NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
CHAPTER 33
THE PRIVATE EYE

Jake caught the curve of the flight attendant’s leg at the corner of his eye. She was standing over the snoozing lump of suited flesh, his tie draping over Jake’s armrest.

“May I offer you a beverage?” she asked. Her voice was deeper than he expected.

“Beer’s fine,” he replied.

The lump inhaled a scoop of phlegm, and then a fit of gagging followed.

“Do you need some help, sir?” She asked while backing up, ready to perform the Heimlich maneuver if needed.

The man tugged at his tie and suddenly stood up from his seat.

“Just a cup of coffee. I’m going to the crapper.” He disappeared down the aisle, leaving a vulnerable space between Jake and the seats on the other side of the aircraft.

Jake took a subtle peek across the aisle. The passenger had his pointy nose buried in a Clear Blue hospitality brochure, pretending to be fascinated. He was dressed in the typical black suit of the CIA. His shoes were overly shiny, and he couldn’t have been more obvious if his brochure had been upside down. The weasel wasn’t a spy’s spy. He wasn’t even a good spy.

Jake checked under the seat again. His carry-on bag was still within reach. He’d stowed a high-impact plastic gun in the tote and a just-in-case change of clothes.

Unconsciously, Jake tugged the gold loop dangling from his left earlobe and started plotting his escape. He walked a dangerous path; his next move had to be strategic. No room for dancing a jig on this tightrope.

Jake’s seatmate returned with a mix of industrial hand soap and the smell of a recent poop festival. Barnes went back to inspecting the plane’s airfoil. His bad-egg radar picked up weasel-eyes glaring at him from across the aisle.

The snoring started again, paired with a simple wheeze. The only thing that gave Jake some cover was the gourmand. A bullet would have a slow time passing through the mountain of fat sitting in the aisle seat.

He closed his eyes and made his best impression of a bored traveler. His mind was in chaos. His thoughts had darted in every direction since that game of word roulette with Holmstead. Their debate echoed through his memory.

“This is Barnes. I have information you’ll find interesting.”

“You don’t work here,” Arthur Holmstead’s reptilian hiss echoed over the phone line, promising a deadly bite. “Remember, Jake? You’re retired.”

“Fifteen minutes ago, I met a certain senator’s wife. She’s after a big divorce payout, and she’s got dirt on her husband.”

“Not of interest to us, Barnes. Take your chicken shit trailing-a-cheating spouse jobs and keep them to yourself.”

“Your boss might want to hear about this, Art. I know you think you’re on top of things, but that idiot Fleming might wake up from his coma at any moment and find out you’re pretending to be Director.”

“You’re walking on troubled waters, Barnes. Must I remind you? You’re not Jesus. Let’s keep this short and sweet, like a good—well, you know what I mean. What, who, and how much?”

“Willson’s wife, you’ve got to pay for her mistake, and the cost is mounting by the thousands every minute. Just think of me as a taxi—my meter’s running.”

“Sounds like she told you a fairy tale,” Holmstead traced the scar on his forehead with his pinky. It calmed him.

“This is bigger than Paul Bunyan’s penis. If you’re not interested in pay-to-play, I have other options. You want to talk about OOZE? You want to talk about the Sultan of Timoresh? Or would you like to chat about a fellow named Nash? You tell me, Holmstead. What do you want to discuss?”

“Meet me tomorrow at 5 o’clock in Palisade Plaza, New York. I’ll be registered as Squires. Eighth floor, Suite B. We’ll negotiate then.”

“Just remember, I’ve got an ace up my sleeve. I hedge every bet. I trust you about as far as I can spit up my own asshole.”

“I’ll bring a payoff that should make you smile.”

“Better to have a large number of zeros.”

“Enough so you can drag your out-of-work, humped-up private dick low-life ass to the Virgin Islands and live like a king on the interest.”

“I see we understand each other,” Jake said. It was only after he’d hung up that reality hit him hard. “That was too damn easy.”

He was now at 20,000 feet, circling over New York City, while Holmstead’s associate watched him from across the aisle. And if it weren’t for the steaming dump in the seat next to him, he might already be dead.

The plane touched down at LaGuardia. Jake grabbed his bag and waited until all the travelers deboarded. The weasel was among the last to leave, but he reluctantly stood up when the attendant insisted.

“You have a problem?” the pilot asked.

“I was a little nervous,” Jake admitted. “That fellow across the aisle looked like an Arab. I was at the World Trade Center, you know. I get a little jittery.”

“Understandable, sir,” the man said. “We all changed that day.”

“Yes. Well, I think I’m okay,” Jake said. “Thanks for being kind.”

No problem. Say, why don’t I give you a lift on the cart? We can get you straight to baggage, and the scary guy will still be riding the escalator.”

“I really like this airline,” Jake said. “I absolutely always fly Clear Blue Airlines.” The cart sped past the drone, and Jake looked back at the human ferret running to catch up.

“You take care,” the pilot said as he set Jake down next to the luggage piling up on the conveyor belt.

Jake had no other baggage. He blended into the crowd like a chameleon, moving toward the main entrance. The pavement radiated heat, and exhaust fumes pooled in the covered drop-off area. He scanned for signs of Holmstead’s minion. Nothing.

Jake caught the shuttle and squeezed between two elderly Black women. Each one glared at him. The bus sped away with a lurch and rumbled into the city. He exited the shuttle at the corner of Bancroft and 53rd, chose a city bus, and lost himself among strangers.

Jake couldn’t shake the feeling of pursuit. And your guts don’t lie. Winding his way through the crowd, he got off the bus a block from Times Square and caught sight of the bad-suit gumshoe.

The Big Apple was lively. He pushed his way through the crowd of people, dodged old women, and knocked over drunks. Finally, Jake slipped into an alley with dumpsters and found an unlocked door.

He hid beneath the stairwell and opened his duffel bag. He could hear voices. Latino music blared loudly over poor speakers. He pulled out a pair of grease-stained tan coveralls that had ‘Steve’ embroidered on the pocket flap. He discarded his Italian loafers and slipped into a pair of work boots. For a finishing touch, he plopped a brown cap with ‘Gas’n’Go’ emblazoned on it atop his head.

He stuffed his good clothes into the tote and hid his gun in the leather holster strapped around his right ankle. That felt as good as an orgasm, and he was ready to go.

He left the way he came, ditching his carryall in a dumpster. Jake merged into foot traffic, slipping past a window washer and a nurse carrying a shopping bag. When he looked back, a homeless man was doing a half gainer into the trash can.

A block away, the operative leaned against a lamppost in front of Ned’s Playgirls, eating a hot dog. Jake strolled within three feet of the agent, maintaining his pace and composure. He stopped just a few steps past the doorway of Sam’s Adult Toys and glanced back.

Holmstead’s bloodhound was still standing in the same spot. Following the man’s gaze, Jake noticed the girls at Ned’s window made the drone quite helpless.

He was stopped at the light amid endless traffic, waiting for the WALK signal. A news vendor nearby displayed his wares.

Senator’s Wife Tortured

Margreth Willson was found without her nose and toes.

He felt cold and turned to watch the man who stayed focused on Ned’s window. Then, he flagged down a cab and climbed into the back seat.

“The Palisade Plaza,” he ordered.

The sienna-skinned cabbie drove like crazy. Barnes got out at the corner and walked to the fancy hotel with its dark green monogrammed awning. The doorman was handling a stack of luggage while a woman dressed in a feathered hat swore and stomped.

Jake sat on the concrete bench outside the hotel. A street urchin, carrying a skateboard, joined him.

“You got a quarter, Mister?”

“Don’t you have a home?”

“Nope. You can’t afford to stay here either. They’ll chase you away because you’re just a gas jockey.”

“You’re right. Maybe you could help me. Let’s say someone is after you, and the bad guy might want to kill you or maybe just give you a lot of money. What would you do?”

“I’d sprint like crazy. You can always find more cash.”

Barnes watched the youth toss his skateboard onto the walk and cruise through the hotel’s red-carpeted corridor, narrowly avoiding the hysterical hat-woman. Then he shot out of the hotel, chased by the doorman.

“Say, mister,” Lucky zoomed past Jake, jumped off his board, and flipped it into the air. “You’re hip deep in trouble, am I right?”

“You can say that again,” Jake admitted. “I need to get out of town. There’s a guy who wants me to take a vacation in Pandemonium.”

“Where’s that? Ohio?”

“Hades, son,” Jake replied.

“That’s Ohio for sure. I don’t think I want to go back there,” the boy said.

“Good thinking. I have a rule: when you find yourself in a tight spot, you need to look for a point of leverage.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Well, I really pissed this guy off. And he’d like to rearrange my face, to put it bluntly. I need to find out why he’s on edge and use it to my advantage.”

“Because you have him by the short hairs?”

“Right. That’s what I was thinking. See, I was going to sell him information. But I think my man has a connection to the bad guys I planned to rat out.”

“He’s a mole,” Lucky said proudly. “He’s working for a third dude.”

“Right! He can’t let me spill my guts to the good guys. He’s in with the bad guys, too, like a double agent 007-style. Of course, I knew he was Friar Rush, but I thought he was on our side.”

“Who’s Friar Rush?”

“A demon, son. Someone who’s getting it from the devil.”

“I know all about that,” Lucky said. “You get about ten bucks for it.”

Before Jake could reply, the boy had sped off again. Barnes entered the air-conditioned lobby. The bellhop deliberately ignored him. An Asian man working at the front desk turned his back. The spy drone sat in a Louis XIV chair, ear glued to a cellphone, with his beady eyes focused on the elevators.

Jake followed the signs labeled Car Rental. The agency was in a suite tucked away in the back lobby of the hotel. The frizzy-haired clerk was sorting slips of paper when he walked in.

“Welcome to Road-Way Rental.”

“Mah name’s Steve Walsh,” he said in his finest Southern drawl. “Ah’d like to rent the cheapest buggy you got.”

“Certainly, Mr. Walsh, your car will be ready in approximately fifteen minutes.”

“Do y’all have a map of North Dakota?”

She searched under the counter and finally found a tattered map.

“Thanks, ma’am.” He tipped his cap, “Ya’ll have a nice day now.”

Jake Barnes had fifteen minutes to spare, so he took the stairs to the eighth floor. A maid pushed her cart down the hallway.

“Miss,” he whispered. “Could you see if Mr. Squires is in? I’ve got his car downstairs.”

“Si, but Señor, you can’t do these things. You workman. Cannot be here. Vamos.” She frowned until she saw twenty bucks in his hand. “Si is different. I can do.”

She waddled down the hallway and stopped outside Suite B. He heard her knock. When there was no response, she tested the knob. A premonition told Jake this was a bad idea.

“Say, Miss—never mind about the car,” Jake called out, but she couldn’t hear him.

“Señor Squires,” she called. She opened the door.

He felt the blast before he heard the sound. Debris flew past him, forcing him against the elevator doors. He crawled down the hall toward the stairwell. Fire alarms blared in his ears, and distant sirens grew louder. People ran frantically in all directions. The stairwell was crowded with panicked people.

Chaos reigned in the garage. His rental car waited for him, parked along the curb. Emergency vehicles filled the structure, and the parking valet waved cars away.

Jake grabbed the keys from the visor and drove away from New York through the tunnel to New Jersey. There was no turning back. With an enemy like Holmstead, he’d need some serious ammunition to survive.
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