tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-207030342011-11-19T17:40:59.594-08:00A Noir ThrillerNick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.comBlogger611100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-66376923406939857022010-07-01T18:30:00.000-07:002010-07-01T18:33:57.970-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em><span style="color:#000000;">for the first time reader:</span></em></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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.</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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. </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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. </strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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…<br /></strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#666600;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#663300;">61</span>ST: <span style="color:#663300;">GARTERS</span> AND <span style="color:#993300;">GUTS</span><br /></span></strong><br />Live for today. It's an adage we've all seen on billboards, T-shirts and cheap, sentimental greeting cards that wind up in the ash can ten minutes after they're read. Live. For tomorrow you may not and what a waste today would be if it were not spent with every last second dedicated to the greater likeness of being.<br /><br />I never learned that trick of experiencing from moment to moment. Instead, the moments usually crept upon me while I was either looking ahead or back, like a rabid coon, devilishly eager to gnaw off a finger or toe. When you really stop to think about it, the seconds in a minute are deceptive. They pass, one after the next in an endless march of time, consciously whittling away the moment, the minute, and finally, the hour until the measuring glass of life is more than half empty than it is full.<br /><br />And death is not just some clinical term that one thinks about in a vacuum as just the final, mysterious passage from life. No, it's real, with definable features; clawing away at the edges of skin, bone and hair until they sag or decrease in density and fall out like a great cacophony of scattered bristles from a well worn broom. When I was a boy, the sands of time were a myth. But over time, their granules have grown.<br /><br />I wish I were a young man again. I'd know how to do things - perhaps not better, but differently. The road not taken, always the most attractive in life's journey. I wish I were younger. Not a boy. Childhood is so unrepentantly cruel. It lulls us into believing that the summer will never end, that the best is yet ahead and that the learning curve will always remain in our favor.<br /><br />Lies. All of them. For one Spring morning you awake on a train bound for Innsbruck and realize that the only thing fresh about the morn is the air. It's still sweet and crisp, but now it seems almost too painful a reminder of the fact that the best has come and gone and that you've no more knowledge to gain that will enrich or advance your understanding of the great beyond. There is simply more, left largely untouched by your hands. Instead, you observe as the generation behind yours comes up with lightening speed and the audacity to identify your mere existence as a quaint old relic of the ever distant, moldering past. Goodbye, little yellow bird...so long Piccadilly, farewell Lester Square.<br /><br /> . . . <br /><br />The next few hours pass like a flash of Saint Elmo's Fire. Snapshots of panicked passengers - more nosy than anything else, with their own set of overlapping questions whispered greedily in hushed tones add their curiosities to the conductor's tally of inquiry.<br /><br />"Who was the man you killed?"<br /><br />"I didn't kill him," I explain, "He followed me home from the Cafe Gritsch. That is, after he drugged and kidnapped my...uh...wife."<br /><br />"Where is your wife now?"<br /><br />"You guess," I say, "I'm out of ideas."<br /><br />I'm also running out of patience.<br /><br />"Our staff do not moonlight as waiters in cafes," I'm told, "You say this man has kidnapped your wife. That he followed you both first from Paris to here and then from the cafe back again?"<br /><br />"Yeah. Persistent little bugger, isn't he? We made chase on the roof. But Mother Nature wiped him from the slate of time with her own brand of charm and cruelty."<br /><br />I'm told my statements will have to be verified when we make our next stop. By 'who' and 'how' are questions that don't get answered. And a good thing too, because I'm bleeding from a cut on the shoulder that I wouldn't mind tending.<br /><br />"These questions are absurd," I hear a familiar voice call out from behind.<br /><br />The crowd of onlookers part and Fertuk takes center stage.<br /><br />"A man is dead, monsieur," the conductor reminds us, as if reminder were needed, "He must be accounted for. His family must be told of his demise."<br /><br />"What family?" Fertuk reasons with an air of disdain, "You said yourself, there was no wallet on his person. No identification of any kind. It's obvious to anyone with the I.Q. of ferret that this man did not wish to be known to anyone but himself."<br /><br />"That may be," the conductor replies, "But the body will have to be examined by a coroner at Innsbruck."<br /><br />"Good luck with that," I reason, "Paid assassins don't keep books."<br /><br />"Then it is your claim that this man was hired to killed you?"<br /><br />"Yes."<br /><br />"Why? By who?"<br /><br />I'm at a loss. You would think I could come up with something of half assed intelligence to quell the mystery - but no. I just shrug my shoulders and leave it at that. The conductor's clearly displeased with my nonchalance. Oh well, we all have our shortcomings. Mine aren't any more or less pronounced than then his.<br /><br />"I'm waiting for your answer, monsieur," he says.<br /><br />"...and I'm sure one'll be forthcoming...in a week to ten days or your pizza's free. Until then, learn to live with disappointment. I have!"<br /><br />My insolence has misfired. After clearing the crowd from the open door the conductor informs me that he intends to lock me in my compartment until we reach Innsbruck at which time he will personally hand me over to the authorities.<br /><br />Outside a light drizzle has begun to fall, turning the already decapitated mess of remains belonging to my assailant into a soggy pile of dislocated lumps. A couple of junior pull men wrap what's left in an oversized tarp and load it into the baggage car. I watch as the younger of the two turns fifty unhealthy shades from rigor mortis gray to salmonella green, then leans over the side of the caboose to donate his lunch to the tracks below.<br /><br />I feel pretty strong, if not in stamina than in my commitment to preserving the secrecy of Jess' mission. But once inside Fertuk's private car my head begins to do the helium dance. My limbs feel disconnected as I recline on the pullout, Fertuk grabbing my legs and tossing them up to rest. He sits on the edge of the pullout, unbuttons my collar and peels back the blood saturated cotton/silk blend of my dress shirt to reveal a fair sized gash.<br /><br />"Lay back," he instructs, reaching for a bottle of peroxide and a cotton patch, tenderly tapping the wound until it starts to draw tingles down my spine. "My friend, what have you gotten us into?"<br /><br />"I wish I knew," I tell him honestly, "And what do you mean 'us'? Who's askin' you to tag along. Be gone, Jiminy Cricket. I'll let my conscience - such as it is - be my guide. I absolve you of your guilt."<br /><br />Fertuk shakes his head.<br /><br />"My friend, you are lost," he tells me.<br /><br />So there it is. The unvarnished truth. He's right of course. Lost, am I? ...even to myself. Where shall I find me. At the bottom of a ravine or the next available bottle of scotch. It all seems suddenly so pointless. I think how grand it might be to have gangrene set in and take me cross the River Styx to nowhere I might find myself. I repeat the fantasy over and over as I drift in an out of conscious thought. The sting of peroxide brings me back to clarity.<br /><br />So, I tell him the rest. About Jess, and the money and our rendezvous at the Ryugyong Hotel in North Korea.<br /><br />"I've not heard of the Ryugyong," Fertuk tells me.<br /><br />"Actually, there's no reason you should," I explain, "It's a hundred and five stories of nothing that never opened."<br /><br />Fertuk looks confused and I don't blame him. The Baikdoosan brain trust that began the Ryugyong twenty years earlier must have let the altitude go to their heads when designing this behemoth. Begun in 1987, the project consumed a third of North Korea's gross national product until financing ran dry a decade later, bringing construction to a grinding halt and leaving the landscape scarred by a truly hideous monstrosity. Shaped like a gigantic pyramid with three bat-like winged towers melding into one imposing super point rising 1,083 feet from the ground and clearly visible from space, the Ryugyong was easily communism's most ambitious miscalculation.<br /><br />That in recent years Egypt's Orascom Group had taken a personal interest in the fate of the Ryugyong seemed to bode well with that totalitarian urge to at last open the hotel to world wide acclaim rather than ridicule. In fact, over the last ten year's North Korea's government had even attempted to deny that the hotel existed at all. When no amount of conventional dynamite - short of a nuclear bomb - could be used to demolish the tower, North Korea simply hired a skilled airbrush artist to obliterate it from the landscape featured in their postcards. <br /><br />"Then why...?"<br /><br />"Because something's buried on the one hundred and third floor, inside one of the seven revolving restaurant's that tops that sucker," I explain.<br /><br />"What?"<br /><br />Well...I've come this far in the story. Why not?<br /><br />"A diamond," I mutter.<br /><br />"A big one?" Fertuk inquiries, his curiosity peaked like a Pekinese whose just been promised the Holy Grail of juicy bones.<br /><br />"No," I condescendingly reply, "A little one. In fact, forget diamond. Cubic zirconium with an attitude is actually more like it. A guy from the Liberace museum in Vegas promised me free tickets to Celine Dion's Caesar's comeback and a chit for their all you can eat buffet if I deliver that oversized rhinestone to him before the fourth of July."<br /><br />Fertuk digs the peroxide soaked cotton into my wound to exercise his displeasure. It pinches and I get the hint.<br /><br />"Sorry," I tell him, "It's just that I never fancied myself a fortune hunter, that's all."<br /><br />"Then why?"<br /><br />"For that we have to find my...uh...wife."<br /><br />Fertuk raises a curious eyebrow in my direction.<br /><br />"My friend," he wearily exclaims, "How much longer are we going to pretend?"<br /><br />After what I've put him through he'd have every right to just turn me over the authorities and walk away with his Good Samaritan badge. The fact that he's still interested in what happens to me is refreshing...touching, even. After all, I hadn't given any thought to making new friends along the way. I guess the years of lumping it alone have made me sort of impervious to any notion that someone could care and not want something from me in return.<br /><br /> At Innsbruck, the rain comes down in windswept curtains that billow between the naked slit of rooftop that separates the station from the platform, just like the tempting veils of a belly dancer with little to hide. The conductor makes sure I'm well escorted from the platform to a waiting police car parked just beyond the station. Fertuk carries both his and my luggage.<br /><br />"I'll follow you in a taxi," Fertuk explains, shaking my hand heartily as though it were for the last time.<br /><br />I don't know why, but I get a jolt of great courage from this poetic gesture, ripped from a code of ethics from some other forgotten time. I believe in him.<br /><br />But as the police car pulls away from the station I get an even greater sinking feeling in my gut. It doesn't help matters that I lose sight of the cab Fertuk promised he'd take and arrive at the police station alone in a torrential downpour.<br /><br />When we've come to a full stop the officer exits his driver's side door and opens the back for me to get out. We walk side by side down a narrow cobblestoned passage with high walls closing in from both sides.<br /><br />Inside the station the atmosphere is less ominous. In fact, it reminds me of a cozy Motel Six, except for the imposing front desk and the two dour detectives who sit in pre-judgment as I approach them.<br /><br />I'm fingerprinted, of course, photographed left, right and centre against a plain white wall, then given a nice warm flannel suit of stripes to change into. At first I think it's prison garb, and, it is. But after I've been locked away in a cell for about an hour my sticky, blood stained wet clothes come back to me, washed, pressed and neatly stitched by expert seamstress hands. I'm told by the officer who gives them to me to get dressed. I confess I've never been quite so happy to trade the comfort of flannel for the cold rub of silk in my life.<br /><br />The cell is chilly and I feel rather naked even after I've been restored to my former, reasonably fashionable self. I find myself unable to think of anything clearly. Nothing seems to matter...or maybe it does and I'm just too stupid to realize it. I watch as the hands of the clock on the opposite wall tick away another hour and a half. No Fertuk. Figures. I've been duped again. Or so I think.<br /><br />I listen to the storm rage outside and suddenly find myself feeling grateful that I'm in a cell without a care in the world...except, perhaps, for the electric chair. I settle down on the bunk provided and close my eyes tightly to blot out the mild sting of concentration. I'm about to drift off to sleep when the sound of keys turning in the door down the hall alert me to the fact that someone has come for me.<br /><br />"My friend," I hear Fertuk's familiar voice, "My Friend!"<br /><br />And I realize that he is - my friend, that is. He hasn't forsaken me. As I raise my head up from the pillow to see him animated with delight, smiling from ear to ear, his sweaty hands nervously rattling the bars with giddy excitement I suddenly feel quiet humility and an epic sense of gratitude overwhelm my senses. Things are clearer once more. Happy days are here again!<br /><br />Fertuk's accompanied by a poker faced constable who reluctantly unlocks my cell door.<br /><br />"You're free," Fertuk exclaims.<br /><br />"What? How?"<br /><br />"Come. Come." Fertuk reasons, a hurried hand locking around mine and tearing me from the cell as though someone from the home office might change their minds at any moment and send us both away for life.<br /><br />I walk with crooked, spread feet apart like a recovering glassy eyed drunkard whose just been asked to donate a pint of blood and maybe Gin to the Red Cross. You'd think I'd been in jail for sixty years hard time.<br /><br />"Where are we going?" I ask.<br /><br />"Anyplace but here," Fertuk reasons.<br /><br />I agree. At this point I think that even the slums of Calcutta have their beauteous appeal.<br /><br />I'm ushered by Fertuk to a waiting taxi, the rain coming down with even greater intensity as the driver pulls away from the police station.<br /><br />"Zwei fünfundzwanzig Volker Straße," Fertuk tells the driver.<br /><br />There's a few moments of caustic silence as the driver turns and glares at us both.<br /><br />"Eilen! Bitte, bitte!" Fertuk reasons with a commanding wave of his hand.<br /><br />The driver shrugs his shoulders before turning the corner.<br /><br />"Where are we..." I start.<br /><br />But Fertuk just gives me a polite 'shut up and be patient' glance. I settle in for a short ride.<br /><br />Turns out 225 Volker Street is Innsbruck's red light district; a veritable pick n' save of human depravities catering to the rough trade, the forgotten and the might as well be dead. I should feel right at home, only prison has made me pious and a bit of a prig. The taxi pulls curbside down a narrow alley leading to what once might have been a great old house, but that today is something of a cross between the Brothers Grimm meet Scooby Doo. <br /><br />Fertuk tips the cabbie and tenderly pushes me once more into the gale. We quickly move in from the rain onto a rickety front porch. Fertuk gives the worn door knocker three light taps followed by one heavy thwack. A small sliding window near the top of the door opens a moment and a woman with a face like a tube of calking peers out with modest disdain at we two weary travelers. A moment later the slider gets bolted and the door is unlocked.<br /><br />I was too kind in my initial assessment of the lady of the house. She's Madame DeFarge's twin sister, with enough girth between her shoulders and hips to plug the BP oil spill all by herself. Just a drop of spittle from her sweaty, endowed cheeks could weld whole chunks of metal together. I'm afraid to look back lest I turn to a pillar of salt. With a shock of hair grossly pasted across her forehead - possibly with real lard - and tattoos of the most obscene nature cascading from the top of her lumpy shoulder to the bulbous fatty deposits loosely draped about her elbow and wrist, she's the poster child for why charm school ought never have been abolished.<br /><br />"Goldene Schauer, elf fünfundzwanzig," she starts, waddling like a pregnant platypus and leading us down a dark hall into a parlor full of moth eaten furniture with dark red velvet curtains drawn across all the windows, "Anal nur von Mädchen gebe ich an. Gerades Geschlecht fängt an sieben, achtzehn an. Lösen Sie Vorderseite ein. Und keine Ausnahmen Hinzufügungen sobald hat die Partei begonnen!"<br /><br />My German's a little rusty but from what I gather this Babe, Pig In The City is offering us a special on today's kink. Funny, I didn't figure Fertuk for this kind of thing, and I'm a little put off by the thought of having to perform on cue after I thought I'd turned over a new leaf - and not to be spanked with it either!<br /><br />"Sie werden ihn lassen sich schämen," I hear a soft familiar voice call from the top a long staircase, "Ich kann es von hier nehmen."<br /><br />I look up and can't believe my eyes. It's Martinique, rather conservatively dressed in a long black housecoat drawn tightly up to her neck.<br /><br />"Angel," I find myself saying, "How..."<br /><br />"Get your ass upstairs, Mars," Martinique commands, "And bring Shorty there with you."<br /><br />I'm about to say something in Fertuk's defense when I notice him raising a polite hand to silence me.<br /><br />"It's okay," he reasons with a smile, "I've never been a lady's man."<br /><br />"Don't sweat it," I mutter as we hurry upstairs, "I don't think these ladies are particular."<br /><br />A vacuum of blackness swallows us whole at the top of the stairs. There's only one crusty light bulb burning in the middle of the hall but its smoker's yellow hue barely casts enough of a glow to make out Martinique in silhouette as she leads us to a door at the end of the hall.<br /><br />"Go inside and lock it behind you," she tells me, "Whatever you do, don't unlock it for anyone. I'll let myself back in."<br /><br />"Yes ma'am," I shoot back, finding Martinique's Gestapo-like spank rather erotic.<br /><br />Still, I'm unprepared for what I find on the other side of that door. As I step into the room my eyes take another minute to adjust to even dimmer lighting, this time in the form of a small table lamp on a nightstand with its dusty reddish purple shade half cocked to cast light across the adjacent bed. There, weak and lying semi-unconscious under a billowy comforter is darling Jessica. The creak the door makes as I close it kindles a small but sharp twinkle in her eyes.<br /><br />"About time you got here," she mutters through the thick speech of sedation.<br /><br />And she's so right. God help us, we've found each other once again.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;color:#663300;"><strong>THE END?</strong></span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>Take everything with a grain of salt - including the fact that Eddie Mars will be on Summer Hiatus until </em><span style="color:#996633;">Sept. 4th, 2010.</span></span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">@Nick Zegarac 2010 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-6637692340693985702?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-87528855162867315662010-05-20T05:27:00.000-07:002010-05-20T05:34:11.981-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em>for the first time reader:</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>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…</strong><br /></span></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#993300;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#cc0000;">60</span>TH: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#993300;"><span style="color:#ff0000;">A</span> <span style="color:#330099;">LA</span> <span style="color:#666600;">CARTE<br /></span></span></strong><br />I have no head for heights. Having said that, many a time have I been out on a ledge without a harness, wondering just what the hell got me to this point in the first place. Usually it's my own stupidity. Right about now I feel like I'm dangling off a high cliff with my tail tied to a daisy. I hate my life.<br /><br />I weigh the pros and cons of continuing the itinerary Jess and I had outlined at the start of our journey. It all seems so unnecessary now. I try to file my thoughts under the old adage of ....well, it seemed like a good idea at the time...only my conscience won't let me dismiss all that's gone before quite so easily.<br /><br />After all, what me worry? I've enough money to buy a small European principality. And maybe that's not such a bad idea. I mean, after Frisco I can't very well go back to the U.S. - at least, not for a long while. It doesn't matter that I put a period to a guy who slit throats by proxy and not just in the political arena either. In the eyes of the law I'm a vigilante, not a hero and someone who probably ought to be fitted with a muzzle and/or silencer. Maybe both!<br /><br />Vengeance isn't pretty. But neither is penitence. It makes you take a good, long, hard and unflattering look at yourself - even when there's no mirror around. In the dark you see what you've become more clearly and it forces you to reconsider just how far from a centralized ideal you've veered. In my case, I don't even see the middle anymore. There's just glaring variations of 'oh God, what have I done?'<br /><br />Jess...where ever she is...wouldn't think twice about ditching me for my millions and buying a schloss on the Rein. I imagine her somewhere far, far away, elegant and without my constant screw ups to worry about, sipping champagne and effortlessly juggling three flawed relationships while she diddles the gardener to indulge her risqué side for living on the edge with a garden hose and pruning shears. She'd find happiness too. She's just the type to keep searching until it effortlessly came to her.<br /><br />I make up my mind to put in an anonymous call to the authorities in Verona and then quietly disappear into the night to parts unknown...even to myself.<br /><br />I'm tired - well, sort of. Bored is more like it. I know...you're thinking with all I've been through and everything that's supposed to follow, how could anyone be bored? My heart should be pounding out of my chest with excitement. But it's not. I just want a place to crash; somewhere where life has an even cadence and people don't come to call unless they just want a few hours of friendly discussion: no hidden agendas, no price on my head, no time for playing the guessing game that never comes with any finite answers. Just peace, palm trees and a pina colada. That's my idea of heaven.<br /><br />Can you understand boredom such as this? Probably not, comfortable as you are in your nine to five, punch clock, PTA and Four H, looking forward to the weekend mentality. I envy you that. Mediocrity has its privileges. All I can tell you is that when your time is your own, your life really is not.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />I don't get much sleep on the train. In fact, I take on a fairly good representation of a guy who's had insomnia his entire life. By the dawn's first crack the next morning I look like a tree full of owls and about as chipper in mood as I am in stamina. Fertuk (pronounced Fair-tooook) shares my concern as we sit silently across from one another in the dining car, eating warm porridge and cold orange juice. Our waiter glances at us both periodically, as though he can read what's going on in our minds. He's a curious one. And something else...I don't know...but strangely familiar.<br /><br />Nothing seems to help my demeanor. Funny. I thought I'd lost my ability to care for anyone but myself long ago. Perhaps I'm confusing lust with loss. I do that now and then. Jess isn't my type but she was fairly distracting last night and now, without her to tease me into a frenzy, I seem to have lost interest in everything but finding her. Perhaps I've simply become a Higgins in my middle age. I've grown accustom to her face.<br /><br />That last image I have of Jess, disappearing into the bathroom with an unhealthy greenish tint about her cheeks seems to stick in my mind as the most indelible form of brain cancer. I can't close my eyes to blot her out. She's there. Ever-present. Haunting. As though she might provide some clue as to... I decide to play a hunch.<br /><br />"How'd you manage it?" I ask Fertuk.<br /><br />He seems genuinely confounded by my question.<br /><br />"How did I..."<br /><br />"The drug you slipped Jess last night to get her out of our dinner," I say.<br /><br />He's suddenly incensed.<br /><br />"Why should I..." he begins.<br /><br />"Because you liked her even less than I do," I suggest, my mind beginning to wander, "And because...just maybe...I've been a fool for lesser and greater things and now just want to be a fool alone. Humor me. What was it? Not poison. No. That would have been too obvious. And messy. Having to explain a body with its head stuck in a tank full of crap at the Cafe Gritsch. No. I'd say just enough of something disagreeable to get her out'a the picture for the night - maybe two - but not kill her."<br /><br />Fertuk rises from his chair, ripping off the cloth napkin he's stuffed into the collar of his crisp white shirt and tossing it to his chair.<br /><br />"I shall never forgive you for this!" he hisses before departing the dining car in a huff.<br /><br />"Then don't," I mutter loudly, "You drug-inducing bastard! Where is she?"<br /><br />I do a quick scan of the room. Our waiter is frozen in time with a pitcher of ice water rigidly extended in his hand. I give him a good, long stare. It says 'Go ahead, lucky...try and offer me the check. I'll cram it down your skinny little throat!' All eyes are on me - just the way I want it. I throw the napkin from my lap across my half eaten bowl of porridge and storm out of the dining car.<br /><br />A few moments later I reduce my jaunt to a stroll as I make my way to Fertuk's drawing room for an apology. I knock politely and he opens the door with a blood-pressure red face full of rage - his cheeks bulging like a pair of ripe beets but his eyes brimming with hurtful tears.<br /><br />"How dare..." he begins.<br /><br />"I had to," I say, politely forcing my way into his car and quickly shutting the door behind me.<br /><br />Fertuk's two steps away from ringing for the porter so I lay my cards on the table. I start with an apology - sincere...well, as sincere as I can get...and I'm genuinely impressed that the patina on my words rings true even to my own ears. I segue into an explanation for my behavior. How I suddenly remembered that the waiter on the train is one in the same as the server at the Cafe Gritsch and how he must have been the one to spike Jessica's drink. How I needed a distraction just now to make it appear as though I hadn't figured this out for myself and how using Fertuk as a scapegoat was the best alternative I could come up with on short notice.<br /><br />I observe the suddenly look of relief wash over Fertuk's face, his color effortlessly returning to normal, his eyes less likely to shoot daggers in my direction. He's forgiven me my crude outburst and even cruder apology.<br /><br />"Then, my friend, we are still very much in danger" he reasons, asking the obvious question, "Why?"<br /><br />"Well, that part I still haven't had time to iron out," I admit, "But it's about time we asked the only man I know has all the answers. I think you should order something a la carte."<br /><br />Fertuk nods, ringing for the porter. A few moments later, an immaculately dressed portly gent with a handlebar moustache you could hang coffee cups off of arrives at Fertuk's door. I duck behind the closet so that the porter can't see me.<br /><br />"Tell the waiter I want some black coffee and figs sent to this car," Fertuk commands.<br /><br />The porter nods and disappears down the narrow passage. We've only a minute or two to iron out our plan. Afterward, I hide in Fertuk's cramped washroom, pensively waiting for our unwelcomed guest to arrive.<br /><br />I press my ear to the door and listen, the soft clickety-clickety of the train beneath my feet offering a sort of lulling massage to my tense muscles. I could sure go for a nap right about now. Damn inopportune moment, so it is. I try to envision a few scenarios. But it's impossible to think about anything clearly when all you really want to do is sleep. Maybe I'll just beat the son of a bitch senseless, tie him up first and ask questions later.<br /><br />There's a soft tap at Fertuk's outer door.<br /><br />"Come in," Fertuk says, and I hear the muffled but familiar voice of the waiter announce Fertuk's breakfast tray.<br /><br />As per our instructions, Fertuk get up from his seat and locks the outer door to his compartment just as the waiter begins to set up his tray. That's my cue. I immerge from my hiding place. The waiter suddenly aware that he's been ambushed, freezes, his eyes locking with mine.<br /><br />"Now, my friend," Fertuk reasons with a glint in his eye, "The real fun begins."<br /><br />The waiter gets this cockeyed dopey smile. It doesn't last. And neither does his laconic stance. He turns for the door and I jump him from behind. He's a skinny bugger but wiry and not as easily subdued as I imagined, throwing his weight and sending me hurling back into the bathroom stall. Fertuk lunges toward the waiter and gets a kick in the jaw for his efforts. We three struggle unprofessionally in these cramped quarters, like a trio of WWF tryout rejects with coffee and figs sailing through the air and limbs intertwined in a game of Twister gone bad.<br /><br />There's the flash of a gun from beneath the waiter's waistcoat, my wrist on his, shaking the pistol back and forth upwards, a couple of rounds going straight through the vaulted ceiling and another shattering the window. Fertuk jumps into action, sinking his teeth into the waiter's clenched hand. There's a scream and the gun falls to the floor. I make a stupid decision to reach for the fallen weapon and that affords the waiter the opportunity to get to his feet, run out the door and into the hall.<br /><br />"Stay here," I tell Fertuk, before making chase.<br /><br />The gun fire's attracted curious guests in the hall, a few pointing me in the direction of the fleeing waiter. As I near the end of the first car I notice that the outer door has been left open and stupidly peak outside before considering that it might be a trap. It is, and I get a fist in the gut that knocks most of the wind out of me. Between gasps for fresh air I see the waiter grab hold of the side rail and climb up to the roof of the train. It's all or nothing. I'm going after him.<br /><br />Outside the early morning wind bites into my skin. We've entered a mountainous area with tall pines lining either side of the track and a shadowy mist blowing past on all sides like the steamy entrance to the gates of hell. In this narrow passage the downdraft blows in large heavy gusts that threaten to inflate my long sleeved shirt and pants and make me airborne. I haven't exactly dressed for climbing. But the soles of my shoes are rubber, good for grip on the otherwise smooth metal roof.<br /><br />A car's length ahead is my assailant, struggling in his smooth soled dress shoes to stay on top of the slightly curved roof. Fertuk was right. Now the fun really begins. The track we're travelling on coils sharply, the train never travelling in a straight line but twisting back and forth as if to say 'Get off me you silly bastards!' as it writhes beneath us with serpentine flail.<br /><br />I have the waiter's gun tucked in my pants, but hesitate to use it. I need this guy alive - at least until I get some answers. Even so, a dead 'would-be' assassin is my solid Plan B. A few steps at a time, and I make the successful jump between cars, landing on my knees and popping the gun from my belt. It rolls over the side and is lost to the mist and pines. So much for Plan B.<br /><br />The train now begins to bend sharply to the left, the sound of its wheels gliding on the rails below suddenly intensified with full reverb, which can only mean one thing....tunnel!<br /><br />It's just mere seconds, but the snapshots are burned in my memory. I look up just in time to see the waiter's paralytic body language meet with the side of a mountain, wiping him clean from the roof's surface with a resounding splat - like a juicy little beetle that's met with the oncoming windshield of a semi.<br /><br />I let go of my tenuous grip on the train roof, the downdraft sliding me back and over the edge in between cars, sinking my fingers into the lip of the metal frame and dangling there as the world suddenly goes black around me.<br /><br />I hear the echo of every bone in the waiter's bony little frame dislocating as his unconscious body slides over and past me like a rag doll before it's violently knocked into the side of that cavernous stone wall. A few seconds later, a strong spurt of his blood sprays across my finger tips and downward into my hair and face. I'll say one thing for him. He's left one hell of a bloody impression!<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#003300;">THE END?</span></strong> - <strong><em>not yet.<br /></em></strong><br /><strong>Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure: </strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff0000;">Verona by Moonlight</span> on July <span style="color:#ff0000;">5</span>th, 2010.</strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">@Nick Zegarac 2010 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-8752885516286731566?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-29860904494361784542010-04-21T14:40:00.000-07:002010-04-21T14:43:36.514-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#6600cc;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em>for the first time reader:</em></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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.</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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.</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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…</strong><br /></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#666600;">Adventure the 59th: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#666600;"><span style="color:#6600cc;">ALL ABOARD</span><br /></span></strong><br /><br />It isn't every day you find yourself accused of a murder you didn't commit. I don't go to the Eiffel in search of Jones because I'm fairly certain he - or what's left of him - is there. I'm also pretty sure whoever used my name for their rendezvous is also waiting somewhere in the shadows for a hasty dispatch.<br /><br />It's late by the time I return to darling Jess. Under the name Charlie Gwenn I check in to our hotel, then spend a rather sleepless night on the Rue de la Hutchette thinking about what'll happen if Jessica Jones tags Charlie Gwenn as the guy who asked too many questions about her dear ol' dad. The morning papers say it all: "Saut de Mort - L'homme d'affaires local Saute de la Tour Eiffel".<br /><br />I decide to put as much distance between me and that famed Parisian landmark before breakfast. My only problem seems to be timing. An Icelandic volcano's grounded all European and transcontinental flights. I'm trapped by the cursed outcroppings of a grumbling Mother Nature with too much natural gas.<br /><br />"It's over, then," Jess' reasons, reading the headlines as we pass an outdoor newspaper vendor.<br /><br />"It's just begun," I say, a queasy sort of feeling creeping into my stomach.<br /><br />She raises a curious brow in my direction. I lean in to her as though we're a couple a' newlywed tourists on the prowl for fine art and cheap wine.<br /><br />"I wasn't there last night," I explain in a muffled sigh, "I didn't kill Franklin Jones!"<br /><br />This revelation seems to both please and startle darling Jess.<br /><br />"Then who?"<br /><br />"I don't know," I admit, "Take your pick. You, his crippled daughter, the man in the moon...The problem isn't Jones. It's that his daughter knew I was coming...or that is, someone told her that her dad was meeting an Edward Mars last night at the Eiffel Tower. She's sure to repeat the story to the police."<br /><br />"At least you're registered as Charlie Gwenn," Jess thinks thing through.<br /><br />"Yeah," I concur, "But my passport says Mars."<br /><br />I let Jess check us out of our hotel. The concierge seems a little too keen on my looks, as though he knows me from somewhere. Ah, well - maybe he's just window shopping for a crossover weekend. Or maybe he's read the paper and is doing a bit of creative calculation that doesn't include breakfast a la carte.<br /><br />Jumping into a taxi out front, Jess and I get off in front of a small open air cafe about six blocks from the Gare Montparnasse, then do the rest of our trek on foot. When we're inside the massive train station Jess has a sudden attack of stomach jitters, probably brought on by that strong black coffee she's been chuggin' all morning.<br /><br />"Get the tickets," she tells me before making a B-line for the restroom.<br /><br />Maybe it was the coffee. Or maybe she just doesn't like long line ups. The station is packed to the rafters with weary, rather impatient travelers, most of whom I suspect would have preferred a quick flight to a long passage by rail. I'm interrupted several times by passersby who think nothing of cutting through the lineup en route to their destinations. One, a pasty tailed gutter rat, loosely clinging to her tattoo-covered body pierced twink of a boy toy, practically knocks me and the little Egyptian gent down in front over with their grungy carry on. The Egyptian turns, casually eyeing the couple before shaking his head in disgust and muttering, "Bloody tourists!"<br /><br />I smile. I know just how he feels, being one myself. <br /><br />"They tell me some dumb schmuck drove a steam engine through the front of this station at the turn of the last century," he goes on.<br /><br />"Yep," I reason, "October 1895 or thereabouts. Name was Pellerin or something like it."<br /><br />I've impressed him. He turns to face me with a glint and a smile.<br /><br />"Ah, you know the story then," the roly-poly Middle Eastern adds, his eyes suddenly a twinkle, "Nineteen. What crazy person puts a nineteen year old peasant at the controls of the Granville to Paris? I ask you?"<br /><br />"The brake failed," I suggest.<br /><br />"The brain before it, my friend," he reasons, tapping his index finger against his temple before extending a hand for a hearty shake. "Fertuk Hassad. Dean of Historical Studies at Cambridge."<br /><br />"Eddie Mars. You're just a little off campus this morning, aren't you professor?" I say as our ticket lineup advances by one.<br /><br />"On holiday," Fertuk explains, "Actually, on sabbatical."<br /><br />"Can't you do both?" I tease.<br /><br />He grins, knowing that it's the truth. A sabbatical is just a fancy word for a cushy stipend; an academic reason to bugger off on paid leave to parts of the world most hard working public sector employees will never get a chance to see firsthand.<br /><br />"I am making a study of railway stations across Europe," Fertuk explains, "For a piece I hope to publish sometime next semester. You have studied too, no?"<br /><br />"Only through the school of hard knocks," I tell him.<br /><br />"But you know the story," Fertuk reasons, "Not many people do. About Pellerin, I mean."<br /><br />"Or Marie-Augustine Aguilard," I tack on, "The news gal he flattened under a piece of falling masonry."<br /><br />"You studied?"<br /><br />"No. I just happen to own Mr. Big's Lean Into It."<br /><br />We share a laugh. He's alright, the professor. Hardly the stuffy academic you'd normally find passively sequestered with his books behind ivy covered walls, in quiet retreat from the world. No, I'd say Fertuk Hassad is the lively sort - well heeled and well traveled and loving every minute of his 'go anywhere/do everything' lifestyle. Cambridge? That's just a safety net - one that benefits from his travels and expertise. But Fertuk could easily do without them much more than the other way around.<br /><br />"I thought this was going to be the dull stretch of my journey," Fertuk explains, "But somehow I feel as though you might prove a worthy travelling companion. Where are you going?"<br /><br />I'm caught off guard by the question. Not so much because I don't want to commit to an answer, but because Jess and I have barely had a moment's notice to work out our plans. North Korea is the truth. How we're going to get there without a plane is what mystifies me.<br /><br />"Venice," I explain.<br /><br />After all, that's where the train's going.<br /><br />"The Orient Express?" Fertuk exclaims, his eyes deliciously glistening as though he's just been the unrequited witness to a cave of wonders, "This is kismet. Truly! I too am going to Venice, by way of Innsbruck and Verona. We shall be travelers together."<br /><br />I'm nudged from behind by Jess'.<br /><br />"We shall be travelers three," she corrects Fertuk, reaching in to shake his reluctant hand.<br /><br />But Fertuk looks as though I've just sold him out to the enemy.<br /><br />"A thousand apologies," he says to me with a distant disappointment in his tone, "I thought you were traveling alone."<br /><br />"There's no reason why we can't travel together...is there?" I suggest.<br /><br />"Besides, I sleep a lot," Jess teases.<br /><br />"Just very little with me," I add - to set the record straight.<br /><br />The professor's not terribly convinced of our arrangement, but nods anyway as we move one more step towards the ticket master.<br /><br /> . . . <br /><br /><br />An hour and a half later, Jess and I move into our close quarters for the trip; a stateroom with two pull down beds and a latrine that I can barely squat on without knocking my knees against the narrow cabin door. Before leaving, the porter informs us of their 24 hour steward service and asks if we would like to lay down for an afternoon nap. I shake my head, but Jess nods and motions for her upper birth to be opened.<br /><br />"I'm going to the dining car," I tell her as she takes the clip out and lets her long tresses tumble around her neck and shoulders.<br /><br /> . . .<br /><br />As the train begins to glide smoothly out of the station I find Fertuk seated at a table inside the dining car, studiously immersed in a very thick book on Greek history. My eye catches his and, noticing that I am alone, he enthusiastically motions for me to join him. After I've made myself comfortable and ordered a tall glass of beer, we get down to more practical discussion.<br /><br />"You don't approve of my choice of travelling companion," I begin.<br /><br />Fertuk is sheepish with apprehension.<br /><br />"I have not said I do not approve," he suggests.<br /><br />"But you don't."<br /><br />"It's just that I thought we might explore the stations together," he admits, "You see, I am a lonely scholar...and not terribly popular with ladies. I suppose my mother had something to do with that. She always insisted that I accept no less than a woman of pedigree and culture."<br /><br />"Hmmm," I tease, "Pedigree's a birthright. You either are or you're not. But culture? You have to look long and hard for one of those...and not on the isle of Manhattan. Nothing but oversexed debutantes and prissy princesses there."<br /><br />Fertuk shakes his head with heavy disappointment.<br /><br />"Nor in Istanbul, Stockholm or Sidney..." he tells me, "I should know. I have lived in all three."<br /><br />"Were you ever in America?" I inquire.<br /><br />"American women," he tells me with a mild note of disgust, "You can't teach them anything they don't already know. They audit my class and tell me what I should be teaching."<br /><br />"And English girls?"<br /><br />"They simply don't care..." Fertuk hypothesizes, "...so long as the boy next to them is cute." <br /><br />We spend the next hour or so chatting over drinks. About every twenty minutes our waiter comes by with two more of the same without even being asked. I'll say one thing; the service is top notch.<br /><br />"Tonight we stop for fifty minutes in Innsbruck," Fertuk explains, "It would give me great pleasure if you and your lady friend would join me for dinner at the Cafe Gritsch."<br /><br />I see no reason to say no, so I say yes for the two of us.<br /><br />"Say, didn't the Romans once have an army outpost there?" I ask, knowing full well that they did.<br /><br />Hmph!" Fertuk grunts with great emphasis, "Romans! Where are they now?"<br /><br />"Back in Rome where they belong," I suggest with a toast of my glass.<br /><br /> . . .<br /><br />I return to the cabin Jess and I are sharing at a quarter to five. She's still out and snoring like a sailor I once bunked under at a sweat hole in Korea. The gal's got lungs - I'll give her that; and a clogged nasal cavity that could stir ships from the fog. I decide to freshen up a bit before waking her.<br /><br />"Go away," she mutters in her sleep.<br /><br />"Wish I could, angel," I whisper back before going into the loo and closing the door.<br /><br />Twenty long and silent minutes pass.<br /><br /> . . .<br /><br />The only time I know for sure that our train's in motion is either when we start moving or pull in to our next stop. As we pull into Innsbruck station, our usually sturdy car goes through a curious series of shuffling - like a drunkard walking wide-stride back and forth from one spread foot to the next.<br /><br />"I don't see why we have to indulge that the funny little man," Jess tells me as she tosses back her long blond tresses for effect.<br /><br />"Well, I like him," I say, "He's the first okay guy I've met in a while. I forgot they grew that way. What's more, he's buying. Free food's always a plus."<br /><br />Jess doesn't buy my reasoning. She doesn't buy a lot. I think deep down she's probably as nervous as a stray trapped in an alley outside a cheap Chinese restaurant. Being a skeptic helps keep her edge.<br /><br />"You could buy him, the restaurant and probably the whole damn town and still have enough to launch a full scale assault on Switzerland," Jess reasons.<br /><br />I watch as she adjusts her bra in the mirror for maximum squeeze.<br /><br />"For someone disinterested in the hired help, you sure know how to dress for the occasion," I suggest.<br /><br />"I dress for me," Jess informs, "I undress for real men."<br /><br />"Which probably explains why I've never seen you naked," I tease. <br /><br />What comes next is totally unexpected.<br /><br />"You wanna see me naked?" she says, her voice suddenly dropping a few octaves; curiously infused with a sultry hush.<br /><br />Before I know it she's on top of me, pressing into the wall, her hands reaching behind mine, her lips pressed against my cheek, then chin so that I can feel her hot breath tickling my nose and teeth. <br /><br />"It wouldn't take much," she tells me, her wet kisses sliding all over my face.<br /><br />I don't buy her act for a moment.<br /><br />"When did all this happen?"<br /><br />I make my inquiries during the few brief seconds between those long, hard kisses.<br /><br />"When did what happen?"<br /><br />"You," I reason, "Flossing my gums without your tongue. I thought you wanted everything strictly professional?"<br /><br />"Professionalism's overrated," Jess decides, sliding one hand down my inner thigh to my crotch, "Besides. Isn't everything on the up and up?"<br /><br />"I don't know," I say, coiling my neck to bury my face in her hair, "You tell me."<br /><br />"Alright, I will," Jess says.<br /><br />I feel her slender fingers loosen my belt and unzip my fly. The train may have come to a complete stop but the ride has only just begun.<br /><br /> . . .<br />Twenty-four minutes later we're hurrying down the platform toward the Cafe Gritsch. By now the sun's begun to set behind the mountains, casting long dark shadows through the gas lit streets and transforming Innsbruck into a Tyrolean fairyland with bustling tourist foot traffic scattered all about. <br /><br />As we round the corner of a tight cobblestone thoroughfare, I catch a brief glimpse at our rumpled selves in the reflective surface of a store front window showcasing children's marionettes.<br /><br />"Hey," I reason to Jess, spotting the cafe just around the corner and pulling her aside for a moment, "Fix your hair. Let me fix mine."<br /><br />"Why?"<br /><br />"Because we look like a pair of pre-teen imbeciles who just had sex."<br /><br />"We just did," Jess replies.<br /><br />"But we've graduated," I insist.<br /><br />I run a set of fingers through my thick mane before reaching for the comb in my back pocket. <br /><br />"That's fitting," Jess tells me, nodding in the direction of the marionettes, "Like puppets on a string."<br /><br />"Yeah," I admit, "Only who's pulling on whose strings?"<br /><br />I study her expression as she preens a bit. There's no spark of excitement about her, unlike the flush and afterglow coursing through my veins at breakneck speed that I'm certain everyone can notice from a mile away. But looking at her we might just as well have been playing Tiddlywinks in the club car.<br /><br />"Give your head a shake," Jess tells me, "Or do you want me to come over there and do it for you?"<br /><br />"Not in public," I reason.<br /><br />"Ready?" she asks.<br /><br />"I'm up for anything," I smugly reply.<br /><br />Only I don't even get a half smile in return.<br /><br /> . . .<br /><br />Inside the Cafe Gritsch, Fertuk is seated at a rather lonely table for four with three empty chairs. He perks up at the first sight of us, rising to hold a chair for Jess as we sit down.<br /><br />"I was afraid you were lost," Fertuk says.<br /><br />"Only in Wonderland! Not canceled," I relate, "But delayed."<br /><br />"Nothing serious, I hope," Fertuk reasons, glancing over at Jess, who has suddenly been distracted by a rather youngish Adam Lambert knock off pressed up against the bar.<br /><br />"Apparently not," I say, "Have you ordered?"<br /><br />"Only drinks," Fertuk admits, "What would you like for dinner?"<br /><br />The menus arrive - pricey, to say the least. I decide that when the opportunity presents itself I'm going to suggest we go Dutch on the meal. It's the least I can do.<br /><br />A waiter arrives with two beers and a cocktail.<br /><br />"What's that?" Jess coolly asks Fertuk as the waiter begins to extend the cocktail to her.<br /><br />"A Cosmopolitan for the lady," the waiter suggests.<br /><br />"Whiskey," Jess corrects, "Ginger ale on the side. In case I feel like celebrating."<br /><br />The waiter leaves the two beers before disappearing behind the bar to fill Jess's request.<br /><br />"I trust you took some photos before arriving here tonight," I say to Fertuk.<br /><br />"Photos?"<br /><br />He seems confused and that leaves me unsettled.<br /><br />"Of the station..." I add, waiting for his response, "For your research."<br /><br />Fertuk smiles - hardly nervous, but evasively nonetheless.<br /><br />"I have all the research that's required to complete my work," he tells me.<br /><br />We chat - politely; about the weather, the Euro and European politics in general and why I seem to be missing a button off my collar. I don't tell Fertuk that Jess was a little too frantic to get me out of my shirt back on the train and even make the suggestion that perhaps I should point out the absence to my valet once we've arrived home. That is, of course, if I had a valet.<br /><br />Jess takes her vodka straight up. The food arrives on cue with all the trimmings. After our afternoon gymnastics I'm hungry as hell, plowing into my steak like a starving super model who just discovered her next gig is a Burger King. I don't even think to glance over and see how Jess is managing with her chicken salad. Only Jess suddenly doesn't look so hot.<br /><br />"You alright?" I ask.<br /><br />She nods that she is but I can tell that she's not. A moment later she's excusing herself for the ladies room.<br /><br />"Not a good traveler," Fertuk suggests.<br /><br />"Mmmm," I mutter, my mouth full of tender beef.<br /><br />The Lambert lookalike Jess had taken an interest in earlier is working the room for a friend; a boy about twenty-two whom he finds easily enough at the end of the bar. They lazily eye one another for a moment or two before heading off to the bathroom together. Toujour l'amour.<br /><br />"How is your steak, my friend," Fertuk inquires.<br /><br />"Superb," I admit, "How is your swordfish?"<br /><br />"A little tough," Fertuk admits, pausing a few long moments before nodding in the direction of the bathrooms and slowly adding, "Tell me...are you married to...?"<br /><br />"No," I reply, "She's my...secretary."<br /><br />Jess would castrate me if she heard that.<br /><br />"Ah..."<br /><br />"Are you?" I inquire, "Married I mean?"<br /><br />"Yes," Fertuk admits, pausing this time for effect before adding, "...to my work. But seriously...look at me. Who would want this when there are so many better options available?"<br /><br />"Don't sell yourself short," I suggest, "Some women get excited by intelligence."<br /><br />"School girls," Fertuk tells me, a wickedly thin smile curling up his cheeks, "Or ugly librarians looking to better to their standing by marrying a professor. No, my friend. I shall never marry. My standards are too high and the women I would prefer could not stand to see me without my clothes on."<br /><br />I suddenly realize Jess has been in the bathroom for a long time. Glancing at my watch I acknowledge that our train will pull out of the station in less than ten minutes.<br /><br />"Well, so much for dessert," I reason.<br /><br />Fertuk agrees, motioning to a nearby waiter for our check.<br /><br />"Would you mind going into the ladies bathroom to see what's become of my friend?" I ask the waiter.<br /><br />"I am not permitted, sir," he politely replies, "But I will send one of the kitchen staff in to make inquiries."<br /><br />Several long minutes pass. I sit quietly and let Fertuk finish his fish. Reaching for the check as it comes to the table, Fertuk casually knocks my hand aside, the waiter leaning in to pass him the check instead before turning to give me a slip of white paper from the bar.<br /><br />I open the paper to find a sloppily scribbled note: 'gone back to the train. See you there.'<br /><br />"What the...?"<br /><br />"Something the matter?"<br /><br />"No," I mutter, "Just another one of my secretary's surprises. She's full of them this evening."<br /><br />Fertuk reaches into his wallet for his credit card.<br /><br />"Please, let me at least pay for our share," I suggest.<br /><br />"Not tonight," says Fertuk, "But I know a very smart trattoria in Verona where you may wish to settle the tab."<br /><br />Yep, well heeled and well traveled.<br /><br />"I'll look forward to that," I say.<br /><br />We hurry back to the train, my wider strides leaving Fertuk slightly puffing to keep up. Normally I'd scale back, but I'm somehow anxious to find out what's ailing Jess.<br /><br />We board the Orient Express just as the first peel of the conductor's whistle echoes through the cavernous station. I thank Fertuk once more for his hospitality, then depart his company down the long narrow corridor to my compartment. Only Jess isn't there. In fact, she isn't in the club car or any place else that I can discover. I feel the earth move beneath me as the train slowly pulls out of Innsbruck.<br /><br />"Excuse me," I ask the conductor as he passes, "The lady who boarded with me in Paris...you remember. Blonde hair. Tall. Have you seen her?"<br /><br />"Not since you left the train together earlier this evening," the conductor admits.<br /><br />Where the hell could she be? I check the lounge in the rear and then make a brisk walk up through all eight cabin cars. I'm tempted to start knocking on individual doors when a note arrives from the porter - this one written more neatly than the one I received back at the cafe.<br /><br />'Gone ahead. Will see you in Verona. Jess.'<br /><br />Gone ahead? How? With who? This can't be right. We must go back. Only, we can't. I can't take that chance. I have to stick to our original timeline. By the time I reason that Jess probably isn't on the train we've left Innsbruck a distant memory in a darkening cloud of gathering dust. <br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#6600cc;">THE END?</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><em><span style="color:#666600;">Possibly for some...</span></em></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#666600;">But Eddie Mars will return in his next big adventure on</span></strong> <strong><span style="color:#6600cc;">June 15th, 2010.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">@Nick Zegarac 2010 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-2986090449436178454?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-80915658206705841722010-03-23T18:30:00.000-07:002010-03-23T18:33:06.951-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em>for the first time reader:</em></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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.</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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.</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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…</strong><br /></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">ADVENTURE THE 58TH: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000099;"><em>COULD'A, WOULD'A, DIDN'T</em></span></strong><br /><br /><br />Two hours in county lock up can seem like two months, especially without a wrist watch. I don't mind so much. Actually, the lull in frenzy and madness plays like an HBO original series about bizarre stay-cations - especially when there's just me and Jo-Jo; the scum sucker with more tracks than NASCAR - a real winner from the east side, nabbed on a credit card fraud charge and awaiting his court appointed mouthpiece.<br /><br />"What's yer story?" Jo-Jo asks.<br /><br />"They say I killed the Mayor of Frisco," I tell him.<br /><br />This impresses Jo-Jo immensely.<br /><br />"Whoa!"<br /><br />He smiles... a cheap little smile - the kind you find painted on cast off dime store clown heads, three for a dollar, or Pez dispensers; their powdery sugar smiles leering with the beckoning promise of more tooth decay.<br /><br />I can't decide if Jo-Jo thinks I'm jerking his chain. Maybe he gets off on the idea of having a killer in his midst...or maybe he's just tired of having his taxes jacked up as much as he is. Who can tell? With the intellectually challenged and marginally crazy it's always like flipping a coin...you know the kind: Janus guaranteed.<br /><br />"You wanna tell me what yer really doin' here?" says Jo-Jo.<br /><br />He bores me. I liked it better when he was just eyeing at my glutes from across the cell.<br /><br />"No."<br /><br />"Hey..."<br /><br />"...is for horses..." I interrupt, "Give it a rest. Shoot up. Crap your pants. Just roll over, foam at the mouth and die. Or do you need help with that?"<br /><br />Jo-Jo slumps down on a cot in the corner of the cell. He's a hungry little mug, all right. He'd try something, only he doesn't have the guts or brain power to pull it off...just stick it in.<br /><br />"Geez-us," he mutters, "Who spanked your ass without a paddle?"<br /><br />"Mayor Bridesman," I shoot back, "And look where it got him."<br /><br />So, what am I doing here?<br /><br />Well, the boys in blue didn't exactly buy my story about an honest to goodness showdown. We'll see. Forensics is bound to do a number on the gun Bridesman touched just before I sent him sailing through three inches of shattering glass. When it comes back with a good palm and thumb print that should soften the blow to my conceit and possibly lead to an acquittal. Not that I plan to stick around for reasonable doubt. After all, a guy could grow gray hair on his sack waiting for American justice to do right by him. <br /><br />The jangle of keys in the door at the end of the hall draws me back from the edge of a bunch of 'what if?' scenarios. I don't usually wallow in contemplation. How odd. A minute later I discover a reason to forget once more.<br /><br />Enter Jessica - my angle; quaffed and perfumed and dressed like a high priced mouth piece who could give mouth to mouth to an Asian Carp and make it look sexy. She's toting a brief case - nice touch - and accompanied by the same narrow minded Officer McGruder who locked me up in the first place.<br /><br />"You're free to go," McGruder grudgingly tells me as he sticks his long cell key into the stiff, tight lock, "You're attorney's posted bail."<br /><br />McGruder gives Jess the eye, up and down, like a light in search of its cigarette.<br /><br />"When they care enough to send the very best," I tell McGruder.<br /><br />"Nice work if you can get it, pal," McGruder mutters back.<br /><br />"And if I could I still wouldn't share the secret with you," I reply.<br /><br />I get no satisfaction from darling Jess. In fact, if looks could kill then rigor mortis would already have set in. I can almost feel my blood congealing as Jessica stares me down, a steely glint emerging from the center of those soft eyes that tells me I shouldn't push any more buttons today.<br /><br />When we're out of McGruder's earshot and moving quickly down the front steps of the police station I make my first attempt at an inquiry.<br /><br />"Are we talking or is it a Marcel Marceau kind'a tough love we're exercising for today?"<br /><br />Jessica pivots in place, the heel of her shoe grinding into the freshly swept pavement below.<br /><br />"Let's just say that you're lucky I never learned to mime any four letter words."<br /><br />She's a pistol - cocked and aimed at my head.<br /><br />"A little too convenient," I suggest.<br /><br />"You won't think so when you see how much it cost," Jessica argues.<br /><br />She directs me to a sporty red convertible parked at the curb - a new toy and one I'm sure I've written the I.O.U. for.<br /><br />"Get in!"<br /><br />It's no use to argue. Hell hath no fury...and Shake's wasn't kidding. I'm barely buckled in when Jess' drops the stick into third like the pro I figured her for. We peel away - a pair of teasers ripe for a traffic ticket.<br /><br />"You wanna slow down?" I say.<br /><br />I get no satisfaction - much less a reply.<br /><br />"We just left the cops," I reason, "The last think we need is a moving violation."<br /><br />She must agree, because her lead foot suddenly comes off the pedal and we coast to an RPM more in line with the local speed limit.<br /><br />"So what did this cost me?" I ask her.<br /><br />"A little over one-fifty," she admits.<br /><br />"This car cost a hundred and fifty thousand?" I exclaim.<br /><br />True, I'm a millionaire and it shouldn't matter. Maybe it still doesn't. But I can't imagine anything on four wheels that doesn't come with a couple of Playboy bunnies and a hot tub costing this much.<br /><br />"The car's the least of your worries," Jessica reasons, "Chump change I was referring to went to Mrs. Griswald."<br /><br />"Who?"<br /><br />"Griswald," Jessica repeats, "Bridesman's secretary...you remember? The one you sailed past on your way to the assassi...uh...showdown."<br /><br />"Cute."<br /><br />"Sloppy."<br /><br />"How's that?"<br /><br />Jess' pulls the car off to the side next to a trendy outdoor cafe with Boca Rattan chairs and umbrella's dotting its patio. We turn a few heads from the A-list set shielding their California angst from the sharp rays of sun with large, dark sunglasses and wide brimmed Rodeo Drive hats. At first I think we're going to get out, but a moment later Jess's hand is on my shoulder, her grip more firm and commanding than I expect.<br /><br />The chiding she gives makes me feel nine all over again - you know; lost and confused and unable to wipe my own butt without having a couple sticky fingers soak through that cheapo two ply en route to the porcelain bowl.<br /><br />"I don't know about you, Eddie," Jess explains, "But I don't like the idea of having a rich jail bird for an employer. You think any prison bitch in the country is going to care if you can write him a check while he has you bent over a wash basin at laundry time?"<br /><br />She has a point - I suppose.<br /><br />"Now look," she tells me, "I know all about Franklin Jones. 1740 La Place Merianne. Paris, France. You're going there, and don't lie to me about it. I can see it in your eyes. But when you finish with Uncle Frank I need you on a plane to North Korea."<br /><br />"What's in North Korea?"<br /><br />"A really ugly hotel with a really important secret I can't hide anymore," she hints.<br /><br />It's the last bit of mystery I get out of her. For the rest of our ride Jess is close lipped. I decide to let it go, but realize somewhere en route that we're not heading back to Deluca Square. I don't dare ask where we're going or even partake in the guessing game. Jess is mad; not like a sullen wet hen whose nest has just been raided for fresh eggs by the local fox; more like a rabid tigress ready to slice the jugular of a waiting antelope in the green savannah. <br /><br />Moments later we turn off the main strip and head toward the beach. It's cooler along the coast. I take in the fresh breeze even as the noon day sun cooks the top of my head. About forty-five minutes later we're at a private landing strip at San Carlos Airport, a plane already gassed and good to go. The pilot tips his head and waves as Jess parks along side. She returns the gesture, popping the trunk and tossing out a couple of suitcases.<br /><br />"He's all yours," Jess tells the approaching pilot before turning to me one last time, "You have exactly seventy-two hours to straighten this mess with Franklin Jones. Whatever you do, don't kill this one until you've convinced him to fly with you to North Korea."<br /><br />"Just a damn minute," I interrupt, "You said back there that you didn't fancy an employer with a plate of numbers tattooed across his chest. Alright. But hear this: I'm not up for a gal Friday on this one with an over inflated sense of self importance. It's my money we're spending, right? That means you work for me. Well, I just decided I don't need you. Actually, I don't want you. You've brains and a sharp trigger finger on the plus side but that's not enough to make me want to jump through hoops like a trained whale at Sea World."<br /><br />Jess shrugs her shoulders.<br /><br />"Well, I suppose this is where you drag me under for the final count," she passively suggests.<br /><br />I don't see the heavy wrench in the pilot's hand coming fast up behind me, but I sure as hell feel it crack against the back of my head seconds before I black out and kiss the pavement. When I come to a half hour or so later, there's a whirling noise inside my head and a buoyant feeling in the pit of my stomach.<br /><br />Gradually, I realize that we're airborne. The pilot's down in front where I'd expect him to be. I've been dumped on a chez in the back of the plane. We seem to be experiencing some sort of turbulence...or maybe I just am. My head throbs and I can't quite focus. One thing is crystal clear - I'm not alone. Jess has decided to come along for the ride.<br /><br />"You don't make things easy," she says, "Did anybody ever tell you that?"<br /><br />"Only my mother, teachers, a high school principal, two ex-wives, a string of girlfriends and maybe my barber," I admit, rubbing the back of my neck to ease the pain, "I have a problem with authority."<br /><br />"You thrive on close shaves," Jess teases.<br /><br />"With a little help from Mr. Goodwrench," I add, "You're boyfriend's got a steady hand and good swing."<br /><br />"I liked you better when you were in a coma," Jess explains, "Better get your Z's. Paris isn't a trip across the millpond."<br /><br />And so it isn't. I slump into a reclining chair, kick off my deck shoes and turn up the sleeves of my shirt. Before long, a more peacefully induced sleep overtakes me.<br /><br />. . . <br /><br />I dream - bizarrely and without restraint. In this dream I'm an ad executive with a penchant for hot bods poured into form fitting business suits. After some water cooler chit chat I get asked out on a date with a suit who vaguely resembles this Vegas showgirl I once spent a brisk forty-eight hours with. We nibble on some expensive h'or d'oeuvres and then each other and before long I'm having the most insanely triple X encounter of my adult life. But something's not right.<br /><br />I figure this out in my dream, almost from the moment the condom comes off. My paramour tells me she's invited a house full of friends to meet me and then proceeds to put on an apron and play the part of Donna Reed.<br /><br />Company arrives by way of a pretty mixed batch of pabulum and milquetoast; a fairly boring, but nevertheless congenial lot who debate politics and pop culture with all the superficial understanding afforded our current brain dead generation.<br /><br />After an hour or so, one of the funny little men in the group leans across the table to shake my hand before explaining that I've just been set up on a new reality based television program: how to screw a guy on the first date. It's a flood of mixed emotions that follows, ranging from wanting to throw up and die to turning to my supposed lover and burrow a nice solid fist print in the side of her head.<br /><br />I get jolted back to reality by some minor turbulence shortly before we touchdown in Evry. I can tell by the look on Jess' face that I probably have a queer sort of gaze on mine.<br /><br />"Bad dream?"<br /><br />She reads my mind - well, almost.<br /><br />"Good nightmare," I reason.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />Shortly after checking our baggage Jess and I part company to take separate cabs.<br /><br />"I'll see you at the Chateau," Jess explains, handing me a map with an address for a hotel on the Rue de la Hutchette, "Make sure you check in as Charlie Gwenn."<br /><br />"Why?" I ask, holding the cab door open for her.<br /><br />"Because I'm registered as Patrice Gwenn..." Jess reasons, "Your wife."<br /><br />. . . <br /><br /><br /> I decide to take a cab to 1740 La Place Merianne to make a hasty dispatch of Franklin Jones. I suppose I could have waited until morning, but somehow the cover of advancing night seems to better suit my darkening purpose. Only 1740 La Place Merianne is hardly what I expected. It's not a house, but a cramped set of ramshackle flats: dirty and disheveled.<br /><br />I suppose if you could get past the row on row of clothes line laundry dangling between the alley there's a half ass view of the Seine to be had for the price of a croissant and some moldy cheese force fed by the upstairs maid. Only the rough trade lining the streets even at this hour doesn't look as though they'd be able to afford both at the same time.<br /><br />I get out of my cab in front of a narrow walk. Lining the steps leading up to the front door of a three story apartment are a pair of rent-by-the-hours who look as though they've enough STD's between them to keep every free clinic east of the Arc de Triumph open twenty-four hours.<br /><br />"Etes-vous sûr que ceci est la rue juste ?" I ask my cabby.<br /><br />"Oui."<br /><br />Inside the dimly lit lobby I make out the name 'F. Jones' on a faded gray piece of cardboard tucked into its metal identity slot next to room number 212. <br /><br />No elevator. No problem. I sprint up the two flights and down a tight hallway illuminated by a single bulb that flickers on the brink of extinction. 212 is just like any other door. Could this inauspicious layout really be the happy hideaway of an underworld titan?<br /><br />I tap lightly on the creaky wood, expecting someone to ask 'who is it?' from the other side. No one does. Gradually, my tuned in hearing detects the sound of a tiny motor whirling from just beyond the other side. A moment later, the door opens.<br /><br />"Hello?"<br /><br />I am greeted by a young woman bound for her eternity to a mechanized wheelchair and so horribly disfigured that for a brief moment I have the sudden urge to look away in reviled disgust.<br /><br />"I'm looking for Mr. Jones," I say directly.<br /><br />"Oh," the woman politely replies, a friendly smile of innocence poking from beneath her contorted, skin grafted facial tissue, "Of course...you must be from The Tribune."<br /><br />"Yes," I lie, "Uh...Gwenn...Charles Gwenn."<br /><br />I extend my hand to shake hers before noticing that there are only three fingers remaining on her right. The woman tips her deformed brow in a relaxed nod instead, reading my best efforts to conceal utter shock.<br /><br />"Don't worry," she tells me, "I'm used to being stared at. In fact, I would have thought you quite odd if you hadn't. Won't you come in?"<br /><br />I smile, looking directly into her eyes, soft and brown and perhaps more illusively serene than I ever would have imagined.<br /><br />"Thanks. I will."<br /><br />The Jones apartment is modest and cozy - hardly what I would have expected for the command center of an international cartel. I wait a moment as the woman struggles to fondle the small console knob with a red button at its side that controls the driving mechanism of her chair. She backs herself into the room. I enter and close the door behind me.<br /><br />"Regrettably, my father isn't here at the moment," the woman tells me.<br /><br />"Then you're..."<br /><br />"Jessica Jones," the woman replies, "Can I offer you something to drink, Mr. Gwenn?"<br /><br />"No thank you," I stutter.<br /><br />An excruciatingly slow moment passes between us - like the grate of chalk scraping on a board.<br /><br />"I suppose you're wondering how it all happened?"<br /><br />"I wouldn't think of asking."<br /><br />Another lie. Curiosity has peaked this cat's interest. And so, Jessica tells me her story.<br /><br />"About a year ago I was on holiday with my father in Lucerne," Jess explains, "He was there on business and I had some shopping to do."<br /><br />She pauses suddenly.<br /><br />"I liked nice things then..." she quietly reasons, "They used to suit me. Anyway, dad's meeting went longer than expected. He called me on my cell and told me to take his car back to the hotel."<br /><br />The last thing Jessica remembers is turning the key in the ignition before a gigantic fireball consumed the BMW she was driving.<br /><br />"I don't remember much else," she explains, "I don't suppose it would make for polite conversation if I could."<br /><br />Small mercy. When she awoke some six days later in the burn unit of the local hospital Jess' was told that her left leg from the knee down had not been saved. Worse, she was destined to be a circus freak for the rest of her life. Her right eye, now glass, stares upward at the most improbable angle. She has not eye brows and no lips to speak of. Reconstructive surgery has given her back a nose, such as it is without grizzle, and holes on either side of her head with a loose flap of skin where once a pair of ears were attached. Beneath her thin veil of jet black hair is a scalp so unnaturally caramelized that every vein seems to draw undue attention to itself as it runs beneath the brittle parchment that was once her soft, warm flesh.<br /><br />"I'm lucky to be alive," she attempts to justify, although I can see even now that Jessica's not entirely convinced of that truth, "And later...when the police discovered it was deliberate...that a bomb had been planted for my father...well...they made every attempt to find out who was behind it."<br /><br />"And did they?"<br /><br />"No."<br /><br />I suddenly realize that my own sense of avenging authority has been as warped as the body of this tragic storyteller. We chat a bit more, mostly about nothing and by my own doing. I do everything I can to change the subject and make Jessica momentarily forget about herself. I tell her about America - which she's never seen.<br /><br />"It sounds like a fascinating country," Jess reasons, "I wish I had traveled more before..."<br /><br />The conversation changes, as conversations do, to her and her father. Franklin met Jess' mother in England, married her in France and had Jessica in Germany. Then her mother died in childbirth and since that time, by her own account, she has been her doting father's pride and joy.<br /><br />"He's really been a wonderful father," Jess confides, "Even if he hasn't really been much of a man."<br /><br />I'm perplexed by the dichotomy.<br /><br />"Why do you say that?"<br /><br />"Mr. Gwenn," Jess begins, "I shouldn't really be telling you this...and what I say now isn't motivated by contempt or anger. But my father...he's become involved in something terrible. I just know it."<br /><br />The truth spills forth like a perilous flood on the delta. Jess tells me about a series of coded messages, business trips that have taken Franklin Jones all over Europe, America and Asia, and, those strange sudden meetings in the middle of the night with men whose voices make her blood run cold.<br /><br />"Once I asked my father where he was going and he told me it would be better for me if I didn't know," Jess explains, "I'm frightened, Mr. Gwenn. Dad was always honest with me in the past. But now I don't know where he goes or what he does. He tells me that whatever he's doing is for me...to ensure that I'll be looked after when he's gone...but that doesn't ease the separation. I feel like I've lost both parents, you see?"<br /><br />I nod. I want to reach out and embrace her, smooth that clumped matting of tangled hair that clings thinly to some of her scalp and tell her everything will be alright. But how can I? I had planned to murder the man she so worships; so desperately in fact that she would risk telling a common journalist the family secrets - at least, the one's she superficially been privy to.<br /><br />I decide then and there that whatever the circumstances leading up to Jones' decision to green light my assassination attempt in Italy, his motive was hardly dictated by personal greed or even monetary gain. He's an evil man to be sure, but one I can no longer bring myself to kill. Pulverizing him into a confession and leaving him to the local authorities is another story.<br /><br />"Where has your father now?" I inquire.<br /><br />"Oh...uh...the Eiffel Tower," Jessica confides.<br /><br />"To meet another secret contacts?"<br /><br />"No," Jess reasons, "This one has a name...Edward Mars."<br /><br />The hairs on the back of my neck recoil. I've been set up yet again.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000099;">THE END?</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><em><br />Hardly...</em></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure on</em> <span style="color:#ff0000;">May 1, 2010</span><em>.</em></span></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> <strong><span style="font-size:85%;">@Nick Zegarac 2010 (all rights reserved).</span></strong></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-8091565820670584172?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-75379893174357393742010-02-15T11:23:00.000-08:002010-02-15T11:28:01.751-08:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span> <em>for the first time reader:</em></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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.</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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.</strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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…</strong></span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#990000;">ADVENTURE THE 57TH: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#990000;">On Wrong Swift Vengeance Waits <br /></span></strong><br /><strong><em>Revenge is the act of passion, vengeance is an act of justice.</em></strong><br /><strong>-Samuel Johnson</strong><br /><br /><br />Sylvia Plath once said that she prayed to God...only the skies were empty. I know just how she felt; to wonder, as the years wear on, just how far off the mark I've fallen and equally ponder the prospect that I might never accomplish in this lifetime what I was born to do.<br /><br />"If you ask me, sunshine, you're going about this the wrong way..." Jessica tells me as she rifles through some papers at my desk.<br /><br />After our escape from the cocaine capital of southern California my chips were down. Jess' threatened to go to the cops if I didn't spill my plan then and there and I really didn't come prepped for a plausible backup. So, out it came - the whole dirty list of laundry and who I planned to set right with the Lord or at least put down to the devil before the next millennium.<br /><br />Jess was sympathetic - at least to a point. But she's professional to a fault and dressed like a cross between a high paid research assistant and some oversexed White House intern who wouldn't mind doing it twice and under the desk for her country.<br /><br />"So, this Father Montegue in Italy..." she prods, "He was important."<br /><br />"To me," I tell her, "He gave me something nobody should ever be without."<br /><br />I haven't convinced her of anything. I can tell. She has that pouty sort of 'oh, please' plastered thicker than that Loreal across her face.<br /><br />"And what's that?" Jessica asks.<br /><br />"Hope."<br /><br />A deafening silence creates a sonic vacuum in the room. It's as though I can't hear anything - not even the persistent foot and auto traffic outside.<br /><br />"And your way to repay him is to commit murder?" she persists, "Well, well...death finds Andy Hardy."<br /><br />In the old days I would have kissed her cheeks or kick 'em right out of my room; only this isn't yesterday. So, instead, I try an ol' Father Monty trick - patience through reason. <br /><br />"We all have our way," I tell her, "Some people don't respond to logic, reason, pleas or threats. Some people only understand the way of the gun. For those, I'm going to come to an understanding."<br /><br />"And he would want that? A priest?...to have revenge and blood on his hands?"<br /><br />"Maybe not," I explain, "But I'm fairly safe in thinking he wasn't ready to have his head split in half with an axe and his body riddled to Swiss cheese by a load a' bullets. Besides, it's not revenge I'm after, angel. It's justice."<br /><br />"That isn't justice," Jess' attempts to argue, "That's you reasoning slaughter to suit your own ends."<br /><br />"Have it your own way," I reply, "But who speaks for Father Montegue and Doctor Bartelli? Who? They can't and their lives were wasted because they took it to themselves to believe that goodness was its own reward. I was a marked man, angel. A guy without a hope that nobody wanted to cure. But these men took me to their own bosom - without question, complaint or even thought for one second that I wasn't a worthy applicant for the cause...like Christ curing the lepers. I don't know about you, but my kind'a trophy for that sanctity doesn't include being assassinated and lit on fire with a tank of petrol. The animal who killed those men...that animal has to pay. I may not get to heaven, but damn it, I'm going to take a few bastards with me to hell."<br /><br />"You'll burn together?" Jess reasons.<br /><br />"Hey, you know what they say... misery loves company."<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />It's been three weeks since our trip to bountiful out in the sticks and two since the local news sources reported that a tragic fire claimed twenty one migrant workers and leveled the drug depot to the ground; only on the news the status of the depot had been downgraded to a tomato processing plant. I thought it best to wait out the media hype before moving on to round two of my plan.<br /><br />Besides, it took me this long to get all the paper work together on my ol' pal Mallory. And quite a list it was: deeds for the land where the drug factory sat belonging to him; cross referenced with bank statements to prove that directed monies transferred from the federal government's 'make work' projects actually went unchecked to courier fees for smugglers and several customs officers paid to look the other way on certain shipments coming into and leaving the country.<br /><br />But best of all was a video confession left behind by one Clemenzay Tortilla - a Honduran refugee who gave the illusion that he lived like a dirty sow in the Chicano slums of Los Cruzez but actually spent more time wrapped in a plush bathrobe at the Beverly Hills Hotel - lining up contract hits on smuggler types who either didn't hold up their end of the prearranged bargain in that City Hall kickback bait and switch or tried to cut themselves too big a slice of the proverbial pie. Either way, they wound up dead - Mafia style and written off as part of the gangland casualty list on the official books of police investigation.<br /><br />But now, was the time to strike. I'm packing for a voyage; one that doesn't include darling Jess' or her opinion and one that I'll start just as soon as I convince her - convince myself - that what I'm doing is the right thing.<br /><br />"Look," I reason, "You can walk on this right now. You've served your purpose, delivered your payload. Your finger nails are clean of me. How's that suit you?"<br /><br />"Not well," Jess says, "Besides, what's to stop me from going to the locals right now with everything I do know already? Or are you planning on first taking care of this loose end?"<br /><br />She's really gone under my skin.<br /><br />"I'd sooner kill myself," I explain, "You have me pegged as a hit man - fine! But those I whack first took more than a couple a' calculated pot shots at yours truly. They weren't priests, doctors, nurses...those dedicated to preserving humanity. They were the lowest of the low; put together with someone else's sweat and blood money. They deserve to die and as far as that goes, they're gettin' what they deserve."<br /><br />"Oh," Jess nods, "Thanks for explaining...because I missed that passage in the Bible about <em>thou shall not kill</em> except for people that aren't nice."<br /><br />"I'm not looking for approval, angel," I tell her as I zip up my suitcase and my mouth and head for the door.<br /><br />"Good!" she shouts from behind, "Because you're not going to get it from me!"<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />I arrive at the abandoned classic six opposite Mallory's palatial estate just before noon - just in time to talk a few choice rooftop photos for my memoir with my new high powered lens. At 12:15 it happens; the inspired wrath of God taking on a more physically human form. The ol' fat cat is carted off to much chagrin and considerable surprise by enough FBI to stock J. Edgar Hoover's pantry after my anonymous tip off. <br /><br />I'm going to miss the bastard - almost. The Feds? They don't miss a trick. Now, it'll come; this house of cards crashing down on our Mayor. If Mal' knows what's good for him he'll cop a witness protection plea and maybe live out his golden years in Bramble Bush, Nowhere - population zero - looking over his shoulder with sweaty hooves like the scared little goat that he is, about to have its udders yanked for some painfully fresh milk. I like that image. It fits the whiny bugger better than his designer Calvin's ever did.<br /><br />My next stop is the Mayor's office. He won't have heard about his stoolie just yet and that bit of time socked away, plus the element of surprise, should be enough to get what I'm after.<br /><br />. . . <br /><br />I sail into City Hall on a cloud of self importance; cocky, assured and in great shape - right past the voluptuous secretary who doesn't quite know whether to try and stop me or jump me for a quickie in the copy room. She's a nice looking kid - if you're into kids that think they're already women just because some guy took their cherry after the prom.<br /><br />Before she can finish her "Sir, you can't go in there..." speech, I've moved past the heavy oak door, slamming it shut behind me and locking it from the inside. There he sits behind a massive antique desk: Wendell Bridesman - our King Farouk, Al Capone and Adolph Hitler all rolled into one scrawny package of excrement that even from this end of the room I can smell as rotten to the core.<br /><br />"Excuse me," Wendell starts off, "You can't just..."<br /><br />"Says who, Wendell?" I interrupt.<br /><br />He reaches for the phone on his desk. I reach for the Magnum I've tucked inside my suit jacket.<br /><br />"I wouldn't, if I were you," I tell him, "But hey - you're a gambling man, aren't you Wendell...or maybe I should say - Alonzo."<br /><br />I've caught his attention. He puts the receiver back on its hook.<br /><br />"What do you want?"<br /><br />"You're slipping," I tell him, "The question used to be 'how much'?"<br /><br />"An offer of money is only made if I think what you're selling is worth the price," Bridesman smugly explains, a thin grin spreading across his face, as though he doesn't believe I mean business.<br /><br />I'm running out of time. I'm already out of patience. Without hesitating, I take my first shot, hitting Bridesman in his left shoulder, blowing the outer half of his rotator cuff and most of the chair behind it clean off.<br /><br />The grin's gone. In fact, the man goes into instead shock, his jaw dropping to his chest as he squeals like the little piggy that he is.<br /><br />"Jesus Christ!" he sputters in between deep gasps.<br /><br />I move in with lightening speed, pressing the barrel of my gun to his right temple.<br /><br />"I wouldn't advise taking the Lord's name in vane," I suggest, "You already sent one of his servants to a higher calling."<br /><br />"Stop...please...."<br /><br />"Please?" I say, grabbing him by the back of his head, "Please, what? You're expendable. Just like your partner in crime, Capt. Mallory. I went a little easier on him, partly for old time's sake. It's the romantic in me. But you...I could just as easily kill you as eat a burger at Mickey Dee's."<br /><br />"Go ahead!"<br /><br />"Oh, afraid not, Wendell," I say, allowing my condescension to spill forth like a pound of butter melting in the microwave, "You, who didn't go easy on Bobby Valenz or his greedy little wife...or yours, for that matter. You, who funded a private little war against me because I was getting too close to the truth. You had me chased half way around the globe and back again. You even tried to paralyze me. But I don't seize up that easily. So, you took out your frustration on the two people who did their best to see I didn't wind up riding a chair for the rest of my days. No, what I want from you now is the name of your paymaster - the bigger fool with all the strings attached whose going to get his just as sure as you're about to have yours!"<br /><br />He's silent, and breathing so fast he just might have a heart attack right on the spot and foul up everything.<br /><br />"What?" I add, "No pithy retort? Get up!"<br /><br />I grab Wendell by the back of his head, fairly ripping out a handful of his cheap perm as I drag him to his feet and throw him up against a wall size window. I wedge the barrel of my Magnum into what's left of Wendell's bloody shoulder. He screams like a ten dollar whore with a bad case of the crabs.<br /><br />"Wendell," I tell him, "I want a name and I want it now. You want to live? Federal prison and all - you want to hold on to what's left of your life and your arm, don't you?"<br /><br />"Yes."<br /><br />I press a little harder. He screams again.<br /><br />"The price of admission," I tell him, "Name?"<br /><br />"Franklin Jones," he mutters.<br /><br />"Great," I reason, "Only several hundred million of those in the world. How about an address?"<br /><br />"1740 La Place Merianne. Paris, France."<br /><br />"Why?"<br /><br />"You find that out for yourself, Mr. Mars."<br /><br />So, he remembers me after all.<br /><br />"I figure you got about six minutes, give or take before you bleed to death and about ten minutes after that before the Feds bust in to arrest you for a laundry list of sins that I put together for them. So what's it going to be?"<br /><br />I pause for effect.<br /><br />"Oh," I add, "I almost forgot. There's a third option."<br /><br />I remove a small pistol from my inside breast pocket and place it on the window ledge next to him.<br /><br />"That's right," I explain, "A showdown. You wanted me dead. Here's your chance. Only not with a phone call of a small arsenal of thugs at your disposal. Just this. Just you and me. Fair fight."<br /><br />I turn and start to walk away.<br /><br />"Go ahead, Wendell," I tell him, knowing he'll reach for the gun in another moment or two, "Do me the favor."<br /><br />The proposition is too delicious to pass up. Wendell reaches for the pistol and I turn in place. In the final analysis, he's just what I thought he was - a fool's fool. I let him have it twice. The force of the shots from my Magnum send him through the plate glass and over the balcony rail, down six flights. He's skewered like a Honolulu pig at luau; a wrought iron fence impaling his chest cavity at ground level.<br /><br />I'll have to answer to the small army of Frisco's finest pounding on the other side of the door. Bridesman? - Now, he has to answer to God. <br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;">THE END...</span></strong><br /><strong><em>(not yet. Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure on</em> <span style="color:#ff0000;">April 5th 2010</span><em>.</em></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>@ Nick Zegarac 2010 (all rights reserved).</strong></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-7537989317435739374?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-48542330805263680682010-01-20T17:24:00.000-08:002010-01-25T16:36:36.607-08:00<span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#000000;"><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;"></span></strong></span></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"><strong><span style="color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER </span></strong></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"><strong><em>for the first time reader:</em></strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-size:100%;color:#000000;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color:#990000;"><span style="color:#000000;">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 – as no one coming to the series after the first chapter had been removed would be able to follow the story line.</span></span><br /><span style="color:#990000;"><span style="color:#000000;"></span></span><br /><span style="color:#990000;"><span style="color:#000000;">Therefore, if you scroll down or visit the archives, you will be able to read this continuing drama in the manner and order it was intended. For this reason and purpose each subsequent adventure in the ‘Eddie Mars’ serial is marked by a number. If you follow these numbers at the top of each chapter in their numeric order - eg. ‘Adventure the 1st’ - you will be able to follow this continuing saga.</span></span><br /><span style="color:#990000;"><span style="color:#000000;"></span></span><br /></span></span><span style="color:#990000;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;">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…</span><br /></span></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#990000;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#000099;">56</span>TH: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color:#990000;"><span style="color:#000066;">A</span> D<span style="color:#000066;">IRTY</span> B</span><span style="color:#000066;">USINESS</span></span></strong><br /><br /><br />I arrive back home well after two in the morning, most of the night spent on moons and Junes and wishing wells - having suddenly adopted the mantel of patronage and bliss after being told that money was indeed no object. In fact, I had long ago cultivated the mindset that it was the only possession worth having - because it made people notice you and not just out of vanity.<br /><br />No, cold hard cash cut across party and class lines like a blue ribbon sow awaiting news that the slaughterhouse was too full to accommodate such precious girth. Money equals status that, in turn, gives rise to the misrepresentation that those having it are somehow more worth knowing, loving or just be seen with in elegant - or even not so gentile - company. A politico could find himself in a compromising position with a ten dollar whore, only to exonerate himself of any wrong doing by simply throwing a few hundred at the 'lady' in question, or possibly a few hundred more at the right hit man to get rid of her.<br /><br />Anyway, I had been a 'have not' for all of my childhood and youth and most of my adult life. Even when I began to live like the other half, it was all just a smoke and mirrors. Somebody else was pulling the strings. But now, I suddenly found myself the Gepetto of this group; a puppet who had at long last learned how to walk on his own.<br /><br />Before leaving the corner of Braymore and Allison my lady reveals her true identity to me - one Jessica McDougall. Not that I believe her. She doesn't look, act or sound like a Jessica and if there's any Scott in her, he's left only a hint of his bagpipe tucked neatly somewhere for the next unsuspecting fellow to squeeze and play with. No, she's not a Jess' or Jessie or even a Roberta - although, I confess, I knew a 'Bertie once who had flashes of her that still leave a fond memory for middle aged cougars and the teenage studs they fondle.<br /><br />I don't get much more out of my Jessica than a name and the offer to meet her for breakfast at the Plaza the day after tomorrow - time enough for this heady business of my being rich to bypass any sudden urges to buy any old insanity my heart, head or loins may gravitate toward without proper direction or at least some attempt to educate me about the 'responsibilities' as well as the glories of wealth.<br /><br />It's just business, I'm told and on that score at least I believe my lady. She's remote. There's no hint of the playful harlot out to for all she can get between the sheets. This should be interesting; a woman uninterrupted by love. I can't wait.<br /><br />I don't think I'm such a bad egg on that latter score. I've been on both sides of the fence - the side where the grass is, in fact, greener and the other, where none ever grows. I know my own mind. I have no heart and the loins aren't what they used to be. Well...maybe my technique just needs to be brushed up against. You know what they say...like riding a bike.<br /><br />But I've another prime reason to get back on that particular exer-cycle when I arrive at my apartment on Deluca Square. Martinique's fallen asleep on my pillow, fully clothed and still clutching the remote in lieu of at least one other object she would have preferred in its stead.<br /><br />I creep along the wall like a penitent drunk who'd rather his wife not know he's been tipping the bottle. Opening the closet, I take off my tuxedo jacket and shirt, then my pants - intending next to reach for a plum bathrobe. But as I slink out of my drawers, my keys slip from their left pants pocket, with a loud clattering thud upon the hard wooden floor just at my stocking feet.<br /><br />Martinique stirs, suddenly rubbing her eyes and reaching for the light switch. I'm there, in my undershirt - a fairly prime prospect on any other day of the week. But not tonight. My heart isn't in it and what the heart won't sustain neither will the back...well, maybe.<br /><br />"I guess I fell asleep," Martinique mumbles through the clearing fog in her head.<br /><br />"That would be a good guess," I say, slipping into my robe and taking a seat on the recliner opposite my bed.<br /><br />We eye each other for a moment without saying a word, neither quite sure of what comes next or into whom as the case may be.<br /><br />"You waited up," I begin, "I'm flattered."<br /><br />"There was a good movie on TCM," she tells me.<br /><br />"There's always a good movie on TCM," I suggest, "That's no excuse. Besides, you've a television in your apartment too."<br /><br />"Okay," Martinique reluctantly replies, "So I waited up for you. So what?"<br /><br />I decide to shift gears. I'm really not in the mood to attempt a seduction.<br /><br />"Tell me, have you ever slept with a millionaire before?"<br /><br />The joke doesn't reach her the way I thought it would. She stretches a moment, her arms bunching up the pillow shams behind her, her long shapely legs digging into my plush comforter.<br /><br />"You've forgotten," she tells me with a half, lazy smile.<br /><br />"I have? What?"<br /><br />"My rule," she clarifies, "We once said, no questions. I still say, 'no questions'."<br /><br />I had forgotten about our little 'don't ask/don't tell policy' of days of yore. In point of fact, I knew what Martinique was when I met her. It didn't matter. My predilection for danger, coupled with a young man's natural curiosity for smut made our earlier union one of mutual agreement. She was the easy guarantee. I was the paying customer who eventually got it for free. But even then, the 'no questions' rule remained intact. Probably better that way. No jealousy.<br /><br />"Relax," I tell her, removing one sock at a time and loosening the soft belt of my robe ever so slightly, "I'm not asking for a Rolodex, your little black book or the text messages of your next blackmail. I don't even want a name. Just a 'yes' or 'no'."<br /><br />"Why?"<br /><br />"Let's call it healthy curiosity."<br /><br />She thinks a moment, unconvinced that we ought to be having such a conversation.<br /><br />"Well..." she begins, her eyes carefully studying my reaction, "I can't say for sure. There've been a few. Well, maybe a few more than I remember. But if I had to make an educated guess I'd have to say probably not. I mean, I'm not exactly living it up, am I? If there was a Diamond Jim in the club he certainly didn't let me get near that other bulge in his pants. The one that pays out in dividends."<br /><br />I ought to tell her what's just happened, but I don't think she'd believe it just yet.<br /><br />"How are you on fairytales?" I probe.<br /><br />"Cinderella and Snow White bore me," she admits.<br /><br />"What about Sleeping Beauty?"<br /><br />"As far as I'm concerned that bitch can go back to bed," Martinique coldly replies, "Waiting a hundred years for one man to kiss her...now, that's tragic!"<br /><br />"She was under a spell," I remind her.<br /><br />"The spell that crap literature like that casts on all little girls expecting to find their prince someday."<br /><br />I sense we've gone off track. I've tapped a vein where cider, not blood, runs true and deep.<br /><br />"What's your idea of a prince?" I ask.<br /><br />"A guy who doesn't need handcuffs, Viagra or a strap on to get the job done," she quips.<br /><br />I can't tell whether she's kidding or serious. Maybe it doesn't matter. I've decided to keep the money to myself for the time being.<br /><br />"I'm tired," I reason.<br /><br />It's an easy out.<br /><br />"I suppose you want your bed back," Martinique suggests.<br /><br />I nod.<br /><br />"Without you in it."<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />I don't see much of her for the next day and a half and it's probably for the best. I spend most of my time down at the Hall of Justice going through some musty old records about a land deal involving our current mayor and my old pal Mallory. Seems the deal sold a bunch of fertile orange groves outside of Anaheim to a private investor some ten years before for an 'ecological preserve'. But just what was being preserved outside of a large metal warehouse that daily had shipments coming in and going out was open for discussion.<br /><br />The interesting part doesn't really involve the warehouse directly, but rather a lawsuit from a nearby llama farmer who claimed that noise from the warehouse at all hours had caused his male llamas to lose interest in their female counterparts, thus presenting a tangible problem for the farmer and all those pre-sold llama burgers. The interesting part wasn't the lawsuit itself which, quite frankly, struck me as frivolous bordering on the absolute absurd. No, the really interesting part came after the farmer had filed his claim.<br /><br />It was only after the youngest of a family load of tourists driving passed the farmer's property on route to their vacation destination had noticed that two of the farmer's 'furry giraffes' appeared to be lying face down in the dry red earth that the papa of this group decided to cell phone their discovery to the local authorities after pulling his car to the side of the road and stepping out for a better look.<br /><br />Upon closer inspection, the man did indeed discover that both llamas had been dead for some time. The innards of the first had been unceremoniously hacked into and strewn about by either a pack of wild raccoons or wandering coyotes. The whole mess was very much infested with a glistening array of maggots, ants, flies and other insects who evidently took the animal's death in stride and with great carnivorous pleasure. From this advanced state of decomposition an animal coroner could easily have deduced that the cause of death of both animals was from starvation.<br /><br />However, upon closer inspection, the second dead llama appeared to have a bullet hole through its head, suggesting a more calculated cause of death from an animal walking on two legs. But who would want to murder a llama?<br /><br />After warning his family to remain in their car, the man took it upon himself to make his way toward the farm house for closer inspection. In the light of day, and with his family observing from a distance, the man must have felt a sense of not only duty but safety in numbers. Failing, of course, to reason that the sheer prospect of 'numbers' alone had hardly saved either llama, the man proceeded to approach the front porch of a large enclosed paddock off to the side of the main house - a quaintly gabled turn of the century home much better preserved for posterity than its wooly occupants.<br /><br />However, as the man began to walk toward the large barn doors loosely swinging in the soft summer wind, he became acutely aware of a series of dry brown patches splattered about the hay before him and just beyond the entrance. Casually opening the paddock doors, the man noticed no other strangeness about the place - its stalls having the appearance of just been cleaned for the early morning round up.<br /><br />It was only after stepping on a small boy's sneaker, loosely buried inside one of the dry patches of hay that the man suddenly had cause to turn his gaze upward to the vaulted high rafters directly above where he was to discover the half rotted dead corpses of not only the farmer, but his wife and their two children - one boy and one girl - dangled from a series of bailing hooks deeply imbedded into their spines.<br /><br />The police arrived and the man gave testimony before hurrying on his way. Whether he told his family the extent of the carnage is debatable. After all, it wouldn't have made for particularly engaging camp fire banter. But two days later, while camping in Yosemite that man and his family met with an untimely end of their own.<br /><br />The details here were even more sketchy than those left behind at the farm house, but nearby campers recalled a great glowing light in the woods late one evening that eventually began to loudly crackle and take on the first vestiges of a raging forest fire.<br /><br />This being California, where brush under blaze is a very definite threat to the general safety of all inhabitants, concerned campers alerted the ranger's station. Upon rushing the scene, they were to discover that the man and his family, whom some had befriended as the Bensons, had apparently been murdered as they slept, then set on fire to conceal the act.<br /><br />Their half charred remains were removed for what little autopsy could be performed. Yes, before being cooked alive, the remains were actually those of Chuck and Judy Benson and their two children, Allison - age twelve and Nolan - age nine. No correlation between the two sets of murders was ever ascertained and no one was ever brought to trial for either crime. Hence, in the history of homicide neither atrocity registered as anything more than a minor blip of embarrassment for local law enforcement.<br /><br />However, it's not lost on my own powers of deduction that documented annotations in police reports on both cases placed telephone calls of inquiry from the front desk of then Sergeant Detective Mallory. Perhaps he was just following leads on another crime in his own district. But the reports failed to document the particular curiosity served, leaving open ends on two cases with a suspicious 'what if?'<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />After getting lost several times amongst the orange groves, I make the right turn on an unaccredited street with a lonely, faded barn overlooking a land filled foundation where once an adjoining farmhouse stood. Today, two rather beat up and slightly rusted over flat beds are parked on that spot. The narrow thicket of tall trees that used to modestly separate the Benson's former abode from the warehouse is now a flat, undistinguished piece of land, raped of all its life giving foliage; made clean in an unclean way.<br /><br />The warehouse overlooking their property is busy. I park some distance down the road and pull out a pair of binoculars from my dashboard before making out open shells of four shiny new semis inside the open hanger with a barrage of workers in white HAZMET styled suits bustling back and forth.<br /><br />From my vantage, and, at this pace the whole mess looks very much like a line dancing instructional session gone hopelessly awry; the Boot Scoot Boogie or Chicken Dance for people with two left feet. I can't quite make out why they're all milling about so willy-nilly. Nothing seems to be getting done. If I didn't know better I'd swear they were members of congress.<br /><br />I don't have much more time to think about what I've seen. In my rearview, another semi approaches. I tuck my binoculars away and move to Plan B - popping my trunk and stepping out from the driver's side. I remove a plastic can and pouring spout, then proceed to raise the hood of my engine to add a bit of water to the radiator. It all looks innocuous enough - except that I notice the semi slowing down.<br /><br />When it's close enough, the driver shouts from his open window.<br /><br />"Stuck?"<br /><br />"No," I suggest, "Just a little overheated. I'll be alright as soon as I top up."<br /><br />I'm not sure whether he believes me, but he pulls away just the same and into the loading area of the warehouse. He's hardly traditional truck driver's material. In fact, analyzing him at a glance, he looks more like a scientist or professor - clean cut and with that far away academic look in his beady little eyes.<br /><br />Donning my dark sunglasses while pretending not to look around, I notice the driver step out from his cab and pointing to one of the men in the HAZMET suits. The two regard me and my car for a brief moment. I've outstayed my welcome. So, before I attract any further unwanted attentions, I toss my can and spout in the backseat, slam the hood and hightail it out of there. In my rearview I see the warehouse loading bay doors mechanically closing.<br /><br />This is a job for a night owl.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />Returning to my apartment, I find Martinique administering her particular brand of fractured new age philosophy to a pair of touristy country bumpkins out on a lark. The man is a swollen grape of a glutton with a pair of fatty arms poking limply from an otherwise solidly rotund body. The woman, with her thick coke-bottled glasses and a pair of Dame Edna orange lips that refuse to remain shut, matches her tubby hubby pound for garrulous pound. Neither can put their thighs together standing up, much less cross their legs sitting down. My only consolation is that they also won't be able to reach other appendages in the vicinity, necessary to procreate their particular insult to the gene pool of humanity.<br /><br />I can see by the look on Martinique's face as we exchange casual glances that she's had quite enough of them, but cannot bring herself to make a quick exit, lest the whole ten ninety-eight they might spend in her shop go as part of their contribution to that all-you-can-eat buffet across the street. Retail: man's inhumanity to his fellow man. If only she knew I could buy her shop several hundred times over and set her up with a near endless tab at Neiman Marcus I'm sure she'd tell the Fatty Twins to go Crisco themselves into coronary oblivion.<br /><br />I hurry up the back steps to my apartment, changing post haste into a pair of black cotton knits and long sleeved black pullover. It'll be dark soon and I've at least a fifty minute drive back to the warehouse for my second look.<br /><br />"Going somewhere?" I hear a voice from behind.<br /><br />It's Jessica McDougall, or some gal who pretends to be - dressed appropriately in a business suit with a rather high slit up the left thigh.<br /><br />"How did you..." I begin.<br /><br />"The landlady let me in," Jessica explains. "I brought the fund transfer papers for you to sign."<br /><br />"Oh," I mumble, suddenly realizing that I've missed our prearranged appointment at the Plaza, "Did you...?"<br /><br />"No," Jessica cuts me off, "Frankly, it's none of her business. Besides, wealth has a way of bringing out the worst in people."<br /><br />"I'm ahead of schedule then," I reason, "I've been bad for some time."<br /><br />My Jess' is not amused. In fact, she's suddenly quite curious.<br /><br />"Where are you going?"<br /><br />"Out," I tell her bluntly.<br /><br />It's a curt one word reply that I wish she'd leave alone. She doesn't.<br /><br />"I can see that, but it's too warm for long sleeves and too black to go clubbing," Jessica admits. "Stakeout?"<br /><br />I'm not sure that I appreciate her powers of observation, but I respect the intelligent thought that went into nailing my motives down.<br /><br />"Want to go for a ride?" I suggest.<br /><br />Jessica raises a skeptical eyebrow.<br /><br />"Strictly business," I add.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />We're off without too much more explanation on my part. I take the briefcase Jessica brought with her and stow it under my bed, removing a long gun case from the same place before shuffling us down the back stairwell. I don't want Martinique to see us leave and she doesn't. It's a small mercy and the only one I'm likely to be afforded for the rest of the night.<br /><br />Only after Jessica and I are strapped into our seatbelts and well on our way out of the city do I fill her in on the point of our journey. I don't see the harm. If she's for me - as she earlier has said - then I've nothing to fear and if she is working for the other side, she's out of range to alert whoever she is working for that I'm on to them.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />By the time we pull up to the warehouse the sun has long since set. Without the benefit of street lighting, the road ahead is an endless pool of midnight blue. I turn off my headlamps a good mile from the warehouse, relying on the brilliant moon glow above to guide me. It's not as difficult as it seems actually. After a few awkward moments of readjustment, my eyes switch over to keener perception. Jessica is vigilant in her silence, scanning her side of the orange groves for the building.<br /><br />Suddenly, we come upon it, somehow from behind. I must have taken a wrong turn, but it works, because the back of the facility is a solid mass of metal without any exit doors to be concerned about.<br /><br />I tuck the car between two narrow rows of trees in an orchard just beyond the warehouse and tell Jessica to stay put while I move myself into place.<br /><br />"What do I do if I'm discovered?" she asks.<br /><br />"Shoot the bastard who finds you," I suggest, "Then shoot yourself."<br /><br />I disappear into the night without further instruction. It's best if she just sits and waits.<br />The warehouse is easily three stories in height, but around the side its roof slopes down to just a little over a story, with a fire ladder securely fastened to the end that I can just barely reach; thanks to a row of large metal drums parked underneath. My rubber soled shoes grip the still warm metal roof shingles tightly as I pull myself up and make my way to a set of half open louvers. At the second story, streams of florescent light jut out in all directions from the well lit warehouse interior. I peek inside.<br /><br />The semis of earlier today are all gone but the shipment they left behind is still here. Even from this distance, and without the benefit of binoculars I can tell what it is: cocaine - enough to send all the drug addicted youth in L.A. into a snorting frenzy or fund a private war in Nicaragua.<br /><br />Drugs; the age old smuggler's bit alive and well and fully funded under the watchfully less observant eyes of the law. I'm beginning to see Mallory's interest in the Benson case. Perhaps he's just the front man for our Mayor's illegal hobby or maybe this is something even Bridesman doesn't know about. Either way, it's a dirty business.<br /><br />I spot a familiar face - two actually - coming out of an office across the tarmac; the daughters of Governor Mills. They're better looking than even I remember from last night; the blond working the room for all its worth in a tight tank top that shows off her toned arms and a pair of jeans that appear to have been painted on by Levi himself. Her brunette headed sister isn't quite as obvious, but she's nevertheless the one giving instructions to a pair of rather burly henchmen following them around.<br /><br />Maybe it's my own dumb luck, but I've never been able to refuse a pretty face and this time it costs me dearly. I'm clumsy in pulling away from the open louver and accidentally tap the edge of its outer frame. This sets off a security alarm that has more bells and whistles than a national weather warning system. I've seen what I came to see, but now it's time to get the hell out and preferably in one piece.<br /><br />I don't much care who hears my footsteps on the ceiling, slaloming down the last third of the slanted roof, before jumping feet first to the ground. I'm met by a rather tall, square jawed security guard who doesn't let the element of surprise throw him. He grabs me by my collar and attempts to put me in a choke hold. I'm not that easy and we wrestle for a few moments. I back him into a corner between one of the metal drums and the warehouse wall, throwing my weight against his in an attempt to knock him free of me.<br /><br />It doesn't work, and with each passing moment precious getaway time is literally getting away from me. I've one other chance to break free, wheeling around in place so that I'm facing the wall. I'm all set to let tall and ugly have it in the ribs when I suddenly feel him gyrate twice before falling to his knees. Turning in place, I see his mouth filled with fresh blood, his eyes loosely ricocheting in opposite directions before he keels over.<br /><br />"What are you waiting for?" I hear Jessica call to me from the black abyss just beyond, "Get in!"<br /><br />Peering into the open louver has wrecked my eyes for staring at the dark, but I sprint in the direction where I remember I parked and practically throw myself across the front hood of my car. From the passenger side I see Jessica dismantling my rifle, the one she used to shoot the guard. I'm oh so grateful on several levels - not the least of which is to acknowledge her marksmanship.<br /><br />Before anyone else can emerge from the warehouse I put the car into reverse and dig my spinning rubber wheels into the dry crust of the earth beneath them. We raise quite a cloud behind us; fortunate, because just moments before I turn us around to get out of there I make out the vague approaching shadows of several ominous figures.<br /><br />When we're back on the main road, headlamps blazing, Jessica turns to me with a look of amusement about her face.<br /><br />"You're one hell of an interesting first date, you know that?" she tells me.<br /><br />"For an encore what's say we throw hand grenades at the Governor's mansion in our birthday suits?" I quip.<br /><br />It's only for the briefest of moments, but Jessica doesn't quite know if I'm actually serious or not. That amuses me.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#000066;">THE END?</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;">...certainly not. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;">Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure on March 1, 2010.</span></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#000000;"><strong>@Nick Zegarac 2010 (all rights reserved).</strong></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-4854233080526368068?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-38651169118474954822009-11-26T17:44:00.000-08:002009-11-26T17:46:47.605-08:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em>for the first time reader:</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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…</span></strong><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;"><span style="color:#ff0000;">ADVENTURE</span> THE <span style="color:#ff0000;">55</span>th: <span style="color:#ff0000;">L</span>IFE'S <span style="color:#ff0000;">W</span>ORK</span></strong><br /><br /><br />Death has always been billed as the great unknown mystery, but it's actually life that grows more curious and unexplained as the years roll on. An unhappy set of circumstances can sometimes pave the way for some spectacular windfall.<br /><br />It can work in the reverse too or come together in rigorous fits and sparks of life trying to bang itself out of nothing at all, only to wind up with a bloody fist and batter soul as the outcome from that proverbial road with good intensions gone utterly bad. I think about my own path - the one taken, the one I wished I had and the others I've never contemplated until now.<br /><br />Outside, the sunny days seem to have relocated to points more south of the border. There's gray and rain and a lot of it mixed with heavy fog. Deluca Square looks more like the Deluca Street I left behind; its open market vendors scattered to the wind - replaced by some lonely remnants of the bored, the tired and the downtrodden milling from store front to store front without any reprieve from their credit cards.<br /><br />Irma Bombeck once said that the saddest thing in the world was to wake up on Christmas morning and realize that you weren't a child anymore; that you hadn't been a child for some time and that you suddenly realized all the magic and allure of childhood had vacated your heart - probably forever. I understand her sentiment today - a week from that jolliest of holiday with only a warm, but empty apartment to comfort me.<br /><br />Captain Mallory's unexpected invite to the Govenor's Christmas Ball looms large on my social calendar; a chance to hobnob with the political goblins. Providing that I keep my nose and language clean and steered clear of any controversy for which I seem to be so famous for, I agreed to this invite and rented a tux from the local tailor just around the corner.<br /><br />"You sure clean up nicely," Martinique tells me as I modeled my duds in front of a full length mirror in my apartment, "Going stag?"<br /><br />She's spread like jam across my comforter in her painted on pants suit...of little comfort these days to a guy whose all but sworn off the fairer sex for anything even close to a fair shake. Still, Martinique's been good to me these past few weeks. She helped me fix the place up and even brought me dinner a few times; always with the unspoken understanding that we weren't on our way to rekindling old home fires.<br /><br />"I would have invited you, only..." I awkwardly start.<br /><br />"Yeah, sure," Martinique interrupts, "An ex-hooker at the Governor's place...well, it's not like I haven't been there once or twice before."<br /><br /><br />I speculate for a brief moment that she's probably been a lot of places 'once or twice before'. It's not a pretty picture to think about. No man likes to speculate about the woman he's been with, especially as a sexual turn-style with billions served. It ruins the mystique associated with our stud factor. If we're not important to the plaything of our choice it wrecks us - for a bit. But in this case, she's not even recognizable in recent memory.<br /><br />"You're not as good a liar as I remember," Martinique cuts in, "Maybe I'm just not as naive."<br /><br />I turn away from the mirror to get a more direct read on her. After all, mirror's don't tell the truth. They're only an image of truth in reverse.<br /><br />Martinique looks more tired in the flesh...but not bitter; accurate in her assessment of how life's been rotten and how she's mistreated herself to get back at it, only to be the one getting licked from both ends.<br /><br />As I approach, she looks down at the comforter straddled between her legs. I take her chin in my hand and tenderly pull her face upwards towards mine.<br /><br />"We've been a cross purposes for too long," I suggest, "Toughen up, baby. The slut's sob story doesn't become you."<br /><br />She gives me a half smile, knowing that even as I say the words I don't really believe them.<br /><br />"My eyes are dry," she tells me, taking my hand in hers off her chin and leaning into it with a soft kiss. "If I could just air out my heart, I'd be okay."<br /><br />There's a long awkward pause between us. I know I should probably kiss her, but can't seem to work myself up to playing the part of the dutiful suitor.<br /><br />"I have to make a phone call," Martinique tells me, disappearing down the hall and out of my apartment to go back to her own.<br /><br />And a good thing it is too, because we'll have to develop this later - if there is a later for either of us. I'm late for a party.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />I arrive in a taxi, my first mistake of the evening. A yellow cab amongst all those rained on shiny black limousines draws about as much attention as a nuclear bomb going off in front of Macy's during the Thanksgiving Day parade. There's honor, or at least undue pomp amongst the chauffeur class who gaze condescendingly as I step out of my rented coach. To set the record straight, I tip my cabbie a crisp fifty. He's grateful as hell - probably enough to take the Misses out to dinner or rent one of the local playthings for a little bondage in the backseat. Either way, I've made him happy. I've also made myself look good in front of the hired help.<br /><br />Mistake number two occurs almost from the moment I step into the governor's posh digs. We're talking serious riches, here - a palatial estate, overpaid with too much tax monies that would have better benefited the sick children's ward and war veteran's memorial fund instead of lining the pockets of a single corrupt politico. Then again, maybe 'single' is the wrong digit to use.<br /><br />The walls are lined in corruption of one sort or another. There's the usual flashy set of trophy wives with their silicon grills pressed tightly into cocktail frocks that should only be worn by women half their age and shoe size. There's also the gathering of the clan of well heeled business types, most of whom inherited their wealth from a rich uncle, father or father-in-law on the day the deed to his daughter was signed in blood, sweat and semen. How I hate the rich with a passion. Not jealousy, just disgust.<br /><br />I spot Captain Mallory wedged between two relatively young women who look as though they've managed their invites on the promise of services yet to be rendered. He sees me too, raising a glass of champagne to my health - or hopefully lack of it in the long term.<br /><br />I smile and wave back. The gal on Mallory's right takes an interest. It makes me feel good. After all, its' been a long haul. Thanks to hard work on a home gym, my limp's almost gone. I've been working out and getting back into shape for things to come. If I have to say so myself, Humpty-Dumpty's been put back together nicely, so long as I keep my clothes on and no one needs to see that I've an extra fifteen or twenty or a spare tire to shed before I can reclaim my status amongst the world of the anatomically gifted.<br /><br />I'm suddenly bored with this mindless flirt from afar. I turn, almost knocking a pretty young waitress off her pencil thin heels. Her tray full of champagne cocktails teeters ever so slightly, but she recovers like the pro that she is.<br /><br />"Oh!" she exclaims.<br /><br />"My fault," I admit.<br /><br />"That's okay," she tells me, "You're allowed."<br /><br />"Am I?"<br /><br />"Why not? The customer's always right."<br /><br />I decide to test her theory.<br /><br />"Just 'how' right?" I tease, leaning in for a single champagne flute off her tray.<br /><br />"Not right enough to make me lose this job," she admits with a thin coating of frost in her voice, before slinking off to another corner of the vast ballroom to serve the rest of her drinks.<br /><br />I get tapped on my shoulder from behind.<br /><br />"She's too young for you," Mallory exclaims with a greedy little smile.<br /><br />He's without his rental babes and looking up close more like the Cheshire who swallowed a whole pet shop full of canaries.<br /><br />"And yours aren't?" I reason.<br /><br />"They don't count."<br /><br />"Why not?"<br /><br />"They're the governor's daughters."<br /><br />"The governor should have the good sense to lock them away until they're forty," I suggest, sipping down the cool champagne, "By the way...where is our host this evening?"<br /><br />"With our mayor."<br /><br />"Wendell..." I say, pausing for affect, "Uh, well, the old boy's moving up in the world. Where are they now?"<br /><br />Mallory scans the room for a moment before directing me with his finger to the foyer just beyond the ballroom. I spot Wendell Bridesman and the governor shaking hands in the colorfully frenzied afterglow of a gigantic twinkling Christmas tree; master and mate in cahoots on some sweethearts deal. The honeymoon period has yet to come to an end.<br /><br />"Remember what I told you about tonight," Mallory says.<br /><br />"I promise," I tell him, "No funny stuff."<br /><br />And I intend to hold true to that. What I have to say is going to be deadly serious.<br /><br />"You're a good man, Charlie Brown," Mallory teases, swatting me on the shoulder and damn near knocking the champagne from my hand. The remaining bubbly sloshes about, spilling over the rim and down my hand.<br /><br />Without further adieu, Mallory's off to find some other scab to pick. He's a boil with a lot of puss to squeeze, alright, and quite determined that no one else breaks out the bandages on his behalf.<br /><br />"Here," I hear a voice call out to me from behind, "You need this."<br /><br />It's the self same cocktail waitress, this time to my rescue with a crisp cloth napkin. I get a better look this time; fresh faced, firm and with a perfectly teased set of blonde ringlets cascading to frame her angel-white face on all sides. She's not so young, but enough to know her own heart even if she hasn't had time to comprehend her own mind.<br /><br />"Thanks," I tell her, reaching for the napkin while she puts out her hand for my glass, "You know, you're timing's impeccable."<br /><br />"So's my disposition," she shoots back.<br /><br />She leans a little closer, her voice softer than before, her tone a little more serious and sustained.<br /><br />"Slowly," she says while pretending to look the other way, "Turn around and stand next to me."<br /><br />Her directness is a bit unsettling but I do as she asks.<br /><br />"Yes ma'am."<br /><br />I'd like to know who she's working for and why she's being so good to me just now, but don't ask the questions I should for fear of scaring her off or drawing too much attention to us from the rest of the crowd.<br /><br />"See that guy over there, to my left - the buck with the square jaw and shoulders made out of granite?" she says quietly.<br /><br />I scan the room for the guy she's referring to. He isn't hard to spot - muscled as though by chisel and masterfully tailored to boot. If I had to peg him, I'd say he was working security, except that he seems to be a guest at this affair.<br /><br />"He's hot," the waitress tells me, "Now, see the guy to his right?"<br /><br />I nod because I do; a tall tongue depressor of a human being with about as much spread in the hips as he has in his shoulders. He shouldn't be standing so close to the incredible hulk. It makes him look even more anorexic by comparison.<br /><br />"He's not hot so much as he has a look about him. It's called early American duh! As basic material neither one's bad, though they'd both break your heart, and then maybe your legs for a few syllables."<br /><br />I'm intrigued. This gal knows the layout like a pro.<br /><br />"I'd like to buy a vowel, Vanna," I whisper back, "Who are you?"<br /><br />"Doesn't matter right now," the waitress explains, "The point is I'm on your side."<br /><br />A lucky thing too. I could use a friend.<br /><br />"Your powers of observation do you credit," I admit, "Snap analysis is your thing."<br /><br />"Men aren't that hard to figure out," she reasons handing back my drink, "Parlor tricks aside, I know what I'm talking about."<br /><br />"So, what kind am I?"<br /><br />The waitress turns to face me, her eyes flashing that confusing 'come hither but keep your distance' stare as she turns on the charm and a sinful smile that doesn't believe for a moment any guy's her intellectual equal.<br /><br />"Mmm..." she muses, "Smart - a bit too much for your own good and trying too hard to disguise how rough you are around the edges. It's okay, though. It works. Not on everyone, but definitely on you. You're okay. There's a bit of the good ol' boy tucked deep inside somewhere though you don't always show it."<br /><br />"Thanks," I mutter.<br /><br />She has my number down pat - had it from the start and on speed dial.<br /><br />"Don't mention it Tarzan," she flirts, "Any time you want to pull me by my hair back to your man cave, go right ahead. I won't scream - much."<br /><br />As tempting as the offer is, I don't know how I'd explain her to Martinique, considering where we left off before the party.<br /><br />"You know," I reason, "There's a misconception about guys who are fit."<br /><br />"You don't say? What is it?"<br /><br />"That we're about as sharp as a feather, good only for the heavy lifting and beasts of burden for the modern woman to use when she feels like it. But I'm coming to my point."<br /><br />"And just where is your point to be made?" the waitress asks.<br /><br />"About three inches south of my equator," I tell her bluntly, "...and about two and a half times longer than that."<br /><br />Her eyes slide down just below the shiny buckle of my belt.<br /><br />"Gifted?"<br /><br />Without pause, I stick my fingers into the champagne glass and give a few light sprinkles of the bubbly across her open cleavage.<br /><br />"You're getting me all wet!" she exclaims.<br /><br />"I have that effect on women," I slyly reply, raising my glass to her and swallowing the rest of the bubbly for good measure.<br /><br />She's trying too hard not to pretend that she's amused by the shift in our conversation.<br /><br />"You're bad."<br /><br />"To the bone."<br /><br />"I'm not even going there," she coolly replies.<br /><br />"You're sure?"<br /><br />"Of myself...always."<br /><br />"Good for you," I suggest, "A woman who knows what she wants. The only one living in captivity, I suspect."<br /><br />"But you don't know for sure," the waitress reasons, "Sorry to shatter your misconceptions about women, but there's a lot more of us free thinkers out there than the boy's club gives us credit for."<br /><br />"In left field, no doubt," I tell her, "Who knew left field could be so much fun?"<br /><br />"You haven't played ball until you've been way out left," she replies.<br /><br />"Way?"<br /><br />"Way."<br /><br />"Wow!"<br /><br />There's a sudden shift in temperament and body language. I can almost see the hairs on the back of her neck curl.<br /><br />"I have to get back," she tells me, "Do us both a favor. Go introduce yourself to Governor Mills and our illustrious mayor. Tell them you're having a swell-igant time but have to cut things short on account of a sick mother, dying sister or any other lame ass excuse you want to cover up with. Then excuse yourself from the party and meet me on the corner of Allison and Braymore in sixty minutes. I'll make it worth your while."<br /><br />I believe she will too.<br /><br />I'm about to tell her I'll do as she asks, but she's off in a flash to the kitchen and I find myself alone in a room full of people once again.<br /><br />I work up the nerve to saunter with practice toward the Governor and the mayor. With each step I can feel the tender throb of my left knee and hip coming back. I've been standing too long on these feet today, but try to fake a picture of outward vigor and youth.<br /><br />"Governor Mills," I call out when I've just about reached my target audience, extending my hand for a hearty handshake. "Mayor Bridesman, what a grand party it is."<br /><br />The governor's understandably confused. Bridesman, however, doesn't look so much perplexed as surprised to see me. If we've met before I don't remember it, though he looks as if he might.<br /><br />"I'm sorry," Mills begins, "I don't..."<br /><br />"Edward Mars," I interrupt him, "A private eye in this fair city of ours."<br /><br />"A pleasure, Mr. Mars," the governor says.<br /><br />"Not for some time, though?" Bridesman reasons, "I mean, I seem to recall that you once had offices on the old Deluca Street."<br /><br />He definitely knows me - but how?<br /><br />"Well, after a hiatus of some years I'm looking to reestablish that business," I explain.<br /><br />"Oh?" Mills exclaims, "Well, that's just fine. We can always use men with entrepreneurial spirit."<br /><br />No doubt they both have and to no one's good effect but their own.<br /><br />"I'm not so sure," Bridesman pipes up, "Mr. Mars, you'll forgive me, but I seem to recall that you didn't so much leave town as you were forced out when your apartment and offices were fire bombed."<br /><br />So that's it.<br /><br />"An angry client, no doubt," I politely say to Bridesman, "By the way, you have an excellent memory. That's almost three years ago. I can't imagine why such detail should stay active in your mind. Unless, of course...you were there?"<br /><br />Bridesman's back arches slightly. What a vicious little cobra it is. He was the man driving the getaway car of those two thugs who torched my place that night. He had to be. He is Alonzo Valenz...Das Englander to his consortium - the puppet master and man behind the curtain, made as indistinguishably common and of the people by the diffusing afterglow of critically timed 'good public works'.<br /><br />I now understand what the waitress meant when she pointed out the two men near the lobby. Muscles and toothpick were the men who burned my place to the ground and their presence here tonight suggests that the payroll they're on still has a running tab.<br /><br />Mills continues to stare blindly past all of our innuendos. I almost believe his act. Could he really be the one innocent in a room full of vipers?<br /><br />"Well, I hardly think that possible," Bridesman back peddles, "Your name just sounded familiar...sketchy...but familiar. Mars. Jupiter, Venus and Mars. The gods have smiled on you."<br /><br />"No," I urge onward, "They haven't for some time. In fact, they left me for dead in Europe. I didn't know how or why before, but I see things more clearly these days. Near death does that to you. It puts the world into focus. Hit men are for rainy days. But fire's more than a hobby. It's something to specialize in. Whether it's a two story walk up or prominent Vegas gambling house, in a pinch it cleanses all the stains that a quick bullet in the forehead cannot."<br /><br />Bridesman's had enough. He hasn't counted on my calling his bluff and I've opened a wound in rekindling memories of the MGM fire.<br /><br />"Well," Mills stammers, his patience careworn, "I'm sure I don't know what to make of any of this? Wendell?"<br /><br />"Governor," Bridesman replies to Mills, "I've overstayed. I'll say goodnight."<br /><br />Turning to leave, I put my last hot poker into his back, determined that Wendell definitely remember me from tonight.<br /><br />"Perhaps you'll look me up again," I tell Bridesman, "For old time's sake. I'll leave a light burning for you."<br /><br />"Goodnight, Mr. Mars," Bridesman tells me before turning away for the last time.<br /><br />He can barely contain his venom. He would have doused me in gasoline and lit a match on the spot only then he would have to admit what a shrieking fraud his entire life's work has been. The mantle of politics can cloak only so many malignancies and his tumors are fast approaching the point of critical mass.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />I leave the party exorcized of my suspicions. A good thing, too, since what comes next introduces a whole new set that I could have never planned for.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />The corner of Allison and Braymore is the heart of our fashionable downtown district for fine dining. By the time I arrive, the jet setters have already settled in for their appetizers, the twinkling pageantry of holiday lights dangling high above in row on row strands reflect like great glassy-eyed bowers across the newly wetted pavement. A thin drizzle has made the night air unexpectedly chilly and without a top coat, I feel as though my tux is paper thin.<br /><br />After getting out of my cab, I stand on the corner - aimless and mildly frustrated for a few long moments.<br /><br />"Well," I hear a soft feminine voice whisper from behind, "At least we know one thing about you. You can follow directions."<br /><br />I turn to face the girl with all the answers - the waitress from earlier this evening...or is it? Gone are the drab frilly duds and Shirley Temple locks from just an hour ago; replaced by a close to the head French braid. She's been poured into a very slinky black cocktail dress that fits ever so snugly but just right in all the right places.<br /> <br />"Well," I tease back, "I've already seen your little French maid's outfit. Now this. Tell me, what have I to look forward to before our night is through?"<br /><br />She smiles, coy but knowingly, taking me under my right arm and leading me into La Champs Bistro.<br /><br />"I thought we'd grab a bite."<br /><br />Inside, the atmosphere is appropriately festive and crowded, with large oval windows overlooking the street and making it appear even more as though we've all been jammed into a large fish bowl. The head waiter shows us to a tiny booth set apart from the tables, producing a bottle of Chateau Rothchild for my leading lady's approval. Wonder of wonders - she approves and so he pours a couple of glasses before vanishing into the kitchen.<br /><br />"Tell me," I tease, "Who schooled you in the art of seduction?"<br /><br />"Is that what you think this is?"<br /><br />"What else?"<br /><br />My lady catches the eye of a burly bartender who nods as though he knows what this is all about, producing a rather large attaché from just below the bar and fast approaching. When he's within a few feet, my lady takes the satchel from him and lays it flat across the table separating us, twisting the locks sideways and opening the first inside pouch to produce a set of officious looking documents.<br /><br />"You're acquainted with one Don Domingo Alvarez?" my lady begins.<br /><br />What is it about the past that it should so consistently delight to disturb my present and muck about with the future?<br /><br />"I knew him," I admit, "Not well, though."<br /><br />My lady raises a curious eyebrow.<br /><br />"Apparently well enough," she tells me, "You see following the Don's untimely demise his last will and testament placed his trust in me as executor of his estate."<br /><br />"Good for you," I tell her.<br /><br />"Better still for you, Mr. Mars," she explains, "You've inherited the Don's estate."<br /><br />"Not interested," I suggest, "Don't get me wrong. Sunny Spain holds a few fond memories - few being the operative word... but I have no interest in retiring to a vineyard."<br /><br />My lady shakes her head.<br /><br />"Maybe you didn't understand what I said, Mr. Mars," she explains, "The vineyard you are referring to, along with several other properties that the Don owned, were liquidated to pay for attorney's fees and my trip to this country."<br /><br />"So, I've inherited nothing...is that it?"<br /><br />"Those tangible assets were mere window dressing," my lady replies, raising her glass to me, "In round figures the Don's estate is currently worth fourteen billion dollars. As of this moment you're one of the wealthiest men in the world. Cheers!" <br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#009900;">THE END?<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><em>Unlikely, though Eddie Mars will remain on hiatus until 2010. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to my continuing readership.<br /></em></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">@Nick Zegarac 2009 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-3865116911847495482?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-59164276666373964502009-10-28T08:24:00.000-07:002009-10-28T08:27:54.763-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em>for the first time reader:</em></strong><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#993300;">54</span>TH: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><span style="color:#660000;">BURNT </span><span style="color:#cc6600;">OFFERINGS<br /></span></span></strong><br />On the morning of November 21, 1980 Las Vegas experienced a tragic blaze such as it had never known; a ravaging firestorm second only in scope and loss of life to Atlanta's Winecoff Hotel disaster of 1946. The MGM Grand - brainchild of wily Vegas financier Kirk Kerkorian - become a tinderbox, only in part due to an electrical fire started in the popular, though unoccupied, restaurant - The Deli.<br /><br />What was perhaps overlooked at the time of the fire, and, certainly forgotten today, was the fact that several of the casino's more astute staff had smelled the embers and spotted a whiff or two of thin black smoke escaping from between The Deli's bolted doors well before the final inferno burst forth, spreading through the gargantuan cut glass and plastic mirrored gaming area at a rate of roughly nineteen feet per second.<br /><br />In the ensuing panic and subsequent rally to extinguish the fire, no one really bothered to take into account that one of the 75 lives lost inside his posh eighteenth story suite was Bobby Valenz. A self made millionaire, Valenz' fortune was not to be found inside the bank vaults of Vegas' Fifth National when the widow Valenz arrived a scant three days after the fire to collect what she thought would be her escape funds out of the country.<br /><br />Prior to his death, Bobby Valenz had made rather a bad enemy of Milford Peters; the then President of Nevada's Gaming Commission. Thereafter, he quietly incurred the wrath of the Commissioner's underground mob bosses who, despite Vegas' increasing outward display in reshaping their glittering empires of corruption into more family friendly oases, continued to operate lucratively through various unchecked loopholes that no one - least of all the Gaming Commission - seemed terribly interested in putting an end to. <br /><br />But on the morning of November 21, none of this back story garnered attention from the press, who seemed more interested at pointing their fingers of blame at Kirk Kerkorian's lack in foresight. He had, after all, used less than stellar building materials to construct the lion's share of his gambling empire. PVC piping, glue, plastic tiles and wallpaper all came under scrutiny in the resulting police and fire investigation. Never mind that every other casino in Vegas was guilty of employing such cheaply manufactured accoutrements to adorn their pleasure palaces.<br /><br />Never mind that the hotel's structural rating had miraculously been downgraded to that of a wood building just hours before the entire complex went up in a puff of smoke on that fateful morn.<br /><br />Never mind the Kerkorian had been forewarned earlier in the week by some rival interests that he was playing hard ball with some very thuggish investors.<br /><br />No, the public demanded an open and shut case - a simple snap analysis that put faulty wiring and a daft air conditioning system at the heart of matter. That's what the public wanted and that is precisely what they were fed in regurgitated sound bytes from weary survivors on the nightly news, proliferated by the reigning cultural mandarins of network news over at NBC, CBS and ABC.<br /><br />Also fraudulent was the final verdict made by the fire investigators; that the blaze had been started by an electrical ground fault inside a wall soffit near The Deli's refrigeration units. <br /><br />But even more glaringly ignored was the fact that Bobby Valenz had not died of carbon monoxide poisoning like the rest of the unfortunates trapped inside their hotel rooms. In fact, he had been chloroformed in his bed while lying blissfully asleep some thirty minutes before the blaze.<br /><br />Shortly thereafter, Valenz was injected with a lethal dose of cyanide between his toes; quietly dressed and posed near an open vent to suggest inhalation of the toxic fumes that would soon be traveling up the air shafts and into his hotel room. Written off as just another regrettable corpse along with 74 others who had legitimately succumbed to smoke, Valenz body was quietly wheeled into the morgue.<br /><br />The widow Valenz request for immediate cremation of her husband's remains put a period to the discovery of Bobby's true cause of death; cause for a noted sigh of relief from the widow until she arrived three days later at the bank to abscond with her husband's riches, only to discover that they had already been liquidated.<br /><br />That the widow had probably confronted those she obviously assumed were responsible for her husband's murder became even more apparent two days after when she was discovered floating face down in a bathtub full of suds at the Valenz fashionable estate; presumably heart-stricken with grief over the loss of her beloved Bobby - whom she had never regarded as anything more than a cash cow in life - and, leaving behind a flowery suicide note that not even the widow's sister, Isabelle Travertin believed.<br /><br />Retrieving the note for her own records, and to satisfy an itching curiosity, Isabelle put the paper to the test of a handwriting expert whose shop unfortunately suffered a horrendous gas explosion that very afternoon with both the letter and the expert inside - leaving little to identify either, prove or disprove Isabelle's theory; that a bizarre cover up was underway. Hence, what became of Bobby Valenz' millions was a Vegas legend that refused to die.<br /><br />Over the next several years Isabelle made valiant attempts to learn the truth, but the general word from her revolving door of private investigators was always nil. It seems the money trail stopped with Valenz' son, twenty-five year old Alonzo.<br /><br />Spoiled to a fault and accustomed to squiring wealthy jet setters from both sides of the fence in his own age bracket, Alonzo had chartered a boat with his then girlfriend, Carilynda . The two planned a whirlwind cruise around the Cape, but somewhere between ports their yacht sank in a violent storm. Neither the wreckage nor any bodies were ever recovered.<br /><br />But even more perplexing than Alonzo's death was an incident two days before he and Carilynda left their dock in Maine. There, local authorities - on allegations made by Isabelle - made an impromptu search of Alonzo's yacht, the Maiden Piper only to discover no great quantities of wealth stashed anywhere on board.<br /><br />Worse for the investigators was the fact that a quiet background check of Alonzo's private funds indicated that he had squandered all of his meager allowance - paid to him while Bobby was alive - to charter the Maiden Piper. No deposit of $140 million had been made to either Alonzo or Carilynda's accounts.<br /><br />At a dead end and without probable cause, the police were forced to step aside and quietly watch as the Maiden Piper made her turn along the rocky embankment just beyond the marina, bound for open waters from which neither she nor her crew would ever return.<br /><br />I think about Bobby Valenz from time to time, think about what good or evil his money is up to. Because, you see, when you substantiate a personal fortune of $140 million and dine with heads of state on a regular basis, someone at the top always notices when you're not there. Or perhaps, more to the point, they notice when your money's not around to grease a few palms. <br /><br />Now, Wendell H. Bridesman; here was a separate story - one as far removed from culture as any, and, so quaintly American that it hurt. Born to Maude and Clyde Bridesman in 1955, two penniless drifters with more debt than brain power, Wendell had run away from home to join the circus at the age of eleven. What developed rapidly hereafter is the stuff of dreams, legends and liars. The unschooled urchin put his hard earned wages to work for him on a series of sound stock investments that grew almost as quickly as the gawky Bridesman did.<br /><br />Quitting the circus to devote full time to 'playing' with his money, by the spring of 1980, Wendell Bridesman was Time Magazine's man of the year, a celebrated wunderkind of bottled energy with an uncanny knack for picking winners without even giving the race much consideration. Incrementally, Bridesman had taken $700.00 in 1964 and turned it into $4.7 million by 1982. During this fledgling period, there wasn't much he touched that didn't instantly turn into platinum or, at the very least, 24 karat gold.<br /><br />As the 'greed is good' decade prepared to kickoff, Bridesman played fast and loose with a series of real estate investments that quadrupled his cash flow, making him Manhattan's titan of property development - second only to Donald Trump. A lawsuit in 1986 alleging that Bridesman was something of a slum lord did little to tarnish his reputation. However, if one had looked a little deeper, they would have stumbled across a little known fact; that Bridesman's development company had been instrumental in providing building materials for the old MGM Grand.<br /><br />But the central curiosity herein lay not so much with Bridesman's exponential growth as a wily wheeler/dealer, but in how so much of his back story remained an enigma to the outside world. Lack of coverage was blamed on Maude and Clyde - both having died in a house fire in 1962 and therefore not around to take charge of their son's documentation for posterity. Photographically, the record of young Wendell's social development stopped somewhere just before the end of grammar school.<br /><br />A graduation photo of the misshapen child with an impossible uni-brow and perpetual scowl was about the only childhood trace that Bridesman had in fact even existed; then a gap of some fifteen years and finally, the reappearance of a rather shy, modestly slimmer man about town with two eye brows and a more fully developed body, who nevertheless shunned media coverage at any and every turn.<br /><br />Though he attended elegant parties, Bridesman's profile was relatively low key. Indeed, one attending these social gatherings would be hard pressed to say that they had dined with Wendell H. Bridesman or watched him bounce on a pogo stick through the open buffet, had it not been that his invitations were claimed at the front desk by a nondescript man claiming to be Wendell H. Bridesman.<br /><br />But then a funny thing happened. Wendell came into his own - or perhaps he was deliberately pushed. He arrived home from a six month trip to New Zealand with an elegant cocoa skinned native girl on his arm who proudly advertised herself as Mrs. Bridesman by flashing a bauble roughly the size of the Hope Diamond on her ring finger and spending Wendell's money as though it simply fell from the sky to her liking.<br /><br />In point of fact, it probably did - for upon closer inspection there were minor hiccups in Wendell's fiscal gains that suggested other avenues of investment. What these were, remained open for discussion. All that was for certain was that behind the prim laced legitimacy of Wendell's public investments there were minor pockets of hidden wealth that occasionally surfaced to help keep the spit and polish of Wendell's public life very much sparkling and alive.<br /><br />These hidden investments might never have garnered attention had Ausiwaga Bridesman not come into the picture - requiring Wendell to dig deeper than he ever had into his already deep pockets to satisfy his wife's cravings for flash, bling and the good life. This blissful pillage ought to have gone on indefinitely or at least until Wendell was penniless and cast off by Ausiwaga for the much younger pool boy it was rumored she was having an affair with.<br /><br />However, on November 21, 2001 Ausiwaga Bridesman lost control of her tan Mercedes off the Big Sur, plummeting to her untimely death down a rocky embankment into the sea. Publicly, Wendell played the part of the dutiful grieving widower beautifully. He wore his black respectfully until year's end and even after then, had his chauffeur regularly place a dozen white roses - Ausiwaga's favorite - on her headstone as a sign that her memory had not died with her.<br /><br />Privately, however, it was rumored that he had been more than mildly relieved - an observation that continued as his political career kicked off the following Spring with a hearty endorsement from the previous mayor of San Francisco.<br /><br />But now the winds of change had turned once again, and Bridesman's reputation as a solid venture capitalist, with his eye firmly on the arena of politics for personal power, seemed to overshadow whatever secrets his monies had kept safely tucked away.<br /><br />I think about Wendell H. Bridesman a lot because I don't believe for a second he is who he says he is. In fact, I think he might - just might - be somebody else. I think he might be Alonzo Valenz.<br /><br />None of this speculation do I plan to share as I prepare to dine with my old pal, Captain Mallory. There's no point. Besides, he might be playing for the other side.<br /><br />I am acutely aware of my own apprehensions as I dress for the evening. Somewhere between the last of September and the first of the big 'O', Mother Nature had a brain fart or crawled into bed with Ol' Man Winter only to wake up the next morning with a nasty case of frost bite in all the wrong places. It's cold and barely a week before Halloween I find myself bundling up like the Pilsbury Doughboy.<br /><br />"You're gettin' older," Mallory explains when I confide as much to him standing on the massive front stoop of his palatial digs on Knob Hill.<br /><br />I barely recognize him, with his remaining hairs slicked into a wicked frenzy by some heavy pomade; wearing a paisley smoking jacket cut from some expensive silken cloth and sporting a pair of gaudy slippers that probably cost more than all the seven pairs of shoes I own to my name. As Mal' ushers me into a gargantuan lobby with marble tiled mosaics meticulously cut into the floor and deep cranberry drapes effortlessly clinging before cut glass windows, I get the distinct sense that I'm not in Kansas anymore. He's cleaned up, like the Wizard of Oz and just as much of a charlatan - doing his best to conceal the man behind the curtain while he preens majestically for visiting onlookers.<br /><br />"Well, I never thought I'd see the day," I admit.<br /><br />"Neither did I," Mal' confesses, "Actually, I almost didn't. But then I convinced our new mayor to see reason."<br /><br />"Wendell took your cue?" I suggest.<br /><br />"It was either a cue or a number..." Mal' admits, "You know the kind. Stamped on a nice plate hung around his neck. Sets you apart from the other inmates in the big house."<br /><br />"Can't know the players without a score card," I suggest.<br /><br />So, that's the game. Wendell Bridesman would rather be mayor than some fat hillbilly's wet dream. Curious though, how he gave up a private reaming for a very public one in the brawling arena of cutthroat politics. I don't envy him that. If I had to take mine, I wouldn't want the rest of the world to know about it.<br /><br />Oh well, I suppose membership has its privileges; chauffeur driven limo, cushy office chair, public adoration (when they're not busy scrutinizing the hell out'a you) and that shiny hunk of gold metal strapped around the wrist - just a reminder by the hour where all the easily resurrected wreckage you contributed to over the years is buried.<br /><br />I don't go further down that garden path with Mallory. After all, friendship extends only so far. And he's not the kind to give away all the candy in the store - especially if he's currently the chief stockholder at Cavity Central. Besides, he's sold a piece of his own to the Willy Wonka I'm after. It's no secret. Nobody of merit gets to be this cushy without selling off something in the process - by way of a bargaining chip sandwiched between reputation and self preservation.<br /><br />In politics, the veneer and the earth you tread on are very thin. The sycophants feed for their own flavor, but the constituents chronically put you under a microscope - convinced, in the comfort of their armchairs far removed from the manure pile, that they could do better.<br /><br />If there's a stink to Mal's place, I don't sense it except in the faint hint of fresh floor wax probably laid by some illegal peon earlier in the day for the benefit of tonight's visit.<br /><br />Mallory takes my coat and hangs it in the a large walk in that could probably substitute for half the main living space of my current apartment.<br /><br />I'm ushered into a lavishly appointed games room with mahogany paneling and vaulted ceilings. In the center of this imposing room is a large pool table with its intricately carved wooden legs supporting seventeen hundred pounds of imported Italian slate and impeccably sheathed in traditional velvety green. <br /><br />"You play?" he asks me as he saunters over to a rack of cue sticks.<br /><br />"Never on any green as nice as this," I admit, "But I think I can manage."<br /><br />We go a few rounds - mostly in silent - every once in a while pausing for some idle banter about the weather, sports and the women he's seen but never touched since Gracie gave him the old heave-ho.<br /> <br />"I hear you're shackin' it up with a certain proprietor of a certain psychic shop," Mallory tells me just before sinking a clean shot in the corner pocket.<br /><br />"News travels fast," I suggest.<br /><br />"I had a car tail you after I left the square," Mallory explains.<br /><br />"You're concern's overwhelming, dad" I placate, "Don't bother on tips with the fairer sex. As far as they go I'm the one who could give you a few pointers. Besides, I didn't know spying was in the city budget."<br /><br />"There's a lot in the city budget that nobody knows about," Mallory confides, "You didn't really think we drop four hundred on toilet seats and hammers did you?"<br /><br />"Don't worry about me, Father Goose," I explain, "Women may reach their sexual peak at forty, but guys pop their wad the best around eighteen. Some system. We start to move into our Ovaltine years at just around the time they start thinking about getting onto business with the grounds keeper."<br /><br />Mallory smiles. He has to. At his age, a smile's all that's left.<br /><br />"Know a lot about keeping up the hedges, do you?" he asks.<br /><br />"Let's just say, I've done a fair bit of prunin' in my day."<br /><br />"I'll bet you got some dandies," Mallory admits.<br /><br />"So do you, I'll bet," I suggest as I make my shot with all the precision of a pro whose never left the competition. There are some things you never forget.<br /><br />We don't talk after that, though. In fact, Mallory's fairly clothed mouth. I guess he can only concentrate on playing one game at a time.<br /><br />The hands of the clock pass the hour painlessly enough. I decide to let them. Then I make a tactical move that brings the conversation back to me. I figure, this is a game I can't win on past merit alone. I need to show Mallory mine before he thinks about showing me his.<br /><br />"So you know about Martinique Chezwyck," I say.<br /><br />"Know her? I busted her sweet fanny for prostitution a half dozen times," Mal' explains, "Plus she's made a headline or two."<br /><br />"Running true to form," I playfully suggest, "Trading one set of sheets for another."<br /><br />"Oldest profession, still the most fun after all these years," Mal' admits with a twinkle in his eye.<br /><br />"...and billions and billions served," I tack on for good measure.<br /><br />They're all cheap shots at a reformed hooker but I decide to run with it in the hopes that some of the blood'll rush to Mal's other head, giving me the opportunity to tweak the more pragmatic of the two for some quick facts about our new mayor.<br /><br />"I don't figure," Mal' admits, "You and her. Now that's a tailgating party with an unhappy ending."<br /><br />"So?"<br /><br />"So, it never happened. You dropped her cold on that tight little package of hers and she spent a decade pulling herself up the hard way until she finally scraped something together to buy the building she's currently occupying."<br /><br />"I'm a progressive romantic at heart," I muse, going for the kill shot on the eight ball but fowling it up at the last possible minute.<br /><br />"How's that?" Malory asks.<br /><br />"Well, I believe a woman's place is wherever she thinks it is," I explain, "But I also like my gals to only have eyes for me. Not me and the milk man."<br /><br />"So she played you?"<br /><br />"Like a fiddle," I lie, "Only I finally took back my bow and went for a plucking someplace else."<br /><br />"Some set up," Mallory admits.<br /><br />He flubs his kill shot too, only I sense that he's taking pity on my for other things with his conciliatory sloppiness.<br /><br />"Don't give me too much of an opening," I say, making my shot count this time with no mercy and total disregard for how Mal' might feel at having his player's privilege revoked.<br /><br />"Yeah," he mutters, slightly miffed that I've taken advantage of his hospitality, "I forgot what a bugger you are."<br /><br />"At least I'm not a cheat," I suggest.<br /><br />"Nobody ever said you were," Mal' replies.<br /><br />He can sense that the mood in the room has changed. I'm not here on a social call. In fact, the sight of him standing there, with the world on a string that God only know how many unlucky bastards have paid for with their honest sweat, suddenly turns the pit of my stomach. He disgusts me. I pray to God he doesn't know it.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">THE END...</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">Not likely!</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">EDDIE MARS <em>will return</em> on <span style="color:#000000;">Dec.18, 2009</span> in his next adventure.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#000000;">@Nick Zegarac 2009 (all rights reserved).</span></span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-5916427666637396450?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-2814668263064380962009-09-14T17:28:00.000-07:002009-09-14T18:07:55.096-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> for the first time reader:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">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.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">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.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">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…</span><br /></span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;">Adventure the 53rd: <span style="color:#ff9900;">MY LOVER’S OASIS</span><br /></span></strong><br /><em>I stood before my judge last night,</em><br /><em>and prayed for sentencing, swift and sure,</em><br /><em>unbowed, I awaited to take my lumps,</em><br /><em>for the disease was most worthy of its cure...</em><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Dear God...” he mutters between the chomp on his cigar, “...the dead has arisen.”<br /><br />I suppose it’s true enough. For all intensive purposes my living memory had been sealed for the records.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />Mallory takes notice.<br /><br />“I can tell how you are,” he reasons, offering me a chair, “Where have you been?”<br /><br />“Europe,” I say.<br /><br />Better to leave the particulars to pure conjecture.<br /><br />“The foreigners were rough on you I see,” Mallory replies as I slowly ease into a large leather chair facing his desk.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“How do,” quips Mallory, “Get you a mint julep or alcohol rub?”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Well, glad to see you haven’t lost yer touch,” Mallory tells me.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“It’s okay,” I assure him, adjusting my back into the soft buttery comfort of that supple leather chair, “I won’t bite.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Where are you staying?” Mal’ asks.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“I figure I swing by Deluca Street,” I tell Mallory.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Deluca Street?!?” he exclaims with raised eyebrows.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />Mallory was kind enough to take me there, only nothing about the place reminds me of home. So, Stephen Leacock was right. Bastard!<br /><br />“When did all this happen?” I ask Mallory, still with a note of disbelief caught between my teeth.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“More like get sucked by it,” Mallory concurs, “But Micky-N ain’t Mayor anymore.”<br /><br />“Then who is?”<br /><br />“Wendell Bridesman.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Mal’…” I start off, “I need your help.”<br /><br />“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?"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"I've had about all I can take," I reason, "Now I'm ready to commit myself to the house of the Lord."<br /><br />"You already look as though you've donated a couple a' kidneys to medical science," Mal says.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Come on, I’ll drop you,” Mallory says.<br /><br />"Where?" I reason, "On my head?"<br /><br />"Would it help if I did?"<br /><br />He knows damn well that it wouldn't.<br /><br />Only somehow I feel as though I’ve been dropped – hard and from a great distance.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />Especially when knowing the captain of the guard might be extremely useful to my own master plan.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Make yourself at home,” a female voice calls out from beyond the beaded curtain, “I’ll be out in a minute.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Oh my God!” she says, understandably just a shaken as I am – maybe even more.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />“Martinique,” I whisper softly, “You’re still the girl most likely... "<br /><br />"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?"<br /><br />"And by the hour," I add.<br /><br />"For you, by the minute," she teases, her face softening a moment as she studies me from horn to hoof.<br /><br />"Just what the hell are you doing here?”<br /><br />"I've come to have my palm read," I say.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Afterward, Martinique takes a step back, surveying the wreckage that is my body.<br /><br />“I’ve aged,” I admit.<br /><br />It’s easier to defuse the truth that way.<br /><br />“You have,” she admits, “But I don’t really mind. I just wish…”<br /><br />She catches herself in her own daydream and reverts back to the form of a shop keeper.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />“Hey,” the man-child calls out to Martinique with his giggling plaything firmly in tow, “You got any books on kama sutra?”<br /><br />“You’re not old enough to know what kama sutra is, sonny,” Martinique reasons.<br /><br />“Then isn’t it about time I learned?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Can we get a psychic reading?” the girl asks as I move beyond the beaded curtain.<br /><br />“Not today, sweetie,” I hear Martinique tell her, “The planets are not aligned in your favor.”<br /><br />Some more small talk ensues.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“It’s okay,” she reasons, all business and no heart, “They’re gone and I’ve locked up for the day.”<br /><br />Suddenly, however, the invitation doesn’t seem quite so enticing. In fact, I’m rather ashamed of my rumpled self.<br /><br />“That isn’t why I came,” I admit, “In fact I didn’t even know you were here.”<br /><br />“Then why…” she stops short.<br /><br />“Your sign in the window,” I explain to her, “Room for rent.”<br /><br />“To anyone but you,” she coolly tells me.<br /><br />So much for that kiss. More like a kiss off.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Would you care to put your mouth where your money is?” she teases.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />I’ve won her over with a good tongue lashing.<br /><br />"You're all wet, Eddy," she reasons, "But that's the way I like you."<br /><br />"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?"<br /><br />"Mister, you got yourself a room," she tells me.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“It’s five hundred,” she tells me.<br /><br />“You’re a little steep in your pricing, aren’t you?” I suggest, eyeing her.<br /><br />“For the room,” she coldly replies.<br /><br />“Just the room?”<br /><br />“Just the room!”<br /><br />Room to grow - I hope. I open my wallet and fork out a cool thousand.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“How long are you planning to stay?”<br /><br />Long enough to answer my lover’s prayer – at least, I think.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;">THE END?<br /></span></strong><br />No way. Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure on <strong><span style="color:#ff9900;">Nov. 1,</span><span style="color:#ff9900;"> 2009.</span></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>@Nick Zegarac 2009 (all rights reserved).</strong></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-281466826306438096?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-55651396311046661982009-07-29T13:13:00.000-07:002009-07-29T13:17:46.624-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span><em> for the first time reader:</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong><span style="font-size:85%;">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…</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff9900;"><br /></span></strong></span><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff9900;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#990000;">52</span>ND: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff9900;">THE <span style="color:#ff0000;">TIME</span> OF <span style="color:#cc0000;">ANGELS<br /></span></span></strong><br />There’s a very old proverb that claims we were not meant to see the future, because once revealed we might choose otherwise for ourselves. I think I understand that sentiment now; after hours of surgery and months of excruciatingly painful recovery. Today I stand on my two feet for the first time without a walker or cane. Nearly a year’s elapsed and somehow as I hobble more diligently towards a saunter I find myself slipping away from that mental limp that only a month before might have prevented me from escaping my own destiny.<br /><br />It hasn’t been easy. Hell, it hasn’t even been humane. At times, I would have severed my own jugular at the thought of another day in medical limbo. When I recall it to mind now, my first day at the clinic in Montenegro began uneventfully. With Dr. Bartelli and Father Montague as my mentors in waiting I met the man whom I would come to fear, then passionately hate, and finally, respect – for he was my surgeon…the butcher who hacked into this crippled flesh and brought forth the salvation of renewed steps upon the earth that I once believed so fervently were a thing of my past.<br /><br />At first glance, Dr. Roberto Estofani was not prepossessing of any great physical stature. He behaved even less like a physician and very much more as I imagined a seventies game show host from the Balkans might – if only I had had access to television programming to confirm my own suspicions. Before my surgery, Dr. Estofani daily waxed affectionately about his work being more akin to an art than a science. I would hourly regard it more as witchcraft after the first blade had been inserted into my spine.<br /><br />There became a reality of the darkness I had committed myself to; a terrible struggle between this stubborn paralyzed form and the sturdy, unrelenting grip of a madman, so consumed by his own reality to work voodoo magic upon my bones that I am fairly certain many, if not all, of the ethical canons in respectable medicine were broken to satisfy his ego. Only now do I understand that they were also fractured for my benefit.<br /><br />Where do I begin to put it all into perspective, when so much time has passed without a frame of reference? Was it September…no, October, when I felt as though I might breathe out the last strained exhaust of oxygen and sail into that uncertain abyss from which no mortal has ever returned? It was after the first attempt, I suppose that I surrendered hope to the angels or demons around me. I gave neither more nor less weight – but rather, cast myself upon an open altar to the highest bidder for this unworthy soul.<br /><br />There were no takers, you see; none who would gamble so wantonly with this wreck of a human being who still believed he could tempt or barter with the fates. I was, after all, a bad risk. But the saints did not want a sinner, and yet, for the blackest heart, my recent conversion appeared more turncoat than running true to form. More contemplation would be needed by all…more time to assess whether I really hated the world or only pretended to for their benefit.<br /><br />I came quite nearly to the precipice of blind rage, only to be moved into reconsideration by monthly visits from Dr. Bartelli and Father Montague. Each had their reasons. It made it easier for me to believe that Bartelli’s were driven by professional curiosity alone. Many times could I hear his quiet, solemn voice in hushed conversation with Dr. Estofani out in the hall beyond my bed and picture for my own sanity, through the lush haze of morphine, a man so utterly wrapped up in the experiment that he had completely forgotten the human creature at the other end of it.<br /><br />I reconsider now, through more sobering clarity, that perhaps Bartelli did indeed care about what happened to me on a more social level. Certainly, Father Montague did. Many a night did he pray…or did I? Perhaps we both did, although I’m not predisposed to asking for help – not even from God. But Monty did. Why did he? It was his job. But more than that…at least I think.<br /><br />For there were some nights I humbly recall in only nightmares now where then I openly wept aloud; relentless, blubbering tears of utter and complete exhaustion. Please let me die, I would think to myself as Monty prayed that I should live. Perhaps we confused Saint Peter with all of our contradictions. I wanted to be done with this life; have the clot of phlegm choke off breath as completely as it had clotted out reason. The only clutch between my sanity and that utter shriek of stark never-ending madness came in the soft flesh of Monty’s fingers tightly clenched around my own, as he softly spoke into my ear that the time of angels had yet to come.<br /><br />Where his strength derived, I cannot say. I only know I tested the resolve of his wellspring frequently. Were the tables turned, I would have long abandoned my visitations to him. I suspect he knew me too well – with tender heart and moistened eyes he would wipe the beaded drench from my brow and beg me to sip the cool water from my drinking cup…and to never, ever be disheartened.<br /><br />Was I? How I was, and for so long that it seemed to be merely the way life conducted itself in my hospital room. An endless barrage of tests and surgeries and more tests robbed me of my dignity. I no longer equated my form to that of any man but rather a strange and oddly defective piece of deformed flesh that somehow refused to die as incongruously as it refused to truly live.<br /><br />Gradually, my reason returned in proportion to the subsiding pain; the ebb of pin prickling arthritis surrendering to genuine feeling in my lower extremities; first, my inner thigh, then loosely about each knee where the woolen lace of my comforter suddenly itched as it had not before. Therapies followed, or torture masked as therapy; absurdly strapped to machines that pulled and stretched and twisted my lower extremities until, in retaliation, they began to stretch and pull and twist on their own.<br /><br />Little by little, I began to realize what Dr. Estofani regarded as his crowning achievement was indeed a minor miracle. I stood, for the first time, all too briefly in April, in time to observe the swallows returning to their roost high in a turret at Bled Castle. It was exhilarating to wobble as a rag doll on two petrified stilts that were hardly real legs anymore. Still, I began to feel a strange fascination grow within me – a sort of warped sense of self punishment that I fed off of as I continued to subject myself to the therapeutic machinery that worked daily to reprogram my body.<br /><br />It was Father Montague who first saw his faith confirmed one rainy afternoon as I stood leaning heavily on my walker, waiting patiently with my umbrella overhead for his arrival at the docks. At first he did not see me, or perhaps did, but could not bring himself to acknowledge that somehow, against every fiber of common knowledge, I had defied the odds. Now, it was he who wept great tears of joy and, dropping his black suitcase upon the shimmering cobblestone before me, threw upward his hands into the dull gray heavens before reaching them to embrace me as only a long lost brother might have.<br /><br />It was the greatest moment of my life, I believe, and so unaware that it could not last forever. I stumbled forward with the toddling confusion of a one year old, each dragging pace hailed as grace itself by Monty. What joy he felt for me that day. What elation to his soul it must have been to have the living proof of his blind believe put forth tangibly.<br /><br />It’s odd to me, but I cannot recall the rest of that final visit for you now. There are only flashes that sporadically come to mind – as yellowed, bizarrely posed snapshots I am certain do not represent our friendship in any concrete or factual way. It is as though some unnerving force beyond my control has attempted to delete those memories from my mind.<br /><br />But that last day of our visit is ingrained for eternity within the walls of my heart. Father Montague smiling as we reached the docks and removing a gold chain from his neck with a medallion of St. Christopher hanging from it. He patted me gently on my shoulders as I modestly declined his generous offering, then, accepting, he placed the religious icon about my own neck.<br /><br />“You have great strength of courage,” I remember Monty saying.<br /><br />I thought it an inaccurate assessment then. He had been the courageous one. I was revealed as the coward. And so we parted, never to see one other again. I stood with the use of my cane, watching as his small boat sailed away, becoming a distant bobbing bead upon the shifting tides.<br /><br />For several weeks thereafter I heard nothing from Milan. An unusual and disturbing silence fell on Bled and I came to feel more uncomfortable with each passing day. Then came the unholy news from abroad; that on the eighteenth of June a human pestilence in the shape of a man had arrived on the steps of the Hospital Milano to make inquiries as to my whereabouts. Not finding the answers easily at hand, he had chosen quietly to return the next afternoon and poison the water supply that ran as arteries through the entire complex.<br /><br />Death spread quickly amongst the patients and staff who drank from their fountains and cups. And still the pestilence was dissatisfied. It crept into the second story offices above the ward, indiscriminately slaughtering all who passed its way, leaving Dr. Bartelli and that beautiful young nurse whose name escapes me now in a bloody pool upon the floor.<br /><br />And then another report; this one of a body floating face down in the canal outside the city; strangled and bloated from three days sogginess and an uncharacteristically chilling rain that caused it to become entangled in a fisherman’s net. Father Montague was no more and with his untimely passing went the last vestige of my hope for normalcy and a life I could take pride in.<br /><br />It’s the 10th of August now, and I will do this; not according to Monty’s teachings or the will of God. The die is cast. For the animal that sent my friends to Him did not abide any higher laws. And so shall I, on my next crusade for vengeance, hunt the hunter until he stalks no more; committing myself to the only power in forgiveness that cannot honor, but just kill. The time for avenging angels has arrived.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc0000;"><strong>THE END?</strong></span><br /><br /><strong><em>Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure,<span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6666;"> </span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6666;">MY LOVER’S OASIS</span> on</em> <span style="color:#cc0000;">Sept. 20th, 2009.<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">@Nick Zegarac 2009 (all rights reserved.)</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-5565139631104666198?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-37974854363611659852009-05-29T09:55:00.000-07:002009-05-29T09:59:24.207-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em>for the first time reader:</em></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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…</span></strong><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc9933;">A<span style="color:#ff9900;">DVENTURE</span> THE <span style="color:#ff6600;">51</span>st: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc9933;">A <span style="color:#ff6600;">P</span>ASSAGE TO <span style="color:#ff6600;">M</span>ONTENEGRO<br /></span></strong><br />Into the mirror darkly thrust,<br />a face cautiously emerges,<br />granite to the enlightenment<br />untold, guarded -<br />secretive and silent.<br /><br />Short, a crop of thick dark hair<br />perching atop this stoic egg,<br />yet loose and dangling<br />before dark, windowless eyes,<br />displeased by the march of years.<br /><br />I witnessed nothing then,<br />so many Godless years,<br />wanting, unknowing, desiring…but what?<br />to turn proud nose,<br />strong chin unbowed.<br /><br />Until today…as sharp blade to skin,<br />decapitates virile stubble yet again,<br />I suddenly burst forth to myself,<br />fully formed, and quite unbound. <br /><br />I used to think life was the cruelest joke one human being could bestow on another. In theory and in practice, generalizations aside, there didn’t seem to be any point to it. The daily oblivion of childhood that suddenly was raped by the onset of youth; the mindless quest to make sense of a world I hadn’t helped to create; and finally, coming to that painful realization - that whatever steps I had taken there was an unholy assignation at work against all best laid plans. The fates were somehow stronger then, more determined to have their way with me, however inconvenient the circumstances might otherwise be. <br /><br />I used to be a cynic. I’m not anymore. Why? I can’t say. I’m tired; that much is for certain. But I don’t care less. In fact, I care more; more than I might have only a few months before; much more than I thought I was capable of.<br /><br />It’s Monty. He see things differently. He hasn’t been preachy or high minded about it. He hasn’t tried to convert my ideology to his although he’s succeeded in changing the way I see the world…the way I see my place in it. And something more…I’m not ashamed; unafraid to look beyond the mirror and see what the years have brought. I don’t fear what they might bring tomorrow. I’ve lost my fascination with death.<br /><br />My legs are no longer the measure of manhood. Were they ever all that I ascribed them to be? I cannot say. It doesn’t matter. I only know that I’m a person of substance now, in tune, fit company in my own mind and spirit for the first time in my life.<br /><br />Don’t misunderstand. I’m still me; still Eddie Mars. I’m not ready to rove the earth a motorized chair, preaching the gospel in sack cloth and ashes, but I understand now the true power of forgiveness and it’s more liberating than I could ever have hoped for.<br /><br />I see Father Montague regularly on Wednesdays and Saturdays. He comes to me around noon, not asking of my soul, wanting nothing of my mind, but peering into my heart just the same and finding more goodness and light to restore me to myself each time. He always has an answer – though perhaps not the one I’d wish to hear. He respects me enough to forget my feelings and that takes sincerity and guts.<br /><br />“Do you think I’ll go to hell,” I ask him one afternoon as he pushes me through the garden.<br /><br />It’s hot, yet neither of us seems to mind. The sun is on my face, but I don’t shield it with large hands or the protective barrier of dark glasses. It feels sincere to stare into the sky and return the gaze – if any - from the man upstairs.<br /><br />“Perhaps you have been in it for some time,” Father Montague tells me.<br /><br />“I think I see the exit,” I suggest.<br /><br />“Perhaps,” Father Montague reasons with a wily grin, “But don’t be too eager. The steps to enlighten also bring us closer to death.”<br /><br />“And a creator,” I say.<br /><br />“Only if you believe,” Monty explains.<br /><br />I’m not sure I like that. It scares me, because I’m not entirely certain I do – believe, that is. Even after all I’ve been through and survived. I don’t know if I can sign up for the full body/mind/spirit botanical wrap and spa treatment in that eternal Garden of Eden beyond the rainbow.<br /><br />“You do believe?” Monty inquires.<br /><br />“Oh, yes,” I reluctantly say, the words thick and unconvincing in my throat.<br /><br />“No, my son,” Monty replies with a small chuckle, “Not yet. But I believe that you can.”<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />Two Sundays later I force myself to take up Monty’s challenge. I attended the first mass I’ve been to since I stopped being a choir boy. The sermon’s in Latin and has no meaning for me outside the soothing tonality in Father Montague’s voice – deep baritone majestic vocalizations he uses to spread the good word to his flock. Flock…funny how I used to think of them all as sheep…<br /><br />Still, I’m fascinated by the paintings overhead; naked baby cherubs sprouting wings from their back, casting playful dispersions on the mere mortals below who sit and contemplate what is never theirs to fully know.<br /><br />Is there life after death? Why bother? To what purpose? And eternity has such an unfathomable desperation about it. Until this moment in my life I always knew which direction my train was headed. But after the last gasp of air leaves my lungs and I slip the bonds of this careworn frame, what will I leave it for and how will I know the measure of time on the other side?<br /><br />These are all questions to which Father Montague hasn’t any answers. I find him more cryptic than unsettled by the fact that theology is powerless to suckle my cares away.<br /><br />“We were not meant to understand,” Father Montague reasons.<br /><br />“That’s not helpful,” I tell him.<br /><br />“No,” he admits as he pushes my chair through around a fountain courtyard one lazy summer afternoon.<br /><br />The rain earlier that morning has left its potent perfume upon the earth and flowers. Filtering sun through dense foliage tickles its way under the woven blanket my nurse tossed across my outstretched legs before we left the hospital.<br /><br />Everything feels good. In fact, I’ve been aware for some time that I can detect warmth upon these crippled limbs that stubbornly refuse to move.<br /><br />“I don’t want to know it all,” I lie to Monty, “I’d just like some assurances.”<br /><br />Father Montague politely smiles as we take our refuge under the shade of a large gnarled tree.<br /><br />“I don’t think I’d want assurances,” Monty reasons, “An assurance would mean a promise. And, being only a man, and therefore unable to keep my promise to God, I should also lose whatever assurance He made to me.”<br /><br />“But He forgives us,” I reason.<br /><br />“He does,” Monty admits, “But he does not forget. We were never meant to understand His will because we misplace our thoughts easily among the mire of this earth. We are occasionally blinded and lost and alone with only our thoughts. What today we value, tomorrow we would surely trade for the next best thing.”<br /><br />Monty pauses a moment to wipe the streaks of sweat from his large wrinkled brow.<br /><br />“But let not your heart be troubled, my son,” he adds, “For, we never fall too long, and each time that we do the hand of God is extended to us, to help up from our stumbling, dusting off the clumsiness of our incalculable lack of good sense; reminding how very small in the hollow of this earth we are, yet how very great to be so valued in consideration for that world beyond.”<br /><br />I’m not sure I feel so valued there yet; knowing full well that I’ve done little to merit such affection and understanding. Still, I seem to rate both these attributes very highly in Monty’s eyes…Dr. Bartelli’s too.<br /><br />Only a week later, after an absence of some time, Dr. Bartelli comes to my room one rainy afternoon to tell me good news. There is a clinic in Montenegro that would like to perform some highly experimental tests on my spine. Unhampered by the dire red tape that strangles pure research back home, these Balkan physicians have pioneered a preliminary stem cell treatment.<br /><br />The procedure is hardly foolproof, so I’m told, and not without risk of more extensive damage to my nervous system. In a perfect world, if I am deduced to be a prime candidate, a surgeon will spend almost one full day, cutting into and reattaching the damaged nerve endings inside my spinal chord, injecting a serum that could restore mobility to my lower limbs. It could also leave me paralyzed from the neck down, blind me, cause a stroke or send me to that other world prematurely if infection sets in.<br /><br />Following this treatment, I will be airlifted to Bled Castle; an elite retreat located in the center of a pristine lake that the locals refer to as an ‘ornament of heaven’. There I shall remain for months, if not a year, convalescing and preparing to walk again.<br /><br />It’s a tempting offer. It satisfies both my waning ego’s urge to stand on my own two feet once more, but also that sublime desire to shamelessly return to the life that was stolen from me not so very long ago. Why I still should possess these flashing visions of desire for a most base previous existence is beyond me. I cannot help myself. I still daydream of that shabby little apartment on DeLuca Street.<br /><br />Will I tempt fate? Shall I see if fate is that ethereal spirit of personal conscience readily hypothesized in the Bible or is she more the disfigured hag Shakespeare conjured to mind, bow-legged and stirring the caldron?<br /><br />“I’m afraid,” I honestly confess to both Dr. Bartelli then and to Father Montague when he comes to visit me later that afternoon.<br /><br />“As you should be, my son,” Monty replies, “But…in fear there is a heightened sense of awareness. You wish to walk again. For this, no one, least of all Him can fault you. But have you considered where your legs took you when they were well. Not here. You would not have come to us then, my son. You would not have come and we would not have met. Knowing you as I do, I believe that you would have run the farthest from this place. Perhaps, you now have those same thoughts of leaving us again.”<br /><br />He knows me too well.<br /><br />“I don’t know,” I lie, “Maybe. Yes. But not to leave what I’ve learned behind. Not to forget what the strength of conviction has meant to me; not to cast off the moments spent into the dust bin of a dead memory. No. I cannot forget a kindness such as yours. I never will. But to walk again…”<br /><br />My mind is already made up. Monty knows it too. He bows his head a moment, shading his eyes from the sun. We’ll take the Orient Express then; ride all night and all day, and fantasize about ‘maybe’ and ‘perhaps’ and ‘what if’; the intangible temptresses who corrupt men in their own vanities; that all they desire might belong to them one day soon…or never again.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">THE END?<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#cc9933;">EDDIE MARS</span> will return in his next adventure: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color:#cc6600;">THE TIME OF ANGELS</span> on <span style="color:#ff6600;">Aug. 10th 2009</span>.<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">@ Nick Zegarac 2009 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-3797485436361165985?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-36755277896166002652009-04-20T06:08:00.000-07:002009-04-20T06:18:43.097-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER <span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#000000;">for the first time reader:</span></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#000000;"></span></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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…</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">ADV<span style="color:#cc9933;">ENTU</span>RE THE <span style="color:#cc9933;">50</span>TH: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">THE <span style="color:#ff9900;">C</span>RI<span style="color:#cc9933;">PPLI</span>NG <span style="color:#ffcc66;">C</span>ON<span style="color:#cc9933;">FESSI</span>ONAL</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>"The first step in the acquisition of wisdom is silence, the second listening, the third memory, the fourth practice, the fifth teaching others."</em></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br />-<strong> Solomon Ibn Gabriol</strong><br /><br />It’s Sunday morning and I am alone. I don’t much mind, having been probed Monday through Friday like a Thanksgiving turkey with enough surgical instruments and electro-cardiogram tape to warrant my own booth at the next freak show passing through town.<br /><br />But Sunday’s different. At least, here it is. It’s still a religious experience, steeped in the traditions of an unerring faith that seems to even ease the spank of my own paralysis. Funny, I don’t miss the use of my legs as much as I thought I would. I mean, I haven’t had that moment yet where I begin to uncontrollably blubber for the fact that I can’t tie my own laces or run to the 7-11 for another pack of cigarettes.<br /><br />Of course, I have a cute Sicilian nurse’s aid to thank for the proper care and maintenance of this retired chasse. Sponge baths may not be a luxury but they can be downright satisfying.<br /><br />Her name’s Maria. She has the classical appeal of a Boteccelli masterpiece. That she’s engaged to an impossibly handsome young stud whose picture she carries around in her skirt pocket and has readily shown me with all of the restrained excitement of a good Catholic girl brought up on enforced piety and the strap is no surprise. Carlo, her beloved, is one lucky man though he probably doesn’t know it. He’s become too used to examples of physical perfection in his midst.<br /><br />Last Tuesday, Maria wheeled me into a hospital courtyard overlooking the piazza and I was amazed at how many rarified female beauties were milling about; all properly quaffed and smartly dressed so as never to reveal too much. I could retire here a happy guy, only I’ve little to offer any girl but the promise that she’ll have to prop me up in public and lay me down in private.<br /><br />It’s funny, because on occasion I feel pain in both limbs, something the good doctors tell me is a figment of my imagination; sympathy from the thwarted impulses sent bouncing back and forth from my brain to my legs that keep getting lost somewhere in the equatorial abyss below my belt buckle.<br /><br />As I lay awake and emotionless, I can hear the bells of an eighteenth century chapel peel madly, beckoning all who believe to the altars of prayer. Me? I never believed. Oh, I have no doubt that there’s a higher power. I mean, I think it’s terribly gauche of atheists to suggest to the rest of us that some bizarre cosmic accident formulated a single planet in this never-ending ether, simply to sustain our sorry ass lives as we know them.<br /><br />Then again, they probably think me terribly misguided and the biggest hypocrite around; believing, as I do, in a Holier law than my own, yet constantly breaking every commandment without even the slightest bit of remorse. They probably have something there.<br /><br />I pass the morning like a mild stool, a little light breakfast brought in by an elderly matron with large polite eyes, soft smile and a ‘Bon appetite’ before she leaves the tray behind; a grapefruit, black coffee, some warm cereal and a glass of orange juice.<br /><br />Around noon, Dr. Bartelli tells me that he has a surprise. I’m moderately intrigued for a moment, but suddenly find myself stirred to slight aggravation at the sight of a priest entering my room. He has the same kindly appeal as the rest of them, but somehow I’m not particularly interested in what he has to say.<br /><br />I suspect that my discomfort might have something to do with the fact that I don’t much feel like ‘confessing’ to another man – any man. I never understood the placement of private secrets with another creature of this earth simply because we don’t shop for clothes at the same department store. After all, we both piss from the same apparatus into urinals.<br /><br />“This is Father Montague” Dr. Bartelli explains, “I thought perhaps he might comfort you today.”<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />My note of apprehension catches both men off guard. I feel naked, as though my disdain for ‘the man’ and not ‘the cloth’ is screaming quotations by Regan from The Exorcist. Father M gets over his sourness first, leaning in to extend his hand. I shake it, reluctantly, and don’t ask him to sit down.<br /><br />“May I?” he finally asks.<br /><br />I nod, my gesture stiff and rigid.<br /><br />“I’ll return in a little while,” Dr. Bartelli explains.<br /><br />Great!<br /><br />A few awkward silent moments pass. I turn my head away from Monty to the window sill where a ridiculous dove has been casually pecking into the wooden frame.<br /><br />“The dove,” Father Montague exclaims quietly, “A symbol of faith.”<br /><br />I’ve had enough.<br /><br />“Look,” I say sternly, spinning my head around so fast I almost gives myself whiplash, “I don’t think I want to confess.”<br /><br />Father Montague shakes his head, raising and waving his aged, crooked index finger quietly in my direction.<br /><br />“This, I did not come for,” he replies, the creases from his smile creating liquid crevasses across his cheeks and chin.<br /><br />“Oh,” I pull back.<br /><br />“Dr. Bartelli is my half brother,” Father Montague explains, “I came to see him and he told me about you.”<br /><br />“Oh,” I say again, not knowing what else to say.<br /><br />I feel that an explanation is somehow in order, but don’t quite know where to begin. Monty’s a good mind reader because he avoids all the usual saintly clichés and talks to me on my level.<br /><br />“Are you comfortable?” he asks.<br /><br />“In spots,” I admit.<br /><br />“Can I be of assistance?”<br /><br />I feel like a heel to ask, but since when has that ever stopped me before.<br /><br />“Could you maybe fluff my pillows a bit?”<br /><br />He does, without reservation or even a modest expression of irksomeness that I’m certain he must feel deep down. After all, he’s only a man like me. When he’s finished and I’m propped up to better receive a guest, Monty takes his place on the stool nearest my bed.<br /><br />“Has your brother told you about my legs?” I ask.<br /><br />“He said you were in a terrible accident.”<br /><br />So the priest’s cagey. And clever, I’ll give him that. He says what he wants to and leaves the rest to my baited imagination.<br /><br />“While, I’m crippled,” I explain, “I’ll never walk again.”<br /><br />“You must have faith.”<br /><br />There it is. The cliché of clichés I knew would come. I want to take my pillows and pummel the priest. I think better of my urge and instead decide to play myself as the dejected invalid.<br /><br />“Could you please, just not…” I say.<br /><br />“I’m sorry,” Father Montague replies, “I did not mean to upset you.”<br /><br />He means it too. I can tell.<br /><br />“You haven’t,” I explain, “It’s me. I…well…I haven’t exactly been what you would call a model citizen.”<br /><br />“And what is that?” Monty replies.<br /><br />I detect a very minute hint of sarcasm.<br /><br />“You know, padre,” I say with a half smile, “I’ve used up all my worry beads and given plenty of angels a damn good reason to weep. All in all, I’m undeserving, I guess is what I’m trying to say. I don’t belong on the top ten list for salvation.”<br /><br />Father Montague lowers his head. At first I think he’s preparing to pray. Then, I realize he’s trying to conceal a broad smile that’s stretched across his face. He’s laughing at me.<br /><br />“You think that’s funny?” I ask him.<br /><br />“Typical,” he replies, “If you have looked into the heart of others and found nothing there to nourish your own, then perhaps you have merely been keeping the wrong company. You see, our own frailty is that we are ever more likely to assume the vices of others, rather than their virtues. Please. If I have offended you, I apologize.”<br /><br />“Think nothing of it,” I mutter, “I don’t offend easy. Too much scar tissue. Call it my Teflon coated ego. It hasn’t sought too much from life. As a result I haven’t been quite so deluded not to have found anything in it. Guess I’m a lost cause.”<br /><br />I suddenly feel like one too; stripped to the raw vein and nerve endings that seem to ache everywhere.<br /><br />“You are only a man and therefore imperfect,” Father Montague explains, “Like me.”<br /><br />A priest who only considers himself a guy? I’m intrigued. The only kind of ‘men of faith’ I knew back home were a bunch of social hypocrites; Father DeBeque, who diddled a couple generations of choir boys before being relocated to parts unknown; Father Emile, the one who knocked up and had a kid by Sister Agatha; and Father Richelieu – the Jimmy Swaggart of his people, having sinned with practically every married woman and widow in town. But Monty’s not like them. Or is he?<br /><br />“I was a boy of thirteen in Milan,” Father Montague explains, “Poor, afraid and quite alone. I stole bread to survive. Then, one day a baker grabbed me by my hand and tried to call for the police. I was young. I was afraid. I stabbed him with his own cutting knife. He bled to death on his own kitchen floor and I went to prison. Then a strange thing happened to me. The widow of the baker came to see me in prison. She said she forgave me my sin. She asked the court for clemency. I served my time until I was nineteen and was then given a choice in life; either a work camp or the monastery. I chose God then and it has made all the difference since.”<br /><br />I’m suddenly quite humbled by the story. But Monty has no idea who he’s talking to. He killed one man. I can’t even remember how many there have been. So, I decide to set this man straight. I tell him about a few of the men I’ve killed and the women I’ve deflowered and the brutes I’ve taken modest pleasure in beating up along the way. I tell him about the secret society and about being trained as an assassin and accepting both as my lot in life without even a modest nod to the fact that neither was good for me.<br /><br />“We’re talkin’ double and triple digits here,” I suggest to Monty, “Not that it matters how many, I suppose. One sin is just as wrong as twenty – but if I remember well enough from my Sunday school days with Sister Hebert – two shows a definite unwillingness on my part; that I knew the first one in the cue wasn’t going to improve my chances of coolin’ off upstairs instead of dropping to the hot basement for more practice.”<br /><br />I explain to Monty that he’s sitting across from a pariah, not the Christ child and that I’ve been around so many blocks, doing so many wrong turns, that I don’t think God would have it in his heart to pencil me in for a harp and some wings in that white fluffy hereafter.<br /><br />Monty listens to everything I have to say with a grave, though not critical, eye. I keep trying to tell him I doubt the existence of my own soul but I see no expression across that aged face that would mirror my disgust.<br /><br />“All in all,” I conclude, “my reputation’s shot full a’ holes. Nothing left, you see. Nothing to work with.”<br /><br />But Monty doesn’t agree.<br /><br />“Reputation is what others think of us,” Monty suggests, “But true character is what God and the angels know of us. You have character, my son, and that is an eternal.”<br /><br />I don’t detect a hint of sympathy in Father Montague’s tone – which is not what I’m looking for anyway in this ‘show and tell’. I hate people who tell you how bad they feel for you, only deep down we both know they’re breathing a sigh of relief that your life is more rotten than theirs.<br /><br />“When God set your feet upon the earth,” Monty begins, “…it was with the understanding that you would not be able to stay the course. If you have been tested and chosen your destiny unwisely, you haven’t failed Him, my son. You’ve merely been shown the error of your way.”<br /><br />He’s good. I’ll give him that. If not lifted, then I suddenly feel as though a few of my burdens have been lessened.<br /><br />“That’s good and well,” I offer, “But if I continued to fail?”<br /><br />“Then perhaps you were not ready to accept His love,” Monty suggests, “There is an old proverb for which I cannot take credit – ‘when the pupil is ready, the master will appear’.”<br /><br />Oh, those old proverbs! They never fail. I can just imagine a bunch of pious old buggers sitting around a campfire with some freshly distilled monastery wine to help ease them into their cleverness.<br /><br />It’s odd. I don’t find myself feeling disagreeable any more. It’s not mental exhaustion that takes all the sting and venom out of me either. It’s Monty. He’s impossible to dislike. Everything he says has meaning and weight, although done in such a way so that nothing is fraught with meaning or weightiness besides. He doesn’t make me feel small for my indiscretions. In fact, all in all I feel somewhat better about them.<br /><br />“How is it that you can find so much goodness in me?” I inquire.<br /><br />“How is it that you can see so little?” Monty replies.<br /><br />“You’re a difficult man to argue with, Father Montague,” I reason.<br /><br />“I hope so,” he tells me with an angelic smile.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;">THE END…</span></strong><br /><strong><em>…not yet.</em></strong><br /><br /><strong>Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure – </strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;">PASSAGE TO MONTENEGRO</span> </strong><br /><strong>on</strong> <strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff6600;">June 15th, 2009.</span></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>@Nick Zegarac 2009 (all rights reserved).</strong></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-3675527789616600265?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-71232011789935063842009-03-14T19:06:00.000-07:002009-03-14T19:35:01.107-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#33ccff;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em><span style="color:#ffcccc;">for the first time reader:</span></em></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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. </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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…</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#33ccff;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#ff9900;">49</span>TH: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#33ccff;"><span style="color:#333333;">T</span>HISTLE and <span style="color:#333333;">D</span>ARKNESS</span></strong><br /><br /><br /><strong><em>La Luna<br /></em></strong><br />The moon is bright.<br />She speaks to me.<br />Swimming on the winged rim of lunar afterbirth,<br />- a sacrament, most ethereal.<br />Tempting me higher,<br />as though by cruel unbound fate,<br />to draw and suck the breath from my ailing body<br />Until a last -<br />in tepid hollow gasps<br />escapes -<br />upward,<br />my eyes fixed upon her dilated curves.<br />Never to catch that cratered hem,<br />- voluptuously still,<br />that magical orb of reflected light.<br />Solid and firmly mounted<br />in the eternal blast of mysteries profound,<br />Godless stratos -<br />feared, unbound,<br />dissolving,<br />beyond a penitent vista.<br /><br />I hadn’t planned on becoming a corpse. Only, there I was, brittle and stiff like a stick of processed fish; tightly strapped down on a gurney in the back of an ambulance – two soft spoken Brits filling my ailing body with fresh plasma and evenly timed bags of pressurized air; counting down precise increments to the shallow rise and fall of my chest as I slip further from their lifesaving proclivity.<br /><br />“We’re losing him,” one would say.<br /><br />“His BP is dropping,” the other would then reply.<br /><br />Another shot of something or other – hastily burying the tip of a very long needle into the already well established port jutting from my left arm; a few more light amps from the paddles, optimistically placed for maximum effect.<br /><br />Remarkably, I lay there in a state of total peace; or rather, sat quietly at the side of my own bed, looking down, gently and in silence at the remains of that rigid frozen façade chaining me to earth.<br /><br />It was over in a matter of moments. The one EMT turned to the other, sighing, “Well, that’s that.”<br /><br />I am draped in a loose white sheet from horn to hoof – the blood from my wounds soaking through as the two men who had worked so diligently toward my preservation now casually sit back in complacent acceptance of my demise.<br /><br />“Where should we go tonight for a drink?” the one says.<br /><br />“You decide,” replies the other, “This pint’s be on me.”<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />I don’t remember the next few days. Perhaps ‘days’ is inaccurate to describe the modicum of time spent somewhere between this world and the next. If I dig deep enough, I seem to recall from my present slumber a dark meadow of hemlock, my bare feet scarcely touching a lush, thriving surface of tenderly moist, braided garden patch.<br /><br />The drive unwound before me like a great orbiting corkscrew with no middle to be reached. As I say, all this comes to me now in fits of very fuzzy, unsustainable recollections that may or may not be true to memory. Certainly, they continue to seem very real to me.<br /><br />There was a series of great halls ahead, open to the encroachment of nature from all sides. Towering cathedral-like glassless windows were imbedded into fragments of craggy rock and the occasional thistle jealously draped around like a salamander.<br /><br />The ground beneath has turned to cold stone and uncomfortable small pebbles that occasionally get stuck between my naked toes. I walk the path in pools of stardust occasionally parting from the otherwise velvety blackened sky.<br /><br />Occasionally, I pass the odd weary traveler also strolling amongst the foliage. We say nothing to one other, nor do I recall having set eye to eye with any of the ghostly visages teasingly concealed just ever so slightly from my view. Their bodies are more real to me somehow; proud and erect or portly or slumped; distinctive in their gate. They all appear to know where they’re going.<br /><br />Except one man – at least, I recall him to appear as a man – dressed in fine linen and carrying a briefcase from which a series of crumpled papers protruded. There was a definite defect to his walk, as though his left leg were somehow not properly attached from the knee down and, as he moved onward I detected a curious slight hiss and steam coming off the whole of his shape. I thought him terribly lost and tried to intervene, for the way to my own destiny seemed more aligned with the absence of his than in any of the other souls I passed on this road to nowhere.<br /><br />But when I reached to tap his shoulder, a great wind and violent dust arose from the earth beneath us – choking out reason and snuffing whatever confidence I had stored away for this journey. In the aftermath of this brief and frightening thunder cloud, I beheld that my feet now stood firm on a dusty surface of incredible debris, one foot holding down a loose sheet of business letterhead that might otherwise have been carried off with the stern breeze; as apparently both the man and his briefcase had been. As I knelt to retrieve this paper, I instinctively clutched my heart; for something inside of me suddenly felt isolated, hollowed out and ominously alone. One World Trade Center - printed at the top – was all it said.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />You must understand something before I continue; realize now that none of what I am speaking of seems more than a dream remembered or perhaps nightmares re-visited. I do not see the whole - only pieces as they played out for me and cannot describe the many modules I drifted through or vignettes that seemed to rotate like a carousel of temporary diversions; this great mobile of missing fragments to a life that may or may not have had anything legitimately to do with mine.<br /><br />I did not see the Virgin Mary, or Jesus or God, nor Buddy Holly or Elvis or even Marilyn Monroe on my travels. I did not unravel the mystery of the Blue Dalia or the Kennedy assassination. There was no great light or the voice of Cecile B. DeMille's burning bush to guide my footsteps; no pitchfork toting devil to leer up at me from beneath the thistle and singe my toes with brimstone.<br /><br />Once, I think I attempted to speak to another traveler along the road – a girl about sixteen. She passed my way on that endless stretch of indistinguishable time; humming a polite little tune – “Goodbye, little yellow bird…”; the untied stretches of her cotton knit pink housecoat dallying behind her a moment or two as she dragged her feet loosely through the underbrush.<br /><br />I don’t know why, but I think I chased her – or that is, pursued; quietly at first, then calling her name that, strangely enough, I knew.<br /><br />“Ramona,” I’d say here and there, somehow not caring if she heard me, “Ramona? Are you deaf?”<br /><br />But always she passed a little ahead of me into one of those deep and never-ending shadow lands just beyond the horizon of rich life-giving light pools that had begun to be less few and far between.<br /><br />At last, I made a pact with myself to hide inside the hemlock and await her return. I was sure she would come. And so she did, this time closer and prettier than ever. I reached from my place, feet stepping firm on the ground beneath me this time, and suddenly struck by how charred the ends of her housecoat and collar were.<br /><br />I felt myself resort to a look of stunned absolution as her head turned ever so slightly from left to right to reveal the caved in surface of her skull; the mat of her richly dark and sweet smelling tresses suddenly giving off an acrid scent of burnt flesh and bone – her angelic features dark and peeling until the skin hung from her apple shaped cheekbones as a scorched mass of brutalized sinew.<br /><br />Raising an exposed bone from the vacant back flesh of her index finger, she pressed momentarily this thin wicket to the edge of a very brown lip – discolored as though it were a baked apple left too long to cook in its own juices – and blowing me an insinuating kiss of last farewell she suddenly dissolved into ether. That was all, and the last I ever saw of her. I would come to wish that I would never see her again.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />I awoke on a Friday, in a hospital in Trieste, the whiny echo of Giorgio Conte cooing in my ear – “Gne, gne, gne, gne.” A pretty little nurse stood at the foot of my bed, smiling when she realized that my eyes had suddenly opened.<br /><br />“Buon giorno,” she said.<br /><br />“I suppose it is,” I reasoned, each word clotting like a thick wad of gauze in my parched throat, then – just to brush up my foreign languages a bit for the local color, “Dove sono?”<br /><br />Another smile, and a hint of an even more polite and gentile curtsy. “In ospendale.”<br /><br />“Ringraziamento,” I sputter.<br /><br />I haven’t the heart or the energy to tell her I’ve already figured that one out for myself.<br /><br />She’s a goddess; a sort of Florence Nightingale for the Tuscan set, with long dark curls falling neatly beneath her nurse’s cap; a set of full Botticelli inspired breasts pressed tightly against the white tunic and long sleeved navy shirt she wears, with even her collar button neatly pinned into place.<br /><br />“Sogni d’oro,” she tells me, fluffing my pillow with the most tender of care and subtle attention to every detail.<br /><br />I’ve rated the quality stay at the ‘Comfort Inn’ of all hospital care; something no HMO back home would have afforded me unless I was a ward of the state. And it’s a good idea too – to sleep. I take my Tuscan savior’s advice and nod off – my one regret that she won’t lay by me and pray for that eternal adventure to begin.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />The human body is a marvel – at least, so I’m daily told by Dr. Bartelli, a stout, bald man of impeccable dress and carriage who comes each day after two in the afternoon to observe my progressive mend on the road to wellness again.<br /><br />“You’ve made remarkable progress,” he tells me.<br /><br />And I believe him implicitly. Why shouldn’t I. I don’t feel as bad as I expected to.<br /><br />“How did I…” I begin.<br /><br />“You were air lifted from Germany,” Dr. Bartelli explains.<br /><br />“But how did I get there?” I reason.<br /><br />“You mean you don’t know?”<br /><br />I shake my head.<br /><br />“Amnesia is not uncommon,” the doctor explains, “And probably not permanent.”<br /><br />“When can I go…” I pause, catching myself in a delusion of self importance.<br /><br />Where? Where would I go? To whom would I go? Those that would care enough to worry have long been dead and those that have only an interest in my whereabouts will plan to finish the journey I started between thistle and darkness.<br /><br />“You wish to go home?” the doctor asks.<br /><br />“No hurry, I guess,” I tell him, with no concept of where ‘home’ is.<br /><br />He speaks very good English, the doctor – much better than my Italian – and spends a great deal of time over the next few days getting to know me as a person, rather than as a patient and from the ground up. I can’t quite say whether it’s my weakened physical state that permitted the loose waggling of my tongue, but I confided a lot of water under my bridge to this man.<br /><br />We talk of life and women and the importance of establishing families of our own as time begins to betray our tenure on this planet. Only a month earlier, I would have told this same man to take his blarney from the cobblestones of Venice and toss it into the backwoods wading pool of Tammy and the Bachelor. I would have been glib and cocky and so sure that he didn’t know his own soft ass from a bowl of melting gelato.<br /><br />Only now, it’s all sort of quaint and philosophical, yet stimulating and life affirming. For the first time in a really long while I’m inspired to expect something better for myself. I’m not exactly certain what that may be, but I sure as hell know it’s not what I’ve been getting.<br /><br />Then the good doctor hits me with the holy of holies when I least expect it – revealing a piece of the puzzle that even I hadn’t counted on.<br /><br />It seems that I have sustained major nerve damage to my spinal chord in the ‘accident’. Although I can move my legs ever so slightly, the good doctor is realistically doubtful that I’ll ever walk again.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#66ffff;">THE END?</span></strong><br /><br /><strong>Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure –</strong> <span style="color:#ff0000;"><strong>The Crippling Confessional</strong></span> <strong>on</strong> <span style="color:#66cccc;"><strong>May 5, 2009.</strong></span><br /><span style="color:#66cccc;"><strong></strong></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>@Nick Zegarac 2009 (all rights reserved).</strong></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-7123201178993506384?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-15295511456446322512008-12-28T15:15:00.000-08:002009-03-14T19:42:27.127-07:00<span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;"><strong>DISCLAIMER</strong><em> </em></span><em><strong>for the first time reader:</strong></em><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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…<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#3366ff;">ADVENTURE THE 48th: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#3366ff;"><span style="color:#ff9900;">In The Bleak, Bleak Winter</span></span></strong><span style="color:#ff9900;"><br /><br /></span>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“You’re awfully quiet,” Maryilla tells me.<br /><br />“Not awfully,” I say, “Besides, what’s there to say? The friends in my pocket’ll do all the talking once we get there.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />My answer hasn’t impressed her. In fact, I detect a distinct note of disgust as Maryilla leans back in her seat.<br /><br />“Why are you so guarded?”<br /><br />“I find I live longer when others don’t know what I’m thinking,” I confide.<br /><br />It’s true. That is the reason.<br /><br />“You’re not alive,” Maryilla mutters, her gaze turned out the window at the flashes of speeding scenery. Then, the clincher - “Neither am I.”<br /><br />“I’m glad you included yourself among the missing,” I tell her, “I was beginning to get lonely.”<br /><br />A thin smile materializes from beneath Maryilla’s tight upper lip.<br /><br />“Life hasn’t been kind,” she suggests in a tone that’s supposed to get me to reveal more than I will.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Even then, I’m not sure that you would bite,” she teases.<br /><br />“Oh, yes I would,” I tell her, without believing it entirely myself, “I’d leave teeth marks to. You’d know it.”<br /><br />She laughs, her bright pink tongue darting playfully between perfect white teeth.<br /><br />“Blood sucker,” she whispers, jokingly.<br /><br />I let her have it – both barrels.<br /><br />“I thought that was your department.”<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“What now?” I ask.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“You’re going to kill him,” I inform Maryilla.<br /><br />I expected her to be thoroughly amused by my suggestion. She isn’t.<br /><br />“The plan was…” Maryilla begins.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“You’ve already decided on a corpse,” I reason, “But I’m not that particular. Any ‘body’ will do.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Then, why have you come all this way?” Maryilla says.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Curiosity,” I admit.<br /><br />“You know what they say,” Maryilla replies quickly, “I mean…what it did to the cat?”<br /><br />I smile, a most pithy retort dripping from my lips.<br /><br />“Well, maybe they just didn’t have the right pussy on tap.”<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />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.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Then I says to her Royal Highness…”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Fifty-two minutes later, and we’re rounding the corner of a high rising hill that gradually gives way to a sprawling country estate.<br /><br />“Nice work if you can get it,” I mutter at a moment’s lull in our driver’s monologue.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />“Writing a book on near death experience,” I quip.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Is there no end to your talents?”<br />“There is,” I assure him.<br /><br />“But I’m curious…”<br />“So was the cat. Remember what happened to him?”<br /><br />Karl gives out with a polished chuckle. I’m about to take him down memory lane for a nightmare or two.<br /><br />“I don’t worry about death, Mr. Mars,” Karl admits.<br />“No, I suppose not,” I agree, “Say, why not Eddie? We’ve known each other long enough.”<br /><br />“Too long.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“We meet again, Das Englander,” Maryilla says.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“My dear, Maryilla,” Karl reasons, “You are a luxury no man can afford.”<br /><br />“Though I’m sure more than a handful has tried,” I reason, attempting in vane to break the tension, “What about friendship?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“You’re a genuine ripper, mate,” the cabbie tells me.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Karl commands, “All of you. Inside.”<br /><br />How can such a gracious invitation be refused?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Is that how it seems to you?”<br />“Uh-huh.”<br />“Who do you suspect as the liar?”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Why?” Maryilla interrupts.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“My dear,” Karl tells her, his clear cut annunciation hardly taking the edge off, “You are not in a position to question my motives.”<br /><br />“Maybe not,” I reason, “But I’ll bet she’s been in that position before.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“You amuse me, Mr. Mars.”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“What are you after?” Karl prods.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />I’ve softened the mood somewhat.<br /><br />“I’ll not ask you if you’re afraid of death,” Karl reasons, “I believe I know the answer.”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“You’re no fool, Mr. Mars,” Karl tells me.<br />“Oh, thank you.”<br />“If you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. I’m listening. Where do we go from here?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“You found something?” Maryilla whispers.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Do it,” I call his bluff, “It’d be a favor, letting the whole lot of you in for a heap of grief.”<br /><br />“How’s that?”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“What operator?” Maryilla suddenly interrupts.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“I suppose you know the name of this ‘operator’?” Karl reasons.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“You’re not making sense,” Maryilla interrupts again.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />Karl can’t contain his smug superiority any longer. It spreads like a thick fungus, moss-covered grin from ear to ear.<br /><br />“You haven’t learned much in all these months, have you?” he muses.<br /><br />“I didn’t realize there’d be a pop quiz at the end of it all,” I reason.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“You still are,” I remind him, “Cain and Abel.”<br /><br />“You fools!” Maryilla hisses from behind.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Drop it, luv!” the surrey driver whispers from behind.<br /><br />“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!”<br /><br />Another gun comes out, this one from Sergei’s pocket and casually aimed at the surrey driver’s head.<br /><br />“Kill me,” Maryilla tempts the surrey driver, “You’ll be killing yourself.”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Define drunk,” Karl replies.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“How good’s your imagination?” I tease, forcing a reluctant half smile to my cheeks.<br /><br />“Better than my bourbon,” he admits.<br /><br />“Drugs are just a sideline,” Maryilla explains, “The real focus is on weapons.”<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />My suspicions get confirmed a moment later as Karl explains.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Impressive, my dear,” Karl admits.<br />“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.”<br /><br />“A pity you know so much,” Karl suggests, his brow narrowing as he cocks his trigger, “Because it’s going to cost you.”<br /><br />Maryilla lets out with a devil-may-care grin of utter satisfaction.<br /><br />“I’m dead already. I have been for years.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#3333ff;">THE END…<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><em>…not quite, though Eddie Mars will remain on hiatus until</em></strong> <strong><span style="color:#ff0000;">April </span><span style="color:#ff0000;">1, 2009.</span></strong><br /><br /><strong>Thanks to all for keeping up with this series.</strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">@Nick Zegarac 2009 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-1529551145644632251?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-2027517446181402522008-11-22T16:52:00.000-08:002008-11-22T16:57:15.594-08:00<span style="font-size:130%;color:#33cc00;"><strong>DISCLAIMER</strong></span> <strong><em><span style="color:#ff6666;">for the first time reader:</span></em></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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…</span></strong><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33cc00;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#ff6666;">47</span>th: IN<span style="color:#ff6666;">VINCIBLE </span>&amp; GOD<span style="color:#ff6666;">LIKE</span></span></strong><span style="color:#ff6666;"> </span> <br /><br /><strong><em>“Kill one man and you are a murderer.<br />Kill millions of men and you are a conqueror.<br />Kill them all and you are a god.”</em></strong><br /><br />- <strong>Jean Rostand<br /></strong><br />It’s odd, but I feel as though Maryilla and I leave Harrods under a cloud of suspicion. Outside it’s dark and damp, my two least favorite climate conditions. A light rain/snow mix makes for an even less appealing first meet to discuss business, but we make out alright just a few blocks east, inside a dimly lit local watering hole. It’s packed, mostly with young trend-setters.<br /><br />You can feel the electricity of somebody else’s old money bouncing million dollar trust funds off the walls, covered in rare photos of famous people and politicos in a sort of “George Washington slept here” pop-u-tard iconography.<br /><br />Personally, I don’t mind old people with old money. They’ve earned the privilege to be arrogant, though usually, they’re not. What I can’t abide are their heirs, who think nothing of running the gamut with a sense of entitlement that positively reeks of pomposity.<br /><br />Most of tonight’s crowd fall under what I would classify as the ‘rich dummy’ category; bored youngsters who have no idea of how a dollar is made but who have all become experts on how more than a few ought to be spent without so much as a single common thought or concerted care for those that made them the spoiled rotten idiot class they currently occupy.<br /><br />“Over here,” Maryilla calls out amidst the crowd.<br /><br />We squeeze into a two seat booth facing a large window overlooking Piccadilly. Outside Mother Nature is battling over a decision to dump autumn rain or winter ice water over the heads of these mere mortals.<br /><br />Inside, the cozy warmth of the place has a mild damp stench all but eclipsed by a pair of overly pancake-plastered waitresses desperately trying to conceal their age and the fact that tonight’s crowd has gotten away from them. We’re only in our seats a moment when one of them sails by our table with a half smile and a pair of menus tossed haphazardly down on the table between us.<br /><br />Another time/another place and I could have taken her around the world on that hard slick surface then and there; teach the gold digger set how it’s done when all you got is already in your pants and it’s enough to get the job done without breaking the bank. I’m pretty sure she’d a liked it too. Only tonight, I’m not in the mood for love or games or even cocktails. There must be something wrong with me. Maybe I’m just getting old.<br /><br />“Is she dead?” Maryilla suddenly blurts out, leaning across the table and taking my left hand in hers; her eyes locking like a pair of needy children who have lost their parents at the supermarket.<br /><br />I’m taken aback by her question, but know instinctively who she’s referring to.<br /><br />“Yes,” I tell her.<br /><br />She seems suddenly disinterested and doesn’t ask me how it happened or why? Maybe she doesn’t care. But somehow I think she might, so I go on.<br /><br />“We were in the Himalayas…and they…”<br /><br />I find myself developing an uncharacteristic paternal instinct and pull back from the urge to continue. After all, this kid’s been out in the world without my concern or my help for practically as long as she’s been born; maybe longer. The Don strikes me as a guy who laid his lineage with a distinct plan of action for the future of his family business. <br /><br />“And Alverez?” Maryilla inquires.<br /><br />“On his back at the hospital,” I confirm, “We were sabotaged at Heathrow but he took care of it.”<br /><br />“And then?”<br /><br />“Another attempt at the Dorchester yesterday morning.”<br /><br />Maryilla releases my hand. Her eyes go shark dead as she shakes her head with disdain-soaked disapproval for the model of efficiency behind all this clever destructiveness.<br /><br />“They don’t give up, do they?”<br /><br />“Should they?” I reason, “I mean, we’re not. Or haven’t. And why? What’s it all for? I’ve been asking myself almost from the get go and I haven’t come up with too many clever answers to keep me going.”<br /><br />“And yet you have,” Maryilla reasons.<br /><br />I’m suddenly drawn to the purpose of my own futility. It makes no sense. Except now there’s too big a price on my head that someone else has marked down to ‘clearance.’ I’ll die alright. Someday. But if I have any say in the matter, it’s going to be at one-o-five and in my own damn bed with a good bottle of vintage Scotch on the night table by my side.<br /><br /><br />Just who are they?” I ask.<br /><br />One of the dimwitted shot glass jockeys returns with her pad and pencil to take our order.<br /><br />“I’m not hungry,” I explain.<br /><br />“I am,” Maryilla admits.<br /><br />Without hesitation, she orders; linguini for two and a bottle of fairly good wine. Our waitress leaves to fetch our order and a couple of glasses.<br /><br />“You interest me, Mr. Mars,” Maryilla continues.<br /><br />The feeling’s mutual, but I’ll never tell.<br /><br />“I’m glad to see I haven’t lost my touch.”<br /><br />I scan the room for a few brief moments before suddenly noticing the reflection of a man in his rain soaked trench coat staring at us through the window. I turn to Maryilla to suggest we skip dinner. But when I turn back again, at a moment’s glance, both the man and his reflection have disappeared.<br /><br />“I’ll be back,” Maryilla suggests, rising from her seat, her scissor legs in clinging nylon effortlessly slipping past the cluttered assortment of crowded tables on her way to the loo.<br /><br />I decide to telephone the hospital on my cell and check up on the Don’s condition. But there’s no reply and with each passing moment that Maryilla remains indisposed I get more antsy and impatient about wasting my time over a plate of hot noodles.<br /><br />A few more glances around the place and through the window do not yield any more casual glimpses of the mysterious stranger. I begin to second guess my initial hunch. Maybe he wasn’t looking at us after all. Maybe he was after some other hard case; a jilted lover perhaps, or some married gal pal who’s been sparking his fancy in between luncheons with the man who put a ring on her finger and chairing the PTA. Or maybe he was just reading the half lit menu posted on the outside wall and thinking how overpriced living in London had become.<br /><br />You know, it’s a terrible thing to leave a man alone with his imagination. Especially living in the kind of conspiracy soup I’ve been subjected to. The possibilities are endless. Then again, wasn’t it Hitchcock who said that just by walking down the street you could see a sadist, a rapist and a murderer? <br /><br />I get a break from my thoughts. Maryilla returns and the food arrives. Both smell pretty good, but the linguini appeals more to my sense of hunger this time around.<br /><br />Our waitress is one cold fish. She gives a fairly good Marcel Marceau, all visual exposition without so much as a word, laying flatware and cutlery and then our food with a ‘self-serve’ pepper mill and parmesan cheese dispenser between us, before vanishing into the crowd once more. <br /><br />After she’s disappeared into the kitchen, I get an immediate directive from Maryilla. Foreplay is over.<br /><br />“There is a man in Tumbridge,” she begins.<br /><br />“Good for him,” I wax back while diving into my linguini, “There’s also one sitting across from you right now. Which do you think would rather enjoy your company?”<br /><br />“His name is Jeffrey Lynn-Montague,” Maryilla continues.<br /><br />“What’s it to me what his name is?”<br /><br />“I want you to kill him.”<br /><br />Even as smooth as it is, the last string of linguini goes down like a lump of dense clay.<br /><br />“And why would I want to do that?”<br /><br />“Because Lynn-Montague is Das Englander.”<br /><br />The name’s familiar only I can’t quite place the face. No one can. Das Englander is either a myth or a joke. Either way he doesn’t get my vote of interest any more than Obama did and neither does all this espionage small talk.<br /><br />“I suggest you concentrate on the food,” I reply, washing down a bit of wine to help the blush sauce along.<br /><br />“I didn’t come for food,” Maryilla says.<br /><br />She’s different somehow, as though some miraculous ‘invasion of the body snatchers’ identity conversion took hold in the crapper. I don’t do schizophrenia. I won’t do schizophrenic chicks. Perhaps it was just a difficult stool.<br /><br />“Then why order dinner?” I suggest.<br /><br />“Because it’s not quite so obvious,” Maryilla explains.<br /><br />“It will be if you don’t eat it,” I reason, “Besides, I never make love or war on an empty stomach.”<br /><br />There’s a long silent pause between us. I return my attentions to my plate with no intension of leaving until I’ve cleared as much away as I can.<br /><br />A moment later I observe that the knife and fork on Maryilla’s end are busily cutting into her plate of noodles.<br /><br />She’s good a decisions, or thinks she is and that gives her the air of confidence to carry on as though we’re very much an item. A moment later I feel the slight tap of her shoed toe dig into my calf from under the table as she uncrosses her legs.<br /><br />“Sorry.”<br /><br />“Not yet,” I reason, “But the night’s still young.”<br /><br />We eat in silence – never a good sign, but a more pleasant one than indulging in shop talk on how to commit the perfect murder. After our plates are nearly cleaned, I get the sense that Maryilla’s patience is wearing thin. I decide to throw her a bone.<br /><br />“Where does Lynn-Montague live?”<br /><br />Her eyes sparkle to life. Death excites her. Now, that’s kinky.<br /><br />“On a country estate,” Maryilla whispers.<br /><br />“Very nice,” I reason with a polite smile, “But don’t country estates grow out here like warts on a toad?”<br /><br />“We’ll go there tomorrow,” Maryilla explains.<br /><br />I nearly spill my wine.<br /><br />“We?”<br /><br />“I’m going with you.”<br /><br />Now, this is a wrinkle I didn’t expect and one that I’m not particularly happy about.<br /><br />“Why?” I ask.<br /><br />“I have my reasons.”<br /><br />“Then permit me mine for saying ‘no’,” I add, wiping my lips with the cloth napkin before summoning the waitress over to pay.<br /><br />Maryilla reaches for the bill first.<br /><br />“This is my affair,” she tells me, handing a credit card to the waitress who leaves us yet again without uttering a single syllable.<br /><br />“You’re a fairly bossy girl,” I explain, the twinkle in my eye belying the more direct point of my statement.<br /><br />“I like to be in control,” admits Maryilla.<br /><br />“That’s a pity,” I reply, my manner turning instantly cold, “Because I don’t do personal favors. This isn’t request night. If you’re so damn needy for a stiff one, kill Lynn-Montague yourself. No doubt he wouldn’t be the first man you ‘controlled’ that way.”<br /><br />The waitress returns with Maryilla’s card and the bill requiring her signature. She signs, right on the dotted line; the pressure point of the ballpoint nearly going through the paper. Tense little vixen, isn’t she, I reason to myself. She’s not bad when the balls are in her court, but when the guy gets a mind to sink his own grand slam she folds like a novice rather than a pro. I’ve made my point and it’s a good thing too – because the meal’s at an end and so are my patience.<br /><br />“Well,” I suggest, reaching for my coat, “I’d like to say it’s been memorable. Maybe it has. I won’t go so far as saying it was a pleasure, because it wasn’t. If you ever get the urge to plug somebody else there’s probably a whole list of career criminals you could choose from to get the job done. Too bad I don’t happen to be one of them. Good night.”<br /><br />I don’t give Maryilla an opportunity to respond. What for? She’s become a one hit wonder whose tune is tired and played out. If this were American Bandstand I’d have to give her a two because I couldn’t dance to it.<br /><br /> . . .<br /><br />I return to the hospital at around eleven, well after closing time. There’s something hauntingly unsettled in these semi-darkened corridors; as though all the ghosts of those who died in less than a state of grace or while under the knife have returned to make trouble for the remaining patients still clinging to life.<br /><br />I slip past the night nurse on duty and into the Don’s room. Only he isn’t there. At first I think I have the wrong room, so I shadow my way into the adjoining wards, careful not to disturb the sleeping patients.<br /><br />But I accidentally walk in on an elderly woman with oxygen tubes wrapped around her head, attempting to mount her hospital bed in an ill-fitting Johnny shirt with too much gap in back after a bathroom break. Brother, if that doesn’t kill your interest in women in general, nothing will. <br /><br />“Oh,” the woman calls out, “Young man. Will you help me?”<br /><br />I don’t want to, but do. After she’s up and tucked beneath the sheets, she thanks me profusely in the kindly and overly appreciative way a fellow human being does when they know they’ve become an obsolete relic to the rest of the world.<br /><br />“They took me kidney out,” she explains.<br /><br />“That’s too bad,” I admit.<br /><br />“Yep,” the woman reasons, “And now I’m constantly running to the shed like a race horse.”<br /><br />“At least you won the Grand National this time,” I reason, fluffing the old woman’s pillow before slowly backing away and right into the night nurse who has already begun her rounds.<br /><br />“What are you doing here?!” she asks me, her stern note of amazement coupled with a decidedly hideous visage and an intense scowl that could stop a coal barge.<br /><br />Where the notion derived that all nurses are sexy is beyond me. This one’s a poster child for the Robert Lewis Stevenson Award for bestiality.<br /><br />“I just came to check up on an old friend,” I reason.<br /><br />“Don’t you yell at him,” the old woman chimes in, “He was here to help me back into me bed. Where were you? I rang three times.”<br /><br />“And here I am,” the nurse reasons in a tone more kindly and professional as she turns her attentions to the patient, leaving her wrath for me in a nearby bedpan, no doubt from whence it will spray up if I don’t get the hell out right now.<br /><br />I duck into the hallway unnoticed and make my way to the nurse’s station. I’ve only a few moments before Dracula’s daughter returns for a fresh pint – and I don’t mean ‘of Guinness’. I wish I had been born a Catholic. At least then there’d be a crucifix hanging around my neck for protection.<br /><br />I reach back behind the high counter ledge and pull up the daily log. Only I suddenly realize that according to hospital records the Don was never a guest of this place. I check the previous day’s log. It’s a blank too.<br /><br />I’m more angry than perplexed and frankly, not amused. My first thought is to haul short fat and ugly on the carpet for some answers. I think better of that idea, particularly as I reach into my left coat pocket for a cigarette and discover a loose slip of paper floating inside that I don’t remember putting there in the first place.<br /><br />It’s a thin sheet from a memo pad with the name of Harrod’s stenciled in the upper right corner. Hand written in some fairly good penmanship is an address; 1719 Kenton Lane. ‘Oh well’, I reason, tucking the slip back into my pocket, ‘Misery loves…’<br /><br /> . . .<br /><br />I hail a taxi outside the hospital. The rain’s turned entirely to snow and coming down like a hailstorm of Jerry’s bombs during the blitz. My cabby’s not talkative but he’s damn good at his job. I’ve never felt so many quick maneuvers through heavy traffic without dinging a single bumper. This guy ought to have been driving NASCAR. Eleven city blocks later I find myself at the foot of 1719 Kenton Lane; a cozy townhouse backing onto the picturesque silver meadows of Regent’s Park. <br /><br />Except for the dim flicker through heavy frosted glass in the front door, the place looks all closed up for the night. The sky and my mood match. They’re both gray.<br /><br />I ring the bell, expecting a familiar face to open the door. It does, only it’s one that’s less familiar than I thought. In fact, it takes me a few moments to register those dull, but beady eyes. My focus shifts to a nearby coat rack just beyond the front door where a sopping wet trench hangs limp, a small puddle of dirty water collected on the floor below.<br /><br />The man at the window. Perhaps he’s just come to dinner or merely stepped in from the cold, but it’s him. He gives me a half smile. Strange – but it doesn’t seem sinister. So, I suck in my suspicions and step inside.<br /><br />It’s a cozy place, probably older than the last century, but done over in contemporary hues and with a woman’s touch. Pale satin striped wallpaper lines the foyer – silvery purple and mint green, complimented by some out of season lilies in a tall vase at the end of a short table. A steep set of stairs rise almost immediately to the second floor, done over in a soft maple finish.<br /><br />“Expected?” I ask the man at the door.<br /><br />He nods politely but doesn’t say a word; taking my coat and directing me upstairs. I’m thinking that if this goes on, Beady Eye can make himself the nice ham in a sandwich of two over the hill waitresses who haven’t seen male flesh in well over a decade.<br /><br />From the second floor landing, my silent guide points to a room at the end of the hall, the door half open, a soft yellowish glow radiating through the slit with all the warmth of a sunny spring morn. Inside, I find what I expect and another surprise to match the one downstairs.<br /><br />The Don’s lying comfortably asleep in the center of a massive four poster cherry bed, kept warm by a silky periwinkle comforter and some expensive looking shams; kept alive by a drip of something plugged into his left arm. Maryilla is seated at his bedside.<br /><br />I can’t swear it, but I believe she’s been shedding a few wet ones over the weakened state of her father. A creaky floorboard under my left foot alerts her to my presence. She looks up; her eyes suddenly soulless, her face instantly angular with deep panged lines of bitterness and anger – as though I’ve just parted the curtain on a very steamy shower she had been enjoying in private.<br /><br />“Hello angel,” I say quietly, “You’re just full of surprises tonight. Murder she wrote and now this hocus-pocus with daddy. Suppose you leave the healing to the professionals. You’re hands weren’t meant to Florence Nightingale.”<br /><br />She rises like a delectable female serpent, gliding in silent approach across the wooden floor. Funny, how nothing creaks under her feet. When she’s within earshot, Maryilla leans into my space, her lips so close to my ear.<br /><br />“Outside,” she whispers, exiting the room.<br /><br />I follow, but only for a few feet. Maryilla closes the door to the Don’s bedroom, folding her hands before an ample bosom in such a way that augments every little detail of that perfect cleavage.<br /><br />“You follow directions well,” she says.<br /><br />I don’t go for the distinct tone of condescension in her voice.<br /><br />“I can read,” I tell her, “But that’s as far as it goes. Besides, you’ve already one lapdog downstairs. How many does the well appointed bitch need?”<br /><br />“Sergei’s been with me a long time,” Maryilla explains.<br /><br />“Define long,” I reason, “Or aren’t you the kind that kisses and tells.”<br /><br />Maryilla smiles. She’s read my inferences all wrong. I haven’t the jealous nature and I’m not into mutts. Where the night takes us from here isn’t open for discussion. I’ve come for answers. I won’t for anything or anyone else.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33cc00;">THE END?</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure</em></strong>:<br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#990000;">The Bleak Bleak Winter</span></strong><br /><strong>on January 6th, 2009.</strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ff6666;">@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-202751744618140252?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-74808649521375643112008-10-09T18:51:00.000-07:002008-11-22T16:50:28.789-08:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em>for the first time reader:<br /></em></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#3333ff;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#ff9900;">46</span>th: </span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;color:#3333ff;"><strong>A FOGGY <span style="color:#ff9900;">DAY</span> AND <span style="color:#ff9900;">NIGHT </span></strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#3333ff;">IN THE MIDDLE OF <span style="color:#ff9900;">NOWHERE<br /></span><br /></span></strong>“Edward?” I hear a voice call me by my Christian name, “Where are you, Edward?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Oh…I beg your pardon, sir,” he tells me, “…I was wondering what you might like for breakfast?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“How did you know we were up?” I ask my attentive servant.<br /><br />He looks like something out of an Alan Mowbray movie where the butler; crisp and impeccable - the very model of ‘English service’.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Really?” I say with a hint of curiosity, “…and all this time I thought an Englishman was never attended to at breakfast.”<br /><br />The valet stiffens his resolve for a moment.<br /><br />“Are you English, sir?” he asks.<br /><br />“Not in so many words,” I shoot back.<br /><br />“Well, there you are then…” the valet concurs, “Besides, even if you were, we wouldn’t hold it against you.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“Damn!”<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />“Very good, sir,” the valet agrees, “…and for the other gentleman?”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Luckies, sir?”<br /><br />I’ve confused him with my lingo.<br /><br />“You boys over here call ‘em ‘fags’,” I clarify, “Only I’ve never been comfortable smokin’ by that brand.”<br /><br />“We also call them cigarettes,” the valet corrects with a coy grin, “We’re very progressive at the Dorchester.”<br /><br />Another condescension that strikes a sudden sour chord I don’t much feel like sweetening.<br /><br />“Well, suppose you progress to the kitchen for those figs and flapjacks and come back when I tell you.”<br /><br />“Yes sir.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />As I pass the Don’s room I take a peek inside. He’s still out cold.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />My descent by elevator is interrupted on the sixth floor with the boarding of a happy couple obviously on their honeymoon.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!’<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />When the doors open onto the lobby I have to excuse myself to get past them.<br /><br />“Sorry, mate,” the Rugby stud explains, getting out of my way.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“Where’s the closet news stand?”<br /><br />“Across the street, sir,” I’m told, “But we can get whatever you wish.”<br /><br />“That’s all right,” I reply, “I’d rather get a little exercise while I’m at it.”<br /><br />“Very good, sir.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Help you today, sir?”<br /><br />It talks, with a head the size of a basketball and lips that look as though they were caught in a bear trap.<br /><br />“Morning paper,” I say.<br /><br />“This way, sir.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“It’s a right old shame what some people will do to other people what’s on vacation,” the shop keeper tells me.<br /><br />“How do you know he was on vacation?” I ask.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />I’m intrigued.<br /><br />“Oh? Why do you say that?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Look at ‘em soles,” he tells me.<br /><br />I do and they look fairly worn and scuffed.<br /><br />“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!”<br /><br />“You should have been a detective,” I suggest.<br /><br />The old bugger smiles as though I’ve just made him an honorary of Scotland Yard.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />McFaddin’s has filled me up with curiosity, even before my breakfast’s arrived inside the ‘great house.’<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“It’ll be alright.”<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Everything moves with lightening speed.<br /><br />“He’s been poisoned!” I say.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“A cut on the hand,” I explain.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Care to revise that explanation?” I’m asked.<br /><br />“Not mine, you idiot,” I spit back, “My pal whose just been carted downtown with a quart of cyanide in his belly.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“I was attacked,” I explain as the burly detective jots down notes in his pad.<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />That’s a popular question of his, but I don’t have any of the hit parade answers he’s looking for.<br /><br />“You tell me.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Now then, what is your name?”<br /><br />“What’s yours?” I fire back.<br /><br />“I am Det. Richard Burlingame,” he tells me.<br /><br />“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’.”<br /><br />I seem to have garnered instant respect with that one line. Det. Burlingame reaches across the desk and shakes my hand.<br /><br />“How do you do?”<br /><br />“I’ve been better,” I admit.<br /><br />“Yes,” Burlingame agrees, “…and who is the other man in your room?”<br /><br />“A friend. Is he going to be all right?”<br /><br />Burlingame nods.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />There’s a slight pause and then an awkward segue.<br /><br />“Oh,” Burlingame adds, “how about you? Would you like some coffee?”<br /><br />“I’ve sort’a lost my appetite,” I reason.<br /><br />Burlingame twitches a clumsy half smile, as though he sympathizes, before resuming his interrogation.<br /><br />“Are you here on a case?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /><br />“And who was the man you threw from the balcony at the Dorchester?”<br /><br />I hate interrogations. They’re full of loaded questions to which – nine times out of ten – the accused doesn’t even know the answer.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Are you thinking of suing?” Burlingame asks with a slight note of concern.<br /><br />“No,” I shoot back, “I’m thinking of applying for his job and the employee discount on poisoned figs.”<br /><br />There’s a big sigh from Burlingame. He’s tired of me already and I haven’t even warmed up yet.<br /><br />“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!”<br /><br />“No,” I add, “Only in Heathrow men’s rooms.”<br /><br />I’ve insulted English law and propriety and my slum prudery comes back on me ten fold.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“I didn’t kill your vic’” I say, knowing too well who did.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I’m tired. I’m hungry and I’m not in a very good mood. Great starters – all three!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />…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.<br /><br />“What room?” the old rum pot asks, apparently oblivious to my insinuations.<br /><br />“The one where they brought in the guy from the Dorchester earlier today,” I tell her.<br /><br />Her dead eye points toward the ceiling while the other searches for a room number in the admission’s log.<br /><br />“Six-nineteen,” she tells me, leaning over her desk and pointing down the hall, “Through those doors and to your left.”<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“You must go to Harrods,” he mutters, his speech thick and slow.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Listen!” he sputters, half gurgle/half hiss, “Listen to me!”<br /><br />“Okay!” I say, prying the Don’s hands free and slowly lowering him back into his pillow.<br /><br />“Harrods,” the Don mutters, “Lower floor, past the mezzanine. Maryilla Vega. Maryilla Vega.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Say, what the hell did you give my friend in there?” I ask the glassy-eyed gal at the nurse’s desk.<br /><br />“A mild sedative,” she tells me.<br /><br />“Mild, my ass!” I shoot back, “He’s out of his head – and not by choice.”<br /><br />“If it’s what the doctor prescribed…” she begins.<br /><br />I’ve had enough.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“You’ll have to take that up with his physician,” the nurse replies curtly.<br /><br />“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!”<br /><br />I leave her to her duties – such as they are – and to contemplate the pluses and minuses of that experiment.<br /><br />. . .<br /><br />It’s raining – again - still. Doesn’t it ever do anything else around here? Dumb question. Guess not.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“May I be of some assistance, sir?” she asks, her Hindi accent soft and beguiling.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Maryilla Vega,” I say, observing as one thick brown brow rising with great curiosity.<br /><br />“Whom shall I say is calling?” the girl replies.<br /><br />“A friend.”<br /><br />I’m not exactly certain that’s true, but I’m sure I’ll find out in short order.<br /><br />“One moment, please,” the girl says, backing slowly into the crowd, “Don’t go anywhere.”<br /><br />“I won’t, angel,” I tell her, leaning back on a display case and waiting for what comes next.<br /><br />The ‘what’ is actually a ‘who’ – a tall, gaunt Asian gent bumped out in his businessman’s finery with a lot of shoulder pad.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“May I be of some assistance?”<br /><br />Same old question.<br /><br />“Not unless you’ve eaten Maryilla Vega for breakfast and are ready to puke her out for me right now.”<br /><br />I’ll say this for the guy. He can take an insult without so much as a ripple of criticism showing.<br /><br />“I’m afraid…” he begins.<br /><br />“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!”<br /><br />“Will the Don survive?”<br /><br />Well, good for him. He has the same playbook and isn’t afraid to run through the roster.<br /><br />“That remains to be seen,” I reply.<br /><br />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.’<br /><br />A light tap on the door and a very deep female voice calls from within – “Come in.”<br /><br />The door swings open and inside I find the last person I ever expected to see again – Migrya Alverez. Or is it?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Maryilla tells me.<br /><br />Her voice is different; like a Bacall knock-off with more timber than enticement.<br /><br />“Maybe,” I explain.<br /><br />I pause. No sense in letting the others in on what appears to be our shared little secret.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“Oh, I don’t know. Pretty good, I suppose,” I say, “But you’re slipping.”<br /><br />Maryilla raises a curious, but playful brow.<br /><br />“And how’s that?”<br /><br />“Don’t you wanna know how I am, off of ‘em?”<br /><br />Maryilla smiles.<br /><br />“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!”<br /><br />“Oh, I speak in tongues,” I tell her, “Forked and otherwise.”<br /><br />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!<br /><br />Maryilla leans across her desk, her mood suddenly changed from tease to tense.<br /><br />“Follow me,” she says, without the slightest hint of sexual ennui.<br /><br />I’m glad. Another notch I don’t need, but I just might be able to add this Brit to my butterfly collection.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#3333ff;">THE END…</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;">…not quite. Eddie Mars will return on <span style="color:#3333ff;">Dec. 1, 2008</span> in his next adventure.</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;color:#ff0000;">@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-7480864952137564311?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-28092558535210787112008-09-06T18:37:00.000-07:002008-09-06T18:41:08.626-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em>for the first time reader:<br /></em></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /></span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#999900;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#ff9900;">45</span>TH: </span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#999900;">D<span style="color:#ff9900;">AS</span> E<span style="color:#ff9900;">NGLANDER</span><br /></span></strong><br />In the last disastrous days of WWII when the Allied invasion turned the once picturesque city of Berlin into a stockpile of burning rubble, a high ranking Nazi official named Herr Otto Von Kritchzog managed to slip through the Allied blockades set up around the city. It was a mystery to the Allies how Kritchzog could have so completely vanished without a trace. The Nazi infrastructure that might have secured his safe passage only a few months before had been virtually dismantled and the city itself was awash in American and British forces who knew the old Nazi spy’s likeness all too well.<br /><br />In particular, the blow of defeat immediately following Kritchzog’s disappearance was personally felt by Maj. Gen. George S. Patton who, in the years before the conflict had met Kritchzog socially at a banquet given in London in 1938 and, at which time Kirtchzog had practically guaranteed Patton and a consulate of world powers that Adolph Hitler had no interest in invading any country on the European map.<br /><br />An American of valor and military distinction, but above all else, a soldier to whom ego and integrity were equally balanced and highly personal hallmarks, Patton was not a man who took being openly lied to sitting down. Following Hitler’s invasion of Poland, Patton made it his life’s work to track down Kritchzog - who had by war’s end acquired the dubious moniker of ‘Das Englander’ – and bring him to justice. A footnote in Patton’s near forgotten memoirs even suggests that he had possibly caught up to ‘Das Englander’ in Tunisia while on his campaign there, but that the wily German spy had once again managed a quiet escape, this time disguised as one of many moving autonomously in a caravan of refugees.<br /><br />By war’s end, Patton had good reason to believe that the first place Kritchzog would return to was the last place any Allied Solider would think to look – Germany. And so, Patton petitioned Eisenhower to return – presumably in disgrace - to the Fatherland in pursuit of Krtichzog. It was even rumored that Kritchzog had been responsible for the catastrophic car wreck on Dec. 9, 1945 in Mannheim that would have left Patton a quadriplegic had he not died at the Army Hospital shortly thereafter.<br /><br />As a matter of public record, few outside of a select military black ops brigade made up of U.S., British and Russian soldiers knew that Kritchzog had belonged to Hitler’s inner circle. Kritchzog’s specialty for the Nazis had been running secret communications between Germany to and from Hitler’s many external contacts around the world – the nearest centralized hotbed of activity then located in Buenos Aires. There, Hitler was rumored to have sent his embezzled millions funneled by Kritchzog into hidden bank accounts; the aged loot from all the discarded Jewish gentry he had casually exiled to murderous death camps back home.<br /><br />Apart from Hitler, only Kritchzog had immediate access to these secret funds. Not even the Allies knew about it and by the time British Central Intelligence cracked the code that reveled monies squared away, both the monies and the bank that had housed them had vanished into thin air.<br /><br />The official story from Buenos Aires was that an electrical fire caused by faulty overhead fluorescent ballasts in the vault room had triggered a four alarm blaze that leveled the First International Trade Bank to a pile of smoldering ruins. But had the Nazi loot still been locked inside at the time the fire broke out? Conventional wisdom suggested as much since, in the carefully monitored years and later decades following the fire, no large sums of money resurfaced either in Buenos Aires or anywhere else in the world. <br /><br />However, in the summer of 1959 a self made Greek shipping magnet named Ari Chaykestopolis began spending lavishly on the expansion of his international fleet. Within three years the line had tripled in size. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about this economic growth on the surface.<br /><br />The post war years had been particularly lucrative for Chaykestopolis’s shipping company. What was rather curious, at least so retired British naval intelligence officer Gen. Lloyd Allen was to discover after he began poking around for some answers, was that no one in Greece could recall where or what Chaykestopolis had been up to prior to the outbreak of WWII.<br /><br />When questioned by Allen in a casual setting, Chaykestopolis told of an impoverished illegitimate birth to a woman who had died of starvation in the hills, and, of his own days as a nameless urchin begging for crusts of bread in the streets of Athens. Malnourished and in poor health, in Athens Ari was discovered, so the legend went, by a kind and wealthy gentleman, Anatol Chaykestopolis. Anatol adopted the boy after the tragic death of his own son and reared him as his own. It was colorful folklore. But was it really the truth? Or was Ari Chaykestopolis really Das Englander in disguise?<br /><br />Allen was presumably getting close to finding out through his own research and connections with the ‘right people’ when his body was discovered in a shallow pool of water near the coast. The cause of death by the Athens coroner was presumed as a drunken slip and fall off some ‘regrettably’ rocky terrain, even though an autopsy performed four hours later in England, and at the strenuous insistence of Allen’s widow, Margurita could not confirm that a drop of alcohol had actually been consumed by her late husband before his ‘fall’.<br /><br />Evidently, Margurita seemed to know the purpose for her husband’s extended trip to Greece. She also knew that Allen had been in contact with Ari Chaykestopolis. This was a great curiosity to the Scotland Yard police who questioned her motives for the hasty second autopsy on her husband, since Margurita had not accompanied him, but rather had stayed behind in England - presumably to look after her sick mother. Whatever the truth behind Allen’s mysterious death, the inquest was laid to rest a scant three weeks later when Margurita was ‘accidentally’ run down on a street in Piccadilly.<br /><br />With no leads to go on, the British consulate appointed a special investigator to make the journey to Greece. However, upon his arrival in Athens, this individual was promptly informed that Ari Chaykestopolis had quietly died of a heart attack only a few days before – his body laid to rest in the family crypt in Cyprus.<br /><br />Indeed, when the investigator arrived in Cyprus he found a newly sealed casket inside the stately mausoleum built to house Ari’s remains; only an exhumation of the body produced a badly decomposed and much older gentleman lying inside. Nevertheless, Ari’s half brother, Peter and his wife Gina both insisted that the body in the crypt was that of Ari himself.<br /><br />In the days before DNA evidence could conclusively make the proper identification, the British investigator was forced to accept Peter and Gina’s story and go back to England empty handed. Not long afterward, Chaykestopolis’ shipping empire was sold to a Turkish conglomerate – its base of operations in Greece quickly and quietly sold off and dismantled.<br /><br />Three years later, an aged British investor named Gabriel McDonough began a rather meteoric rise to fame as one of the country’s foremost record producers. McDonough quickly signed unknown artists like Petula Clark, Tom Jones and The Beatles to his record label and shortly thereafter inundated the U.S. pop charts with what later became known as ‘The British Invasion.’ This time it was famed U.S. newspaper gossip columnist Hedda Hopper who declared in a December 1965 interview for Britain’s Spin Magazine that for certain she had made an acquaintance of McDonough even though McDonough casually denied ever having met the gossip maven before. “Though the name escapes me,” Hopper added to the Spin interviewer, “I never forget a face.”<br /><br />If Hopper’s memory seemed to fail her just at that moment, she need only have reached back to 1943 and a lavish summer party her employer William Randolph Hearst had given at his famed San Simeon ranch; a ritual inaugural to quietly celebrate the demise of Hollywood’s wunderkind, Orson Welles.<br /><br />At that party, Hopper had danced with a suave, much younger incarnation of the man Britain’s Daily Mirror had currently christened their ‘man of the year’ – only then he had been known to her simply as ‘Otto’ – a dashing rake of German/Romanian extraction or something like that, who had been relatively faithless in accepting Hopper’s loud professed assurances that with America’s involvement the Allied Forces would, in fact, win the war.<br /><br />Hopper’s fervent insistence at knowing McDonough was something of a curiosity for the Spin interviewer who had intended to make another contact of Hopper early the following New Year. Unfortunately, in February 1966 the unusually healthy and resilient Hopper managed to contract a virulent strain of double pneumonia that claimed her life. Hopper’s persistence at knowing McDonough was quietly forgotten for a year and entirely overshadowed by an even more bizarre scandal that occurred in late November that same year.<br /><br />Rumors had leaked to the press that the Queen was seriously considering McDonough for a knighthood. His lavish spending had invigorated the British economy and placed many a struggling local artist at the forefront of the international music scene – thanks to his savvy record producing and promotional machinery. Furthermore, McDonough’s generous philanthropy at home and his dedication to restoration and beautification projects in and around London had made all the papers. In fact, McDonough was supposed to attend a lavish New Year’s gala given in his honor at the Savoy by close friend and Harrod’s department store owner Mohamed al-Fayed.<br /><br />Unhappy chance for al-Fayed, that his guest of honor never arrived at the party. Although the doorman at the Dorchester Hotel later confirmed that McDonough’s limousine had left with McDonough inside it and on time, what became of both the man, his car and chauffeur between these two relatively close points of destination was a mystery that, in the days that immediately followed, remained open to wild speculation, innuendo and rumor.<br /><br />The Daily Mirror suggested without any basis in fact that McDonough had been a KGB spy – an erroneous claim even despite the fact that Russian Premiere Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev had received a package from McDonough wishing him hearty birthday salutations. The package contained a phonograph with a supply of replacement needles and virtually every hit single McDonough had produced as a Christmas gift in 1964.<br /><br />An eye witness, a gripper working the wharf, claimed that a man answering to the name ‘Mac’ had frantically arrived at the pier near Lester in a tuxedo and had demanded usage of his tug. After paying the gripper nearly one hundred pounds, the man and the tug vanished into the heavy night fog. Neither were seen or heard from again. But perhaps the most shocking speculation of them all came from lowly prostitute, Josephine Clember, working the seedy byways of Piccadilly.<br /><br />Clember claimed that McDonough had been a regular customer of hers who had “stopped off for a quick one” en route to the New Year’s Eve gala. Just where McDonough went afterward was not for Clember to say, and apparently not for her to even suggest since she telephoned Scotland Yard some three weeks later in a whispered hush to suggest that McDonough had returned and was “resting up” in her boudoir after “a bit of the malarkey.”<br /><br />The police, frantic for a lead on McDonough’s disappearance, arrived at Clember’s shabby flat only to awaken a man two feet shorter than McDonough who had six children and a slew of outstanding payments at virtually every brothel in the city. That man was promptly arrested before later being returned to his wife.<br /><br />Das Englander had once again disappeared. <br /><br />“So,” I say to the Don as we get ready to set down in London, “We’re looking for a ghost?”<br /><br />“A man,” the Don corrects as he buttons his shirt collar.<br /><br />“A man who behaves like a ghost,” I add, refusing to be one upped. “Maybe we find this vapor and pump him full of concrete or Maalox?”<br /><br />The Don looks at me curiously.<br /><br />“I don’t understand,” he confesses.<br /><br />“Well,” I suggest, “Let’s just say enough of either and he’ll end up leaving a fairly obvious trail wherever he goes.”<br /><br />I lean back in my seat as the stewardess comes by to inform us to fasten our belts. We’re approaching Heathrow. Come to think of it, we had little trouble crossing the U.S./Canadian border in Windsor, thanks to the Don’s contact with a pair of nameless thugs who had enough high clearance to get in and out of the Manoogian Mansion unnoticed and supply us with a pair of pretty convincing phony I.D.’s.<br /><br />“You’ve some friends,” I say to the Don, tapping my breast pocket to make sure ‘my’ passport is still there.<br /><br />“The world belongs to those who know how to spend their money wisely,” the Don tells me, grinning from ear to ear as he taps his own breast pocket.<br /><br />“Yeah,” I agree, “I know what’s better. I just can’t afford it.” <br /><br />. . . <br /><br />It’s raining in London – big surprise; foggy and miserable and full of that thick night air that gets way deep inside you like a floatation device that’ll collapse a lung or two. I retrieve our bags – also supplied by the boys in Detroit – and hail a taxi while the Don takes care of a few minor details.<br /><br />I don’t claim to be intuitive but I get the distinct feeling I’m being watched. Casually, I pretend not to look around; wander past the newsstand; catching glimpses of my reflection in the glass partitions and then the sliding exit doors. There don’t seem to be any interesting characters slinking around the scenery. Maybe, it’s just me – too eager to get in touch with my feminine side.<br /><br />“Where do we go from here?” I ask the Don, who comes at me, overcoat slung across one hand and slightly stumbling from the general direction of the Men’s Room, looking as though he’s only half finished.<br /><br />There are a few tiny beads of sweat on his brow but I don’t give it much thought. Besides, maybe he just doesn’t get enough fiber.<br /><br />It’s only after we’re in our taxi and hurrying toward the Dorchester Hotel that the Don taps me with his foot, slowly uncovering the hand under his coat to reveal a fairly bloody mess and a couple of deep gashes about his wrist. I want to say something, but his eyes tell me to keep my mouth shut.<br /><br />“Oh driver,” I say to youthful Pakistani giving us a lift, “Where can I stop off for a pint? I mean after I leave pops at the hotel?”<br /><br />“The Dorchester has a bar,” he informs me.<br /><br />“Yeah, I know,” I reply, “Only what if I want the whole bottle.”<br /><br />“That too can be arranged, sir,” I’m told.<br /><br />It’s no good. I’m already being too obvious. So, when the cabby pulls into the Dorchester’s main drive, I quickly get out, help the Don to his feet, pay the tab with some loose change and tote the bags myself through the front doors and into the lobby.<br /><br />I sign the register. We’re shown by a portly valet to something called the Oliver Messel Suite. Apparently, only the very best people have stayed here; everyone from Noel Coward to Sylvester Stallone. I wonder how the hell we managed to rate it.<br />As we’re riding up the lift, I get the fifty-cent tour but could care less whether Elizabeth Taylor’s tuckus sat on the porcelain bowl before mine or Marlene gave herself a pink champagne bubble bath in the alabaster washroom. But it goes on and on and finally I interrupt the self-appointed rum-pot as the lift doors part and we’re shown to a grand and lavish suite of rooms that really make you ‘feel’ like you’re in England.<br /><br />“So, are we all alone up here?” I ask as I fumble around for a tip.<br /><br />By now, the Don’s looking more ashen than pumpkin and I really just want to get him inside a pour some bourbon or anything else alcoholic on that wound before deciding what next to do.<br /><br />“Yes sir,” I’m told, “But there’s also an Audley, Terrace and Harlequin suite.”<br /><br />I shove a crisp one between the fingers of this helpful chap before closing the door practically on his heels.<br /><br />The Don looks relieved – or half dead…I can’t decide. He slumps into the loveseat, his bloody hand leaving a thick brown stain across the gold fabric. I find a wet bar in an anteroom with my pick of hairs of the dog that should bite me; pop the top off a fresh bottle of Jack and grab an ultra cushy white linen towel on my way back to the main sitting room. The Don look pale…real pale.<br /><br />I liven the color in his cheeks as I pour the booze into the towel and wrap it firmly about his hand. He grimaces.<br /><br />“Here,” I offer, tipping the bottle slightly as I press it to his lips.<br /><br />He’s grateful and drinks like a Shriner for a few seconds.<br /><br />“Hey,” I say, moving the bottle away, “I need you with it to tell me what we’re in for.”<br /><br />“We’ve been followed,” the Don explains, “I was at a urinal when a man approached at my side. He smiled and asked me for the time.”<br /><br />“So far, sounds par for the course of a high class gay hooker looking for a fresh john,” I say.<br /><br />The Don smiles; the color returning to the rest of him.<br /><br />“Except that this one knew me by name,” he tells me.<br /><br />“Then we can’t stay here,” I suggest, admittedly hesitant to surrender such luxury even though I’ve yet to grow accustom to it.<br /><br />“We can,” the Don mutters, “I’ve taken care of things.”<br /><br />He doesn’t say much else and he suddenly starts to look weary again. I open the towel and get a good gander. Not as bad as I thought. A few gashes to be sure and a lot of blood’s been lost, but nothing that’ll require stitches, and a good thing that too. I wouldn’t know where to take him or how to explain it without calling half of Scotland Yard to our attention. Come to think of it, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.<br /><br />After I put the Don to bed I decide to take a swim in the moat that’s masquerading as our bathtub. There’s a flat panel T.V. on the wall opposite and a remote on the edge of the tub. As I sink my short n’ curlies into a bay of hot water and turn on the jets to massage my tense lower back I catch a glimpse of the eleven o’clock newscast.<br /><br />They’ve found the body of some poor mutilated schmuck inside a men’s room at Heathrow. No I.D. but his throat’s been slashed. Taken care of things, indeed. I’m not only living the high life with a rich benefactor but I’ve just moved in with a murderer.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#999900;">THE END…<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="color:#ff9900;">Not until the fat lady sings!</span></em></strong><br /><strong><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#999900;">EDDIE MARS <em>WILL RETURN</em> <span style="color:#ff6600;">OCT. 30th 2008</span></span></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="color:#ff9900;"> in his next great adventure:</span></em></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="color:#ff9900;"></span></em></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff6600;">A Foggy <span style="color:#999900;">Day</span> and <span style="color:#999900;">Night</span> In The <span style="color:#999900;">Middle</span> Of <span style="color:#999900;">Nowhere</span>.</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">@ Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-2809255853521078711?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-43805793926960412892008-08-01T08:37:00.000-07:002008-08-01T08:47:31.938-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em>for the first time reader:<br /></em></strong><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…</strong></span><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;"><span style="color:#000000;">A</span>DVENTURE THE <span style="color:#000000;">44</span>TH: <span style="color:#000000;">Prayer to a Poet</span></span></strong><br /><br /> “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.<br /><br />I’ll bite. Where do we? His guess is as good as mine – maybe better.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Hey?” I say, louder the second time just so I know I’ve been heard, “HEY!”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“There!” the Don points to the 11th Street Train Depot, a shiny new locomotive and passenger cars seemingly waiting for our arrival.<br /><br />The fog and rain surrounding us are getting worse.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Where’s this Daisy chain headed?”<br /><br />The girl leans back, slapping her tight rump against the vinyl chair and spinning half way around the small cubical for the schedule.<br /><br />“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…”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Where do we end up?” I interrupt.<br /><br />She still seems confused.<br /><br />“The end of the line, angel…where is it?”<br /><br />“Toronto, Canada,” she explains.<br /><br />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.’<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Well,” he tells the winner, “I suppose it’s about that time.”<br /><br />As he stands up to pass us, I reach into my pocket and hand him our tickets. The conductor gives me a curious stare.<br /><br />“At least you’ll know we’re legal,” I explain.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Here,” the Don explains, pointing to the second to last seat on the left.<br /><br />“You go ahead,” I tell him, “I need some air.<br /><br />The Don eyes me with sudden curiosity.<br /><br />“Relax, pops,” I tell him with a firm pat on the back, “I just need some air. Really.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Come on in,” I joke, “the breather’s fine.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“We are going to England,” the Don explains.<br /><br />“A round about way of getting there, isn’t it?” I reason.<br /><br />“I’ll hide in the baggage car when we get to the border,” the Don explains, “I haven’t a passport.”<br /><br />“I’ll join you,” I reply.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“So, what’s in England?” I inquire, “I mean, besides the Queen?”<br /><br />But on this, the Don is silent – almost leaden – not wanting to divulge too much that might explain not enough.<br /><br />“When did you lose your way?” the Don asks me.<br /><br />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’.<br /><br />Instead, I opt for a more congenial logic.<br /><br />“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…”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“There is a purpose,” the Don admits, “…and if he is still alive when we get there, we shall find it.”<br /><br />“If who’s alive?” I ask.<br /><br />But I get another cold shoulder to my inquiry.<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />So, without further adieu, I get a crash course on the importance of being earnest.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.’ <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">THE END?</span></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="color:#ff0000;">...NO!</span></em></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure: Das Englander on</em></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff0000;">September 29th, 2008.</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-4380579392696041289?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-12606443838651974942008-07-01T11:35:00.000-07:002008-07-01T11:40:25.663-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span><em> </em></strong><br /><strong><em>for the first time reader:<br /></em></strong><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong><span style="font-family:arial;">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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…</span></strong><br /></span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#000000;">43</span>RD: MIA<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><em>When earth, the air and sea in fire remained,<br />When fire, the sea and earth, the air contained,<br />When air, the earth and fire, the sea enclosed,<br />When sea, fire air in earth were disposed…<br /></em></strong><br />-<strong><span style="font-family:arial;">George Chapman</span></strong><br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />“A little worse for the wine,” I suggest, “A bit better for the baseball bat.”<br /><br />He smiles.<br /><br />“I apologize.”<br /><br />“Don’t. I’ve been stumped before and by stronger implements than yours,” I tell him.<br /><br />What the hell? It’s the truth.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Lie back,” the Don instructs.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Turn on a light, will yah?” I say.<br /><br />But the Don just shakes his head, raising a polite finger to his lips.<br /><br />“It would not be wise,” he tells me in his soothing tone.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“We’ve precious little time,” the Don whispers when he sees that my cup is half empty.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“I haven’t time to explain,” the Don reasons.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“It’s important,” he reasons.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“In the summer of 1999 I was contacted by Herr Franz Kreigler,” the Don begins, “You remember him?”<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />“By special invitation,” the Don explains.<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“At the time, it seemed he did it for…shall we say…mutual business interests?”<br /><br />“Yes,” I agree, “Let’s say that. Legitimate has too illegitimate a ring.”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Oh…and it was impersonal instead?”<br /><br />“It was a conference; a massive assembly of criminal minds operating at the highest levels of our world governments.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“You’ll find what I’m looking for under ‘R’,” I suggest.<br /><br />And he does. A fresh bottle of Ballantine scotch. The Don grins.<br /><br />“Glasses?”<br /><br />“I prefer paper cups,” I tell him, motioning for the Dixie dispenser on the side of my water cooler.<br /><br />“You’re not an environmentalist, then?” Alvarez teases.<br /><br />I’ll give the old boy his due – he knows how to come back with a pithy retort or two.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Why under ‘R’?” he asks.<br /><br />“Don’t know,” I admit, “Seemed like a good idea at the time. It’s the romantic in me.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Sounds apocalyptic,” I suggest.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Pick your choice,” I tell him, “Any congressional hack or fool will do.”<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“You make us sound like a nation of money-hungry, bed sheet toting homophobes and hardcore man-hating feminists.” <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“So, whose side is Talenburg on?” I reasoned.<br /><br />“Ours,” the Don tells me, “…at least, I think.”<br /><br />Now, that’s comforting. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Powder?”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />The innocent pedestrian’s wife screamed bloody murder and the woman assassin vanished in the rush of the gathering crowd, so the Don says.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />“Some,” the Don explains, “Few. Nixon, perhaps; though he was ultimately destroyed in his efforts.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“To what end?” I press on.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Some would call that progress,” I suggest.<br /><br />The Don reclines into his chair. He seems suddenly and utterly exhausted.<br /><br />“And you believed Kreigler?” I interrupt.<br /><br />“I believed his investment.”<br /><br />“Which was?”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“And what did you have to do for this payoff?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“How much moola are we talkin’ here?”<br /><br />“In the hundreds of billions.”<br /><br />“Nice work if you can get it,” I reason, “And did you?”<br /><br />“You must understand…” the Don begins.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“Only a fool accepts a wager without knowing the game plan,” I reason.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“I don’t believe you.”<br /><br />I mean it. I don’t.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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.” <br /><br />“Signs?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“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?”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Are you…?”<br /><br />“No,” the Don interrupts, indignant at my inference, “I am not, nor have I ever been a terrorist.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“So, who’s pulling the strings this time?” I say.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“I don’t follow you…” I say.<br /><br />Inside, I hope that I never do.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“How?” I ask, but Alvarez is preoccupied with what’s going on down below.<br /><br />“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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /> “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.’”<br /><br />“Collective mind control is a myth,” I fire back, “You’re talking about mass hypnosis of an entire country. It can’t be done.”<br /><br />The Don simply smiles and shakes its head.<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />“How?”<br /><br />“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.”<br /><br />I still don’t believe it. I mean…it doesn’t seem possible. Or does it?<br /><br />“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.<br /><br />“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.” <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />“Down the fire escape!” the Don hollers, tossing another bottle into the mix and spreading the flames deep into the hall this time.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />“I’ve been wounded,” he explains.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />For the first time in my life I’m really scared. I’ve been in the duck soup too long.<br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">THE END…</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><em>…not yet. Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure –</em></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">Darkness Covers</span></strong><br /><strong>on August 28th 2008.<br /></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-1260644383865197494?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-45924472557647034182008-06-03T19:43:00.000-07:002008-06-03T19:48:19.748-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#66cccc;">DISCLAIMER</span></strong> <strong><em><span style="color:#99ff99;">for the first time reader:<br /></span></em></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /></span></strong><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong><span style="color:#66cccc;">A<span style="color:#66ff99;">DVENTURE </span>THE <span style="color:#66ff99;">42</span>ND: </span></strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong><span style="color:#66cccc;"><span style="color:#33ff33;">O</span>LD <span style="color:#33ff33;">H</span>ABITS</span></strong><br /></span><br />In my dream a young man goes to town one night. The world is still full of untapped mysteries. On his way he meets a precocious tot skipping fresh pennies in a large puddle. The child looks up at him wide-eyed and asks “what did you bring me?”<br /><br />“Go away kid,” the youth replies, “My time’s more precious than you know.”<br /><br />“Why?” the child innocently asks.<br /><br />“It’s called seniority,” the young man explains, “…and I’ll always have it.”<br /><br /> . . .<br /><br />I awaken from a relatively peaceful sleep to recall a summer a few years back when I was as dense as the humidity outside my window on an early July morn. I actually thought I might get married. I was younger then – and unwise in lots of ways, but mostly towards myself. Odd, that any detective ought forget how many dead sweethearts he’s pulled out’a dumpsters, the bottle or pinned to a rebound of a very nasty divorce with all the lead pipes and homemade castrations labeled as ‘self defense’ by some feminist crusaders.<br /><br />“What are you, Eddie?” my anytime gal, Jeannie used to say, “An enigma?”<br /><br />“Only on my father’s side” I’d tease. “Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”<br /><br />Besides, I had at least a decade’s worth of friends and colleagues who had traipsed down the isle with some babe drowning in her own euphoria; bouquet in one hand, a prenup’ firmly clutched under the other, only to have cupid’s arrow predictably sharpen into that proverbial thorn in both their sides.<br /><br />Looking back, I’m struck by the color of a man’s suit on his day of days: black – same as the one he’ll probably wear to his own funeral. It’s only the bride who considers herself lucky, I suppose. All those free samples she’s been dolin’ behind the barn have finally landed her the cash cow that keeps on milkin’. She puts out before‘I do’. He’s puttin’ up for the rest, till death or a good attorney do them part.<br /><br />Contrary to all the February fourteenth greeting cards and chocolate makers that rely on that perennial holiday that makes everyone a few calories heavier, there’s really not that much mileage between eternal bliss and utter damnation. I’ve seen through the writing on those paper thin walls. I’ve painted a few of my own sign posts marked ‘this way sucker,’ and I’ve had the fatalities of five heart sore pile-ups dripping their oily charm and flatulent rhymes with sticky sweet threats of lopping off choice body parts strewn at my front door.<br /><br />By now, I can recognize the illness before it becomes a cancer. Back then I wasn’t exactly seeing the world so clearly. My rose-colored glasses had been hand-picked for maximum dullness by Amanda, a rich young goddess with more silicon in her front grill than the vet I drove. I loved that gal, if love be an emotion yours truly is capable of. She idolized the danger I walked on.<br /><br />Yep, Mandy was a bad girl considerably cleansed by daddy’s bankroll – a first generation heiress with not a care in the world, save which beach resort would be blessed to have her toned tummy lying flat on one of their deck chairs facing the nearest sun or sun lamp. My kind’a gal – then. Maybe, that much hasn’t changed. I still like my women a little tarnished for the cure.<br /><br />Anyway, Mandy and I were a couple a’ nuts who couldn’t keep our hands off one another. Daddy decided that meant a proposal of marriage and I – stupidly believing the great sex would continue – thought to myself, ‘Why not? It’s time.’ So, I bought the ring, she did the rest and off we went to get hitched on a remote bluff off the Big Sur – her big idea come to pass…well…almost. Except that Mandy never planned ahead or wore a seat belt for that matter.<br /><br />She never made it to our prearranged rendezvous. Instead a police cruiser pulled up to our picturesque podium forty-five minutes late to inform me that my bride was face down under a ton of limo; talkin’ to the little fishies in the bay.<br /><br />I remember standing there, looking over the dizzying edge and thinking none of this was worth it – not the day, the hour, the moment or any of that imaginary bliss I had run along side to keep up with this moment. No, the charade had been a damn waste and the best any of us could do was to find something more immediate to be amused by without the expectation that this merry-go-round we call life would go on spinning forever. I think about this now, groggy from my dream and on an airborne plane somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic bound for America with certain assurances that I’m to make it to the other side.<br /><br />I’m a pawn again; a role I’m intimately acquainted with – only this time for a guy I know too well. They’re on a witch hunt for Karl, but they won’t find him. They seem to think I’ll be able to provide a lead, or maybe just act as the bait. Either way, Talenberg’s fixed for it on a global concern. He hasn’t a prayer – but oh, just enough money to take Satan’s highway while keeping his feet out’a the fire.<br /><br />As I disembark my gate at the airport and look around for a cab, I catch a glimpse of a family of five crowding into their compact sedan in the parking lot. On their back bumper is a badly faded sticker that reads ‘Smile. Jesus loves you.’ I think about it for a moment and decide the message doesn’t apply to me. <br /><br /> . . .<br /><br />Deluca Street hasn’t changed. I don’t know why it should…why I expected it to. I liked her just as she was – gritty, dark and full of humanity’s general contempt for one another. She’s honest. There’s no pretext here. She says what society’s really thinking; what we all are under our turned up collars and leather soles – hard pressed and bitter and tired of the pretend that laughingly goes into making this world ‘a better place’. She doesn’t hide imperfections with a fresh coat’a paint and some mulberry bushes planted about the thoroughfare.<br /><br />No, she’s there, hiking up the promenade and telling you ‘hey, I take it on the chin and come back for more. You wanna know how many have lost themselves from my one end to the other? Hell, I lost count. But the list has been long and distinguished.’<br /><br />I count myself among the many and the glad to find my apartment still waiting just as I left it. A few more overdues stuffed into the mailbox, but nobody’s thrown me out yet. Thank God for delinquent landlords.<br /><br />First order’a business; a long slow bottle of scotch.<br />Second order’a business; a hot tub full’a gin.<br />Deluca Street. Welcome home.<br /><br /> . . .<br /><br />On my second day in I decide to do a few loads a’ laundry. Being away for so long, everything has that familiar stale scent of embalming. The apartment’s a blend of moist dampness and moldy paper. I crack open a few windows before dropping downstairs to the coin operated tubs in the basement.<br /><br />After the first load’s rolling around in soapy mire, I start to think about the pact I made with Karl. We torched the Tipper Maru at sea that night. After all, a good solid cover is second nature. And anyway, those who set her on course were sure to tool around the ocean looking for the wreck after she failed to pull into port with her valuable cargo. With her hull lapping up barnacles at the bottom of an infinite ocean of possibilities and the local gentry feasting on whatever was left of her barbequed crew, who’s to say if one Eddie Mars and the missing list were among her sunken treasure?<br /><br />I remember standing on the bow of Karl’s schooner as we limped away from the Tipper Maru – naively wishing for that chapter of my life to be closed once and for all.<br /><br />“We’ve bought some valuable time,” Karl said.<br /><br />“For what?”<br /><br />“Time,” was all Karl would repeat.<br /><br />Yes, I suppose we had. Time to hide. Time to think. Time to regroup. Just time.<br /><br />“And now you’ll go home,” Karl told me after the blazing glow of the Tipper Maru was but a faint memory on the horizon line.<br /><br />“Home?!?”<br /><br />The thought hadn’t occurred to me then. I hadn’t had a place to call my own for such a long while I wasn’t sure that the one I remembered still existed.<br /><br />“For a while, at least,” Karl explained, “Until I decide what comes next.”<br /><br />And what did? Not much. A few useless days at sea, the weather ideal, the company benign. Karl fished mostly and talked even less than I remembered. He was cryptic, aloof, mistrusting even as Manuella lay quietly topless in a deck chair facing the prevailing wind. I felt my thoughts drift to nothingness; no idea of the future, barely a recollection of the past, the light bob and sway of a generally calm sea hypnotic to the point of mental paralysis.<br /><br />It was all so out of character, so rare in my life to have these moments to reflect, only to realize I had neither the inclination nor the golden wellspring of fond memories to come up with something of interest on my own. For the first time in a very long while I was incredibly lonely.<br /><br />I think Manuella sensed this – almost intuitively, like a clairvoyant with only one client to channel. Because on the last day out, she came to me in the night with the warm broth of human connection, her silken braid of jet black hair loosely falling across my sun-kissed chest as I lay quietly in my cabin.<br /><br />“You will please to not misunderstand,” she said, laying on top of my covers, her arm extending behind my neck and gently caressing my salty windswept tussle of hair.<br /><br />“You remind me of something,” I whispered to her.<br /><br />“Ah yes,” she quietly replied, “Your mother perhaps?”<br /><br />“Let’s leave matriarchy out’a this,” I suggested, rolling over, face away from hers, feeling the nimble light stroke of long fingers running through the hairs on the back of my head.<br /><br />“Do not to worry,” she whispered, almost melodically, “You are still among friends.”<br /><br />“I don’t feel that I am.”<br /><br />“You are.”<br /><br />And that was all the confirmation needed to send me off to slumber; a half-cut limb of a fairytale I wanted so desperately to be true.<br /><br /> . . . <br /><br /><br />Coming up the stairs I get a surprise visitor at my front door– actually one I expected to find sluggin’ back a few whiskey sours at the Vanity Club; Sergeant Mallory.<br /><br />“Well, look what globe-trotting limp biscuit finally turned up to collect himself a slice’a friendship,” he tells me, grinning from ear to ear like his wife just decided to give it up for old time sake, “And what cat dragged your celebrated hole back into town?”<br /><br />“Careful,” I suggest, “You’re talkin’ to a G-man now.”<br /><br />“No kiddin’.”<br /><br />“On the level,” I admit, “At least as much as I can be.”<br /><br />We share a laugh before Mal’ gets down to business. He was never a guy for conversation unless it was related to a case. Today’s no exception. So, I get an invite to the Vanity on his tab – an offer I don’t refuse.<br /><br />But the Vanity’s changed. It’s been cleaned up. The boys in the band kept their gig, only their jazz is more smooth than hot and the gals they’re playing it for all come with respectable looking guys on the side. I don’t spot a single sugar daddy or rich playboy among them – just nice sacrificial lambs slated for their bloody ‘by the power invested in me’ at the altar.<br /><br />“New management,” Mal’ informs me as we take our place at the bar, turning his attention to the ‘tender and flashing his badge, “Pour me a real drink this time, mug!”<br /><br />Our jerk with a license doesn’t take kindly to Mal’s request, but he fills the cup just as readily with straight bourbon.<br /><br />“I could kiss your ass,” Mal’ tells me, “You and the fella yer workin’ for.”<br /><br />“I’ll take a rain check,” I say, “Besides, I don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”<br /><br />“No?” Mal’ says, curious…like he doesn’t believe me, “Well, you just tell the money man that it’s okay by me that he’s spreadin’ the graft around.”<br /><br />Money man? Sure doesn’t sound like Karl’s idea of being low profile. And it couldn’t be coming from some real G-man related to the late Gen. Brenfeld…or could it. Then again, who am I to complain if Washington doles out seven hundred on a hammer and two-ninety-six for a toilet seat? I’ve been leaving my deposits in some pretty posh pots lately.<br /><br />We knock back a few and Mal’ fills me in on what’s been going on since I disappeared.<br /><br />“Some Chinese fella’ came lookin’ for you about a month back,” Mal explains.<br /><br />“How’d you find out about it?”<br /><br />“Fate. The guy contacted your landlord, Busey first with a hot poker in the furnace room one night,” Mal’ explains, “Said you had to answer for some things. Burned poor ol’ Bus’s nips right off. One of ‘em had a metal ring attached. Doc had to dig pretty deep with the forceps to pry out what was left over of that metal burned in. Anyway, I took the report from Bus’. Only the little prick that did this to him disappeared before I could lay my hands on him.”<br /><br />I remember Shin-Su’s threat to me that night in my apartment and suddenly feel a cold streak of hard candy relief; knowing that he’s been cooked in a courtyard at Shangri-La.<br /><br />“I think it’s taken care of,” I tell Malory.<br /><br />No sense in being definitive. Especially since I can’t be sure.<br /><br />“Anybody else?”<br /><br />“Yep,” Mal’ replies, the wince gone from his fourth shot, “Some guy who says yer workin’ for him now. Says he needs yer help. Says he’s willin’ to forget everything and pay for it this time on account of whatever situation you two were in abroad’s been reversed.”<br /><br />It can’t be Karl. Not so soon.<br /><br />“This guy…” I say, “He have a name.”<br /><br />“Don’t they all?” Mal’ replies, “Only you know me and names. Sort’a got away from me. I think it all dates back to a girl I used to date in high school. What’s her name, who broke my heart and made me hate the world and everyone in it. Makes me feel important to think that maybe she remembers my name even if I haven’t a clue what was hers. Hey, you…sexy with legs up the kazoo…bend over and smile for your ol’ pal, Mal’.”<br /><br />Women. Every guy’s loose leash of intimate regrets all stems back to a woman.<br /><br />“Spain,” Mal’ mumbles.<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“The guy,” Mal’ goes on, “The invisible man. El Cid with a bank account. He came from Spain. I think. Don…”<br /><br />It can’t be. Not Alvarez. Not alive. And yet…<br /><br />I keep my thoughts to myself, the only place I know they’ll be safe and try to camouflage the fact that Mal’s meandering has hit a nerve.<br /><br />I’m almost certain I know the answer to my question even before it’s out.<br /><br />“Who?”<br /><br />But Mal’s too into his next drink to care.<br /><br />“How the hell should I know? I’m getting all this second hand from Busey. Poor bastard. After the last guy, he didn’t expect to have a head left on his shoulders when this one showed up. Said he was clean cut, polished. Well spoken. Didn’t want much from ol’ Bus’ except to pass along his message. Paid your overdue rent in full. That made up from havin’ no nips…well, almost.”<br /><br />We finish a few more rounds. By then, my head’s a cloudy mess.<br /><br />“So?” Mal’ suggests.<br /><br />I’m at a loss.<br /><br />“So what?” I come back, slovenly and slurred.<br /><br />“So, you gonna tell me who yer new paymaster is?”<br /><br />“Why should I?” I inquire, prudence swimming dangerously close to that ripple in intellect where too many mistakes get made.<br /><br />“Because I’m not that patient a guy, Eddie,” Mal’ tells me, his left index finger loosely waggling with all the authoritative misdemeanor of a toothless grandpappy warning of the apocalypse in a sandcastle built at high tide.<br /><br />“Would you believe me if I told you the guy’s a prince?” I say.<br /><br />“Among men or for real?” Mallory inquires.<br /><br />But my brain’s soaked through. I have gin and tonic oozing all over every incoherent thought that comes out as lush talk.<br /><br />“Develop this tomorrow,” I say, standing up but feeling as though someone’s relocated the ground beneath my feet.<br /><br />“Sure,” Mallory says, “But you better be in my office by noon, my friend. Or I can’t be held responsible for what’ll come next.”<br /><br />He knows something. Even in my drunken haze I know that he knows that I know. Or maybe I don’t know nothin’ – not even my own limit at happy hour.<br /><br />Gradually the weight of gravity brings me back to earth. I stagger a bit as I bid Mal’ a good night, but get my legs back fairly quickly on the way out, tipping the hat check girl for my trench and fedora. She’s cute – I think. Better not chance it. At this late stage in the evening’s festivities my idea of best could so easily translate to ‘best in show.’<br /><br />Outside it’s begun to rain – that slow steady drizzle that’ll keep up for hours…maybe days…with a dense bank of greenish fog blown off the bay. The street’s as empty as my head. The sound of my feet draggin’ through each puddle is amplified into a tidal at sea. Slosh, slosh, slosh – LOOK OUT!<br /><br />I almost take it on the chin from a crazy motorcyclist. What the hell’s he doing wheelies on the sidewalk? Oh…I’ve somehow made it into the middle of the street. The only wheelies are in my head – none moving at the desired pace that God and physiology intended.<br /><br />I’m a peaceful drunk – I think. I mean, I don’t shout or cry or even sing ‘Sweet Adeline’ like a Japanese businessman at a cheap Karaoke bar. I don’t curse any of the parked cars for being in my way, even when one nails me in the shin with the sharp end of its tailpipe. Ouch! That’ll hurt tomorrow. Hell, I think it hurts now. Slightly. <br /><br />The evenly paced drops of drizzle hitting my brow feel cool and good – therapeutic, cleansing, washing my sins away. I’ve so many to account for. Wish I had a bar of soap to hasten the purification. Before I know it, I’ve covered a lot’a ground. I’m home. Well, almost.<br /><br />I prop myself in the narrow hall leading to my apartment. I suppose I could toss my cookies here only I suddenly remember how much Busey’s been through and decide I can stomach my alcohol until I wiggle the key into my lock.<br /><br />Inside, it’s dark. I fumble for the light switch. I’m barely inside when I feel a dull loud crack across the back of my neck. Everything goes dark and I kiss the floor.<br /><br />In my dream a young man goes to town one night. The world is still full of untapped mysteries. On his way he meets a precocious tot skipping fresh pennies in a large puddle. The child looks up at him wide-eyed and asks “what did you bring me?”<br /><br />“Go away kid,” the youth replies, “My time’s more precious than you know.”<br /><br />“Why?” the child innocently asks.<br /><br />“It’s called seniority,” the young man explains, “…and I’ll always have it.”<br /><br />Nearby, on a stoop an old man cackles, the years of hard-belly liquor and acrid cigars bubbling too near the surface of each sustained boom and gasp until finally he distracts.<br /><br />“Well?” the youth finally asks, turning to the gnarled fool on his perch, “You got something to say?”<br /><br />“Want some advice?” the porch rodent asks.<br /><br />“Not today. I’m in a hurry.”<br /><br />The geezer looks on. Through and past; even beyond the moment into his reflective crystal ball of shadowy regrets.<br /><br />“Then go ahead,” he tells the youth, “…and suck the marrow out’a life. Just remember, <em>one day it’ll return the favor.”<br /></em><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#00cccc;">THE END…<br /></span></strong><br /><strong><em><span style="color:#66ff99;">…not as long as the author’s alive.</span></em></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#66cccc;">Eddie Mars</span></strong> <strong><em>will return in his next adventure</em></strong>,<br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33ff33;">MIA</span></strong> <strong><em>on</em></strong> <strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#66cccc;">July 29, 2008.</span></strong><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).</span></strong><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/20703034-4592447255764703418?l=eddymarsdet.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Nick Zegarachttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09653420010211280432noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20703034.post-22406327142476402532008-05-15T08:37:00.000-07:002008-05-15T08:42:29.670-07:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">DISCLAIMER</span><em> for the first time reader:</em></strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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…<br /></strong></span><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#66cccc;">ADVENTURE THE <span style="color:#ff6666;">41</span>st: <span style="color:#ff6666;">P</span>AWN’S <span style="color:#ff6666;">G</span>ROVE<br /></span></strong><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />I’m not from this time. I don’t exactly know what period in history I’d fit in – but I’m fairly