Bliss Out

Chapter One

Ever since they took one of my kidneys along with the hip bone, I piss every five minutes, Stuart said when he limped back from the restroom.

You should keep out of the way of armored personnel carriers next time, Morgan said. Or maybe get a piss bag and you can pee at the table.

No next time, Stuart drank the last of his coffee and removed the top. They want you to retire.

Morgan tried hard not to react even though he'd seen it coming, but he flinched visibly. He tried to cover by patting the long wig and dabbed his red lips with the corner of a napkin. It paid to wear high quality lipstick when you're going out for coffee.

See, that's why I'm quitting early instead of waiting for retirement, Morgan said. I'm too young to die. Isn't that what they always say if you have to actually confront the hit. Even the old farts say that, and some of them are past caring how long they live.

You're what, thirty-seven Morgan, Stuart said. Forty in three years. If you made it past forty, you'd be one of the elite group of maybe four guys who didn't get mandatory retirement, and those guys went into administration. You're not a good fit for administrative work. You have no respect for authority. Look at you in that getup you're wearing. You can make it okay now but in four years you'll look like an old drag queen trying to be thirty again. You'll have to put a big mole on each cheek and dance and sing in the gay pride shows at the bars in New York. You've got money, go get it and make a try for a run.

Don't call me Morgan, it's Brenda Starr, Morgan said.

Where the hell do you get these names?

It's my name, born and raised with it, and don't you forget it. Actually Brenda Starr was a newspaper comic strip character back when Mary Worth was popular.

Who is Mary Worth? Stuart said.

You need to spend less time watching porn on the internet. So about my assets, I've got money for sure, it's offshore and as soon as I make a try for it they'll track me. Unless they already have someone watching my resources.

You think you're that important to them? Stuart said. They'll trail you with electronics. Satellites and shit like that. You know they can read the return address on your mail when you pick it up.

That's why I'm in here, Morgan said. He pulled out a hair brush from his purse, ran it through the blonde wig, removed a compact and applied lipstick. Nobody can see me from the sky.

Stuart nodded to the cameras in the corners of the room. They tap into those through a computer link. Probably have a deaf guy reading our lips right now.

Thanks, Morgan said. He ran a hand through his hair, fluffed it, and glanced at a camera without trying to.

What about your get away cash. Is it adequate?

I'm a bit short. I had a bad run of luck at the online poker tables. I'm down a shade over a million. I can pay it no problem, but then I'm broke.

Morgan couldn't believe it. He was cash broke and his bosses wanted him dead. That's what retirement meant in his business. He'd woke up to better mornings than this. Think Morgan. Come up with a plan. You're used to thinking on your feet, even with a gun to your head. You've done it before. Fall back while you grasp the gun wrist, pull the assassin down with you, wrench the gun free and shoot him. Gain the advantage.

Hey, didn't we meet at a real estate seminar in September, the man in a brown tweed sport coat and black slacks stopped beside Morgan on his way to the door.

Hey I'm dating this guy, Morgan said. He has a very quick temper, and a huge gun.

Sorry, the man said, instant alarm crossed his face and he walked out the door.

See, I've still got it, Morgan said. Never overdo the boobs, and add enough padding to the hips. Most of it is in the right curves. It cost me a fortune years ago to have all my hair removed with that damn electric needle. Thought I'd die scratching myself. Wore out my voice screaming. The key is the shaved down Adams apple though. Got it done in Paris. Had to drink milk shakes for a week after that surgery.

Yeah you're a knock-out all right Brenda, Stuart said. The guy is probably myopic and left his contacts on the bathroom counter this morning. I'm going for a refill, you want another? Morgan handed his cup to Stuart and watched him drag his left leg to the counter. You'd think there was something they could do for him besides fuse the knee and hip. It made him walk like that cowboy sidekick from an old TV western. Gunsmoke, that was it. Chester the deputy. Dennis Weaver. Morgan loved to watch the black and white television shows. There were special channels for that. The old westerns had quality, plot, intent, and not just manufactured star power and for-shit clichéd formats to hold them aloft. Didn't need a lot of tits either, except for the saloon queens. Oh that Amanda Blake.

Here, Stuart said, another cup of Starbuck's best, he handed Morgan his cup and dropped into the overstuffed chair. We could sit outside you know. It's a nice day.

It's never that nice, Morgan said. The windows are tinted, nobody could shoot us even with a sniper rifle. Morgan drank some coffee.

They wouldn't shoot you in a Starbucks for Christ's sake, Stuart said. You were about to tell me what you’re going to do about the problem. You know it isn't going to get better for you, the paranoid watching out for places where people might shoot you. It'll get worse, believe me. You'll drive yourself nuts trying to figure out where the bullet is coming from. You might as well go live in a cave in the Himalayas.

How would you know. Oh yeah, that's right, you're the broker for the deals. You know every target in the Western United States and where they’re buried. Okay, I'll tell you what I’m coming up with. You get to be my brainstorm bulletin board, push pins and sticky notes everyplace, and at the culmination of this session I will have a solid plan in place. Like I would tell you my actual plans. Did you forget you're one of them? You are part of administration Stuart. But I'll humor you into believing you're my buddy. I’m thinking there are two parts to this need assessment. Number one, money. But first I've got to tell you about the whales.

What whales?

Are you going to let me tell it. You interrupt a couple of more times and I'll shoot you myself, even if I don't get paid. Four people, or maybe five, they go out of San Francisco in a boat to find a whale that is reported as all tied up in a bunch of crab traps, towing them around, rope wrapped all around the whale. She'll probably die slowly. I'm listening to this tale on NPR. They find it, a guy gets into the water with the whale and works to free it, and the thing tries to beat him up with her fifteen foot flipper, or what ever the hell they call it...

A fluke, I think it’s called a fluke, Stuart said.

Okay, it’s a fluke. It's a fluke she didn't kill him with her flipper. But finally she calms down and they work hard to cut away all the crab gear. It takes hours.

Like this story, Stuart said.

Morgan put his hand inside his jacket and lifted an eyebrow.

Okay, I'll shut up. So the whale is free, what does it do, swim off, lead them to a secret undersea stash of gold and buy them a Bentley?

It swims off, Morgan said, and these people are whooping and high-fiving, then it comes back and nudges one of them in the chest. Three times. Holy shit, it goes around and nudges all the other people the same way. Huge whale gently bumping little people. I think this is a pretty good story, and I'm happy, but no, the announcer guy wants to know if the people thought the whale was saying thank you. Like maybe the whale was taught good manners as a whale child. Please and thank you for your krill. Why do animals always have to have the same motives as people. It's not fair to the animal.

Anthropomorphism, Stuart said. And she wasn't an animal. Whales are mammals, like us. Maybe it‘s like bumping fists.

Maybe in whale language, Morgan said, the thing was saying, ‘You may have cut out the rope and shit, but I could still push you all the way to China right now and you couldn't do a fucking thing about it little person’.

And that’s why you’re quitting the trade early? Stuart said, drank some coffee and waited. Are you the whale or the little people? I’m not making a connection here.

Hold on, I'm not finished. The announcer, he asks this expert on animal psychology, or some other worthless shitty branch of academia, if the whale was saying thank you. The guy says, ‘How would I know, I don‘t speak whale’. The analyst missed the message. In some circles the people might be heroes for cutting the whale loose, but the whale is the real hero because she could have killed them all and she spared them their piteous lives. Men are always intruding on the natural order of things.

Crab traps are natural, right? You never just get to the point do you? Stuart said. No wonder every woman ever lived with you couldn’t stay more than six months.

I’m not home much, not since Evelyn died. I just like fucking with you, that’s why the whale story. This isn’t part of my first plan, but you really want to know why I’m done killing people for a living?

Is this going to be another long story?

Short one, honestly, Morgan drank coffee, cleared his throat. I was out taking a walk, catching some rays, and I noticed a man across the street from me putting along in one of those three-wheeled electric things for cripples. He’s all hunched over, has long white hair and a beard. Looked like Santa Claus with cancer. There’s a plaid blanket over his lap, tartan I guess you’d call it, maybe he's Irish or Scotch or something, and there's a sack of groceries in a basket on the back of the thing.

I gotta piss again, Stuart said.

This will only take a minute. Two teens, maybe thirteen, white boys with baggy shorts pulled down low and macaroni arms poking out of tank tops, they step out from behind a hedge, one of them jumps onto the back of the cart and the other moves the old man’s hand off the go- forward button. I heard the boy on the back say very clear, ‘Give me your money Pops‘. Pops put his hand under the blanket and lifted out a revolver. No it's a hand-cannon. He put it over his shoulder and shot the kid on the back in the chest. Must have been a .44. Loud fucker. The kid flew off the back of the thing. Startled birds flew out of the trees. Pops looked forward, but the other kid ran around the side of the cart and is fleeing down the sidewalk. The old man spins the cart around, lifts the .44, turns his head to the side and spits a big stream of brown tobacco juice, turns back and nails the kid in the back at twenty-five yards. He tumbles and lands on his face, half in the street and half on the sidewalk. The old man slides the revolver away, turns the cart back around and starts on his merry way. Pops looked over at me, lifted just his left hand in a wave, and off he went.

I read about those two dead kids, Stuart said. The paper said it was gang-related.

The one-man crippled and crazy gang. But here’s the point. What’s the use in being a hired gun anymore when old men are gunning down thieves in the street. He could have let the second kid run but he made a point of killing him. Ruthless. By the way, I need the name of the guy that sold a large shipment of dope to a local dealer named Benny Max. You know the supplier's name, you can set up a deal for me.

Why and what for? Stuart said.

My neighbor, Hank, his daughter departed this earth after ingesting too much of that powder, or crystal, whatever they're doing nowadays. I want to take some money from the man that killed her. It'll be my nest egg to travel.

You’re going to steal cash from a major player in the drug underground?

A bailout, that’s the popular term these days. Financial bailout to save the world from the nemesis that is I. Besides, I'll be gone and he doesn't have the resources to track me.

I don’t know why I do these things for you, Stuart said, pulled a pen and notepad out of his pocket and wrote the information.

Because you care, Morgan said. And you're crazy about my long curly eye lashes. They're not fake you know.

Stuart gave him a slip of paper with the name and number on it.

So you’re leaving, Stuart said, finished his coffee and stood. Where you going? Money’s no problem. But they’ll find you, you’ll leave a trail of plane tickets, hotel bills, something. Some bimbo you bang in the restroom of a bar in Antigua will give you up for a hundred dollar bill.

Part of the second item in my new plan, Morgan said.

I can’t wait to hear it.

I’m walking, so no plane tickets, Morgan said, stood, smoothed the tailored poplin slacks to his round hips and tossed the rest of his coffee into the garbage can.

You’re nuts, Stuart said. You're not Jesus and you can't walk on water. I’m going to piss and go home. You want a ride?

No, I’m going to practice by walking home.

See you in the nuthouse, Stuart said. He dragged himself to the bathroom, pushed open the door and let it go, but it didn’t close right away.

Morgan walked into the bathroom, didn’t speak, pulled the Woodsman from his shoulder holster and shot Stuart in the eye socket as he turned around. The .22 round coughed out of a long silencer.

You didn’t think I’d tell you my plans and leave you alive did you, Morgan said, locked the door handle, walked out of the bathroom and closed the door. The shit would hit the fan now. Morgan didn't care, he'd been told retirement was eminent and he intended to do it his own way.

* * *

"The problem with identifying Morgan,

It's not the disguises so much,

but the way he wears them. No,

that's not quite right, he doesn't wear them at all,

he becomes them."

Mel Archer, FSN Regional Director

Chapter Two

Morgan filled the hummingbird feeder with a four-to-one solution. An elderly sprite friend of his called hummingbirds her little tweethearts. Corny, but nice. The phone rang.

You took care of Stuart? said the man with the voice like a wood rasp.

Dispatched is the current buzzword Archer, Morgan said. Like the trucking dispatcher sends the big rig to Maine, we send people to hell. No bill of lading needed. No signed invoice at the other end. Thank you for paying me in advance. I require something for a little hobby project of mine. A woman.

I don’t do that anymore, Archer said. Gave it up in Morocco in ninety-seven.

Not that kind of woman dipshit. I’m picking up a girlie-car this afternoon, I need a girlie to drive it. Twenty-one to twenty-five, blond or brown, ditsy will work too. In fact ditsy is required. Oh and she needs to be ready to earn a thousand dollars for a small risk.

That should be easy to locate, Archer said. When and where?

I need her at three-thirty, Morgan gave him the address of the used car dealer. Her name is going on the transaction for the vehicle and she can keep it if she wants. A thousand dollars and a car for a bonus.

Stick or automatic? Archer said.

What’s the difference?

One you have to push in the clutch thing and the other you don’t.

You‘re not cute enough for those kind of jokes Archer. It’s an automatic, so even a relatively bright gibbon could drive it with a few lessons. She’ll have a few lines to say at the dealer.

I’ll have her there at the time you say, Archer said. Send me another thousand for brokering it.

You can take a grand out of the second half you’re paying me for Stuart, Morgan said. Put the money is the usual account in Singapore. I’ll need the woman there a few minutes early so I can brief her. Tell her I'll be in an old brown Honda Accord, '96', in the lot next to the car dealer. Thanks Arch.

I heard you’re leaving, Archer said.

You heard bullshit, Morgan said. I made that up to keep Stuart interested long enough to set him up for the deed. Let it go. So you were listening to us at the coffee shop. I'd rather you let me know that in advance so I don't say anything might be incriminating. I could accidentally digress about your fat belly and incipiently stupid wife.

Incipient is out of context. She’s full blown stupid. It's easier to read your lips when you wear lipstick. The red is easier than the pink. Just wanted to be sure you weren't skipping out, and you couldn't say anything incriminating. You kill people for a living, what's more incriminating than that. Film at eleven. See ya.

* * *

Talking to Archer always made Morgan feel like he'd just read a cheap hometown newspaper. You got the story, but missed everything that occurred behind the scenes. You were supposed to already know it because you knew all the players. Archer wasn’t afraid Morgan would leave town, but feared he might come for him next. Archer thought he was well insulated, tucked away behind security in a small group of offices in an industrial district building on the waterfront in Sacramento. Morgan could locate him if he wanted, set up the contact, make the hit. So far nobody had offered him enough cash to remove Archer.

He made hits, they paid him, the victims were numbers and no more. He’d always remember number one. The look of recognition in the eyes of the victim before fear blanketed that emotional response. It wasn’t that the kill recognized Morgan, but he came face to face with his own mortality and it wore Morgan’s image. People wonder what death looked like, and Morgan wondered if they saw a demon face, or an angel. Recognition stimulated fear, and fear drove action/reaction. Fight or flight. So Morgan never allowed his hit to go beyond recognition before he put them down.

In ‘93’ he sat in a hashish bar in Pakistan with a marine sniper and listened while the marine unburdened himself before he drowned in the desensitizing pool of narcotic smoke. The hash was stuck together with raw opium.

Snipers believe they are patriots, he had said while he watched transfixed as the attendant fill the bowl of the water pipe. I do it for freedom, that's the indoctrination dogma talking. The red, white, and blue, God and country, to keep the folks back home safe from terrorism and full of apple pie. It’s all bullshit to mask the notches on the rifle butt as targets of evil completed, not people murdered. The notches don’t eat, drink, shit, or make love to procreate or not. A notch can’t laugh, have children, cry at weddings. They’re a number, and when they die the number is erased. The problem, what draws me here to smoke opium laced hash, is for an instant as my finger tightens on the trigger and takes in the slack I can see the face at the final moment when the bullet leaves the weapon. I wonder what his last thought might be. Got to pick up toilet paper on the way home, or maybe the boss is a fucking prick and I need to tell him off. But I never watch to see it hit because then it would be a person that died. The brass tell me I did good, every once in a while I get a medal and a promotion, they give me a little time off so I can come here, and in a week I‘ll have another assignment.

The attendant lit the bowl and the sniper sucked hard to get the visionary smoke into whatever he called a soul.

If you start crying, I’m going to shoot you, Morgan said to him, kicked over the water pipe and walked out.

* * *

Sanchez-Rivera, Morgan said into the phone. Time to put the money plan into action mode.

Nobody here by that name, the voice said.

You have a nice accent, Morgan said in Spanish. Is that Bolivian, or are you from Ecuador.

I don’t know if that’s your business.

You have a pretty good memory?

Why do you want to know?

Because if you don’t you’re not going to remember what I tell you. If you mess it up, even one small detail, then the message gets mistakenly interpreted. I think your boss would look on you in an unkindly manner if you screw up the message. He might send you back to Honduras. Tell him I’m Stuart’s broker now. My name is Morgan. You want to repeat it back to me or have you got it.

I got it. I’ll call you back.

Morgan didn't need to give the man his number. Caller ID was convenient that way. He nuked a cup of coffee, ate a slice of cold roast beef with dill relish, and answered the phone when it rang ten minutes later.

Morgan, right? Hispanic accent, now definitely Mexican.

I suppose, but only if you’re the man I called for earlier.

I am. Okay Stuart’s dead, why should I trust you?

Because I’m the man with the goods now, Morgan said. You had a deal with Stuart. He provided a dispatch for you and the recipient has some product you want. So you pay Stuart for the service and the product. Am I correct on this?

You got everything right but the price, Sanchez-Rivera said. So far I hear zero and I like those figures.

Put four of those zeroes on the end of twenty-five and you have the figure I expect.

A quarter of a million is a lot.

Only about four pounds if it’s in hundreds, Morgan said. Twenty-five stacks of ten thousand each. A skinny little briefcase, a child’s backpack. You choose the delivery system. But I want you there with the package.

I don’t do work in the field anymore.

Of course you don’t Jeffe. That’s why I want you now. Nobody you can send to do it will complete the task the way it must be done, perfectly. You bring the balance of Yin to my Yang.

You talk too much, Sanchez-Rivera said.

But I make sense don’t I. I will see you then, in what kind of car, wearing what?

When and where? Sanchez-Rivera said.

Liberty Park, the parking lot behind the grandstand they’re rebuilding, about six-thirty, after the workmen have all gone home. We’ll do it this way. I have an associate coming in her little red convertible. Some kind of Chevy thing. You’ll give her the money, she’ll count it then she opens the trunk with the little latch thingy inside the car. You go to the trunk and remove the product and leave.

Sounds easy enough, Sanchez-Rivera said. I’ll be in a silver Lincoln, wearing a white shirt, dark slacks. You want to know my shoe style?

Nope, that’ll do. I’ll be within throwing distance from the deal with a scope sighted in on you. That’s throwing distance for a .243 traveling 3,200 feet per second. I can quickly shoot you, and the guy in the car you came from if you have a driver, so don’t get any cute ideas about harming my delectable assistant.

I’ll drive. And I trust you through all of this because?

Because I’m the guy holding something you desire and I gave you all the right names and situations. Some places I travel that’s called a code of ethics. Six-thirty, Liberty Park. See ya.

* * *

Cherry Vermillion hopped off the bus a block from the address her boss at the Wild Stallion dance club gave her. She hated the bus, but on her salary plus tips she could barely keep up with the child care for little Darcy, plus rent and utilities. Towards the end of every month, she brought a lot of food home from work to tide them over until the state put the next installment on their food stamp card.

Cherry quickly walked the block to the address. ‘Art’s Car Mart’, the big red letters on the white banner attached to the top of the mobile home office read. She looked for the brown Honda and saw it at the front of the lot next door. 'The Derby Bar and Grill'. Had a hat on the rooftop. She’d had a few dates take her there for dinner and drinks. The guy in the car didn’t look too bad. Not like some of the men her boss set her up with. She could usually tell what they’d smell like when she first saw them. A lot of them wore that cheap musk scent that made them smell like a wolf that hadn’t bathed in a week. This guy looked like he’d smell like coffee and cinnamon.

She walked to the driver’s side and looked inside. He might be tall, kind of dark like he went someplace the sun shined more than a couple of times a month. She noticed his long brown hair had red highlights. It would look amazing on a woman. She was pleased he didn't wear one of those tough-guy goatee things. In fact he didn’t seem to have any facial hair. He motioned her around to the passenger side of the car and one look in his green-gray eyes as she slid into the car told her he wouldn’t be asking her to go home and have afternoon sex. Those eyes gave up nothing. Not cold exactly, just void of emotion. A flashing ‘Vacancy’ sign on a cheap motel. His thick lips had never smiled often, the smile lines barely etched his cheeks.

She put out her hand, Cherry Vermillion, she said.

He took her hand into his cool, dry palm, lightly shook it, and quickly released it.

Your name for real, or were you asked to change it before you went to work for a living.

My dad’s name really, she said. He told me some old western cowboy had the same name last name.

Rode with Wyatt Earp and his immortals on the great hunt for the gang shot up Earp’s brothers. Wyatt Earp's immortals. Hard to kill them you see. Jack Vermillion I think was his name. Doesn’t matter. You’re going to buy a car Cherry. You did bring a driver’s license didn’t you?

Yep, right here, she held up her small sequined clutch purse. Sam, that’s my boss, he said something about keeping the car when we’re done.

That’s right. You’re going to be a go-between in a transaction.

Nothing illegal I hope, she said.

Probably, Morgan said. Would this be the first time in your life you did something illegal? Ever knowingly talk on a cell phone while driving. Steal something small from work. Smoke weed or pop pills you didn’t have a prescription for?

Will I get caught and sent to jail? Cherry said. I have a kid to take care of you know.

Here’s what I expect, Morgan said. I’ll tell you what will happen, you will do the deed, get paid, and we’ll part acquaintances but not friends. You may call me Teddy, like in the bear. Teddy Ponders. No more questions. This will not endanger your relationship with your child. If you are arrested, I‘ll get you the best lawyer in the county and have you bailed out in thirty minutes or less.

Okay Teddy, I’m ready. She felt nervous. That rhymes, she laughed.

She thought there was something about Teddy, an animal thing, like when you’re sitting in a living room with a big vicious dog and the owner says he’s real friendly but you just know he’s going to bite you, you just don’t know when.

Morgan reached inside his jacket and removed a small white envelope.

Eleven hundred bucks in hundreds, he said. It’s two hundred less than they’re asking for the car. You’ll tell him you’ll give him nine hundred, and he’ll say twelve. You’ll go up to a thousand, and he’ll take it or go eleven hundred. Easy as bartering for underage girls in Bangkok. Anything under eleven, you keep the change. Ready?

Anytime, she said and opened the door. Shall I come over here when I’m done?

No. Come to 'Biggy Burger' at six-ten. I won’t be in this car, but if you park anywhere in the lot I’ll come find you.

Okay, Cherry said. And thank you, I think.

That’s a good way to keep it girl. Don’t ever make a commitment you don’t have to or haven’t been paid what you're worth to make. See you in a couple of hours.

* * *

Cherry drove the convertible into Liberty Park, down the driveway between the flowering plum trees. What a beautiful sight on a nice warm day, the top down on her little car. She wished she could have brought Darcy with her. They could go play on the slides and swings. Darcy loved the swings the best. Cherry had an extra ninety dollars in her pocket from the car deal so they could have burgers and shakes afterward. As it was she would only have enough time to go home and change for work tonight.

Cherry navigated through the parking lots, around the petting zoo, past the pool and across the parking lot to the grandstands. Scaffolding surrounded the framework of the seating area around the football and soccer field, but no workmen clambered on it at this time of day. One car, some big silver thing with four doors and tinted windows, sat close to the grandstand entrance. When she pulled up beside it, leaving plenty of room as Teddy had explained, a big man came out of the car as she turned off the engine.

His dark hair gleamed with oil, a contrast to the white shirt, open at the neck, a gold cross dangled from a thin gold chain on his tanned hairless chest..

Miss Densmore? the man said.

Julio? she replied. Make it sound like a question. Code, that’s what Teddy said it would be. And don’t say anything else to the man. Do not adlib. Follow the script.

Here’s the package, he said and handed her a Barbie backpack, all pink and yellow with flowers that had Barbie and her friends faces on them. Cherry knew if she could take it home with her Darcy would adore it.

Cherry took the pack, opened the zipper on top and stared at all the money inside for a moment, lost in thought about what she could do with her life if it were all hers.

Miss? the man said, and brought her out of her fantasy.

She began to remove the packets, all banded in ten thousand dollar blocks, and flipped through the money as Teddy had instructed her, making sure the packet contained all bills and no blank paper. When she got to twenty-five the backpack was empty, she put all the money back inside and zippered it before she pulled the latch to release the trunk lid. She caught a look from Julio that said she would not survive after he got what he came for from the trunk. Cherry shivered in spite of the warm sun that touched her shoulders, the chill defined her mortality.

Sanchez-Rivera lifted the trunk, Morgan pointed