CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“The bank called while you were out,” Caroline announced when she heard Brian in his office and realized he had
slipped in unnoticed. She was dressed for daytime office work with loose fitting khaki trousers, tight at the wide waistband, with suede open-toe heels. The white blouse had full, loose sleeves, and wide bands at the wrist. A high collar encircled her neck and open buttons plunged low in front between uplifted breasts. She leaned her body into the doorway from the outer reception area. Only red enameled fingertips, her head and strawberry blond hair tumbling over a shoulder appeared in the entrance. She wore a puzzled expression.
Brian looked up from the papers on his desk and leaned his heavy body into his chair, the expanding springs
complaining with a crinkle. Sunlight from the window angling across his face caused him to squint and shone through his thick sandy hair, tinting it red. His arms filled the sleeves of his blue silk shirt, making it appear a size too small.
Bewildered, he considered what the purpose of the call might be.
“It was the bank president,” she continued. “Very important, he said. You are to call him the minute you get in.
Sorry I didn’t tell you right away, but I didn’t hear you come in. He wouldn’t tell me a thing: said it was a private matter between the two of you. What do you have going on with him that I don’t know about?”
“Nothing,” he answered, ever more perplexed. He wasn’t for long: Royal Caribbean Bank had called his bank an
hour earlier to report that the two checks for three hundred thousand US dollars each that Brian had vouched for were forgeries. His bank wanted the sixty thousand dollars it had advanced to him on good faith returned before the end of the day, and until done, his accounts were frozen. For reasons of his own, the bank president didn’t want a police investigation in the Caymans, particularly in view of the fact that their police were sure to request the cooperation of the OIJ in Costa Rica.
He could yet intervene and prevent it all, however, Brian must replace the money – now!
Brian went ballistic. He needed to clear himself of any involvement with forging checks especially since he was hiding from Canadian warrants, but he couldn’t take sixty thousand of the casino’s cash without it being noticed and any irregularities in the casino’s balances could cost him his license. It was a very good life he was enjoying in Costa Rica. The money was rolling in, and he didn’t have any problems with the law. If his Costa Rican residency was revoked because of this, the party would be over. And, what was he supposed to do about Frazer? He was coming by to collect a payment on the loan and Brian had just been about to go to the bank to withdraw the cash for him. Now what? George Dearling – he’d been staying in town. He snatched the phone from Caroline.
George answered on the first ring. “What is it, Brian? Are the checks cleared?”
Brian grated his teeth. The thieving bastard had the balls to be chipper! “Listen, you,” he growled, “your fucking game is up, so get your skinny ass over here with my sixty thousand dollars – RIGHT NOW. You hear me, you wormy little prick?”
“I’ll try,” were his only words. The phone disconnected.
“Dearling! Dearling, you bastard!” he shouted into the dead instrument. He called back, but he knew it was
fruitless. Sure enough, the line was busy. He drove all over hell and back looking for him, stopping first at the club, just in case, and told the bar bouncer, in no uncertain terms, that if and when Dearling showed his face, to keep him right there: he wanted to see him. He made sure security in the casino was on top alert for him as well then drove all the way to the Orosi
Valley to look for him in person on his farm: his wife said she had thrown him out weeks earlier. “What do you need him for?” she asked.
“I’m going to kill the prick,” he said.
“Well, do it once for me while you’re at it. He’s been calling and coming around here harassing me every day, but not today. Maybe he’s hiding in the greenhouses. You’re certainly welcome to look around.” He did: no George. Becky even voluntarily gave Brian one of her husband’s old address books to help him. He had Caroline call every name in the book. Not one person listed had seen him in some time, basically since his finances had collapsed around him. Brian wasn’t finished: he went to every club, bar and back room in San José, and he knew them all. George Dearling was gone –
disappeared without a trace.
He was extra pissed because, when the bank called with the bad news, Caroline had offered to call Dearling. She said that she would sweet talk him into coming to the office on the pretext of picking up his money; instead, he’d grabbed the damn phone from her, and now the wormy little Dearling was gone. No sense running all over town like a chicken without its head looking for him any longer. Time had run out. He hated calling the office without having found Dearling, but he had to. Caroline picked it up on the first ring and, sure enough, she started in immediately, calling him a weak piss ant and a poor excuse for a man. She never would have trusted George Dearling. Why didn’t he ask her before doing something so stupid?
Blah, blah, blah.
“All right, all right,” he retorted. “Has he called? Have you heard anything?”
“No, nothing!” she snapped. “Now you see what you’ve done?”
He remembered then about Frazer: he had to be paid, and he’d soon be at the club. Brian was going to have to dig into his mad money from the office safe and he hated that Caroline would be there to know about it. Fucking Dearling, that prick would have to pay! “Call Frazer!” he growled. “Tell him to meet me at the club at four o’clock and tell him to be on time.”
“Where are you going now?” she asked.
“I’m coming back,” he answered. “I can’t find him anywhere. The son of a bitch is hiding.” Did he really want to go back to the office where he’d just have to listen to more from her? “Forget it, I’m not coming back after all. I’m going to go to the bank.” His back was to the wall like never before and he still hadn’t figured out how he was going to respond to his bank’s demand for the sixty thousand. NOW, was basically the tone of that particular request, and he had to deal with it within the next twenty-four hours! He’d mortgage the club if he could, but Frazer was holding the title on both the property and new equipment. He couldn’t even explain that to the bank: Frazer had insisted nobody know about the loan, and he was a man you didn’t want to cross. He was sure of one thing, though: George Dearling didn’t have access to instant money anywhere. There was nothing to be lost by taking out his mounting anger against this bald-headed, lying, skinny little cheat who had brought the walls tumbling down around them both. If he could just get his hands on him, he’d rip him limb from limb. The man was using up valuable oxygen and returning nothing in exchange.
At the bank, he managed to get the president to agree to an additional twelve hours. Not much, and he didn’t know what he was going to do with the time. He’d ask Frazer, but he already knew the answer: he was more cold and unforgiving than any bank. He’d bail Brian out all right, but he would have to sign the entire club over to him and he wasn’t doing that, but it couldn’t hurt to ask – beg.
Caroline called Frazer several times, but he wasn’t answering. No problem: he carried a pager. The message read: BRIAN NEEDS TO SEE YOU AT THE CLUB AT 4 PM. VERY URGENT. HAS TO DO WITH GEORGE DEARLING.
BOSS SAYS BE ON TIME. CAROLINE
Brian didn’t just open the door to enter the casino: he smashed it with both of his huge fists and it flew open, barely remaining on its hinges. A security man, on a stool just inside, leapt to his feet and faced him in a fighting stance.
“George Dearling show up?” Brian asked totally unfazed.
“No, not yet,” he replied, lowering his arms and checking the door for damage.
“Fuck! Well, if he does, bring him to me because I’m going to kill the son-of-a-bitch.”
“Yeah, right! Hey, there’s a guy here to see you. That’s him over there with the white hair. Ah, here he comes.” He gave Brian a wry grin. “Guess he heard you come in.”
Frazer approached smiling and offered his hand. “Hey, partner,” he said. “I was in the neighborhood. What’s the rush?”
Brian glanced about. “Not here, Gene” he instructed. “Too many cameras.” He wrapped an arm over the other’s
shoulder and guided him into the bar. “Listen, I’ve got big problems,” he said when they’d settled onto stools and ordered drinks. He explained what had happened and asked if he might be able to provide the needed sixty thousand. Frazer was sympathetic, but business was business, he said, and he couldn’t do it.
“I understand,” he replied. “Don’t worry, I have your payment right here.” He plopped two packages wrapped in
newspaper onto the bar. “Sorry, it’s all tens and twenties because I couldn’t get anything from the bank. This came out of the safe. I don’t know about the next payment, though. Maybe you’ll be the new owner.”
“Don’t fret, my friend,” Gene responded, watching as Brian unwrapped the cash and piled it into stacks of hundreds,
“everything will work out.” Brian pushed four thousand dollars along the bar to him, then counted out an additional five hundred and slid it over with the rest.
“There you go,” he said, “four and a half grand. I sure hope you’re right and I’m here to pay you again next month.
“You will,” Frazer answered. “Here, take this,” he said returning one hundred.” Brian looked curiously between the money and Gene. “Caroline gave me credit last week,” he explained. “Just make sure she marks it in the book as paid.”
Leon was packed and out of his room at Hotel Paradise five minutes after George Dearling called in a state of total panic. He offered the manager one hundred American dollars to change his room registration to another name, any name, just erase anything that could place him there. The manager wasn’t new to the business or the workings of San José; he was well aware that Leon was connected with a source of power in Costa Rica, a source that had on numerous occasions performed the impossible for this valuable client who asked only to be forgotten. Within minutes of Leon’s departure, not a trace remained in the records of Hotel Paradise of his visit and the desk clerks knew well to remember nothing about renting the suite, regardless of who asked. Dearling could wait till doomsday at Tropical Tim’s bar; Leon wasn’t going to show. While George cowered in a booth at the back of the bar watching the door for Leon to come through, he was in his Range Rover roaring past the national soccer stadium, on his way to Limon.
Leon’s first thought had simply been to run home, but what then? Royal Caribbean Bank would call and it would be over. Maybe he could get there in time to receive the call himself. But no, Connie would never let him answer the phones.
And when the bank told Gordon about the checks, he’d know right away that it was him. He needed to tell him something.
What? A story began to take form as he raced through traffic. Dearling, of course, would be assigned the lion’s share of the blame. It could be a gambling debt that he had been pressuring him about. He could have Dearling forcing his way into his room… seeing the payoff checks and threatening him – with a gun. While swishing past lumbering trucks, Leon improved the story, himself more the victim with each rehearsal. Terrified over how angry Gordon would be, he squealed around a hairpin turn: the back end of the Rover skidded within an inch of a sheer rock wall. “Gordon can fix it! He has to. He has to.”
Leon didn’t get halfway through his story before Gordon’s first interruption. He was seated on his throne, looking down on his brother as though he was an insect. He felt like one. Gordon was even wearing his suit jacket! His gold ring tapped a steady beat against a coffee cup. Leon fidgeted with a handkerchief. “Wait a minute, Leon! I thought you always played poker in Club Hollywood, but you just said it was at the Holiday Inn. Which was it?” Actually, Leon had said that he ran into Dearling in Club Hollywood after he had been to the Grand Hotel. He hadn’t mentioned the Holiday Inn, but where Dearling encountered him and started demanding money hadn’t mattered and wasn’t included in the story he’d rehearsed: it was the gambling debt and threatened violence that was important. He couldn’t understand why it suddenly mattered which club.
“Why were you in the Holiday Inn?” Gordon asked without giving him time to think. “I thought you had been
barred from there.”
Leon puzzled the problem a moment, squinting for concentration, then continued with renewed confidence. “A
friend let me in a back door. I guess I should have told you that. Sorry.”
“Ah, that’s all right,” Gordon answered. “I get confused on the details. Okay; so after Walston copied the checks what did this other one, Dearling, say when you told him that you were going to have to wait for a couple of days? He’d been threatening your life for cash, hadn’t he?” Gordon nodded and leaned back as though preparing for a lengthy response.
Walston? Had he said that? Walston hadn’t been part of the story, except as the guy who was supposed to cash the checks.
“That is when you found out you would have to wait a couple of days, wasn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, um – that’s right.” Leon was nervous. Something wasn’t right. Gordon was seeing through his lie –
but how? He couldn’t understand what was giving him away. He nervously wiped a spot of his spittle from the edge of Gordon’s desk with his handkerchief. “Well, we were there in Club Hollywood, as I said, when the bank calls an...”
“Just the three of you? Wasn’t the girlfriend there too?” Gordon steepled his fingers with his elbows resting on the desktop and peered at his brother. “Didn’t you say that she was always around watching what everyone was doing?”
Gordon looked down at his brother, despising him. He’d kept it up with the grilling although he knew – knew from the moment Leon opened his mouth – that he was lying. His performance was disgusting.
“No, no, just a minute, she wasn’t there, Gordy,” Leon responded, looking smug.
So, he’d finally caught on that he was being tricked and now thought he had it under control, still trying to talk his way out of it!
“It was just the three.... Hey! Hey, Gordon! Gordy, shit, please; I’m your brother!” The slug from Gordon's .38
special passed close enough to Leon’s shoulder that he heard it pass before burying itself deep in the teak paneling.
He hated doing it; that paneling was expensive with each panel perfectly matched to its neighbor. It would cost a fortune to repair. And when he saw the puddle of urine dripping from Leon’s chair onto his eighteen thousand dollar carpet, he regretted it even more. He could have gotten away with slapping him good and hard across the mouth. He reached quickly for the intercom, pressing several buttons until he got the right one. “Sorry if that frightened you, Connie,” he spoke into the box calmly and with humor in his voice. “That was Leon. I wouldn’t want you to think we’re shooting each other or something.” He stopped then and glared down at Leon, his expression hard. “What now, Leon,” he barked, slamming the pistol onto the desk’s blotter. “Do you think you can tell your brother the truth, or should I see if I can aim better?”
The next half hour was spent listening to Leon relating the details of his check-forging scheme. Gordon scratched a couple of notes, asking few questions. He could easily tell that now he was hearing the truth. He’d warned Leon, from when they were young, never to try to lie to him: he could read him easier than a book.
Gordon was careful to get the details of the desperate call Leon had received from George Dearling, having him
repeat everything three times. And, twice he asked the name of the bank where Walston deposited the checks. He sat motionless while he thought. He needed to make the problem go away and quickly. If he or Leon was connected to the checks, not only would his reelection and his career be ruined, but the cocaine smuggling might be discovered as well. He reached for the phone and began making calls. “I’m going to make another call,” he said after the second, directing his voice to Leon. “I want you to listen. I’ll be asking questions when I’m finished, so listen up.” Gordon’s intimidating glare carried enough foreboding to raise a cold sweat on any man. Leon nodded, quickly and obediently, dabbing his forehead with his spittle-soaked handkerchief and watched Gordon dial.
“Hello, young lady,” Gordon said into the receiver. “Tell Mr. Brian Walston there’s a man on the phone who knows how to fix six hundred thousand dollar problems. Well, go on, get him! I’m not waiting all day.” Less than ten seconds passed before Brian’s voice sounded in his ear.
“Hello, Mr. Walston,” he spoke into the receiver. “No, please don’t ask who this is. Just listen, don’t say a thing until I’m finished. I’ve just gotten off the phone with your bank. Your problem has been fixed. No, never mind about that. I told you to listen – so shut up and listen. All record of those two checks you’re concerned about is already being destroyed both here and in the Caymans. Additionally, the funds to cancel a certain sixty thousand US dollar loan are being transferred to your bank in Escazu. Case closed, you’re out of it. Do you understand what I mean when I say you’re out of it?”
“No. What it means is that you have no memory of it – it didn’t happen. Whatever paperwork you have pertaining to the checks or loan I want you to burn. That’s right; burn it. Yes, the payment booklet too, everything. No record will exist anyhow –so, just forget any of this happened. Got it?” He listened again, then replied: “No, no questions and don’t speak about this, to anyone. I shouldn’t have to threaten you, Mr. Walston. We do understand each other, don’t we?” He listened again. “I thought so. Indeed, you do owe me and one day I may want something in return.” Gordon hung up without waiting for a response. “Now, did you see how much your asinine little plan cost me today, Leon?”
“Yeah, but I...”
“Shut up, Leon! That money is coming out of your allowance. Do you think Brian Walston will be foolish enough
to cross me after what I’ve just done for him?”
“Oh, no… Hell no!”
“Why not, Leon?”
“Well.... Well, you’d kill him, Gordy. The fucking guy’s not that stupid.”
“Take a lesson, brother.” Gordon’s words and expression could melt an iceberg. “Now get out of here, Leon. I
have other calls to make.”
With Leon gone from the office, Gordon stepped into his washroom to splash water on his face and dab it dry. The dermatologist had said he could avoid the sort of blemishes that plagued Leon by washing often and not rubbing with his towel. He leaned into the mirror and worked a bit of purifying cream into a suspicious spot on his cheek. After analyzing his brother’s entire ugly tale, Gordon could see but one way to keep the situation from blowing up in his face. It had to disappear completely. The problems of money and checks had been solved easily enough: all that had been necessary was an inquiry before calling the president of Walston’s bank. Then, a thinly veiled reference to his shuffling of data to keep hidden the propriety of certain loans won his complete, undivided attention and an overwhelming degree of cooperation which sufficed to wipe clean the trail of the checks and ignore any interest on the loan. The checks were gone and Walston was silenced.
There remained but one task: to eradicate a certain George Dearling and that took patience and legwork. He personally had to go to San José to contact an expert in the line of work required. This particular artist had been recommended to him on more than one occasion as professional and cautious. Gordon dialed a number. He was to ask for ‘the artist’. ‘The artist’
wasn’t in, a voice advised. Would the gentleman like an appointment? “Today, and as soon as possible,” he answered and was promptly told to be in a particular booth in the bar at Hotel Paradise at four that afternoon.
“Just sit there,” he was told. “He’ll find you.” Gordon glanced at his watch then checked his agenda. He reached for the intercom to cancel the remainder of the day’s appointments, but he must have pushed the wrong button again, because all of the lights on the little monstrosity began flashing in unison. It had been a Christmas gift from his secretary that could squawk with a hundred different sounds, tell him the local time for any spot on Earth, record messages, and sing the National Anthem for all he knew. To him, it was a confusing array of buttons and options that would take a computer scientist to understand, and the most annoying device he had ever laid eyes on. He walked to the door and shouted through it:
“Cancel everything for the rest of the day, would you, Connie. Reserve a seat for me on the afternoon flight to San José and please, get Mrs. Sylvia Henderson on the telephone.” Luckily, the call caught her at her inn only minutes before she would have walked out the door. “I have a business meeting later in Hotel Paradise,” he said. “I’ll be tied up probably until about six, so while I’m in town, why don’t we get together for dinner this evening at the Cariari? Say, at about seven?”
* * *
Gordon assumed his assigned seat in the bar of Hotel Paradise, but the strangest thing happened while he was sitting there. A man he hadn’t seen in many years, John Sinclair, suddenly appeared out of the crowd near the bar and approached his table. John would want to sit and share war stories from the old days when he was in Nicaragua with the CIA. It was not a good time to be meeting old friends. His first instinct in the situation was to greet him standing: a quick ‘hello’ could then be concluded with an unmistakable dismissal by the simple act of returning to his seat.For his part, when Frazer saw who was sitting in the booth, he was startled. If he had known in advance that he was the client, he wouldn’t have agreed to meet. This thing was instantly transformed into a completely different contract from the one he had anticipated – worse. Edward had become a hotshot politician, and a political hit was dangerous business. Bad luck! He had wanted to slip into the booth relatively unnoticed, and most definitely did not want to be greeted by Gordon jumping to his feet and coming to him, calling out in a loud voice: “Sinclair! John Sinclair, what a coincidence to run into you! I really wish I had time to chat, but unfortunately, I’m meeting someone in a few minutes. We’ll have to get together
one of these days.” Shaking his hand, then turning back towards his seat, he called over his shoulder, “Well, see you around.
Give me a call.”
Frazer was stupefied. Half the people in the bar must have seen that. He continued towards the rear and the men’s room. Luck was running on a bad streak. If something didn’t come along – real soon – to show a change, he would have to walk out. Considering the amounts he had stashed in banks around the world and his pension, he certainly didn’t need the money. He just missed the thrill – but that was no reason to go to prison. If it was just for doing someone, he could go out and cut up any poor bastard, but he was drawn to the intrigue – and, all right, the money too. He decided to give it one more go and see how it went. If something happened to show that his luck was changing, well then, okay. Otherwise, no dice.
John Frazer, or Sinclair, as he had been known through a long career with the CIA, was a confirmed believer in the power of providence. His theory on the subject was that it, the same as so many other variables in life, cycled slowly through positive, then negative. “Isolated incidences of luck, good or bad, don’t happen in nature,” he would explain, if anyone showed an interest in his theory, “it comes in waves.” He was currently on down swing, and if he had any doubts it had just manifested itself, when Gordon, ‘the perfect black gentleman’, began behaving like Texas white trash in his favorite saloon, a country yokel screaming across the barroom. It was particularly bad that he had called him John Sinclair. He couldn’t do a job while he was in a slump as deep as that. He needed a sign. He ambled again towards the booth and slid in, smiling. “My name is Gene Frazer and I’m the guy you came to see,” he said speaking from the side of his mouth. He let Edward explain his problem, then threw a price out that would be considered high in New York: for Costa Rica, it was a number of astronomical proportions.
Staring into his eyes, Gordon was well aware that a man could be killed for as little as one hundred US dollars in San José, but considering Frazer’s thirty years of experience: with him doing the job, it would be accomplished, and Gordon wouldn’t be implicated. What it all came down to was just how valuable was it to him that it be done professionally. He lifted his briefcase, opened it in front of him, fumbled about inside, then passed an envelope onto Frazer’s lap below the table.
“There, that's half,” he muttered. “The other half, afterwards. It’ll come through my brother; you remember him?”
He received a quick nod. “He’ll be staying here at the hotel for several days. Look for him. He’ll take walks through the zoo every day after it happens. The money will be with him.”
“Wait,” Frazer whispered. “I haven’t said I accept.”
“Keep the money,” Gordon hissed through clenched teeth. “If it doesn’t happen in a couple of days, pass the
envelope to my brother.” Frazer was readying to excuse himself and walk out, leaving the envelope on the table, when Sylvia Henderson came storming in, literally aglow, beaming smiles at Gordon Edward.
“How wonderful to have you here in San José, Gordy!” she gushed and offered her hand and cheek for Edward to
peck at. “I couldn’t stay away. Oh, hello, Gene,” she said, glancing in his direction. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t noticed you sitting there: I was so happy to see Gordy here, in the capital at last!”
Frazer was astounded. Hadn’t noticed him? Perhaps his luck had bottomed out and was starting its upswing. What a deal! “That’s okay, Sylvia,” he said, rising. “I was just on my way out. I wanted to rub elbows with the famous R. Gordon Edward, but I’m sure he’s tired of strangers constantly approaching him, what with his picture in the news more often than the President’s. Thank you for giving me a couple minutes of your valuable time, Mr. Edward,” he said and slipped from the table, attracting no attention at all.
Sylvia found Gordon irresistible: he made her feel vulnerable, and sexy. She knew he was attracted to her, it was written all over him whenever they got together, but he didn’t behave like a dog after his bitch like most men. He was kind and courteous, yet radiated strength and power, coaxing her closer rather than pursuing. His reputation as a womanizer was common knowledge to anyone who read the newspaper, but rather than turn her off as it might, the story added dash and flavor to this already magnetic man. It was a strange place for her to be. She idled with the thought of convincing him to stay the night at the Cariari and spending it in his bed. A waiter was summoned, Gordon switched from ginger ale to bourbon, and they soon were engrossed in talk spiced with the thrill of deliberate seduction.
Her conversation trigger had been pulled hard by several lines of coke before arriving. Between bouts of laughter, she added animated embellishments of her encounters with the cops, in days when she’d been ready and willing to sacrifice herself on the protest line in the name of racial equality. Gordon laughed along, particularly boisterously at her outspoken condemnations of White Anglo-Saxon men – especially the Irish. He agreed with every word, loudly adding his own to her list of harsh judgments, but explained that his feelings regarding white men didn’t extend to their women. “On the contrary,”
he said, flashing the sexiest wink Sylvia had ever seen. He found white women to be enticing, he told her, reaching to touch her hand, and this particular white woman he found to be tantalizingly beautiful, vigorous, intelligent and a joy to be with.
He noticed then that their highly animated conversation was beginning to attract attention. Let the photographers come running, just let them, he thought. He felt good about the