Solemnities
The sun burned overhead like an indifferent parent on the day Masterson visited Philip Monroe’s grave. It had been a little over three weeks since the funeral and this was the first time he’d been able to come and pay his respects.
For obvious reasons, he didn’t go to the service. He’d been advised by the police as well as League Security that it wouldn’t be safe; wouldn’t be 'prudent.' There were still no official suspects in what was being called a deliberate incident. However, if the person who bombed Monroe’s car was who Masterson thought it was, he prayed for Monroe’s soul and for his own.
He slowly looked around him, glancing over the headstones and foliage of the cemetery. God, this was a depressing place; a dark and lonely dumping ground for people who felt the need to warehouse their past. The idea of squandering good land and good resources just to remember people seemed downright stupid to him. Let the dead be dead and let them fade in the memory of the living in their own good time.
He laughed, deep and with resonance. These were macabre observations coming from a man who made his living dealing with the living dead. He’d seen too much life and too much death to think of it any other way.
The cemetery where he now stood was obviously old, most of its headstones dated back to the early Forties. Once manicured lawns now stood abandoned, its landscaping left to be choked by weeds and kudzu. A lot of the marble structures were blackened at their seams, mildew and rot patiently eating away at the expensive, polished stone. Monroe, who’d had no real family to speak of other than a girlfriend, did, as it turned out, have an aunt who had left him a deed to this burial property in her will. Its placement—in this cemetery, in this plot, in this manner of procurement—implied a grave that was soon to be forgotten. At any rate, it was a joke burying what was left of Monroe in a casket. With what remained, a Tupperware container would have sufficed.
If he allowed himself to think about it, Masterson was almost impressed by how Cleese had moved in such an unexpected direction. A direct frontal attack was not something Masterson thought he’d been capable of. It was a smart move. He supposed that Cleese would be heading his way next. It’s what Masterson would have done: minimize the liabilities, take out any competition. And that didn’t even take into account the whole revenge angle.
But then again, Masterson thought that Cleese just might give him a pass on this one, preferring to observe him from afar. He could all too easily imagine Cleese watching him spend the rest of his life in paranoid anticipation of the death he’d be dealt rather than simply just killing him and having done with it.
He’d want to fuck with him.
It’s exactly what he’d done that first day in the Orientation Room back at the Compound.
Which brought him back to Monroe. That stupid shit had pushed things way too far. He’d compromised them both by not being able to keep his fucking mouth shut. Wishing Cleese good luck… for chrissakes! He’d pushed Cleese and poked him and prodded him until the man had no choice but to react. And then there was that outburst at the Training Hall. He might as well have admitted to complicity in the whole mess. What an arrogant prick. He pretty much slapped a target on Cleese’s back and signed his goddamn name to it.
It was right after the initial meeting at Corporate, Monroe told him about deciding to give Cleese a clip of blanks during a match. He wanted to 'step it up a notch.' Masterson thought it was too risky and had too much potential for blowback, but Monroe was intent on showing Cleese who was in charge.
But it had been Weber who gave the go-ahead. He said it was a solid show of force and would 'set the tone' of their relationship.
They all knew it would make great television.
After that, Cleese had been a wild man; totally unchained. He’d fought harder than ever and his ratings soared. Everyone should have been happy. They were all making a ton of money. Upper management and Mr. Weber had decided—with Monroe’s cheerleading—to throw yet another challenge at Cleese. For no other reason than to show him who was in the driver’s seat here.
Once and for all.
The results had been mind blowing. Ratings for that night’s match and the subsequent replays were astronomical. Merchandise revenue went through the roof. Hell, even some station affiliates that were starting to whine about the level of violence on the shows had fallen into line. Cleese had overnight become the most popular fighter The League had ever known.
It was all too perfect.
And then, in the same evening, Cleese up and disappeared.
Masterson had by now arrived at his car, a sleek black Lexus LFA. The car had been a gift from Mr. Weber as a sort of reward for Cleese completing his training in record time. The car was low to the ground with a 4.8 liter, 552 horsepower V10 engine that would purr like a kitten or growl like a beast depending on the person behind the wheel. The car was magnificent.
Masterson hated the damn thing.
Every time he looked at it, all he could think of was Cleese.
And doing so always made his sphincter tighten.
He took a deep breath and looked at the cemetery around him as he dug in his pockets for his keys.
Suddenly, his cell phone chirped in the left, breast pocket of his suit coat. Transferring his keys to his other hand, he reached into the folds of his jacket and retrieved the small black gadget. His finger slid across the front screen and the phone did the rest. He held the phone to his ear and stared across the bonnet of the Lexus.
'Masterson,' he said.
Inside the earpiece, a familiar voice spoke, its tone sounding tinny through the small speaker.
'Masterson…? Weber.'
Masterson stood a little taller, a result of years of standing at attention when a superior officer spoke. When he realized no one was around, he relaxed just a bit.
'Yes, Sir.'
'I asked these fucking morons for an update on this Cleese thing and, well… these fuckers couldn’t find their asses in the dark with a flashlight and a map.'
'Yes, Sir.'
'So… what do you have for me?'
Masterson paused and thought. He hated having nothing to report, but… well, he had nothing to report. Cleese had, by all accounts, vanished off the face of the earth. His crib was empty. The dump he lived in back in San Francisco was a meth lab now. Hell, even Weaver claimed to not know where he’d disappeared to. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.
The money.
No one in the organization could explain how Cleese had managed to vaporize with the amount of money he did. There were supposed to be fail-safes to prevent that sort of thing. Once again, Cleese proved himself to be a lot smarter than anyone gave him credit for.
'Masterson?' the voice in his ear asked.
'Yes, Sir.'
'The Cleese thing…'
'Well, Sir, we’re still looking into it. So far, there’s not much to go on.'
The voice on the other end was silent for a long time. With each passing second, Masterson felt another bead of nervous sweat crawl down his back. To his surprise, Weber’s response was not the one he anticipated.
'Well, no matter… Given enough time and resources, we’ll find him.'
'I apologize, Sir. I take full responsibility. This whole thing has been a bit of a bust, Sir.'
'Nonsense! Have you
Pocket change? Masterson heard the sum Cleese had disappeared with was a lot more substantial than 'pocket change.' Rumor was… he could have bought himself a small country with what he’d taken.
'Yes, Sir, but… we did have losses.'
