| From: | Paul J. Adam Shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Ongoing Work |
| Date: | Tue, 14 Sep 1999 00:42:55 +0100 |
CC: FBI Operational Archive
>>>>>[+++++begin recording
The office is almost Hollywood. Frosted glass panels in the door, gilded
lettering identifying AJK INVESTIGATIONS. I go in, to see a middle-aged
matron behind the reception desk. "Can I help you, sir?" she asks, laying
aside her copy of "Tales of True Romance".
"Special Agent Elliott, to see Lieutenant Hart." I reply. She has a quick
conversation with her intercom, waves me through.
Hart is a handsome woman, who might be beautiful if she had time to get
a decent night's sleep, have her hair styled, get made up, and wear
something more sexy and less street-practical. There's something about a
woman who feels a need to wear three or four magazines of pistol ammo
behind her hip that doesn't attract me.
"Special Agent Tom Elliott. What can I do for you?" she asks me.
"I've been sitting doing jack for the last two weeks. Every lead I get, turns
out to be a dry hole." I say.
"Well, the Nobilis Domini lost at least half their numbers and the rest have
gone _very_ quiet." Hart replies. "So I guess your job here's done, and the
Bureau can chalk up a success."
"Yeah." I snort. "The Puyallup bulls said the exact same thing. But the
Domini weren't my job. Rampant criminality in Puyallup is. And I haven't
done drek about it."
Hart regards me with obvious amusement. "You really are new to the
game, aren't you, Elliott?"
"Yeah. I am. You're not. Tell me what I'm missing."
"Okay. The first lesson is, whatever you do will be short-lived. You clean a
corner out, and the dirt will crawl right back in."
"But you can influence it a little. Right?"
"Right. Someone gets above himself, gets too arrogant, slap them down
hard. Others will scurry for the new turf, but they'll see the lesson. Make
noise, get hurt." Hart reaches for her coffee.
I think this over. "So, which 'someone' would make the best lesson?
Descabiere?"
"Eric's a puppet. He's not doing well at all right now. You want the guy
pulling his strings."
"Who is...?"
"Seamus Padraig Malone." Hart pronounces calmly. "You want to make an
impression, you take him."
I feel a surge of fear.
Then a surge of anger. I'm a FBI officer. I'm sworn to serve and protect.
Why the frag should I be afraid of a Vegas mobster?
I know why. He's richer than God and totally willing to use his money and
power to destroy any adversaries.
But Hart's right. Malone's too crude, too blatant. It would send a superb
lesson to put him in a Federal jail for a few decades...
"So how would you get Malone?" I ask.
"You don't." is the flat reply. "If you try, he'll buy you. If he can't buy
you
he'll kill you. Simple as that."
"No, damn it, it's _not_ that simple!" Now I _am_ angry. "That is
_wrong_!"
"It's the way it is, Agent Elliott." Hart doesn't seem concerned with my
fury. "That's why things are the way they are. Malone's the problem and
nobody can do anything about it. We just try to make a difference where
we can."
"You're telling me you just turn your back and let it happen?"
"Yeah. That's absolutely right." Hart replies. She leans forward, perhaps a
little annoyed herself. "Because if I try to go after Descabiere, Malone will
buy me off. If I don't back down he'll buy the DA, or the judge, or the
jury. If I get him to court then witnesses will die or disappear or change
their story. Or, much more likely, he'll just decide that's too much time
and effort, and kill me. Bam, dead, just like that.
"You can't take on that much money and power, Elliott. Not Lone Star,
not even the FBI. D'Arkan tried, he's dead. Lynch tried, he's dead. I look
anything like as good as those guys? No? Then why will I succeed where
they failed?"
"There must be some way." I can't - won't - believe this. Everything I've
learned says this is wrong. Everything except the sick knot of fear in my
stomach.
"Sure there is. A hard-core extralegal outfit of heavy hitters. The Achilles
Project. Or SIGA. Guess what? Even they got hunted down and killed. This
isn't a simsense show, Elliott. The Bad Guys win every time in reality. All
you can do is stop them treading too hard on too many people." Hart
shakes her head. "The Bad Guys get all the aces. Good Guys take them on,
sometimes they buck the odds for a while, but they always lose because
the game's rigged."
I can't believe this. I _won't_ believe this. "How the hell do you live with
yourself?"
"Because I make a difference. I'm an honest cop and I do my job. I know
the big picture, it sucks, and I just do my damnedest in my corner of it."
She doesn't seem to be offended. "I'm a live jackal instead of a dead lion
and I know I'm not a hyena."
"But you could do more. You know how. You could make a difference."
Hart remains unflappable. "And I know what would happen to me if I
tried. "
"Look, can't you understand that-" I'm interrupted by her telephone: she
answers it.
"Lieutenant Hart... yeah. Any idea who?" A long pause. "Nope, probably
not." She's obviously just had interesting news: then my own pocket
secretary buzzes and I take the call, jacking in for privacy.
It's Lamont, my Lone Star liaison officer. "Agent Elliott! We've just had a
situation. A murder, a very brutal murder, in Fort Lewis. It's directly tied
to your case. How soon can you get here?"
I pause, wondering what this is about. "Pretty fast. Who's dead?"
"A beauty queen. Shot dead on her own doorstep. Hurry up!" Why is that a
FBI matter? What's going on here? Lamont doesn't bother waiting for my
questions, which annoys me even more.
"You want to mess with Malone and Descabiere, you need the shadows."
Hart says to me as I put the secretary away.
"Why?"
"Because they've got less to lose. Someone just whacked Marie Mendoza.
Odds are, it was a runner."
"Who the hell is Marie Mendoza? The beauty queen?" I don't know enough
about anything and it's starting to get to me.
"Yep. Miss Teenage Redmond 2059. Also Eric Descabiere's current squeeze.
Someone just put one .243 explosive through her chest and another into
her head." Hart opens a drawer, takes out her service pistol and holsters
it. "Someone wants to send Don Eric a message."
"Who?" I want to know. I'm tired of always being caught on the back foot.
And I know my tame Puyallup cops will be damn-all use.
"Beats me. The sniper was a good shot, firing from about a hundred
yards. Headshot at that range is harder than it sounds, you've got a
competent sniper there. Generic hunting ammo, popular calibre, no cases
recovered and limited ballistics off explosive rounds." Hart shrugs. "Shadow
hit, by the look of it. Sounds more internal than anything else..." She
seems thoughtful.
"What do you mean?"
"If someone from outside - Luigi Bartolo, for instance - wanted to make
Miss Mendoza be a messenger, a favourite drill is to snatch her, mess her
up badly, but send her back to Eric alive."
"What do you mean, 'mess her up'?" I ask.
"Have anyone who wants her, rape her. That's a lot of guys for a cute
piece like Mendoza. Then, ruin her face - cut it up, burn her with acid,
whatever - and maybe mess up more of her body too. Cut off her fingers,
blind her. That sort of thing. Leave her alive, but a basket case. And
dump her for Malone to find."
"Jesus!" That's... I've read files of people found who've had that done to
them. I know it happens. Hearing about it happening so close, though...
"Look, you're dealing with hard-core bastards here, you need to get used
to it." Hart says mildly. "That tells all Don Eric's people what horrible things
could happen to them despite his protection, and if he doesn't pay to fix
her up it shows he's disloyal to his folks. It puts him right on the spot.
But... that didn't happen. They just shot her. Quick and neat and clean.
The first bullet went through her spine, killed her on the spot, the
headshot was insurance."
"I... see why you're not keen to take them on." My stomach's churning. I
feel sick. How can people _do_ this to each other? Reading case files is
one thing, but suddenly the realities are beginning to bite home. "But she
was just shot."
"Yep. Which suggests a different dynamic, and I'm not sure what. Maybe
someone just had a problem with Miss Mendoza... I think maybe I know
who."
"You do?"
"Minnie Descabiere. Eric's wife. I'll bet she hired a hitman to whack
Mendoza." Hart looks satisfied. "Never prove it, of course, but I'll let her
know. Hardly rocket science."
Why bother, from what she said? "And... what?"
"If I'm wrong, no loss. If I'm right, well, I can tell Minnie that she's too
high profile on this one. But, if she wants to rub people out, that's the
way to do it: neat, precise, no collateral casualties. I can't arrest her,
Elliott, I got nothing to use, but I can at least discourage sloppy wetwork."
"People will still get killed."
"But fewer of them."
She's got a point. But what a way to enforce the law... someone hires a
hitman to murder a rival, and you pat them on the head for only killing
one person. This town is _so_ fragged in the head it's not true.
"How would you take Malone?" I ask her as she stands.
"I'd keep you well away from the action, Agent Elliott. You can't handle
this scene." Lieutenant Hart picks up a bulky black jacket emblazoned
with POLICE in inches-high yellow letters front and back, and from its
weight armoured enough to stop antitank rounds. "You'll be a good Fed
one day. But for now, you're too innocent and too fucking naive."
I'm still trying to rebut that as she walks out of the door.
+++++end diary]<<<<<
-- Tom Elliott <23:03:24/09-14-60>
