Chapter Twelve

It was a kind of cheesy thing to do, but I borrowed a cell phone from a homeless guy camped outside of the nursing home to make a quick phone call. I was afraid to use my own phone for anything this sensitive. Call me paranoid, but being forced into a life of slavery can do that to a guy.

I dialed the number and waited. A voice answered on the other side in Spanish.

"Marcone residence," he said. It wasn't Marcone. I guessed it was his butler.

"George Saga," I answered, looking around me furtively.

"Oh, yes. How are you doing today, Mister Saga?"

"I would like to make an appointment to meet with Marcone. It should be a short visit, I hope."

"I see. He should be able to fit you in before dinner. Is there anything I should tell him?"

"Yes," I carefully chose my words. "Tell him I am coming to engage the enemy."

There was a moment of silence on the other end. "I see," he said. "He will be interested to hear that."

"I, um, also need transportation. I would like to try to be, ah, as discrete as possible."

I heard a muffled sound on the other end of the line. "In that case, George, it would not be a good idea for us to send one of our own cars. We'll send a third party to you. Where are you now?"

"I'm at the Eventide Geriatric Care. South Miami."

"Ah, hmm. Yes. There's a church not far from there, yes? St. John Bosco? There's a walled garden behind it. Go in there, and we'll send someone for you."

"I've driven by it. How will I recognize the driver?"

"He'll show you a picture of Marcone."

"Thanks."

"Our pleasure. I was told to expect your call."

I hung up.

In twenty-four hours, I would have to report my contact with Marcone to the office. Whatever I was going to do, either it would have to be soon, or I'd have to have a good excuse. And it would have to be a true one.

The church was a couple of blocks down the road, at one of those fuzzy borders between the commercial and residential parts of the city. The building was old, even for South Miami. I vaguely remember that once it had a school next door, but that had been sold off and rebuilt into a bank and some offices. Now the church stood alone—a small sanctuary, a garden, and a cottage. I imagined that this was one of those churches that had not seen a new member in years.

Still, it looked like it was being cared for all the same. It was shaded by a pair of massive banyan trees, and the street side of the building was dotted with colorful little reddish trees that I had seen around the city, but whose name I didn't know.

Casually looking around me to see if I was being followed, I rounded the sanctuary to the walled garden behind. The wall was made of limestone, and had eroded unevenly over the long years, leaving cracks, gaps, and pocks on its surface. It should have looked depressing to see so much damage, but somehow it just made the wall look better, more authentic. Tendrils of ivy crept along the top of the wall, which stood about six to seven feet high.

There was a single entrance to the garden, a black iron gate that stood open.

The little garden was filled with roses and other flowering plants that had come to full bloom in the early part of the summer. It was a beautiful place. I didn't think I deserved to be there, in a place of quiet contemplation. Not after all I had just been through. It was a place for other people, now.

I turned my head at the sound of footsteps at the gate. I stood up to see who was coming. The Latino man entering the garden lifted his head and we almost looked into each other's eyes. At that moment, the man came to an abrupt halt, staring at me.

It was Fernando. My warehouse landlord.

Suddenly he burst out into a belly laugh.

"Jorge, no! Say it isn't you!" he said wistfully.

"Hello, Fernando. Are you my driver?"

He held up a picture of Marcone for me to see, shaking his head sadly. "Ay, Dios Mio. All this time, I thought you were living a life of virtue. If I had known that you were working for Marcone, I would have thought very differently about you."

I shook my head. "I don't work for him," I said. "I just wanted to talk with him."

Fernando sighed. "That is how it always starts. Just a little talk. You mark my words. Marcone is a man who gets what he wants, any way he has to. He is not a man for you to cross."

"I won't," I said. "Uh, probably."

"I am very impressed with your connections. If you are destined to live a life of crime, you could do worse than hook up with him. But I hope you know," he added, "that this man is a killer. It is said that he shoots three men before breakfast just to get into the right frame of mind for the day. Whatever you do, never ever sell him a bag of powered sugar, if you know what I'm saying." He thought for a bit more. "I thought you said you didn't want to get involved with people like him!"

"Well, he does legit things, too," I shrugged. "Like, er, helping out with, uh, a political campaign," I said lamely.

Fernando just rolled his eyes in disgust. "The case is closed," he muttered.

Fernando swung his big black Beemer into the garden behind Marcone's house to let me out. It wasn't exactly a legitimate place for him to park, but it was discreet if you didn't count the South American guests who had to drop their cocktails and get out of the way. Fernando apologized to them by amicably tooting on his horn. Discreet, baby, yeah.

"Thanks, Fernando," I said.

"Try not to look for more trouble than you know how to handle, okay?" he told me, meaningfully shifting his eyes over to the mansion.

"Might be a little late for that," I shrugged.

"If you need, I can find some people who can disappear you. But don't wait to ask for it when you have assholes breathing down your neck."

"I'll remember. But like I said."

"In that case, you got next of kin for your property in the warehouse?"

"Yes," I said. "But I'm not going to name them. They'll find you, if it comes to that." The fact is, all I had of living family was Uncle Senge, who wasn't a blood relation, and Father, whereabouts unknown, probably dead. I didn't know if anyone I was close to would want my things if I left the land of the living. I sure as hell didn't want Fernando to go looking for them.

"Mucho gusto, Jorge."

I nodded and closed the car door behind me. The back door to the mansion magically opened for me as I approached the back of the house.

It was Angel. "Hey, kid," he said.

"Hey."

"Joining the team?"

I shook my head. "Creating an understanding."

"Diplomacy. Tricky stuff, kid. Hope you're up to it."

I smiled. "I'd better be."

"This way, then," he kicked the door shut with his toe and marched ahead of me, his jacket jingling with the multitude of small arms that he carried on his person.

"Is Evans still working for you?" I ventured.

"Sure," he said. "But not in Miami. He got repurposed to, ah, easier jobs. Things more in his line."

"Shame," I said.

"Yes, your boss was beginning to take a liking to him."

I noticed cardboard boxes stacked on the floor near the office, taped and labeled. "Moving out?" I asked.

"Yes, our transaction here is complete. We'll be moving back to Chicago tonight. Here, wait," he grabbed a business card from a table in the waiting room outside Marcone's office, and wrote something on the back. "Our private number in Chicago. In case you need it."

I took the card, looking at it. On the back was the number Angel had scribbled. On the front it said: "Marcone Charitable Trust—Bringing smiles to children around the world!" I put the card in my jeans pocket.

Angel knocked on Marcone's door and opened it. "George is here to see you, sir," he said through the doorway. He nodded at me to go through, closing the door quietly behind me.

Marcone was sitting at his desk, which now was bare, except for a glass of water and an ashtray with half a cigar stubbed out in it. He stood up for me politely, extending his hand across the desk. "Hello, George," he smiled briefly, "I'm pleased to see you again. I will confess that I'm intrigued by the message you provided me."

"I am operating under some challenging constraints," I said.

"Ah," he said. "Ah. Am I permitted to get a closer view of those constraints?"

"I'm operating under a very strict non-disclosure agreement."

"So you said in our last meeting. Is this the same NDA, or a new one?"

"I—I am not permitted to answer that."

"A new one, I surmise. I'm surprised that you were able to make it as far as my office, in that case. It will be the first time someone in your circumstances has been able or willing to do that."

"I negotiated in—uh, certain latitudes, because of my job duties. But unfortunately, my constraints are still extremely tight. We must still meet as enemies, I'm afraid."

Marcone sat in thought for a few moments, looking me over.

"I imagine that your constraints prevent you from seeking out the White Council for assistance in this matter," he ventured.

"Oh," I muttered. "I can neither confirm nor deny that, but the fact is, I might not have had the option to seek them out, anyway. But that's a whole other problem, and I won't bother you with it."

"Ah, George, you have provided me with a small puzzle. I hope you realize that I am an aficionado of 'other stories', as you put it."

"Whatever floats your boat," I said.

"But now to business. I presume you came here for a reason."

"Yesss," I worked through my mind how to say what I needed to say without triggering my Contract's defenses. "I am here to engage you in a hopeless cause, and particularly to drain your resources."

"Are there any specific resources that I may place at your disposal?" Marcone asked.

"Yes," I said, thinking. "Yes," I repeated. "I need a million dollars."

Marcone's total absence of reaction disturbed me.

"Cash, wire, or bullion?" he asked after some moments of staring at me with steel-lined eyes.

"Check. Anonymous offshore account."

"An anachronistic choice. How wizardly of you. I make it out to Dorje Gyaltso Saga, I presume?"

Damn, I hate it that he keeps pronouncing my real name right. "No. Make it out to Matthew Bouknight, LL.M."

Marcone steepled his fingers. He tapped his index fingers together rhythmically as he worked it out.

Then he smiled thinly.

"I believe I have misjudged the extent of your cold-bloodedness, Mr. Saga. Shall I also provide you with a profile of Shaffer, Peralta, and Seovic?"

"And they are?"

"One of the more ruthless and infamous legal partnerships in New York City. They are almost certainly—enhanced, although they have been admirably secretive about the subject. And, I may add, Peralta has known health problems. There is speculation that he may soon be forced to retire."

I leaned back. If Marcone could piece it together that quickly, than so could Bouknight. But it was the best plan I had, and it played to my strengths, such as they were.

"I give you a twenty percent chance of success," Marcone clasped his fingers together in his lap.

It was the probably most generous thing he had said all day.