Филип Керр - A Five Year Plan

‘Al,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve got a present for you. Now, I don’t want you getting alarmed when you see what it is, OK? Because normally you would be, right? Under normal circumstances you would look at what I’m about to give you and feel very uncomfortable. And I wouldn’t blame you one bit. But with anything creative, if it’s any fuckin’ good, there’s usually a certain amount of improvisation involved. Like good jazz, y’know? Or Jimi Hendrix?’

‘Improvisation?’ Al’s frown deepened. ‘What the fuck is this? What are you talking about, improvisation? Do I look like Lee fucking Strasberg or something? We’re taking down a score here, not some fucking director’s notes.’

They were standing on the empty bridge staring down at a vague outline of the captive flotilla of yachts. Apart from the two lights on the ship’s stern, everything was dark. Dave nodded and said, ‘That’s good, Al. Lee Strasberg is good. A much better example than Jimi Hendrix because there is going to be some acting involved. Did you ever see yourself as an actor, Al?’

‘I hate fucking actors.’

‘That’s good too. See if you can hang onto that. Because the best way of manifesting your contempt for actors would be to demonstrate just how easy acting is.’

‘Get to the point, motherfucker.’

‘OK, here’s your part.’ Dave unfolded Kent Bowen’s FBI identification wallet and handed it over. He hoped that in the half-light of the bridge Al wouldn’t recognize Bowen from his photograph. ‘Your name is Kent Bowen and you’re an Assistant Special Agent in Charge with the FBI.’

Al scrutinized the card. ‘Where the fuck did you get this shit?’

‘Never mind that now. That and the other one in my pocket are going to save you and me a lot of legwork.’ He glanced at his watch. The change in plan was now looking essential. ‘Dangerous and time-consuming legwork,’ he added. ‘Just look down at those boats and think about this. That it’s a lot of fuckin’ boats to be gettin’ on and off of in the pitch dark, and in this fucking weather. Right? This FBI thing is just a way of streamlining this particular phase of the operation. You dig?’

Less effort for the same return was OK with Al. ‘I guess so.’

Dave took back Bowen’s FBI wallet and tucked one half inside the strap of Al’s vest, so that the badge was hanging out in the front.

‘There you go,’ he said. ‘You look just like Al Pacino. Right, now here’s the set-up. You and I are going to board these boats posing as a couple of Feds. We’ll tell them that we’ve been keeping one particular boat on this ship under surveillance because it’s smuggling drugs. Only now we’ve got to move in and make the arrest before they transfer the stuff onto another ship. So we’re asking everyone to stay in their cabins in case there’s any shooting and to be real quiet. Think you can handle that?’

Al glanced at the badge he was wearing. He shook his head, and said, ‘Jesus, this feels weird. I can handle this shit, yeah. Acting. Nothing to it. If Arnie Schwarzenegger can do it, then anyone can. I’m Jack Webb, no fucking problem. When I was a kid I watched Dragnet all the time.’

‘Now you’re talking,’ said Dave.

‘Who am I supposed to be again?’ asked Al and before Dave could distract him, he had the wallet out of his vest and was scrutinizing Bowen’s ID. ‘I’d better get into character here.’

‘Your name’s Bowen,’ said Dave, hoping to distract Al, worried about how he might react to the presence of three real Feds on board the Duke. ‘ And you’re what the Feds call an ASAC.’

‘Sack of shit more like,’ muttered Al. ‘Y’know, this is pretty good ID. With these fuckin’ creds I could—’

‘Yeah, yeah, c’mon Al, let’s get moving.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Al frowned. ‘Wait just a fuckin’ minute. I recognize this joker. This is the guy on that broad’s boat. That broad you’ve been—’

‘Al, there’s really no time to explain.’

‘It is, isn’t it? That’s where I’ve seen this character. And this ID. This is Coca-Cola. This is the real thing.’

‘None of this is relevant.’

‘The hell it isn’t. Show me your ID.’

‘These really are going to make things easier for us, Al, if only you’ll let them.’

‘Hand it over, asshole.’

Dave could see there was no point in arguing. He handed Al Kate’s ID and watched the big man’s ugly face wince with horror.

‘Jesus, she’s a Fed too. You fucked a Fed, didn’t ya? I don’t believe it. You fucked a Fed. What the hell were you thinking of? Didn’t it make you feel nervous or nothing?’

‘I didn’t know she was a Fed when I fucked her,’ lied Dave. ‘I was snooping around her pantie drawer and that’s when I found her wallet.’

‘What about the other guy? The tall guy with the glasses? Is he a Fed as well?’

‘No, he’s with the Coast Guard.’

‘Did you fuck him too? Or is it just Feds you’ve got a thing for?’ Al shook his head in wonder. ‘Jesus Christ. I can’t believe this. Doesn’t it make you feel nervous? It makes me feel like running for Mommy’s tit.’

‘Relax will you? Everything’s cool. They’re no threat to us, believe me. For one thing they’re working under cover — keeping Jellicoe under surveillance. They suspect him of smuggling drugs or guns or some shit like that. It’s nothing to do with us. Nothing. You understand? And for another thing, I took their guns at the same time as I took their IDs and threw them over the side, just in case.’

Dave thought the story about Jellicoe was better for Al’s peace of mind than saying he really had no idea who was under surveillance, or why, except that it certainly wasn’t the two of them.

‘They had guns?’

‘Well of course they had guns. They’re FBI, not fucking Bay-watch?

‘I still don’t like it.’

‘You don’t have to like it, Al. All you gotta do is act, for Chrissakes.’

‘And what about them. The Feds. What are you going to do about them?’ Al threw Kate’s ID back at him.

‘Chill out. I’ll handle them.’

‘Romantic goodbyes, is that it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I gotta hand it to you, pal. Fucking a Fed. That’s quite a pelt for any guy to have on his bedpost. But for someone like you. An ex-con, straight out of the federal joint. Wait till I tell Tony. He ain’t gonna believe it. You. Dave Delano. Mister Sang Freud. That’s French,’ explained Al. ‘Means you got composure. Like there was ice running in your veins.’

Kate lay on the gently rocking bed in her stateroom, drifting in and out of sleep. The prints and photo fits of vague thoughts piled up in her head; but she couldn’t concentrate on any one of them. What was she going to do? She could hardly ignore Dave for the remainder of the voyage. Suppose he was involved with the mob? Was that better or worse than being a jewel thief? Was there anything he had said that she thought she could actually believe? Yes. He loved her. Even wanted to marry her. That much she did believe. And not because she wanted to, but because she just knew that it was the truth. In which case, since she felt the same way about him, did anything else really matter? What was being in the Bureau and staying on in Florida really worth compared with what she felt for him? And hadn’t she wanted something like this? Something out of the ordinary? What did it really matter that she didn’t know him? As Dave had said, people who didn’t know each other fell in love and got married every day. Were their marriages any less successful than anyone else’s? She and Howard, for instance. They’d known each other for three years before getting married. And look how that had turned out...