Man in the Middle

Next stop: a drug store. He entered through the automatic doors, hiding his features from the shoplifting camera by hunching down. Scanning the “Personal Care” aisle, he squinted at the kaleidoscope of colored boxes until he spotted something called Natural Instincts for Men. He chose: Lightest Brown. On the way to checkout, he passed a sunglass stand and snatched a pair of clunky dark shades. Thinking through his intentions, he also purchased a hair dryer, hairbrush, and pair of binoculars. Per Ayers’ advice, he paid for everything with nothing larger than twenties.

Once inside his car, Peter removed the dark lenses from the sunglasses and put the thick, lenseless frames over his face. From there, he drove three blocks before locating a barbershop open on Sundays. After getting a cut, he found a public restroom in an indoor mall. He used wads of paper to block and fill the sink. He read the instructions:

Put on plastic gloves and protect your clothing with a smock or towel. Pull tab and lift off the tip on Developer bottle . . .

Peter improvised his way to a wet head of hair, squeezed the mixture onto his scalp, then streaked a trace of the chemicals across his eyebrows. Once the dye worked in, he camped in a stall for the required ten minutes. Two rinses later, he had a new look. His short hair looked to be at least three shades lighter than before. Peter used the new hair dryer and brush to finish the makeover.

Wearing a heavy coat with the collar upturned against the cool air, Peter passed a picture window on the way to the parked Taurus. He approved. “I hardly recognize you,” he whispered. With a two-day growth of beard, glasses, and the change in hair-coloring, he had altered his appearance enough that anyone viewing his image in a newspaper or on television might not recognize him. At least not immediately.

From the Carlsbad Pier parking lot, Peter watched Agent Oliver Dawson enter the Surfside Bar. Shortly afterward, the agent exited, stood at the curb, and waited. When a taxi arrived, Dawson said something to the driver and climbed in. Peter took off towards a specific bus stop five miles south in Leucadia.

Dawson’s cab arrived a minute after Peter did. The agent tossed some bills at the driver and slammed the door. He looked around, the scowl visible through Peter’s binoculars. With a handful of change, Dawson fidgeted on the bus-bench and waited. He bent over and rubbed his bare arms with the palms of his hands.

As Peter watched, Dawson suddenly bolted upright and locked his sight onto a twenty year-old male shuffling in his direction. The boy, sucking the life from a cigarette, looked innocent enough, with a pierced ear, nose rings, and an orange swatch of hair hanging to one side. But Dawson appeared ready to react, as if this kid might pose some kind of threat. Peter took that as a good sign—the agent was on his guard, distrustful, and ultra-careful. That made two of them. Only after the youth’s baggy pants turned a corner did Dawson resume shivering.

A block away, coming from the north, a train rumbled past. Peter had seen enough. If anyone had followed Dawson, he couldn’t tell. He released the parking brake and lurched forward. A moment later, he pulled up to the bus stop. With his window already down, he said, “You look cold. Need a lift?”

Dawson stared. “Neil? You look like a punk.”

“It was this or dreadlocks.”

“Cute. How’s life treating you, Neil?” The light tone of Dawson’s voice didn’t fool Peter. The man’s eyes radioed his intensity, loud and clear.

“I’d just as soon hit the road,” Peter said. “You coming?”

Dawson jogged to the front of the car and took shot-gun. “You do it?” he asked as Peter pulled away and drove east towards the freeway.

“Do what?”

“Kill that girl? You a love-crazed murderer?”

“That’s not funny.” Peter slowed down, changed lanes, then accelerated onto the on-ramp to I-5. He merged with the 75 mile-per-hour traffic, content that nobody had turned onto the freeway behind him.

“What’s the story with all this running around?” Dawson asked. “I’m sitting at Sammy’s Restaurant. Corner table, admiring the view, having a Diet Coke, waiting for you to show up, per our plan.”

“Plans change.”

“What a runaround. This bartender at Sammy’s, an a-hole with an attitude, asks if I’m Dawson. I figure, oh shit, they’ve made me. I’m worried about you, thinking I’m going to get you busted.”

“Thanks for the concern,” Peter said, continuing to monitor the traffic from his car mirrors. He slowed to 50 and looked for anyone who slowed down with him. A few drivers gave him the “fuck-you-asshole” stare, and a couple others, upset over the little-old-lady routine, sharply cut in front of him in minor bouts of road rage. Satisfied that he had no tail, Peter re-accelerated to 70 and focused on what Dawson had to say.

“The crumb-ball then says I must be Dawson ’cause I’m the only runt with a rat-face. You call me a runt?”

“I didn’t use that word.”

“Thanks. Anyway, he says you told him I’d give him a twenty for relaying a message. I give him the money and he tells me to go out the back and run down the railroad tracks to the sports bar. Nice touch, Neil. A little payback?”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“He says a cab’ll be waiting for me. So I waltz down the tracks and find this cabby who takes me to that shit-hole bar. I go inside and another bartender says he has a message for me. It costs me another twenty. He says to go to this bus stop. Place smells like prehistoric urine. I’m freezing my ass off, waiting for a bus that doesn’t come. How come all the cloak and dagger?”

“Trust,” Peter answered. “I had to make sure you weren’t setting me up.”

Dawson reached around and removed several folded pages from his rear pocket. “I had someone make some discreet inquiries into this murder thing. The evidence? I shouldn’t tell you, but it’s extensive.”

“So I’ve been led to believe.” Peter eyed the pages in Dawson’s lap, but the fold prevented him from seeing what was on them.

“The DA’s people are plenty nervous,” Dawson continued. “Some big-time political pressure’s coming down on them. My guess: Stenman and her cronies are tightening the screws. They want you brought in or shot trying to avoid arrest.”

“Tell me something, Dawson. Are you really unemployed or is that bullshit? Can you really help me?”

“No more games?” Dawson asked.

“No more games.”

“Good.”

“Yeah. Good,” Peter said.

“In that case, I’m reporting to the Director of Enforcement. He’s coordinating with the Justice Department and the DEA, and he’s the only one—aside from the person relaying messages—who knows anything. This . . .” he began to unfold the papers, “is a grant of immunity for any illegal trading you engaged in while employed by Stenman.”

“That’s not my biggest concern right now. You have any influence on this criminal investigation?”

“You turn over your mother’s papers, and you get immunity for the white-collar stuff, but I’m not gonna lie to you. Nothing we can do about the murder rap. I warned you, these people are good.”

“An attorney I know thinks I’ll be murdered no matter what I do. You think that’s possible?”

“Yeah—more than possible.”

“You are an honest guy, Dawson. Just when a well-timed lie might help you get what you want, you’re straight with me. I’ve underestimated you.”

“You and the whole world. Get me those documents, and I go after these scum-suckers. Maybe that’ll distract them some.”

“I’ve got something else in mind. You keep that letter of immunity warm. I’m going to need it later—if this works out.”

“If what works out?” Dawson gave Peter a suspicious look.

“I don’t want a new identity, and I’m not going to hand over my mother’s papers.”

“Then we have nothing to negotiate—”

“I didn’t say you’re not going to end up with what you want. I said I won’t be the delivery boy. We keep driving south and we’ll be at the Mexican border in twenty minutes. Let’s make it a round-trip. In the time it takes