PART I

“Why did you ask me to meet you here, Hermano? Why are you alone?”

 

“Ahh, Ernesto, I did not see you come in, my friend. Please sit. Camarero, dos más cervezas."

 

“Carlos, what is it that makes a man like you venture outside of B.A. to get drunk in this stained and dingy shithole of a cantina?”

 

“She has left me, Ernesto. Fatima is gone.”

 

The bottoms of two bottles of Quilnes tactlessly hit the coasterless bar in front of the two men. Carlos draws his in as if it gives him some comfort.

 

“Fatima has left you? I’m astonished. What is it that happened?”

 

“It is the greatest humiliation. I do not even think that I can tell you.”

 

“This is a woman, Carlos. You are one of the most powerful men in Argentina since Peron. Tell me what happened and then we will just go and get her back. It is a simple matter."

 

Carlos took a long pull of the amber elixir from the brown glass bottle.

 

“I do not care about the woman. She is a whore. She can have that peon.”

 

“Ahhh, then you wish to punish your rival? Tell me his name and I will bring him to you.”

 

“No, to pursue vengeance against a cockroach like him would be an even greater humiliation. Well…maybe in time.”

 

Ernesto was confused. Carlos had always treated him as an equal – a brother, but he also knew his place. He knew his “brother" was agitated. He called for two shots of premium tequila. The bartender smirked and delivered some low grade swill in two mismatched shot glasses. 

 

“Let us toast your success, and then I want you to tell me exactly what needs to be done.” There was conviction in Ernesto’s eyes. He knew that Carlos had complete trust in him.

 

“He had help. I cannot prove it, but I believe there was someone assisting him.”

 

“I don’t require proof, mi amigo. Just a name.”

 

“I don’t know his name, but I think he was an Americano.”

 

Carefully, in measured tones, Ernesto replied, “Interesting. What else are you able to tell me about him?”

 

“He dresses well and always wears a coat and hat…”

 

________________________________________________________________________

 

I’m not really sure why I took the Buenos Aires job. I had been on a training junket in Macau with a group of Japanese businessmen about two weeks prior. They didn’t hire me on as a Wingman. I would never accept multiple clients at once. It’s unprofessional and a tremendous pain. This was different. They were bored with paying for companionship and wanted to find Western girlfriends. For that they needed skills which a lifetime of business education did not provide. La Confrerie approved this kind of training because the fees they offered were astronomical. Bubble economy and all.

 

When I got back to my suite at the Royal Crown, the phone light was flashing. I called down to the desk and was told that I had a message. The bellhop would bring it up at once, I was told.

 

Return to Marseilles. Your replacement is already in Macau.

 

Kind of an unusually long message for la Confrerie and a bit reckless in the mode of delivery. They didn’t observe the protocol of using a la Confrerie messenger. Probably because there was not a station office in Macau. My first thought was that I had fouled something up, but I couldn’t think of what. The Japanese had seemed happy. They had even bought me a new hat.

 

I thought I would have to find the next flight to Paris and connect to Marseilles, but when I went to check out, the clerk handed me an envelope containing a first class one-way ticket. Very reckless.

 

I won’t burden you with stories of my white knuckle, anxiety-ridden air-travel experience, but suffice it to say that it would have been a normal trip for most travelers. Well, as normal as a flight with purpose unknown can be, but the flying was competent.

 

When I arrived in Marseilles, I hired a cab to take me to the approximate location of headquarters. Don’t confuse this with the training campus. Headquarters changed every year or so to maintain its anonymity. The names on the doors changed as well.

 

It was Remy’s Beret Company in the warehouse district…or Michaud and Freret Investments in a suite of offices in the financial district… or Henri’s Couture in the mall…that was the worst secret location ever, but I could always stop off for an Orange Julius on the way in. This year, headquarters was in a building next to a fishmonger’s by the wharf. La Confrerie never lost their sense of humor. Those odiferous bastards.

 

At this point in time, they didn’t even have the place fully set up for business. I walked into the Director’s office and saw that there was no place to sit except for a few rusted metal crates. The Director gestured for me to sit down, but I had just purchased a new Jean Paul Gaultier raincoat that I wanted neither checkered with rust nor emanating the catch o’ the day’s odor.

 

“If you do not mind, Monsieur Director, I will stand.”

 

“As you wish. Chance, I need to get right to my point. I have been reviewing your file and it is exemplary. You are ahead of the curve…”  Modesty prohibits me from continuing with his praise.

 

“You are too kind, Monsieur Director.”

 

“You may not think so in time. I want to offer you an assignment.” A few things were wrong with this. I received my assignments in the field and never from the Director himself.

 

I wanted to proceed carefully, but instead this came out: “I’m in!” Okay, I was a little reckless.  “What is the assignment?”

 

“That’s the thing, Chance. I can’t tell you any of the details, unless you accept.  Did you say you were in?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh….oh. I really thought you’d ask me first and I would have to tempt you to take the assignment before telling you anything.” He looked at his watch as if I had freed up some time for him and now he was looking for something to do.

“Chance, this is not your normal type of assignment where you hang out with someone and try to help their life by finding them women. This one is a bit more dangerous.”

 

In all honesty, this business did not usually tend to be all that perilous, so the Director’s statement peaked my curiosity. As he progressed through a detailed briefing, I began to think that I should have stayed in Macau. When I suggested I might go back, I was assured that it was no longer an option.

 

“We will be sending Larson to watch your back.”

 

“I want the Frenchman, Monsieur Director. It’s non-negotiable.”

 

“I was expecting you to say that. It is impossible. He is on assignment elsewhere. There can be no more discussion on this matter.”

 

With that I was handed an envelope with cash, credentials, and a series of photographs and was ushered to a car. This was going to be a learn-as-you-go-type job.

 

The car took me to an airport and my queasiness returned. Marseilles to Paris, I sedate myself with a double vodka. Paris to New York, shares of Pfizer rise on news of my increased Dramamine utilization. New York to Miami, I passed out from the combination of commercial drug and alcohol consumption and emotional exhaustion. Miami to Buenos Aires: pure hell. I have to be lucid when I hit the ground so there is no medication. There is no alcohol. There is just turbulence and will.

 

When I hit the ground, Larson meets me at the airport. He is a tall Swede. He has a reputation as one of the best. He is known for pulling off dramatic wins for his principals. If you are an old Texas oil tycoon wanting to marry a countess because you care about that kind of superficiality, Larson is your man. At that time, he was considered to be every bit the equal of Edgar the Frenchman…but he wasn’t the Frenchman.

 

“Ransom.”

 

“Larson.”

 

“Let’s get over to the hotel and check you in. I’ve swept the room. I can brief you there,” Larson whispered.

 

After arriving at the hotel, Larson filled me in on what the Director hadn’t.

 

My principal was to be a 25-year-old drycleaner who was a native of Buenos Aires: Jose Garcia. My target was his 22-year-old cousin, Fatima Rojas.

 

“His cousin? That doesn’t sound right.”

 

“Third cousin, Ransom. I do not make these jobs.”

 

The obstacle was that Fatima had been seduced by a “community business leader” and had essentially been his not-so-secretive mistress for the past three years. Jose was in love with her and he wanted her back.

 

“Why does the la Confrerie care about this case, Larson?”

 

“I’m supposed to tell you that it’s pro bono work and that the kid is just really sincere…blah, blah, blah.”

 

“…but really?”

 

“But really, the man that seduced Fatima is a very bad person. La Confrerie wants him neutralized.” Each word was delivered cautiously, like he was testing pool water.

 

He went on to explain that along with legitimate business interests, Carlos Valdez was a drug lord, human trafficker, extortionist, arms dealer, pimp, and child molester/pornographer.

 

“No one told me that I was going to have to kill anyone.” Not that the last item on Valdez’s resume didn’t make me consider it.

 

“No, Ransom. You are going to be a Wingman like always. Garcia has agreed to help us get close to Valdez if we can deliver Fatima to him.”

 

“And then who kills Valdez?” I knew the answer before I got to the “k” in kill. Larson just gave me a stony stare.

 

“Well, at least it’s not me,” not really comfortable at all with my involvement in the whole ordeal.

 

They were called “sanctions,” sanctioned assassinations on undesirable key individuals. They used to be called “hits,” until Trevanian wrote his best seller The Eiger Sanction in ’72 and la Confrerie essentially stole the term. We aren’t always the most original lot, but I can’t take the blame for this one. It was before my time. Larson would be doing the sanction.

 

Larson had done his homework. Valdez could never be touched at his house, his places of business, or at any event on which he had his fingerprints. December provided a unique opportunity. Valdez always attended the annual Precipitación Fuera del Antrax

(Stampede Out Anthrax) fundraiser in Buenos Aires. This was run by a multi-national non-profit organization that went to cattle countries around the world raising awareness and cash to help fight the spread of anthrax. It was a black tie event that ended up being a who’s who in the Argentinian social scene. Valdez never attended the affair without his prized mistress on his arm.

 

The plan was to be simple. Garcia and I would have invitations. There didn’t seem to be a lot of security around the event, but Valdez always brought his own. I was a financier from Brussels. I could do a passable Belgium-French accent. We would infiltrate. I would distract. Garcia would give Fatima a compact disk with evidence of Valdez’s darker deeds. At this point she leaves him and Garcia picks up the pieces. I know it’s a little Oceans 11, but this happened before the movie came out so it’s either a coincidence or it was stolen from us. Let’s just call it a coincidence and let the lawyers starve.

 

Oh, and at some point in all of this, Valdez was supposed to die. I didn’t know when or how. Larson and I both preferred it that way for our own reasons. Garcia did not know anything about the sanction.

 

“Sounds good,” I said to Larson.

 

“One more thing, Ransom.”

 

“What?”

 

“Didn’t anyone tell you that December in B.A. was the middle of summer? What’s with the overcoat and the hat?”

 

I silently left the room and went to men’s shop in the hotel and purchased a linen suit and a Morocca fitted straw hat. I felt like Panama Jack.

 

With the Precipitación Fuera del Antrax still two weeks away, I was going to be spending a lot of time with a certain dry cleaner. We had to be on the same page. Scratch that. We had to be the same person. We trained until 2 or 3 a.m. every night. He stayed in the connecting hotel room or I stayed at his house.

 

The kid was motivated, I will give him that. The night before the Cow Ball (as we had started to call it), I had him sit in a chair in my hotel room. I sat on the edge of my bed and I asked him the one-worded question that had been on my mind since that day at HQ:

 

“Why?”

 

“I used to think that I knew,” he replied. “At first I knew that I loved her. Then I wondered why she chose him, so it became a rescue mission, save my cousin from this monster.  But whatever his other deeds, Fatima’s mother says that he treats her quite well.”

 

“It's not too late. You can hang this up and find another Fatima.”

 

“Senor Ransom, all of my family have been ranch hands. I am the first person to ever own a business. My dry cleaning feeds and clothes my nine nieces and nephews. I hate dry cleaning, but I do it well. I pay extortion to Valdez’s men. I have to worry about the little ones in the family getting hooked on his shit or getting exploited for his internet businesses. It is no longer about Fatima. What kind of a world is this when my family comes home smelling like cow manure and I clean his clothes?”

 

“Get some sleep, kid. Tomorrow is a big day.”

PART II

It was every elegant fundraising dinner. At least every one that I’ve ever attended. It was in a hotel’s banquet room, or a governor’s mansion, or a banquet hall. In this case the Alvear Palace Hotel.

 

There was a string quartet. There is always a string quartet. At some point in the evening, the string quartet will play Boccherini’s Minuet from Quintet #11. Even if you don’t know classical music, you know this song. If you’ve ever even seen a movie in which a string quartet played, you know this song. Poor Boccherini. Everyone in the world seems to have heard his music, but if you mention his name, someone will more likely ask if you want it with grated cheese or a side of gravy.

 

A couple of things separated the Precipitación Fuera del Antrax from other hotel-renting, string-quartet-accompanied banquets. This one had an enormous dairy sculpture of an anatomically correct Argentinean Shorthorn bull standing in four tubs of ice in the center of the hall. That was a first for me. The other was the impending sanction against the guest of honor. Carlos Valdez would die tonight.

 

My attendance had been pre-arranged as part of my cover. I would arrive alone. Garcia would arrive shortly after, also alone. Our tuxedos were as deliberately different as one could make tuxedos without venturing toward the ridiculous. I wore a Gucci with black pants and a white dinner jacket. Garcia’s was an all black Armani. As this was the Argentinean summer, there was no coat check. I went through some deal of trouble to find a place to check my coat and hat. In the end, I left them with the men’s bathroom attendant. He secured them in a cupboard where he kept a bottle of gin. I tipped him a sawbuck and told him that I would triple it if it didn’t come back smelling like a distillery.

 

That night I would be employing a technique known as Awkward Chic. The Frenchman had pioneered it with a few of his classmates in honor of their favorite actor. Yeah, you guessed it - Jerry Lewis. When applied as Wingman craft, the technique works by promoting your principal through self-sacrifice. The Wingman begins the evening with an endearing faux pas or a self-deprecating joke. By doing this, he creates the illusion that the target or mark and his principal are in some way superior to the Wingman. This creates an imperceptible bond between the two. The Wingman then begins to make blunders of ever increasing severity to cement the relationship between principal and target.

 

The art in this comes from the Wingman’s ability to make himself look moderately foolish without making the target question why the principal would even associate with such a simple clod. I’ve had about a 92% success rate with Awkward Chic. Tonight, however, was different. I would be employing the technique as a method of distraction so that Larson could do what he needed to accomplish, rather than as a method to prop up Garcia. That meant that the gloves would come off. I could be as boorish as I needed.

 

I had seen photos of the vintage hotel ballroom, but I needed to take in the lay of the land. Cherry wood and brass mostly, with a smattering of engraved crystal. Worthy of royalty, but not as ostentatious as some that I had seen in Europe. There was a sea of penguins, some serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres, and some propping up women in garish dresses, being served. The men attending were standard: slightly to morbidly obese, in their fifties and sixties with varying types of facial hair cut, waxed, or trimmed to make them look as distinguished as possible.

 

On the other hand, there was a collection of female attendees that may have been equaled in my experience, but never surpassed. I had expected primarily Argentinean wives, being that I was in Buenos Aires, but the nationalities and backgrounds of the women were quite varied. Men of means tend to acquire whatever their tastes dictate. It’s what keeps la Confrerie in business.

 

Despite our best efforts, Garcia and I wouldn't melt in with the crowd. He was too young and I was too non-mustached and non-Argentinean. He had no cover. It was not unusual for a young entrepreneur to attempt a social climb by attending one of these events. He would not be accepted, but no one would question his attendance.

 

Larson was another story. His cover was as an assistant to the event planner. Looking at the enormous butter bull in the center of the room, I was wondering if he had any role in that monstrosity. Probably not. Larson had no sense of style. I noticed him working his way in and out of the service halls that led down to the kitchen.

 

It was about half past nine when Valdez showed up with the lovely Fatima. She was absolutely stunning. If this were a movie, the crowd would have turned when she walked into the room. The other women would have had either stood in awe or made some catty remark to their friends or spouses. I just don't see what the big deal is. Something like that. Also, that accursed string quartet would have paused for a few heaven sent seconds… but this wasn't a movie.

 

Fatima was a classic beauty with olive skin and almond eyes, but there were at least three women in the room that rivaled her. No, at this event, Valdez was the center of attention, a man of power that could make people disappear. That’s what people wanted to see, a stone killer.

 

It was show time for Garcia and I. I was a diversion. I knew very little about Larson’s job other than Valdez would receive a dose of a slow-acting poison at some point during the night. I had to create enough of a diversion for Garcia to slip a compact disk to Fatima. Of course, he would have to offer her an explanation and reassurances. The plan was for her to leave with Valdez, and around the time she would be viewing the contents of the disk, Valdez would expire. At that point, Garcia would reclaim her from her horrid life as Valdez’s mistress. It was a simple plan.

 

I began with some minor buffoonery. I dropped the olive in my martini on the floor and attempted to chase it down. People laughed, but the evasive Valdez and Fatima failed to notice from where they sat.

 

So I went over to the string quartet and attempted to get them to take my requests. I tried in French, English, and broken Spanish, but they stared stonily ahead and continued to play. I did notice that the bald cellist started to sweat. It actually was better that they didn’t respond. Their apathy drew more attention to me than if they had taken the offered twenty dollar bill and started playing Funky Cat by Elton John like I had asked. However, this wasn’t getting the attention of Valdez.

 

At this point, Larson took a big risk. I walked over to the corner of the room so that I could survey the landscape for more opportunities to draw unwanted attention to myself, when he nonchalantly stopped by and said, “Ransom, you’d better step it up. No one is even noticing you. It’s an embarrassment.” Yeah, Larson and I were really bonding on this assignment.

 

He was right, though. Awkward Chic may be a fantastic bit of Wingman craft, but it just wasn’t working here. I started to drift about the room looking for another crime against all good taste and manners. I was starting to feel just plain awkward when I suppose my Wingman instinct kicked in. I say that it was instinct because I don’t remember coming up with the idea of stretching my hand out to lean on the enormous butter testicles of the giant dairy bull. That got everyone’s attention, including a very amused Valdez, who immediately walked over toward me. Take that Larson.

 

I actually felt an unpleasant chill when Valdez spoke to me, not so much because of what I knew of the man’s character, but more due to the fact that he would be a corpse in a few hours.

 

“Mi amigo, es usted un veterinario?”

 

Looking at the buttery mess in the palm of my hand, I replied that I wasn’t, in broken Spanish. Everyone in the immediate area erupted with laughter. Valdez had shown them his superiority.

 

I don’t know whether it was because he recognized how unimpressive my Spanish was or as a peace offering for the joke that he had made at my expense, but he switched over to English. “Then why are you gelding my bull?” More laughter, although this time some of it was forced.

 

“I apologize. I was distracted.” Valdez’s next move surprised me, because it actually showed empathy for an embarrassed guest. He plucked a dinner roll from a server that was bringing a tray to the table and broke the bread in half. He then buttered the two halves on the testes of the butter bull and offered me one as he bit into the other. It was a grand conciliatory gesture that was as self-effacing as it was bizarre. However, I had no choice but to take the offered gift. I kind of felt like we were eating the balls of the bull. It wasn’t a warm feeling.

 

He held up the remnant of his roll half to the crowd like a trophy and they applauded. I couldn’t help but feel that this would not have gone over so well with anyone else. Valdez was a feared man. When he was angry, people shuddered. When he lamented, they cried. When he played the clown, they dutifully laughed. Great party.

“My friend, thank you for the amusement. I am Carlos Valdez. This is my lovely friend, Fatima.”

 

“Mr. Valdez….Fatima. My name is Charles Renari.” It was of course still me, Chance Ransom. Apparently you can’t use your real name for things like this.

 

“Renari…Renari.” The light appeared to go off in his head. “Banker, no?”

 

“Yes, that is correct, Mr. Valdez.” During what would be an otherwise pleasant discourse between two gentlemen around a buttered bull, a number of things were going on. Garcia had managed to slip the compact disk into Fatima’s fur stole. She had seen him and given him a faint smile.

Larson was attempting to position himself to swab a topical poison on any exposed skin of Valdez. It was a slow-acting toxin that would feign the symptoms of a heart attack, but if it was injected or administered orally, it would cause immediate death, and that would not do. Larson had put on a thin coating of clear polymer on his hands to prevent from dosing himself.

 

Looking back at the plan, there did seem to be a lot of errors. Larson was good, but in the assassination business he was still an amateur. Desperation should never be a substitute for an ironclad plan.

 

I’ll never know for sure what happened. A leak in the polymer glove? Maybe he swabbed some sweat off of his forehead with the poison. I didn’t really believe either one those hypotheses and told la Confrerie the same. Larson began to double over and fall sideways into the right hind leg of the butter bull, knocking the support out from under the massive beast. In the end, I don’t know if Larson was suffocated, had a heart attack, or was crushed to death. One thing I do know is that Larson’s final act was the greatest Awkward Chic in the history of Wingmen. We all felt totally superior, especially Valdez, who had a look like he had just polished off a porterhouse.

 

Of course the crowd was aghast. I had the presence of mind to pull him out from the butter, careful to avoid the swab or his hands. What bothered me the most about the event is that there was not a great deal of concern in investigating the situation. Just clean up the floor, get the body outside and, well, of course the bull had to go now.

 

Garcia knew the drill. Not that I had prepared him for Larson getting poisoned and crushed under a ton and a half of butter, but he knew that if something unexpected happened he was to leave in degrees. A minute to back out of the room, a minute to use the restroom, and then straight out of the building. He had taken a taxi there, but a car was waiting in the parking lot just in case. He took this route and picked me up on the side. That would prove to be another mistake. One of Valdez’s guards took note of me getting in and copied down the plates.

 

 

“Go east,” I ordered Garcia.

 

“Not back to the hotel?”

 

“Not yet. I’m not sure they weren’t suspicious.”

 

I had him take us through a bad part of town and then through the business district. When I was satisfied that we were not being followed, I told him to go back to the hotel.

 

“What now, Chance?”

 

I didn’t want conversation. I would have taken the kid’s head off, but it was a legitimate question. What now?  Larson was dead. Valdez was alive. Fatima was a question mark.  I lit up a Camel and tipped my hat back to give it some thought. When he pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, I instructed him to go around the side. I didn’t want the clerk to note my arrival or impending departure. The room was hired under an untraceable corporate account. So was the car, for that matter.

 

I told Garcia to wait in the car. If anyone suspicious pulled into the parking lot, he needed to call up to the room. I never unpack, so it would only take a minute. I didn’t think I was in any real danger, but I thought it better to get out of my formal wear and re-establish myself at Garcia’s house.

 

When I got up to the room, I opened the door slowly.

 

Someone was waiting inside. Strangely, this revelation gave me some degree of comfort. I recognized the unique smoke emanating from the burning end of a short cheroot, coupled with the distinctive smell of a very fine scotch.

 

The room was dark but I recognized the silhouette, as well as the voice that owned it.

 

“Bon soir.”

 

“Evening, Edgar. It’s been one hell of a night.”

PART III

Edgar’s Bacchian launch sent the metallic projectile on a direct course for my skull. Years of training had taught me that when you’re attacked, you don’t leave your head sitting in the same place. On the other hand, my miraculous catch was the result of good fortune rather than training. I unscrewed the cap from the Frenchman’s hip flask and took a long pull. I wouldn’t say that I needed a drink – sobriety was called for under the circumstances – but damn if I didn’t want one.

 

After screwing the cap back on, I tossed it back to him in a much more civil fashion.

 

“Larson was murdered. We were here to pull a sanction on…”

 

“Carlos Valdez?” I wasn’t thinking. In retrospect, it should have been obvious to me that the Frenchman wasn’t here burglarizing hotel rooms in Buenos Aires without knowing a few of the details, but I clearly didn’t have all of my synapses firing. Most of my co-workers don’t get killed on assignment. I would wager that none have ever gone out like Larson. So, yeah, I was a little shaken up. Edgar had a familiar smirk going. I really hated that smirk, but it also gave the situation some feeling of much-needed bravado.

 

“You want to fill me in on how much you know? I don’t think we have a lot time.”

 

“You are right, Chance. About ten minutes after you left, a teletype check was run on your rental car by a corrupt B.A. police officer. Our contacts at Interpol flagged the check, but they were not able to prevent Valdez’s men from getting the information. It won’t be long before they trace the car to your cover and your cover to this hotel.” The Frenchman took another sip from his flask and this time handed the open flask to me. “Your cover is blown, mon ami.”

 

“We need to get out of here then.” It seemed like as good a plan as any, but what I really wanted to do is just sit and drink and take our chances. It was a nice room and now I had company.

 

The Frenchman lazily got to his feet and said, “By all means, Monsieur Ransom. I have a safe car. We will pick up your friend as we leave.”

 

I picked up my grip and silently hurried down the stairs. Edgar had hired a black Mercedes. It was about as common a car as you could find in this country. We swung by Garcia’s car and I told him to get in the back of the rental. He looked scared. He must have thought we were Valdez’s men.

 

Garcia began to introduce himself to Edgar, but I waved him off. If there was ever a time to dispense with pleasantries, this was it.

 

“Get down!” Edgar hissed seconds after we started to move. Both of us sank below the line of sight of an oncoming SUV. The truck had dark tinted windows but we were still able to make out the silhouettes of four passengers. This could be a hit squad or it could be the string quartet from the banquet, looking to play their rendition of Boccherini as background music for our escape. I’m not sure of which scenario I would have been less fond, but the smart money was on it being a hit squad. Besides, if I’m going to listen to any escape music, it’s going to be Escape – The Pina Colada Song, but the Frenchman had left his Rupert Holmes Greatest Hits CD back in Marseilles. At least that’s what he told me.

 

However, they were either not too bright or were just too focused on getting to the hotel and roughing up the clerk to get my room key, because they took no notice of the Mercedes.

 

“Where are we going?” I asked Edgar, switching to French so that Garcia would not understand what was being said.

 

“I have a safe house on the outskirts of town.” Also answering in rapid French.

 

“Really? I didn’t think la Confrerie had any operations in Argentina…”

 

The Frenchman shifted uncomfortably, “Chance, there is no time to explain all of this. You said Larson was murdered. How did you come to this conclusion?”

 

“Valdez knew about the poison somehow. Larson was going to poison him. I don’t know if you knew that part. I saw Valdez kick the swab that Larson was going to use under a table so that no one else would touch it. I have no idea how he knew.”

 

“Larson was the sanction, Chance.” He peered back at Garcia in the rearview mirror to see if anything registered on his face. I suppose he was satisfied. Edgar sobriety was surprising. He had the ability to guzzle a barrel of whiskey and not let it affect his driving. He is the person that Mothers Against Drunk Driving does not want you to believe exists, like an alcoholic abominable snowman or Boris Yeltsin.  

 

I wasn’t really thinking about any of these things that night. I felt sick and confused, but I wasn’t paying attention to that either. I hadn’t wanted to kill anyone, not even a piece of human garbage like Valdez.  And while I had no love lost for Larson, he was still a Wingman, and not just any Wingman. One with a distinguished, if notorious, reputation. My head was spinning. Edgar handed me the flask again, but I pushed his hand away.

 

“This is…this is…no fucking way.” I couldn’t even come up with an intelligent question.

 

“Chance, the Director is a piece of shit. I have told you this before. He asked me to take this assignment ‘no questions asked’ and I told him to stick it up his ass. They sent me to Dubai on another assignment and pulled you out of Macau. Once you were in the field, they called me back and told me that I had better reconsider this because you were in danger.”

 

So there it was. I wasn’t hand picked for any assignment. They were just trying to exploit my naivety and my bond with the Frenchman. The problem with being a part of an international operation is that it was hard to keep tabs on everyone. Edgar and I typically had no idea on what sort of assignments the other was sent. Well played, Monsieur Director.

 

“Excuse me.” This was Garcia reacting to being starved for information.

 

“Callate la boca!” Shut up! And of course that reply came from the Frenchman. It resulted from an entire life of being ill mannered. Edgar turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road with which he seemed to be familiar. How long had he been in this country? Edgar stopped the car and killed the lights. He then took the keys from the ignition and told the kid to wait inside. He and I got out.

 

The Frenchman lit up two cigarettes at once with a match and handed me one, “Sorry, Chance. It is my last match. Be careful that you do not become intoxicated from the scotch that I surely breathed upon the end.”

 

I wasn’t in the mood for jokes, but I was mildly revolted by the thought. It was probably about 90 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Why do I always think that it’s a good idea to wear a coat? Edgar took a drag and began speaking.

 

“The job was authentic in the beginning. We were going to help this Garcia kid get his cousin back and make Valdez disappear. Then we found out that Larson was playing both sides. He was going to cross over. He was going to freelance away from la Confrerie.”

 

“So why all of the drama? Why not just sanction Larson?”

 

“No Wingman has ever been sanctioned. We have never had to. I guess it’s because of how carefully we are able to vet the new recruits.  We could not do it in a place where la Confrerie runs operations. It also had to be done under circumstances about which members could only guess. This situation presented itself to la Confrerie by coincidence. The only issue was that the Director knew that no one would accept a sanction on another Wingman.”

 

“Except you?”

 

“Except us, actually.” I hated Edgar right at that moment and he read it on me. “Do not be an ungrateful bastard, Chance. Larson was going to kill you too.”

 

“Why?” Still angry and not entirely buying into all of the twists in this story.

 

“Because he had contracted to kill Garcia and could not leave you alive to figure out what he was doing.”

 

The fog was starting to lift from my mind, so I decided to give it a challenge and took another belt of scotch.

 

“What would Larson gain?” But I was starting to figure it out for myself.

 

“Autonomy? Money? Who knows? He was always cruel and ambitious, that one. Killing Garcia was a way into Valdez’s world. Not just winging for people. Real power.”

 

“So how did you do it?”

 

“The polymer that he put on his hands was the toxin. When it dried, his ticket was punched, as you Americans say. The liquid on the swab was absinthe. Not all that dangerous, but I  prefer scotch.”

 

I just gave him a look of irritation because of his cavalier attitude, but in the end he was right. It’s not as though Wingmen are God’s chosen people. If Larson was going to kill someone like Garcia just to jump into bed with a child pornographer, then good riddance. I just felt like an idiot.

 

“Okay, Edgar. Why did Valdez need Larson? He could have made Garcia disappear any time he wanted, from what I’ve seen. Why the fancy public accident?”

 

“Valdez wanted a public execution that wouldn’t ruin his public reputation. He would later leak subtle clues that he had killed Garcia.” He glanced around and then said, “We need to get to the safe house.”

 

I still wasn’t entirely okay with everything that I had just learned, but it would have to suffice for the time being. The road was dark but we weren’t invisible. I thought Edgar was being prudent, but I soon learned that he just wanted to refill his flask. As it turned out, we were only a few minutes from our final destination.

 

While en route, Edgar told Garcia and me in accented Spanish, “Neither one of you speaks Spanish.”  Turning to Garcia in the back, “You got that, kid?”

 

This seemed like a strange protocol for a safe house. He asked Edgar in Spanish, “What do I speak?”

 

Edgar looked annoyed, but Garcia had a valid point.

 

“Do you speak any other languages?”

 

“German.”

 

Edgar eyed him suspiciously.  Europeans have a long memory.  Many of them remember the Nazis that had fled to South America from the Allied occupation. Garcia had brownish hair and hazel eyes. Despite the olive skin, he did not appear to be purely Argentinean.

 

Garcia apparently read Edgar’s concerns. “Relax. I took it in secondary school.”

 

“Okay. So while we are at the safe house, we all speak German. That will work”

 

We turned down a dirt road and arrived at some sort of farm. I mean, it looked like a farm with the barn and a pen and all of those stereotypical farm things, but it didn’t seem real. I grew up in the Bronx, but I had seen a movie or two. To begin with, there were no animals anywhere. Not even a dog. The ground looked very dry and was covered with vicious looking weeds. If anything was being grown or raised here, it was rust. Rust coated everything: The 1920’s-looking tractor, the ancient truck, the side of the house. There was rust on things that I didn’t even know could rust, like the corrugated fiberglass front porch roof.

 

“Nice place, Edgar.”

 

He ignored the jab, but before going to the front door, the Frenchman reminded us, “Not a word of Spanish.”

 

He then put a big dopey smile on his face and walked in the front door, calling, “Hello? Hello, Esperanza?” in English with a British accent. Edgar had mastered six languages and was able to get by in a few others, but what always amazed me was his ability to mimic dialects and accents.

 

“Hola, Edgar!” The excited voice came from another room. A few seconds later, a 40ish Argentinean woman entered the room and began showering Edgar with kisses. We were regarded with the same interest as if he had brought in a couple of bags of groceries.  I was able to understand most of what she was saying. It was kind of like:

 

“Oh, Edgar, I missed you. Where were you? I worry so much about you. This is not a good place to go wandering around without knowing Spanish. You smell like you’ve been drinking.  Come to bed with me…” All of those sentiments were repeated at least three times in varying order. Esperanza was attractive in a matronly sort of way, but after a few minutes, I was under the assumption that her rapid-fire endearments were what were causing all of the rust. Then again, I’m not a scientist. What I was sure of is that she was incredibly irritating.

 

So apparently Edgar had come to Buenos Aires and gotten married in the course of a few days. Wonderful.

 

He gently pushed her back and waved an arm towards us and said in loud English, “Friends…friends.”

 

She ran over and took my coat and hat and Garcia’s jacket. She then made the universal sign for eating, a fork lifted to the mouth. Edgar responded, “Si…is it?...si.”

 

Esperanza disappeared into the kitchen. In German, I asked Edgar, “What the hell is going on here?” Edgar went over to a credenza and picked up a bottle of scotch and yelled, “Outside. Out-side,” in the direction of the kitchen.

 

Once we were outside, Edgar switched to French. I assumed that this was to once again prevent Garcia from knowing what was said.

 

“I met her at the supermarket. She thinks I am helpless.”

 

“Are you out of your mind? We need to get out of this country.”

 

“Oh? And what about Valdez? What about your boy Garcia there?”

 

“Garcia’s a good kid. He won’t say anything about Larson.”

 

“No, because he will certainly be dead. Valdez is not going to let this go. He knows that the two of you left together. Unless he is an idiot, he will put it all together. It will be a matter of days until...”

 

I weighed the likelihood of Valdez’s revenge and determined that it didn’t look good for Garcia.

 

“There’s something else, Chance.” The Frenchman had an almost concerned look now. What he was going to tell me was not going to be pleasant, “I killed a Wingman. Our brothers will never accept it.” He went on to explain that the final part of the plan was to make it appear that Larson had been killed by Valdez and we were here to avenge his death. Corrupt or not, the murder of a Wingman had a price that would have to be levied. Because Valdez was pure evil, he could be proffered in lieu of the Frenchman. At least that is how this sanction would be justified in the end.

 

“Edgar, what the hell are we becoming?”

 

“Chance, I came here to protect you. We have both been played the fool by the Director, but this is our mess now. We can keep Garcia here with Esperanza until the deed is done.”

 

“Yeah. Poor kid. I don’t think he caught it, but she had fresh tracks behind her leg. I guess it takes becoming a junkie to live with someone like Valdez.”

 

“I saw,” Garcia said in Spanish-accented French. “I know about the heroin.”

 

I was about as surprised as one could be after watching a co-worker crushed by a butter bull only to find out that he was really killed by a friend. So, not really that surprised after all.

 

Edgar was expressing a different emotion. “You little piece of merde. How dare you deceive us after bringing us here.”

 

Garcia was clearly scared, which made his boldness that much more impressive. “Don’t talk to me about deception. You and your organization used me to kill one of your own. I didn’t get into this to kill Larson. I want Valdez dead. Dead! If you don’t do it, Chance, I will. Fuck both of you.”

 

“You against Valdez. You are fucking mad!” The Frenchman snorted.

 

“No. I’ll do it and I’ll do it myself.” I didn’t feel like the words were my own, but it was my lips that were moving. “You have a life to start with Fatima, Jose.” And you have no life worth protecting, Chance.

 

“Fatima is not what I thought. Help her? Yes. But no more can I start a life with her. The Precipitación Fuera del Antrax awakened my eyes. To see her prancing about in that fur and jewelry and the scar of the needle…I don’t care if she knows about Valdez or not. I saw no sadness in her eyes when Larson died. In the old days, she would have cried. She is not my sweet cousin anymore. He has stolen her soul and I want revenge. I want Valdez dead because what he does to her, he does thousands of times over to others.”

 

Since the beginning of this mission, I had felt a mild revulsion every time Garcia mentioned his cousin in amorous terms. Still, I realized that behind the quasi-incestuous inappropriateness of it all, he really did love Fatima. What he had just said was moving. Well, at least I was moved. The Frenchman never was, which was why I was so surprised when he made his decision.

 

“We do it together. All three.” He handed the bottle of scotch to Garcia. “But then you get out of B.A. You will have to for your own sake.”

 

Esperanza called us in, and we dined in silence on sausage and eggs. It was delicious, but I wondered whether or not I was consuming a thin patina of rust in each bite of sausage. Relief washed over me when I saw the Jimmy Dean package peeking over the edge of the garbage can, and I decided that the pork products might have survived the fate of everything else at Rust Manor. The stress had heightened my hunger. Esperanza stood behind the Frenchman and massaged his shoulders as he ate. It actually appeared that it was making it difficult for him to swallow. She proudly beamed at the table as though the meal was a culinary work of art worthy of Jean-Louis Andre.

 

No sooner had he shoveled the last bite in his mouth than she took Edgar by the arm and dragged him to the room.

 

“Heure de payer le loyer,” Edgar said over his shoulder in French, breaking his own moratorium on languages other than German, as well as the laws of good taste. I didn’t feel sorry for him. Esperanza had a few miles on her, but she was actually fairly attractive. Like an older Carmen Miranda without the smorgasbord of fruit piled on top of her head.

 

Garcia and I had sat looking at each other for about twenty minutes when Edgar emerged from the room and said in German, “Get cleaned up. I will be out in about a half hour.”

 

Forty minutes had passed when Edgar emerged from the bedroom. He almost had to push Esperanza back inside. Her carrying on put me in the mind of a wife’s reaction to her husband going off to war, only Edgar was just going out into the yard. Edgar whispered that Garcia would take first watch sitting in Edgar’s car at the end of the road. He would be relieved in three hours by one of us.

 

A week passed at Rust Manor. During that time, we developed dark circles under our eyes, our German sharpened, and everything that I had brought with me developed an orange hue from the perpetual rust dust. We were all gaining weight. In addition to being able to thaw sausage, Esperanza could also boil hotdogs, microwave pizza, and toast  Pop-Tarts. I think it might have been the reason that she was still single. Of course we all raved over the food in whatever language other than Spanish we felt like speaking at the moment. Dinners were like the UN visiting a low budget food court…which I’m sure that they do on their shopping days.

 

Edgar was getting briefs from a surveillance team that he had brought in the night of Larson’s death. They were told that the three of us had been on a joint operation when Larson was killed, and that they had to be called in for support on what they could only guess was going to be the sanction of Larson’s killer. We didn’t have much of a plan. Edgar said that we needed to catch Valdez when he was vulnerable, so we had to remain flexible. Edgar would go into town every morning with Esperanza. On the third day, she came back alone driving Edgar’s Mercedes. I was relieved when I saw Edgar appear a few minutes after in an old panel truck.

 

“Rental,” was his only explanation. Inside I would later find out was some older surveillance equipment and a couple of guns. He handed me a black snub-nosed revolver.

 

“I’m not that great with guns.”

 

“You will be so close that it won’t matter.”

 

The gun didn’t feel right in my hand. They still don’t.

 

It was on a Sunday. Eight days after the Precipitación Fuera del Antrax, our break came. Edgar came into the bathroom while I was shaving. “Get your things. Surveillance picked something up.” I wiped my face with a small unrusted portion of a towel.

 

We drove in silence, Edgar in the panel truck with me in the back, Garcia in the Mercedes. If we weren’t fast, Edgar said that we would miss our opportunity. We drove fast. Gravel flew on the dirt road as the vehicles left a tearful Esperanza at the end of the drive. She would never see Edgar again and somehow she knew. I actually felt sad for the most annoying women that I had ever met.

 

“A coat and hat, hermano? At this time of year?” Ernesto inquired, smiling as he glanced around the dirty cantina to make sure that they were still alone.

 

“I did not misspeak, my friend, did I?” Valdez’s words were soft, but Ernesto knew from the edgy tone that Carlos did not consider anything about this issue amusing.

 

“No, you did not. It’s just that one of my men was able to obtain a license plate the night of the unfortunate demise of that Larson. The man getting into the car had a coat and hat as well. It cannot be a coincidence.”

 

“No, Ernesto. That man must be handled.”

 

“As you wish, hermano,” Ernesto replied eloquently, and then turned to the bartender. “Camarero, I want two more shots of tequila. I want good tequila, like the kind that you would serve to your whore mother on a Sunday after church. I also want them in clean glasses.” With that, he backhanded the two mismatched shot glasses. They flew across the counter and broke on the floor of the bar.

 

The bartender replied, “Si, jefe.” His eyes were properly averted downward. Ernesto noted this with approval for the action and disdain for the man.

 

“Be a good boy and we will give you a nice tip.” Both men laughed. It was good for Ernesto to see his boss laugh at something.

 

The bartender just kept looking down as he searched through the bottles lined up along the mirror to find the best tequila that he had. He selected a bottle and then found two champagne flutes that had probably never touched the lips of another living soul.

 

“Are these okay, jefe?”

 

Ernesto dismissed his question with a wave. “Bueno.”

 

The bartender wiped the flutes down and set them up in front of the two gentlemen. He then showed them both the tequila bottle as though it were a bottle of wine from the vintage stock of Louis the XIV.

 

“Get on with it, peon.”

 

As the bartender poured the amber liquid into the ill-suited vessels, he stopped mid-pour and put the bottle to his own lips.

 

Ernesto sneered and began to say something, but it was cut short when the base of the heavy bottle connected with his left temple. This blow was enough to knock Ernesto off of the stool, but surprisingly not enough to break the bottle. As the bottle traveled through Ernesto’s head across the body of the bartender, Valdez began reaching inside of his jacket. The bartender leapt up onto the bar and directed the bottle in a downward swing onto the upper brow of the most powerful man in Buenos Aires, breaking the bottle.

 

I walked in and was in the middle of the room before the sound of the door striking the wall could be heard. My right hand came from my coat pocket and the freshly taped .38 was in it. I took aim at Ernesto, who was starting to recover, and my hand exploded, but I didn’t hear anything. I moved the weapon to Valdez and I saw the fire flaring out of my fist, but still didn’t hear the sound. I then walked over to Ernesto, who was writhing on the ground, and pressed the gun to his temple just before the gun went off again to the profound sound of silence.

 

I looked at Valdez. He would be dead soon. The bullet had entered his lower back. With medical attention, he might survive, but that was not going to happen. I kicked him and his body cooperatively rolled onto its back. His mouth was slightly agape as he tried to suck in air. I bent down, placing the hot barrel between his lips. I wanted to say something dramatic or cold or meaningful, but in the end I realized that none of that was important. What was important was getting this done. I heard the blast this time.

 

I looked at Edgar in white shirtsleeves and black vest. “What did you do with the bartender?”

 

“He is handcuffed and sleeping in the back. We will leave him in the van and drive it down the street. The police will receive an anonymous tip on this place when we touch down in Rio di Janeiro. I will see that he gets something for the difficulty that I have caused.”

 

I nodded thoughtfully as I locked the front door. My Jean Paul Gaultier coat was speckled with red dots. I doubted it was salvageable. Even if it was, I didn’t want it anymore.

 

“Do you think this Garcia kid is going to make it, Edgar?”

 

“La Confrerie? No, but you do.”

 

We didn’t care about cleaning up. The gun was untraceable. The Frenchman smashed all of the glasses that he had touched to make sure that they couldn’t be processed for prints. The entire time that he had been waiting on Ernesto and Valdez, he was wiping down surfaces for prints. This step was surely unnecessary. Still, we donned rubber gloves before emptying most of the liquor stock onto the wooden floors. Edgar found an old gas stove in the back and opened the valve wide. He then quickly lit the fuel on the floor before making a rapid exit to the car.

 

As we walked out, Garcia pulled up in the Mercedes. When we got in, I told Garcia to head to the airstrip. He didn’t ask how the sanction went. He knew.

 

When we pulled up to the airstrip, Garcia anxiously said, “I’ve never been on a plane before. I’m kind of nervous.”

 

I wasn’t nervous. I would normally be petrified. I didn’t like airliners, but little twin prop planes turned my spine to water. I had no words of comfort for Garcia until I thought about how his life was about to become part of our total abyss. I knew a trip in a little puddle jumper was the least of his worries, “It’s nothing, kid.” I looked back over my shoulder at the city that made me a killer and repeated, “It’s really nothing.”

 

I shrugged my coat onto my shoulders, pulled the brim of my hat down over my eyes, and faded into the night.

 

The End