Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

I look at my watch. “Twenty minutes if she’s on time.”

“What did she sound like?” he asks. “She seem scared?”

“No reason to be. I didn’t tell her anything.”

“What’s she like?”

“All business,” I tell him.

“So she thinks she’s coming here to polish the nob,” he says.

“Wasn’t my idea,” I tell him.

“What you think she’s gonna do when she sees me?” he says.

“Run like hell,” I tell him. “That’s why you’re going to be hiding in the bathroom until she and I get through the preliminaries. Once she agrees to talk, I’ll introduce you.”

Moving headlights flash in the parking lot out front. The sound of gravel under tires.

Herman gets up off the bed and sneaks a tiny peek around the end of the curtains. He watches for a second. I notice the headlights moving around like someone backing into a space across the way. Then they go out. A few seconds pass.

“It’s her, I think,” says Herman. “Guy in a car. She walked up, started talkin’ to him. Maybe a john, I’m not sure.” He keeps looking.

“Be careful they don’t see you.”

I hear a car door slam. A second later the electronic beep and the flash of lights as the doors lock.

“She’s comin’,” says Herman, “and she ain’t alone.”

“What?”

“She’s got a guy with her. Big dude,” he says. He lets loose of the little pinch on the curtain and looks at me. “I’ll be in the bathroom if you need me. Good luck.” Herman heads into the bathroom, leaves the light off, and closes the door.

I sit there nervously tapping my foot on the carpet waiting for the rap on the door.

“What do you mean, you couldn’t get her?” The Eagle was flummoxed.

“We couldn’t. She never got in the car.” The man at the other end was trying to explain. “She hoofed it,” he said, “from the club to the motel. It’s only a block. The driver went right to the parking lot. She met him there.”

“Son of a bitch,” said the Eagle. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. They’re gonna talk no matter what we do. It’s too late to do anything about it.” He thought for a moment. “Can you turn on his cell again?”

“I don’t know. Depends how much battery is left.”

“Well, try! And record it this time. I want one transcript, no copies, and when you’re finished, destroy the audio. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“And when they’re done, you finish the operation. No ifs, ands, or buts, and no mistakes this time.” The Eagle pushed the button on his cell phone and hung up.

When the knock on the door finally comes, I sputter and end up answering with a voice that sounds like Minnie Mouse. I cough and come down two octaves before I say, “Who is it?”

“Come on now, who do you think it is?” she says.

For a moment I consider sliding the security chain onto the door until I can find out who her friend is. But it probably wouldn’t do any good. The door looks like it’s made of cardboard. Besides, the chain might put her off, cause her to simply walk away. So I take a deep breath and open it, just a crack. “Hello.”

She gives me a studied eye. “You’re awful nervous.” She is nearly lost in the shadow of the man Herman spied from the window. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s about six foot five, sporting an upper body like a bull only with more hair on his chest. This seems to sprout up into a beard on a brooding face that would rival Neptune’s. The only thing missing from this picture is the trident. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?” she asks.

“Who’s your friend?”

“He’s my brother,” she says.

“Yeah, I can see the family resemblance.”

“He just wants to make sure I’m OK. Nothing to worry about,” she says. “As soon as he’s satisfied that I’m safe he’ll wait outside.”

“That shouldn’t have too much effect on my performance,” I tell her.

“Are you going to open up or not?” she says.

I ease the door open.

She smiles and slides around me through the opening and into the room while the guy’s eyes scan me up and down like an imaging machine. When he’s done with this, the big brown eyeballs do a quick roll around the inside of the room.

“Is he going to do a blood test?” I ask.

“That’s not a bad idea.” The guy says it with no humor in his voice. He just pushes past me, no ceremony, and heads toward the bathroom, the closed door with Herman on the other side.

“Hold on a second,” I say.

He turns and looks at me. “You got a problem?”

“We’re all going to have a problem if you open that door,” I tell him.

“Is that right?”

“Yes. Just listen to me for a second. My name is Paul Madriani. I’m an attorney. I’m working a case.” I reach into the inside pocket of my jacket.

“Keep your hands where I can see ’em,” he says.

When my fingers come out they are holding a business card. I hand it to him. He looks at it and then hands it to her.

“Are you with the police?” she asks.

“No. I’m a private defense attorney, criminal cases, but on the other side,” I tell her. “The man inside the bathroom is my investigator. We didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Yeah, right!” says her man.

Herman opens the door and steps out.

As soon as the guy sees him, the big black face staring back at him, he starts to bristle, spitting expletives, racial epithets about people hiding in woodpiles, while he flashes mean looks at Herman and me.

He squares up against Herman, tenses his body and widens his stance over the tactical boots on his feet, neck bowed as if he’s readying for combat.

“Calm down! Relax,” I tell him. “There is nothing bad going down here.”

“Are you packin’?” he asks Herman.

“No.”

“Lift your coat. I wanna see.”

Herman does it.

The man looks down around Herman’s ankles. “Lift ’em.”

Herman pulls up his pant legs to show that he has no weapon strapped to his ankles. First one, then the other.

The man turns to me. “You?”

I shake my head. “That’s not my gig,” I tell him.

He doesn’t bother to frisk me.

“What’s this about?” she asks.

“We are prepared to pay you,” I tell her. “For information.”

“Is this about the club?” she asks.

“No.”

“What then?”

“Can we close the door?” I look out through the open portal into the parking lot. “I’d rather not have the world looking in.”

The guy looks at her. She nods. “Go ahead,” he says.

I do it, walk over and close the door. “I admit it’s not much of a room. Not a lot of places to make ourselves comfortable,” I say, “but take a seat if you can find one.”

She settles onto the edge of the bed. The guy remains standing, as does Herman. Contest of the bulls.

I grab a chair, pull it toward the bed, and sit. “About three weeks ago there was an auto accident on a highway out in the desert. A woman was killed. A young man was arrested. He’s our client. You don’t know his name but you have met him,” I tell her.

She doesn’t say a thing. She just looks at me, steely eyed, chewing gum.

“You invited him to a party. You gave him a note telling him where this party was to take place and you told him you’d meet him there. But you never showed.”

The eyes start to shift and the chewing stops.

“Our client was drugged at this party and he was transported unconscious to the site of the accident.” I don’t couch it as belief, but fact, leading her to believe that we have more than we do. “The accident itself was staged.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Finally, a denial.