Hostage

7

Friday, 7:39 P.M.

Newhall,

California Sundown

MARION CLEWES

His name was Marion Clewes. He was waiting in a donut shop in Newhall, California, twelve miles west of Bristo Camino in an area where all of the signs were in Spanish. Marion was the only person in the shop other than the woman behind the counter who spoke no English and seemed uneasy about his being there. Even at sundown, the unairconditioned shop was hot, leaving her skin filmed with grease. It was a filthy place, with coffee rings on the broken Formica tables and a sticky floor. Marion didn’t mind. He could feel the weight of the air, heavy with grease and cinnamon. He took a seat at a table facing the door to wait for Glen Howell.

Marion was used to meeting Howell in places like this. Howell was never comfortable with him, and was probably afraid of him. He suspected that Howell didn’t even like him, but that was okay. They paid him well for doing what he enjoyed, and he did these things with a merciless dependability.

Marion stared at the woman. She crossed and recrossed her arms until she disappeared behind the fryer, frantic to escape his gaze. He shifted his stare to the parking lot. A fly droned past his ear. It was a black desert fly, fat with juice and thorny with coarse hair, kicking off green highlights in the cheesy fluorescent lights. It buzzed low over the table in an S-shaped course, swung slowly around, and landed in a sprinkle of sugar. Marion slapped it. He waited, holding his hand in place, feeling for movement. When Marion raised his hand, the fly oozed sideways, legs kicking, trying to walk. Marion watched it. The best it could do was drive itself in a pathetic circle. Marion examined his hand. A smear of fly goo and a single black leg streaked his third finger. He touched his tongue to the smear and tasted sugar. He watched the fly push itself in the circle. Gently, he held it in place with his left index finger, and used his right index fingernail to break away another leg. He ate it. Hmm. One by one, he broke away the fly’s legs and ate them. One wing was damaged, but the other beat furiously. He wondered what the fly was thinking.

Headlights flashed across the glass.

Marion glanced up to see Howell’s beautiful Mercedes pull to a stop. It was a lovely car. Marion watched Howell get out of the car and come inside. Marion pushed the fly to the side as Howell took a seat opposite him.

“There’s a woman in the back. I don’t think she speaks English, though.”

“This won’t take long.”

Howell spoke softly, getting down to business. He placed a slip of yellow paper on the table in front of Marion.

“Talley lives here. It’s a condo. I don’t have anything about what the place is like or if there’s security or anything like that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Here’s the drill: We have to own this guy-that’s straight from the top-and we don’t have a lot of time to mess around. I need you to find something we can use to twist him.”

Marion put the address away. He had done this kind of thing before, and knew what was needed. He would look for weakness. Everyone held their weakness close. He would copy bank account numbers; he would search for pornography and drugs, old love letters and sex toys, prescription medications and computer files. Maybe a lab report from a personal physician describing heart disease or phone records to another man’s wife. It could be anything. There was always something.

“Is he there now?”

“Don’t you listen to the news?”

Marion shook his head.

“He’s not home, but I can’t tell you when he will or won’t get back there. So be ready for that.”

“What if he walks in on me?”

Howell averted his eyes, reached a decision, then looked back.

“If he’s got you, kill him.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, we don’t want him dead. We want to control him. We need to use him. But if you’re caught, well, fuck it. Cap his ass.”

“What about later? After he’s used?”

“That’s up to Palm Springs.”

Marion accepted that. Sometimes they were kept alive because they could be used over and over, but most times he was allowed to finish the job. The finishing was his favorite part.

Howell said, “You have my pager number and my cell?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Page me when you’re done. Whether you find something or not, keep me in the loop.”

“What if there’s nothing in his home?”

“Then we’ll hit his office. That’ll be harder. He’s the chief of police.”

Howell got up without another word.

Marion watched the beautiful Mercedes slide away into the deepening twilight, then looked back at the fly. Its legless body lay on its side, still. Marion touched it. The remaining wing fluttered.

Marion said, “Poor fly.”

Marion carefully pulled out the remaining wing, then left to do his job.