Salamanders
by Pete Murphy
Chapter
14
Hector
and the Fox
On the flight to Philadelphia Reynard tried very hard to concentrate on
other things, but the article he'd read about Morocco appearing to be ever on
the verge of an explosion that never occurs galloped into an essay about the
last Jews of Radauti, a waning Jewish community in Romania, and from there
veered full left into a treatise on the weirdest animal in all of North
America: the opossum. ("The 'o' in opossum is silent, like the 'p' in
swimming"). With the teeth at its throat the possum feigns death, causing
its predator to lose interest and go away. The possum has used this unique
defense mechanism - unlike any other in the animal kingdom - to survive for 130
million years: He grins facing death.
It was all running together. He had to read some of the sentences three
times before they made sense. Something was wedged into a corner of his brain,
jamming the circuits.
He knew it wasn't the thing about the Presser kid and "innocent
bystanders". No. We throw ourselves into our own hot grease. Everyone is
responsible for all death, most especially his own. Death isn't what it used to
be, clean. Not the act, the purpose. It no longer had the meaning it used to,
no longer had reason. The odds of getting killed in anybody's lifetime is one
in one hundred thirty-three. He'd learned to live with that.
It was something else, stuck between the Moroccan political blood
pressure and the possum's grin, between the 'O' and the 'P'.
It had to do with Atlanta. Green pinstripe knew Babbitt's name. Was it
a Babbitt mistake? It might have been a message: It's
all open, Reynard, old chap. Anything you can imagine is possible, sport. Watch
your bloody ass on this one, chum.
And it had to do with why he was chosen at all. They knew he was good.
Why waste him on an open and shut domestic affair? The FBI had assassins.
Clumsy, stupid bastards, most of them, with no clean purpose, but they could
have done their own dirty work. Their boss - Brody - had asked for him
specifically. Why? Reynard felt uneasy, like somebody was pulling him, reeling
him into something he wouldn't like.
His brain had itched.
It had to do with purpose, the purpose of it all.
And it had itched when he checked into the hotel and reread the file.
It still itched. He scratched it with a bourbon and ice and a plate of
cherrystones sitting at the clam bar two seats from the Greek, where he would
be able to hear the band easily and wait for his table in the dining room.
Reynard wore a white, tailored suit with tiny lapels, pink pinstripe
shirt, small collar, pink ribbon tie - thin - silver clip, pencil mustache,
wire-rim glasses, very short hair, carefully brushed. He'd added contacts, a
deep, inviting and vulnerable blue allure. The maitre'd spoke to him from the
doorway.
"Your table will be ready in a few minutes Mr. Acropolis. There is
a slight delay."
"Thank you," Reynard said in Greek, smiling openly, then, to
the bartender, "The clams are especially delicious today, Roger."
Roger said he was pleased, poured him another drink.
Reynard said, "I suppose another will not hurt. Thank you. I
expect it to be a quiet, but enjoyable afternoon."
The Greek's hand on his arm was gentle, apologetic. "Uh. 'Scuse
me. You were born in Greece?"
"Oh no. Do I wish. My father was, however. My mother was Chinese.
I was born in Switzerland. You are Greek," Reynard said.
"I am Hector Fortuna." He smiled broadly. His teeth glistened
at Reynard.
"Well then, hell, Hector. Hail Dionysus." Reynard lifted his
glass. Hector pulled his stool closer, and Reynard pushed the plate between
them. He grinned. "Enjoy, Hector. And, as we Greeks say, consider the end
of a long life."
The Greek helped himself.
"And what does 'Hector' mean?" Reynard asked pleasantly,
sipping his drink.
"Means brave. Courageous."
"Ah yes. Brave. Brave and fortunate."
"And you?"
"Giles. Giles Acropolis. It means comfort. My friends say it is
how you spell relief."
They laughed together and ate the clams and listened as the music began
softly in the next room. A quiet quartet: piano, French horn, upright bass and
viola.
Reynard spoke in Greek. "Do you live here, in Philadelphia?"
Hector answered in English. "Nah. Some kinda business here."
Reynard smiled. "I deal in futures."
The Greek looked at him.
"Some kinda stocks and bonds," Reynard explained. He smiled.
The maitre'd returned. "Your table is ready, sir," she said.
Reynard said, "Hector, would you please join me at my table? I
don't really care for eating alone."
Hector said, "Love to. I have nothin' 'specially planned for the
morning."
Reynard was proud of him. Dumb bastard was trying to do it right.
"If you'd like, I'll have the maitre'd prepare a lobster for you as
well." He put his hand on Hector's back, let him enter first. "Unless
of course you'd rather tackle something more ...fundamental," he added.
"Sounds... amusing. Ain't had a lobster in a long time, 'specially for breakfast."
The
maitre'd led them to a glass table under a massive indoor elm and a huge
gallery above, lined with long high windows separated by murals of forests
splashed in misty, deceptive colors. The March sun poured into the room and
splashed through the tree in huge rectangular beams, scattering slivers of
spark onto their faces.
"Will your stay be long?" Reynard asked.
"Hope not," the Greek said. "Lousy place. Gotta...need
to get it all over with, get back to Camden." He braced himself, tried to
stay in character. "Business cannot run on sediment," he said.
Reynard smiled. "Yes. Sediment. Terrible thing, sediment."
God, he hated the Greeks.
When the lobsters arrived they ate in silence for a moment, savored the
freshly killed meat.
Reynard waited, let Hector draw himself out. He explained how he'd come
to remove someone from the business.
"Well. Just is not right, you know? Been with the guy many years.
And he's so important. Taught me a lot."
The Greek tried to shove his little finger out as he held the glass.
His hand was too tough for it, not used to this kind of control, Reynard
noticed. He felt a little sorry for the guy again. Got to stop that, he
thought.
"Yes. Sad, Hector. It's a personnel problem, then?"
"Yeah." He burped. "Yes."
"Well, you are suited to the task, I'm sure. Will you then take
his place?"
"Dunno."
"Well, of course, an elephant does not catch mice."
"Yeah. 'at's right."
The Greek was drinking pretty good, now.
Reynard ordered more. "They've sent you alone to deal with this
problem?"
"No. I..."
The Greek hesitated, began to cough. Reynard rose and went to him,
slapped him hard on the back, passed his hand over his water glass once and
handed it to him, saying: "Sorry, Hector. I'm much too talkative
sometimes."
The Greek seemed to compose himself, wiped his eyes. Reynard took his
seat again.
"'t's aright. What'd you say?"
He coughed again. Reynard watched him.
"It doesn't matter, Hector. It doesn't matter anymore. It will
never matter ever again. I promise."
The Greek stared at him, choked harder now, tried to muffle it,
wondered now if he knew the truth. He tried to speak. It only made him gasp. He
tried again. One last thought:
"Dumb." he said.
Reynard smiled. Just a little.
The Greek was choking now, making very tiny noises. No breath left to
speak.
Reynard watched him closely through the jagged shards of light dancing
on his glasses.
God he hated the Greeks.
"Caipe. Caipere." he said.
Good-bye. Farewell. Rejoice.
Reynard left the place quietly, knowing he would be remembered.
A dandy killed a Greek.
#
The Fox at the Door
Reynard got to the Raleigh Hotel a little after eleven. An old man sat
behind the desk. Phone booths. Stairs. Another old man on a stool inside the
open elevator, reading a newspaper, plastic half-lenses. Reynard approached
him.
"Has Mr. Harte returned yet?"
"Mr. Harte. Uh...no. He still out."
"Well, I guess I'll have to wait."
Reynard stared at the man.
No response.
"Should I wait down here?" Reynard asked.
The old man pulled his eyes from the paper. His head didn't move. He
stared above his glasses at Reynard. Just stared.
"Let me try this again. I'm here to see Harte. Is there anybody
there?"
"Sure. Sure they's somebody up there. You wanna join 'em?"
"Love to."
The old man's eyes went back to his paper.
Reynard stared at him.
"You feel like maybe taking me up?"
The old man pulled his eyes from the paper again. He looked pained.
"Oh. You wanna go up?"
Reynard smiled at him. "What's the number?"
"Three-o-six."
"Thank you. I'll walk up."
"Suit y'self."
Reynard stuck his foot in the door.
"Hi, George."
"Who're you?"
"A messenger. Hector said good-bye."
"What's that mean?"
"Means he doesn't love you anymore. He split."
George adjusted his glasses, sighed.
"Who the fuck're you?"
"Came to kill you. You want to open up, make it easy?"
Reynard didn't expect it: George opened up.
Nothing ever goes right...
#
“Watch your back”
Reynard strode into the room. He’d counted on two of them. He was
right.
"Hey. Chi-Chi. Look. We got a carrier pigeon." George took
his glasses off, twirled them in his right hand, sighed.
Chi-Chi. Near the window, chewing on a stick of pepperoni. Soft hands,
skinny, nothing to him. Probably a pistol man. Silencer. Definitely the strong
silencer type.
The Kid, George, right-handed, seemed prissier, maybe more easily
delayed - postponed - then killed after Chi-Chi was taken out. The first
problem seemed to be the gun. They need to be together. Chi-Chi was
left-handed. Reynard needed to be on the left side of Chi-Chi and in front of
the Kid. So. Two things: I'm on the wrong side of the room, and we need to be
together. An easy chore.
But nothing ever goes right...
The bathroom door opened and a bullfrog in khaki underpants stepped
into the room wiping his head with a towel. Looked like a toad, face like a wet
olive. He stopped, looked around from face to face.
"Who's dis?" he said to George.
The Kid opened his mouth, started to speak.
"Let me apologize, Mr..." Reynard extended a hand.
The Toad looked at it. "Who the fuck're you?"
"Giles Acropolis, sir. If you'd allow me, I'll explain."
George looked at Reynard's outfit, grinned. "Says he's a
messenger. Came to kill me, he says."
Chi-Chi grinned too, pieces of pepperoni stuck in his teeth. "You
came to kill George dressed like that?"
Reynard smiled.
"Who sent you?" George asked.
"Yer old lady, probably," Chi-Chi said.
George bristled. "Shut up, Chi-Chi."
The Toad glared at them.
Reynard moved across the room, plopped into a soft chair.
"Who sentcha?" the Toad asked.
"My employer."
"Well, just who might that the fuck be?"
"I am here, actually, on Mr. Harte's behalf."
"Bags didn't ever say nothin' about you."
"He doesn't know me."
"Look, faggot, make yourself clear. You're in a world of shit,
comin’ here."
Reynard thought of the possum, bared his teeth, said: "Sit down,
Toad."
The Toad lunged. Chi-Chi stopped him. "Wait, Arnie. Wait. This is
good. Let him talk first. Then we'll kill him."
They paused. Reynard grinned again. "Arnie. Arnie the toad.
Precious." he said.
"You better say something now, Mr...Acropolis." George said,
stepping closer. They were all near him now.
Reynard made himself comfortable in the blue chair. "You see,
Arnie...please, sit down. You'll enjoy this."
Arnie grabbed his clothes, dressed, glaring at Reynard.
"You see, Arnie," Reynard pointed to George, "The Kid
here, and Hector, got themselves a little side job they need to do for the
boss. They've been sent to kill your Mr. Harte. Bags, as it turns out, is of no
further use to him. He's gotten too out of hand, too close, knows too
much."
George exploded. "That's a fucking lie, faggot! Pilot would never
have..." He stopped himself, looked at Chi-Chi, turned to Arnie. The Toad
glared.
Reynard smiled. Pilot. A name. "Well," he said. "Pilot
apparently would have. Did, in fact."
The Toad growled. "How you know dis?"
"Well you see, Arnie, that's what's been bothering me lately. I
really can't figure out how anybody knows it, except George here, of course.
It's really been bothering me. But I was asked to do a job, to cancel it. And I
accepted. You don't need to know why. I only hope you won't be in my way."
George was incensed. "Chi-Chi. Go find Hector. Get him up here.
Now!"
"Hector's dead." Reynard said.
They all stared at him.
"Ate a bad lobster."
George turned to the Toad. "It's all a lie, Arnie. I don't know
who sent him but...well look at the wimp! He's not going to cancel anything!
Except maybe his breathing."
"I got to know," Arnie snapped.
"Maybe you should call Pilot," Reynard suggested.
"Yeah." Chi-Chi went back to gnawing on his pepperoni, still
grinning at Reynard. "Call him, see what he says."
The Toad looked at him. "Fuck's he gonna say? Yeah I sent them the
fuck to blow away your partner? I'm his fucking partner, f'chrissakes."
"True, Arnie," Reynard said. He got to his feet. "Then I
suggest you find Bags."
The Toad stared at him. They looked at each other for a long time.
"Yeah," agreed Chi-Chi. "Find Bags. Find somebody. Let's
get this over with. I got a date."
Reynard smiled at him. Chi-Chi grinned back.
"Don't do nothing to him yet," Arnie said. "I'll be
back." He strode to the door.
"Don't do nothing to him
yet," he repeated, and left.
They had Reynard alone.
He moved to the window and turned, faced the room. The Kid was on his
left, Chi-Chi to his right and not as close.
"Now we ought not to be making a lot of noise with this,"
Reynard said.
They approached him.
He turned to the Kid and threw his left arm out and up suddenly as if
about to strike. The Kid's head jerked up to watch the hand and in that instant
exposed his adam's apple. Reynard chopped at it once with the edge of his
right, then spun, heard the Kid's knees hit the floor behind him, and the Kid
gurgling, trying to breathe. Reynard had Chi-Chi's left now, still into his
spin, snapping the finger and reaching with his own left into Chi-Chi's jacket
but the gun not there and now Chi-Chi's right hand was up swinging at him from
the side too fast. Reynard jerked his hand back out of Chi-Chi's coat, elbow up
too late as the steel ripped through the jacket into his arm. Reynard threw his
right hand out and up, slammed the heel of it full and hard into Chi-Chi's
temple, sent him stunned off to the left, one, two, three steps to the side,
too far, no, far enough, and Reynard gripped his hands together into one fist
and swung again, harder now from the right, the arms out full and around,
slammed again into the same mark at the side of Chi-Chi's head and heard a tiny
grunt. Chi-chi buckled into a heap. Reynard followed through with his spin. The
kid was getting to his feet. Reynard stepped once and kicked, felt the tip of
his shoe hit the Kid hard under the chin, centered, back toward the throat, and
the Kid flopped for a few seconds then didn't move anymore.
Reynard checked them, made certain they were dead. He looked at
Chi-Chi. Shouldn't have worried about the gun. Must be slipping.
"A knife man," he said out loud. "Imagine."
He had taken off his jacket and pulled up his sleeve to check his arm
when the door opened.
A big man in a blue suit entered. His pocket was torn. He had blood on
his collar. His left cheek looked bitten. The Toad was behind him.
Getting crowded in here.
Nothing ever goes right...
Reynard smiled. "Mr. Bags. A pleasure."
There were no doubts in him at all about the danger, but he'd felt it
before and could deal with it easily. They had to keep him alive, at least for
a while, until it got sorted out. After that was done, after they could understand
this four-eyed banana in pink and white who'd just taken out two of Pilot's
soldiers, after that...they could kill him.
So he had a little time.
All he had was names.
Bags: The big baby face in the blue suit with the teeth marks on his
cheek and blood on his collar. Somebody'd gotten a good chomp into him. Arnie
the toad: The lackey. Pilot: Just a name. No face. No doubt the guy the feds
were trying for. Why can't they find him?
Something was wrong about that.
That's all. He didn't know crap. He was definitely very teachable now.
Most definitely he was in a very learning moment.
Reynard bowed politely and continued rolling up his sleeve, checked the
damage Chi-Chi's knife had done.
"I'm all finished here, Bags. I'll get someone to clean up if
you'd like. A phone call. I have resources."
They were in the room now, Bags locking the door, watching him, the
Toad checking Chi-Chi and George sprawled on the plush wall to wall, Bags
looking him over, calm blue eyes checking him out, red flushing at his neck and
in the cheeks.
"You been jogging, Bags? You shouldn't run wearing a suit. You
need to ventilate. It's bad for you not to ventilate when you jog."
Reynard was tired of the faggot act now.
Bags continued to look at him. A little smile. There. Just a hint of
it.
Reynard turned and stepped into the bathroom, washed the gash near his
elbow, watched the other room in the mirror. They were out of view now, talking
in low tones. He checked the cabinet for gauze, adhesive tape, found none,
finally wrapped it with his handkerchief, rolled his sleeve down and went back
into the room.
The Toad spoke, standing between the bodies. Reynard and Bags watched
each other, Bags sitting on the sofa making short smooth little sweeping
motions with his right hand, undisturbed, confident. Reynard stared at him.
"Bags means for you to sit down."
Reynard got his jacket from the table and made himself comfortable in
the big chair. He smiled at Bags.
"You should get that cleaned up, Bags. A human bite's a very dirty
thing."
Bags touched it, stared at Reynard. "S..CLICK..nothing." No
smile. Not a trace. Reynard shrugged. Bags tried to massage the inside of his
cheek as he spoke. His teeth fell crookedly to his tongue. He snapped them back
up: CLICK.
"Could be deadly," Reynard said. He glanced at his watch.
"What can I do for you, Bags? I
mean what else?"
Toad. Confused. "I'll talk for him. He knows what to say but he
ain't too good at it. I'll say this, Mr. Acrology..." Pointing a finger.
"Acropolis." Reynard smiled at Bags, nodded. "Giles
Acropolis."
No smile from Bags. Maybe. Just there. No. A twitch.
"Whoever the fuck." Toad getting angrier, more confused,
moving between them now to face Reynard, too close, shoving a thumb back over
his shoulder. "He ain't happy about something else I don't know about yet,
but he's pissed. So I think you better the fuck say something not so
smart-assed."
"I can hear fine. Thanks. I understand him fine. It's you I have
trouble understanding, Toad."
The glare now. Here it comes. Like it's supposed to play. "Let's
give you a different idea. How's this for heavy discussion?" The Toad
coming out now with the gun. Dan Wesson Pistol Pac.
Imagine.
Reynard grinned.
The Toad's neck bulging now.
"I don't believe you! I'll kill you right now, you faggot."
"You can't believe, Arnie, ...CLICK. You don't know this
man."
There it was: A little smile. Reynard couldn't see it with the Toad in
the way, but it was in the words, the Toad turning now.
"Sit down, Arnie." CLICK. Bags waved his hand. Arnie put the
gun away and sat at the far end of the sofa.
"I have seen you. Your picture. You are Reynard."
Reynard smiled. "Yes. The glasses don't do much for me and I can't
stand pink and I hate having to talk like a fucking overeducated queen.
Thanks."
"Well, tell me, Reynard. You have something to tell us."
Reynard settled in his seat.
"Well, as I told your boy here, Chi-Chi and George there were sent
to kill you. I was sent to stop it."
"Who sent them?"
Reynard shrugged. "Some people believe it was your man Pilot. I
don't know."
"How do you know this?"
"I've chosen to trust my source on this one, Bags, but if I were
you I'd check it out. Start to get bothersome after a while, friends putting
glass in your potatoes."
"Who sent you?" CLICK.
Reynard shook his head. "People pay me. Don't ask."
"We can kill you now."
"You can try. But I don't really think you want to. I think you
believe me, that Pilot wants you dead. I will tell you this. I've begun to
wonder who really wants me here."
They looked at each other a moment, thinking about that.
"You've no reason now to kill me. And I've none to kill you. I've
not been paid to do that. My job's over, for now. Those guys were sent to kill
you." Reynard glanced at the Toad. "Both of you," he added.
"I've stopped it." Reynard shrugged a little. "We're in the same
business," he said. "I've got nothing more to tell you."
Arnie the Toad, calmer now, looking strange, worried, his mouth a
little open, watching Bags. "You believe this, Bags?"
Bags smiling at Reynard, now. Reynard who knew. What the fuck did he
know? He knew crap was all, and Bags believing it. Toss him a bone.
"What Ss..now?"
"Now I leave. And you leave. Ditch your cars or burn them up.
Disappear. You're being watched."
There. See if he chews on it.
Reynard got up.
"Good luck," he said. "You might need a little,
now."
He went to the door. The Toad started to get up. Reynard felt the
stirring behind him, felt the big red face shake "no" at the Toad,
heard his own voice after the door was open, just before he stepped into the
hall leaving them to the future:
"Watch your back."
Saying it again as he shut it.
"Watch your back."
He knew it echoed at them from the hall.
#