Fast and Loose (25 page)

Jack decided to run with it. He motioned for Cyrus to join him. “Guard these two. If they even twitch, you get your wish.”

Cyrus, ham that he was, stretched luxuriously before he trotted over to the two bound prisoners sitting on the floor. He let loose with two yips and then bared his teeth as he let loose with a ferocious growl to show he really wanted to bite someone's ass.

Jack at that moment decided a few little lies on his part wouldn't hurt and just might move things along. He cleared his throat. “I want the two of you to listen to me very carefully. First things first. You are not going to be released, nor are you going to be arrested. That's too good for you two. Second, this dog—his name is Cyrus—is a trained killer. On command, he will go straight for your throat, rip it out, and hang on till you bleed out. Now, having said that, Cyrus does have one
little quirk
that he refused to give up during his military training. Sometimes he just has to bite someone's ass. In this case, it will be your asses.

“Third, we want a written, signed confession statement from the two of you. Your relocation address will depend on how cooperative you both are. Oh, fourth, and last, Cyrus is good in that position for just fifteen minutes. Then he starts to salivate, and from there on, it's his ball game. Right, big guy?”

Cyrus barked joyfully to confirm all Jack's lies.

“Okay, someone get ready to record their confessions so we can print them out for signatures. Maggie is a notary, so everything will be legal. She said everything is all hooked up and ready to go. So,
go
!”

Kelly went first. His tone was conversational. “I told you, I did not do anything. My sister did not do anything. I'm writing a book about a Vegas heist. Nothing like
Ocean's Eleven
. This is the real deal. My sister was helping me since she's into all things digital and electronic, whereas I am a Neanderthal. She enlisted the aid of a mentor, who showed her the ropes about hacking so she could become the professional she is. That's what those e-mails are. I admit to knowing that the showgirls formed that asinine club and making it all work for me. Besides not being able to take revenge on me, they agreed to help my sister when she presented the project to them. It's called research. Authentic research. How else can a person get a book published? That's my story, and I am sticking to it. It's up to you to prove otherwise.”

“It's my story, too,” Kitty/Clare said.

Jack wondered if he was the only one who had noticed how shaky and trembly Kitty/ Clare's voice sounded.

“Let me clear something up here,” Maggie said as she waved a sheaf of papers in the air. “That novel you claim to be writing, all those chapters . . . All I found was nine separate files that claim to be chapters one through nine. It's a one-paragraph chapter. Then there are two other files with gibberish. I don't know if you consider them chapters or not. One through nine are basically just notes.”

“It's my outline. My guide,” Kelly said defensively, one eye on Jack and Maggie, the other eye on Cyrus. “That's how you write a book.”

“That's pure bullshit, and you know it. Clock's ticking, Mr. Kelly. Miss Andreas, do you want to go down with your brother, or do you want to tell us what you all were really planning? Don't start with that lawyer business again, either. That is not even on the table,” said Maggie.

Kitty/Clare licked at her dry lips as she stared up at Dennis, who was hovering over her. “We did not commit any crime. We, meaning me and the other girls, were helping my brother. He promised us all a share of the book's proceeds and a share of the movie he said they would make. There's no crime in that.”

“To a point, you're right,” Jack said. “What we didn't show you were the texts and e-mails from your mentor, RCHood, where you confessed to what you were going to do. He drew you into his web, pretended to help you, and now he's gone. If you aren't getting it, he let you hang yourself. His legacy is this pile of incriminating evidence, which will, if given to the proper authorities, ensure a nice long vacation in a federal penitentiary. You'll be old and gray when you get out. Assuming someone doesn't get to you first.

“See, we're looking out for you, because we know what will happen to the two of you if we cut you loose and turn you over to the feds. You know how Vegas works. Ah, I see by the look on your face that you know what I'm talking about. Your best bet is to cooperate with us and confess. The clock is still ticking, but not for long,” Jack said.

Maggie stared hard at Dixson Kelly. She remembered how delicious he'd looked in his pristine white shirt, Hermès tie, and designer warrior suit when she'd first set eyes on him. He looked nothing like that now. Right now he had a beaten look, which he was trying desperately to cover up.

Kitty/Clare spoke hesitantly. “Speaking hypothetically, just suppose my brother and I agree to give you a confession, not that we are guilty, but to put an end to this . . . this silliness. Should we agree to do that, hypothetically, what's in it for us? Since no crime was committed. That part is true and not a hypothetical.”

“Save your breath, Clare. These people are not here to help us. They're here to help themselves. Open your eyes and look around. Do you see a Mickey Mouse operation here? I sure as hell don't, so just shut up already. This whole thing has teeth.”

Jack looked at his watch. Two minutes and counting. “Cyrus, stay alert and pay attention.”

Maggie held out her recorder. “Last chance. Time is almost up.”

“If I sign it, will you let me go?” Kitty/Clare asked.

Her voice sounded so pitiful, Jack almost laughed out loud.

“Absolutely!” the occupants of the room said as one.

“Okay, okay, I'll sign it, but it's bogus. I just want out of here. Dix, sign the damn confession so we can get out of here.”

“Are you out of your mind? You can't believe anything they say. You are such a fool, Clare. Why I ever listened to you in the first place is a mystery to me,” Kelly snarled.

“Time's up, guys! They're all yours, Cyrus!”

That was all Cyrus had to hear. He was up on all fours. He eyed the situation just as Dixson put his bound wrists up over his face for cover, then rolled over flat out. It was exactly what the shepherd wanted. He pounced and bit down and then hung on for dear life. Blood spurted in all directions. Kitty/Clare started to cry and shriek her misery. Kelly bellowed at the top of his lungs. Ted smacked him on the side of the head and told him to shut up.

“Get that goddamned dog off me! All right, all right, I'll sign your frigging confession, but I'm signing it under duress, and I am going to put that in the confession, too. I need a doctor! That damn dog better have had his rabies shot,” Kelly bellowed.

Jack grimaced. “He's due for one next month. I'm sure you'll live, Kelly. Your ass might be sore for a few weeks, but I guarantee that you will live. At least if your fan club doesn't get ahold of you. Roll over, sit up, and write out the confession. You, too, sweet cheeks.”

The moment the brother and sister signed their names to their confessions, Maggie quickly notarized their signatures, fixed her seal, dated it, and said, “I think this is all Lizzie and Cosmo will need to cut those women loose. We're in the clear, guys!”

Kelly couldn't keep the surprise off his face. “You know my lawyers?”

Jack looked at Kelly for a moment, then laughed out loud before saying, “Get with the program here, Kelly. Who do you think they named their kid after? I'm Little Jack's godfather.”

“Son of a bitch!” Kelly exploded.

Jack laughed again.

“They're all yours now, Mr. Snowden. We're done here,” Charles said.

“Wait just a damn minute,” Kitty/Clare shouted. “You said you would let us go. We want to go by ourselves. We definitely do not need an escort.”

“Oh, but you do, my dear,” Charles said.

“You lied! You goddamn lied to us! That's . . . that's . . . unspeakable. Dixson, say something!” Kitty/Clare shrieked at the top of her lungs.

“I did warn you. Will you please just shut up! You're giving me a headache,” Kelly snapped.

“Take two Aleve,” Dennis said helpfully.

Kelly could only stare at the young reporter as he recalled the big man in the Tiki Bar telling him the same exact thing. That was what had started this whole megillah. He wished now that he had two Aleve to take.

Ah, well, this was Vegas.
You win some, and you lose some.
Only to himself would he admit that he had never
really
thought he was going to get away with his plan.

When Snowden and his people departed with Kitty/Clare and Dixson in tow, the comped MGM room was silent. So silent, no one wanted to shatter the stillness.

“Plane will be ready in thirty minutes,” Dennis finally whispered as he stared at an incoming text. “Wheels up in ninety minutes, so we need to move quickly.”

The group scattered and scrambled.

Jack was the last to board the private Gulfstream. He stood on the tarmac and looked around, wondering if it was true what they said about Vegas.

He ascended the stairs and before he entered the plane, he stood on the top step and offered up a sloppy salute to the town he hoped never to see again.

Only one loose end. And he'd make it right when he got back home or die trying.

Just one loose end.

No mission was considered complete until all the ends were tied in a neat bow.

Just one loose end.

Epilogue

 

I
sabelle Flanders Tookus snapped the lock on her battered briefcase, then turned around to look at her husband, who was sitting at the kitchen counter, staring into his coffee cup. “I'm leaving now, Abner. Don't wait up for me. I'm going to be late. In fact, I think I might take a trip to Outer Mongolia and never, ever come back.” She waited a few seconds to see if Abner would respond. He nodded when she poked at his arm.

“You did not hear a word I said, Abner. Look at me! I mean it, Abner. Look at me. See that bag over there by the door? I'm leaving. I can't live like this anymore. I
won't
live like this any longer. When and if you get your act together, call me.”

Abner swiveled his stool around to face his wife. “Why? I asked you to cut me some slack. I asked you to give me some time to work through some issues that I have. You said you would, and now, just like that, you're leaving. Again, why?”

“Don't even go there with me, Abner. I'm done talking. I've had it with you. Go look at yourself in the mirror. I dare you! You look like a skid-row bum. And you smell! That beard, if that's what it is supposed to be, is pitiful. You've been wearing those same clothes for a week. I repeat, you smell!”

Abner's arms flapped in the air. “You don't understand.”

“Oh, I understand, all right. More than you know. I'm the one who has been running interference so you could revel in your own misery. I know everything that happened, thanks to my friends, who thought I should know. I'm sick and tired of lying for you. You need to own your own misery. I will not forsake my friends while we all sit around, waiting for you to get over your snit. When was the last time you picked up the mail or took out the trash? Two months! When was the last time you left this loft? Two months! I'm telling you this, so you don't have to tax your brain. You're all but brain-dead. The only thing you aren't doing yet is drooling. Good-bye, Abner.”

Abner heard the door close. He moved his head slightly to see if the bag by the door was gone. It was. His wife was gone. He needed to think about that. She'd told him to do something. What was it? Then it came to him. Isabelle had said he should look in the mirror. Maybe she'd left him a message scrawled in lipstick on the mirror. He frowned.
Isabelle doesn't do things like that.
She'd said he smelled. And something about the mail. She was also sick and tired of waiting for him to drool. Shit! He wished now he'd paid more attention to what his wife had said.

Isabelle was gone. The bag by the door was gone. Ergo, his wife had left him because she was sick and tired of waiting for him to drool. How goddamn stupid was that? Abner thought as he shuffled toward the bathroom so he could look in the mirror.

It was a pretty bathroom, big enough for two people on a busy morning. Isabelle had decorated it. It wasn't girly girly, nor was it manly. It was just plain old pretty, with misty green towels, luscious ferns on pedestals. Abner looked around and finally looked in the mirror. Then he looked around again to see who had followed him into the bathroom. He looked back at the mirror and realized he was looking at himself. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for what he was looking at. Nothing.

Son of a bitch! No wonder Isabelle had left him. How in the hell did he get like this?

Abner moved like a whirlwind as he reached for his razor and went at it. The moment he could see his actual skin, he rooted around in one of the vanity drawers till he found a pair of scissors. He started to whack at his stringy hair. He'd always cut his own hair, because no one could cut it the way he wanted it cut. Abner leaned forward to peer at his reflection. He saw himself and was pleased.

Abner spent thirty long minutes under his seventy-two pulsating jets as he rubbed and scrubbed to get the stink off him. He lost count of the times he washed his newly shorn head. He then turned the master knob from fiery hot to icy cold, then back again and again, until he thought he would black out.

He stood dripping wet on the bath mat as he contemplated his next move.
Dry off. Dress. Mail.
He had to get the mail. He didn't give a good fiddler's fart about the mail, but obviously, his wife did. Therefore, he had to get the mail.
Then what? Drooling.
He swung around and brushed his teeth for ten long minutes. Then he flossed. After that, he used up a half bottle of Listerine. The minty kind. He splashed on some woodsy, citrusy aftershave that Isabelle had said drove her nuts. He suddenly realized he felt pretty good. He got dressed in jeans, sneakers. He rummaged around in his drawer and finally settled on a deep purple Izod shirt, another gift from his wife. Purple was her favorite color.

Abner walked out to the kitchen. He felt better than good; he felt like a million bucks. He made a fresh pot of coffee. While he waited for it to drip into the pot, he decided to get the mail, which was so important to Isabelle.

Outside, Abner looked around at the colorful pots of flowers that seemed to be everywhere. He did some mental calculations. It had to be the end of June, close to July. According to Isabelle, he'd been in a stupor for two whole months. Sixty-one days! How was that possible?

At the mailbox, he noticed a fussy-looking little man walking toward him.

“Mr. Tookus?”

“Yes.”

“You are one hard man to get in touch with. I've been out here every day for the past two months, hoping to see you. No one answered that bell thing you have going on by the garage door. You didn't answer any of my letters, e-mails, or texts. I had no phone number to reach you. Nelson Carter,” the fussy little man said, holding out a fragile, bony-looking hand. Abner was careful not to squeeze it too hard.

“Is there someplace we can talk?” the fussy little man asked.

“About what? Why have you been coming out here every day for two months? Who are you?”

Carter withdrew a slim wallet from his jacket pocket and held it up for Abner to see his picture and the letters
CIA
. “I work for the Central Intelligence Agency, out at Langley. Can we go inside now? I don't much care to discuss business outdoors, and I really could use a cup of coffee, if you'd care to offer me one.”

“Yeah, sure,” Abner said, totally forgetting to pick up the mail as he led the man through the garage to the elevator that would take them to the loft.

Once they were seated at the kitchen counter on bar stools, coffee cups in hand, Abner waited for whatever was about to happen.

“I'm going to get right to the point, Mr. Tookus. You came to me highly recommended, so highly, in fact, that I have a hard time believing you are as good as the person who recommended you said you are. That person also said there was no one else in the universe who could fill his shoes but you.”

Abner started to laugh. The sound was rusty. Obviously, he hadn't laughed much lately. “Do we mention names here? Or do we just go with ‘I think I know who you are talking about,' or however you want to put it. You spooks are a whole other breed. I get that.”

Carter allowed himself a small smile. “Let's just say my . . . uh . . . spook decided to leave the agency on rather short notice. He recommended you as his replacement. He . . . actually insisted. I took that to mean . . .”

“Your agency would feel his full wrath or something like that if you didn't do what he said.” Abner chuckled.

“Exactly. The powers that be insist you come to work for us. Name your price. It's not an office, nine-to-five kind of job, as I'm sure you know. However, you will have to join us out at Langley for ten days or so. That's because we need to brief you. We will also schedule a video conference with your . . . uh, predecessor. So, Mr. Tookus, what do you say?”

Abner drained the coffee in his cup. He didn't know what to say.
Yes? No? I have to talk to my wife, but she left me. I need to talk to the boys, but they are no longer talking to me. Yes? No?

“Sure. Why not? I'm at loose ends here. When do you want me to start?”

Carter didn't miss a beat. “Tomorrow morning, six a.m. Don't be late.”

Abner walked Nelson Carter out to his car, a nondescript black Nissan sedan. They shook hands.

Abner didn't know if he should laugh, cry, dance a jig, or howl at the blazing sun. Instead, he ran like hell back to the garage and the elevator and the special phone Phil had given him. The problem was, he couldn't remember where he had put it. Not a problem, he realized when he heard it ringing inside the bread box, where he must have thrown it. He was laughing so hard, he could barely talk. So he listened.

“You take the job?”

“Yeah,” Abner gasped. “I start tomorrow. Should I say thanks?”

“Not necessary. What are friends for? Listen, kid, I have something to tell you. Mary Alice and I are getting married. The day after Thanksgiving. We want you to come to the wedding.”

“Now, why am I not surprised? I'm happy for you, Phil. What kind of present can I possibly give you? Man, you have the whole world.”

“You want to give me a present? If I tell you what I want, will you promise to give it to me?”

“Absolutely. If I can.”

“I want you to be my best man. Is that too much to ask?”

Abner was so choked up, he could barely speak. “No, no, it's not too much to ask, and I accept. I'm honored that you asked me. And flattered. Just tell me where and when.”

“Day after Thanksgiving. Las Vegas. The Elvis Presley Chapel.”

“Return to the scene of the crime, eh?”

Phil laughed. “One more thing. Don't wait too long before you mend all those fences you pounded into the ground. See ya, kid.”

“Yeah, see ya, Phil. Hey, give Mary Alice a hug for me. I'm happy for you, Phil.”

He hoped the day would stay as good as it was when he made his entrance at the BOLO Building to mend his fences.

But before he did another thing, he had to call his wife.

The moment he heard her voice, he laughed. “Thanks for the kick in the tail. I needed that. Please tell me you didn't buy a ticket to Outer Mongolia.”

“They were sold out.” Isabelle giggled. “Want me to come home early?”

“Oh, yeahhh.”