Authors: Arlene Brathwaite
As he put on the dingy overalls, he re-enacted how the scene must’ve went down between Baker and the CIA. They probably walked in, flashing their badges and then started asking a thousand questions. Then they demanded to see the records of all male employees, especially the ones with impeccable backgrounds, because they knew all of his identities were airtight. Then, they probably showed Baker obscured pictures they may have had of him, but none of them would look like Clayton Andrews. They allowed him to come into the center so that Baker could identify him. Baker was probably wearing a wire, which explained why he was clearing his throat so many times.
He removed the thick moustache out of its case and used the pocket mirror to affix it to his face. He then took out a pair of contacts and put them in his eyes. He then fitted his afro wig and pulled a baseball cap low so that the afro could stick out on either side. He then stuck a piece of chewing tobacco in his mouth. His outfit was complete, it was time to Houdini.
“What’s taking him so long?” Agent Ricks, the younger of the two agents in the van asked.
“Be patient,” his partner, agent Dale, an old timer said to him. “He’s probably using the can or getting something out of the vending machine.”
“Or he’s on to us, and he’s long gone.”
“We have the center surrounded; we’ve got men on the roof. We’ve even posted men on the adjacent roofs. The only way he’s getting out of there without us knowing is if he flushes himself down the toilet.”
“Do you think this is our guy?”
“Don’t know, but someone high on the food chain seems to think so.”
“Can you imagine the medals we’re going to get if we put a collar on this guy?”
“Medals? We’ll be millionaires just off the interviews and book deals.”
“I never thought of that.”
“That’s why I’m the senior agent,” agent Dale said. He perked up. “All units, this is command. Someone’s exiting the building, standby.” Dale looked over at Ricks, who was inspecting the suspect who just exited the building. “Well?”
Ricks adjusted his binoculars. “Shit!” He scanned the clip board that contained the roster of the center’s employees. “Six-three, two hundred and fifty pounds, thick moustache and a fucking afro. It’s the janitor.”
“Give me those.” Dale took the binoculars from his partner and watched the janitor place a cardboard box by the dumpster and then head back in. “Shit! All units stand down, I repeat, stand down.”
“We should send someone in.”
“And risk being made? No, we wait.”
Both men jerked to attention when the janitor came back out and placed two more boxes on the first one. He stood there for a moment and spit a glob of tobacco against the dumpster.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Ricks asked.
His question was answered when the janitor picked up the boxes and quickly carried them to his pickup truck.
“That thieving motherfucker. What the fuck can you steal out of a school?”
“Anything he could probably get his hands on to buy some crack.”
They both watched the janitor get into his pickup and pull off.
“I can’t believe we just watched him take off with all that stolen merchandise,” Ricks said.
“I’ve been in this business a long time, sonny boy, and if there’s one thing that I learned, it’s this: Sometimes you got to let a lot of the small fish go in order to catch the big one.”
Ricks was sopping up the jewel his seasoned partner shared with him, until the janitor who looked exactly like the one who just pulled off in the pickup truck ran out of the center. He stood in the spot where the pickup was, took off his hat and threw it to the ground.
Ricks jumped out of the van, binoculars in one hand and his gun in the other.
“Somebody stole my truck,” the janitor said to Ricks as he approached.
Agent Dale was already on the radio, giving the description of the truck to the helicopters in the sky. Within minutes, they located the truck. All units converged on it. The only thing they found in it was three cardboard boxes filled with shredded newspapers. Ricks was too young to know what was about to happen, but Dale seen it too many times to count. For their blunder, he would be forced into retirement, and Ricks would be re-assigned to the file room located in the basement of some non-descript CIA building.
Saint pulled out his disposable phone, after reaching his getaway car, and dialed Glenn’s number. “Glenn—”
“Hi, Clayton,” Grace said.
“Grace put Glenn on the phone, please.”
“You sound agitated.”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Grace, please, put Glenn on the phone.”
“Okay, hold on.” Grace handed Glenn the phone. “Your friend sounds like he has an attitude.”
Glenn grabbed the phone. “What’s happening?”
“Take care my friend.” Saint hung up.
“Clayton!! Saint!!” Glenn pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it. A moment later, when his brain re-booted, he dropped the phone.
“Glenn, what’s wrong?” Grace asked, with a worry look coming over her.
Glenn’s knees buckled and he crashed to the floor, and started to cry.
“Olivia!!” Grace called out. Everyone stared at Glenn and Grace as Olivia rushed toward them.
“Glenn, what’s the matter baby?” Grace asked, shaking him.
“He’s gone,” he said, hugging her.
“Gone where?”
Glenn got to his feet. “I have to go.”
“Where are you going?” Olivia asked.
“I have to—” Glenn was shaking. Grace grabbed him, but he broke free and ran out of the salon. He jumped in the middle of the street, trying to hail a cab, but none was going to stop for a deranged looking man.
Grace and Olivia ran outside and pulled him out of the street. “Glenn, what’s going on?” Grace asked, starting to cry.
“I have to get to his apartment.”
“Olivia will drive you.”
“No,” he snapped. “I have to go alone. I have to stick to the plan. We planned… Oh God, I never thought… He darted out into the street in front of a taxi. It skidded to a halt. Glenn hopped in and shouted an address to him. The cabbie took off.
Glenn entered the apartment, rushing straight to the bedroom closet. He grabbed the 13”x18”, aluminum attaché by the handle and carefully laid it in the middle of the floor. He sat cross-legged, while fumbling for his keys. He pressed a five digit code on the key pad attached to his key ring. If he hadn’t, and tried to open the case, a device inside it would have triggered a small explosive that would have destroyed the documents inside. He took a deep breath and opened it. The first document he came across was a bank account statement Saint had set up for him, with a balance of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The next document was a deed to a house on 5
th
Ave with Glenn’s name on it. The next item was a cell phone.
Glenn’s heart pounded into overdrive when he heard the floor board behind him creak. He reached for the last item in the case and rolled onto his stomach, with arms extended. He had Grace’s head in the sights of the 9mm.
Grace’s mouth formed a big O.
Olivia screamed. “Glenn it’s us.”
“How did you get here?”
“I saw Clayton’s driver’s license last night. I memorized his address.”
“You shouldn’t be here.” He stood up. “We got to go.”
“We’re not going anywhere until you tell me what the fuck is going on,” Grace said.
Glenn put the items back into the attaché, and closed it. “There might be some people on their way here. If we’re here when they get here, they
will
kill us.”
Grace and Olivia followed him out of the apartment, no more questions asked.
Glenn sat in the back seat of Olivia’s car, clutching the attaché case, as they drove to his apartment in silence. When they walked through the front door, Glenn went to his room and slid the case into his closet. His eyes became heavy. His body was finally coming down from its adrenaline-induced high. He felt the heat rush to his face when he turned around and saw Grace staring at him from the door way. He sat on the edge of his bed and took a deep breath. He ran his fingers through his hair as he exhaled. Olivia stood next to him with her arms folded.
“What’s going on, Glenn?” Grace asked.
“I can’t talk about it.”
“You can’t talk about it? You just had a gun pointed at me, Glenn.”
“Grace, please, I can’t—”
She took off the engagement ring and threw it at him, and walked off.
“Grace! Wait!” Glenn ran ahead of her and blocked the front door.
“I was about to be your wife,” she said, starting to cry. “How can you just tell me that you can’t talk about it?” Glenn banged his head against the wall. “Move!” Grace tried pushing him out the way.
“Wait!” He looked at Grace and then to Olivia. “Okay, let’s go into the living room and have a seat. You got to be sitting down when you hear this.”
Grace and Olivia sat on the love seat. Glenn sat across from them trying to rub the goose bumps off his arms. “God, where do I start?” he said out loud as he rubbed his arms faster.
“Start from the beginning,” Olivia said.
“The beginning. Okay… Saint’s parents died in a car accident in France when he was two years old.”
Grace cocked her head. “Saint?”
“That’s Clayton’s real name, at least that’s the name I always knew him by.”
“I remember Petrescu calling him that in Las Vegas,” Olivia said.
“There was a young nun, twenty-three years old, who used to baby sit Saint when his parents went to work. When they died, she brought him to the convent. The mother Superior left her in charge of taking care of him. She raised him as if he were her own child. At the beginning of every summer, the young nun was sent to various convents through out Europe, Africa, and Asia. And she always took Saint with her.”
And that’s how he learned all those languages
, Olivia thought.
“One day, at the age of fourteen, Saint saw something he wasn’t suppose to. In one of the nun’s room, he heard a sharp scream. Being the curious boy he was, he went to check it out. He peeked through the key hole in shock as the Father had the nun bent over a desk. Saint ran to the young nun, who he took to calling mommy, and told her what he had seen. She beat him and made him promise not to tell anyone. She made him understand that if the Father ever found out that he knew what was happening, he would send him away, and he would never see her again. He promised not to tell, but he also swore that if the Father ever tried anything with her, he would kill him.”
Grace shook her head.
“About a month later, Saint heard arguing coming from the young nun’s room. Saint stood a few doors away, recognizing the Father’s voice. His heart did somersaults when he heard some scuffling and then a smack. He swore if the Father ever tried raping the woman who was his world, he would kill him but saying it and doing it was two different things. It wasn’t until he heard her choking that he bolted into action. He ran to the door and kicked it in. The Father had one hand wrapped around her neck, strangling the life out of her, while he tried putting himself into her with the other. When the Father saw him, he backed up. Saint charged him and beat him mercilessly. The nun finally managed to pull Saint off of him. The Father was sprawled out on the concrete floor unconscious. Before he came to, the nun fled with Saint as far as she could.
Glenn stopped speaking for a moment. “On their own, and with no one to turn to, Saint and the young nun did what they had to do to survive. Needless to say, the nun ditched the habit, along with her vows. She would find work as a maid, only to case out houses that Saint would break into and rob. He had worked his way into a small time group of French thieves. They stole everything from clothes to cars. It was only a matter of time before he became recognized as their leader. With him calling the shots, the heists got more risky, yet more lucrative. He soon put the ex, young nun in charge of the clique.”
“Josephine,” Olivia whispered.
Glenn nodded. “Yes, the young nun. Saint went from being the leader to the enforcer. He made Josephine the most feared woman in France, soon, there was not a continent she wasn’t known on.”
“So, the way you two met, was that a lie?” Grace asked.
“No, it was true, only he wasn’t working for Petrescu. It was the other way around. Petrescu was an accountant for the Rumanian mob, but he was working as a double agent for Josephine.”
“Is he a teacher?” Olivia asked.
“Yes, he became a teacher after he… retired.”
“Retired?” Grace looked at him suspiciously.
“Y’all are going to have to bear with me, because the story gets kind of sketchy. From what I could drag out of Saint, Josephine began to believe that he wanted to kill her, so she made a preemptive strike. She hired an assassin to kill him.” Both women listened in shock.
“And she would’ve killed him if it wasn’t for me. I kind of had this bad habit of using Saint’s spare key to get into his loft, and just barge in.”