Warren Murphy: Kill Or Cure

Bullingsworth suddenly felt very proud of his country, secure knowing that America was doing more to fight the disintegration of the nation than met the eye. Much more.

Only one thing in the notes bothered him. That was the section on proposed pay raises for approval by Folcroft, whatever or whoever Folcroft was.

Everyone at his level in the League was getting a 14 percent raise and his was a non-inflationary 2.5 percent. He decided he wasn’t going to let it bother him, because he shouldn’t have been aware of the injustice anyway. He would put it out of his mind. And if he had done this thing as he had planned, he would have lived to collect his non-inflationary 2.5 percent pay raise.

But his resolve disappeared later that day when he met the President of the Greater Miami Trust and Investment Company and wondered why he had received only a 2.5 percent raise. The president, who considered himself an expert in industrial and human relations, told Bullingsworth he was sorry but no one on loan to the Betterment League was getting more than 2.5 percent.

‘Are you sure?’ said Bullingsworth.

‘I give you my word as a banker. Have I ever lied to you?’

The first thing James Bullingsworth did was have a drink. A martini. Double. Then he had another martini. And another after that. And when he arrived home, he told his wife that if she mentioned he had been drinking, he would punch her heart out, noted that she had been right all along about how the bank was using him, put on a fresh jacket - carefully transferring his notebook to the inside pocket—and flailed out of the house yelling how he was ‘going to show those sons of bitches who James Bullingsworth was’.

At first he played with the idea of exposing the Betterment League in the Miami Dispatch. But that could get him fired. Then he thought of confronting the president of the bank. That would get him the increased money, but somewhere along the road the bank president would make him suffer.

The proper course of action came to him when he switched to bourbon. Bourbon focused the mind, elevated it to awarenesses of human relationships not understood in mere gin and vermouth.

Bourbon told him that it was every man for himself. It was the law of the jungle. And he, James Bullingsworth, had been a fool to think he lived in a civilized society. A fool. Did the bartender know that?

‘We’re cutting you off, Mister,’ said the bartender.

‘Then you’re the fool,’ Bullingsworth said. ‘Beware the king of the jungle,’ he said, and remembering a Miami Beach official who once spoke at a church picnic and said he was glad to see young men like James Bullingsworth get involved in civic affairs, he phoned that official.

‘Why don’t we talk this over in the morning, huh, fella?’ said the official.

‘Because, baby, you may not be around in the morning. They’re going to indict your ass next. Parking meter receipts.’

‘Maybe we’d better not talk about this on the phone. Where can we meet?’

‘I want a million dollars for what I have. A cool million, buddy, because this is the law of the jungle.’

‘Do you know the Mall in Miami Beach, the end of the Mall?’

‘Do I know the Mall? Do you know what you people are planning for construction on Key Biscayne? Do I know the Mall?’

‘Look, fella, at the end of the Mall, on the beach near the Ritz Hotel. Can you get there in an hour?’

‘I can get there in fifteen minutes.’

‘No, don’t get in any accidents. I think you’ve got something very valuable.’

‘A million dollars valuable,’ said Bullingsworth, drunkenly slurring the words. ‘A million dollars.’

He hung up and, while passing the bar, informed the bartender that he just might come back, buy the bar and fire his Irish ass the hell out of there. He waved the notebook with the scribbles in front of the bartender’s face.

‘It’s all here, sweetheart. Gonna fire your Irish ass the hell out of here. Gonna be the biggest political cat in the political jungle. You’ll think another thing before you cut off James Bullingsworth. Where’s the door?’

‘You’re leaning on it,’ said the bartender.

‘Right,’ said Bullingsworth and sailed out into the muggy Miami night. The air had a bit of a sobering effect on him and by the time he reached the beach he was only drunk. He kicked the sand and breathed the fresh salt-air. Maybe he had been a bit precipitous? He looked at his watch. He could use another drink. He could really use another drink. Maybe if he went to the president of the bank, explained what he did, maybe everything could be worked out.

He heard the strains of Bette Midler from an open hotel room window. He heard a small power-boat approaching. The beach was supposed to be lit at this hour. All the other sections were indeed well-lighted, but this section was dark. The Atlantic was black out there, with a lone ship blinking like an island afloat.

Then came a whisper.

‘Bullingsworth. Bullingsworth. Is that you?’

'Yeah. Is that you?’ said Bullingsworth.

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Never mind. Did you bring the information?’

‘Yes, I have it.’

‘You tell anyone else?’

Sobering up all too quickly, Bullingsworth thought about an answer. If he told them someone else knew about it, then they might think he was blackmailing them. Then again, that was what he was doing.

‘Look, never mind,’ said Bullingsworth. ‘We’ll talk about this some other day. I’m not going to tell anyone else. Let’s meet tomorrow.’

‘What do you have?’

‘Nothing. I didn’t bring it.’

‘What’s that notebook?’

‘Oh, this. Jeez. Just to take notes. I always carry one.’

‘Let me see it.’

‘No,’ said Bullingsworth.

‘You don’t want me to take it, do you?’

‘Just notes. Notes I have.’

‘Bring it here.’

‘They’re nothing, really. I mean, nothing. Look, my friends are going to pick me up here any minute. I’ll be seeing you. Tomorrow is fine,’ said Bullingsworth. ‘I’m really sorry to have bothered an important man like you tonight anyway.’

‘Bring the notebook over here, James,’ came the voice, soft and ominous and tinged, Bullingsworth realized for the first time, with a touch of Europe. ‘You’ll be sorry if I have to go over there and get it.’

The voice was so threatening that Bullingsworth, like a little boy, meekly entered the darkness.

‘Just notes,’ he said.

‘Tell me about them.’

Bullingsworth smelled the lilac cologne very heavy. The man was shorter than he, by about an inch, but broader, and there was something in his tone – something in the way he spoke—that was commanding. He was, of course, not the politician that Bullingsworth had expected to meet.

‘They’re just notes,’ Bullingsworth said. ‘From a computer printout in the Betterment League.’

‘Who else knows you made the notes?’

‘No one,’ said Bullingsworth, knowing he was saving his secretary’s life, just as he knew his own life would be soon over. It was as if he were a spectator to the event. He knew what would happen, there was nothing he could do, and now he was watching himself about to be killed. It didn’t seem horrible at all. There was something beyond horror, like the acceptance of it.

‘Not even your secretary, Miss Carbonal?’

‘Miss Carbonal is a hear-no-evil-see-no-evil, nine-to-five, pick-up-your-check-and-go-home type. You know, Cuban.’

‘Yes, I know. These printouts. What do they say?’

‘They show that the National Betterment League is a fake. A secret government organization that’s investigating and infiltrating local governments in cities all across the country.’