John Gilstrap - Damage Control

And thus the game perpetuated. “Gee, Mr. Sjogren, how does this affect you?”

Sjogren erupted in laughter. “Not me-you. How does this affect you. I was doing, like a direct quote for you. And remember that my name is Abrams for this op.” Sjogren craned his neck to see Munro’s face, and then slapped him on the arm. “C’mon, Trev. Engage with me. We’re havin’ fun here.”

“ You’re having fun,” Munro said. He knew he was rising to the bait, but he wanted this meeting to end. “You’re having it at my expense, and I desperately want you to get on with it.”

“Priggish little shit, aren’t you?” Sjogren mocked. “All right, fine. If they nail him, I figure that you’ll be the first one he throws under the bus. That’s what I’d do if I was him. Then I’d pull your skinny ass out and throw it under again. I’ve checked you out, Trev. You got no friends anywhere. That’s hard to do. Shit, I’m an asshole, and even I have friends.” He paused for a reaction.

“No freakin’ fun at all,” Sjogren said. “Now ask me what they’ve got on Hernandez.”

Munro looked across the console. He hoped that his contempt for the man was plainly evident. “Really?” he said.

“Do you want to know or don’t you?”

A deep sigh. “Okay, Mr. Abrams, what do they have on Hernandez?”

“An informant.” He fired the answer like a weapon, and it hit its mark. “There’s somebody inside his organization that’s funneling information back to the U.S. attorney’s office. The FBI’s doin’ a little happy dance over it.”

Munro felt his face going pale, and he let off the accelerator a bit. This could be the nightmare of nightmares. Hernandez knew way too much about everything. The drug lord had thoroughly insulated himself from the Mexican authorities, but there were still elements within the Mexican government that wanted democracy to return. Those elements had been working with the American State Department for years trying to find a workable leverage point. And, of course, wherever State goes, the Justice Department isn’t very far behind. It would be just like those agencies to negotiate leniency for a Mexican in favor of the hard line against a career patriot like Munro.

“You don’t look so good, Trev,” Sjogren said. “You maybe need to pull over or something? I’d hate to test the air bags on your midlife crisis car.”

“Go to hell, Sjogren.”

“It’s Abrams.”

“Fuck you.”

Sjogren laughed again, a hearty thing that shook his whole frame. “There you go, Trev! That’s what I’ve been mining for all this time. I really can get you to cuss! I’m proud of you.”

Munro couldn’t even process the mockery. This was beyond a crisis. This was a disaster of incalculable proportions. “We have to stop it,” he said.

“Yeah, well, good luck with that. What do you have in mind?”

Munro’s mind swam in options. “How much would it cost for you to kill him?”

Sjogren’s jaw dropped. “Who, Felix Hernandez? You don’t have that much money. They don’t print that much money. He’s got more security around him than the freakin’ president of the United States.”

Munro felt the panic building in his gut. He tried to press it down, but this was too big to suppress. “But he has to be stopped. If what you say is true-”

“Back up a second,” Sjogren said. “You’re not hearing what I’m telling you. He’s got an informant in his inner circle. My guy at the AG’s office thinks it’s a woman, but he wasn’t sure of that. You just need to tell Hernandez that he’s got a spy, and then Hernandez needs to clean his own house. Without the informant, the government’s got no case. No case, no arrest. No arrest, you get to retire alive.”

There, finally, was the glimmer of hope. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it himself. “You need to get me a name.”

“You say that like it’s easy. If I coulda got you a name, I’d have done it.”

“How much?” Munro asked.

“How much what?”

Returning anger started diluting his fear. “Don’t be obtuse,” he said. “How much will a name cost me?”

Sjogren put a hand over his chest, as if to fend off a heart attack. “You offend me, Trev. You make it like I do this only for the money.”

Munro shot a look that triggered another laugh. “How much?”

“Ten thousand.”

“ Dollars?” Munro croaked. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

Sjogren made a show of stroking the lush leather interior of the Porsche. “This is really a nice car, Trev. The whole poverty thing doesn’t resonate well with you.”

Typical talk from a lout like Sjogren. “But ten thousand dollars? That’s outrageous.”

“Hey, you asked me, okay? You want the name, you pay the money. You don’t, you don’t. I don’t give much of a shit either way.”

Munro ran the options through his head and determined within seconds that he didn’t have any. “First the name, and then the payment,” he said. “I’m not going to pay that kind of money on a roll of the dice.”

“Fine by me. I figure you know the penalty for stiffing me, so what the hell?” He slapped Munro on the shoulder again. “See, Trev? We got us a trusting working relationship now. When you foul things up, I’m always there to help you clean up the mess.”

Munro felt his face flush. Just once, he wanted to hear Sjogren-or Abrams, or whatever the hell he wanted to call himself-face up to his own mistakes. That’s what bothered Munro the most in his dealings with the Bostonian: he managed to remain self-righteously smug, even as he shared at least half the blame.

“When can you get it to me?” Munro asked. “The name, I mean.”

“I don’t know that I can. I don’t know that my guy even has it. Even within the AG’s office, people tend to be pretty tight-lipped. Or so I’m told.”

“You need to hurry,” Munro pressed.

“I can just make something up, if you want,” Sjogren said. “That’s what you get when you hurry. I’ll do what I can, and then we’ll see what we end up with.”

Munro executed a treacherous U-turn in the middle of a block, throwing Sjogren against his door, and pressing him there with centrifugal force.

“Who the hell taught you to drive?” Sjogren bitched. “Don’t they have police officers in this burg?”

“I want it by tonight,” Munro said.

“And I want a date with a supermodel. Wanting it don’t make it so, you know? Even when you’re a big-friggin’-shot with the CIA. I’ll do what I can. Keep your cell phone handy.”

Munro recognized the closing line of their last meeting being turned against him, but pretended he didn’t. They drove back to the library in silence, only this time, Munro avoided the tough left turn entirely and instead pulled into a parking lot across the street.

“I’ll let you out here,” Munro said.

Sjogren pulled the latch and pushed the door open. It was a comical thing to watch him unfold himself and find his feet.

“Hey, Mr. Abrams,” Munro said as the door was about to close.

Sjogren bent at the waist and peered back into the vehicle.

“This source you have. Why does he give you this information? What’s his angle?”

Sjogren’s smile betrayed the fact that he’d been waiting for the question. “That’s the coolest part of all,” he said. “In Washington, D.C., everybody’s got secrets to share. All you gotta do is tell them that you’re an investigative reporter. I even have fake business cards, just in case, but not one of these self-righteous bozos has ever asked for one.”

Munro scoffed and shook his head. What was the world coming to?

“And before you get all high-horsey on me,” Sjogren said, “you spooky guys at the Funny Farm are the worst of the lot.”