John Locke: Callie’s Last Dance

Roy moves toward her with his fist cocked. But Carmine waves him off.

Roy says, “Say the word, I’ll beat that attitude out of her.”

Carmine says, “Leave us be, Roy. Can’t you see we’re negotiating?”

Willow smiles.

Roy glares at her. Says, “This ain’t over, bitch.”

Willow says, “Run along, Roy.”

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

He gets right up in her face. His eyes are slits. His face, a mask of fury. Through clenched teeth he says, “Get ready, Miss. Because I’ve got plans for you !”

“Cancel them,” she says.

“Outside this club, you’re on my turf,” he snarls. “Bad things happen on my turf. You been warned.”

Willow gives him a look of her own. Then says, “Roy, you’re a bug on my windshield. Nothing more.”

When he leaves, Carmine says, “You got balls, I’ll give you that. But you better re-think this thing with Roy.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s a mean son of a bitch.”

Willow shrugs.

“I won’t lie to you. He beats the shit out of the girls sometimes.”

Willow yawns.

“I’m serious. He broke a girl’s jaw once, for talking back. Crushed another one’s cheekbones.”

Willow says, “I’m not afraid.”

“Why not?”

She bats her goldenrod eyes at him and says, “You’ll take care of me.”

Carmine gives her a long look, then says, “The other girls think Roy’s the power around here.”

“Why should you and I care what they think?”

Carmine scrunches up his face in thought and says, “Roy thinks I’m ripe for the plucking.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s one step away from making a run at me.”

“Then maybe we should put him in his place.”

Carmine gives her a long, wistful look.

His voice softens. “You remind me of things from long ago.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Honey-suckle. Swimming at Blue Lake. Stick ball. Kick the can. You know, kid things.”

He smiles.

Willow says, “Who’s the first girl you ever felt up?”

“Excuse me? Did you just say ‘felt up’?”

She nods.

“You mean kissed?”

“Nope. Felt up.”

He laughs. “Seriously?”

“I’m told you never forget your first feel.”

“Mary Jane Milligan.”

She smiles. “How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

“And she was?”

“The same. During lunch she’d stand by the oak tree in the school yard, let you feel her up for a quarter.”

Willow laughs. “A quarter?”

“Don’t laugh. That was a big number in those days.”

“Did she lift up her shirt, or what?”

“In the early days she’d flash you for a quarter. But the boys grew wise to it.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’d keep an eye on her. When she got a customer they’d run over and surround her and try to catch a free peek.”

“So she modified her business plan? From flashing to fondling?”

Carmine throws his head back and laughs. “Modified her business plan!” he says. He laughs some more.

Then says, “What, you attended Harvard Business School?”

“I wish.”

He laughs again, and dabs the corners of his rheumy eyes with his sleeve.

“Milligan,” Willow says. “Irish, yes?”

He nods.

“Catholic girl? Red hair?”

“You’re good, I’ll give you that!”

“Freckles?”

He nods again.

“Big boobs?”

He throws back his head and roars with laughter.

“What?”

“She was only fourteen!”

“So? Big boobs, or no?”

He laughs. “My father had bigger tits. But Mary Jane was the only game in town.”

“Did she let you touch them, or just her blouse?”

Carmine shakes his head and chuckles. “You really want to hear this?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“I’ve known you five minutes, I’m tellin’ you shit my wife don’t know after fifty-five years of marriage.”

“You’re going to tell me lots of things your wife doesn’t know.”

“You think so, huh?”

Willow smiles.

“I never met anyone like you before,” he says.

“I know,” Willow says. “And you never will.”

Washington, D.C.

Donovan Creed.

I WORK FOR Sensory Resources, a clandestine branch of Homeland Security, headquartered eighty-five miles south-west of Bedford, Virginia, on two hundred acres of government land. My job is to recruit, train, and supervise assassins to help me kill suspected terrorists on American soil.

How do we determine the death-worthiness of a group or individual?

Good question.

Because there’s no one-size-fits-all among terrorists, and no handbooks, and because information is often spotty, we follow the advice of the celebrated early-American folk hero, frontiersman, soldier, and statesman, Davy Crockett, who said, “Be sure you’re right, and then go ahead,” which for us roughly translates into “Kill first, ask questions later.”

Because the government doesn’t recognize us, they can’t pay us. But we’re resourceful. We steal from our victims. Perform free-lance hits for the mob. Use insider information to enhance the return on our investment portfolios.

The importance of today’s meeting is underscored by my private jet’s receipt of clearance to land on the Sensory Resources airstrip, which is normally reserved for the two fighter jets we keep on twenty-four-hour alert. Though I’ve been with the agency more than a dozen years, this is only the fourth time I’ve touched down on the home-field runway.

Let me catch you up to speed. The former head of Sensory was a guy named Darwin, whom everyone thinks was killed by my one-time facilitator, Lou Kelly. Lou was all set to take Darwin’s place, but he turned up dead.

Here’s the twist: everyone thinks Darwin was the code name for my friend, Doc Howard, but the real Darwin is alive and well. His name is Dr. Eamon Petrovsky. He’s a retired surgeon living in Vegas.

I call him Dr. P.

Dr. P. will soon be heading up Vegas Moon, the plastic surgery center and spa I plan to open as a sideline business in a few weeks.

With Lou Kelly suddenly dead, panic has set in among the six people on earth who possess detailed knowledge of our little group of government assassins. Those six are currently sitting on the other side of the door I’m staring at, in the agency’s conference room. Their meeting started at ten this morning. Shortly thereafter they called me, told me to come immediately. Charter a private jet. Land on site.

I get that. Time is of the essence. Decisions need to be made.

But in typical government fashion, they’ve got me sitting on my hands in the ante room while doctors, scientists, and members of Sensory’s elite security staff enter and exit the room practically nonstop.

After two hours of sitting, I tell the young guard if they want me they can find me in my office down the hall.

“My orders are to keep you here in the ante room, sir,” the guard says, nervously.

“Why?”

“To protect you.”

I laugh.

He laughs.

I say, “I’ll be in my office, son.”

He looks uncomfortable.

“I’ve got bourbon there,” I say, then add, “You can join me, Tommy, if you like.”

He bites his lip.

This is a nice kid, Tommy Cooper. I knew his dad. I’m the one who got Tommy this guard job at Sensory. Though he’s young, he’s a stone killer, an elite fighting man.

I see the fingers of his right hand twitch ever-so-slightly.

“Tommy,” I say.

“I take my job seriously, Mr. Creed.”

I sigh. “I know you do, son.”