Call Me Joe (24 page)

"I'm finishing up the Compton trial, anyway," she offered. "So I'll need at least a week. Why don't we try a little phone date, say, on the weekend? Just chat for a while, after hours?"

"Ooh, sounds kinda risqué, for an older gentleman like myself," I murmured. I actually was embarrassed, for no good reason I could explain.

"Ya never know," she sang. "Let me give you my numbers."

I took down her office, home, voice mail, and cell. I felt as goofy and clubfooted as any pimply teenager and had to keep stifling smarmy little wisecracks.

Paula Farrier. Who'da thought?

I was acutely aware, as I went back inside the restaurant, that my ears felt hot and my gait seemed to have gone a tad springy. I pasted up a neutral scowl and slid into my chair quickly.

"Who was that, uh, Truman?" Jack probed, smiling faintly.

"Client," I lied.

"Uh-huh," Aaron chuckled. "This lady hire you to find her missing G-spot?"

"It wasn't…" I started.

"Hey, pal," Jack interrupted. "Nobody hires private eyes who lie through their teeth…so who is she?"

“She's an Assistant D.A. in Seattle," I sighed. "She works for my pal, Lee, who has evidently been flappin' his gums."

"So what's the problem?" Jack shrugged. "You look…I don't know, kinda spooked."

"I just haven't been out on a date for a while and I'm sorta…uncertain," I smiled.

"How long's 'a while'?" Aaron asked sipping at his coffee.

"Just over nine years," I replied.

Aaron made a sound like a clogged drain clearing and dribbled coffee down his shirt.

"You're shittin' me," Aaron croaked.

"Nope," I winced. "Can we, uh, change the…"

"What, were you married for part of that time?" Jack asked.

"No," I groaned. "I was just celi…didn't date."

"Did you start to say 'celibate'?" Aaron blinked. "Celibate? Like, y'know, without…sex?"

"Could we just…"

"What the fuck?" Jack sputtered. "Why? Better yet, how?"

"You're not one of those…whatchacallum?...deflocked priests, are ya?"

"Defrocked," Jack corrected.

"No," I sighed. "I just…took a break, okay?"

"You 'took a break'?" Jack exclaimed. "Truman, that's...that's just…weird.

"Tell me about it." Aaron chuckled. "Well…I can see how you'd be freaked. You do…
remember
sex, doncha?"

"No, Aaron," I replied, "not a thing. Could you draw me some diagrams?"

"Tru," Jack chuckled, shaking his head. "I know it's none of my business but…again why?"

“I didn't plan it," I murmured. "I just…I kept watching my relationships go south and eventually realized it was stupid to think it was always the woman's fault.  I decided to take some time out and examine my own behavior and…it took…nine years."

"Jesus," Aaron grinned, "and this gal who called, does she know you're…umm, y'know…"

"A eunuch?" I asked

"A what?" Aaron blinked.

"A guy without stones,'" Jack explained.

"I've known her for four years," I mused. "Professionally. It never came up."

"So to speak," Jack grinned.

He and Aaron laughed and high-fived each other. I sipped my beer and smiled stiffly.

"Well," Aaron shrugged, when the mirth level had subsided enough to allow conversation, "funny how things work out, huh? Here you do without for so long and you find a date right under your nose."

"That's how I met my girlfriend," Jack nodded. "She was an associate of my attorney. Knew her for eight years and never once had a romantic thought. Then, one day…she just looked different."

"We always overlook the obvious, y'know?" Aaron smiled.

"The obvious," I repeated. There was an almost audible click in my head. "The obvious."

They looked at me quizzically. I grabbed the check and hailed the waitress.

"The obvious," I nodded, rising. "Saddle up, boys, we got some double-naught spy stuff to do."



Joe had heard the term "antsy" his whole life.  His mom, a Finnish girl, pronounced it "aintsy" and told him it was being so anxious "you feel like you got aints crawlin' all over you."

Joe had no idea what she meant.

Now, Joe was antsy and was amazed
to find that it did, indeed, feel like the time in Laos when his bed roll was invaded by those huge black carpenter ants.  He had solved that problem by diving into a stream and combing his hair. This was proving more tricky.

Joe had consumed something less than two gallons of alcohol in his entire life.  He didn't enjoy the dopey feeling or the loss of control.  On those rare occasions when he did get drunk, it was only to knock himself out, so he could be sure to get enough sleep.

He didn't really like the taste of liquor, so he bought a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and a quart of orange juice.  It tasted better and seemed to stun the ants a bit.

The "Times" dutifully ran the story of the shootings and the e-mail. BBC and CNN picked it up as well. CNN even sent a crew to the development at Colville, but the tape clearly showed bulldozers, carpenters, and office staff going about their business as though nothing at all were happening.

Joe felt the ants busily chewing through the edges of his screwdriver buzz and soon found himself pacing the tiny living room of the new flat in London's East End, sloshing orange juice and wearing holes in both his socks.

It wasn't working, he realized. As the voice on the phone had warned him, trying to beat a corporation with a gun was like shooting Jello:  It just wiggles a bit but suffers no real damage.

"It's like they don't believe I'm serious," Joe fumed, as soon as Katja answered the phone. "Is that what wealth does to you? It makes you stupid?"

"The ones who are left, believe me, will never really grasp that it could happen to them," she murmured. "Yes, that is the rich. Their money and comfort insulates them from so much of life, they become like children."

"There are eleven on the board…well, nine now," Joe mused. "How many do I have to kill before they get it?"

"Maybe all of them," she replied. "Probably the other partners, too."

"It will be harder, now," he sighed, "as they go into hiding."

"You have money, time. Go after them," she shrugged. "You've taken down men who were far better protected and more cautious."

"But I had help," Joe muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"Well, here's some help," Katja offered. "That Rawlings fellow has shown up here."

"Where's here?" Joe asked.

"In Valreas," she said quietly, "south of France."

"Where is he staying?"

"Le Bernadine," she replied coyly. "You'll remember that, I suppose."

"Sure," Joe replied. It was where he met her, after all.

“How’s your French?” she asked playfully.



"Okay," Jack began as we tore down Route 395 toward Spokane. "What bug just crawled up your ass?"

"Like Aaron said," I smiled, "'the obvious. If you disregard all the monkey-puzzle stuff, who stands to gain or lose here? P.P.V., of course, but somebody's shooting at those guys
and
they gain nothing from the voting screw-up. You, but I think we'll just stipulate that you're not up to something."

"Big of you," Jack chuckled.

"I'm a big guy," I grinned. "So, who's left?"

"Jane Wright?" Aaron ventured.

"Why Jane?" I asked. "I thought Clayton was the alpha doggie in that pair."

"He is," Jack interjected, turning to face Aaron. "I've never even met Jane."

"Well, he ain't never out here," Aaron said flatly, "but Jane is, once a week, at least."

"At the site?" Jack asked.

"Site, Barney's, tribal council," Aaron replied. "She's the only reason this thing got off the ground, you get right down to it. Nobody ever saw you, and sure ain't seeing the Pembroke guys. She's got people in Colville, so she's practically a local."

"Why the fuck am I hearing about this from you?" Jack fumed, fishing out his cell and punching the speed dial. "Art? Get me Art, please? Thanks."

"Uh-oh," Aaron chuckled, "I smell an ass-whuppin'."

"You might want to find some other way to put that," I sighed.

"What?" Aaron asked.

"Hey, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum," Jack growled. "I'm on the phone here."

"Art!" Jack barked. "This is Jack. Why the hell am I just now finding out that Jane Wright has relatives in Colville and that she hangs out around here more than laundry?"

Art's reply caused Jack to roll his eyes and mime beating the phone on the dashboard.

"Well, when you said local, Art, I thought you meant Spokane, frankly, since that's where she and Clayton live. Uh-huh. Well, I have it on good authority that she's out here weekly, comes to the site, hangs out at tribal council meetings, and eats at the local café. Have you asked her anything about the vote fraud thing?"

Jack listened briefly and then pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head and taking a number of deep, slow breaths.

"No," Jack muttered. "Nobody told me – or Tru – about her family. Look, Art, I know you're tight with her mother but Tru's still gotta check her out…. What? …of course he'll be discreet but, you gotta admit her presence here, without telling you or me or P.P.V., is a little bit troubling… Well, I'm sure there's an explanation, too, but it bothers me that she's never offered it."

I signaled to Jack to break off for a moment.

"Ask him what kind of car she drives."

"Art, what kind of car does Jane drive?" Jack asked, looking at me quizzically. "Uh-huh. They own anything else? Yeah? It's hers? Hmmm… What? Oh, probably nothing. Tell you about it later… What? Oh…no, no word from Hooks, yet. I don't think Tru's inclined to work with them, though. I'm guessing you told them… What? My god! When? … Jesus, Art. Well, you told them I'd want to look into it, too, right? Uh-huh… Okay, I guess Tru'll deal with it when Hooks calls. You following that situation now? Great. All right. I'll talk to you tonight and see you in a couple of days. Later."

"What's the word?" I asked eagerly.

"Well, on the Janie front, Art says that she told him that Clay and I talked about her checking in out here, from time to time, but Clay never said squat to me. Add to that fishiness the fact that she let slip to one of Art's associates that her first husband was a full-blooded Colville – this was in her post-adolescent rebellious phase – and she's still tight with his family. The hubby is deceased, by the way. Art says her car of choice is a Mercedes 230 SLK Coupe, but their Sunday-go-to meetin' ride is a Rolls-Royce… A white Rolls-Royce with all gold trim."

"The kind of car you'd remember if it showed up out here in your rear-view mirror," I observed. "You ever see that one, Aaron?"