“Well then, thank you sir. Sorry you lost your friend.”
“Thank you. How did he die?”
“That’s a little murky right now, but it appears he was murdered.”
“Murdered? By who?”
“All we know was that it was at a nightclub. We are waiting for the police to finish their investigation.”
“Can you keep my office informed as well? I would appreciate it.”
“Of course.”
Bill got home and saw the pamphlets on baby care on the kitchen table. He opened the fridge, considered the potato salad, but just grabbed a Dos Equis instead. He screwed off the top and tossed it into the kitchen basket. He took a long draw, then did the lip-smack thing.
Upstairs in the bedroom, Janice was coming out of the bathroom a towel turbaned around her freshly washed hair. “I thought you’d be later.”
“No, it was quick. But I got some bad news.”
“Oh dear, what?”
“Peter Remo was found dead in Paris last night.”
“I’m sorry, Bill. How did it happen?”
“They said he was murdered.”
“How horrible.”
“It could have been just a fight in a club… or maybe something more. Listen to me, I’m starting to sound like Peter.”
Bill started to laugh.
“Your friend is dead; what’s so funny?”
“It’s not funny; it’s ironic. They found my card in his wallet and had to check that he wasn’t working for the government. Peter was a conspiracy theorist who spent most of his days trying to prove the government was behind everything bad that ever happened. In the end, he comes under suspicion of working for that same government. You couldn’t make this stuff up.”
“Well, God rest his soul. You coming to bed?”
“Yeah, I’m beat.”
“Did you shut the lights downstairs?”
“Yes, dear.”
Two hours later Janice got up to use the bathroom. She found Bill wide awake looking at the ceiling.
“I know why I’m up. Don’t tell me it’s sympathy peeing for you.” She nestled under his arm.
“Peter came to me and I just wrote him off, like he was a nut. Now he’s dead. What if I had listened? Maybe something was up with him?”
“How could you have possibly known?”
“He hadn’t bothered to reach out to me in decades. Suddenly he does and then gets killed. I just hope I didn’t miss something.”
“Billy, if he was murdered, it was something that he got involved with that has nothing to do with you.”
“He said he was afraid that he was going to be next and it just rolled off my back like he said he thought he was getting a cold. When did I get so cavalier about life?”
“Stop it now. If he had shown you any of the traditional signs of stress or impending doom, your reaction would have been totally different. The fact that he did not broadcast imminent danger to you means he was just positioning or posturing or testing your level of gullibility and was in no real danger that he perceived.”
“Is that the behavioral head doctor talking?”
“One of the best in the field, so believe her and get some sleep.” Janice kissed him and snuggled in even more.
Rodney had been waiting for this phone call since 2001. He had just missed the previous endeavor. Bad Luck. A flat tire on the way to the airport. Now, another chance. Sitting in the Wal-Mart parking lot in Canoga Park, California, he let his mind fantasize about what this adventure might mean. There was a possibility that recent events in the news could have played a role, but more likely, since he had been out of the loop, it was probably something else. No matter. Whatever it was, it would be what would be.
A tan Escalade pulled up next to his car, very close on the passenger side. As a woman and two kids emerged, one of the kids slammed the door into his car. The driver, obviously the father, called out to his son, “Careful Roshy!” As the wife and kids walked towards the store, the man got out and came around to Rodney’s driver-side window. Looking down at the scratch in the rear door, he apologized. “I am sorry, although it’s just a scratch really. Here, take my insurance information. Have a good night.” And he was off in the direction of the store.
Rodney opened the envelope; in it were directions to a meeting place, two airline tickets, and 10,000 dollars in hundred-dollar bills. For the first time in public and outside his inner prayer room, Ali Rashid, a.k.a. Rodney Albert, dared mutter a phrase under his breath.
“Allah Be Praised!”
Chapter Eighteen
“So, La Grande Fromage, what was the call from France all about?” Joey asked as he popped into Bill’s office at 7:25 a.m.
“Hey, if I am the big cheese, where’s my coffee?” He tossed the State Department’s preliminary report on Peter’s death to Joey.
“Sorry, I thought you’d have yours already.” Joey scanned the summary. “Wow, that call last night was about Johnny No’s big brother, Peter Remo?” Joey plopped in the chair across from Bill’s desk. “Poor guy.”
Both sat quietly for a moment.
“Hey, you ever think about it?” Joey said, coming out of it.
“About what?”
“About all the guys who are dead now.”
“Never thought about it, but now that you mention it….”
“Benny Elmont, rolled his car. Eddy Rissar was smoking in bed. Darlene Freemont got the big C. Danny Boyd got crushed on his construction site…who else?”
“I guess this happens as you get older. It’s the odds. Think about it; if you live long enough, everybody you’ve known would be dead.”
“You think its just odds?”
“You don’t?”
“I keep raking my mind. Guys like Eddy, Danny, even Peter. Was there something about them, some look or some trait, some harbinger of death?”
“What you really are asking is, ‘Whatever it is, do I have it?’”
“You know, you’re right.”
“I’m going to go to the funeral. You wanna go?”
“I don’t know. I hardly ever hung out with the guy past sixth grade and his little stoop sessions on moon shots, nuclear mutants, and perpetual motion.” You and him though… with all your egghead crap…he found a real dork in you, pal. I’ll just send a mass card.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Rodney” was entering the address into the navigation system of the car that he was forced to rent from Hertz on his personal credit card. Cash was more of a hassle when it came to renting a car and would have set off many flags. Flags were the enemy at this point. His spoken English was good and his American accent pretty decent, but reading this strange language was another story. It boggled his mind that the Arabic number system got mixed into this hodgepodge of odd characters and punctuation. So rather than trusting the English written instructions, he programmed the destination into the system. He had already, unconsciously, walked around the car checking the tires, a remnant of his last disappointment when a flat tire denied him his place of glory as the 21st hijacker.
His cover for these past years was as an assistant cameraman in Hollywood. He wasn’t union but he found enough work to blend into the indie film community. Oddly enough, he enjoyed the work. Many times, the content of these films was that of Satan himself, but his craft, pulling focus and making sure the lens and image path was always clear, gave him satisfaction that was small recompense for not being able to be the openly devout man he had studied to be.
The meeting place was not far off the New Jersey Turnpike, in Jersey City, New Jersey. Seven men assembled in a Store and Lock in the industrial part of town. Due to local blue laws and deference to the religious nature of a Sunday, the storage warehouse was closed to the public.