Whew, another long one!
Midnightmuse – Many thanks for your kind words! Yes, it is some interview all right (just look at how long the chapter is!)… I had a heck of a lot of fun writing it… and at the end of the chapter I give a hint about the next chapter… I know I'm getting ahead of myself to tell you now… but y'all aren't the only ones waiting for a certain lady's return…
Capt-Jacks-Bonnie-Lass – thank you! I hope you didn't get into too much trouble almost laughing out loud in the library. Sands and his daughter – yes, very difficult for them both… (and let me just say that there've been times when I've called in for my daughter – NOT a trouble maker by any stretch – and I've felt like I was dealing Spanish Inquisition!)
Devi JXC – thank you – your review made my morning! Glad you're enjoy this – please let me know what you think of the rest of it.
Quick – anyone who tells me I'm the best doesn't have to sweat missing a couple of chapters for review! Thank you.
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Casting for this chapter:
Douglas Mitchel……………………….Chi McBride (Boston Public and more recently a brief stint House MD)
Paula Basil………………. Izabella Scorupco (lots of stuff – most recently Exorcist, The Beginning – perhaps more notably Goldeneye and Vertical Limit – basically she's this gorgeous model turned actress)
Marcus Lewin ……………….. John Spencer (West Wing)
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A/N – I have NO idea how the CIA would conduct an official debriefing, so I'm honestly flying by the seat of my pants… in other words, if I'm way off mark… well, please don't sue me I really don't have anything worth taking anyway (except for debt, but I don't think that counts…)
;-)
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Chapter Twenty Two:
The Prodigal Son Returns
Ahh, the smells of home… industrial carpet, industrial cleaners, industrious paper pushers hard at work. I love coming back in after long hard tour in the field – reminds me what it's all about… right.
I fold up the cane as we walk from the elevator the twenty paces or so to Mitchel's door (when I drop the lead, Spencer moves in closer, matching pace exactly with me – I should send Zach a fruit basket or something. I was a miserable student – but – he did an amazing job here… with both of us, really.) As I walk, I listen to the startled gurgles and snide little comments from what seems like a dozen or so onlookers, gawking, as if at a train wreck, from the certain security of their doorways. On this floor, you see, I am a known commodity – known for being a trouble maker, that is. And it would seem as if word of my return has traveled faster than the elevator car that brought us up here: Sheldon Jeffrey Sands is still alive – and well – and here he is for your viewing pleasure... Oh my yes, he's home all right – with a dog and a cane – and lady from DOJ. No wonder Eddas wanted to do this bright and early, this is the best time to ensure a really good audience. An audience that I am ignoring, despite the fact that at least a few of them who were actually brave enough to speak to me.
It is only at the second to last doorway that I stop. I don't have to wait for Marcus to speak, I smell the cigar smoke on his cloths and extend my hand, grinning a genuine grin in his direction.
"Well, well, lookie see here what the cat done drug in at last – Sheldon Jeffrey Sands," he says in a warm Mississippi drawl that is one hundred percent authentic.
"So how many people lost that last bet, there kemo sabe?" I inquire.
"Oh – I'd say there are quite a few folks round these parts not too happy to see you alive and kickin' – course the ones that bet fer ya t' make it home done made themselves a killin' – so to speak." I'm sure he's winking as he says this. Marcus is a delightful old codger – but don't let the demeanor fool you. He'd been around about as long as anyone can remember – and he can still wipe the walls with just about any of us.
"I hope you at least fixed it so that some sore looser couldn't take me out just to collect."
"What – and have a bunch of rookies end up dead tryin' to do it? Mitchel'd have my keester in a sling bigger'n the one he's fixin' to put your skinny little hiney into."
I just laugh, "How goes the most recent pool?"
"Twenty to one you'll end up in the pokey by end of business today – ten to one says you won't even make it 'til lunch."
"Darn – I would have bet it was up to at least fifty to one by now," I grin.
Next to me, Eddas snorts – it's somewhere between contempt and amusement (my best guess is she finds this quite funny, but wouldn't dare risk her reputation by letting anyone figure out that she actually has a sense of humour.)
"Care to get in on the wager, there, Missy?" Marcus asks her (he has to know who she is – but – well, there's a reason a like this guy.)
"Should I even begin to remind you that gambling is illegal?"
"Aww, shucks, ma'am, this is just a li'l ol' office pool – entertainment purposes only. Gotta do something to amuse ourselves around here – once the cold war ended, half us spies ended up in the soup lines."
I have to work very hard not to laugh out loud – Marcus just sounds so – pathetic – when he says it. It's all in his tone… yes, this is the guy who taught me most of my tricks.
"Officer Sands – if you don't mind, we have an appointment to keep," Eddas reminds me in that delightfully exasperated tone I have the sneaking suspicion I'm going to become real acquainted with in the weeks to come…
"Looks like I gotta boogie," I tell Marcus, "You know, old ball and chain and all that." (I imagine Eddas is probably rolling her eyes at me – or perhaps trying very hard not to.) "But hey, if it goes up to a hundred to one, put me down for a C note, would you?"
"Is that fer or again'?"
"For in the pokey by the end of the day."
"You bet, Jeff – just remember, don't let The Man get you down, son."
Hmm… there was an awful lot of sincerity in his tone just then… I really don't like what that implies…
"Betting against yourself, Sands?" inquires female voice that's rich and velvety like expensive chocolate (the dark, slightly bitter kind) or a heavy red wine; the speaker just behind me, to the left... maybe… ten feet away. And oh yeah, I know that voice… I wonder if she still looks the same… She's wearing this a sort vanilla musky cologne – and wearing it just right (not too much, not too little.) But then again, Paula Basil always was a class act. Five something (just a few inches shorter than me, really), long, copper hair, legs that go up to her… yeah, anyway. What really seals the deal though, is that face – my Christ, she could have been a model. Full lips, big bright eyes – broad smile. I used to love her smile…
See, once upon a time, Paula and I were partners – just about – oh, eight, nine years ago, I think it was. And by partners, I do mean partners in several senses of the word. I know just how high up those legs go and all about the cute little birth mark just under her… well, never mind. Paula dumped me (in several senses of the word) me after that thing in China. Apparently getting shot didn't sit too well with her… and I suppose it was, in a round about way, sort of - almost my fault. Maybe.
It wasn't the complete and total fiasco I experienced in Mexico – but I suppose it could have been. I mean, we both walked away from it. In tact. Other than her being shot – but it was hardly fatal – and I only left her bleeding there for a little while. She's a tough little cookie, she could handle herself – besides, I had a job to finish (and without my partner, so it wasn't like I was exactly having fun either. I was not expecting to have to fly solo through half the op – she's the fucking computer specialist. Yeah, that body and a brain to boot… )
I turn towards her, my face a careful mask of congeniality but there's a carefully calculated edge in my voice, just because I know she expects it. "Paula – it's so nice to see your valuable talents aren't being wasted."
"Quite to the contrary – you and I have an appointment."
She sounds – amused? Pleased with herself… if I could see her eyes… but I don't have time for 'what if's' right now. So I continue to give into what she expects and favour her with a truly lascivious grin. "Do we now?"
"Oh, we do indeed," she coos right back.
Hmmmm…..
"Sands – get in here!" Ahhh, Director Mitchel. How I've missed the sound of his bellow. I've just missed everything about this place, let me tell you… yepperoonie, sarcasm there boys and girls… I think I could have gone another three years without setting foot in this God damned building.
"See you later, Sands," Paula tells me, just a little too sweetly.
I mask the clenching of my jaw by turning to Eddas, "Ain't it nice to be loved?"
"You call this love?"
"Well – no one's drawn a gun on me."
"Yet."
I just smile in her general direction – and follow the sound of Mitchel's angry, heavy breathing…
CIA Director Douglas Adrian Mitchel is a big imposing man who doesn't take shit from anyone. He believes – quite whole heartedly – that he is capable of running the entire world from his armchair. And maybe he can run the whole world from here. But he could never run me, and that just sticks right in his craw. See, he wasn't the director when I started out in the Company – he was pretty high up on the food chain, though, and I happened to find myself under him – so to speak – and – well, let's just say that I have never responded to his brand of authority. Hmmm… ok, I've never really responded to any brand of authority – but Mitchel just reminds me too much of my high school phys ed teacher – and I mean, look at me, do I really look like I enjoyed sweating with a bunch of jocks for forty-five minutes a day? Oh what I wouldn't give to run into some of those guys today… I may not be any kind of body builder – but like everything else, it's not what you have so much as it's knowing how to use it that counts…
"Councilor Eddas, I realize we had an appointment," Mitchel begins.
"Yes. We do. Officer Sands is here with me."
"With you?"
It takes all my strength not to put my arm around her waist and call her something like 'Snuggle Buns' – but – nah, I'll save it for later.
"That's correct. With me."
My, my, if she doesn't sound possessive… could it be that the good councilor actually takes care of her little rats? (Hey, if nothing else, for a little cheese I'll keep coming back… I'm not cheap, but I am easy.)
And I think about now Mitchel's blood pressure must be spiking right through the roof, because unless he's seriously cut out the cream puffs and KFC, he's a big boy. (Now, just for clarity's sake, please allow me this moment to say something: my use of the term 'boy' in conjunction with a man of African descent is most assuredly not meant to imply any sort of racist undertone – or overtone, for that matter. I think it was George Carlin who put it more or less this way – I am an equal opportunity asshole. I hate everybody equally. Black. White. Little and green from Mars – it makes no difference… people suck.)
Mitchel seems to have turned his attention on me: "What in the name God Almighty is going on here, Sands – what happened down there – and what the fuck is with that dog?" (With each question, his volume doubles until he's starting to sound just a little bit like that Diamanda Galas my muffin adores so much...)
"Surly you've heard of leader dogs for the blind, there, big boss-man." I tell him in a sweetly polite tone, giving the arm of my shades a little tap for emphasis. "As for what's going on – I'm reporting in, in person because to call my operation 'compromised' would be the understatement of the century. Which should pretty much cover the what happened down there question as well, I think."
"How did you get out of Mexico without anyone knowing – without me knowing?"
I nod in the general direction of my escort.
"When it became clear that you weren't going to do anything to get this officer out of what had clearly become an extremely volatile situation – my office pulled him out," she tells Mitchel in an icy tone (note to self, do not get on this woman's bad side….) "Of course you can expect a full investigation of the entire affair."
"Your office – what – Sands, you'd better have a Hell of a good story to tell me."
"Oh – it's got everything – dirty cops, pretty girls, good tequila, drug dealers, an insane doctor – real mad scientist type – there's a president and a general bent on taking power – and just for fun, there's even a gun toting mariachi. If I were you, I'd start popping some popcorn, there big boy – because you're gonna love this." I do believe there was so much sarcasm dripping off my tongue that I'm standing in a puddle of up it that goes up to my knees…
"Basil!" He bellows. Then turns his attention back to me, "Officer Basil will debrief you, Sands. And it had better be as good you seem to think it is. There's a warrant out for your arrest – and I really hope I get to execute it."
You know, the way he says 'execute', one might think it's more than the warrant he's fantasizing about… Eddas doesn't correct him – but… no, I'm not going to stop believing in her now. If she's half the attorney I think she must be, she realizes that timing is everything… either that or she's seriously concerned that one more shock might send the ol' boyo here into cardiac arrest.
The door opens. "Officer Sands, if you'll follow me please," of course, yes, it's Paula… I should have known this was what she meant when she said we hand an appointment… figures they'd get her of all people to do this to me. Paula and I were partners – and partners – for almost a year and a half. She's one of the few people who pretty much knows my shit – and isn't intimidated by me. Of course, having one's eyes drilled out does lend a man a whole new prospective on the universe…
I turn and smile sweetly in her direction, "Think you could lend me an elbow?"
I think that behind me, Mitchel is turning purple with rage. He likes surprises even less than I do (if that's possible) – Eddas, on the other hand, if I don't miss my mark, is probably standing there looking very quietly smug. And in front of me – more of that big black unknown. Paula hadn't actually answered me – but when I reach towards her, my hand lands on an elbow. Mmmm – she's wearing cashmere. I wonder what colour; she looks dead sexy in red… and for her kind assistance, I thank her in Mandarin (which I'm sure earns me a sour look) – and take up Spencer's lead in my other hand.
Paula takes the hallway slowly – I'm sure she's scrutinizing the Hell out of me trying to figure out if I'm faking it. No, no sweetcakes, this part really is for real… but I'll wait until she asks to say so.
"Nice cologne – something new?" I ask, making a very poor (and entirely intentional) stab at small talk.
"Not really. But – you haven't been around in so long – I guess it's new to you."
"I think I like it better than that flowery crap you used to wear. This stuff actually suits you."
"That 'flowery crap' cost almost eighty bucks an ounce."
"Ok, I like it better than that expensive flowery crap you used to wear."
She just snorts a little – I doubt she's willing to let herself laugh in front of me. But at least she guides me down the hall without slamming me into anything – or anyone.
Those little whispers persist as we pass – I catch bits and pieces of what's being said – but it isn't anything surprising.
"So, how much did you loose?" I ask her as we round another corner. We're headed towards the back hall, away from the elevators – ergo, the opposite direction of freedom…
"Loose – are you kidding? I bet a grand on you coming out of Culiacan alive. You just paid for my vacation, Mister."
"Nice to know someone around here had a little faith in me."
"It has nothing to do with faith, Jeff – I know you. You're like a cat – you have nine fucking lives – although I'm so sure you didn't use up your last one, this time."
There is something about her tone that I just do not like (it's too damned sincere)… but I keep my thoughts to myself.
"So is this for real?" she asks, just a few paces later.
"Is what for real?" (I know what she means, but I want her to say it. I want to know what she's thinking.)
"The dog and pony show."
So she's not convinced. I just smile, "'Fraid, so, Hot Lips."
And she doesn't even seem to bristle at my old pet name for her… "You realize I'm going to insist that the white coats verify that," she tells me in a bland tone.
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be able to handle the verification all by your lonesome, even without a medical degree."
I feel her almost falter a step – probably trying to figure out just exactly what I mean by that… but she says nothing.
"So who did you piss off to get this detail, anyway?" I ask her, as we arrive at one of the small conference rooms at the end of the corridor (I did mention that these were well away from the elevators, didn't I? Ok, so maybe I am a trifle bit nervous.)
"Just my luck – I happened to be in the building today," Paula says with an air of 'I really couldn't give a crap' – I don't believe that for a New York second. This is the CIA, there are no coincidences.
I let Spencer guide me, but I walk with one hand out stretched so that I don't bump into the table that I know is right – about – there. "Good thing nobody around here believes in change," I say, not turning my head to face her. Once I catch the rim of the table in my hand, I feel my way around to a chair, certain that I'm being watched – so I don't over play it. Much.
I park my ass and listen to her pulling her own chair out; she sits just across from me (maybe three feet away) and arranges several items in front of her. Hmmm – paper – file (it can't be my entire file, it doesn't sound big enough) – a vaguely plasticy-metallic clonk – tape recorder probably – something else clonks, sounds ceramic…
"Can I get you a cup of coffee before we get started?" She asks in a congenial tone.
"I've had plenty, thanks – but some water would be just dandy – assuming you're planning on keeping me talking all day."
"I don't want to be here any more than you do."
"I don't suppose anybody changed the rules about smoking in here?" I ask before she leaves.
"When did you start caring about the rules?"
"I don't – but – it's one less thing for us to argue about. Since neither of us wants to be here – I figure I'll play nice and we can be out of here by lunch. Deal?" I offer her an almost friendly smile.
"What really makes you think you're going anywhere – except prison?"
"Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?"
"You were born guilty."
I tsk at her, "You're not really going to let our past – involvement – colour your report, are you, Officer Basil."
She says nothing – but I listen as she leaves the room to get me a glass of water… now, I know this game. And she knows I know it. You leave the guy alone in the room with his file to see if he gets all nosey – what, you don't honestly think that the room isn't monitored, do you? This is CIA headquarters – Spy Central. So with this in mind, I slide my chair back and motion for Spencer to 'come'. Let them get a good look at me petting my doggy… heh.
I'm sure the sight catches Paula off guard when she returns, "That thing doesn't bite, does it?" she asks me off-handedly.
"Nah – Spencer's a big ol' marshmallow, just like me."
"Right. Hope you don't mind – we're all out of bottled water," she sets a glass and pitcher down in front of me.
I instruct Spencer to lay back down and slide the chair back into place, careful not to bump the table. Then I find the pitcher's handle and give it an experimental shake – no ice. "How sweet – you remembered."
"Of course," she smirks right back at me.
I hate fucking ice. I don't put it in my booze, and I don't want it in my water – and let me tell you, the only place I ever better find a lime is my tequila. I do not understand people who put fruit in their God damned water… not that there's any chance of that happening around here.
I reach for the glass; it's empty. Another test. But no, I'm not going to spill it – that would just be too obvious. Although – I gotta tell ya, not spilling it is a lot more work than spilling it. You just try pouring water into a glass with your eyes shut sometime…
"You seem to be managing all right," she says… hmmm…. Sincere interest? Too hard to tell. But she hasn't started the tape yet – so we're still off the record… hmmm… hmmmmmmmmmmm, things that make you go hmmmmmmmm…
"I've had some time to adjust," I keep my tone carefully neutral. Still feeling this one out… maybe she is too.
"Day of the Dead?" Paula asks – her tone is just a little - quiet. Of course she could be trying to play me, get me to believe she's the caring ex girlfriend… not that she was ever really more than a fuck-buddy, although she may think that enough time has passed to make me forget that... hmmmm… (I honestly have a hard time believing she'd think I'd fall for something so – lame. Paula Basil knows me…)
So with all that in mind, I raise my glass in her direction and smile. "Give the girl a gold star," I say and then take a sip. Now – really, it could have been anything in that pitcher – but – I doubt it contained anything more deadly that D.C's. tap water (which admittedly is a little scary, but Hell, I was in butt fucking Mexico, for three years, so…) If they want me, they've got me, they don't have to poison or drug me. And given the company I arrived in – it would raise just too many awkward questions if I suddenly keeled over in the middle of my debriefing… which isn't to say I'd put it past my superiors in the CIA. Remember, these are the same guys who gave me a gun.
"What happened?" Paula asks – more of that sincerity…
"Shouldn't you be recording this, there Hot Lips?" I inquire – although somewhere in the back of my brain is Milo telling me that there are people in this world who might have cared about me if I'd given them half a chance… but somehow I doubt that this woman is one of them. Last I checked, she still had it in for me because of China.
I listen as Paula hits a button on the tape recorder – it's situated directly between us. "All right – for the record, this interview is being recorded. Officer Paula Ruth Basil conducting a debrief of –" she prompts me.
"Officer Sheldon Jeffrey Sands," I oblige. I really need a cigarette…
"For the record, Officer Sands, please state your last official posting."
I'm just walking my beat, friend, Mexico's my beat and I'm walking it… My own words haunt me… I throw shapes, they catch them... I set them up, I watch them fall… except it's hard to watch anything any more… "Mexico. Specifically, the province of Culiacan. I was working directly under the direct supervision of Officer Dan Collins."
"All right. Since your last official check in was October thirteenth, let's start there – and let's start with why it's taken you just over a month to report in, Officer Sands."
"Well – two things. First, my last official check in was on the first of November – and second, I'd like to go back about – oh, six months or so, if you don't mind, and start there instead."
"Your last official check in was October thirteenth," she corrects me tersely, "And we have your reports from before that already, so there's no need to go back and rehash what we already know. Your – activities – in Culiacan have already been well documented."
I reach over and find the stop button (these machines are all pretty much made the same way.)
She doesn't speak quite right away – when she does – it's that fucking tone again. "Come on Jeff – let's just get through this, ok? There's only so much delaying of the inevitable that even you can do."
"Actually, Doll Face, I'm not trying to delay anything," yes, there is a definite edge to my voice now – it's a warning and she'd fucking well better pay attention to it. There are actually certain advantages to having someone who knows my shit do this, even if I had walked into the building with an entirely different tactic in mind.
"Then if you don't mind – "
I hear her reach out for the recorder – and my hand is on top of hers before she realizes I've moved. Looks like she was starting to 'buy the blind act' – because I've never been able to get the drop on Paula this easily before. I can almost hear her jaw clenching – just like Alison, she thinks I'm playing her. But we'll address that issue later…
I give Paula's hand an almost friendly little squeeze (well, ok, it could be construed as threatening, too… I'll let her make up her own mind what my intention really is.) "Listen, I have every reason to believe the Company was getting the same kind of abridged information on me as I was getting on – well, everything."
"What exactly are you implying, Jeff?"
"Implying – I'm not implying anything, I'm saying it. I was fucking set up."
"You really expect me to believe that?"
I kick back and reach for my smokes.
"Um – no smoking, remember?"
"Like you said, I never much cared for rules – and since it looks like we're going to end up arguing anyway," I light one up. "Might as well make it over something I care about."
"You're telling me you care more about being able to smoke, than going to prison?"
I shrug at her, "It's all relative."
"I really don't believe you – you haven't changed one bit, have you?"
"Oh – I've changed plenty. I'm meaner now than I ever was before." Ok, now no one can say I didn't warn her.
I hear her take a long, deep breath, probably reminding herself just why she hates me so much.
"Tell you what, Sweetcheeks, be the good little Girl Friday you always were, and get me an ashtray – then I'll tell you all about it." I take a nice long slow drag of my smoke.
She flips the recorder back on, apparently refusing to be baited. For now. "Back to October thirteenth – do you think you could outline, for the record, your activities, starting with after you spoke to Officer Collins on that day?" She sounds just oh so officious.
"I'd have to look that up in my date book – oh, wait, small problem there – can't really look anything up any more."
"Just do your best from memory, please, Officer Sands."
"October thirteenth – well, let's see – you know, if you really want the whole story – the cause of this effect, as it were – or rather, the cause of this defect, for this effect defective comes by cause – to wit, the shit that went down on November Second – we really must to go back six months, there Sweetcakes. Nothing else will do." (I only ever called her Hot Lips in private – or at the very least when I was sure the conversation wasn't being recorded by the CIA. I don't really give a rat's ass what Eddas thinks of my private life.)
"Officer Sands –" of course Paula's heard me badly quoting the Prince of Denmark before…
"In simpler terms, for the more thick-skulled members of my audience," I wiggle my fingers at the corner of the room most likely to have the hidden camera, "I need to take you back six months, if we're going to even begin to get to the bottom of what really went down on the La Dia de los Muertos. That would be November Second, for those in the audiance unfamiliar with Mexican holidays."
"I've got 'the bottom of what went down' sitting right across from me, right now, Officer Sands. You. You're what happened. You screwed up – and dozens of Mexican citizens lost their lives because of you. Even more lost property – it was a Hell of a mess down there –"
"Gee, I never would have noticed – but – you know what they say, if you want to make an omelet, you have to be prepared to crack a few eggs."
"So you admit that it was your fault?"
Dream on, sister. "I admit that I was in Culiacan – in the direct line of fire when the shit went down. Tell me, where were you when I was getting shot – I took several bullets that day – not to mention the 'other injuries' – but we'll skip those for now."
"Where I was – and the injuries you sustained – are not the point of this investigation, Sands –"
"Fair enough." That has to surprise her. "Just tell me this – where the fuck was my backup?" It's more a growl than a roar – but if I didn't get her attention before, I'm sure I've got to have it now… she has to remember just what this tone implies about my state of being (what she never did get is that it's all a part of the act. There have been very few times when I've lost control – I mean really lost control.)
"What backup?" Paula wants to know.
Yeah – I hear it in her voice – she remembers what I'm like when I'm dancing on the razor's edge…
"The backup I asked Collins to send me about three seconds before he fucking hung up on me. On November first. I told him I'd lost my inside guy – I'd been sold out by one of my people – real sweetheart named Cucuy – and I was pretty darned sure the cartel was shadowing me. In other words, Doll face, I knew the shit was about to hit the fan and I told Collins so. If he'd sent me some fucking backup like I asked him to, things wouldn't have gone to Hell in that cute little hand basket." Which probably isn't true, but anyway…
"There was no call for backup. We have the logs from Collins' phone. Your last check in was on the thirteenth of October. There were no calls from your phone to his after that. Now – let's try this again, from the top –"
"You know – maybe this would go faster if you just tell me what happened since you don't seem to believe a word I have to say on the subject anyway." I take a nice little breath so as not to break the façade that I'm seething – I would be freaking out right about now if I hadn't walked into this building of my own volition (more or less) with Marlina Eddas…. As it is, it's all I can do to control the panic threatening to break loose, because apparently they really have already made up their minds about me. And it's a fuck of a long way to those elevators…
"We know what happened, Sands. What I want from you is exactly how it happened."
"Right." This time I let that deep breath show through. Ok, here we go… "Approximately six months ago I met an AFN officer named Ajedrez Cardinas. Now – I still don't know if it was just coincidence or if she knew I was CIA all along. We met in this little cantina near the motel where I'd taken up residence – service stinks, but the pibil – that's this amazing slow roasted pork – nothing fancy mind you, but you know how much I love pork – oh, you're still Jewish aren't you? I always thought that was such a pity – I mean, you can't have ham on Easter Sunday or go out for a cheeseburger – oh wait, you guys don't really do Easter, do you?"
"Would you please just get on with it?"
"I mean, I suppose you're partially responsible for Easter –"
"Officer Sands. Mexico."
"Right. Where was I? Oh yeah, this particular cantina has really lousy service, but the pibil is – almost – to die for – not that you'd ever know, being Jewish and all that." I listen as her jaw tightens, but refrain from smiling… "So one night in walks this woman – and – mmmm-hmmmm, man was she stacked – a real brick house, legs all the way up to her –"
"I get the picture. Please. Continue."
And – honestly, this is the hard part, talking about Ajedrez – because just thinking about her puts stones in my gut and makes me hurl. However, I can assure you that no one watching or listening to me would know it… "I'll bet the picture you undoubtedly have of her in that file I can hear you flipping through doesn't even begin to do her justice. She was truly one sweet little piece of ass – and she was just fucking all over me – not that I'm not used to hot little numbers being all over me – but –" (the implication is obvious.)
"Fine," Paula slams the file shut, "She was hot. She was all over you like – cheap perfume – and apparently you liked it. The question is why did you let her bring you into her father's cartel?"
Oooh, I think I just hit a nerve…
"Let her – hmmm – well, all right, if you want to get really technical about it, I didn't really resist her efforts to bring me in – but that's because I was doped up pretty good. That would be thanks to one of Dr. Emil Guevara's drug cocktails – I'm sure you've got a file on him somewhere. So – um – given the circumstances, it wasn't that much of an option but to 'let' myself be brought in – but hey, feel free to put whatever kind of spin on it you want to in that official report of yours, there Sweetstuff."
"What are you talking about?"
"I was waiting at a joint called the Flying Cow – don't ask me, I didn't name it – but I was waiting there for the new line I'd just requested – this would be November the first – you know the date of my last check in – the one you keep telling me didn't happen? It was, in fact, less than fifteen minutes after Collins hung up on me – oh wait, that's right, that conversation never happened either. My bad. Well, so after someone who sounded an awful lot like Dan Collins hung up on me, I went to the Flying Cow to meet Ajedrez for lunch – and as I was beginning to suspect that I'd been hung out to dry, I placed a call for a new line just before she arrived. Someone was going to meet me – but well – shit happens. Or perhaps it doesn't happen, you'll have to tell me."
"So this lunch date – was that when you decided to join up with Barillo? Or had that already happened – perhaps while you and Cardinas were doing the ol' horizontal mambo."
"Horizontal mambo – that's a good one – I like that. Oh, but that's 'Baryeeo' – not 'Brilo' – didn't you ever take Spanish?"
"Just answer the question, Officer Sands. When did you join Barillo?" She pronounces it correctly at last.
"That would be – hmmm – nope, I can't say as I recall ever making that decision. The only thing I think I did, was try to get Ajedrez Cardinas to arrest him – you know, to keep him out of the way so that everything would move along nice and smoothly during the 'festivities' I'd planned for the Day of the Dead."
"You tried to get his own daughter to arrest him?"
"Well you see, there Doll face, that's where it gets a wee bit technical. All I knew at the time was that she was this sweet little ANF agent I'd been fucking – I had no idea who her old man was when I suggested to her that she should arrest him for me. I mean, I wouldn't have gone through the trouble to find out when and where he'd be on the Day of the Dead if I thought she already knew. And let me tell you, it was a bitch to get that information. I ended up loosing one my best little stool pigeons in the process."
"How can you claim not to have known who she was – you asked for a background check? Did you just not bother to read it?"
"Oh, I read it. I requested a background check on Cardinas a couple of months ago when she gave me the key to her flat – you know, just following procedure – I really do do that once in a while, you know."
"Uh-huh."
"Well – I like I said, asked for a background check on her. It was handed to me by Dan Collins personally – I have mentioned him, right, the guy who was supposed to be watching my ass while I was out there in the field."
"Watching your ass would be a full time job, Sands."
"You interested in the position?" I ask in a perky sort of tone.
"You requested a background check and received it from your supervisor. Two months ago. Then what?"
"Well, apparently there was teesny little discrepancy between what he received and what he gave me. You see – the background check that Collins handed over didn't mention the fact that Cardinas was the fruit of Barillo's loom. So – you can imagine my surprise when – "
I hear her slam down the off button on the tape recorder. "Just what kind of game do you think you're playing here, Jeff?"
"No games. Not this time." Well – that's a lie – but she doesn't need to know I'm playing a game with a game for Eddas' benefit… and frankly, I haven't even begun to pluck at those harp strings yet… but give it time, give it time.
"Are you honestly trying to tell me that Dan Collins knew who Cardinas was, and knowingly withheld that information from you?"
"All I'm saying is what I said – if you happen to want to say what you just said – well, just be my guest and say it. Should I stomp this out on the carpet or would you like to surrender that cup of yours. It's got to be cold by now anyway – and I know you hate cold coffee."
She's fuming. I'm not quite sure what over – but she is pissed. Just the same, I hear her shove the cup in my direction – I manage to intercept it before it hits my lap'
"You always were the selfless one," I plop my cig-butt into the remains of her coffee.
"God damn it, Jeff – what is going on here?"
"You tell me, Hot Lips – you seem to have all the answers anyway. Apparently none of the things I remember happening really happened – but let me tell you, for imaginary bullets, they sure packed a hell of a wallop."
"You don't get it, do you? You screwed up – and you've been caught red handed. There is no way out – none of your clever little double talk will save you this time. Now please, just – be straight with me."
"Paula – you're the one who doesn't get it. I was screwed over – burned. Slow fucking roasted. Collins hung me out to dry with my dick flapping in the wind – and I want to know why."
"If you were burned, it was only because you were already a lost cause, Jeff. You've been a lost cause – a liability for years – you're just too blind to see it."
Ouch – ok that hit a nerve with me – I wonder if she realizes it… no, no, I don't think she does. Or at the very least, I'm not going to let it show… much… because you see, the very best lies and façades have just a shade of the truth behind them… it is truly all about balance. So, I put just the right amount of genuine hurting in my voice now: "Well, you're right about one thing, Doll face. I really didn't see it coming."
"Whatever happened down there, you brought it on yourself, Jeff. You always do." But yes – that is real hurt in her voice too…
At the same time, the little light that's been sputtering in the back of my brain turns itself on… "How long have you been on this?" I ask in a tone that would curl Jack Frost's nose hairs.
"They put me on you when you failed to report in. I've been in Mexico – but when that didn't turn up anything useful – I came back home. Just my luck you turn back up the same day I come in."
I light up another cigarette. "Yeah. Gypsies."
"What?"
"Never mind. When do I get my shit back?"
"What shit?"
"Don't tell me your guys didn't ran-sack my pad in Mexico City – and there'd better not be anything missing, either. I know my shit like I know the back of my hand. Especially my porn – which I suppose I really know more like I know the palm of my hand."
Her exasperation is audible. "Currently, your belongings are being regarded as evidence. Depending on the outcome of my investigation you'll get it all back when we're done – or in – twenty to life?"
"Dream on – I know what I'm looking at. I also know it isn't going to happen. I was fucking set up and I intend to prove it."
"How?"
"For starters, I made those calls."
"The logs –"
"I don't give a flying fuck – or even a flying cow – about the logs. I know what I did – and I know what I didn't do. And I don't care how many God damned Gypsies I pissed off – I'm not going to prison for somebody else's crimes."
"If you're bucking for an insanity defense, Jeff, it's not going to work – not even with your psych profile."
"I don't know – smells like a southerly wind to me," I give her a broad grin.
I listen as Paula takes a deep breath and reaches over to turn the recorder back on. "On October thirteenth you reported that you had intel regarding a General Marquez - specifically that he had been recruited by Armando Barillo to overthrow President Corazon of Mexico. Is this information correct?"
"Are you asking if the information itself correct – or is the information that I turned the information over to Collins correct?"
"Knock it off and answer the question."
"That's like saying shut up and tell you something. The two conditions are mutually exclusive of one another –"
Yes, it's going to be a long ass day for both of us… you know what they say, misery loves company…
...but all good things do, in their own good time, come to an end. After having me repeat my version of the days leading up to the Day of the Dead backward and forwards a dozen times over, Paula finally kills the tape. (The entire debrief took four tapes – and I was ready to kill something about three and a half cassettes ago… like I said, she made me go over my story backwards and forwards a dozen times… and you know it never changed.)
Paula stands. "Officer Sands, at this time I'm going to ask you to surrender your badge."
"Am I under arrest?" I 'look' up at her.
"That's up to someone else – but at the very least you've been suspended from duty. Indefinitely."
I shrug. And hand over the wrong ID… Eddas did say she wanted them to come away with the impression I'd been in her office for longer than just four days… and I was waiting for just this very moment to play this particular string…
"Before you leave, we're going to get that 'vision problem' of yours verified – " she says (because I've left that detail out intentionally…)
Then, I hear just the tiniest of gasps out of Paula as she flips open my ID – probably to make sure I haven't passed off an empty case.
"Sorry, must've gotten my pockets backwards this morning – I've had some time to adjust – but it really has only been a few weeks – some of this stuff I'm still getting the hang of – and they both feel about the same." I hand Paula my CIA ID from the other pocket.
"Jeff – what's going on?" She hasn't let go of the DOJ ID just yet…
"Just call me Mickey."
"Mickey was a mouse."
"I know – I just can't seem to think of any famous rats right now – you think maybe someday somebody will name one after me?"
"You – have got to be shitting me," she finally hands the DOJ ID back and takes the 'right' ID from my other hand.
"No more than I'm shitting you about Collins giving me an abridged edition of that background check on Ajedrez Cardinas – or Collins telling me the boys back home wanted Corazon out of the picture."
"Jeff, I told you –"
"I know. I heard you. And I believe you – even if you're unwilling or unable to extend the same courtesy."
"Jeff –"
"And oh, say, by the by, would you like to know what I got for my trouble in Culiacan, other than being accused of treason, having my freedom threatened and getting to spend this lovely Tuesday morning – and afternoon – with you, there Hot Lips?" Sarcasm – but my tone is still deceptively light.
And she's still reeling from the thought of me as a rat for the DOJ… but as I said before, timing is everything… "What's that?"
"Well – as you recall I did say that eventually I found out Cardinas was Barillo's daughter all on my own – after I'd asked her to arrest him of course – talk about an egg on your face moment."
"Yeah – right. Lunch, Flying Cow. You said this Dr. Guevara drugged you – and they held you until the coup was well under way."
"Exactly." I've been intentionally fuzzy on some of the more – poignant details – up until now. "See – I do have to admit to leaving out a small – inconsequential, really – detail from my report – because, well, I knew how many times you'd want to go over it and some things I really only wanted to have to say once. No – don't bother with the tape," I tell her as I hear her reaching for it. "You can put this in your written report and I'm sure it'll be just fine – because what I have to say won't really translate to tape all that well, anyway."
"Ok," she says – good, she's more than a little suspicious…
"See, Ajedrez Cardinas told me herself who she was just about two minutes before her old man and Dr. Guevara did this to me – because, you see, I'd simply seen too much." Now – you know how I generally feel about this – but – when it serves a purpose there really are no lows to which I will not sink... "And well, they just wanted to make sure that never happened again." I slip the sunglasses from my face.
And he sound Paula makes, while difficult to truly describe, is most rewarding.
"I think they did a pretty thorough job, don't you?" My tone is oddly congenial – well, she's got to think it's odd. I just think it'll hit her harder this way than if I gave her the ol' Jack Frost treatment. "So – do I really need to 'see' the white coats, Paula, or do you think you're confident with your ability to asses the cause my loss of sight?"
"I – no – that'll – be just fine. I don't think you need to – visit – the docs."
I put the glasses back into place, "And a parting word of advice there, Hot Lips – don't ever think you're good enough to go up against me. If I'd wanted to, I would have chewed you up and spit you out like a piece of old bubble gum – but I happened to be in an almost good mood today," which is a complete and total lie – I was not in a good mood. But chewing her up and spitting her out wouldn't have accomplished what I needed to accomplish…
"Jeff – "
"Save it for somebody who gives a damn," I growl back at her, flipping the cane open. I take up Spencer's lead and make my escape…
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Next Chapter:
One Cooks, the Other One Doesn't
Do we all remember who from Sands' immediate past was a really good cook…? ;-)