Don't Kill The Messenger (9 page)

“It’s just been awhile since I’ve taken a long car trip. And you have to admit that this has not been the most normal two days I’ve had lately.”

“Well, considering that I just met you yesterday, I can’t say what the baseline level of excitement or normalcy is in your life. You may be like a Bond girl; I don’t know. The life of an exotic dancer is probably very exciting.”

She pauses a moment before deciding, “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“What bothers me?”

“My chosen occupation. You get this …
thing
in your voice when either one of us talks about it. Why does it bother you?”

“It doesn’t bother me. Why would it? I’m not your father; I’m not your brother; I’m not your …” The word doesn’t come easily.

“Boyfriend?” she prompts.

“Right. I’m not that. So, no, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Then why do you get that thing in your voice?”

“What
thing?
”

“The thing that’s there right now. The high thing with the growly thing.”

I deliberately ease my tone of voice back down to normal conversation—at least normal for being in a convertible at highway speed. “Rebecca, there is no thing. What you do to earn a living is entirely your business. Now you look disappointed. You
want
it to bother me?”

“A little, yeah.”

“I swear, if I live to be a hundred years old …”
or, you know, until tomorrow,
“I will never understand women. Okay, I know I’ll regret this, but I’ll ask: Why do you want me to be bothered that you were an exotic dancer?”

“Because we’re friends, and friends care about what the other person does for a living.”

This is getting more unbelievable by the minute. “I cared enough … before I’d even met you, let me add … to drive 1,200 miles and convince you to give up this profession. Doesn’t that say something?”

“Ah, but did you do that because you cared about me or because it was your assignment?”

Well, okay, she’s got me there.
Lying won’t work, since she already knows the answer.
“Because it was my assignment.”

“There, you see?”

“But once I started to talk to you, I did begin to care. And I wanted you to follow what the message said.”

She looks surprised. “You mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you a difficult question?” she says.

“Might as well. It’s how this conversation is going.”

“When you saw me on stage with my clothes off, did you want to fuck me?”

In the hall of fame of difficult questions, currently dominated by such gems as
“Does this outfit make me look fat?”
and
“When will you pay me back the money you owe me?”
and of course
“Whose lipstick is this on your penis?”
this was the crowning gem of all difficult questions. It was the granddaddy of all traps, to boot. Say yes, and I come across as King Perv, reducing her to an object of sexual desire after thirty seconds of our acquaintance. Say no, and I risk making her feel ugly, unwanted, or worse, unsuccessful at her work. And unlike Final Jeopardy, I don’t even have thirty seconds to come up with an answer, because delay reads as weaseling out of it.

“I don’t know. Probably, yes.” I brace myself for the consequences. “Does that make me an asshole? If it does, you can tell me. I’ve been called worse.”

“It doesn’t make you an asshole. It makes you a guy.”

That’s a relief. I stave off further parlay. “In the name of decency, can I please request that you not ask the follow-up question about whether I still want to fuck you? Because you’re a very nice girl and it’s been a very long day and I think that anything I say can and will be used against me, so for the sake of what’s left of my honor, I’m going to plead the Fifth.”

“Objection sustained,” she says politely. “You may step down.”

“Change that to
fall down,
and I’ll take you up on that.”

“You want me to drive for a while?” she asks.

“Would you mind taking a shift?”

“Sure I will.”

“Thank you. If you can get us just shy of the Atlanta metro area, I’ll do the city driving.”

“Cool. Pull into that rest area,” she says. “I could stand to pee.”

“No,” I correct her, “if you could
stand
to pee, you’d be a guy.”

“Ha ha. Very funny. Don’t quit your day job.”

The rest area is a welcome relief. I can and do stand to pee, literally and figuratively, after which I dispose of the fast-food debris in the trash bin, before it has a chance to fly out of the open car at highway speed. With a little less than two hours to go before we reach Atlanta, I am grateful for the opportunity to let Rebecca drive for a while. I am also painfully aware of how tight our time schedule is. Barring any traffic snarls, we should arrive at our destination with just a few minutes to spare. The forces that have brought me here know it too, and have graciously pointed out to me which route to take into town. They have also very kindly given me a toothache as a reminder of the urgency of this mission—as if I could think of much else at the moment.

Mercifully, she is quick to return from the ladies’ room, and slips behind the wheel swiftly as I take the passenger’s seat. She fires up the Sebring’s engine, backs out of the parking space, and we are back on the road once more. It is early evening now, and there is still some daylight. I’m not sure if there will be any left by the time we get there; I hope there is, as it will make my job easier, although the streets of a major city are usually well lit at night.

“Do we have a plan?” Rebecca asks me, four miles past our rest stop.

“A plan for what?”

“For how things are going to go down tonight. From what you told me, it sounds dicey at best, flat-out dangerous, more like. I just wanted to know if we have a plan of action or if we’re making this up as we go.”

“We’ll switch drivers just outside the city limits. Then, a few blocks from the spot, we’ll switch back, so you can take the car and yourself to safety.”

“That’s silly,” she decides. “Just let me drive us the rest of the way.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to drive in city traffic …”

“It’s not a big deal. I’ve done it before, and we’ll get there long after rush hour. It wastes time to switch drivers twice. I’m fine; I’m not tired. This way, you can navigate and I can drop you off once we get there.”

“All right, thank you. And when you do, I want you far away from me, from what I have to do out there.”

“Unh-uh,” she replies. “I need to be able to see you and hear you. If something goes wrong, I want to be able to get you out of there in a hurry.”

I shake my head in disapproval. “I don’t like it. I don’t like putting you in harm’s way.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be far enough away that nothing will happen to me.”

“Rebecca … if the worst happens … I have a small brown notebook in my travel bag. In it is my pertinent information. Contacts, phone numbers, my attorney’s information—”

“Please don’t talk like that. I understand what you’re saying, and I’ll do what has to be done. But I don’t want to think about the worst happening.”

“All right, fair enough. We’ll think positively.”

I hear genuine concern in her voice, and it touches me. I know she is scared, but not for herself. Nothing I say at this point can make it better, since I share that fear. So for many long minutes, we continue up Interstate 75 in silence, each of us very focused on the job ahead.

Through my navigating, she manages the streets of Atlanta with no problem, which is no small feat in a city where you can turn from Peachtree onto Peachtree, and take it to Peachtree, where you take a right onto Peachtree until it dead ends into Peachtree.

Closer and closer we draw to the destination, and time is very short. There will be no time to spare and no wiggle room if we don’t find exactly who and what we’re looking for.

“Turn right here,” I tell her, and she does.

“How much further?” she asks.

“Less than two blocks. Drive slow, drive slow.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Silver Lexus, four-door.”

“I don’t see it, Tristan.”

“You just drive. I’ll find the car.” My eyes scan every vehicle parked on either side of the street. I know the car I’m looking for will be parked. But where?

Rebecca takes us through an intersection, and then I see it. Silver Lexus four-door, just like the image in my mind.

“Son of a bitch,” I say. “That’s our guy. That’s him. He’s heading for the car now. Stop the car. Stop the car and let me out.”

I get out before she even comes to a complete stop. “Now go!” I warn her. “Be far away from this.”

She pulls over to a parking spot, several hundred yards from the Lexus but not nearly far enough away for my comfort. I sprint as best I can toward the Lexus, hoping to intercept its owner in time. The man is tall, well-dressed, distinguished-looking, and yet conveys an air that he is dangerous and not to be toyed with. He has his keys in his hand, and as I draw close enough to talk with him, he is only ten feet from the Lexus.

“Mr. Casner!” I call. “Mr. Jeffrey Casner!”

He stops in his tracks and turns to look at me, surprised by my haste and my unfamiliar face. “That’s right,” he says. “Who are you?”

I pause a moment to catch my breath. I’m not used to running. “My name is John Diamond. I’m here to give you a message.”

“Is that so?” he says. “Who’s it from?”

“I don’t know. I was just ordered to give a message to Jeffrey Casner at this place and time.”

“And just how did you know that I would be at this place at this time? You following me?”

“No.”

“You having me watched?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. I’ve never met you, and I have no interest in this apart from giving you this message.”

“Okay, what’s the message?”

“Don’t get in your car.”

Disbelief and annoyance visit his face. “What did you just say?”

“Don’t get in your car. It isn’t safe.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. It’s important that you move away from the car.”

“Fuck you,” he says. “What’s your fuckin’ problem? You trying to scare me?”

“No, it’s not like that. I’m trying to warn you.”

He looks simultaneously amused and angry. He calls out to anyone within earshot, in a mocking tone. “Hey, somebody call a cop. This guy’s threatening to kill me!”

“Please keep your voice down.”

This just invites him to speak louder. “Keep my voice down? You got some nerve. What are you gonna do, take a swing at me?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Well, let me tell you something, John Diamond or whoever the fuck you are: I ain’t scared of you or anybody in your piece-of-shit organization. So you can go right back to Wolfson or whoever sent you, and tell ‘em that they can kiss my fuckin’ ass if they think they’re gonna intimidate me. Go to hell and fuck you too, you little asshole errand boy.”

Without another word (thankfully, given the nature of the ones he’s already shared) he unlocks the doors to the Lexus, opens the driver’s door, and sits down behind the wheel. Instantly, the realization hits me:
He’s going to start the car. I’ve failed.

In less than a heartbeat, I am turning on my heels. Almost unconsciously, I hear myself shouting, “Rebecca, take cover!” And as I run as fast as I can for the Sebring, I see her duck down as much as possible, while she activates the lever to raise the car’s top. At this point, I don’t look back, I can’t look back; I know exactly what is going to happen, what I couldn’t stop from happening.

Casner puts the key in the ignition and turns it. Though I am at least twenty feet from the Lexus at this moment, the shockwave from the explosion propels me forward, face first. I leave my feet and take to the air, putting my hands out in front of me instinctively. Flying, falling, flying, falling, falling, falling … nothing.

Yes, that’s correct—nothing. Unconsciousness comes to greet me like an unwelcome relative. Until this moment, I have never in my life lost consciousness through violent means. And from what I’m feeling, I don’t recommend it. It’s not like drifting off to a welcome slumber after a long, satisfying day. It’s more a swift progression along the lines of:
shit, this hurts; hey, I’m flying; is that pavement?
And then the aforementioned nothing. Now, I know that in detective novels, the hero is always getting knocked unconscious with some damn thing or other. And then a scene dissolve later, he wakes up with “Oh, my head” or something equally heroic.

For me, on that downtown Atlanta street, there is no dissolve, no heroic wake-up line. Just a face full of asphalt and a world of hurt. I honestly don’t know how long I was out, but I don’t think it could have been very long. When I am able to see and hear again, I am aware of emergency vehicles: a fire truck hosing down Casner and his car. Two police cars are between me and the Lexus, and two more block off the street from traffic.

Ever so slowly, I try to make my way to a standing position. Suddenly I feel something under my arm—a hand of someone assisting me to stand. At first, I think it is Rebecca, but I don’t see her. The Sebring is still parked where she left it, with the top up. I can only hope she’s inside. I look to my side and realize that it is an Atlanta police officer who has helped me up.

“It’s okay,” I say to him over the ringing that’s filling my ears. “I think I’m all right. I’m not hurt.”

Once I stand, he continues to hold on to my arm. I look him in the eyes, curious as to why he’s still holding me even after I’m on my feet. The answer I get is a million miles from anything I want or expect to hear. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Jeffrey Casner.”

Chapter 7
 

“I’m under
what?”

He puts my hands behind my back and informs me, “You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have that attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you at no cost to yourself. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”