Big Trouble

At the Jolly Jackal, Leo was sweeping up the shattered remains of the TV picture tube, while John was thinking about whether he should call his contact at Penultimate to report what had happened to Arthur Herk. He had just decided the hell with it—why go looking for trouble?—when the door opened and two men came in, one tall and one short, both wearing suits. The tall one held out a wallet, flipped open to show a badge.

"FBI," he said. "I'm agent Pat Greer, and this is Agent Alan Seitz."

John shot a quick glance at Leo. They were both thinking the same thing, which was that, the way this evening was turning out, maybe they'd been better off back in Grzkjistan, drinking solvents from barrels.

To Agent Greer, John said, "How I can help FBI?"

"You can tell FBI where the suitcase is," said Greer. He paused a beat, then added, "Ivan."

John stared at him. "My name is John," he said.

"Sure it is," said Greer. "Your name is John, and you're just a hardworking, law-abiding, immigrant small-business man, running this little shithole bar where you got no customers."

"Yes," said John.

"Yes indeed," said Greer. "Then you surely will not mind if we take a look in the back room. The one with all the locks."

"You have warrant?" said John.

Greer looked at Seitz and shook his head. "Isn't it heartwarming," he said, "the way a person can come here from another country, with nothing but the shirt on his back and maybe a couple hundred grand he got from selling military weapons he doesn't own, and in just a short time in America, he has embraced our way of life to the point where he wants to know if we got a warrant? Doesn't that just warm the cockles of your heart, Agent Seitz?"

"It warms the shit out of my cockles," said Agent Seitz. "My cockles are burnin' up."

Ivan frowned and looked at Leo, who shrugged to indicate that he didn't know what cockles were, either.

Greer turned back to John. "Listen, Ivan," he said. "Number one, we already got you. You have not been careful about who you do business with. We got you so good that, if we want, by the time you get out of federal prison, there will be glaciers in Key West, OK? That's number one. Number two is, we don't need a warrant. We're operating under ... what's that thing that we're operating under called again, Agent Seitz?"

"Special Executive Order 768 dash 4," said Seitz.

"That's right," said Greer, "Special Executive Order 768 dash 4, which basically means that, if it's a matter of national security, which this is, we can search wherever we want, and we don't need a warrant. We can send a search party and a Doberman pinscher up your ass if we want, Ivan."

John glanced at Leo, then turned back to Greer. He said, "I want lawyer."

"Did you hear that, Agent Seitz?" said Greer. "He wants a lawyer! As is his right, under our constitution! Which we hold sacred!"

"You want me to shoot him in the forehead?" asked Agent Seitz, producing a pistol from his shoulder holster.

"Not right now," replied Greer. To John, he said, "My partner would like to shoot you in the forehead, which I have absolutely no doubt he could legally do, under Special Executive Order 768 dash 4. Me, I'm thinking it would be better, for all concerned, if you just got out your keys and showed me around that back room, OK?"

John stood still for a moment, then reached for his pocket.

"Easy," said Seitz, not aiming the gun directly at John, but raising it a little.

Slowly, John pulled out a ring of keys.

"Excellent!" said Greer. "That's the spirit of Special Executive Order 768 dash 4! Now let's you and I go see what you got back there. Agent Seitz will stay out here and be ready to render assistance to Leonid, in case the customer load gets to be too much for him to handle."

Greer and John went down the hallway to the back room. Seitz walked over to the bar, slung one leg over a stool, and pointed his chin in the direction of the shattered TV.

"What happened?" he asked Leo.

"Jerry Springer," said Leo.

"About time," said Seitz.

"What do you think?" said Leonard. "We go in the front?"

He and Henry had followed Arthur Herk's Lexus to 238 Garbanzo. They had watched it go in through the gate; they had pulled over to the curb just past the driveway.

"No," said Henry. "I think we wanna go around the back again."

"With the fuckin' mosquitoes?" said Leonard. "Chrissakes, why? I mean, we could just go in there, pop our boy, bingbing, we're onna plane to Newark. We ain't gonna have a problem with the guys wearin' panty hose, for chrissakes."

"I wanna see what they're doin'," said Henry. "I wanna know what's in that suitcase. And I wanna make sure we don't have any surprises. Like somebody up a tree." He put the car in gear and started driving around to the side of the property.

Leonard sighed. "We don't shoot somebody soon," he said, "I'm gonna forget how."