Chapter 7: Oh Lord Won’t You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz...

After Rémy fixed Eulalie breakfast and left for the station, she decided to go to school. Later, she’d probably work the dinner shift at Mary’s, catch the band. Jimmy had been pestering her for a BJ. Maybe, maybe not, depending on her mood. He couldn’t help the Guidry sisters with any of their goals, but the 37-year old was an old family friend, a good one, loyal.

Before she left, she called Gigi, “Is Craig back yet?”

Gigi lowered her voice, “He is.”

“Well, call Rémy anyway. He had a boner all through breakfast.”

Gigi giggled, “I’ll work something out.”

The 14-year old didn’t think any more about ordering a grown woman around than Gigi thought of not doing what Eulalie wanted. The difference was that Gigi was simply reacting. Eulalie was expanding her reach, her influence around town.

The teenager wasn’t sure why she felt so protective of Rémy. Like a favorite uncle or something. She pulled on one of the shirts that he kept in his own closet and rolled up the sleeves and tied the tails in front. Then selected a white thong.

She didn’t even think about it as she started the Jon boat and set out on a meandering route to the City Docks. That old, old alligator that Marie had named Grumpy, was in his usual half-submerged spot in a muddy puddle.

Eulalie had been driving boats since she was three or so; it was second nature. As was riding her Vespa all around the town. As she pulled up to John Lee Hooker, she tried to remember the last time she’d sucked Jimmy off. Couldn’t.

Marie had taught her, “Hummers are easy. And guys appreciate them way out of proportion.” She didn’t bother to tell Eulalie to swallow — every girl in Sausalito knew that much.

Eulalie decided she’d take care of Jimmy if his wife was in the audience. She didn’t much care for Caroline. She’d thrown such a hissy fit when the band fucked Étienne.

Lacy said, “So, reinsurance.”

Rhonda, “The boss put me in charge of a small — tiny really — specialty division. My team and I are tasked with starting a new line of business from scratch. Pandemic insurance.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s a tough challenge all the way around. God, we’ve spent almost 18 months trying to craft a financial model. For an event that might occur once in a century.”

“What do you factor in? Number of fatalities, of course. How fast it spreads. Gender, age, and racial vulnerabilities. Governmental responses. Corporate losses as the economy craters. But let’s see ... why would anyone buy a policy that most likely wouldn’t be needed until long after they retire?”

“Yes! And that’s just the surface of the problem. In that case, our seller has to play on fear — your company will most probably have to lay off everyone, division by division, and you’ll still end up going bankrupt. But the risk-manager himself can’t make the call — that’s up to the C-level.”

Lacy nodded.

“So we have to structure the benefits side to pull the CEOs in. We’ll offer a preset amount of coverage that automatically pays out when the contagion reaches certain thresholds. That guarantees them an immediate infusion of cash.”

“Fascinating.”

“We already have an example of how pandemic insurance could work. A prestigious one — Wimbledon.”

“Wimbledon?”

“Sixteen years ago, the SARS outbreak really caught their attention. So they insisted that a pandemic protection clause be added to their policy. Smart. They’ll be guaranteed a bundle of cash, if and when.”

Lacy frowned, thinking, But who guarantees the guarantor? I mean couldn’t you go broke, like overnight?

As Rhonda Gotlieb explained how her reinsurance company could outsource much of the risk to other, non-related entities, Lacy thought: Okay, this is my next big one.

Lacy looked directly into her eyes and smiled, “What’s your room number?”

“1111, shall we have a nightcap there?”

“We’d be fools not to.”

After their shower, Lacy soon discerned that Rhonda was a pitcher. Ravenous for Lacy. Either way would have been fine; Chase had had Lacy eating far more pussy than sucking cock during her training period.

As she lay there, with Rhonda snuggled up, snoring gently, Lacy thought: The next big one.

Lacy waited until 4:30 in the morning to slip out of Rhonda’s bed. She put on fresh lipstick and left a red kiss-imprint on a sheet of Peninsula note paper. She placed it under Rhonda’s cell and quietly closed the hallway door.

Lacy called down to the front desk to have her bill ready, and was in one of the hotel limos on the way to O’Hare by 6:30. She thought: Rhonda is old school in her thinking, but smart. Maybe I’ll keep tabs on her; find something for her to do. It could be useful having someone deep inside Alden and Standish Casualty & Life.

In the Baltimore refuge, Logan looked calmly at Marie, “This is more complicated than we had realized at first.” He told her about Ethan’s op-ed in the Laramie Boomerang. About Paul Citron — his wealth, his connections, his vindictiveness.

“Later, Ethan ... facilitated a little-noticed addendum to a routine bill on coal-mining operations. Specifically, surface mining, which strips the vegetation and topsoil and rock and dirt that covers the coal seams.”

Marie managed to keep from looking bored.

He smiled, “Want to hear about bituminous versus anthracite coal?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t tell you about how strip mining alters the soil profile, destroys beneficial micro-organisms, and can introduce toxic materials to the soil.”

Marie nodded impatiently, indicating that she’d heard all she wanted to about coal and the mining thereof.

“But I will tell you about the impact on wildlife. Because the bill that Ethan co-sponsored has a wildlife clause that calls out for specific penalties for each large-animal death.”

Marie looked up, tilted her head in concentration; this might turn out to be interesting after all. Madison winked at her father — he was solely responsible for the surprise penalties that had enraged Paul Citron.

“Strip mining, Marie, ... well by its very nature, all animal species are destroyed or displaced when the land they live on is scraped away. There are also long-term environmental consequences which our Congress can’t be bothered addressing.”

Marie said, “Let’s move on to the nut-cuttin’.”

Logan grinned without mirth, “Yes, let’s. Coal-mine owners in Wyoming and other strip-mining states are now fined $1,000 for every large-animal death. More importantly, there’s a 30-day cessation of operations to evaluate palliative measures. That’s 30 days for each and every single death.”

Marie nodded, “That could pinch.”

Logan smiled, this time it was a glorious white smile full of warmth and good humor, “What Paul Citron and the other mine owners didn’t realize was this — there was a single sentence tucked into an obscure paragraph of the legislation. All fines, and all expenses associated with each work stoppage, are to be paid by the owners. Not — specifically not — by their insurance companies.”

Marie looked at Ethan with admiration, “Holy fucking Hannah.”

Ethan said, “Paul Citron will weather the financial penalties. They’ll bite, but he’ll get through it all right. What he can’t stand ... well, it’s two things. Public humiliation — the Wyoming press is all over the story. And, probably even more mortifying than that, if I may allow a little egotism to peek through, is the fact that I personally engineered Citron’s money and publicity woes.”

Madison said, “He already hated Popsicle because of that op-ed. But this latest indignity ... well, it pushed Citron over the edge.”

Marie looked evenly at Ethan. There was no sexual spark between them, but a mutual appreciation of each other’s professionalism.

Marie turned to Logan, “Tell me again. Exactly what Lacy and I need to do.”

Logan, “According to a whisper that Lacy picked up, Citron has sent someone after Ethan, but we have no idea who it is. Nor how many there are.”

Marie, “On top of the weaponized fucking drones?”

“We have to take drones into consideration, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Instead, we have a counter-plan.”

“Which is?”

“If you’ll go along with it, Lacy Danube will leak the name of the sanctuary city. Sausalito.”

Marie stood up and was already shaking her head, “No, absolutely not. Count me out.”

Ethan nodded understandingly, “A perfectly legitimate reaction. A wise one too. But hear Logan out.”

Marie remained standing. Frowned and crossed her arms again.

Logan said, “Consider the $125,000 as a down payment. Or, an advance reimbursement in case the safe house is ... damaged.”

Marie sat down on the very edge of the sofa, her arms still crossed.

Logan, “We want to do two things. And our ... success depends on your cooperation. Yours and Lacy Danube’s.”

Marie pressed her lips tight and frowned, but didn’t say anything. Madison continued her covert evaluation of the lush Cajun woman. Who simply exuded sex — it pulsed off her.

Logan methodically outlined the plan: rather than go after the assassin — someone whose identity they didn’t yet know — they would first target Paul Citron himself.

As Logan described the active role Lacy Danube would play, Marie listened intently.

Then Logan got to the money part. Marie turned to Logan, tilted her head, and looked at him through squinted eyes. The money changed everything.

He said, “So, if everything goes according to plan — which of course it never does — I’ll take care of the killer once Citron rats him out.”

Marie whispered, “Three million, five hundred thousand dollars?”

“Paul Citron’s money. Split evenly between you and Lacy.”

Later than night, with Marie sleeping in one of the two guest bedrooms, Madison whispered, “You didn’t tell me that Marie was sex personified.”

Logan thought, but didn’t say, Good thing Eulalie didn’t come along too.

He did say, “Well.”

Madison decided to change the subject, “Did the drones shake her up like you wanted?”

“Yes, I think so. Ethan and I wanted her a little off balance. Her hideaway program has been working so well that she was getting set in her ways. Probably even a little complacent. The sudden thought of a drone attack may have made her more open to cooperating with us.”

“And that threat to leak the word that Sausalito is the sanctuary city ... that wasn’t part of your plan.”

“No, there wouldn’t be any gain in doing that. It’s just a facet of the larger plan that we can use as a concession. Something to cede in order to make Marie feel she has some control.”

Madison reached under the covers, slid her hand down Logan’s chest, sighed when she reached her target, “Let’s not think about Marie Guidry anymore tonight.”

Logan thought: Oops.

Marie, in the other guest bedroom, thought: I underestimated Logan Kelly from the jump. Thinking I could distract him with Eulalie. Logan’s always been two or three steps ahead. Had a bigger picture in mind all along.

She also thought: One million, seven hundred fifty thousand dollars is way more than we got for all seven men we hid. More than I’d get for 20 or 30. And if Lacy Danube is in ... well, so am I.

At breakfast, Ethan smiled at Marie, “Mind a little more political talk?”

“What kind of politics?”

“Sausalito.”

“Well, as you know, Mississippi is deep red. Sausalito votes a little more liberal — about 45, 47% Democratic, depending.”

“I was thinking more about ... the practical impact of politics. How your citizens can be more effective. Have a bigger impact.”

“Other than my own campaign, I don’t get all that involved.”

Ethan chuckled.

“Well, I may exert some influence on City Council elections. And the School board.”

Ethan smiled again, “There’s another opportunity down there. Available — waiting — to be exploited.”

“You have my attention, Senator.”

“Start by thinking about the power of a voting bloc. The pols up in Jackson study election results closer than a tout reads a racing form. And, I’m speaking not only of candidates, but of referendum items on the ballot.”

“Such as?”

“Medical marijuana. Gun rights. Bathroom bills. Mississippi has or will be voting on these and many other issues.”

“Okay.”

“Back to Sausalito. You have an opportunity to influence local voters. To start to build a reliable bloc of support for, or opposition to, items of interest in Jackson.”

“Influence them how?”

“Let’s, as you say, get to the nut-cuttin’. In essence you run the police department. Rémy...”

“Thibodeaux.”

“Rémy Thibodeaux is the chief, of course.”

Marie made a move-it-along gesture with her hand. Okay, I run the town.

“Now the individual cops out and about in Sausalito interact with civilians every day. A pothole concern. A speeding ticket. A noisy neighbor.”

Marie nodded.

“And, these cops are also in a position to do small favors. Help move grandma into that nursing home. Get a possession charge expunged. Little things that aren’t so little to the people involved.”

Marie looked thoughtful, “So the beat cop, the patrol cop, they become ... like civic ambassadors.”

“That’s exactly right. The Favor Bank. Takes time, but pretty soon grateful citizens are going to listen when Joe Policeman tells them that he’d appreciate it, the chief would appreciate it, if you voted Yes on Proposition 19.”

“And once I start delivering votes...”

“Jackson will notice, believe me. Believe an old, reformed politician.”

Madison laughed, “Not too reformed, Popsicle.”

Ethan said, “Back when I was in the game, I started reading political history. Daley in Chicago. Pendergast in Kansas City. Boss Hague in New Jersey.”

Marie said, “Political machines. And dynasties.”

Ethan nodded, “I’m picturing the Rémy Thibodeaux Machine.”

Marie got a look of pure joy, “By god, I love it! The Thibodeaux Machine.”

Later, driving back to Newark for Marie’s New Orleans flight, Logan asked, “Do you need to clear the revised plan with Rémy?”

“What for?”

A few minutes later, she turned to face him, “How long have you and Madison been a number?”

“Years and years. She was a high school senior.”

“You ever fool around on her?”

“No. Not yet.”

Marie smiled to herself.

Quintin Apache hadn’t expected to cross Ethan Dalton’s trail in DC; and he didn’t. The man had gone to ground without fanfare. Quietly, and without a last-minute sighting.

Apache thought: Probably had professional help. Was it that attorney, Logan Kelly? The Kelly background was scrubbed pretty clean. He’d been a fancy-pants whiz kid, got a law degree, went to Annapolis in some sort of post-9/11 patriotic frenzy.

Quite a contrast to Apache’s aborted Army career. Apache decided to fix Kelly whether he had anything to do with Dalton’s disappearance or not. Brown-nosing Navy fucker. What was wrong with Be All You Can Be? The slogan Apache had grown up with and still believed in.

In DC, Apache checked into a no-ID motel. Bed, desk, chair, curtains, chain lock, bathroom. The basics.

He went through his deck of Bicycle playing cards. He hadn’t yet decided which one to leave with Dalton’s body. The cards had become his signature — one that the various law enforcement agencies had no clue about. The men he had fixed had all been in different states with different jurisdictions, so no cops had connected the dots. Apache was ahead of them and ahead of the game.

He brought his KA-BAR knife into the motel from the hidden compartment in his Honda Passport. He carefully removed it from its Kydex tension-fit sheath. He knew better than to keep it enclosed. The knife needed to breathe — condensed moisture would lead to rusting and pitting. He regularly used a silicone resin-based car wax — never oil — for a protective coating. He wasn’t brand-fussy; he bought whichever wax happened to be on sale.

Apache serviced his knife regularly. One half of a teaspoon of dishwashing detergent in a quart of warm (not hot) water. He added a worn toothbrush to his knife-care kit and used it to scrub away any minuscule debris.

Once every few weeks, Apache sharpened the blade using his abrasive stone. It was a steel-bodied block, with nickel plating and industrially grown diamond particles on the surface. Honing it that frequently was redundant, but he simply enjoyed the process.

Then, his favorite part of the ritual — wiping the blade with a barely damp cloth and then buffing it with a soft, dry cloth. He often felt a slight tumescence during this phase, but he didn’t masturbate, didn’t ejaculate. He never did.

Once he was satisfied with the process, Apache placed the bottom of the handle in its custom-made stand. He put it beside the lamp on the right-hand table, always the right-hand side.