seymoure

Smoke

“Who knows the truth?

A man who truly knows that he that knows nothing.”
-Harry Dante

We decided that 4:00 in the morning might be just as well as any time to have food brought in, since none of us (except Hugo who could name the minute he had eaten) name our last meal.

“When does the rest of the crew get to L.A.?” Max asked.

“Jason and Larry were leaving just after I was taking my flight. They were anxious to get in on the fun.”

The Big Guy was talking about my last two Prime Operatives who were still in transit. It would be nice to have the rest of my family alongside. We had worked so many cases together that this was how I thought of all of them.

These two had been missed, for so many reasons.

Jason Anders was our resident marksman and the worst poker player in the bunch. While his eye in crosshairs was infallible he had no idea how to read a bluff or perform one. The tall red-head had a great sense of humor, and we could certainly use his presence.

The final agent was Larry Henderson. I always thought of Larry as my utility infielder. He could do just about anything we asked of him. Except eat matzo. He always joked that the only reason he had become a reformed Jew was to avoid unleavened bread. He and my Beverly could cook a kosher meal that would make even a Philistine have a happy tummy. I looked forward to having him join us.

We had to stop the discussion for a moment while the sad idea of Los Angeles Bar-B-Q was served.

I am a real snob about K.C. ribs. Sauce is for fries, but real BBQ is all about the rub. What we were being served was like short ribs and ketchup with undeserved attitude.

The saving grace was that we were all starving. The single greatest condiment is hunger. Cardboard becomes enticing when you are fighting off those growls from your gastrointestinal regions.

As we were having the eternal discussion of which KC BBQ place was best, Tully Bran came sheepishly into the room. Like a student who has just given the teacher a wormy apple and still has to tell her his dog ate his homework, he inched over to my seat.

“Mr. Savage?” I could barely hear him.

“Yes, Captain?”

He hovered around what to say, and then just handed me a message, one that looked like it had been copied, shakily, from a telephone call.

It said:

“Tell Matt Savage that his offices have been destroyed and his employees are dead. If he doesn’t find a quiet, face-saving way out of this investigation, those closest to him will all pay for his arrogance.”

I looked up at the policeman.

“Yes, sir, we checked it out. They fire-bombed your place, both your office and your residence.” He took another paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me, “This is the list of the dead.”

Along with some folks I’m ashamed to say I didn’t recognize, both Jason and Larry were listed among the casualties.

We were now at war.

Back to the Beginning

Continue on to Chapter 28