The scorpion watched Peter for a while then decided he wasn't all that interesting and wandered off. Peter cursed the rocky desert. He loved the heat but hated just about everything else. “Such a spiky existence.” Peter thought. Everything out to stick you with sharp needles or stingers or fangs or sharp-edged rocks. He admired the ruggedness but disliked the fact that he had no defense. There was no way to defeat the desert. He didn't like the odds.
Carl appeared up the trail. While Peter merely disliked the desert Carl loathed it. His dark custom tailored suit, for he never wore anything else, amplified the hellish heat to a point beyond where even Peter was comfortable.
"You're going to die if you don't take that jacket off." Peter shouted.
Carl stopped and wiped his face with a white handkerchief. "Why do we do this?"
Peter laughed. "Piles of cool green cash will ease your suffering poor child."
"Yes, of course, but why out here?" Carl asked. "In the city they have this thing called air-conditioning. It's quite lovely I hear."
"Nothing safe. The malls and casinos have too many cameras. Too many people listening." Peter looked around. "Nobody here to hear what you have to tell me. Though if anyone saw you head out here dressed like that they're sure to have called the cops by now, if only for your own safety."
Carl looked at his watch, an impressive Swiss thing with an even more impressive turquoise band. Not road-side stand turquoise, the real good stuff that never seems to fade or tarnish. "Well let's wrap this up quickly then, before the rescue squad arrives." Carl pulled out the bulky envelope and handed it to Peter. It contained a photograph, a single sheet of personal data and a pile of cash. He watched Peter count out the cash so there would be no arguments later. "What's it like?" Carl asked. "To actually kill a man?"
Peter finished counting the money. Of course it was correct. It always was. He looked Carl in the eye wondering why he asked that question. It broke all the rules. The first moment of paranoia hit Peter. It wouldn't be his last. "You'd know better than I dear Carl. Your the mob enforcer, not I."
Carl laughed. "Let's keep it that way."
Peter tensed up. "You've lost me."
Carl looked off into the distance. "I'm on my way out."
"Why?"
"It's time."
"They souring on you?"
Carl looked at Peter "No, I'm souring on them. Things like this." Carl taps the envelope. "This one is internal. Like part of the family. That it's just doesn't make it an easier. I want out before they decide they don't need me anymore."
"Good plan." Peter said. "What about me?"
"They don't know you exist." Carl thought for a moment. "You want me to connect you with my replacement?"
"No. I'm set. I'll get my own deal if I need it."
"That would be wise." Carl shook Peter's hand and walked away.
Peter watched Carl walk away. He reran the encounter in his head. Something was wrong. Maybe Carl was scared. You don't see too many ex-mob guys wandering the streets. Peter was about to feel sympathy for Carl when the ghosts of all the men Carl had ordered killed appeared in Peter's mind and, like a Greek Chorus, recounted Carl's sins. No Carl, like himself, Peter admitted, deserved no sympathy. The chorus of victims faded from Peter's memory as he walked to his rental car.
Two nights later Peter was longing for the spiky desert. The light rail platform stood across the street from the San Francisco Bay. The wind and fog joined forces and tore at Peter's soul. Even the heavy winter coat was no defense against the damp and cold. The schedule on the wall said that the train came every eight minutes this time of night, but there hadn't been one for twenty. If there weren't other people on the platform complaining about the late trains Peter would have assumed that they weren't coming. Their commiserations held the paranoia at bay. He contemplated giving up and going back to his hotel room, catch the first flight home tomorrow. How would Carl react to having his money returned? What would his people do? Was Carl still among them? Was this job the swan song? Peter worried about that. Was this the last assignment on the last day of school? The one that didn't really matter? "Short-timers make mistakes." Peter thought.
Then a train came. It was packed. A pile of people got off and headed for either end of the platform. The complainers all got on the train. The train pulled away. Peter was alone on the platform.
Another train came. Some people got off and walked their separate ways. The train pulled out and Peter was again alone on the platform. He was starting to worry.
Another train came. This one was almost empty. Only a few seats were occupied by people who looked tired and desperate to be home. Peter knew the feeling well. He wanted to be on this train, though he didn't know where it was going. He was about to step on when he saw Johann ducking off the train a couple doors down. No matter how many times Peter saw him, Johann's height always surprised him. He never got a straight answer as to just how tall Johan was, but Peter guessed it must be at least seven feet.
The train pulled away and Peter and Johann were alone on the platform. Johann grinned. Peter hated that grin, mostly because he knew what was coming next. Johann rushed up to him and hugged him hard. Peter was never sure if the hug was truly a friendly gesture or if this was Johann's way of frisking him.
Johann released Peter, stepped back and spun once around. "This is a glorious place you have brought us to my friend."
"It's damn cold." Peter replied.
Johann got serious. "We are the wardens of the night my Peter. The dark, the fog, the city, these our are our tools and allies. San Francisco is the scene of our glory."
Peter pulled the now much lighter envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Johann. "I'm not sure that glory is the appropriate word."
Johann opened the envelope, took out the photo and info sheet then handed the envelope back to Peter.
"No." said Peter. "Take it now. I trust you. I have to get in out of the cold."
"You know I can't work that way." Johann said. "It would weigh too heavy on my mind and I couldn't do my job." He read the info sheet then looked at his watch. "The broken trains have cut it close. You wait here. I'll be back in forty-five minutes and we will buy you beers and tequila and maybe a woman. She will get you warm." Johann walked to the end of the platform and disappeared up the foggy street leaving Peter alone on the platform holding the envelope. The only thing that kept him there was the promise of a night of drinking with Johann, who always paid for every round and knew how to find the best dives in any town. After a few rounds Johann would start to shout improvised poems about the fellow bar patrons which either got him many free drinks or kicked out. It didn't matter though. There was always another bar down the street.
Two hours later Peter gave up. A dozen and a half trains went by in both directions but Johann never came back. Each train that stopped embarked a little more worry onto to Peter's mind. At first he tried to convince himself that the growing paranoia would keep him sharp. Then when two men in blue uniforms got off the last train he nearly keeled over with fear, convinced that Johann had been caught in the act and ratted him out. Peter's bladder almost let go in relief when he saw that they were merely security guards carrying nothing more deadly than those really big flashlights they all love so much to carry. Peter went to his hotel room and stood under a steaming shower for nearly an hour. He slept unwell, dreaming of late trains and empty bars.
The newspapers in the morning had no news for him, good or bad. He ate breakfast at the hotel coffee shop and went for a walk. The sun was shining but it wasn't warm. The damp air made his bones ache. He went back to his room and watched the noon TV news. It offered nothing helpful. Peter reran what Carl said, then what Johann said. Nothing he could remember made him feel any better. He tried the breathing exercise Doctor Miller had taught him but the didn't help. The paranoia had him by the base of neck, and nothing short of a sledge hammer would shake it loose.
After lunch in the coffee shop he went to get the afternoon papers only to be told that there are no afternoon papers in San Francisco. Back in his room he got out his laptop and logged on to the hotel's free wireless network to search for news. This was of course a severe breach of protocol. The evidence of his interest in the case would now be carved permanently in the silicon, but he needed to know.
He found what he was looking for on the website of a police department of a small city a couple hours to the north. A late night car crash with three victims. One, the man driving alone in the Mercedes, the only victim named, was the one from the info sheet. The other car, a rented Chevy Malibu, carried the other two victims, neither of which carried any identification. One was described as only Johann the blond giant could be described. The other would have been unidentifiable to even Peter had the body not been wearing a very expensive dark suit and an expensive watch with turquoise band.
Peter was in Mexico City before nightfall. He checked the web for news from his new hotel room. By then they had identified Carl by his fingerprints and had guessed correctly who Johann was based on rumors and the vague recollections of past witnesses and second-hand squealers. They also figured correctly that the guy in the Mercedes was their target, but wondered, as Peter's paranoia wondered, why the hit was executed by driving a rental car the wrong way down 101 North. Not so subtle.
Two days later Peter was in Cabo. The bulk of his savings transferred to a Mexican bank under the name of his back-up passport, Victor Novato. The fifty-thousand in cash, thirty his and twenty Johann's, was converted to pesos in the back room of a drug store at a mere thirty percent fee. He checked the papers and web daily waiting for his name to appear, or at least some hint of his role, or any other reason for him to pack up and head for Belize. No such news presented itself.
By now his paranoia was his constant companion. He started having arguments with his paranoia about what should be done next. To avoid looking totally insane he started addressing his paranoia as George and holding his cell phone to his head so people would think he was talking to a real person out there somewhere. Someone named George.
A week later the reason to flee had still not arrived. There was no news, good or bad. Peter, sorry Victor, was stuck in a tropical limbo. No warnings to flee and no closure to tell him it was safe. He sat with George, his paranoia, in a mental sweat lodge, trying to free his brain of the toxins of worry and despair. The Greek Chorus of ghosts joined them occasionally, looking for a good steam.
On the other hand, Cabo wasn't the worst place in the world to be stuck. The beachscape was quite nice and full of pleasant female scenery. Victor had enough cash to buy a shack by the beach and spend the rest of his days fishing. How many people dream just such a dream? Heaven for most, prison for Victor. The days and night were long featureless blurs of light and dark. He couldn't even muster the energy to go out and find a woman. He knew it would be a set up. He knew he was being followed. He had no proof of it, but he knew. George had convinced him, but he didn't know who or why or how or where or any of those Journalism 101 credos.
After two months he decided death would be better than having to watch another beautiful sunset, knowing it meant another long night lying awake waiting for the knock on the door that never came.
Victor took the bus to Nogales and Peter crossed the border, surprised that the Immigration guys didn't look twice at his papers. Peter had a whole elaborate story prepared explaining his long stay in Mexico and the absence of a Mexican entry stamp on his passport, but the guards never asked. A quick glance at the photo and then at Peter was as much interest as they could muster. They stamped the passport without any questions or even a cursory search of his luggage.
Peter took a turista van to Tucson and went straight to the office of the man the newspapers suspected was Carl's boss. The awning over the strip mall office front said Global Demolition, but the sign on the door said Global Property Management. The secretary didn't want anything to do with Peter but promised to give Mr. Global a message in an attempt to send Peter on his way. Her attitude changed when he gave her his name. She smiled and dialed her phone. She announced Peter to the callee and told him to go on in.
Mr. Stanley Global was so far from what Peter expected he almost turned around and left. Global was big and muscular, that was expected, but he wore clothes like a construction worker. A dusty denim shirt, jeans and heavy mud-caked work boots. The other surprise was that Mr. Global was alone. Missing were the two huge morons who were supposedly always by his side. Global stood up from behind the plywood desk, shook Peter's hand and motioned for him to sit. "You disappear good." Global said. "Why come back?"
"Got tired of hiding." Peter said. "Wanted to come back and see where I stood."
Global looked him up and down. "What do you want from me?"
"Are you after me?"
"No." Global laughed. "Should I be?"
Peter knew he was lying but decided to play along, watching for any sign that Global was ready to call for his muscle to come rushing in.
"After Carl was taken out...I wasn't sure how you felt about me." Peter said. "Well, you and your associates."
"Us? Not us." Global said. "The cops, they don't know about you. We'd like to keep it that way." Global thought for a moment. "You get paid in advance?"
"I did." Peter said.
"Well, I don't feel like anybody owes me anything. You?"
"I know I shouldn't need to know this, but I do." Peter said. "Why?"
"Why? Oh, you mean why Carl had to meet with an accident?." Global smiled. "He told you he was on the way out."
"Yes. How did you know that?"
"He was wired that day in the desert." Global said. "You suspected it. I heard it in your voice. Carl just underestimated how far out he would be going."
Peter knew the next question would be the deal maker or breaker. He tensed up. Ready for fight or flight. "And Johann?"
"Just a, well, a not so innocent bystander."
It was fight. Peter pulled the gun he bought in Mexico City out of it's holster. The gun he spent two unnecessary hours hiding in his luggage. He pointed it at Global and shot him once in the right shoulder. Enough to get his full attention but not enough to kill him. He wanted Global to know why he was about to die. "Johann was my friend." Peter shot him twice more. Once in the chest and once in the forehead. He ran out the back door and down the alley. He threw the gun and holster into a dumpster. As he did a big Lincoln pulled up to Global's back door and three body builders got out of the car carrying fast food bags. Peter didn't stick around to see what happened when they found their boss dead.
Three hours later Victor Novato crossed the border at Nogales. The Mexican radio stations blaring from the cantinas already had stories of the American gangster who was killed and how the mob and the police were racing to see who could find the killer first. This was a fear that Peter could sink his teeth in to. Victor said out loud to himself, "It's much easier to live on the run when you know who is chasing you, and why." George agreed.