouth is dry. My lips are cracked. I seem to be an old man with one foot on a very slippery precipice leading to the great beyond. Am I dead? If so, I wish this angel of mercy would reveal herself now and not hide in the recesses of my mind’s eye where only her soft turn-of-the-last-century trill beckons, like the methodic pace of a metronome. Tick, tick, tick, tick…

I awaken to an unnerving silence at the Dorchester the next morning. I suppose if I were philosophical I’d define that nothingness simply as my own anguished and hollow soul crying out for validation. Then again, I’m not so introspective or transcendental – at least, not at the dawn’s early light. It takes more than a few stiff ones to get me to the point where my mind runs away with my head.

No – more than likely I finally drifted into that deep coma-like REM that ought to have overtaken me immediately after my bath, but didn’t come for me until sometime around five a.m. Perhaps it was the realization that I was bedding down for the night with a guy who didn’t think twice about performing homemade tracheotomies – not exactly conducive to my slumber.

True, the Don hadn’t tried that trick on me…yet. But I wasn’t about to let him try either. That’s why I slept with the sharp metal letter opener I found inside the roll top writing desk under my pillow. If I was going to safe then he sure as hell was the one to be sorry.

As it happened, the Don slept like a baby with a blow torch. It was still ‘lights out’ and on his stomach for the happy hole maker, more beat than beaten and making sounds like a plumber’s van on cobblestone.

Returning the opener to its rightful spot, and feeling somewhat ridiculous about taking it in the first place, I decided to lather up for a quick shave. Half way through this daily ritual, with the subtle sound of a key turning in the front lock, I wished I had kept it at my side.

“Yes?” I call out, cream faced, as though I were a pug-ugly frothing over some fattish chorus girl from the West End follies, “Who is it?”

I’m greeted by a Teutonic valet who is just as surprised to see me come around the corner dipped in foam from ear to chin as I am to catch a glimpse of his chest full of shiny gold buttons – each meticulously polished so that I can see my reflection multiplied.

“Oh…I beg your pardon, sir,” he tells me, “…I was wondering what you might like for breakfast?”

It’s the first time I’ve ever heard of room service taking such a concerted interest in hotel guests. Then again, it’s one of the few times I’ve ever stayed at a hotel where they don’t rent the rooms by the hour.

“How did you know we were up?” I ask my attentive servant.

He looks like something out of an Alan Mowbray movie where the butler; crisp and impeccable - the very model of ‘English service’.

“The rooms are equipped with motion sensors that alert us when to come up and make inquiries,” the valet informs, “All special guests of the hotel are attended to in this manner.”

“Really?” I say with a hint of curiosity, “…and all this time I thought an Englishman was never attended to at breakfast.”

The valet stiffens his resolve for a moment.

“Are you English, sir?” he asks.

“Not in so many words,” I shoot back.

“Well, there you are then…” the valet concurs, “Besides, even if you were, we wouldn’t hold it against you.”

There’s something too slippery about his barb, too glycerin in his smile that I don’t like. I can’t quite place my finger on it, but if I could, I know I’d have to amputate at the knuckle.

“Oh,” I say, letting my nerves relax, “Well, I don’t know exactly what I want. I mean, I haven’t seen the menu yet. Any recommendations?”

“Black coffee and fresh figs are a specialty,” the valet suggests as I suddenly drip a big wad of cream from my chin onto the pristine carpet at my bare feet.

“Damn!”

“Allow me, sir,” the valet continues, removing a small bottle of what appears to be stain remover from his vest pocket and then a clean hanky from his pants pocket.

Be prepared! Good motto. And this guy means it too. I observe as he tidies up the creamy dollop curdling on the carpet, but feel more of the same getting ready to drop off my cheeks. I hurry back into the washroom to finish the job and hear the sound of the valet’s light quick heels hit the tile floor close behind a few moments later.

“About those figs,” I say, toweling off, “I’m not exactly a fig sort’a guy. I mean I left my leaf at home. Besides, pancakes were always more my style. You know what I mean?”

“Very good, sir,” the valet agrees, “…and for the other gentleman?”

“Better give him the figs,” I reply, “He’s made for ‘em. But give me thirty or so before you haul all that up. I want to run down to the lobby for a pack of luckies.”

“Luckies, sir?”

I’ve confused him with my lingo.

“You boys over here call ‘em ‘fags’,” I clarify, “Only I’ve never been comfortable smokin’ by that brand.”

“We also call them cigarettes,” the valet corrects with a coy grin, “We’re very progressive at the Dorchester.”

Another condescension that strikes a sudden sour chord I don’t much feel like sweetening.

“Well, suppose you progress to the kitchen for those figs and flapjacks and come back when I tell you.”

“Yes sir.”

And just like that, he’s gone, I’d say with a puff of smoke and a smell of sulfur, only I know he’ll be back and soon enough.

. . .

As I pass the Don’s room I take a peek inside. He’s still out cold.

I dress quickly and then swing by our private terrace, throwing open the French doors to breathe in a thick morning dew. Looking over the balcony, there’s a haze clinging to everything just a few floors below; the street quietly veiled by a nondescript stubborn fog that refuses to burn off. London…what can I tell you?

Actually, I haven’t had a cigarette in six years. No need to tell Mr. Fancy Pants that. I just wanted to run downstairs for a copy of the morning paper and read what else they’re saying about the murder at Heathrow.

My descent by elevator is interrupted on the sixth floor with the boarding of a happy couple obviously on their honeymoon.

She’s generic beauty – firm in all the right places but with the meter running on just how many good years are left. The flounce and bow tucked just under her chin is stiffly perfect.

He’s typical runway masculinity; square jaw and shoulders, a thick shock of pomade-slathered hair atop a strong forehead and that ‘I’m too sexy – and I know it’ cock of the walk mentality that says ‘the world is definitely mine!’

Apart, they belong in a Sears catalogue advertising cheap clothes made in China. Together, they’re flirtatiously insufferable and heavily tinted by the charged afterglow of morning sex.

Eyeing me a moment with minor curiosity, the woman turns to her beloved and informs him that the stain of her lipstick is still lightly smudged across his cheek. He raises his hand to wipe it off, but at the last minute she beats him to it with a Kleenex pulled from her purse; slowly caressing his cheek with her index and middle fingers and looking as though she could take him once more around the world in this cramped space – if only it were not for the annoying stranger standing by.

When the doors open onto the lobby I have to excuse myself to get past them.

“Sorry, mate,” the Rugby stud explains, getting out of my way.

I don’t reply but hear a distinct sigh and giggle from Cutsy-girl as the doors close behind me. I’m happy to be rid of them and I suppose the feeling is mutual. I have better things to do and they have each other.

Inside the lobby I notice a few more valets milling about, their chests of glistening silver casting sparkled high beams like Cleeg lights at a Hollywood premiere.

“Excuse me,” I ask a rather officious stuffed shirt working behind the front desk; his few strands of lengthy hair slicked back across his bald pate with enough grease to catch a few flies – if they’re even permitted inside the hotel.

“Where’s the closet news stand?”

“Across the street, sir,” I’m told, “But we can get whatever you wish.”

“That’s all right,” I reply, “I’d rather get a little exercise while I’m at it.”

“Very good, sir.”

Exiting the Dorchester, I cross the street to a small cluttered shop with a rather gaudy marquee marked ‘McFaddin’s.’ I take notice of the continued silence outside – sleepily interrupted by the faint, yet steadily increasing sounds of morning traffic. As it turns out McFaddin’s is a rather elaborate emporium of local and world newspapers. Somewhere between the cluttered discount bargain bin cast offs of Spice Girls and Charlotte Church CDs and cheaply reproduced ‘everything’ related to the Royals, I catch a glimpse of a massive wall of flesh poured into plaid from knickers to noggin and coming towards me.

“Help you today, sir?”

It talks, with a head the size of a basketball and lips that look as though they were caught in a bear trap.

“Morning paper,” I say.

“This way, sir.”

Here’s a guy – mid-sixties, Hitchcock build - who looks as though he’s spent his entire life behind the counter – and happily so, without a care or thought for bettering his station. He’s a spry old bugger too, hopping up a couple of steps and getting behind the counter, bending for fresh copy from an as yet untouched bundle resting on a shelf near the floor.

The Daily Mirror catches my eye first; an appropriately garish color shot of a body being wheeled out on a stretcher with a twin pair of bobbies flanking it in a vane attempt to block the view of blood soaking through the thin coroner’s cover sheet. The headline reads, ‘Headless at Heathrow.’ God bless the yellow journalist. He keeps everything just real enough for the masses to buy his lies.

“It’s a right old shame what some people will do to other people what’s on vacation,” the shop keeper tells me.

“How do you know he was on vacation?” I ask.

“I read the story inside,” the keeper replies while making change, “Seems he was a bloke of means from New Guinea and here on a bit of business with the British consulate…but I don’t think so.”

I’m intrigued.

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

The keeper points to the picture on The Mirror’s front cover, directing my attention to the victim’s two feet sticking out from under the sheet.

“Look at ‘em soles,” he tells me.

I do and they look fairly worn and scuffed.

“You don’t tell me that some millionaire businessman ain’t got what’s in his head for the price of a good pair of dress shoes,” the keeper explains, “Them’s the shoes of a workin’ man like me-self. And if I had ta guess, them’s also the shoes of a local place not too far of Tuttingham Court Ro’ where you and I can get just as good. I think I got me a pair at home just like ‘em. New Guinea, my old lady’s fanny!”

“You should have been a detective,” I suggest.

The old bugger smiles as though I’ve just made him an honorary of Scotland Yard.

“I had me daydreams same as everybody else, I did,” he tells me, “You can’t live on ‘em but you also can’t live without ‘em. Remember that, next time you feels as though the world’s been takin’ you for granted.”

I tell him that I will. It reminds me of an old proverb my Wisconsin grandmother used to say; If you want to see how the other half lives go to a great house and have yourself a good look around at the riches you’ll never own. But if you want real hospitality and a good home-cooked meal, invite yourself to the peasants’ hovel for the afternoon. They won’t have much to offer you but they’ll share everything they can just to make sure you don’t leave the place hungry.

McFaddin’s has filled me up with curiosity, even before my breakfast’s arrived inside the ‘great house.’

As I stroll back towards the hotel I take notice of my two elevator companions exiting the Dorchester. His hair isn’t quite as tidy as I remember. In fact, it’s been distinctly mussed. The starch in her flounce has gone out too and the bow’s missing. Only the afterglow on both from the neck up has intensified. Looks like I got off at just the right floor. Where they ‘got off’ is open for discussion.

The Dorchester’s doorman leans in to open the door of a waiting taxi for this gushing duo. He has the same chest of silver buttons – a hotel trademark. Only now I’m suddenly aware of a detail I didn’t even pick up on the first time around; silver buttons. Silver buttons! The valet that entered our room this morning was wearing a chest full of gold!

I run the rest of the way, bursting into the hotel lobby and attracting the attention of just about every staffer and guest inside as I dart toward the first available elevator. Going up doesn’t seem nearly as fast as going down and with each passing second I want to get out and ride the pulleys myself.

I find the door to our suite ajar and explode into the room with all the clumsy tenacity of an incompetent clod attempting to put his pants on after he’s just realized the parents of the high school girl he’s been diddling in their upstairs bedroom have come home.

I can smell the scent of fresh coffee and pancakes from the Don’s bedroom, grab an iron from the fireplace for self defense and rush inside to discover him on the floor and gasping for air. He’s been poisoned with breakfast.

I reach for the phone on the nightstand but suddenly realize I’m not alone in the room. The valet lunges at me from a corner I forgot to check. We wrestle for the iron in my hand.

Though he looks double my years he’s strong for his age and not as easily warded off by the few light taps I give him. He knocks me back into the French doors leading to the terrace. I trip on the raised patio cobblestone and tumble; lying on my back, iron being forced down and across my throat. The valet straddles me for leverage, but I remember a maneuver I learned in Dubai, a trick kick that topples him off to my side.

He reaches for a nearby planter and then a deck chair, tossing both in my direction with haphazard fear. I dodge, then attack with the fire iron firmly in tow. This time I get him good; first in the shoulder, then the head. He reels backward toward the balcony’s edge, dizziness overtaking him at the last moment.

I’m too late to grab hold of those shiny gold buttons and pull him back from the brink. Over he goes, screaming loudly and attracting the attention of just about every living soul within two blocks vicinity. His body snaps like a plastic Mattel toy on the roof of a waiting cab at street level.

I hurry back to the Don’s room - he’s still alive - and telephone hotel security and then an ambulance. For the first time since I’ve known him, the Don looks helpless. He gazes up with longing; like a little lost puppy I once saved from the dogcatcher when I was just eleven.

“It’ll be alright,” I whisper into his ear, raising the Don’s head off the floor with a pillow and stroking the few clammy beads of sweat that have collected across his brow.

I don’t know if I’m right, but I’m certainly going to pretend like I know what I’m talking about – for his sake as well as mine.

“It’ll be alright.”

. . .

It isn’t. Not entirely, anyway. Hotel security arrives first. The look of terror in their eyes is matched by that of the pomade goon from the front lobby who’s hoping to hell all this won’t debut in tomorrow’s Daily Mirror.

Everything moves with lightening speed.

“He’s been poisoned!” I say.

Two paramedics pump the Don full of something with a needle that looks more like a javelin. I watch as the Don’s body winces slightly – too weak to convulse or even flinch. Then comes Scotland Yard; officious and restraining and full of questions about the strange dried blood stain on the couch in our living area.

“A cut on the hand,” I explain.

Number One Detective coolly nods, then suddenly seizes both my hands in his, flipping palms up, then palms down. I pull away – not impressed by the strong arm tactics.

“Care to revise that explanation?” I’m asked.

“Not mine, you idiot,” I spit back, “My pal whose just been carted downtown with a quart of cyanide in his belly.”

We go a few verbal rounds, the detective and I. Why the Don? Why poison? Why the valet with the unhealthy shade of rouge, splayed on a westbound to nowhere.

“I was attacked,” I explain as the burly detective jots down notes in his pad.

“Why?”

That’s a popular question of his, but I don’t have any of the hit parade answers he’s looking for.

“You tell me.”

I’m ‘asked’ relatively nicely to come down to Scotland Yard. I suppose I better, to deflect from the Don and his wounds and see if I can’t think of some plausible fiction to square it all away for the bobbies – at least until I can do as much for myself.

. . .

There’s not much difference between an interrogation room at Scotland Yard and the ones I’m used to back home – except that this one’s cleaner, newer and more comforting in a strange way. No high key ‘where were you on the night of the fifth’ lighting or ‘good cop/bad cop’ routines to make the tap dance palpably obnoxious. Even the chair I’m asked to sit in is cushioned and fairly comfortable. I could take a nap in it if I weren’t so charged up like a battery with only one transistor.

Burly Dick takes his seat at one end of a rather smartly laid out desk, removing a pad of paper and a tape recorder before beginning with more questioning.

“Now then, what is your name?”

“What’s yours?” I fire back.

“I am Det. Richard Burlingame,” he tells me.

“I’m Det. Eddy Mars,” I reason, adding to detour to the fact that my practice is private, “…from the good ol’ U.S. of ‘A’.”

I seem to have garnered instant respect with that one line. Det. Burlingame reaches across the desk and shakes my hand.

“How do you do?”

“I’ve been better,” I admit.

“Yes,” Burlingame agrees, “…and who is the other man in your room?”

“A friend. Is he going to be all right?”

Burlingame nods.

“I spoke to the hospital before coming in here to talk to you,” he explains, “Arsenic but not enough to kill. It’s a good thing he didn’t finish breakfast or it might have finished him.”

There’s a slight pause and then an awkward segue.

“Oh,” Burlingame adds, “how about you? Would you like some coffee?”

“I’ve sort’a lost my appetite,” I reason.

Burlingame twitches a clumsy half smile, as though he sympathizes, before resuming his interrogation.

“Are you here on a case?”

“No.”

“And who was the man you threw from the balcony at the Dorchester?”

I hate interrogations. They’re full of loaded questions to which – nine times out of ten – the accused doesn’t even know the answer.

“You tell me,” I reason, “A guy breaks into our suite with enough poison to kill a small pony. Then he takes a poker, a potted plant and a lawn chair to my head before jack knifing to his big finish. If he’s Dorchester staff, I’d say they need better employee pre-screening and if he’s not, I’d like to know how an imposter gained that much high level security access to their kitchen and key room.”

“Are you thinking of suing?” Burlingame asks with a slight note of concern.

“No,” I shoot back, “I’m thinking of applying for his job and the employee discount on poisoned figs.”

There’s a big sigh from Burlingame. He’s tired of me already and I haven’t even warmed up yet.

“No one knows who he is,” Burlingame informs me, “He had no identification on his person and none of the hotel staff remember seeing him before today. But this sort of thing does not happen at the Dorchester!”

“No,” I add, “Only in Heathrow men’s rooms.”

I’ve insulted English law and propriety and my slum prudery comes back on me ten fold.

“We’re decidedly different, Mr. Mars,” Det. Burlingame tells me. “As an Englishman, I am appalled by the murder at Heathrow and will do my utmost to uncover the identity of the killer. However, if I had to make a blind deduction, I’d say that the body at Heathrow tends to fit in rather nicely with what you Americans treasure as your Wild West mentality.”

“I didn’t kill your vic’” I say, knowing too well who did.

“No one is suggesting that you did,” Burlingame explains, “But you are, at the very least and in some way responsible for the death of an unarmed man at the Dorchester Hotel. Now, we can debate the extent to which English law will deal with your actions all day long. However, if you want to see your friend at the hospital before close of business today, then I would suggest you cooperate as much as possible now or I will detain you indefinitely.”

He has me over a barrel and I know it. Okay, so we’ll play by Queensbury Rules. Yikes and tally-ho…but with all the good and juicy bits quietly left in the mushroom patch out back.

. . .

I get to the hospital around five p.m. By then I’ve had all I want of Burlingame and English law and psychotic nobodies popping out of pancakes Barbara like Mary Poppins on crack.

I’m tired. I’m hungry and I’m not in a very good mood. Great starters – all three!

The nurse at the front desk, a portly ol’ broad shaped like a half deflated football, looks me over for good measure. I’ll bet she hasn’t seen a real man since Churchill left office.

“I get that a lot, angel,” I say, giving her the same roving eye she’s offering me until I suddenly realize that her left one just lazes about like a poor-fitting aggie.

…must be glass. I try and stop myself from wondering what sort of bloke poked her for fun on a Saturday night and then just poked her till she lost it, but it’s too late. I’ve painted a mental portrait of an act nobody should have to envision without a few stiff ones to back it up.

“What room?” the old rum pot asks, apparently oblivious to my insinuations.

“The one where they brought in the guy from the Dorchester earlier today,” I tell her.

Her dead eye points toward the ceiling while the other searches for a room number in the admission’s log.

“Six-nineteen,” she tells me, leaning over her desk and pointing down the hall, “Through those doors and to your left.”

. . .

I find the Don groggy; in and out like a Chinese light bulb that should have been made in Taiwan. He’s been pumped full of something to keep him happy, or rather to keep the staff happy. I shake him gently and he comes to, slowly realizing who I am and where we are.

“You must go to Harrods,” he mutters, his speech thick and slow.

“Thanks,” I reply, thinking the stuff’s clearly gone to his head, “But their White Sale is over and it’s too early to start my Christmas shopping.”

In an instant, the Don’s body convulses – angular gyrations and unnatural twists of the neck that remind me of something out of The Exorcist. His arms burst forth from under the carefully tucked bed sheet, grabbing me by my lapels.

“Listen!” he sputters, half gurgle/half hiss, “Listen to me!”

“Okay!” I say, prying the Don’s hands free and slowly lowering him back into his pillow.

“Harrods,” the Don mutters, “Lower floor, past the mezzanine. Maryilla Vega. Maryilla Vega.”

The Don fades out, his wrinkled brow a creviced fortress of clammy beaded sweat, his mouth loosely gaping in crooked repose as his body goes limp.

. . .

I hate the medical profession. They call it a science but actually it’s an experiment and we’re the lab rats. They try a remedy and if it doesn’t work they keep on trying until they get it right – or wrong and you’re stuck with a toe tag and unexplained ‘cause of death’ that gets quietly swept under the rug. Along the way, they screw with your meds, vitals and livelihood and in the end there’s no guarantee that what they offer you is anything better than what you’d find in a cupboard of ‘Ma Winchell’s’ Home Remedies.

“Say, what the hell did you give my friend in there?” I ask the glassy-eyed gal at the nurse’s desk.

“A mild sedative,” she tells me.

“Mild, my ass!” I shoot back, “He’s out of his head – and not by choice.”

“If it’s what the doctor prescribed…” she begins.

I’ve had enough.

“If that’s what the doctor prescribed,” I interrupt, “then I want a second opinion and the name of the college that quack graduated from. My pal has a flesh wound; not stage four mesothelioma.”

“You’ll have to take that up with his physician,” the nurse replies curtly.

“And don’t think I won’t” I tell her, “Only I’m going out, but when I get back my friend had better be lucid enough to count to ten and get the same number twice or baby, I’ll strap you down with a bit of the same until both your eyes are pointing in the same direction!”

I leave her to her duties – such as they are – and to contemplate the pluses and minuses of that experiment.

. . .

It’s raining – again - still. Doesn’t it ever do anything else around here? Dumb question. Guess not.

I tuck the collar of my trench up and around my ears to block out the chill of early evening air and make my way to Harrods. Even if I knew where I was going, which I don’t, it isn’t hard to find – an elegant ancient structure cheapened by the millions of electric lights outlining its front façade. Commerce meets culture. I don’t have to tell you which one won.

Inside, stately elegance meets a bizarre mishmash of commercialism run amuck. There’s a cozy other worldly, other timely feel to the place. You could spend days tooling around its tight, immaculate corridors and never hit the same corner twice.

I can’t say much for the staff. I wander for a good twenty minutes through a dense crowd before some sales girl catches my eye.

“May I be of some assistance, sir?” she asks, her Hindi accent soft and beguiling.

Another time, another place and she could have done more than assist. She could have partaken. But now I haven’t the time or even the inclination. Actually, strike that last part. I’m always inclined.

“Maryilla Vega,” I say, observing as one thick brown brow rising with great curiosity.

“Whom shall I say is calling?” the girl replies.

“A friend.”

I’m not exactly certain that’s true, but I’m sure I’ll find out in short order.

“One moment, please,” the girl says, backing slowly into the crowd, “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I won’t, angel,” I tell her, leaning back on a display case and waiting for what comes next.

The ‘what’ is actually a ‘who’ – a tall, gaunt Asian gent bumped out in his businessman’s finery with a lot of shoulder pad.

At first I don’t think he’s for me, but as his head rises about the crowd like a balloon, it’s continued trajectory matches my own. I realize he’s someone who’s taken an interest in my inquiry.

“May I be of some assistance?”

Same old question.

“Not unless you’ve eaten Maryilla Vega for breakfast and are ready to puke her out for me right now.”

I’ll say this for the guy. He can take an insult without so much as a ripple of criticism showing.

“I’m afraid…” he begins.

“No,” I interrupt, “I’m afraid I don’t have time for games. Now it’s alright if you want to play ‘guess who I am?’ until Easter, only the fella who sent me here isn’t doing so hot inside his hospital room right now. He came here to see Maryilla Vega and that’s exactly who I’ve come to see on his behalf. Either you produce her like the Jolly Rancher – with kisses – or just get the hell out of my way. Because time is of the essence and it’s running out!”

“Will the Don survive?”

Well, good for him. He has the same playbook and isn’t afraid to run through the roster.

“That remains to be seen,” I reply.

I’m summoned with a polite hand to follow my lanky guide down a couple flights of stairs, past the memorial placard and framed photo tribute to Dodi and Princess Di, around a few more corners to a small mahogany door marked ‘Staff Only.’

A light tap on the door and a very deep female voice calls from within – “Come in.”

The door swings open and inside I find the last person I ever expected to see again – Migrya Alverez. Or is it?

When last I recall, some happy-go-stupid was stuffing her bullet pierced corpse into a furnace. I suppose I wear my general shock and surprise too freely.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Maryilla tells me.

Her voice is different; like a Bacall knock-off with more timber than enticement.

“Maybe,” I explain.

I pause. No sense in letting the others in on what appears to be our shared little secret.

Maryilla waves my guide away and without turning I can hear his steps softly retreat on the tile floor and then the door slowly close behind me.

After gesturing for me to take a chair, Maryilla leans back into the soft leather recliner behind her desk, rubbing a pair of supple nylon legs that extend into eternity like a very enticing cricket about to sing me a sonnet.

She doesn’t miss a trick and she knows it. Two years earlier and I might have been dumb enough to buy what she’s selling. Only her stock’s gone just as low as the rest of ‘em – but especially for me. I’m not the same forgiving jackass I was.

“How are you on your feet?” Maryilla asks, reaching to the left and back of her to a portable CD player with two small speakers poised in opposite directions.

“Oh, I don’t know. Pretty good, I suppose,” I say, “But you’re slipping.”

Maryilla raises a curious, but playful brow.

“And how’s that?”

“Don’t you wanna know how I am, off of ‘em?”

Maryilla smiles.

“At last,” she declares, rather loudly and pronounced, her soft index finger reaching for the play button on the CD player, “A man who understands English!”

“Oh, I speak in tongues,” I tell her, “Forked and otherwise.”

With that bit of double entendre the play button is clicked. The room suddenly fills with a rather heavy bass noise that drowns out any other ambience in the room. It’s like a Stone’s rock concert in here. I can’t get no satisfaction!

Maryilla leans across her desk, her mood suddenly changed from tease to tense.

“Follow me,” she says, without the slightest hint of sexual ennui.

I’m glad. Another notch I don’t need, but I just might be able to add this Brit to my butterfly collection.

THE END…

…not quite. Eddie Mars will return on Dec. 1, 2008 in his next adventure.
@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

ADVENTURE THE 45TH: DAS ENGLANDER

2008-09-06T18:37:00.000-07:00

ADVENTURE THE 44TH: PRAYER TO A POET

2008-08-01T08:37:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER for the first time reader:

For those unfamiliar with the posting structure of a blog: postings appear in the order they are made by their author, not necessarily in the order that would most benefit an ongoing series such as the one you are about to read. Since the purpose of this blog is to be an ongoing thriller, simply removing the previous chapter to alleviate confusion is not an option – since no one coming to the series after the first chapter had been removed would be able to follow the story line.

Therefore, if you scroll down or visit the archives in future months, you will be able to read this continuing drama in the manner and order it was intended to be read. For this reason and purpose each subsequent adventure in the ‘Eddie Mars’ serial will be marked by a number. If you follow these numbers marked at the top of each chapter in their numeric order - eg ‘Adventure the 1st’ - you will be able to follow this continuing saga.

For those savvy to the blog world – this disclaimer may seem redundant, and for that no apology is made. This disclaimer is meant to better acquaint new readers in how the entries in this blog will be posted and how best to follow the series from this point on. And now…

ADVENTURE THE 44TH: Prayer to a Poet

“Where do we go from here?” the Don mutters to himself, tiny beads of nervous sweat collected at the base of his nose and chin.

I’ll bite. Where do we? His guess is as good as mine – maybe better.

As I steer our carriage like something out of an old Keystone Cops serial, I don’t hear any advice or answers forthcoming so I decide it’s time to take matters into my own hands.

“Hey?” I say, louder the second time just so I know I’ve been heard, “HEY!”

The Don turns his head. Given the workout we’ve just been through he’s not nearly as wild-eyed or panicky as I thought he’d be. Instead I can almost see the gear shift clicking in his brain. He’s plotting and I’m just going along for the ride.

“Okay,” I add, slowing down my speed as we coast past the precinct, I’m going to need directions real soon. Two blocks more and we’re leaving city limits and after that I’m not exact on how much mileage this tank’ll take before one of us is out behind pushing. Don’t know about you, but since this seems to be your party, I’ll be the one with the bad back. Get my drift?”

I’m in the middle of an intersection when the Don suddenly grabs the wheel and steers us right and almost right into a semi full of chickens. I swerve a bit and regain control, in time to look in my rear view and hear a burly truck driver tell me what I can do with myself and in how many different ways. He’s creative – I’ll give him that. The Don? Well, at present I’d like to give him the back of my hand and quick Driver’s Ed in how not to be a backseat pain in the ass.

“There!” the Don points to the 11th Street Train Depot, a shiny new locomotive and passenger cars seemingly waiting for our arrival.

The fog and rain surrounding us are getting worse.

By the time I turn into the lot and find a parking space I can barely make out the station, let alone the train. I don’t bother to stack the meter with quarters because I get the distinct feeling we’re on a one way trip. Let somebody else pay for the tow. To help them out I leave the keys in the ignition, but I lock the doors. After all, don’t want to be too helpful.

A few tense moments pass. I look around the station for signs of life. We’re pretty much alone, save a wino in the corner and a couple of dandy boys holding hands by the exit leading to the loading ramp. The girl behind the counter should’a been a looker; twenty-ish, stacked and with her hair loosely tussled about her brow and neck…only with so much green eye shadow and ultra pink lip gloss, the poor thing thought it was Halloween in July or just hadn’t realized that Mardi Gras was over.

As I’m trying to figure out which, she leans in, aware that her bulbous cleavage is tenderly grazing the countertop for maximum effect, smiles and says, “So, where you goin?”

I wanna tell her, her place – to a nice big bed…to hide under, but instead I ask her the most obvious of questions to keep the moment alive.

“Where’s this Daisy chain headed?”

The girl leans back, slapping her tight rump against the vinyl chair and spinning half way around the small cubical for the schedule.

“Well, let’s see,” she says, suddenly bored with her career choice, “First stop’ll be Colorado Springs, about two-fifteen…give er take…then Kansas City at nine a.m….then…”

As fascinating as this Cook’s Tour is, my attention span has begun to drift like the loose fitting band of my BVD’s…south of the equator.

“Where do we end up?” I interrupt.

She still seems confused.

“The end of the line, angel…where is it?”

“Toronto, Canada,” she explains.

I look at the Don. He’s not particularly keen about the deal, but he gives me a nod that says ‘buy those puppies and all aboard.’

I charge the tickets and walk out to the platform. Between the steam from the locomotive and the long tenacious gauzy fog, I barely make out the thin pencil line of a train at all. Only the hiss of the engine tells me how much further I need to walk before I hit either an open loading door or a conductor.

We walk in silence, a real pair of conversationalists – knowing the world’s gone to hell and a hand basket and planning our quick departure for parts unknown. I know where I’d like to end up… on a beach with a blonde and a few shots to fix me up ‘til next Sunday. The Don? He has his own itinerary. When he’s going to share it with me is a matter I leave for him to bring up. He’ll have to, sooner or later. Hopefully sooner. I hate surprises.

I play his waiting game as we board the second passenger car closest the locomotive where we find a family of four and a high school band packed in on either side – their equipment lying all around – in the overheads and by our feet. The Don and I exchange telling glances. I can read him well. That’d be a definite ‘No’ for me too.

We pass through the coupling and onto the next car. There’s a pair of conductors playing cards in the corner. One of them glances up at us as we enter; then turns his attention to his watch before folding his hand.

“Well,” he tells the winner, “I suppose it’s about that time.”

As he stands up to pass us, I reach into my pocket and hand him our tickets. The conductor gives me a curious stare.

“At least you’ll know we’re legal,” I explain.

He doesn’t say a word, but punches a couple’a holes just the same, pointing us on down to the end of the car.

The Don isn’t particularly interested in keeping his company though, so it’s on to the next car, the last one in the chain; completely empty and with a faint aroma of an enjoyed stogie still faintly reminiscent in the air.

“Here,” the Don explains, pointing to the second to last seat on the left.

“You go ahead,” I tell him, “I need some air.

The Don eyes me with sudden curiosity.

“Relax, pops,” I tell him with a firm pat on the back, “I just need some air. Really.”

I step out onto the small balcony of the car, facing the tracks that suddenly seem to fade into a murky obscurity, taking in the faint echo of sounds all around. I hear an ambulance…no, a fire truck. Maybe both. Maybe en route to my burning apartment. Maybe.

A car’s tires screech somewhere nearby, followed by a pair of doors being slammed and two pairs of unmistakable quick light feet rushing to catch the last train out.

“All aboard,” a deep baritone voice yells from the platform, and with a sudden jolt that nearly jostles me over the railing, we begin to slowly pull out of the station.

I sort’a figured on staying out for a bit, when I hear the door behind me open and see the Don’s familiar shadow flickering on the railing beside me.

“Come on in,” I joke, “the breather’s fine.”

Or is it? Through the dense fog, I barely make out the silhouette of a couple of men walking around our parked car in the lot, one of them looking pretty damn familiar – the guy from my apartment.

“Okay,” I reason in a low whisper, “Suppose you tell me what we do once we get to Toronto because I left my Superman Under-Roos back home, so the part of Clark Kent will have to be played by somebody else today.”

“We are going to England,” the Don explains.

“A round about way of getting there, isn’t it?” I reason.

“I’ll hide in the baggage car when we get to the border,” the Don explains, “I haven’t a passport.”

“I’ll join you,” I reply.

Mine’s tucked in a drawer not soon to be opened on Deluca Street. As we pick up speed and the station vanishes into a cloud of swirling gray, instantly disturbed by the thrust of our train, I decide to probe further for the purpose of our next port of call.

“So, what’s in England?” I inquire, “I mean, besides the Queen?”

But on this, the Don is silent – almost leaden – not wanting to divulge too much that might explain not enough.

“When did you lose your way?” the Don asks me.

I’ve a good mind to tell him that now’s as good a time as any. Ditto for my marbles and the good sense God gave a lemon. I’m not sure whose side I’m on or even how many sides there are to this octopus we’re ridin’.

Instead, I opt for a more congenial logic.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, burying the back of my head in the increasing gusts of cool night wind enveloping on all sides, “I guess I just sort’a figured Shakespeare had a bet worth keepin’…you know…life is a tale told by an idiot…sound and fury…signifying…”

I’m not certain whether I haven’t the heart or just the guts to finish that thought. I only know I’ll be hanged if I plant my head any longer in a good thick lump of sand. This is a time for action – not beach balls and tanning lotion.

“There is a purpose,” the Don admits, “…and if he is still alive when we get there, we shall find it.”

“If who’s alive?” I ask.

But I get another cold shoulder to my inquiry.

“Do you like poetry?” the Don says, a thin smile about his face, that wily ‘I have a secret’ glint in his eye pressing me on to answer even if I’m not sure what the question is.

“Yeah,” I tell him, “Sure. A bunch a fruity-toots in their thigh-highs and pantaloons, spouting gibberish about the mountains and a maiden milking her stable boy after the richies have gone to town. What’s not to love?”

So, without further adieu, I get a crash course on the importance of being earnest.

It seems that on a lonely moonless night in 1593 the foremost living English playwright Christopher Marlowe met with an untimely end. No one knows who or how, but the guy took a face plant in the mud. Immediate following discovery of his brutalized body it had been rumored that after a night of drunken carousing at a local pub Marlowe had challenged an unidentified stranger to a duel that he obviously lost. However, in the years that followed his unsolved murder, a group of Marlowe’s diligent peers began to suspect more sinister motives for their friend’s demise.

Marlowe had belonged to a mysterious secret society, given the name School of Night. It had been largely a political front for Sir Walter Raleigh whose pursuit toward all superficial affectations afforded the crown of England seemed to consume every fiber of his being during Elizabeth, the first’s reign. After Raleigh’s exile from Liz’s court, the School of Night was disbanded; its prominent membership of occultists including the Earl of Northumberland, author Edmund Spencer and a man reporting to be Willie Shakespeare. But did this secret society disappear all together?

Well, actually ‘no’ I’m told. It didn’t. It also kept pretty much on the move for the next 500 years, acquiring state control of some very prominent English institutions along the way. At about the time of Queen Victoria’s reign the society needed a front to conceal its more obvious stakes in both British parliament and the throne. So a small troop of hookers in the White Chapel district of London suddenly started getting their entrails spilled in the back alleys and byways.

History would label that brief reign of heinous slaughter as the act of a single madman. But what if it wasn’t just one man, but a quiet army of many – a few assigned the gruesome task to divert Scotland Yard’s attentions away from the real malaise attacking the country and spinning the whole bloody mess on a guy known simply as ‘The Ripper.’

Interesting as it was to note that the Whitechapel murders stopped as suddenly as they had begun, it was even more fascinating to correlate the sudden disappearance of virtually all of the surviving members of the School of Night from London within the brief period of ten years after the murders had ceased.

No…the School’s roster of enlistees didn’t come to such brutal ends. They merely relocated their central hub of activity to that cradle of liberty across the ocean – via the good graces of Martin Beckwyth, a personal attaché to President Grover Clevland. In 1888, Beckwyth brought to America one of his aristocratic buddies from merry ol’ England – John Charles Montgomery. Incidentally, just a few years before, Clevland – acting in the capacity of sheriff – had been responsible for committing to death one Patrick Morrisey – a man accused of murder. Morrisey, who professed his innocence until the day of execution, gave Beckwyth a letter to mail to an address in London.

Whether Beckwyth knew that the person Morrisey had addressed the letter to no longer resided in England, or simply guessed at the connection and decided to open the letter to confirm his own suspicions is a little sketchy, but that letter of secret confession in Morrisey’s hand eventually found its way into the personal effects of John Charles Montgomery – donated to a museum and archived upon his death.

For his part, John Charles Montgomery stayed clear of the political landscape. That is, he remained omnipotent around it, in quiet observance, but without creating a stir that would ruffle any feathers from the wrong birds. It was rumored that Monty was a Count or Duke or some other useless flap of skin from the old home guard, deposed of his assets and lands and forced to relocate through necessity – or hanging - rather than by personal design.

No one knows for sure why he left England, but – so the Don tells me – if he had to make an educated guess – and this guy is full of ‘em – Montgomery’s departure definitely had something to do with The Ripper’s sudden design to take a holiday and stop cutting up ugly tramps from Whitechapel. In fact, the Don even went so far as to speculate that Monty was the Ripper – or that is, one of the guys they paid to play the part. Perhaps Morrisey was another or knew the rest. Just who ‘they’ were and are remains a matter of legend, rumor or even possibly fiction.

However, given the slow political turmoil that gradually ate away Victoria’s reign and gave rise to two well timed and heavily calculated world wars, it seemed to the Don that the School of Night and all its influence were quite well and very much alive – at least during the first half of the 20th century.

So, just what was the School’s doctrine – its purpose – its everlasting strength? Well, as early as the Spring of 1939 when Hitler quietly goose-stepped into Poland there grew a sneaking suspicion amongst the social elite in Washington that England’s reigning Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain had been duly briefed of that pending conquest and had agreed to sit out the conflict in favor of keeping peace at any price.

That the old boy’s appeasement eventually backfired and sucked the country into war was a well orchestrated rouse put forth by the School’s political faction to oust Chamberlain and get one of their own sitting behind the desk at 10 Downing Street.

Hitler, who became obsessed with religious artifacts also, at least so some flippant members of his S.S. were heard commenting loudly after a few rounds of Riseling inside the hotter cabarets in Berlin, was an occultist and heavily influenced – if not directly plugged into the consortium of interests that were dictating which way the world should spin. According to the Don, the School of Night’s membership really didn’t have a problem with Uncle Adolph devouring half the world to suit his own agenda.

Though the cries of outrage coming from America once Hitler started bombing London tended to fall on deaf ears – or perhaps were deliberately overlooked and/or silenced - the bombing of Pearl Harbor by Japan’s Emperor (not a member of the School and therefore just a bit too much of an opportunist to suit the consortium, and, a personal friend of Uncle Adolph) forced Roosevelt’s hand into signing the declaration of war against Germany, which he had not wanted to do earlier and for obvious reasons.

After the war, the School’s controlling interests quickly disposed of most of their loose ends. Stalin went about the newly re-christened U.S.S.R., drunk on his own power, slaughtering his own countrymen – quite acceptable by the School’s standards…so long as he didn’t start another world wide conflict – and Churchill and Roosevelt went the way of the Do-Do immediately following Yalta – not a moment too soon and serving the School’s interest in creating a pick n’ save out of the four corners of Berlin.

The central problem with maintaining control over this vast political scenery, and particularly in America after the war, at least until the more recent past, had always been that there were more than a few rugged individualists who either believed in democracy as naïvely as a child does in the triumph of good over evil, or, felt that the rules of engagement between them and the School simply did not apply. These men were taken care of in short order after overstepping their boundaries.

We all know what happened to Kennedy and later, Nixon. The latter might have taken a bullet for the cause too, only the sting of two Presidential assassinations – John and would be incumbent Bobby – coupled with the mysteriously similar death of Martin Luther King was then perceived as just too much for the country to bear without generating more than an ounce of skepticism. Another dead President in the Viet Nam era would have raised too many questions that some smart mouth like Dororthy Kilgallen might have had a field day in exposing.

Yes, Nixon had to go. But he couldn’t go as efficiently. This one had to be not so quick and quite dirty and it was. The School plays for keeps and Nixon – despite being a superior diplomatist – was no match for the consortium’s backing of hidden interests. He left by the back door of a very public disgrace. It was enough then for his public to hate him or think he was just a pompous wing nut too blinded by his own power.

And then, of course, there was Chappaquita a few years later. A senator and a nice girl just out for a ride when their car overturned in a few feet of water and damn near sunk the two into the murky historical record. Ted Kennedy’s survival presented its own set of problems for the School, though once again they chose the more humane mode of repeatedly disemboweling his otherwise sterling reputation into that of a red-nosed blue blood, more inclined toward dalliances with a host of women than he was adept at running for the office of President. It was a useful smokescreen and it worked beautifully. Teddy never ran. The public embraced him as an ensconced bit of Washington folklore.

Even after two attempts on President Ford’s life, the country went on believing in the lonely isolated man theory that had suddenly become all the rage, whereby one or more recluses living out of the norm, were simply too touched in the head to be taken as a serious threat. Amidst all the psycho-babble that these fellows had somehow suddenly come forth from a bad childhood to commit single bad acts because they had played their phonographs backwards one too many times, the public perception of such men gradually transferred over from moral outrage to tragic acceptability. David Mark Chapman was one of these; John Hinckley another and even Manson had his moments in waiting for the School’s next assignment, though in becoming complicit to the murder of Sharon Tate, Manson had suddenly become an unfashionable appendage to the School’s best line of offense.

That some or all of these insane individuals eventually started to believe their own press was perhaps regrettable to the School, but it did give the public a reason to breathe easy once they were apprehended, convicted of their crimes and put away – at least from view. And the lavish amounts of continued press on any or all served another purpose in the meantime. It had kept the collective consciousness of the public looking the other way while gradually numbing their expectations of social normalcy.

The media, feeding as a pack of pariah on the ratings game, had inadvertently expedited this swift anesthetizing of the culture by parading a never-ending cavalcade of real murders, suicides, car crashes and other sundry acts of gross violence during the nightly news that gradually ate away at the public’s perception of itself. Where once there had been a misperception of the moral good in mankind, the general consensus now believed in the inherent and widespread evil to be found in each and every one of his neighbors and, as a direct result, began stocking up on rifles and handguns under the constitutional right to bear arms.

Hence, when sunny old Ronald Reagan emerged from his hospital bed a scant few days after taking Hinckley best shot in the chest, he became the latest mandarin of the ‘happy days are here again’ philosophy – a grandfatherly figure whose authority and seal of approval suddenly became necessary for the School to continue functioning without reprisals.

One Hinckley was believable. Two would have been quite absurd. And anyway, as long as Reagan consorted with England’s Maggie Thatcher – herself, having a well-oiled grasp on how much force of authority the School could and would exude on the world stage without stepping on any toes along the way – Reagan could be allowed to persist in his feisty authoritarianism that saw the country back to prosperous economic times.

But following Reagan would prove to be a very tough act indeed and none of the Presidents that came afterward ever went beyond the drawing board stage in their personal policies – the consortium saw to that. What little they achieved respectively, they did under a more stringent scrutiny – a level of political control that finally could begin to rear its ugly head in the half shade of noonday sun without fear that some well intentioned Puritanical hack would suddenly shriek and recoil at the two-headed monstrousness that was now dictating over the country’s political machinery.

This darkness, which had come seemingly without warning or from a distance, rather than from within, was now at its final stage of invisible control en route to having its total dictatorship over the supposedly free peoples of the world. It would not be tamed. It could not be satisfied with the mere tokens and trinkets of faux power it had increasingly received from prior administrations. It was now at a point where it needed to become that invisible replacement for what had once been called a democratic nation.

“Wow,” I tell the Don, “That’s quite a bedtime story. You’ll excuse me if I don’t lose any more sleep over it.”

The Don simply smiles. He knows I’ll be back for more in a short twenty-four hours – just after I’ve had a chance to recharge my batteries…because I’m one of the few – the suckers – who still believe that the world’s a beautiful place and worth fighting for.

THE END?
...NO!

Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure: Das Englander on
September 29th, 2008.

@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

ADVENTURE THE 43rd: MIA

2008-07-01T11:35:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER
for the first time reader:

For those unfamiliar with the posting structure of a blog: postings appear in the order they are made by their author, not necessarily in the order that would most benefit an ongoing series such as the one you are about to read. Since the purpose of this blog is to be an ongoing thriller, simply removing the previous chapter to alleviate confusion is not an option – since no one coming to the series after the first chapter had been removed would be able to follow the story line.

Therefore, if you scroll down or visit the archives in future months, you will be able to read this continuing drama in the manner and order it was intended to be read. For this reason and purpose each subsequent adventure in the ‘Eddie Mars’ serial will be marked by a number. If you follow these numbers marked at the top of each chapter in their numeric order - eg ‘Adventure the 1st’ - you will be able to follow this continuing saga.

For those savvy to the blog world – this disclaimer may seem redundant, and for that no apology is made. This disclaimer is meant to better acquaint new readers in how the entries in this blog will be posted and how best to follow the series from this point on. And now…

ADVENTURE THE 43RD: MIA

When earth, the air and sea in fire remained,
When fire, the sea and earth, the air contained,
When air, the earth and fire, the sea enclosed,
When sea, fire air in earth were disposed…

-George Chapman

I awaken to a considerable bump on the back of my noggin and the light tender pat of a soothingly cool facecloth applied to my forehead. I’m laid out on my bed; shirt collar loosened, shoes off, staring up through the pale glint of moonlight filtering through my dusty Venetian blinds and the still unfocused haze of my own reawakening; the last face I ever expected to find suddenly materializing from the darkness, staring down at me: Don Alvarez Domingo.

“My friend,” he quietly says as the receptors in my eyes realign, as though I were the long lost prodigal son returned to his side, “How are you feeling?”

“A little worse for the wine,” I suggest, “A bit better for the baseball bat.”

He smiles.

“I apologize.”

“Don’t. I’ve been stumped before and by stronger implements than yours,” I tell him.

What the hell? It’s the truth.

I try to get up. Only the room seems a little swishy…or, that is, I’m a little swishy and the room’s just fine. I get that ol’ familiar empty/sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I could use a drink. I could use a lot of ‘em.

“Lie back,” the Don instructs.

He’s like a doting mother hen rustling feathers at my side – worried that I’ll lay an egg in his absence. After a few minutes of straining to see between the shadows I move my head a bit further up against the bank of pillows he’s arranged behind my back.

“Turn on a light, will yah?” I say.

But the Don just shakes his head, raising a polite finger to his lips.

“It would not be wise,” he tells me in his soothing tone.

Though why it wouldn’t, I’m not quite sure. Here’s a man who comes from a place perennially drenched in sunlight and all he wants to do is sit in the dark. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the strange one. After all, I’ve lived in one of the dark damp cellars of the world all my life and my first crude thought is to cast some artificial light on it.

The Don leaves my side for a moment. I close my eyes, listening to his quick footsteps creak along the hardwood floor. He seems to be tiptoeing around the place, like a malcontent housecat who has just spotted a fresh sparrow roosting near the open window. After a few moments I’m brought a mug of coffee to stir me back to consciousness.

I take a few unquestioning sips and reason that if the Don had wanted me dead, the love tap he gave me when I entered the room could so easily have been followed by a bullet or two…or worse. Poisoned coffee doesn’t seem probable at this point and besides, it tastes pretty damn good. For a guy who came from a pampered hacienda, he knows his way around a kitchen. He also happens to know his way rather efficiently around mine in particular which leads me to conclude that he’s been waiting my return for some time.

“We’ve precious little time,” the Don whispers when he sees that my cup is half empty.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I tease, “I’m not planning a daytrip anytime soon. Besides, there’s a heavy fog out tonight. I left my lighthouse and homing beacon back at the Vanity Club.”

“I haven’t time to explain,” the Don reasons.

“Yeah? Well, try,” I demand, “Because I stopped doing good deeds without knowing the reason after Scouter Dan found me smokin’ a stogie out back of a Cub Scout meeting when I was eleven.”

The Don is frantic – at least for him. His thin mustache twitches ever so slightly and those soft brown eyes are darting back and forth as though they were scanning a belfry for bat crap in the birds’ nests.

“It’s important,” he reasons.

“Isn’t it always?” I suggest, “I mean, I never hear somebody say ‘Hey mister, please give me a hand to pull mama and sister Sal’ from the quicksand, only if you don’t it’s okay because I laid the planks that led them to that spot and now I’m trying to cover my ass from incrimination by the cops.’ No, whatever the crisis, it’s always in need of my immediate attention – or else.”

“If I tell you, will you help me?” the Don asks, almost in a tone reminiscent of something as close to begging as this guy probably gets.

I shrug my shoulders. I really don’t know if I will. I’ve come to that point in my life where I’m more into questioning what’s in it for me.

The Don pulls up a chair next to my bed, laying an intricate groundwork of factoid info paint-balled in my direction. I try to keep up. The coffee helps.

“In the summer of 1999 I was contacted by Herr Franz Kreigler,” the Don begins, “You remember him?”

“Vaguely,” I reply, recalling that moment when I discovered half of Kreigler’s gray matter artistically splashed across the back wall of his hotel suite, “How’d he contact you?”

“By special invitation,” the Don explains.

“Why?”

“At the time, it seemed he did it for…shall we say…mutual business interests?”

“Yes,” I agree, “Let’s say that. Legitimate has too illegitimate a ring.”

“You don’t know how right you are,” the Don admits with a thin weary smile, “I was flown to Dubai in the early fall for what I believed was to be a personal discussion.”

“Oh…and it was impersonal instead?”

“It was a conference; a massive assembly of criminal minds operating at the highest levels of our world governments.”

At this point I’m feeling a little woozy. Sure politics makes for strange bedfellows. I’m not naïve enough to think that Washington spends nine hundred on a toilet seat and twelve thousand on a hammer. The money’s always goin’ someplace and not even the anti-Christ could convince me that no one knows exactly where. But this sort of below-board contemplation calls for some liquid protein. So, I motion for the Don to reach into the top drawer of one of my nearby filing cabinets.

“You’ll find what I’m looking for under ‘R’,” I suggest.

And he does. A fresh bottle of Ballantine scotch. The Don grins.

“Glasses?”

“I prefer paper cups,” I tell him, motioning for the Dixie dispenser on the side of my water cooler.

“You’re not an environmentalist, then?” Alvarez teases.

I’ll give the old boy his due – he knows how to come back with a pithy retort or two.

“Not since Greenpeace became a liberal stick up the conservative ass…” I tell him, “just sick Al Gore on me…only give me my bottle.”

The Don fills a pair of disposable plastic cups to their brims. I’ll say this for him. He’s not stingy with the booze – maybe because I’m buying. When we’ve downed the first bit with a silent toast, he raises a curious eyebrow in my direction.

“Why under ‘R’?” he asks.

“Don’t know,” I admit, “Seemed like a good idea at the time. It’s the romantic in me.”

We have another cup to satisfy my urge. Then, the Don pulls his chair a little closer to my bed and I know I’m in for a long talk. It’s a humdinger too and the more I hear the more I wish I hadn’t awakened from that imposed slumber.

It seems the Don and his focus group were fed some line about a pending futurist empire intent on leveling societal structures as we know them; the same ol’ one world government nightmare…but with a decided twist for the twisted.

“Sounds apocalyptic,” I suggest.

“To fully understand it from your perspective at least, I want you to look back into a terrible moment from your own American political history.”

“Pick your choice,” I tell him, “Any congressional hack or fool will do.”

“The Kennedy assassination, for example,” the Don reveals, and with that single blow he’s suddenly brought a distinct change in the emotional flavor of our conversation.

According his myth, Kennedy was the last independent leader of the United States – the guy pulling the strings instead of the other way around. His Pax-Americana began with an action memo to splinter the CIA but ended when those gallant boys inside the Pentagon set their own wheels in motion for a coup d’etat. So far, just par for the course of any number of rumors, legends and gross speculations put forth by ultra-warped wing-nut conspiracy theorists. Yet, there’s something genuinely unsettling about the way the Don unravels his quiet theory for my benefit. He actually believes this jargon and worse…I find myself starting to believe it too.

“By reducing your president to a transient puppet, capably controlled by our consortium, the rest of your country’s slow divide was all too easily achieved,” the Don suggests, “Black against white; gay against straight; poor against rich; woman against man.”

“You make us sound like a nation of money-hungry, bed sheet toting homophobes and hardcore man-hating feminists.”

The Don turns away. I’ve lost his attention or his favor. I don’t know which. He could take another crack at me I suppose, only then there’d be a lot’a blood and some heavy explaining to do to Mallory’s boys. Not that these fellas are novices at that particular brand of problem solving. Only I don’t think that this is a caper the Don wants to go alone on. He’s come to me for a reason, I reason. Whatever it is, he’s taken a terrible risk in coming here. A risk he fleshes out with a vivid account of his journey across the shining seas.

Brenfeld and Wisenback’s boys took their orders to firebomb Palma Dante to the shale. Only there was a leak somewhere in the information pipeline because news of the liquidation reached the Don a full twenty minutes before the actual assault. He escaped by car to the airport in Barcelona only to realize that his request for a ticket had been intercepted, with more thugs awaiting his arrival at Gate 7.

Using a ballpoint pen to slit the throat of one of the brutes disguised as an airport security guard, the Don broke into the luggage hold, borrowed a fresh set of clothes and a razor to shave his beard and quickly assimilated himself amongst the boarding passengers.

An hour later, his plane landed in England where the Don next attempted to contact Karl Von Talenburg who had been awaiting his communication at the Ritz Carlton even before Palma Dante had been leveled.

However, when the Don arrived at the Ritz he was promptly informed by a suspicious front desk clerk to wait in their cocktail bar where – no kidding – another group of invisible men were peppered amidst the hotel patrons.

“So, whose side is Talenburg on?” I reasoned.

“Ours,” the Don tells me, “…at least, I think.”

Now, that’s comforting.

Anyway, smelling the stakeout, the Don created a minor disturbance to attract the attention of hotel staff and security guards. He was forcibly removed from the bar and taken to their private office where he attempted to explain his actions more fully. Unfortunately, no one believed him. Released with a stern warning not to return to the Ritz, the Don moved stealthily through the street crowds towards Piccadilly Square where he attempted to ring Karl’s room from a phone booth.

“There, a young woman in a business suit, eating what appeared to be a candy bar approached me,” the Don explains, “For a moment I thought it was my Migrya. When she came closer, I could see it was not her, but she suddenly smiled in my direction and, raising the candy bar, blew a mysterious white powder from inside.”

“Powder?”

“Poison,” the Don clarifies. “I remember that moment as though it were a slow moving spool of film. I fell to my knees in the confused foot traffic; the powder suddenly turning thin and gauze-like in the air, inhaled by a passer by who, in a matter of seconds, fell to at my side quite dead.”

The innocent pedestrian’s wife screamed bloody murder and the woman assassin vanished in the rush of the gathering crowd, so the Don says.

Making his way to the waterfront, the Don stole a pair of waders and slicker from a local trawler and climbed aboard it to wait for night fall. Then, under the cover of foggy darkness, after the crew had all gone ashore to indulge in the pleasures of port, the Don put out to sea, stopping only briefly to refuel at Southampton.

“I barely made it,” the Don concludes, becoming philosophical, “The ocean is a ravenous teacher. She reminds us of our mortality. She tempts us with it perhaps, and seductively swallows us whole when we accept her challenges…knowing all the while that we shall lose her wager.”

There’s a sudden glassy and dead gray look about his eyes, like the victim of a near fatal stroke. He’s sailed off to some distant recess of the mind that I can’t penetrate. I’d shake him only in this catatonic state he might take a stab at my gullet too.

“Okay. Okay,” I sum up for the Don’s benefit, “Kennedy dies and the country goes to hell. Then what? You mean nobody tried to stop it?”

“Some,” the Don explains, “Few. Nixon, perhaps; though he was ultimately destroyed in his efforts.”

It seems too fantastic too be true…or at least real, but my glibness has brought the Don back from the brink of that deadening eclipse.

“To what end?” I press on.

“The end of all ends,” the Don replies, “You see, nationalism is dangerous commodity. It generates a self-supremacy within the world landscape. The Nazis thought they had developed the supreme nationalism of the 1930s. The English aristocracy before them – more peaceably perhaps, but with the same ‘divide and conquer’ principles applied. Look into your history books, my friend. The Greeks, Romans, the Egyptians, the Mayans; all great free-thinking societies eventually consumed by their own greed transmitted upon the world stage in a futile attempt to grow beyond their own idyllic utopias.”

“Some would call that progress,” I suggest.

The Don reclines into his chair. He seems suddenly and utterly exhausted.

“And you believed Kreigler?” I interrupt.

“I believed his investment.”

“Which was?”

“One hundred million dollars deposited into my bank account,” the Don explains, “You must understand, before Kreigler I ran a lucrative money laundering operation right under the fascist steps of the Spanish government. I was untouchable within that tiny cocoon. Highly profitable, but nothing like this.”

“And what did you have to do for this payoff?”

The Don bows his head a moment. I can’t decide whether he’s genuinely ashamed or just regrouping his thoughts for another great lie.

“After the conference we were all given lavish suites at the Burj Al Arab. I was met by our mutual colleague, Karl Von Talenburg and ‘asked’ to apply my skills to the payroll of this invisible organization.”

“How much moola are we talkin’ here?”

“In the hundreds of billions.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” I reason, “And did you?”

“You must understand…” the Don begins.

“Oh, no I mustn’t,” I spit back, “I have two criteria in this miserable life that are a must; I must be white and I must die – preferably later than sooner. Everything else is open for discussion.”

“Then try to understand…” the Don suggests, “What I tell you now I have been formulating for some time and from the luxury of hindsight. But when I agreed to Talenburg’s terms I knew absolutely nothing about the depth of the deal.”

“Only a fool accepts a wager without knowing the game plan,” I reason.

“Yes,” the Don agrees, “…and I was fooled. I preformed a service for a group of individuals I never met. But I suppose I can be forgiven. After all, shortsightedness has taken hold of mankind on a global scale.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I mean it. I don’t.

“That’s your particular malady; malcontent disbelief,” I’m told, the Don pausing ever so slightly to remove a lighter from his vest pocket and ignite a cigarette, “Don’t then. Just examine the facts. Ask yourself – how many of the institutions once nationally syndicated as uniquely American have fallen by the waste side, are wallowing in their own red tape and complacency or have simply disappeared?”

Here, the Don takes into his lungs a deep dark draft of smoke, his eyes fixated up and down my body for a brief few moments, before putting forth a challenge to produce an article of clothing currently on my person that was made in the good ol’ U.S.A.

I’m caught and he knows it. I can’t do it. I confess. Using the increasing absence of home grown manufacturing as an industry is a tangible way of getting to the heart of the matter. He’s identified one way I’ve been complicit in an agenda to deplete American supremacy in its workforce without even questioning the logic or reasons why. It works – even if the thousands who once stitched and sewed will never do so for an honest wage in this country again.

“If it were only an economic crisis I should think you’d count yourself among the fortunate,” the Don reasons, “But couple that loss of goods and services – the crippling of your innate right for the ‘pursuit of monetary happiness’ with a systematic dismantling of genuine self worth, of loss in faith and trust in religion and organized government, and you have a nation on the verge of self implosion. The outward signs are merely symptoms of a much more corrosive disease.”

“Signs?”

I feel like my head’s caught in a shutter or a magic lantern show, only the images are constantly changing before my very eyes – moving quickly with an ever so slight though irritating interruption in my persistence of vision. The Don is silent a moment or two – and now I get the distinct notion that he might be enjoying this…control; the luxury of being the only one at the table with a full deck of cards.

“The toppling of those two towers in your New York City on the eleventh of September,” the Don explains, his words thick and heavy, caught tightly between his teeth and tongue like a ball of phlegm that needs to be expelled, “I couldn’t believe it myself. Believed it even less when it became the topic of privileged discussions nearly an entire month before the actual event. After all, who could have conceived such audacious destructiveness? Who, but these devils incarnate?”

So that’s it…multi-national terrorists for hire; a consortium of common hoods with expense accounts and all the high tech hypocrisy to level world markets in one fell swoop.

“Are you…?”

“No,” the Don interrupts, indignant at my inference, “I am not, nor have I ever been a terrorist.”

There’s a long pause afterward, a numbing silence without any absolution. I sit up straight, as though my back were abruptly thrust forward by a sharp coil of imbedded springs.

“So, who’s pulling the strings this time?” I say.

“I don’t know,” the Don wearily admits, “I would have thought Kriegler. But then… and now, well…it all seems too little too late. Your country – like others - will have an election in November…all for the spectacle of the exercise rather than its outcome…to hasten the inevitable decline.”

“I don’t follow you…” I say.

Inside, I hope that I never do.

“Your incumbents are being funded by the consortium and moved about the game like chess pieces. Your media, too involved in the superficialities of the campaign will not examine or even comprehend the bigger picture. Those, smart enough to try have already been threatened into silence, removed from their posts as cultural mandarins…or have simply disappeared.”

From just beyond my second story open window the tender grating noise of squeaky car brakes echoes inside the back alley. The Don gets up from his chair and stealthily moves to the edge of the open window, cautiously parting the thin semi-transparent curtains as they sway in the night breeze.

“How?” I ask, but Alvarez is preoccupied with what’s going on down below.

“Heart attacks. Suicides. Car crashes. Drug overdoses,” the Don describes, motioning for me to come to his side, “The method doesn’t matter, you see…because the outcome is always the same; a total eclipse of the truth; naïve silence masked by outward noise. We’re living in an age of style over substance, my friend. It’s an era 60 years in the making.

I lace up my shoes and make my way to the window sill, the Don ushering with a hand gesture to slink over to his vantage. He takes me by my shoulder with one firm hand, the other quietly parting the curtains and tipping the blinds ever so slightly downward.

I see a four door vintage Packard; its engine idling. A moment later three officious looking, burly men in trenches step from the front passenger and both rear doors. The Don taps my shoulder, racing away from the window and into my kitchen. He returns seconds later with several bottles of alcohol, a strip of torn rag half sunk into each.

“Remember what Hitler said,” the Don tells me, placing the bottles neatly in a row on a nearby shelf and removing his lighter from his vest pocket, “‘The greater the lie the more people will believe it.’”

“Collective mind control is a myth,” I fire back, “You’re talking about mass hypnosis of an entire country. It can’t be done.”

The Don simply smiles and shakes its head.

“You don’t have to control,” he explains, “You just have to dumb everyone down to a point where they won’t care one way or the other. It’s a slow process, I’ll grant you, but a process nevertheless. You don’t see it happening because it’s being done to you gradually and under the radar. Then quite suddenly you’re one of them…of the flock and fit for shearing.”

“How?”

“Pop culture is mind control,” Alvarez elucidates, “Movies, television, literature, mass entertainment, media news coverage – all pervasive, all gradually distilling and diluting America’s perception of itself, generation by generation. The more fantastic the fiction, the more it is believed. The more outrageously plied in fiction, the less likely anyone is to suspect those real life conspiracies being perpetrated right under their noses.”

I still don’t believe it. I mean…it doesn’t seem possible. Or does it?

“You’d need a catalyst,” I reason, the wheels in my brain regressing over the last hundred years of evolutionary bing-bang on the shores of America the beautiful.

“You had it,” the Don clarifies, “proliferation of a drug culture aggressively launched from abroad during the 1960s – mind-altering, chemical dependencies from which the world’s youth of that decade and all their subsequent offspring have yet to wean themselves from. Perhaps they never shall. At least, that’s the hope from the outside. Woodstock was billed as four days that changed the world. It has - from a society that used to think for and question itself and its lawmakers to one increasingly accepting of any sound byte as the unvarnished total truth. The bill of goods needs no further marketing on our part. It’s already been sold. You bought it.”

There’s a light echo of heavy footsteps climbing up the stairwell; the sudden appearance of a set of shadows on the other side of my front door caught in the thin horizontal recess between floorboards and jam.

The Don lights one of the rags sticking out of a half bottle of my favorite bourbon, moments before hurling it at my front door.

With the sudden shattering of glass, the cocktail explodes into a ball of flame, licking at the jam and floorboards and creating instant hysteria with the fellas outside. They kick open the door, firing their pistols blindly into my apartment. The Don lets them have it with another bottle of booze. This time the flames catch the cuffs and shoes of one of the men. He disappears down the hall, screaming as his pants quickly dissolve through to his raw and bubbling skin.

“Down the fire escape!” the Don hollers, tossing another bottle into the mix and spreading the flames deep into the hall this time.

I drop the metal ladder outside my window, hearing its rusty hinges clang loudly a few inches above the waiting car parked below. I don’t need an invitation to go first, lowering myself and dropping to the roof of the car. The driver jumps out and gets it in the chin, the hard left heel of my good loafers leaving an unhealthy purple welt across his cheek and broken nose as he falls unconscious into a fresh rain puddle on the street below.

I find the keys still in the ignition and start the engine. The Don clumsily slides down the ladder. He’s clutching his right shoulder where a thick patch of blood has begun to leak through his fingers.

“I’ve been wounded,” he explains.

There’s no time for a self examination. A ricochet of bullets overhead proves that the fireball cocktail hasn’t been as successful as either of us would have preferred.

I catch one last glimpse of my apartment in the rear view, thick curls of frosty gray smoke rising from its open windows; a pair of thugs firing blindly from the fire escape as we peal out and around the corner of Deluca Street – probably for the last time.

For the first time in my life I’m really scared. I’ve been in the duck soup too long.

THE END…

…not yet. Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure –
Darkness Covers
on August 28th 2008.

@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

ADVENTURE THE 42ND: OLD HABITS

2008-06-03T19:43:00.000-07:00

ADVENTURE THE 41ST: PAWN'S GROVE

2008-05-15T08:37:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER for the first time reader:

For those unfamiliar with the posting structure of a blog: postings appear in the order they are made by their author, not necessarily in the order that would most benefit an ongoing series such as the one you are about to read. Since the purpose of this blog is to be an ongoing thriller, simply removing the previous chapter to alleviate confusion is not an option – since no one coming to the series after the first chapter had been removed would be able to follow the story line.

Therefore, if you scroll down or visit the archives in future months, you will be able to read this continuing drama in the manner and order it was intended to be read. For this reason and purpose each subsequent adventure in the ‘Eddie Mars’ serial will be marked by a number. If you follow these numbers marked at the top of each chapter in their numeric order - eg ‘Adventure the 1st’ - you will be able to follow this continuing saga.

For those savvy to the blog world – this disclaimer may seem redundant, and for that no apology is made. This disclaimer is meant to better acquaint new readers in how the entries in this blog will be posted and how best to follow the series from this point on. And now…

ADVENTURE THE 41st: PAWN’S GROVE

Most of my life has been a series of undistinguished circumstances that I hope to one day bore everyone else with a best seller. It isn’t that I don’t relish ‘life experience.’ I just find most of what falls under that banner of personal discovery quite dull. The books I read today all have identical earmarks; take an ounce of banality and mix it with four shots of ‘misery loves company;’ a New York Times darling and Oprah Book of the Month selection for sure. Maybe even a T.V. movie of the week...for the weak-minded.

Come to think of it, maybe I won’t write that book after all. There’s too much mediocrity these days masquerading as high art. It’s a graceless age we live in where the sordid, the cheap and the vial get celebrated.

I’m not from this time. I don’t exactly know what period in history I’d fit in – but I’m fairly certain I’m a renaissance guy woven into the wrong tapestry. I suppose I’ve become a true cynic at heart…maybe. Still, I haven’t lost my touch at doing snap analyses on the company I keep…or that is…the company that’s keepin’ me.

Brenfeld’s a bit of a mystery man – a guy with too many unanswered questions to make me want to get to know him better. If he’s military, it’s only in the ‘ex’ sense and not with an honorable discharge either. His boy, Wisenback couldn’t find his own behind with two hands, a compass and a map of the human body. So much for covert ‘intelligence.’

Nazinja arrives in the courtyard in his flowing white finery about an hour after my debriefing, a stately cart driven by four oxen that look as though they’ve been scrubbed and polished just for the occasion are pulled by a loyal subject hand picked from the valley. While the boys are packing up our gear for the journey back to ‘un-civilization,’ I detect a note of distinct dissatisfaction from our host and decide to approach for a closer tete a tete.

“Looks like this is farewell,” I tell Naz’.

He smiles politely, as though he understands much more than he lets on.

“You will be at peace, my son,” he tells me.

“It’s a good trick if you can pull it off, pops” I reply, “I’ve never been there, but I understand it’s a nice place to visit.”

Naz’ leans in, bowing his head slightly and removing a small white gold talisman from around his neck. It’s in the shape of what appears to be a seashell tied to a leather strap. He approaches as the long lost friend I’ve never known, holding the strap open above my head and slipping its noose about my neck. There’s more weight to that little shiny trinket than I anticipated.

“Peace be with you,” Naz’ repeats quietly, resting his large tanned hands on my squared shoulders and giving them a tender squeeze, an ominous warning glance in the direction of Brenfeld and Wisenback before turning away.

“All set?” Brenfeld asks.

“And if I’m not…” I suggest.

“Too bad,” Wisenback mutters, tossing his last bit of luggage aboard our cart.

One of Naz’s loyal subjects, an uncharacteristically tall Arabian in dark beige robes, acts as our driver.

For those unfamiliar with travel by ox cart, it’s not exactly the most economical way of getting around. Brenfeld sits up front with our driver. I take the backseat with Wisenback and watch as Naz’ gestures a silent blessing for our safe journey.

A crack of the driver’s whip alerts the four lumbering drudges shackled to our cart to begin their hauling. The wheels to either side move softly against the dark refined dirt beneath, so slowly at first that I’m not entirely certain we’re moving. Then, I notice that Naz slowly begins to shrink into the background scenery. It’s a good twenty minutes before he’s out of our sight but not for once during this time does he move from his spot – like a statue or beacon beckoning safe passage onward.

For the next thirty minutes we travel in silence, the slight click and clack of wheels and axel beneath us serving as a metronome to keep pace with the minutes that drag by. There’s an almost therapeutic quality to that lull and sway of the cart, an anesthetizing feeling of…can it be…peace?!?

My gaze is inexplicably drawn upward to the golden bowers of foliage shading our path from direct sun. We’re in a forest unlike any I’ve ever seen – deep glistening leaves as large as pancakes gently turned back and forth as though flipping to tan evenly on both sides. A rustling breeze keeps us surprisingly air conditioned, a calming sensation of cool that almost puts me to sleep.

Perhaps this is the nirvana Naz’ spoke of: communal one-ness with the natural world – a sense of traveling through time and space without ever leaving either. Eat your heart out, Eckhart Tolle. I feel a bizarre stimulation growing from within. It overpowers my weary resolve with uncharacteristic general wellness that swells into an elation of the senses. Am I drifting? Have I lost myself in the moment or merely my mind for all time?

“Glad to be going home?” Wisenback asks.

He’s wrecked the moment, brought me back to reality. I’d like to tear out his larynx and feed it to the ox, then throw the rest of him under their lazily tramplin’ hooves.

“Not particularly,” I admit.

“Why not?”

“Why? What’s waiting there for me?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Wisenback explains.

I don’t like the tone in his voice. I’m even less gracious when it comes to surprises that everyone else seems to already know about.

“How ‘bout giving me a hint?” I suggest, “You know, a kiss to build my dreams on.”

“Enough talk,” Brenfeld declares with such a deadening knell that it kills off what little reserve and interest I had in continuing our discussion.

. . .

Eventually, the dense foliage above gives way to a sparse and ripening canopy of intense noon day sun. The ground beneath becomes brittle, hard and lumpy – vaporizing into tiny dust clouds that linger as pulverized steam tracks within the humidity rising slowly behind our cart. The air turns hot and oppressive. I feel as though a great blanket of crushed charcoal and grease is smothering my lungs.

The oxen begin to grunt loudly. Evidently, mine isn’t the only discontentment. I glance at Wisenback – heavier and sweating Crisco from every pour. In a cannibalized society he’d make one hell of a succulent roast pork.

. . .

An hour later and we’ve all been sufficiently cooked to warrant a change of venue and it comes in the form of a remote landing strip where a twin engine plane and its pilot have been patiently awaiting our arrival. Our driver and the pilot exchange polite hushed conversation in their native tongue before our luggage is loaded aboard. The engines of the plane shriek to life. It’s the first motorized noise I’ve heard in almost three weeks and it strikes me as foreign.

I take a window seat near the back of the plane, wide awake with anticipation and wondering what the future holds. I can see that Brenfeld shares none of my interest or curiosity. He reclines his seat all the way back and is off to dreamland practically at the moment our landing gear separates from the earth.

We fly far above the clouds leaving the direction of our journey a complete mystery to me. With nothing to stare at but a dainty stretch of white and fluffy licking at our wings, I decide it would be prudent to nod off and leave the cushy softness to those in-flight angels and their philosopher kings.

. . .

I awaken several hours later to the distinct scent of several pungent spices blending together from a cool draft blown into our cabin through the open door. Some sleep. I didn’t even feel the touch down. No sign of the boys. I’m all alone. Outside I hear a faint grunting and some foreign chants that have an Arabic flavor. Good call.

Poking my head into the open sunset beyond I spot a caravan of camels moving slowly across a sandy landscape and feel the light pulverized sand dust circulating in late afternoon winds. The sun is a half orange ball barely visible behind some distant dunes.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” I hear a familiar voice call out.

Looking across the makeshift tarmac we’ve landed on I spot a fatty figure in civilian clothes approaching with an oversized plate of steaming food – not mine…his. It’s Brenfeld, licking his meaty fingers as though it were the first food he’d tasted in creation. Interesting platter; stewed dates, a few fresh figs, some potently seasoned meat I can’t identify and something that should be a potato but probably isn’t.

“What?” I reason, eyeing him up and down, “No military spank? What happened to your duds?”

Brenfeld just smiles, that cheap hollow grin that says so much about the mindless thug he’s always been.

“There are some places where it just doesn’t pay to be an American,” he tells me.

“Oh,” I say, knowing a real five star recruit would find such words utterly hateful, “What’ll we be then? Canadian?”

“Nothing as passive as that,” Brenfeld suggests, “How ‘bout just tourists?”

“Sorry. I left my guidebook at home.”

“You won’t need it,” I’m told, “Besides, we’re not going to be here but another hour or so.”

“And just where is here?”

“Tarfaya…” he says.

He can tell by my deadpan stare that he hasn’t explained things too me just yet.

“Morocco,” Brenfeld adds, “Come. Let’s get you something to eat.”

“No thanks,” I say, my head throbbing slightly around the temples “I think I’m still a little queasy from the flight. I’ll just wait here for the refuel.”

“We’re not taking the plane from here on in,” Brenfeld explains, “There’s a boat waiting just off the coast.”

“Why ‘off’ the coast?”

“You’ll find out.”

And so I do.

Seems the shallow waters surrounding the coastline of Tarfaya aren’t exactly hospitable to bigger seafaring vessels. The gritty shores are strewn with rusty hulls of hulking leviathans that came too close for comfort and were then scuttled into that soft sinking base for all eternity. It’s surreal; a ship’s graveyard above the flat calm gloss of its waterline, where the local children and curious tourists crawl in and out of eroded freighter shells or swing off the dangling crooked masts just for a thrill.

Nearby someone’s driven a stake into the sand and moored a tiny row boat for our convenience. By now the lazy orange rim of waning sun has all but departed this craggy landscape, leaving a disquieting cold snap behind and the rush of night serge smashing into the eroded bottoms of those derelict ships.

In the distance, just beyond a thin film of magic hour haze creeping off the open waters, I can barely make out the faint dark outline of a boat. Our pilot appears from just beyond some nearby dunes, raising a large iron lantern – battered and rusty - into the air and drawing a set of slatted shutters open and shut before its lens; coded reflections that the distant ship signals back to him using the identical sequence.

Brenfeld, Wisenback, myself and our pilot squeeze into the dingy. Only the pilot rows. The wind off these rough waters becomes salty and chilling, making a mess’a my disposition. I keep it together, but slump my head between my shoulders, hoping to avoid the bitter sting of cold sea spray. Brenfeld’s not too keen on our accommodations either. After about fifteen minutes in the water I turn and look back.

Magic hour’s turned into a fairly dark eclipse; the light haze, now a thickening bank of fog. Then suddenly, like the specter of some forgotten ghost ship, the night before us is illuminated with a barrage of search lights, casting their oily yellow light into the choppy black beading waters surrounding us.

‘Okay’, I reason quietly; head up, chin forward, ‘We’re in for a long sail. She’s a bigger vessel than I gave her credit for.’

Our pilot stops rowing, tossing the loose end of a coil of rope to an Egyptian man waiting topside on the other ship’s deck. We’re welcomed aboard…well, sort of. No words are spoken by anyone. Only Wisenback let’s out a minor sigh of relief. Given his girth and disposition I’m thankful its not flatulence!

When I get close enough to him I can smell the scent of burnt balata on his breath. Oh yeah. He’s in for a bumpy night, all right. That food in town didn’t mix too good with our shaken, not stirred, journey.

As we’re led below decks to our quarters I catch a glimpse of one of the life preservers hanging off the bow with the name, Tipper Maru stenciled around its weather-beaten edges. She’s a grand ol’ gal alright – a strong swimmer that’s seen plenty of action – probably gun running or laying anchor for Nazi gold left behind during the good ol’ Rommel days. A fresh coat’a paint hides most of her wear and tear but she’s been around the Adriatic and knows it. That’s the way I like ‘em; tough and ready.

Below decks is a long corridor running the length of the ship. Our captain, a swarthy short rum-pot with a thick beard of tightly knotted greasy curls speaks to us with a thick Eastern European accent. Those dark heavy bags under his eyes belie a liver condition that’ll probably kill him – hopefully not before the end of our journey – but especially with his healthy penchant for a few stiff one’s in the bar when he thinks no one else is looking.

“You will rest, please,” he tells us, “Dinner will be in an hour, at the end of the hall.”

“Hey, Cappie?” I say, tugging on the loose fitting sleeve of his stripped pullover.

“Well?”

“How about a little something to tide me over till then,” I suggest.

“Well?”

“Scotch and soda,” I tell him, before slipping into my private cabin, “A bottle of each!”

The captain’s good for it. He thinks he recognizes a fellow suffer of the finer elixirs and sure enough, ten minutes later my request is granted. One of the mute crew opens my cabin door without knocking. I’m shirtless and in my underwear, having found a basin of warm water and some soft cotton towels to sponge off the crust and filth of travel.

House boy gives me the once over – nothing kinky, but I can tell that white flesh doesn’t get much play time in these parts because he’s rather curious that my nipples match the rest of me.

“Okay, Wendyll”, I tell him, “Leave the bottle and round out your generosity by buzzing off.”

He’s obedient, I’ll give him that, even though I’m fairly certain he doesn’t understand a word I’ve said. Wendyll’s out’a my room, leaving two bottles and one deep glass behind. Wendyll! Actually, there’s no reason I should name him that. He looks more like an Abdula or Hahziz, only I don’t pronounce either so good. No, I like to operate within my comfort zone. He’s a Wendyll and he’ll stay that until I decide to call him something else.

I get dressed, from the waist down anyway, leaving my shirt slung over one shoulder and opening the porthole to get some life back into this room. The air’s stale. A strong current of salty breeze comes pouring into the room like high tide through the gaping hull of the Titanic: a refreshing blast I choose to augment with two stiff shots that go down smooth and fast; a wet coaster car on route to my gut station. The entire cabin hums with the low sustained boom of ship’s engines, their subterranean rumble a cheap foot massage as we get underway for parts unknown.

I decide to make my third shot a mixed drink and lean back into my bunk to enjoy the full wrath of its potent libation. Only I’m not particularly prepared for what comes next. It’s subtle and fairly sneaky. It starts with a few beads of coarse sweat forming across my brow at first. Not even the cold wind from outside seems to dry them. Then, suddenly, there’s a tightening in my chest – quick, extinguishing shallow gasps of breath.

I stammer a bit, like some frantic bull that’s just figured out the knife stuck through means he’s Christmas dinner for the white folk. My voice is gone and so is my hearing – replaced by a low drum beat…or is that my pulse, yammering like the distant Tom-Toms of some ancient tribe? My head aches and my eyes go black just a few moments before the rest of me.

. . .

Brother, if there was ever a time I ought to have died, that should have been it. I’m no expert, but I just know I was poisoned rather than drugged. I awaken after what feels like a few fleeting moments of unconsciousness, only my watch tells me it’s been several hours since I last knew my own name. Wow! What the hell was in that drink?

My porthole’s still open. My cabin door’s still locked. Outside the sound of surf has intensified considerably. Odd…I don’t feel the soft vibration of the engines beneath my feet anymore. Are we moored somewhere? By the lob and sway of my room I’d have to guess that we’re still in open water. It’s awfully quite out there and I’m wondering why no one came to get me for dinner.

I stagger to my feet, still dizzy from the after effects of whatever was in that bottle; feeling as though some leprechaun’s been beating my tonsils with a cockeyed shamrock. Opening my cabin door, I walk into the stifling stale air trapped within that narrow hall; knock on the cabin door closest to me before trying the handle. There’s no one inside. Ditto for the next three cabins. Where is everyone?

I get my answer when I finally make my way to the mess hall.

It’s quiet and full of a pungent blend of decay and spices. Brenfeld’s slumped in his plate of cold noodles and fresh dates, probably laced with something more powerful than what I had. He’s dead, alright. Same goes for Wisenback, the captain and his first two mates, all lying head first in their dinners with crusted dry blood stained in their nostrils, mouths and ears. What a buffet! ‘All you can eat’ if it doesn’t eat you first.

I find the cook splayed across the floor inside the kitchen with a severe burn scoured into his left cheek. He must have fallen in the middle of chow time and smacked his face on the open flame burner, still turned up and giving off quite a bit of heat.

Okay, so the cook wasn’t in on it. Neither was the captain or his crew. Then who?

I suddenly realize I can hear the faint sound of a boat engine. It isn’t coming from below but from topside. There’s someone out there; someone who’s come for the Tipper Maru and what’s left of her crew.

I duck into the crewman’s passage, trying to get a handle on the direction of the engines I hear. No good. The echo distorts my perceptions. I need to go topside. I can feel my heart begin to race – a good kind of speed this time – natural and ready for anything.

Nearby is a coil of steel cable with a metal winch attached to one end. I’m not much for Indiana Jones but whoever comes my way with dishonorable intensions is going to get a ‘not so friendly’ hook stuck in their craw. I creep up the stairs leading to the deck. The engine sounds are getting louder.

Then, I begin to hear voices – one coming from the only man whose body I didn’t find below deck; that bastard who brought me my drinks. There’s another voice though – familiar, engaging – like an old friend I thought I’d never see again. And quite by accident, as I round the corner and come up topside I also arrive face to face with a not so distant ghost from my past.

“Well, well, Mr. Mars, we meet again.”

It’s Karl Talenburg, materializing from the dense fog, removing a rather weighty knapsack from over his shoulder.

“This was a waste of time,” he tells me, tossing the sack overboard.

“What was it?” I inquiry, my makeshift lasso firmly in hand.

“The antidote to the drug you were given,” Karl explains, “I expected to find you out.”

“Just out…” I suggest, “Or laid out?”

Karl smiles.

“No, no, my friend,” he admits, reaching over and squeezing me firmly by my shoulder, “Kill you and I kill myself. I’m not ready to die.”

“Were they?” I press on, cocking my head in the direction of the mess.

Karl takes in a deep breath before answering me, as though he’s mulling over just how much of the story he’ll be able to get away with.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“For beginners,” Karl begins, “They were not your friends. They weren’t even American.”

“Yeah,” I reason, “I gathered that too. But I like to keep my enemies closer.”

“Too close,” Karl’s quick to come back, “Within an hour you would have been cracked on the skull, weighted down with chains and tossed to the bottom of the sea.”

“Why?” I ask, “Why not earlier. In the valley or even before?”

“Because you were their pawn,” Karl explains, “In the game of chess a pawn is used to protect the king…and sometimes to confuse him. Remove the pawn and you leave the king vulnerable to obvious attack. So your captors were going to dispose of you where this king couldn’t find your remains and then hope that I would leave my defenses open for their kill.”

“But you’re already supposed to be dead,” I tell Karl, secure that I have all the answers to his bag of trick questions, “Brenfeld and Wisenback hit every connection you had. I saw Shin and Saiti being disassembled back in the valley. How in hell did you manage your escape?”

And then I really get the wind knocked out of me, because the last person I expect to find suddenly fades into life from that thick curtain of fog, like a sprig of heather relocated and thriving on the moon.

“Please, Mr. Maas. You are not to question our motives.”

It’s Manuella, my old pool side babe from Dubai who wouldn’t snuggle then if her concubine had depended on it. ‘Our motive?’ Well, I guess I know where I stand.

“You will please to note that you are still alive,” she points out.

“Yeah,” I say, my head still a tree full of owls all hooting at the same damn time, “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t exactly feel as though all my pistons are firing just now.”

Sensing my rocky stamina, Karl has his man drag over a nearby deck chair. I slump into it with a welcomed sigh, barely able to make out the ship’s rail in the fog. One thing I do catch sight of is Manuella’s discovery of the leather attaché we’ve been draggin’ around like the Holy Grail for so long – that damn half of the list I’ve been protecting for all the wrong reasons and handing over to all the wrong contacts. Without reserve, Manuella tosses the attaché and its contents overboard.

“Great,” I mutter, “You’ve just lost our bargaining chip.”

Karl smiles.

“I hope they think so,” I hear him whisper into my ear.

Just who ‘they’ are I really don’t particularly care at this moment. My hands are numb and my head feels like its detaching from my body.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper back, “They double crossed you. Froze your assets.”

Karl smiles.

“There are assets, my friend,” he explains, “…and then there are assets.”

“Oh,” I say before losing consciousness again, confident that the second coming will probably arrive sooner than a fiscal drought for either of us.

THE END?

…not yet.

Eddie Mars will return in his next big adventure:
OLD HABITS on June 25th 2008.

@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

ADVENTURE THE 40TH: THE WHEEL COMES AROUND

2008-04-02T18:49:00.000-07:00

ADVENTURE THE 39TH: BLOODY MOTIVES

2008-03-05T13:38:00.000-08:00

ADVENTURE THE 38TH: FLAME OF DISCOVERY

2008-02-14T20:33:00.000-08:00

DISCLAIMER for the first time reader:

For those unfamiliar with the posting structure of a blog: postings appear in the order they are made by their author, not necessarily in the order that would most benefit an ongoing series such as the one you are about to read. Since the purpose of this blog is to be an ongoing thriller, simply removing the previous chapter to alleviate confusion is not an option – since no one coming to the series after the first chapter had been removed would be able to follow the story line.

Therefore, if you scroll down or visit the archives in future months, you will be able to read this continuing drama in the manner and order it was intended to be read. For this reason and purpose each subsequent adventure in the ‘Eddie Mars’ serial will be marked by a number. If you follow these numbers marked at the top of each chapter in their numeric order - eg ‘Adventure the 1st’ - you will be able to follow this continuing saga.

For those savvy to the blog world – this disclaimer may seem redundant, and for that no apology is made. This disclaimer is meant to better acquaint new readers in how the entries in this blog will be posted and how best to follow the series from this point on. And now…

ADVENTURE THE 38th: FLAME OF DISCOVERY

“Oh God…” Migrya mutters.

I think it’s hit her for the first time that we both might freeze to death up here on the mountain.

“Don’t even try it.” I tell her.

“What?”

“That,” I explain, making myself comfy by what’s left of the fire, “Pray for assistance, I mean.”

Migrya gives me a curious once over.

“Not a religious man. I might have guessed. So, how is it that you’re so resourceful?” she asks.

I smile.

“But I’m not,” I suggest, “I just don’t believe in using God like the tooth fairy, that’s all. Wish and ye shall receive. He wasn’t responsible for getting us here so why should he be the one to save us now?

“Sometimes we may need his help to show us the way,” Migrya reasons.

In the half flicker of amber she takes on the flavoring of Joan of Arc – only her sainthood’s been charred long before I lit the flame of discovery beneath those tootsies.

“I sort’a figure if he thinks I’m worth it, he’ll give me a sign…,” I suggest, “He hasn’t, and so I don’t pray for what he’s unwilling to give."

"Or forgive?" Migrya suggests.

"Life’s too short to give a damn about those who couldn’t care less about you.”

It’s then that I suddenly notice a glimmer from deep inside the cave. I can’t quite make it out so I take a loose branch from the kindling as a torch to light my way.

“Where are you going?” Migrya asks.

But I shush her up with a wave of my hand. I’m just about to be brilliant, or that is, maybe…just maybe…be rich instead. Money – the cleanser for all other shortcomings including personal stupidity.

What am I saying? Money?!? A lot a’ good that’ll do me up here. Then, it catches my eye – a gem stone so big I have to blink twice to get the reflective spackle of amazement out of my eyes. I’d burst into a quick chorus of ‘We’re In The Money’ only I’m speechless at the sight of this bulbous diamond jammed between several pillars of craggy rock. Somebody was very clever when they buried it…or perhaps, just very greedy.

“Don’t touch it,” I’m told.

I turn to see Migrya standing nearby.

“You know what’s this might be worth?”

Migrya is unimpressed. Clearly, her wealth at home outweighs any luxuries this bauble might afford.

“Your life?” Migrya asks, “But certainly not mine. Look.”

She points to one of the craggy support pillars I’d have to break away to get to the stone. Only, as I follow her gaze I see that this one ties into a beam; the primary support for the roof over our heads. One greedy whack and the whole damn mess seals us into a rocky tomb. How much will the money be worth then? I come to my senses quickly.

“Thanks,” I tell her, with a half smile. “Besides, it’d be too heavy to carry down.”

I’m not naïve enough to believe she did it out of kindness or even passing thought for my own well being. But her pretty little neck. Ah, now that’s worth considerable. The babe is into self preservation in a big way. Who among us, pushed to the extreme, is not?
. . .

We make up shelter for the night. It’s cold. I start a small fire with a heap of petrified twigs I gathered from the outside. Migrya tosses me a rescue blanket from her knapsack. She has another two for herself. We lay on either side of the fire.

“I’ll stand first watch,” she says.

I’m mildly amused.

“I don’t know if you figured it yet, Angel,” I suggest, “But we’re in the middle of nowhere. Just who do you suppose is going to call on us first; the Mafia or the Avon lady?”

She’s unimpressed by my lack of imagination.

“Maybe the poor dumb bastard looking for the mate he left behind,” Migrya suggests, kicking the skull we’ve discovered across the cave floor.

“Highly unlikely,” I explain, “That poor dumb bugger’s been here since the 1980s.”

“Then how about the bear that ate him?”

Good call. The altitude must’a gone to my head, but I didn’t think about wild animals in the middle of nowhere. I’m sure we’ve got ‘em…and maybe they’re just as cold and hungry as we are and lookin’ for someplace and someone warm enough to satisfy.

“Okay,” I admit, chivalry kickin’ in at the last moment, “Then, I’ll take the first watch.”

I get no objections. In fact, I get the distinct notion I’ve been suckered. Migrya goes right off to sleep. She’s out in fifteen minutes flat - bitch. I’m not so lucky. My eyes begin to droop almost from the moment I become aware I’m all by my lonesome.

I try my best to keep my mind from wandering but inevitably it does. I hear the wind howl than dissipate to a low sustained timber and forced echo about the craggy rocks. Every time a dull whiff of cloud blows across the moon, the shadow it produced from just beyond the gaping hole momentarily startles me into poking my head outside. It’s a frost-bitter tart slap of sheer in the chops – numbing to the face but utterly startling me to life. I’m awake with thoughts that parts’ll start falling off me if I don’t hightail it to the fire inside. But with that thaw comes a relaxed feeling that could lull a yeti to dreamland.

Somewhere in the night I think I hear the lonely stark howl of a hungry wolf. Maybe it’s just the wind, but it’s a paralyzing sound that continues to echo through my wandering memory and it has me thinking through a myriad of ‘what if’ scenarios. But even I can’t anticipate what comes next.

. . .

Somewhere trapped between the forgotten recess of a hunger induced hallucination and genuine dreamscape I drift into a state of self-induced coma from which only the rather rough handling of a few good shakes gets me remembering exactly where I’m at. I’ve lost time. How much? I just don’t know. Minutes? Seconds? Moments?

“Okay,” I groggily reply, “Give me a minute.”

But the minute’s up a second later when I see to whom my comments have been directed.

We’re suddenly surrounded by a motley weather beaten crew of hikers. If I had to guess I’d say they were Mongolian…but only if I had to guess. That mountain of thick animal fur sitting high atop their heads and framing each burly neck in a dark matted collar sewn onto heavy tarp parkas is hardly a fashion statement, but I’ll bet they’re warm.

By the size of ‘em, these boys could whip the pigskin out’a most professional NFL leaguers. Bathed in the yellowing flicker of our modest campfire these fellas remind me of a ghost story shared on one of my camping trips through the Adirondacks. Only now I’m the one who’s mildly scared.

The leader of the group, an oversized version of the rest steps forward.

I give Migrya a slight kick to stir her to consciousness. She’s annoyed, but brought into full startled clairvoyance when her sleepy eyes focus on the spot we’re in.

“Wake up, Angel,” I quietly suggest, “It’s show time.”

Migrya jumps to her feet like the cat I always knew she was. Her reflexes have the boys quicker on the draw. Spears come out and form a semi-circle, like a broken halo of death. Our situation’s gone from bad to worse. Joy to the world, and pass the harps.

The group leader raises a quieting hand to his men. Like a wave from God, the spears subside. Blessed are the meek, I suppose.

“I am Nazinja,” the big guy tells us, in crisp clear English void of any accent or pause.

I get to my feet – slowly. No sense in creating another last stand that not even Custer would survive.

“My name is Mars,” I begin, “This is…”

Without even looking at her, I sense the muscles in Migrya’s back tense, each vertebra softly clicking into place.

“This is a friend,” I tell Naz’, though whose she is exactly, I’m sure I don’t know.

“Indeed,” Naz’ replies, “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Mars…and you, Ms. Alvarez.”

So he knows who we are. Clever man and it confirms my suspicion; that our hijacker pilot and these boys play for the same team.

“You will follow me, please,” Naz’ commands.

Outnumbered and polite. Well, one out of two gives me fifty-fifty – better odds than I’ve had in a long time. I’m willing to take them. I suppose I’ve no choice on the matter. But Migrya doesn’t budge. Sensing her continued resistance, and I suspect not wanting to bludgeon her pretty little head just yet, Nazinja decides to sweeten his offer – slightly.

“Please,” he tells Migrya, “I can promise that no harm will come to you.”

In the glint of flame, a thin but growing grin spreads across Migrya’s greedy face.

“I can promise you it won’t either!” she tells Naz.

“Don’t you believe it, fellas,” I suggest, reaching for my parka, “This one has more magic up her sleeve than David Copperfield.”

“Leave that,” Naz tells me, as I slip one arm into my parka.

“I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, Naz’, my friend,” I explain, “But baby, it’s cold outside.”

Nazinja is unmoved by my pithy retort. I can’t read him and that’s always scary. But with a snap of his fingers he employs one of his followers to produce to sets of the good parkas, just like the ones everyone else is wearing and a pair of fur hats and some snazzy lookin’ buckskin boots to compete with snowshoe-like ribbing sewn into their soles.

“You will come with us now,” Naz explains.

What? No ‘please’ this time? I’m a little insulted, but they’re bigger and more of ‘em. So, a snowshoeing we will go. One of the boys picks up the case containing our coveted list. For a moment, Migrya looks as though she might go after him. But then common sense kicks her in the head.

“Do not worry, young Alvarez,” Naz’ informs her, “I will take good care of it.”

When I’ve slipped into my clumsy gear, Naz’ has one of his boys tied a rope around my waist, then another to Migrya.

“So I don’t get lost?” I glibly suggest.

“So you don’t fall over the side of the mountain to your death, Mr. Mars,” Naz’ coolly explains.

Now that’s a comforting thought.

. . .

Outside, the raw bright palette of morning sun has made clear the great height we’re perched at. I’d look down, only with all the outcropping of snowy rock surrounded us, all that I can gather is that we’re ‘nearer my God to thee’ than any living mortal ought’a be.

We trudge through the snow like a gallant troop of fashion victims en route to a Paul Mitchell hair and beauty convention. From what I can make out, Migrya and I have been sandwiched between Naz’s men; half in front, another half or so bringing up the rear. I suppose I should be flattered that such care’s being taken to ensure our safe arrival to wherever we’re heading. Only, there’s about a million places I’d rather be and with alternative company at my side.

Somewhere around the noon hour we pause for refreshments; smoked meat of some sort and a drink that goes down like a bitter thick ball of phlegm.

The men untie us and section into small clusters to speak in a tongue neither Migrya nor I understand. When she’s sure no one’s looking, Mirgrya turns her attentions to me.

“What I wouldn’t give for a steak right about now,” she says, chewing on the petrified strip of meat afforded her by our host.

“Too bad we didn’t bring along your tiger,” I suggest.

She smiles. It’s an innocent smile; quite genuine and very out of character.

“I’m fairly certain we’re not to be harmed,” Migrya whispers.

I’m not impressed or convinced.

“…and just what makes you so sure, Angel? Women’s intuition or killer’s instinct?”

She shrugs her shoulders. Perhaps, a little of both, I reason.

“Well, I suggest in a hushed tone, “If it’s any consolation, I can be fairly certain of one corpse not our own.”

She gives me a curious stare. I pull away the half open collar of my coat and unbutton my shirt just enough to reveal the tiny revolver I managed to smuggle in its underarm hidden holster.

“It’s not much of a gun,” Migrya reasons.

“It does the job,” I reply.

We’re approached by one of Naz’s men, a grunt straight out’a Grunt-ville; his thick sinewy frame and deep scar across his left cheek advertising that he’s not afraid to get down in the mud with the big boys and come up with a mouth full’a swill. There’s honor in a wound that puts all pretty boy cowards to shame.

With an inaudible shout and sweeping gesture of his burly arm, the thug commands us to the center of the gathering. We’re tied around the waist again and set into motion for another great length of journey down the mountain; in for the long haul.

Late in the afternoon the wind kicks up like a bronco buck. The sun vanishes behind a thin line of evaporating mist. It begins to snow – salt shakers, then buckets, then so cloudy and blinding that I’m not sure what happened to the fella directly in front, only I keep feeling his tug around my middle.

As the bright white turns gray and finally, dark under the cover of nightfall, I realize we may not be heading for safety. Migrya doesn’t say much, her head mostly bent to keep that tanned skin of hers safe from the flurries. We trudge onward, blindly – seemingly without purpose.

Then, from out of the deep pasty flat of deep gray a dull hint of light begins to grow in the distance – piercing the haze and flurries like a great seminal beacon. The snow showers dissipate almost at an instant and I can see that Naz’ and his men have led us to a shallow grotto that narrows further onto a very tight precipice. Below us is a valley, so green and inviting that its very presence seems more mirage than a miracle. There’s a palpable heat rising from below. In fact, many of the guides before us begin to slowly disrobe as we make our descent.

The hats come off first, revealing a bobbing row of bald dark brown pates. A little further down and the coats open to reveal proud massive chests stitched into buckskin vests. It’s enough to make any non-native with a Hercules complex feel inadequate. I’ve come to a land of giants, the unhealthy midget of dwarf stock.

Still, it’s getting a little to hot for pride. I take off the coat on loan to me and sling it over my right shoulder. My hair’s a matted mess and I smell like something from the landfill. How Migrya doesn’t rate this same sort of humiliation I’ll never figure. Maybe she just isn’t the kind.

When we’ve made our way down as far as we can go, the men again break off into clusters. Naz’ approaches with the polite and congenial smile of a concierge. He seems please to have taken us here. It’s an accomplishment, no doubt, and, in a place that measures personal achievement on a scale of survival.

“Welcome to Brendyl Valley,” Nazinja says, “Welcome home.”

THE END?

…not with this much suspense and heat rising.

Eddie Mars will return in his next big adventure
– Bloody Motives
on March 15, 2008.

@ Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).

ADVENTURE THE 37TH: ACROSS THE FROZEN DIVIDE

2008-01-16T11:33:00.000-08:00

ADVENTURE THE 36TH: MYTHS & LEGENDS

2007-12-13T09:05:00.000-08:00

ADVENTURE THE 35TH: THE BACK PACKERS

2007-11-20T15:13:00.000-08:00

ADVENTURE THE 34TH - RECORDS

2007-10-12T13:50:00.000-07:00