Steve Martini: The Enemy Inside

He knows that Betz is out, no longer caged at Supermax. I’m guessing he has a source inside. Probably one of the guards. Betz was wise to take out the insurance. He was not untouchable, even there.

Every so often the man of a thousand names waves the muzzle of the large pistol lazily in my direction just to remind me that he has it. When he does this the large bore down the barrel looks like the inky darkness of a deep well. It is old and vintage. It looks like a government-issue, forty-five auto. Something from a past war.

He paces back and forth, as if he were slow-mo moonwalking with the hand cannon in one hand and the Taser in the other. But he keeps a fair distance, about twelve feet between us, so that if I tried to charge him, I doubt if I would get halfway.

He’s in no hurry. He’s feeling safe, as if he has all the time in the world. It makes me think that he’s alone in the house or whoever else is here won’t be troubled if he kills me, hirelings who might well come in and help him or dispose of my body.

In the distance I can hear the sound of a gas-powered garden tool of some kind. It’s not a mower, either a Weedwacker or a leaf blower. A high whine. I can’t tell if the sound of the motor is coming from this property or that of a neighbor.

“Why don’t you tell me now? You know you will before we’re done.”

“Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Sure. I’ll answer yours, you answer mine.”

“What’s your name?” I say.

“Why? You think we’re gonna become friends?”

“No, it’s just if somebody’s gonna kill me, I’d like to know who they are.”

“It’s a fair question. You can call me Ishmael,” he says.

“And I’m the white whale.”

“You asked me. I told you. My turn.”

“How did you get into this line of work?” I cut him off. His questions are beginning to bore me. They’re always the same.

“You mean killing people like you? That comes easy,” he says. “In fact, you keep running your mouth, it’s gonna be a labor of love. And for the record, this isn’t my line of work. It so happens I’m a petroleum engineer.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why? Don’t I look smart enough?”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Why don’t I just give you my Social Security card and a photograph, we can ten-print my fingers when we have coffee later. Why would you care? You’re not going anywhere.”

“You just said you’d let me go if I told you what you wanted to know.”

“Yeah, but you haven’t told me, have you?”

“I’m guessing that at some point you worked for the government. Which agency?”

“You’re just burning up with questions, aren’t you? Well, if you really want to know, I’ll tell you. I worked for the government, sure. Long time ago. I worked for an office, I won’t tell you where, but our job was to explore for oil overseas, in remote areas. This was before the age of green zealotry,” he says. “You know the ones, subscribe to global warming or they’ll cut your head off. That crowd.

“One day I came to work and found my desk cleaned out. The division I worked for was gone. They told us we were victims of the peace dividend. Us, along with half of the military and a fair piece of the country’s intelligence apparatus.

“The leaders had all found religion. The concept of war was outdated. The green dogma that passes for enlightenment was sweeping the world. Guns were out and butter was in, enough to grease the welfare skids and keep the entitlement programs humming.

“The lesson I learned was that America had no leaders. What passed for leaders were herd animals. They were out front only because they wanted to be seen. They kept running into trees and off cliffs because they spent all their time looking back trying to figure out where the herd was going next so they could get back out in front.”

“Take it you don’t like politicians.”

“I hate ’em. They come in handy from time to time, if you can pack them in your pocket. Otherwise they’re worthless. They stripped the country bare. Laid waste its intelligence agencies and staked out the position that the United States was invulnerable. Anybody who attacked would have to be out of their minds.

“It took ten years before they discovered half the world was crazy and some of the people in the asylum were fashioning nuclear weapons. As for me, I didn’t care. The experience had opened my eyes to opportunity. I found my niche.”

“Murder Incorporated?”

“You keep running your mouth, I’m going to put a bullet in you. That’s a hobby. I’m talking business. The same people who told us we didn’t need oil were the ones who’d stripped the country and told us there’d never be another war. But when winter rolled in and people started growing frost on their upper lips, they expected the bunker oilman to deliver. I had all those nice detailed maps prepared for the government. Why lock ’em away in some dusty file? So I went into business. Became an entrepreneur.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“Say what you want. In the last twenty years I’ve made more money than God. I bought up the offshore oil resources, developed the oil, and sold it on the spot market. It ends up back here at three times the cost of the domestic supply that Washington won’t let anybody drill. The politicians can claim they’re protecting the environment and the taxpaying chumps pay the premium at the pump. It’s a great system,” he says. “Designed for the dull-witted by the corrupt. They say sheep are stupid. They’ve got nothing on the American voter. And they wonder where all their jobs have gone. Maybe they should take a closer look at the people they elect.”

“Maybe they would if they knew you owned them.”

He gives me another look at the business end of the pistol and then pushes the button on the Taser. The voltage hits me like a freight train. In an instant I am stiff as a board, every muscle in my body convulsing, along with a dry metallic taste in my mouth. I rattle around in the chair, banging up against the desk behind me. Visions of shock therapy. There is the taste of blood in my mouth. Suddenly it stops.

I slump over in the chair, breathless, as blood drips from my lip onto the front of my shirt. Somehow I bit my tongue. I think about the cops who use these things for recreation following an arrest. This gives me a whole new perspective.

“How’d that work for you? I can do it again if you’d like. What was it we were talking about? Oh yeah, politicians. I don’t own all of them. There’s always room for growth,” he says.

I look up at him, anger fixed in my eyes. “For a man who seems so bitter, it sounds like you’ve done pretty well.”

“I’m not bitter. I like my work.”

He probably does, but he’s twisted. I would say it out loud, but I don’t want another taste of the Taser from Vlad the Impaler, his own form of aversion therapy. He wants me to talk, but he’s conditioning me to keep my thoughts to myself.

“Of course, I’m not sitting where you are right now. Shall we start again?”

“Do we have to?”

“I’m only gonna ask you one more time. I’m wasting electricity. Guess I’m gonna have to put a bullet in you. Where is Betz, and where are the bank records?” He stands there looking at me, waiting for my answer.

When I don’t say anything he moves a few steps closer. “Listen. I don’t want to have to hurt you anymore.” He lowers the muzzle of the gun half an inch, a measure of his sincerity. “You tell me what I want to know and I’ll make certain there’s no pain. You have my word. I promise.”

“Tell you what. You give me the gun, I’ll give you the same deal. And I won’t even ask you any questions.”