Nature of the Game (38 page)

The bearded cop whirled, yelled at Rawlins, “You fuckin' owe me big, me and my guys!”

Back to Wes, he snarled, “And you, you federal fuck, you stay the fuck out of my life!”

The bearded cop led his men out of the house. Wes heard tires squeal as their cars roared away.

The kicked-in door banged in the wind.

Rawlins ripped the filter off a cigarette, threw the filter toward the bedroom. He lit up, dropped the match on the floor. The TV broadcast an ad for laxatives. The L.A. homicide cop inhaled deeply, let out the smoke, and said, “I think Jesse pretty well summed up the sentiment around here.”

“Wasn't thinking too clearly,” said Wes. “When I asked for cavalry, may have exceeded my authority.”

“You sure didn't exceed your bullshit.”

“I need your help.”

“All this hoorah you started, I gotta answer for it downtown.”

“I know that—”

“You don't know shit. You got bruised ribs down your right side, a cracked one on the left. Your left shin should be broken. You can barely stand. Your concussion shouldn't be mild, it should be fatal. Your guts are kicked around, your brain is scrambled bullshit, and you're spreading it on my turf.”

“Hasn't been my best day,” said Wes.

“It ain't going to get any better. I don't need your permission to APB this joker.”

“Don't.” Wes swayed. An artfully edited sex scene played out in the TV's soap opera.

“Know why I won't?” Rawlins finally said. “'Cause it'd just roll me deeper in your bullshit and all I want is you gone. There's a dinner flight to D.C. You're gonna be on it.”

“I need your help.”

“You've had it.”

“Nothing … Nothing like this. Just some research. We can do it at your office. Then you can follow me to the airport.”

Rawlins took a drag on his cigarette.

“Else I gotta stay,” said Wes.

The homicide cop watched the injured man swaying on his feet. Rawlins flicked his cigarette to the floor, crushed it with his black wing tip.

“Turn off the TV,” he said.

The flight got Wes to Dulles airport at ten that night. A worried stewardess walked him down the ramp, sat with him in the bus that carried passengers from the plane to the terminal.

Noah Hall stood beyond the metal detector, cheap tan raincoat over one shoulder, an attaché case in his hand. The CIA Director's assistant scowled as Wes shuffled through the crowd of arriving passengers and waiting friends.

“Where's the Director?” said Wes. “When I phoned, I said I had to see Denton as soon as I got in.”

“Then find a plane to France,” said Noah. “He's on an extended classified visit. Come on.”

The bulldog led Wes to a row of plastic seats at the far end of the high-ceilinged, black-glass-walled terminal.

Wes dropped into the last chair. Noah sat beside him. He put the attaché case on the tile floor between their legs. Canned music drifted through the airport. In the far corner, a janitor mopped the gray floor with lemony suds. The loudspeaker announced the arrival of a flight from Hawaii.

“I spent all damn day putting out fires you started in L.A.,” snapped Noah. “Next time, I'll throw you in the flames.”

“I need to talk to Director Denton,” mumbled Wes.

“You need to do your job—which ain't to make trouble for us.”

“I didn't make the trouble, I found it,” said Wes.

“What did you find out about this Jud Stuart guy?”

“That he's somebody. That there is shit out there that somebody besides us cares about.”

“That's
all?
”

“I need help,” said Wes. “You figure out how to keep the lid on, but I need more official clout, some men, some—”

“I gave you Jack Berns. Set up what you need with him.”

“Fuck Berns! You didn't give him to me, you gave me to him!”

“I gave you what you're gonna get. The point of your breathing is to keep all the pencil pushers and form fillers and report writers out of the boss's business.”

“What's the matter, Wes? Life get too tough for you? Gotta crawl back to D.C. for Mommy and Noah to dry your tears?”

Wes wanted to hit him, and Noah knew it.

“We thought we were getting a
can-do
guy,” continued Noah. “With guts and brains and enough beef to back up his act.”

“So far,” hissed Wes, “I've found Pentagon shuffles, a wispy link to the White House, L.A. police intelligence files on a psycho who's tight with Jud and who might be a gun for drug dealers and mob—”

“Shut up!” hissed Noah. “Don't tell us about every piece of crap you stick your shoes in! Find out how Jud Stuart is tied to our program,
fix it
, and report only when you're done. We want to know more, we'll ask.”

Three Japanese stewardesses rolled their luggage carts past the
gaijin
men. The stewardesses giggled softly. One looked at Wes; blinked. Hurried on.

“I figured you for a right guy,” said Noah. “Smart and ambitious. Bored with being a paper pusher. The boss figured you signed on 'cause it's the right thing to do, the thing that needs to be done. Stars and Stripes forever, all that crap. So when the going gets tough, what does our Marine do?”

The loudspeaker announced a flight to San Francisco.

“I need support,” said Wes. “Some kind, somehow.”

“There's a hundred thousand more in the attaché case,” answered Noah.

Wes looked at the briefcase between their shoes.

“Money,” said Noah: “it's the big fix.

“The lock is set with your name,” he added, “Wes. That's enough to get you what you need, and it's all you're going to get.”

Two more departing flights were called.

“This might get stickier,” Wes said.

“Just be sure nothing sticks where it don't belong.”

“Give me a voucher for the money,” said Wes.

The bulldog stood, buttoned his cheap tan raincoat. The piped-in instrumental music played a Beatles song. Noah smiled at the battered man in the Dulles airport plastic chair.

“Fuck you, Major,” said Noah.

And he walked away. Left the briefcase beside Wes.

One look at Wes's condition and no one would rent him a car. He made a call, took a cab to a town-house development twenty minutes from the airport. Wobbled up the sidewalk, money-heavy briefcase in hand.

The dark woman in a bathrobe who answered the doorbell caught her breath when she saw him. “Oh, Wes!”

Over her shoulder stood her husband, NIS counterspy Frank Greco, dressed in khakis and a gray sweatshirt. They took him to a wood-paneled office crammed with books and photos, shooting trophies and service awards. Wes sank into a stuffed chair; Greco sat behind the wooden desk.

“You want some coffee?” asked the wife, Latin America in her words. Her father was a Cuban doctor who'd fled Castro's revolution. “Some aspirin?”

“The hurt is what keeps me going,” mumbled Wes.

She didn't smile. But she left the two men alone.

“Did you lose an ear?” asked Greco when she was gone.

“Worse. I lost my man.”

“This isn't your work. You can take a squad into the boonies, find Charlie, and zap his ass, but that war is over and this is the world.”

“And I need help in it.”

“We don't work for the same people.”

“Sure we do,” said Wes.

“Remember what I told you about your friends across the river leaving you in deep water.”

“I'm midstream, Frank. And the bad guys threw shit on me. I can't go back, and the mission's out front.”

“It ain't the glory days anymore.”

“I'm not looking for glory. I'm looking to do a job that needs doing. Will you help me?”

“How?”

“I need a team—for recon. To cover a six-square-block area in Los Angeles. All they're doing is looking.”

“For the guy you lost.”

“For his motorcycle.” Wes passed him the notes he'd made from the LAPD computer search detective Rawlins grudgingly provided. “This bike, with that license plate, picked up six parking tickets in that neighborhood in the last four months.”

“He live around there?”

“No, but somebody does. That's Westwood, not far from UCLA. Mostly apartment buildings, service stores. Some of those are night tickets, so he's not just there shopping.”

“Got a picture of the guy?”

Wes handed him a Wirephoto of Dean Jacobsen's driver's license.

“What about Mike Kramer at CIA security?”

“He'd rather nail me,” answered Wes. “He's out of it, completely. Everybody's out of it. Officially. No files opened, no designations, no mission. Nothing.”

“Wasn't nothing that beat the dog shit out of you.”

“I need people, Frank. Off the books, or at least off the official ones. Budget's not a problem.”

“Budget's not a problem? Then you must not be working for Uncle Sam anymore.”

“He still signs my paychecks. Can you help me?”

The ex-cop shook his head. “You are in the world, aren't you, Wes?”

The digital clock on the desk blinked off three minutes.

“You're my friend,” said the master of this house. “The Admiral and Commander Franklin ordered us to provide what assistance to you in your new duties as we can. But you game me, I'll burn you. Burn you down. I'll have to. It'll be my job. And it'll by my ass.”

“Thanks.”

“Tonight, I can order a surprise crash drill-training mission out of the NIS L.A. region. Search and locate one motorcycle. That should cover us for twenty-four hours. What if we get a hit on the bike or the guy?”

“Observe, follow, report: to me. Especially if he meets another man.”

“You won't be in any shape to hear anything pretty soon. I'm taking you home.”

“I can get a cab.”

“Your place is on the way to the Yard. I need to go in to make the calls, get this ‘training mission' on line. The agents in L.A. just
love
bullshit training drills out of HQ.”

“Sorry to ruin your night.”

“Not the first one.” Frank waited, but Wes made no effort to stand. “What else?”

“I need a gun.”

When Greco didn't comment, Wes said, “You've seen me in uniform: Pistol Expert badge. Tomorrow, I can get the Commander to authorize me to carry a weapon. But I don't want one of the NIS six-shooters.”

“Figured you had your own.”

“I always figured the Corps would give me what I needed.”

Greco grunted, left the room. Wes closed his eyes. The pounding in his head was terrible. His stomach churned. Every place on his body hurt.

Something clunked on the desk. Wes opened his eyes.

A blunt, black metal automatic lay on the scarred wood.

“That's a Sig Sauer P226,” said Frank, sitting down. “A nine mic mic. Fifteen rounds in the magazine, one in the barrel. Two spare magazines. You need more than that, you need a squad. Those green dots on the sights? They're radioactive tritium. Glow in absolute darkness so you can see which way you're zeroed.”

Frank put two boxes of shells and spare clips beside the gun.

“One box of wad cutters for target practice. I'll set up the range when you're ready. The other box: Hydra-Shoks, hollow points. You hit him, you'll get him.”

“Remember, it's the same paperwork for emptying a clip as it is for shooting once. If you're a fatalist and only fire once, what might be fatal is what you miss.”

The ex-cop took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his prints off the gunmetal. “This is a clean gun. Sanitized.”

“It's been retooled. The trigger pull is only three pounds. You think, it shoots. Faster rapid fire, steadier aim.”

Wes opened the briefcase of money.

“I wasn't supposed to see that,” said Greco.

“Neither was I.” Wes put his new gun on top of the money.

Midnight. Halfway up the stairs inside his apartment building, Wes wished he'd let Greco help him. He was dizzy and the briefcase weighed too much to carry. He sat on the stairs, sagged against the railing, and tried to gather his strength to walk the rest of the way.

Couldn't. He crawled, dragging and bumping the briefcase up the stairs.

Beth's apartment. Beth's door.

Couldn't let her see him like this.

He slid across the hall to his door. Caught his breath, grabbed the doorknob, and pulled himself up. Knocked over the briefcase with a loud
thud
. Fumbled with the keys. Got the right one half in the lock. Dropped them.

Behind him, a door opened, and he heard Beth laugh and say, “What's the matter? Did you forget how to knock?”

He turned to look at her and she was wonderful.

“Oh, Jesus!” she said.

“Had trouble, gettin' you, souvenir this time, too.”

She ran and caught him as his leg shook. Got him inside his apartment.

“Don't talk now,” she said. “Tell me later.”

They made it to his bed. She stretched him out, undressed him. Sighed when she saw the bandages over the two baseballs on his left shin; found the tape on his ribs. She made an ice pack out of a plastic bag and a washcloth, braced it against his shin, and disappeared. It felt so good to be here, to be home, in bed. With her. Falling, Wes remembered falling, and he trembled, his eyes teared up, and then he made it go, let it go.

When she came back, she brought a glass of warm milk, three aspirin, and a Valium from her apartment. Wes wondered what the emergency room doctors would say, swallowed all four pills with the milk while she held his head, the glass.

The sheets, the cool sheets were around him, her light but warm quilt on top of his linen. The washcloth was damp and cool as she wiped his forehead, dried it with her shirtsleeve. She kissed his forehead and her hair brushed his cheek.