Mike Faricy - Bite Me

“Like I said, other than getting paid, I’m out of it.”

Manning nodded.

“Any women work there?”

“Women?”

“Yeah, you know, nice looking, perfume, don’t want to associate with guys like you. Any women work there?”

I let his comment go.

“No, at least as far as I know. Obviously, I haven’t been around there all that much. You were up there, the office is small to begin with, national headquarters or not. They’ve got junk piled everywhere. I’ve only see the two of them there, Thompson Barkwell and Farrell J. Earley, no other employees, male or female as far as I know. Tell you the truth I think they’re running on a shoestring. My impression is they don’t have the funds to pay anyone, at least not much.”

“You worried about getting paid?” he was flipping through a couple of pages from the file on his lap, pretending to read. I was sure he was listening for any telltale sign.

“Yeah somewhat. Barkwell told me they have to run my invoice past some committee or board or some damn thing, get the thing approved before they can pay it.”

“And that worries you?”

“Not as far as actually getting paid, it’s just that he said the committee meets in almost five weeks. Do the math, five weeks before they meet. Then get the run around for another week before the check’s cut, another week before it’s in the mail. It’s two damn months before I’m paid.”

“We talking a lot?”

“Not really, it’s just the principle of the thing.”

“That’s what springs to mind when I think of you, Haskell, principle.”

I ignored his comment.

“They’re just jacking me around, and any other guy stupid enough to deal with them, comes with the territory, I guess.”

“You remember who made the 911 call?”

“No. Tell you the truth, I was watching the car drive off, not that it did any good.”

“It was a woman’s voice,” Manning was back to flipping pages, looking disinterested.

“Well to be honest, there wasn’t much of a crowd, hell, there wasn’t a crowd. I mean, Barkwell, Farrell J., that Tiffany chick, some other guy, two cameramen. That was it. Well and me, six, seven total. There wasn’t a crowd the whole thing was staged for the news cameras.”

Manning nodded.

“Tiffany was on a phone when we first came out of the building, in fact she asked Barkwell to repeat himself because she sort of missed whatever he said initially. She the one who called 911?”

“Nope,” Manning shook his head. “Fact is, the call came from about two blocks away. We triangulated the towers, call came from a disposable phone, false records plus thirty five dollars cash and you’re good to go. It’s a dead end.”

“That’s strange.”

“You think? The whole deal is strange. Look, thanks for your time,” Manning said getting to his feet, then held out his hand.

His hand was like shaking a brick, no give when I squeezed.

“Can you find your way out? If not I could always get officer Van Haug to escort you back down.”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said and made my way to the door.

“Mister Haskell, good luck with your invoice, you’ll email a copy, right?”

“Thanks, I will,” I said and left.

I pulled into the parking lot at the international headquarters of KRAZ. I dodged a couple of the potholes and parked. Some newspaper and a BBQ potato chip bag scuttled past me as I walked into the building. I took the back steps up to the sixth floor, by the time I made it to the top I had to pause a moment to catch my breath before I walked down the hallway to the office.

I remembered not to swing the door widely when I went in. Instead, I sort of stepped sideways to enter the office.

“Halt, identify yourself.”

“What?”

“Identify yourself,” a short, fat guy groaned as he came out of a chair in the process of blinking himself awake. He was dressed in camouflaged combat fatigues that looked brand new. They were a woodland pattern, not the digitized stuff like we had in Iraq. He had gold Sergeant Major stripes sewn on both sleeves. He wore spit polished combat boots with his trousers bloused into the top of the boots. An olive drab web belt was cinched snugly around his forty-six inch waist. He fumbled with the top of a black leather holster at his side.

I spun him around, pushed him up against the wall, pinned his arm behind his back then pulled a forty-five caliber pistol out of his holster.

“Ouch, ouch, get off, get off damn it, you’re killing me,” he groaned.

“You idiot, this damn thing is loaded,” I said and yanked his arm up higher behind his back.

“Aw, God, uncle, okay, okay, I give up, let me go, I’ll talk, I’ll talk.”

I released my grip and took a step back, extracted the clip from the pistol, then pulled the slide back and ejected a round that bounced across the floor.

“What the hell is this? You’re lucky you haven’t killed someone or shot yourself, you boob. Who the hell are you?”

He wore a pained look on his face, his jowls and chins suddenly became flushed. He stood there looking hurt and rubbing his elbow. The web belt around his waist was cinched tightly around his massive midsection, a large roll of fat ballooned above and below the belt.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked again.

“Hogue, Matthias, C. Command Sergeant Major. Four-five-five, three-five…”

“Shut up, you fuckwit. Don’t give me that name, rank and serial number bullshit or I’ll…”

“Sergeant Major is everything… Oh, you.” Thompson Barkwell stood in the doorway leading back to his office, he sounded disappointed.

“He doesn’t have the password, sir?” The camouflaged toad said, then sniffled and continued to rub his elbow.

I glared at him.

He took a step back and stared at the floor.

“At ease, Sergeant Major.” Thompson Barkwell looked me over. “I thought we dismissed you yesterday, what do you want, Hastings?” he said.

“Haskell. Just dropping off my invoice, Tommy. I didn’t think I was going to be breeching your security. Password? Are you guys nuts, a fucking password isn’t going to help. I’m already in here.”

I made my thumb and forefinger into a gun, pointed it at Sergeant Major Tubby and dropped my thumb. “Bang! Your fat ass is dead.”

I pointed at Thompson, dropped my thumb, twice for good measure. “Bang, bang, you’re really dead, Tommy.”

“That sort of behavior is neither necessary nor helpful,” Thompson said.

I just shook my head.

“Look, if you guys are really under threat, you’d better start taking things a little more seriously and knock off the toy soldier bullshit. That sure as hell ain’t cuttin’ it.”

“Was there some purpose to your unauthorized visit this afternoon?” Thompson asked.

I took a deep breath, attempted to relax.

“Yeah, here’s my invoice. Payment upon receipt,” I said, handing him the envelope with the invoice enclosed.

He looked at the envelope in my hand, but made no effort to take it.

“And as I explained to you, yesterday. Your invoice will be reviewed at our next board meeting.”

“You did explain that. And, as I told you, I would be dropping this invoice off, today, and my terms are payment upon receipt.”

“Do you have a signed contract, Mister Haskell?”

“You know I don’t. But I think under the circumstances you might just want me paid and out of your hair.”

“What circumstances would those be?”

“Well, for starters, I just came from the police station. They called me down for a chat. They seemed to be a little curious about the attempt on your life. You know, the press conference, the shooting, the…”