Authors: Nathan Roden
Jordan looked concerned, but said nothing. Russell Eckhart was livid.
The meeting concluded with a plan to break for a quick lunch, after which the Boston team would meet with the Phoenix team for a brief review. Babe slipped out to a nearby men’s room, where he hyperventilated and splashed cold water on his face for a good two minutes. He walked back toward the conference room. As he exited the men’s room he overheard Eckhart giving Jordan Blackledge an earful somewhere in the distance. He caught parts of phrases—“total lack of professionalism!”, “look like amateurs!”, “disgrace to the Boston office!”
Babe had nowhere else to go so he just kept walking toward the sounds of Eckhart’s voice. As he neared a corner he heard the voice of Jordan Blackledge.
“Goddammit, Russell. His wife is dy—”
The discussion was over at that point.
“Jordan, I’m going to catch a cab to the airport,” Babe said.
“Sure, Babe. Okay. You take care, and give Jill my love,” Jordan said.
Babe looked up to see the Phoenix SAC shake hands with Cole Palmer’s uncle and then Cole Palmer’s father. The SAC and Cole’s father embraced before the Palmer brothers left. The Phoenix Bureau staff joined the Boston team in the hall.
“Babelton, these people have gone out of their way to involve us,” Russell Eckhart said. “Another hour and we can all go to the airport.” Eckhart was almost growling.
Babe turned after taking two steps.
“Mr. Eckhart, Jordan and you heard everything that I heard in that room. These gentlemen are more than welcome to call me at any time regarding this case. I’m sorry, but my wife is dying.”
The hallway was still and quiet. Babe turned to go and then turned back.
“Special Agent Palmer is a good man. He wants nothing more than to make his father and the rest of his family proud. But he can’t sleep. And he’s been self-medicating.”
Jordan and Eckhart looked at each other quizzically. The Phoenix Bureau psychologist was turning to leave when the SAC grabbed him by the arm. Literally dragging the man, The SAC took a step toward Babe.
“How do you know about this, son?”
Babe’s stare turned from vacant to clear, and as he turned to leave he said,
“I don’t know.”
Four
R
ussell Eckhart loaded his luggage into the trunk and slid into the front seat of his Lincoln Town Car. His car was parked in a remote corner of the long term parking lot at Boston Logan Airport. The last thing in the world he wanted to hear right now was the metal on glass tapping coming from the passenger side window. He closed his eyes and sighed. He turned his head to see a familiar, slender white hand with obscenely long fingers adorned with ominously sadistic Gothic rings. The hand, as always, was at the end of a long black sleeve. That sleeve belonged to a black trench coat, the same type worn by the man standing by the rear door. And, he knew without looking, the same as the one worn by the man that was surely standing next to the door behind him. Eckhart unlocked the doors. Three men got in and closed the doors. The man seated behind him spoke.
“So good to see you again, Mr. Eckhart. It has been a while.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” Eckhart said, glancing only briefly toward his rear view mirror.
“Three Europeans, trench coats and sunglasses on a cloudy August afternoon in the parking lot of a major airport. Can you see where this might go bad?”
The “muscle” in the rear passenger side seat cracked his knuckles inside his black leather gloves.
That ridiculous bit of theater would make me laugh if these fuckers didn’t scare the shit out of me,
Eckhart thought.
What I wouldn’t give to be dealing with the regular old mafia. These creepy fucking cyber geeks have no moral code at all. Jesus. Dante Vlada? Even his goddamn name sounds like a monster. And the “Enforcer” back there, Hans? I’ve heard too many stories about that sick bastard.
“I expect you to think like an FBI agent, Mr. Eckhart, but we are
never
careless,” Dante Vlada said.
“We are at this moment not only quite invisible to any form of electronic surveillance; we are in the company of a high level FBI official. Do you suggest that we should be fearful for our lives at the moment, Russell?”
“I guess not,” Eckhart said.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing has yet been required of you, Mr. Eckhart,” Vlada said. “We have taken the necessary time for you to become established in Boston; however, this phase has come to an end. You will be given detailed instruction in the coming weeks.
“It is time for you to play the role that we have positioned you for.”
“Like I’ve told you before,” Eckhart said. “The money is great, but whatever you’re wanting from me would be much easier if I was in the SAC post. You have to know that having that Boy Scout in the top spot is not helping either of us. You want more from me and I want more from you. What isn’t fair about that?”
“Russell, Russell, Russell,” Vlada tutted. “The real
power
is far better wielded away from the spotlight of the top position. We have no interest in your politics—the press conferences, the makeup artists, the posturing for the cameras, and the ass-kissing. The number two position is where the
real
power has resided for
years
, Russell. Do you not watch the CNN? Do you not pay attention to your own politicians?”
This brought chuckles from Vlada’s men.
Vlada’s voice turned serious.
“Pay careful attention to me, Mr. Eckhart, for I do not make a habit of justifying my decisions. The Special Agent in Charge, Mr. Englemann, is eligible to retire handsomely and will soon face mandatory retirement. He has lost his wife and is on the verge of losing his young daughter. Agent Englemann will, in all likelihood, cling to his position at the Bureau because it is his identity and his remaining source of stability. This is what would be expected of a good cowboy. It is what John Wayne would do, no?”
More chuckles from Vlada’s men.
“Jack Englemann’s good reputation with the Bureau and the collective sympathies for his losses will cause the FBI to grant a considerable level of tolerance toward the Boston office as its sad leader serves out the remainder of his career. I expect little scrutiny in this city until the day that Agent Englemann’s badge is pried from his trembling fist.”
Eckhart was angry.
“Is that what you’re thinking? Like I told you—”
Hans reached forward and slapped Eckhart across the back of the head. Eckhart was silent.
Dante Vlada leaned forward and spoke quietly into Eckhart’s ear.
“We have been quite patient with you, Mr. Eckhart. When your step-father brought you to us we took you in, as a favor. We brought it to his attention that your ‘appetites’ had become a concern for us, and our options were few. You are not only compensated, but your ‘socially unacceptable behaviors’ are taken care of. You are in Boston because that is where we need you to be. If you still think you are in a position to ‘bargain’ with us,” Vlada’s gloved hand shot around Eckhart’s neck, giving Eckhart a brief indication of the strength of his grip.
”I may just let Hans have you to play with.”
Vlada removed his hand.
“No. No. Forget it,” Eckhart croaked, rubbing first his throat and then his jaw. The tweak in his jaw was his remembrance of the time he bad-mouthed these men in front of his step-father. Graham Stemple’s backhand had knocked him unconscious for an hour.
Vlada settled back into the seat.
“Good. That is good,” he said. “We need to have a clear understanding between us, particularly because we will no longer have the benefit of Mr. Stemple’s services.”
“What are you talking about?” Eckhart asked.
The three men chuckled.
“Oh, I do forget,” Vlada said. “You two are not so close. But hey, we are all big boys here, are we not? It is cancer of the colon, I’m afraid. Not really a surprise. The man is a glutton. He visits his whores down in the…what is it, Gregor?”
“The ‘hood’,” the man in the front passenger seat said.
“Ah, yes,” Vlada said.
“Stemple visits his whores in the ‘hood’ and then carries his lusts down the street to the Barbecue establishment where he engorges himself with pig flesh. Do you know what they will say now, Russell?”
“What?”
“They will say,” Vlada said, “the asshole was killed by his asshole.”
The three men roared with laughter.
“When did they find out?” Eckhart asked.
“We learned of the diagnosis just this morning,” Dante Vlada said.
“Perhaps your stepfather does not know yet, himself. He has a little time left, but we have no wish for our longtime associate to suffer. Suffering, sometimes leads to… complications—such as death bed confessions. ”
“Knowledge is King, Mr. Eckhart. You will do well to remember who runs the Kingdom. We will be in touch.”
Five
B
abe surveyed the crowd and wondered if there was a more awkward scene in human existence than a group of people not wanting to be the first to leave a funeral. Today, that person was his mother.
“Joshua, honey, I simply hate that we have to go so soon, but Rick’s campaign manager is about to have a nervous breakdown over these canceled rallies. Of course we were going to be here, darling. Are you going to be okay?” Amanda Richmond asked, nodding to her own affirmative suggestion. “Really, Sweetie?”
“It’s okay, Mom. Really. The shock was over a long time ago. I’m really glad you and Rick were here. It means a lot to me,” Babe said.
“Okay, sweetie, we’re going to run. Our flight leaves at five thirty and we just have time to make it. Are you sure that you don’t need a ride?” Amanda asked.
“Yeah, Mom. Dad’s going be staying a few days.” Babe said.
Rick Richmond walked up to join his wife and scanned the crowd like a secret service agent.
Checking for cameras
, Babe thought.
“Joshua, I’m so very sorry for this tragic loss. Jill was such a great girl. I’m sorry that we have to rush away. If you need anything, and I mean anything, we’re only a phone call away, Slugger,” Rick said, grasping Babe’s right hand and placing his left hand on top of them. Rick leaned in a little on the chance that Babe might initiate a hug.
But their relationship had never been that kind.
The professional politician from Chicago had been schooled years ago on avoiding uncomfortable public contact that might make bad photo or video footage. So, he executed from his training—three brisk right-hand-pumps, two left hand taps on the hands, followed by a two second grasp of Babe’s right shoulder. Rick and Amanda turned—an aide scurrying behind them with an umbrella. They made their way to a waiting limousine, doubtless making sure they maintained the proper facial expressions should there be reporters present.
Babe’s co-workers stood together in the line of well-wishers waiting to say their goodbyes. Tom Reardon shook Babe’s hand then gave him a stout hug.
“If you ever need to talk, Babe,” Tom said, “or just want to talk—any day, any time. I’m here, Buddy.”
“Thank, Tom. I appreciate it,” Babe said.
Millie Vandermeer followed Tom. She blotted her eyes and looked away for a second and then bit her upper lip. She raised her right hand to Babe’s cheek.
“I’m so sorry, Babe,” she said quietly.
Babe placed his hand over Millie’s.
“Thank you, Millie. You’re very sweet.”
Babe braced himself before being hugged by Madeline Gerard. He learned years ago to be prepared for MG’s hugs; otherwise you were subject to emitting embarrassing noises. Her hugs were intense, like everything she did.
Babe looked around trying to locate his father-in-law. He saw Jack hug a small elderly lady, shake hands with a young couple and then kneel down to shake hands with two little boys. Jack caught Babe’s eye and smiled. Babe gave a little smile back.
I know. Me too.
Jordan Blackledge stood at the edge of the group along with his wife, Samantha. Samantha spoke to several different people, many of whom recognized her as their State Senator. But today her primary function was to deflect attention away from her husband. Jordan and Jack were the best of friends and former college roommates. Jordan watched over Jack as if he was a bodyguard or Secret Service Agent. The tall, handsome man had his jaw set to guard against any type of threat to his friend even as his eyes cried out with their own pain.
Babe caught a glimpse of his father, Robbie Babelton, at the door of his motor home. Robbie was catering to a line of people who were leaving large plastic containers of food.
In times of grief many people did not know exactly what to say to each other, but most people feel that those in mourning should not have to work to obtain meals.