incident, which means he’s not carrying a gun, and he’s not actually made of steel.
The other passengers in the waiting area all seem to be staring at Marcus; he is someone you stare at until he stares back at you, and then you pretend you weren’t staring and walk away.
I can’t imagine they’re pleased that they’re going to be on the same flight as Marcus. If it’s overbooked, and the airline looks for volunteers to give up their seats, there will likely be a stampede.
Conversations with Marcus do not come easy for me, since he says almost nothing, and what he does say I can’t understand. I actually prepare a few things to say, which I figure I’ll spread out throughout the trip, and hopefully get by.
Marcus sits at the window, and I sit next to him. I turn to say something to him when the plane starts to leave the gate, but he’s sleeping. He sleeps the entire way, and I have to wake him at the gate in Vegas. This works out well, since I can now save my planned conversational tidbits for the trip home, should he happen to be awake, and should I happen to be alive.
Vegas looks nothing at all like it did the last time I was here. The cab driver takes us on the scenic, longer route, since that is the best way for him to drive up the cost on the meter.
The hotels are simultaneously remarkable and ludicrous. There is one meant to look like the skyline of New York, one of Paris, and one of Venice. They are cleverly and respectively called New York, New York, the Paris, and the Venetian.
Strangely, I don’t see any hotel designed to replicate Paterson. Perhaps “the Patersonian” is on the other side of the strip.
Marcus and I enter the hotel. Between that moment and the moment we go up to our rooms, four different hotel employees say things like, “Welcome back, Mr. Clark,” and “Good to see you, Mr. Clark.” Marcus just grunts in response, but no one seems put off by it.
Marcus has a life, and I don’t.
I meet Marcus for dinner and drinks at the sushi bar, because that’s where he wants to go. As we walk up to the person behind the desk, she lights up and starts talking a mile a minute in Japanese.
I’m about to tell her that I don’t understand what she’s saying, until I realize that she’s talking to Marcus, and “Clark” is sprinkled through the diatribe, though it sounds like “Clock.”
Marcus is smiling and nodding, hanging on every word. He even grunts in Japanese, though his normal “yuh” sounds more like “yih.”
The maitre d’ comes over and joins in, and they’re laughing and chattering away, still in Japanese, which means it takes a long time to get our table. Which is fine, since I don’t like sushi anyway. Fortunately, Marcus makes up for that by eating enough for me and half the guests in the hotel.
Once he’s finished, and before the enormous check arrives, he grunts and leaves. I head up to my room, where I order room service, call Laurie, turn on the TV, and fall asleep.
I sleep maybe four hours; I’m way too stressed to relax. Marcus and I meet in the morning at the buffet, which has an unbelievable array of very appealing food. For me it represents a potentially fitting last meal; for Marcus it is a chance to provide onlookers with a lasting memory and bragging rights. They will forever be able to say that they were there the day Marcus Clark defeated the Mandalay Bay’s all-you-can-eat buffet.
Two o’clock rolls around all too fast, and five minutes before the appointed hour Marcus and I go up to Ricci’s suite. I don’t think there is any chance that Marcus will be allowed in the meeting with me; I’m sure that my being alone will be the only way I’ll get in. But I like having Marcus with me, and I want them to know he’s here.
I knock on the double doors to the suite.
It’s showtime.
“We need to meet with the judge.”
Brett Fowler had said it, and it immediately pissed Loney off.
“No, we don’t,” Loney replied, trying to remain calm. Loney always had anger issues, which was generally not a good thing for the person he was angry at.
“Yes, we do. Carpenter called him.”
“I know. I spoke to him.” Then, pointedly, “He’s my contact.”
“Then you know he’s freaking out. Look, Loney, I’m sure you think I’m stepping on your toes here, but I don’t really give a shit. This guy is about to issue his ruling. We’ve been waiting six years for this, and we’re going to make damn sure he doesn’t change his mind, or jump off a building.”
As annoyed as Loney was, he knew that Fowler was right. “Okay, I’ll set it up.”
“I already did,” Fowler said.
“You’re crossing the line.”
“I know,” Fowler said. “And I’ll cross back as soon as he issues his ruling. So for now let’s not argue about this, okay? You’re not the one calling the shots here.”
Loney also knew that was true; he was essentially a hired gun. For now. “Where’s the meeting?”
“In Delaware, about a mile from where he lives. It’s a place I have set up there.” He gave Loney the address, and told him it was a warehouse. “The last thing we want is for the judge to be seen with us, especially me.” Since Fowler was a professional political operative, such a sighting would cast any judge in a negative light.
“He’ll be there at ten tonight,” Fowler said. “Can you make it?”
“I’ll be there.”
Fowler liked the action; he always had. That’s why he’d spent seven years in the Marines, and that’s why he became a political operative in Washington. War, Fowler understood as well as anyone, is war. No matter what the battlefield looked like.
On the drive to Delaware he reflected on the progress that had been made. The only thing he had not anticipated was the speed at which the events would take place. The precipitating factor in that was the implication of Galloway. It sent things a little more out of control than Fowler would have liked, and Carpenter had proven to be something of a wild card.
But ultimately the result would have been the same; all that Carpenter had really changed were the tactics and the timing.
The big picture was intact and moving along beautifully. Holland would stay in line and rule in Entech’s favor, which was the key all along. Everything would flow from that, and quickly, since there would be nothing to impede the progress.
Galloway would probably be convicted, at least that’s what the media had been saying. Fowler really had not been paying much attention. Even though he was mostly responsible for Galloway being on trial in the first place, the end result of that trial was not particularly important.
People were going to die; there was no getting around that. Anyone who knew what was really happening, who had helped in making it happen, was going to have to die. Just like those twenty-six people had died at his hands. The secret had to be preserved, or there would be no place on the planet to hide.
That was coming soon, and Brett was gearing up, getting ready for the action, for the war.
Damned if he wasn’t looking forward to it.
He got to the warehouse at nine-thirty. Loney drove down from New York, and was there ten minutes later. It was formerly a medical supplies storage facility, but was now mostly empty. The FOR LEASE sign looked weather- beaten and the place was old and in terrible shape; it seemed likely that the medical supplies it housed must have included whiskey and bullets to bite on for pain.
They briefly went over the plan for the meeting. Loney would do the talking, since the judge knew him, and was aware of the danger he represented. Fowler was just there to be a calming influence, should one be needed.
Loney was to tell the judge that it was almost over; that once he issued his ruling this would all be behind him. Providing the judge kept his silence on the matter, neither Loney nor anyone else would ever call or visit him again.
It’s a message that had been delivered repeatedly ever since the trial date was established. Loney doubted the judge ever believed it, or that he would believe it now.
The fact was that it wasn’t true. The judge knew too much, and was too unstable emotionally to be trusted. It wouldn’t happen the next day, or the next week, or even the next month, but the judge would soon take his secrets to his grave.
It wasn’t until ten after ten that Fowler looked at his watch and said, “I don’t like this.”
“He’ll be here,” Loney said. “If I have to drag him out of bed.”
