Carrion Comfort

  “Brief stop,” said Colben as he led the pro cession into a certain trailer. “Then you’ve got work to do.”

  “Only work I’m doing this morning is to find a bed,” said Harod.

  The two center trailers ran north and south and were connected by a wide common door at their ends. The west wall was a mass of television monitors and communication consoles. Eight men in white shirts and dark ties sat viewing the monitors and occasionally whispering into microphones.

  “It looks like fucking mission control,” said Harod.

  Colben nodded. “This is our communications and control center,” he said with a faint pull of pride in his voice. The man at the first panel looked up and Colben said, “Larry, this is Mr. Harod and Ms. Chen. The Director asked them to fly out and take a look at our operation.” Larry nodded at the supposed VIPs and Harod got the message that these were regular FBI men, almost certainly ignorant of their real mission.

  “What are we looking at?” asked Harod.

  Colben touched the first monitor. “This is the house on Queen Lane where the suspect and an unidentified young male Caucasian are staying with a certain Anne Marie Bishop, fifty-three, unmarried, living alone since her brother died in May of this year. Alpha team established the surveillance base on the second floor of a ware house across the street. Number two shows the back of the same house— shot from the empty third floor of a row house across the alley. Number three, the alley from a mobile van, Bell Telephone markings.”

  “She there now?” asked Harod, nodding toward the black and white image of the small, white house.

  Colben shook his head and led them down the row to a monitor that showed an old stone home. The camera evidently was looking across a busy street from a ground-floor location and traffic occasionally obscured the view. “She is currently in Grumblethorpe,” said Colben.

  “In what?”

  “Grumblethorpe.” Colben pointed to two enlarged photocopied sets of architectural drawings taped to the wall above the monitor. “It’s an historic landmark. Closed to the public most of the time. She spends a lot of time there.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Harod. “The lady we’ve been talking about is hiding out in a national landmark?”

  “Not a national landmark,” snapped Colben, “just a local site of historic interest. But yes, she does spend most of her time there. In the morning . . . at least the two mornings we’ve been watching, she and the other old lady and the kid walk over to the Queen Lane house, presumably for showers and hot meals.”

  “Jesus,” said Harod. He looked around at the men and equipment. “How many men you got on this little job, Chuck?”

  “Sixty-four,” said Colben. “The local authorities know we’re here, but they have orders to keep out of it. We may need some traffic control help when it finally goes down.”

  Harod grinned and looked at Maria Chen. “Sixty-four G-men, a god-damned he li cop ter, a million dollars of Star Wars shit, all to nail an eighty-year-old broad.” Larry and a couple of the other agents looked up with quizzical expressions. “Keep up the good work, men,” Harod said in his best VIP voice, “your nation’s proud of you.”

  “Let’s go into my office,” Colben, said coldly.

  Offices took up all of the trailer that ran east and west on the south end of the complex. Colben’s office was something more than a cubicle, something less than a room.

  “What’s on the other end of this setup?” asked Harod when he and Maria Chen and the FBI assistant director settled around an undersized desk.

  Colben hesitated. “Detention and interrogation facilities,” he said at last.

  “You plan to interrogate the Fuller woman?”

  “No,” said Colben. “She’s too dangerous. We plan to kill her.”

  “You detaining and interrogating anybody now?”

  “Perhaps,” said Colben. “No need for you to know.”

  Harod sighed. “OK, Chuck, what is there a need for me to know?” Colben glanced at Maria Chen. “This is confidential. Can you function without Connie Chung here, Tony?”

  “No,” said Harod. “And if you put your mouth or hand on her again. Chucky babe, Barent’ll have another Island Club seat to fill.”

  Colben smiled thinly. “This is something that we will definitely have to settle. Later. Meanwhile, we have a mission to complete and you— for a change— have work to do.” He slid a photograph across the desktop.

  Harod studied it: Polaroid snapshot, color, in outdoor light, of an attractive young black woman—twenty-two or twenty-three—standing on a street corner waiting for a light to change. She had a full head of curly hair just too short to be called an Afro, rich eyes, delicate oval face, and full lips. Harod’s eyes wandered to her breasts, but the camel coat she wore was too bulky to give him a reading. “Decent-looking chick,” he said. “Not star status, but I could probably get her a screen test or a bit part. Who the fuck is she?”

  “Natalie Preston,” said Colben.

  Harod stared his lack of recognition. “Her daddy got in the way of the Nina Drayton-Melanie Fuller spat in Charleston a few weeks ago.”

  “So?”

  “So he’s dead and suddenly the young Miss Preston is here in Philly.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think she’s after the Fuller broad?”

  “No, Tony, we think that the bereaved daughter left her daddy’s corpse, dropped her graduate work in St. Louis, and flew to Germantown, PA, out of sudden interest in early American history. Of course, she’s on the old lady’s trail, you dumb fuck.”

  “How’d she find her?” asked Harod. He was staring at the photograph.

  “The gang members,” said Colben. At Harod’s blank stare, he said, “Jesus Christ, don’t they have papers and TV out in Hollywood?”

  “I’ve been busy setting up a twelve-million-dollar movie project,” said Harod. “What murders?”

  Colben told him about the Christmas Eve killings. “And two more since,” he said. “Grisly stuff.”

  “Why would this luscious piece of chocolate relate some spades killing each other in Philadelphia to Melanie Fuller?” said Harod. “And how’d you get on to both her and the old lady being here?”

  “We had our own sources,” said Colben. “As for this black bitch, we were tapping her phone and the phone of a cracker sheriff she’s been shacking up with. They leave cute little messages on his answering machine. We sent a guy in to leave the messages we want left, erase the rest.”

  Harod shook his head. “I don’t get it. What do I have to do with this shit?”

  Colben picked up a letter opener and played with it. “Mr. Barent has decided that this is right up your line, Tony.”

  “What is?” Harod handed the photograph to Maria Chen. “Taking care of Miss Preston.”

  “Uh-uh,” said Harod. “Our deal was for the Fuller woman. Just her.”

  Colben raised an eyebrow. “What’s the matter, Tony? This kid scare you the way flying does? What else scares you, hotshot?”

  Harod rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Take care of this detail,” said Colben, “and it’s possible you won’t have to concern yourself with Melanie Fuller.”

  “Who says?”

  “Mr. Barent says. Christ, Harod, this is a free ride into the most select club in history. I know you’re a schmuck, but this is stupid even for you.”

  Harod yawned again. “Has it occurred to any of you intellectual quad-riplegics that you don’t need me to do your dirty work?” he said. “You’ve got the old lady in your camera lens several times a day, you said so yourself. Substitute a telescopic sight on a thirty-aught-six and problem’s solved. And what’s the big deal with little Natalie Whatshername? She have the Ability or something?”

  “No,” said Colben. “Natalie Preston has a B.A. from Oberlin and two-thirds of a teaching certificate. Very nonviolent young lady.”

  “Then why me?”

  “Dues,” said Colben.
“We all pay our dues.”

  Harod took the photograph back from Maria Chen. “What do you want done? Detained and interrogated?”

  “No need,” said Colben. “We have all the information she might give us from . . . ah . . . another source. We just want her taken out of the game.”

  “Permanently?”

  Colben chuckled. “What else do you have in mind, Mr. Harod?”

  “I though perhaps she might like a little involuntary vacation to Beverly Hills,” said Harod. His eyes were very heavy. He moistened his lips with a quick movement of tongue.

  Colben chuckled again. “What ever,” he said. “But eventually the solution has to be permanent with regards to this . . . how’d you put it? This luscious piece of chocolate. What you do with her before that is up to you, Tony baby. Just no chance of a slip-up.”

  “There won’t be,” said Harod. He glanced at Maria Chen and then looked back to the photograph. “You know where she is right now?”

  “Yes,” said Colben. He picked up a clipboard and glanced at a computer printout on it. “She’s still at the Chelten Arms. Little hotel about twelve blocks from here. Haines can drive you over now.”

  “Uh-uh,” said Harod. “First I want a hotel room for each of us . . . a good one, suite if possible. And then seven or eight hours’ sleep.”

  “But Mr. Barent . . .”

  “Screw C. Arnold Barent,” said Harod with a smile. “Let him come to get this chick himself if he’s not satisfied. Now get Haines or whoever to drive us to a good hotel.”

  “What about Natalie Preston?”

  Harod stopped by the door. “I assume the lady is also under surveillance?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, tell your boys to try to hang on to her for eight or nine more hours, Chuck.” He turned toward the door but then paused again, staring at Colben. “You never answered my question. You’ve been on top of Melanie Fuller for the past few days at least. Why drag this shit out? Why don’t you terminate her and get out of here?”

  Colben picked up the letter opener. “Why, we’re waiting to see if there’s any connection between little Miz Melanie and your old boss, Mr. Borden. We’re waiting for Willi to make a mistake, show his hand.”

  “And if he does?”

  Colben smiled and drew the dull blade of the letter opener across his throat. “If he does . . . when he does, then your friend Willi is going to wish he’d been in that room with Trask when the bomb went off.”

  Harod and Maria got rooms at the Chestnut Hill Inn, an upscale motel seven miles out of Germantown Avenue, beyond the slums and city, in an area of tree-lined lanes and secluded office parks. Colben was also registered there. The agent with the bruised chin assigned a blond FBI man to remain there with a car. Harod slept six hours and awoke disoriented and wearier than when he arrived. Maria Chen poured him a vodka and orange juice and sat on the edge of the bed while Harod drank it.

  “What are you going to do about the girl?” she asked.

  Harod put down the glass and rubbed his face. “What does it matter to you?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “Then you don’t have to know anything about it.”

  “Do you want me along?”

  Harod thought about it. He did not feel comfortable without someone watching his back, but in this case it might not be necessary. The more he thought about it, the less necessary it seemed. “No,” he said. “You stay here and work on the Paramount correspondence. It won’t take long.”

  Maria Chen left the room without a word.

  Harod showered and dressed in a silk turtleneck, expensive wool slacks, and a black bomber jacket with fleece lining. He called the number Colben had given him.

  “Natalie Whatshername still around?” Harod asked. “She’s been walking around the slums, but she’s back at the hotel for dinner,” said Colben. “She spends a lot of time with that nigger gang.”

  “The one that’s been losing members?”

  Colben laughed heartily. “What’s so fucking funny?” said Harod. “Your choice of words,” laughed Colben. “Losing members. That’s exactly what’s been happening. The last two got chopped to bits and had their cocks cut off.”

  “Jesus,” said Harod. “And you think Melanie Fuller’s doing it?”

  “We don’t know,” replied Colben. “We haven’t seen that kid with her leave Grumblethorpe when the murders went down, but she could be Using someone else.”

  “What kind of surveillance do you have on Grumblethorpe?”

  “It could be better,” said Colben. “We can’t park a telephone truck in every alley, even an old lady might get suspicious. But we have good coverage in the front, a camera covering the backyard, and agents all around the block. If the old bitch pokes her head out, we’ve got her.”

  “Good for you,” said Harod. “Look, if I take care of this other detail to night, then I want to be out of here in the morning.”

  “We’ll have to check with Barent.”

  “Fuck that,” said Harod. “I’m not waiting around here for Willi Borden to show up. That would be a long wait. Willi’s dead.”

  “It won’t be that long,” said Colben. “We got the go-ahead to take care of the old lady.”

  “Today?”

  “No, but soon enough.”

  “When?”

  “We’ll tell you if you need to know.”

  “Nice talking to you, armpit,” said Harod and hung up.

  A young blond agent drove Harod into town. He pointed out the Chelten Arms and found a parking space half a block away. Harod tipped him a quarter.

  It was an old hotel, fighting to retain its dignity in reduced circumstances. The lobby was threadbare, but the bar/dining room was pleasantly dark and recently renovated. Harod thought that the place probably got most of the lunch trade from the few remaining white businessmen in the area. The black girl was easy to spot— sitting alone in a corner, eating a salad and reading a paperback. She was as attractive as the Polaroid snap had promised— more so, Harod realized, as he saw the full breasts filling her tan blouse. Harod spent a minute at the bar, trying to pick out the FBI tails. The young guy alone at the bar— overpriced three-piece suit and hearing aid— was a sure bet. Harod took a little longer spotting the over-weight black man eating clam chowder and looking over at Natalie every few minutes. Do they hire nigger FBI men these days? wondered Harod. Probably have a quota. He guessed there would be at least one more agent in the lobby, probably reading a newspaper. He picked up his vodka and tonic and walked over to Natalie Preston’s table. “Hi, do you mind if I join you for a minute?”

  The young woman looked up from her book. Harod read the title: Teaching As a Conserving Activity. “Yes,” she said, “I do mind.”

  “That’s OK,” said Harod and draped his jacket over the back of a chair. “I don’t mind.” He sat down.

  Natalie Preston opened her mouth to speak and Harod reached out with his mind and squeezed . . . lightly, lightly. No words came out. She tried to stand and froze in mid-movement. Her eyes grew very large.

  Harod smiled at her and slumped back in his chair. No one was sitting within hearing range. He folded his hands over his stomach. “Your name is Natalie,” he said. “Mine’s Tony. What would you say to a little fun?” He relaxed his grip enough to let her whisper but not to shout or scream. She lowered her head and gasped for breath.

  Harod shook his head. “You’re not playing the game right, Natalie baby. I said, what would you say to a little fun?”

  Natalie Preston looked up, still panting as if she had been jogging. Her brown eyes glinted. She cleared her throat, found that her voice worked and whispered, “You go to hell . . . you son of a bitch . . .”

  Harod sat straight up. “Uh-uh,” he said, “wrong answer.”

  He watched as Natalie bent over with the sudden pain in her skull. Harod had suffered terrible migraines as a child. He knew how to share. A passing waiter stopped and said, “Are you all righ
t, miss?”

  Natalie straightened up slowly, like a mechanical doll unwinding. Her voice was husky. “Yes,” she said, “I’m fine. Just menstrual cramps.”

  The waiter moved away, embarrassed. Harod had to grin. Jesus, he thought, what a ventriloquist I could have made. He leaned forward and stroked her hand. She tired to pull away. It took a fair amount of Harod’s concentration to keep her from succeeding. Her eyes began to take on the trapped-animal look that he enjoyed.

  “Let’s start again,” whispered Harod. “What would you like to do this evening, Natalie?”

  “I’d . . . like . . . to . . . suck . . . your . . . cock.” Each syllable was dragged out of her, but that was all right with Harod. Natalie’s large brown eyes filled with tears.

  “What else?” crooned Harod. He was frowning with the concentrated effort of control. This particular piece of chocolate took more work than he was used to. “What else?”

  “I . . . want you . . . to . . . fuck . . . me.”

  “Sure, kid, I don’t have anything better to do in the next couple of hours. Let’s go up to your room.”

  They rose together. “Better leave some money,” whispered Harod. Natalie dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table.

  Harod winked at the two agents in the bar as they left. Another man in a dark suit lowered his newspaper and peered at them as they waited for the elevator. Harod smiled, made a circle with his left index finger and thumb, and ran his right middle finger through it six times in rapid succession. The agent blushed and raised his paper. No one followed them into the elevator or down the third-floor hall.

  Harod took the keys from her and opened the door. He left her standing there, staring vacantly, while he checked out the room. Clean but small, bed, bureau, black and white TV on a swivel stand, open suitcase on a low rack. Harod picked up a pair of her underwear, ran it across his face, peered in the bathroom and out the window at fire escape, alley, the low rooftops beyond.

  “OK!” he said merrily, tossing her underwear aside and pulling a low green chair away from the wall. He sat down. “Show time, kiddo.” She stood between him and the bed. Her arms were down at her sides, her expression slack, but Harod could see the effort she was expending to break free as tiny shudders passed through her. Harod smiled and tightened his grip. “A little striptease before bed is always fun, don’t you think?” he said.