Patrick Quinlan - The Hit

Howe led Gant to the second floor and down a wide, cool hallway. Their feet echoed on polished stone. They passed through a doorway and here was what must have been Fielding’s office – fifty yards away, on the far end of what might have once been a ballroom. Gant could almost hear the strains of music and laughter from those long ago times – the good old days. As they walked across the open space, Gant could see the desk, positioned to the right of the open balcony. To the left of the balcony was a sofa, two chairs and a settee. Two men sat there, each sipping from a teacup. Gant recognized one of them, a man with white hair, as Roscoe Fielding, the owner of this house, and the master of all he surveyed. Gant didn’t know the other man. They rose as Gant and his minder approached.

‘Mr Gant,’ Fielding said. ‘Good of you to join us. Do you know Representative Harting?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ Gant extended his hand to the Congressman, who took it in his soft paw. Harting was a beefy man of indeterminate age with a swoop of sandy brown hair. He wore a light brown sports jacket over a dress shirt open at the collar, and khaki shorts – the prep school look. It was enough to make Gant dislike him instantly. Even worse, Harting’s chubby cheeks and the spot of red on each one made him look like a spoiled twelve year-old who spent much of his time indoors playing video games.

‘Jim Harting, Tyler Gant,’ Fielding said. He put a proprietary arm around Harting’s big shoulders. ‘Jim is one of the good ones. He’s one of ours.’

‘Fighting the good fight,’ Gant said. ‘Don’t let me interrupt you.’

‘Roscoe and I were just finishing,’ Harting said, with a hint of a Southern twang. ‘He told me y’all had some important business to talk about, and I’m here for a couple more days, so… ’

‘He has plenty of time to grab my ear, should he need to,’ Fielding said.

Howe smoothly escorted the Honorable James Harting out. Gant took a seat across from Fielding. Fielding was thin to the point of pain. His bony wrists extended a few inches past the end of his white cotton sleeves. His eyes seemed sunken back into his face. The face itself looked like it was written on wrinkled parchment.

‘The tea is still hot,’ Fielding said, gesturing to the pot on the table. ‘Hot tea on a hot day, it makes you perspire. Cools you off some.’

‘No thanks.’

Fielding poured himself some, his hands shaking just a bit. ‘We see you already moved the money from the account we set up for you.’

Gant smiled. ‘One bank account is as good as another.’

‘Do you trust us?’

Gant shrugged, didn’t say anything.

Fielding waved the issue away. ‘It’s your money. Do whatever you want with it. Anyway, that’s not why I asked you here. I thought it was time for us to meet. You’ll find that I’m a man who isn’t much for chit-chat. I like to get down to business right away. And I like to speak plainly.’

Gant thought of the politician who had just left. He looked like a chit-chatter and double-talker, if ever there was one. ‘I’m all for speaking plainly,’ Gant said.

Fielding nodded. ‘Good. Then here it is. We’ve paid you a lot of money, and as I say, that’s OK with me. But I’m concerned. I find you much less forthcoming with information than I’d like. We’ve had no status reports from you. You’re hesitant to talk on the telephone or to submit anything in writing, and I understand that reluctance. But you also refuse to send any of your people here to make a report, and that I don’t understand. Our mutual friends told us to expect these things from you, so I’ve been patient, but my patience is wearing thin. I’m beginning to suspect I’ve been taken for a ride. I can’t tell you how much that upsets and disappoints me.’

Gant felt nothing as a result of Fielding’s little speech. He’d been through this type of thing before. Clients, at some point in any operation, especially one as uncertain as this, always needed to be reassured. They needed a hug, and they needed a grown-up to tell them everything was going to be all right. In fact, Fielding had lasted longer than some others before reaching that place.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ Gant said. ‘I’d hardly come waltzing through all of your gunmen if I were, as you say, taking you for a ride.’

‘Agreed. I feel a little better already, just having you as my guest.’

‘So then, what would you like to know?’

‘Well, by now I was expecting to see… something. Some action. Since you’re here, would you like to update me on the project’s status?’

‘Why? Don’t you trust me?’ Gant said.

Fielding smiled the tiniest bit. He moved a few papers aside on the table, and came up with a manila folder. He opened it and looked at the one sheet of white unlined paper inside. ‘Tyler Gant. US Army 25th Infantry Division, Vietnam. Two tours of duty, 1969 – 1971. Philadelphia Police Department, 1972 – 2003. You’ve spent most of your life in service to your country and your community. That’s to be commended. You should be proud.’

‘I don’t make a fetish out of it,’ Gant said.

Fielding laughed. ‘They said you were a wiseass. I like that in a man, but only so far.’ His face became serious. ‘You know, I’m only five years older than you.’

‘I know.’

‘Well, how do you do it? How do you stay so young?’

‘Believe me, I’m nothing like I used to be,’ Gant said. “I feel the time passing.’

‘But still,’ Fielding said. ‘It’s remarkable.’

Gant shrugged. ‘I only drink the best whiskey. That helps. And I’ve been blessed with good genes.’ He didn’t mention the two days a week with a personal trainer, the five mile runs, and the yoga nearly every morning. He didn’t mention the fruit and vegetable juicing, and the four days of fasting each month. They probably had all that in a file, in any case. ‘My father turned eighty-nine this year. He just came back from his fall hunting trip. Took down a ten-point buck. Clean shot to the head.’

‘Amazing,’ Fielding said. ‘How’s he getting along in these dark times? Does he find it hard?’

‘He’s a tough old bird. Says he’s seen it worse. He was alive during the Great Depression. That was, of course, worse than now.’

‘I’ll grant that’s probably true,’ Fielding said. He paused, seemingly lost in thought for a moment. ‘Mr Gant, I’m concerned. That’s all I’m saying. You come highly recommended. I’m told you’re among the best at what you do, but I feel like you’ve left me in the dark here.’

‘Do you really want to be in the light? In matter such as these, highly sensitive matters, I operate under the assumption that the less the client knows, the better for the client. I think you should take a moment before you answer. Do you really want to know what’s happening?’

Fielding didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes. I want to know.’

Gant took a deep breath, then nodded. ‘We are very close. There’s a boat anchored off the East Coast of the United States, exactly where doesn’t matter at this moment. A small laboratory has been built aboard the boat. Not state of the art, but quite good under the circumstances. It has everything necessary. A person I trust, and who has experience in these matters, built the lab based on very specific guidelines. Some people I do business with have acquired a quantity of a certain substance, an organism, and they will deliver it to the boat when I give them the go ahead. A scientist is en route to the boat. He was unavoidably detained very recently, so the work is a little behind schedule, but I can tell you that soon he will be in place. Once he is, the work will proceed very quickly. After that, your men can meet us at the boat, and we’ll make the transfer.’