Tod Goldberg - The Bad Beat

“Dammit,” Sam said.

This was perfect. He made an exaggerated motion of slamming his car into PARK, even letting it roll a couple of inches in NEUTRAL first, so that the car made a noticeable lurch. He thought about jumping out of the open car window, but decided that might be a touch over the top for the situation and he also wasn’t entirely sure he could get through the window in light of the three-beer lunch he’d had. He fished around in his center console, found the perfect sunglasses among the half dozen pairs he kept there-mirrored aviators-and put them on before he opened his car door and bounded out onto the pavement like he was leading a charge up an enemy beach. Patton could have used mirrored aviators. “All right, all right,” Sam said. “Then I need some answers and I need them fast. Which one of you candy asses was first on the scene?”

Windbreaker took a noticeable step back into the crowd. A born leader knows to let someone else take the fall. It’s what made Nixon so good for so long. And really helped Dick Cheney out. Surrounding yourself with idiots also helped.

“That would be me,” one of the nebulous short-sleeve men said.

“What’s your name, son?” Sam said. The man looked to be about Sam’s age, but Sam always thought calling people “son” immediately gave the air of imperial authority and opened the door for spankings if need be.

“Peter,” he said.

Sam took a pen out of his pocket and wrote the name PETER on the back of his hand. Every man Sam had ever met who was willing to take notes on his flesh was a man who meant business. “Peter what?”

“Handel,” he said. “Like the composer.” Peter had a mop of gray-flecked brown hair and a goatee that was about twenty years too late for his face. Sam thought he sort of looked like Ringo Starr if Ringo Starr had thrown it all away for an exciting career in the insurance field. Sam did admire a guy who had an interesting enough-or, depending upon how one looked at it, boring enough-name that he needed to tell you someone else who had it. Sam wrote HANDEL on his palm.

“Well, Peter Handel, I’m Chuck Finley and I’m like nothing you’ve ever seen,” Sam said. “Give me the stats.”

“Uh,” Peter said, “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I know what you’re looking for.”

“Peter Handel, let me compose something for you, okay, son? This is the tenth bombing I’ve seen like this in the last month. Des Moines. Five dead. Cupertino. Three dead. Lake Charles. No human deaths, just two very crispy Dobermans. You seeing where this is headed, son?”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said again, “but where did you say you were from?”

Used to be people in the insurance business respected authority but now that they were the authority half the time, well, they were getting a bit on the cocky side. Sam preferred the old world where you could go to whatever doctor you wanted, any repair shop you wanted, and they’d both take a bullet out of your backside without a question. Now, it was all guys like Peter Handel. Mr. Question Man. Sam gave an exasperated sigh that was meant to convey all of that to Windbreaker, since clearly he was a man who would agree with Sam since not just anybody can wear a Windbreaker without irony.

Problem was, Sam couldn’t find Windbreaker. In fact, in the short time they’d been speaking, most of the sewing circle of insurance men had stepped away. They were like stealth bombers. Sam would have to deal with Peter Handel-like-the-composer.

“Where am I from?” Sam said. “I’m from a little town in Virginia called Langley. You heard of it? Or do I need to spell it out for you? Would it help if I called in a black helicopter?”

“Uh, no, no, sir,” Peter said. “I’m sorry. I just-you understand, protocol is that we don’t provide confidential information to third parties, and as I wasn’t sure who you were, I… well, you understand, right? Sir?”

Sam took out his pen again. “What’s your Social Security number, Handel?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your Social. Give it to me right now.” Peter rattled off nine numbers that Sam made a big show of carving into his palm. “Good. Good. Well. I’ll check you out. If you’ve got no priors, haven’t visited Pakistan in the last month, I’m sure everything will be fine. In the meantime, I need all of the information you’ve gathered here today if you value living in a free society. You value that, don’t you, Peter?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Peter said. There was a fine sheen of sweat covering the poor guy’s face and for a moment Sam felt sorry for him. He was just doing his job and, actually, doing it according to rule. Well, Sam thought, at least now he’d have a story to tell about the time he worked with the CIA. “I need to get my clipboard from my car. Is that all right?”

“Which car?” Sam asked.

“The gray Taurus,” Peter said. He pointed down the street where there were maybe five gray Tauruses parked.

“Okay,” Sam said, “but make it fast. Every minute you take is another minute we’re closer to a terrorist action, you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he said and scampered off.

Sam walked over to the parking lot where Sugar’s car still smoldered. It was unlikely that Sugar’s name was associated in any way with the car, since Sam had a hard time imagining Sugar either going to a dealership to purchase the car or executing the actual act of mailing off a check each month for the payments. And there was no way Sugar was mentally capable of keeping up with his registration and insurance. He was sure the car had those things in the glove box and he was just as sure they were forgeries.

A young detective stood next to the car and wrote notes down on his notepad. Sam couldn’t figure out what it was about young detectives that made him edgy, particularly since they were both fighting the same war, at least metaphorically speaking. Sure, maybe Sam blew things up in the middle of the city periodically, and, sure, maybe he’d done some work over the course of the last couple years that straddled the line between legal and illegal, but it was all for the greater good. Anyway, it was probably that this batch of new detectives dressed like they were in a commercial for self-tanners and polo shirts.

“Help you with something?” the detective said.

“Finley,” Sam said and extended his hand toward the detective, who in turn just stared at it.

“You a reporter? If so, we’ve got no comment, okay?”

“Not a reporter, son,” Sam said. “I’m in from Langley.” He let that sink in for a moment but when the detective didn’t seem to show any recognition, he added, quietly, because these CIA guys tended to be all monosyllabic and quiet, “Langley, Virginia. Where the CIA lives? Maybe you’re familiar with it?”

The detective straightened up a bit but still didn’t seem to be a hundred percent invested in believing Sam.

“You got some ID?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “The Department of Homeland Security just hands out badges that say TERRORIST LIQUIDATION OFFICER on them. Listen, son, I’ve got about five minutes of time here and either you’re going to help your country or you’re going to hurt it. Which is it going to be?”

The detective looked over his shoulder at the smoldering building. “This terror-related?”

“That’s what I’m trying to determine. This car stolen?”

“Yes, sir,” the detective said.

“And the office, it was the notary?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That makes fifteen,” Sam said.

“Fifteen what?”

“Classified,” Sam said. He took out his pen again and this time wrote “15” on his forearm. “This place owned by Henry Grayson?”

“That’s right,” the detective said.