Carnival Of Mayhem Part 41

"What do you mean?"

Smythe finally reached the elevator and pressed the b.u.t.ton. He leaned against the wall while he recovered his strength. Just keep moving, he told himself, and don't collapse. It looks bad.

"After you left my room, I asked my people to check you out. They told me you're having a little trouble with the IRS. Two years of unpaid taxes and an upcoming audit."

McQueen grabbed Smythe's arm. "That's none of your business!"

"It's not your fault that your mother's medical bills were so high before she died," Smythe said. "I blame the bloated and inefficient healthcare system. We can help. My office can ask the IRS to back off until you get back on your feet financially."

"You can do that?" McQueen released him.

The elevator door opened, and both of them stepped inside.

"That's how things are done in Washington," Smythe said. "People do favors for each other. Everything is handled quietly."

They went down to the first floor.

"I think you're full of s.h.i.t," McQueen said.

"Let me prove myself. There is a currency exchange near here on Avon Street. A lot of money is waiting for me but I need a ride."

"You don't have any identification. They won't give you a dime."

"My name is all the identification I need," Smythe said. I hope.

"I'll take you, just to prove I'm right."

"Thanks."

McQueen went ahead to get his car, and he drove up to the front of the hospital. Smythe waited inside until he could see the brown sedan with rust spots on the body. Then, he gathered his strength and shuffled outside as quickly as possible. The air was cold and the ground was even colder on his bare feet. He began to shiver immediately. When he got into the car, the warmth was a great relief.

"I changed my mind," McQueen said. "I'm going to take you to the station instead. You can tell your story to the sheriff."

"If you do, I might tell the sheriff about your money troubles... and other things."

"What things?"

"For example," Smythe said, "about your daughter, Pamela. Or maybe I should use her stage name, Lola Limber. I hear she is very popular on the internet. She must be a source of pride and joy for you."

McQueen's face became pale.

"Or we could just go to the currency exchange," Smythe said, "please."

McQueen drove without speaking. They arrived at a white building with a blue metal awning. The windows were small and protected with iron bars. Smythe rushed inside as quickly as his wobbly legs would carry him.

He went to the counter. A Latino girl sat behind a wall of very thick gla.s.s reinforced with wire. The only way to communicate was through an intercom.

"I'm Fred Allen. I believe you have some money for me."

McQueen stood a short distance away with a wry smile on his face.

The girl typed on her computer for a moment. She appeared startled by what she read. "Yes, sir! I'll go get it for you." She walked off.

McQueen's smile disappeared.

A few minutes later, the girl returned with a cardboard box big enough to hold a ream of paper. She pa.s.sed the box to Smythe using a two-way drawer under the counter. He peeked inside the box and discovered it was packed full of hundred dollar bills. Ethel doesn't mess around, he thought.

McQueen came over with a curious expression. Smythe gave him the box.

McQueen looked inside. "Jesus!"

"Let's go," Smythe said.

He intentionally neglected to ask for the box back. He wanted McQueen to experience temptation.

They went back outside and hurried over to the car. Smythe collapsed onto his seat. His limited reserves of strength were almost gone, and he could hardly stand up.

McQueen returned the box to him. "Who sent you this money?"

"My office. They weren't sure how much I would need."

"A federal agency sent you a box full of cash? I don't believe it."

"The Office of Domestic Counterterrorism isn't a typical agency," Smythe said. "We always work undercover and conduct all of our business on a cash basis. We try to think and act like terrorists to understand them better. When we find the enemy, we deal with them directly."

"You murder them."

"A formal jury trial isn't practical. All the witnesses are deep cover operatives who can't testify in court. So, we take a few procedural shortcuts."

"In this country we have a little thing called the Bill of Rights," McQueen said. "Last I checked, it applies to everybody."

Smythe shrugged. "I don't make policy. I do what I'm told."

"You're just a soldier who follows orders."

"Exactly."

Smythe realized the statement had a deep truth in it. He was learning that when Ethel gave an order, it was best just to follow it. She seemed to have some kind of hotline to G.o.d.

"Where are we going now?" McQueen said.

"Maybe I should go home and rest after all. You were right when you told me to stay in bed. I'm in no condition to work."

"You're just going to take all that money home?" McQueen stared at the box.

"Why?"

"You could pay me back for the clothes."

So it begins, Smythe thought. He handed over a hundred dollar bill. "This should cover it. I have to give you my phone number. I'll expect a call every day for the next few weeks. Can I use your notepad?"

"I never agreed to call you," McQueen said.

"Let's make a deal. Do you want to know why my office sent so much cash? It's because they thought you might ask for some compensation."

"Are you bribing me?"

"If you're helping us," Smythe said, "you should get paid like a regular agent. n.o.body expects you to work for free. This is America after all." He gave the box back to McQueen. "Take what you think is fair."

"You don't care?"

"It's not my money. But if you don't want to feel dirty, take nothing. You could help us just because it's your patriotic duty. We're saving the country from dangerous terrorists."

"What if I keep it all?" McQueen said.

"Go ahead, but I have to pay for a very long cab ride, so I'll need at least a few hundred dollars."

McQueen opened the box and stared at the stacks of money. Smythe felt bad for him. The detective was about to walk down a road that had no U-turns. This transaction was undeniably illegal and unethical. On the other hand, it was much better than Smythe telling him the truth.

McQueen took half the money and gave the rest back, along with his notepad.

Interesting compromise, Smythe thought. He's a half-dirty cop.

He wrote down a special phone number that Ethel had provided for this purpose.

"Now I just need a cab," Smythe said.

"No problem," McQueen said. "You'll still talk to the IRS for me?"

"Of course. As long as you keep helping us, we'll take care of everything. I really mean that."

Smythe entered headquarters. Strangely, the place felt like home. Am I that comfortable with my new life already? he wondered.

He walked into the white room that served as the main entry. Jack sat at the security control console behind a barrier made of bulletproof gla.s.s.

"You look like c.r.a.p, sir." Jack's voice came through overhead speakers.

"I feel even worse," Smythe said.

"Did you sleep in the cab?"

"A little."

"Yvonne made a nice dinner for you, sir. It's in the kitchen."

Smythe nodded. "Food sounds like the perfect medicine."

Jack pressed a b.u.t.ton and the inner door buzzed. Smythe went through.

He went to the kitchen. It was one of the largest rooms in headquarters, and it also served as an informal meeting room. Copper pots hung above broad, granite counters. Two refrigerators and dozens of cabinets held enough food to feed the entire team for weeks. Ethel liked to prepare for all contingencies, even a siege.

A plate of spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s was waiting on the table. Smythe realized he hadn't eaten a proper meal in days and eagerly sat down. He ate slowly though because his stomach couldn't handle too much food at once. The delicious spaghetti sauce tasted of fresh tomatoes and garlic. He washed it down with a big gla.s.s of grape juice.

Ethel walked in, accompanied by Filipe Ramirez. The two of them sat with Smythe.

"How did it go with Detective McQueen?" Ethel asked.

"Very well, ma'am," Smythe said. "He took half the money."

"That's funny. Usually it's all or nothing."

Ramirez put a sheet of paper on the table. "This is the formula for the nectar of the night."

Smythe studied the paper while he chewed. Looking at the long list of ingredients, he wondered if the formula were a bad joke. The list included rattlesnake venom, powdered peanut sh.e.l.ls, h.o.m.ogenized whale blubber, trifluoroacetic acid, vanilla liqueur, and of course, human blood.

"It's a real witch's brew," Smythe said. "Are we sure this is the real thing?"

Ramirez nodded. "It will take weeks to make a sample batch. Some of the ingredients are hard to get, and the mixing procedure is very complex."

Smythe read through the many steps. There were very precise descriptions of time and temperature. "A lot of repet.i.tion. It reminds me of a peptide synthesis experiment in a weird way." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm so tired. I can't think."

"I'm sorry," Ramirez said. "I should've waited until after you got some rest."

"Yes," Ethel said. "Go to bed."

"Right after I'm done eating, ma'am," Smythe said. "What else is going on?"

"We believe the Mooseland brewery in Milwaukee is the Eternals' next target. We're going up there at dawn."

"A brewery? d.a.m.n. That makes a lot of sense. I'll go with you."

"No," Ethel said. "You're far too weak."

"But..."

"Rest. Recover your strength. a.n.a.lyze the poison. Find a cure. Those are my orders."

"Yes, ma'am," Smythe said.

"Good night."

Ethel and Ramirez stood up and left.