“I’ll have a file for you in two months.”
“Great.”
He waits, knowing I have more to tell him.
“There is one other thing, William. One thing I need immediately on my current job. I don’t have Pooley any more, and I will give you his commission for this assignment.”
“Yes, that will be fine. What can I get you?”
“I need you to arrange a meeting.”
“Yes?”
“There is an East Coast fence named Vespucci. I worked for him originally. He brought me in. We had a bit of bad blood when we went our separate ways.”
“Yes?”
“I need a meeting . . .”
“Okay . . .”
“In Seattle.”
“I believe this will be difficult.”
“That’s why I’m joining you. Exclusively. Because your reputation is you handle difficulty very well.”
“Yes, I see. When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Yes. How may I reach you?”
“I’ll call you in twelve hours.”
“Yes. It will be done.”
I walk to the Pike Place Market, a short quarter-mile from the sea. As far as tourist traps go, this isn’t a bad one, and I find it sparsely crowded at this time of day in the middle of the week. I buy a newspaper and eat some grilled salmon and stare at nothing and think of nothing. The fish tastes bland. Outside, it starts to rain.
THE meeting is set for a bar at the Sea-Tac airport. This is a smart choice by Vespucci for obvious reasons. Shooters like to meet in airport terminals; security being what it is, it is damn near impossible to sneak in a weapon. I have yet to hear of a man killed in an airport bar; the locale is a safe haven for dangerous men to meet and exchange pleasantries. And information.
I purchase a ticket to Toronto I don’t intend to use and arrive an hour early to get my bearings. The bar is named C.J. Borg’s, a small place with a single entrance and exit, dimly lit and half full, just off the Alaskan Airways terminal. I pick a booth in the back where I can watch the entrance. Even in a high security zone, I don’t want to take any chances.
Vespucci is unmistakable as he waddles into the bar, squints as his eyes adjust to the absence of light, and then finds me in the corner. He hasn’t changed, his hair is still dark, and his weight looks the same. The only difference is his eyes; there is a weariness there I didn’t notice before, like whatever pleasure he once got out of life has long since evaporated.
“Hello, Columbus.”
“Hello.”
He keeps his expression, and his voice, even.
“You have been well?”
“No. Not very well, Mr. Vespucci.”
“Yes. I know as much. I am sorry about your fence.”
“Sorry doesn’t quite cover it.”
“No. I understand.”
“Here’s what I want. I want you to serve up Hap Blowenfeld or whatever his real name is. I know we got tripled up on this job and I know no one asked for it and I know we’re spending more time trying to kill each other than trying to eliminate the target. I’ve already disposed of Miguel Cortega. I will do the same to Hap.”
“Why should I . . . how is it you say . . . serve up my own man?”
“Because I’m going to get to him one way or another. And I’m going to finish this job.” I level my eyes at him. “And if you don’t help me, I’m going to finish you.”
He starts to say something but I interrupt . . .
“Jurgenson in Amsterdam. Sharpe in D.C. Korrigan in Montreal. Reeves in Chicago. Cole in Atlanta. You know of these?”
He nods his head.
“I put them all down. They were supposed to be impossible and I got to them all. I’ve never targeted anyone off-job, but if you don’t help me, you will be my first.”
He leans back, contemplating.
“You’ve changed,” he says at last.
“You changed me.”
His whole body sags a little in the chair, like I made the weight on top of his shoulders heavier. He leans forward, then pauses, like he wants to pick his words carefully.
“I know where she lives.”
For a moment, I say nothing. There is no need for him to explain whom
“I don’t care.”
“Ahhh . . . I think you do care, Columbus. I think you would very much like to know what I know.”
“You don’t think I could’ve gotten to her a thousand ways since that job eight years ago? I’m the one who sent her packing. Don’t forget that.”
“You sent her packing because you care for her. You kicked her in the stomach because you care for her. You haven’t tracked her down because you care for her. Maybe you haven’t changed as much as I thought.”
I start to say something but it is his turn to interrupt.
“You threaten my life, Columbus, but I can say to you truly, I don’t give a steaming pile of shit for my life. It is ending soon, and I am at peace. Whatever punishment I have coming, it will not be in this life, I can assure you. Whatever ways you can make me hurt, it will be a blessing. I have much . . . I have many regrets, I mean to say.”
His eyes are rheumy and his lids are heavy, but I am sure this is no ploy; he is searching for truth in a life filled with death and what he sees in the abyss makes him blink. He hasn’t finished what he wants to tell me.
“You think pulling the trigger is difficult? You think executing the job is difficult? Think of what I do, what your fence did for you. We research these targets, these men, these women, we find out every intimate detail of their lives so another may end that life. We make the blueprints of their death. We take away their free will. We know the future. We know as we study them in the present, they have little time to live. We know it, but
He moves his coffee cup from one side of the table to the other. “Pah. Forgive me. I am old and tired. I cannot explain what this means. My words do not represent me well.”
I stare at him as though for the first time. This old man who brought me into this life and now lives with regret. I had not thought of the toll it takes on the fence, the middleman, to compile those files I savor. I am able to make the connection and sever the connection, but he—and Pooley—only connected and then watched someone else do the severing. The fee exacted on them was both psychological and physical; I could see it now in Vespucci’s bloodshot eyes.
I discover here, in this moment, I will fail. I let this assignment get the best of me, take the best
