Louis Shalako
“Watch
it. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Watch his head.” The pair cursed
and grunted in subdued, paranoid tones, with Stan sounding out of breath and
out of sorts.
“God damn it.”
Dr.
Angelo stood well clear, holding Mr. Scruffles in his arms and keeping out of
their way.
Somehow
they missed the door frame with the subject’s cranium. They were in a hurry to
get in, of course, and obviously, they were even more eager to get the hell out
of there and away from him.
These
moments of self-realization had been coming to Doctor Angelo more and more often lately.
It
must have been a long night for the boys, bordering on zero degrees as it was, and
with the freezing rain and high winds, and their imaginations running wild. The
paranoia running wild. Of course he understood, and even sympathized to some
extent.
They
were risking a lot for him. It wasn’t for fear and it sure as hell wasn’t for
love. It might not even be about the money.
Doctor
Angelo winced involuntarily, as the pair heaved the inert form up off the litter
and lowered him unceremoniously onto the raised operating theatre bed. They
really did have more experience than him.
These guys had their own little world
too. He saw all that. In the low light their faces were haggard, and yet they
looked pleased.
They looked tired as much as anything else.
They
straightened up and took their furtive looks at the racks of electronic and
medical equipment, as if seeking reassurance that all of this was real and someone
at least knew what they were doing…Doctor Angelo plastered a look of benign
patience on his round, bespectacled face.
Stan
always looked a bit scared, the face of a father and an honest man. Mikey
always got a strange grin right about now in their little routine. Sure enough.
Money
in the pocket had a lot to do with it, of course, and Doctor Angelo bustled
right over to the desk. He could imagine the men exchanging looks behind his
back.
He put Mr. Scruffles down. The animal sat and gave them an amiable look. He proceeded to lick his crotch, bored by it all.
Opening
the top right-hand drawer, he pulled out a pair of white envelopes, all of an
inch thick, stuffed with fresh, crisp, multi-hued hundred-dollar bills. He
turned and gave them an approving nod, and they stepped forward.
“One
for each of you.” He lifted a chin, for they towered over him alarmingly, and
engaged them in turn with a frank and open look.
It
was like being one of the guys for a moment, an odd feeling but a kind of male
bonding nevertheless, one that cut across all barriers of class and income.
He’d already developed a ritual or two. They were junior partners, that’s what
he had told them.
Doctor
Angelo pulled glasses out of a cupboard and then found the brandy in another
cupboard. They coughed and shuffled their feet, as he unscrewed the cap…they
were very aware of him, and he of them.
But
it also showed trust of sorts—symbolically he wasn’t afraid to turn his back on
them. He hated to waste too much of their time over it, but this was an
important moment.
He
poured out some generous portions of amber fluid and took the third in hand.
He
raised it in silent salute as they sipped and then downed theirs, with
significant nods all around.
He
shrugged, still savouring the nose of the fine liquor.
Stan grinned at the cat.
"None for you, Buddy."
The remark fell upon deaf ears as Mr. Scruffles wandered off in the direction of the back room and his litter-box.
“Sorry
about all that, but you know how I worry, the importance, ah…I know that I really
couldn’t do this without your help, gentlemen…” He raised the glass. “I thank
you, oh, how I thank you, from the bottom of my heart—and I salute you,
gentlemen.”
Stan
nodded politely while Mikey just looked impatient.
He
always tried to be bright and ingenuous with them, taking them into his
confidence as to the risks and rewards and such. But it was best to keep it
small. There was no bringing someone else in. They were indispensible, and he
had sort of let them know it. That might have been a small error, for neither
man was truly stupid.
They
were well enough informed for his liking, and they had to know what they were
all up against if someone messed up. They had to know their worth, and enough
not to upset the applecart.
It
was best if they stuck together.
It
was best to keep them sweet, and it was best if they all stayed out of trouble.
He’d reminded them of that often enough and now was no time to repeat it.
“Don’t
drink all that in the same place.” Stan nudged Mikey with an elbow.
Doctor
Angelo’s eyes lit up.
“Yes!
That’s exactly right, er, Stan.” Fallows was the name, an ambulance driver by
trade, he had all the paramedic certifications, and people sort of trusted him.
The
experience was vital, the skills needed—both men’s skills, and the uniforms and
gear were part of the bait.
Who
wouldn’t want to render assistance when the Emergency Response Teams were in
crisis mode? Who wouldn’t come along when they stuck their heads out of an
alley and began barking instructions to passers-by, and well-chosen ones at
that. The important thing was that Fallows worked with Mikey, and Fallows had
the gambling habit real bad.
“So,
ah…how did it go? I mean, how exactly did you…?” He really needed to know, as
it affected his procedure to some degree.
He
still handed over the envelopes readily enough.
He’d
bought and paid for one or two duds over the months of their brief acquaintance.
One bloke was already dead and useless, caused by rough handling on their part,
and Doctor Angelo hardly even mentioned it, pleading for more care in
future.
“The
gas-pen, doc.” Mikey was the scary one. “That, and the usual sedation for the
ride.”
They’d
picked him up, and two hundred miles from home. That was the main thing.
“Good,
good.” He stood looking at the face of their prize. “Well.”
The
subject was pretty much all set to go.
There
was always this strange social awkwardness. It was a bizarre fate that had
brought them together, the sort of thought even Stan could appreciate.
Doctor
Angelo was alone with his thoughts for a brief moment as they stood waiting.
Mikey
was just way too quiet, although a lot skinnier than Stan, who weighed in at
about two-eighty, He was taller than Stan. Mikey had a sort of ruthlessness
about him. He was lean and hungry and had made one or two sardonic remarks
calculated to shock the doctor. That said a lot about the man’s psyche—as if he
was looking for moral reinforcement, or more likely, moral contradictions. The
doctor didn’t care to dwell on such things, his silence had implied at the
time. Mikey let it drop. There was just a hint of superiority, in that all he
had to do was to bring them in. His job was all physical toughness, and he was
good at it.
Perhaps
his job really was tougher. Doctor Angelo would be wise to accept that. And to
remember it.
They
stood regarding the body on the slab table.
“He
was certainly a good looking fellow.” Mikey was using the past tense.
Dark
eyes probed the doctor’s mind. Mikey was the more dangerous of the two, and yet
the doctor didn’t feel particularly threatened by it. It was like they understood
each other a bit better.
The
doctor was the one with the big plan in life, Mikey’s look seemed to imply.
Ambition wasn’t what had brought the gentleman to this point in life. Rather,
it was a kind of desperation, and one he didn’t care to discuss, as the doctor
recalled.
“Ah,
yes, good.” All part of the act, really. “And…?”
“We
grabbed him before he even hit the ground, doctor.” Such stiff formality. “The
important thing is, there were no cameras and no people around.”
The
subject’s habits were known. The doctor took his time and scoped them out and
then briefed his men on the mission, ‘corpse-sicles,’ they called them. It was
as good a word as any. Once brain-wiped, the subjects were as good as dead, for
the average person never got around to having their persona stored
electronically.
There was no rescue. They never got around to it, or if they
did, they didn’t keep up with the updates. A consciousness even a couple of
years out of date might be next to useless.
In
the subject’s case, that part was all academic now.
The
subject, a porn star, could have had all the sex he wanted. He’d been having
the perfect life, although it wouldn’t have suited any one of them.
“But
poor old Rick fell in love—always a serious mistake.” Mikey spoke in a kind of
reverential awe.
The
doctor saw it as pure narcissism a performance for his own sake.
“He
fell in love with a woman who demanded some discretion, and so the subject started
sneaking around, not telling anyone where he was going. He was alone, in the
wrong place and at the wrong time. And this in a man with so much worldly
experience.”
Mikey
heaved a forlorn sigh.
“You’d
think he would have known better.”
Stan
and Mikey laughed delightedly, usually Angelo’s wit fell on duller minds.
Normally,
this was a serious moment, for they understood well enough of what they were doing.
Habeas corpus and all of
that. There you were, with someone else’s body and no real good way to account
for it.
The
thing to do was to change out the body’s persona and then stick someone else
inside of it.
The quicker the thing was done, the more
secure they were.
Stan
nodded. Mikey had a point, even more importantly this was a special request,
and there were often irreducible consequences—a word Mikey at least understood,
although the doctor figured Stan didn’t.
Mikey
reached in and pulled out a wallet from the man’s breast pocket; still wearing
his disposable gloves.
He’d be taking them with him and disposing of them on
his own terms in just a few short moments. The doctor saw the professionalism
in this.
The
man handed it over.
“Is
that the right guy, doc?”
With
slightly trembling fingers, Doctor Angelo opened it up, although he already
knew the answer.
Yes,
they had really gotten Ricky ‘Spuds’ Moynihan, surely the most famed porn-star
of them all. The driver’s license photo was one of those rare ones that
actually look like the person, and Spuds came across well enough.
He
had a client who would pay through the nose for the privilege of being Spuds
Moynihan, if only for a day.
It wasn’t just the sex, either—in fact that had little
or nothing to do with it.
Spuds
was good-looking, he had a wonderful frame, really quite good bone structure,
amenable to cosmetic facial surgery, and more importantly, he had started off
in collegiate athletics. Body control and sheer rugged vitality was a high
priority for this client.
Doctor
Angelo could offer so much more than that.
His
client, a quadriplegic and former Grand Prix driver, was going to get a new
start on life. And poor old Spuds was a full fifteen years younger than the
client.
That
sort of thing really couldn’t be bought, but Doctor Angelo doubted if any of
them had ever considered that.
The
client was well and truly hooked.
“So
when do you need us again?”
They
were hat in hand at the door.
“I
don’t know for sure, gentlemen.”
They
had put the glasses down on the end of the counter.
“No
later than next weekend. That’s about all I know at this point.”
With
a cold blast of winter wind, the door opened and they made their way out.
Doctor Angelo went and slid the bolt across, checking the alarm, and peeping
out to see the empty street behind the building was clear, just footprints and
a darker patch where the vehicle had stood.
He
went back and checked Moynihan’s breathing, and made sure the straps were
tight.
Funny,
how Stan and Mike had never even asked. Doctor Angelo had a way of taking care
of the cast-offs, strictly on a need-to-know basis.
They
probably didn’t want to know anyway.
Pulling
a disposable cell phone out of the desk, what they called a burner, he activated it and then
carefully picked out the phone number.
“Hello?”
“I’d
like to speak to Mr. Yamaguchi. Tell him Mr. Dobbs is calling.”
“One
moment, please.”
With
a bit of luck with the weather, the man could be here within forty-eight hours.
That was about as long as they could reasonably keep Moynihan sedated and avoid
undue complications.
End
