Hard Boiled Fiction With dread making my fingertips tremble, I kill the engine of the Crown Vic with a turn of the key. Immediately, dots of sweat punch through the pores of my skin. Underground parking in Phoenix is like that. In some towns, the darkness breeds a damp, chill air that comes with a faint whiff of mold. In the summer desert, even with the persistent sun held at bay by layers of concrete, the place is a kiln... and it smells like one. The bell dings twice in the time it takes me to hoist myself out of the Vic, settle onto my shoe leather and shut the door. You gotta love these new cars. Back in the day, closing a car door in a sepulcher like that would have made a city block's worth of pigeons take off in every direction. Now, it makes no more sound than the slap of an old wallet. On instinct, my thumb slides to the button on the keyless remote to set the alarm, but I catch myself in time, avoiding the telltale "toot-toot" that always goes along with a stupid mistake like that. My eyes have a hard time adjusting to the gloom of the bunker, until it dawns on me that I'm still wearing shades. With a shake of the head so small that a cop wouldn't have noticed it, I swipe the sunglasses off my face and look around. It always takes a minute, and not because of me. He's good, that's all... Which is why he's been in business for so long. Off to my right, where the shadows lie, I hear the distinct sound of a Zippo. My eyes focus on the glowing tip of his cigar, inviting me into a hot, dark corner. Only the stacatto of my footsteps can be heard in this cement barn. He says nothing until I get right up to him. "You're late," he says in a voice that sounds like oiled gravel. "I almost bailed on you." "Of course I'm late," I reply. "I had to make sure I wasn't being tailed." "Trust me," he says. "You've been under surveillance for a lot longer than you think." "My in-laws," I say, in a tone that reveals just how near I am to defeat. He nods, the tip of his cigar drawing little red ovals in my field of vision. "Whatever," I say. "Did you bring it?" He looks left, then right - but never behind him. He undoes the top button of his London Fog and pulls out a medium-sized manila envelope with his driving-gloved hands. He hefts it in his grasp for a second, as if determining the weight for mailing. Before he forks it over, he makes sure I understand the trouble he had to go through to obtain what's in the envelope. I've heard it before, and I'd love to cut him off, but it's his spiel so I let him do it. "I appreciate that," I say when he's finished. "And it's authentic, of course?" "Bona fide Dover." His answer comes with a hint of annoyance. It's not that I'm asking too many questions, just the wrong kind. But that's what I do, so he puts up with it. Even with his assurance, I rip open the envelope and pull out the color photograph. There's no mistaking the image, even in the sparse light. It is, as the kids say these days, what it is. He asks me if I'm convinced. I tell him that I am, asking, "What do you want for it?" I already know the answer, but in this business, you dance until the music stops. "Nothing. How much do you think you'll get for it?" He already knows, too. "Ten years," I say, "If they catch me with this. But I'm giving it away for free. To the people." "Well," he says in his best Ronald Reagan voice (one he knows all too well), "That's what it's all about, isn't it?" The photograph is of a flag-draped coffin, inside of which rest the remains of an American soldier, legally killed in a war financed with money that comes out of our paychecks. It's something the government doesn't want you to see. They give specious reasons for this ban on picture-taking, this violation of the First Amendment, something you'd expect from the Taliban. In doing so, they relegate evidence of supreme sacrifice to the status of kiddie porn. It's a disgusting thing for them to do. He takes a long draw on his cigar, momentarily outlining in soft orange the features of his face, something I didn't need to see, especially as it turns tense. A car starts up behind me. With a cylinder-scorching roar, it peels rubber up the ramp and out of sight. I hear his lips move - damn - but he stays put. He asks me if I need anything else. I ask him if he's got anything else. The music stops, and so does the dance as he drops the cigar and turns his shoe on it. On pure impulse, I ask, "Can you tell me anything about the women?" It's a long shot, but everything is with this guy. He pauses, a small frown tugging at his face. "I can," he says, but that's all he says. "Are they both in the game?" This is nothing I need to know, but I'd hate for him to think he has outlived his usefulness. I want him coming back for more. His answer is less direct than I would like, maybe more direct than he would like: "You could say that." I snap. "I could say a lot of things." He lets a smoky chuckle escape. Coming from anyone else, it would have been a belly-clutching guffaw. Backing into the darkness, he gives me his loudest whisper. "They're both running. They've got the legs for it." "Hillary and Laura?" I'm blurting out loud at this point, but all I can hear from the shadows is Shhhhh. I've lost him, but he's already told me all I need to know, given me more than I ever wanted. Shaking my head, I sock-hop my way back to the Vic, mentally trying to prepare my eyes for the explosion of sunlight that awaits them. It can't be done. He's a dying breed. It's good to have sources like him. Where would we be otherwise? Truth is, I would have paid close to half a mil for the verboten photo. And if I had run a classified ad that said REWARD in the Enquirer or some other rag, I'd have been swamped with sacks of mail. Greed trumps law-abiding patriotism every time. But that would have left footprints, and that would have meant bloodhounds. Winding my way back up out of the cellar, I am awash with a feeling of gratitude. Hillary and Laura, I think to myself. No shit. Paul Heller 6/01/05 << back to the archives
	All site contents © 2005, Paul F. Heller