MJ 7A: Case of the Little Death Pt 1

"I'll make you a deal, Mr. Hamm. If we leave in the morning, you and I me, and follow this up, I will finance it all with the understanding this is a new agreement. The fifty thousand is between you and Luis, this is between you and I. I pay all expenses and if we find Finnegan I'll give you two hundred thousand to never mention it to Mr. Gonzales."

He sat back and blinked. "How do I know you're good for it?"

"The same way I know you're good."

He smiled. "All right."

"Be here, nine a.m. and I'll take care of the rest." I stood then and stubbed out the cigarette on my plate, my appetite dead. He rose with me but opened his briefcase on the table and pulled out a printout of a digital photo.

"This was taken four days ago in a small town south of Santiago." Hamm passed it to me and shock rolled over me again.

The photo was unmistakably Finn. Tall and rangy he was thinner, just as I was. I supposed life on the run meant hunger no matter how much money you had. He was tanned, his hair, last worn long, was cut brutally short into a buzzcut and he head a small trimmed beard.

He wore aviator sunglasses and his crooked smile, his green tank top showing off those tattoos he was too stupid to cover. His arm was thrown around a young woman with the clothes and bearing of a whore and they were standing next to an open air jeep. Maybe I would kill him for fun.

"Wait here," I said and set the paper down on the table.

I left him and walked upstairs to my bedroom, removed the Miro print above the never-used fireplace and opened the safe. I counted out $10,000 U.S. and brought it back down bundled in hundreds by a bank.

"Here, this is a free one-time payment to never ever mention this picture to my husband. Be here at nine sharp."

He took the cash and put it in the case, locked it tight, then pulled it and straightened his suit.

I walked him to the door and opened it. "Wear casual clothes tomorrow, but nothing touristy."

He nodded and I watched him walk out the door. When he disappeared into the fog I went inside, took the photo to the white-enameled sink, and lit it on fire. When the flames licked towards my hand I dropped it and watched it burn to ashes.

***

Not to malign other cultures, but in counties that had not experienced 9/11 and had governments less paranoid, stupidly so in many cases, it was easier to get a gun onto a plane.

I'd risen early, called in to work to take a week's vacation, left a voicemail on Luis' phone that I was going to a spa with my one friend from work, a Canadian national named Tiffney. Then I went shopping and paid cash for casual clothes, nothing white.

At nine Hamm arrived in worn jeans, dusty combat boots, and a t-shirt that looked like he wore it at the gym the pit stains were so fixed.

I didn't ask how, but his short blonde hair was now pulled back into a ponytail and long. Which was the wig I couldn't say.

I hadn't straightened my hair the way Luis like, left it to its natural wave but kept it black and I myself wore a plain blue long sleeved t-short and crisp dark jeans above cheap sneakers. I sported drug store sunglasses and plastic earrings, a far cry from the uniform my husband demanded.

"Our tickets are waiting. Let's walk and catch a cab,' I said by way of greeting.

We walked two miles away and found a taxi to the airport. I'd given them his name and for me one of the ones I'd brought from America that had sat unused in the safe.

The flight to Santiago was quick and we barely spoke, preferring both to read. He had a novel in German and I stuck to the crappy in flight Spanish language magazines.

We touched down and had a quick meal in the airport before renting a car under my name. Only once inside it did we finally talk.

"Where am I going?"

"Small settlement outside Molina." He passed me the directions written in a small notebook in precise, exact handwriting in English.

These days I not only spoke Spanish, I found myself thinking in it so English was a bit jarring, but I shifted into first and directed the ancient Chevy towards the highway.

He'd come prepared, the stereo was so old it took cassette tapes, and he popped in one that began to blare Iron Maiden. Harder rock than I liked he was bobbing his head so I only turned it down slightly and concentrated on driving.

We had a 4 hour drive ahead of us and the thought was depressing as we made our slow way through traffic in the big city. I lit a cigarette and rolled down the window.

"So how did you find Finn?"

Hamm pulled out his own pack of cigarettes and motioned for my lighter. I passed it over and he lit up before replying, passing the plastic lighter back. "He'd been hitting Javier operations and was injured. So I made a list of doctors I could find that were good, took cash, were discreet, near Javier operations, but didn't work for the family."

Smart, damn smart, I thought but just nodded. "It lead to the last hit at Rancuga. Finnegan made off with two million pesos and the next place he could head to is Molina. He has about two weeks between hits and we're three days from the next.

"I sent a man there and he got the photograph. Finnegan is hiding out in a small house, run by a local man name Castillo. He's not with the Javier family, runs woman, guns, local protection rackets. Finnegan sometimes hires local help for a cut."

Hamm was good. Smart for his age, which I estimated to be just under thirty.

"So how friendly is this Castillo?"

"Not very, runs a gang mostly of the bastards spawned by his women. The plan was to rent a room, make some noise about opening up a business. He'd send a man around to get me for a meeting. Once inside Castillo's I plan to get Finnegan."

"Would I make a good prospective business partner?"

Hamm shook his head. "This is a world where women are objects. I'm sorry for that, Mrs. Gonzales."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you know who I am. Call me Marly, no one else does and I miss it."

"Then call me Erik."

That was all we said until we stopped for a late lunch. We stopped at a dingy little roadside diner and I had the Costillar de Chanco, baked spare ribs, and Hamm had Empanada di Pino, which admittedly to me sounded gross containing not only meat onions and olives, but raisins and hard boiled eggs. We shared a small bottle of good wine and freshened up in the rest room before leaving.

Driving Highway 5 was an alien experience compared to much of the U.S. road system. No billboards, almost no tourist traps, just open scenery. No speed traps or patrols, lots of old cars, and people didn't drive like Americans who seemed to think every road was a Nascar race.

Hamm showed hidden depths when we switched from Iron Maiden to The Who. When "Eminence Front" came on I just lit another cigarette and tried not react.

We made Molina by dinnertime and decided the best place to start was another diner. I was full of meat and got a large empanada with cheese, and Hamm opted for a large bowl of chicken soup. Some recipes barely changed from one country to the next and wended up sharing, creating the Chilean equivalent to a grilled cheese and soup.

Loudly we discussed settling there and opening up a business, but we kept the nature vague, even asking the tired waitress about good land outside of town. Obligingly she passed us a business card that identified Hector Castillo as a realtor.

She also directed us to a small hotel nearby and when we arrived it was what I would have called a B&B; Hamm called it a filthy hostel for suckers. It was a small yellow house with a living room hastily converted to an office with a folding table and chair as a front desk.

We paid forty pesos for the one room and found the master bedroom was it. Two other bedrooms had bunk beds and toys to match the kids playing noisily outside, the fourth had a double bed and was where the owners, two short, fat, but friendly people, slept.

We unpacked and the wife, Mrs. Flores offered us drinks on the porch. We accepted and sat on the cracked wooden bench drinking tequila and orange juice from plastic cups watching the lovely view of a dusty yard and the drive.

It took an hour but soon an old Buick with chrome rims and a booming bass pulled up. A young man in expensive sneakers, shorts, and a t-short with some Japanese cartoon on emerged. "You the German?" He asked Hamm by way of greeting.

Hamm slid me his empty cup and stood, surreptitiously checking the gun at his back.

"Ja."

The young man spit. "Habla espanol?"

"Pequino, my English is better,' Hamm replied, stepping down.

"Mr. Castillo wants to meet you, heard you're looking for land," the boy said in perfect English with barely an accent deviation from American. "Come with me," he said, still leaning on the driver's side door.

"I'll have him back in two hours," he finally acknowledged me.

I pretended to barely understand and slowly nodded.

He gave me a pausing look and then got in to unlock the passenger side for Hamm who raised an eyebrow, confused by my action. I watched them pull back out towards the road and hoped my ploy had worked.

When they were gone, I went back inside to check my own guns, and waited.

***

Everyone else was asleep so I waited on the ancient swing set. It was too low for me to swing, made for a child and not a woman with a high center of gravity like me, so I just kicked at the dust.

Night had completely fallen and it barely cooled the dry hot summer weather. I still wasn't used to this in January and had overdressed so pushed my sleeves up and turned my head into the slight wind. That's when I heard the crunch of gravel and stood quickly, drawing my gun.

He was there, in the flesh. Michael Finnegan. Thin, bearded, but it was him all right. The shocked look in those blue eyes reflected my own surprise.

"You look so different," he said softly.

"You need to cover those tattoos," I replied.

He smiled. "Going to shoot me?"

"Maybe. I'd like some answers first."

He nodded and stepped closer, fully into the dim light off the garage. "And I'd like some too, but if I'm going to die I suppose it doesn't matter much."

"Don't suppose it does."

"Why don't we walk to that picnic table, sit down. Keep the gun on the seat next to you if you like, but let's have a smoke."

I eyed the table and thought. He smiled wider. "Doesn't every condemned man get a last request?"

I snorted. If Finn were facing a firing squad his last request would be a hot brunette who was good with knots and liked pole dancing.

"You first," I motioned with the gun, trained on his chest.

He kept his hands slightly up and turned his back on me, unaffected by the gun and walked to the table. He slung those long legs over the fixed seat and sat down.

I followed and perched on the edge of the opposite seat so I could stand faster if I needed. I kept the gun by me, safety off, and fished out my smokes from my pocket.

He never had his own, always bummed off me so I lit one and passed it to him. I was bound and determined to ignore she shiver that the brush of our fingers brought on and quickly pulled out another and lit it.

"Start with the day you walked out of my office with two promises and a million in cash."

"You heard Bowers was missing a month later, right?"

I'd heard later, the FBI had kept quiet, but I just nodded and ashed on the ground.

"I stole a car and drove all night to Miami. It took a couple of weeks but I found the house where Bowers was stashed. It was guarded by US Marshals, the bastard was in the witness protection program."

I shifted, peering close to see if he showed any of his tells. It seemed to be the truth so I just nodded and he continued.

"I went there one night two weeks later when I figured out the guard schedule. I went there to kill Bowers just as we agreed, but I wasn't alone.

"Another man was there to kill him, and I recognized him. Fucker pulled his gun on me and I shot him defense. Harold Smith."

My heart began pounding. The triggerman who'd killed Eddie Harwood, setting me up to take the blame, had presented himself to Finn and a good many others as a cop named Harold Smith.

Finn nodded. "I didn't intend to kill him but when an assassin squeezes the trigger you don't think. I blew it; I killed him, and the marshals came running. I had to run.

"I stuck around long enough to read they never ID'd him and it was an open case. I waited for another chance but the marshals were moving Bowers. Interestingly enough he ditched them at the airport. I found out he was going to Venezuela but I didn't dare call you or Carlos or anyone. I went down there and set about finding him.

"My break came when I asked around where to buy a gun. The Name Juanita Gonzales came up and I remembered she was Carlos' cousin, so I went to see her. She sold me a good ID and a gun and told me Bowers had been there asking about Javier operations.

"Seems Bowers has a hard-on for ripping off the Javiers."

"Seems he's not alone. You've picked up a new kink, Finn."

"It's Marty Smith now," he grinned at that, "and I'll explain that in a moment. Apparently he needed cash and after asking around found out he was collecting information on Javier operations that were high cash yet vulnerable. With Alejandro dead and all his generals in the U.S. the entire operation was weak, a perfect target.

"I met up with Bowers one night and it was a shoot out. I got hit in the leg and he got away. I went to Juanita for help, she used to be a nurse, but it got infected, pretty bad. I went to a hospital but one night saw Bowers on the floor so I left.

"Juanita cared for me for two months I spent delirious in her spare bedroom half out of my mind and fighting fever. When I came to I tried to call you but to my surprise you'd vanished into thin air."

I shrugged noncommittally and took another puff.

So did he. "Shortly after I woke up to find the remaining nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars gone along with Juanita's guns and other supplies. I split myself and with no recourse, decided to flush Bowers out."

I smiled. "So hitting the Javier operations is waving a red flag in his face."

Finn nodded. "I've been on the move, doing it ever since. I don't cover that tattoos because I'm not hiding; I want to be found. Worked with you, didn't it?"

"Only because Hamm pieced it together. I won't bore you with detective jargon." I stubbed my cigarette out on the table an stretched, ignoring the way his eyes followed the movement.

He took one last puff. "My turn. So that rock and ring on your hand...this guy Hamm, is it a cover?"

"Hamm's a P.I. I met yesterday. My husband hired him."

Finn went deadly still, like a night predator. "Husband?"

"The man I loved disappeared with my safety fund and left me twisting in the wind on two murder charges, facing three more and drug and robbery charges. I went to someone for help and that's how I began a new life. He became part of it.

"Did you think I was waiting for you, pining for you?"

"Yeah." He narrowed his eyes.

I snorted again. "Fat chance."

"Do you love him?"

"Yes."

"Do you love him as much as you love me?"

"Loved, past-tense, Finn."

Now he snorted. "Give me privacy and five minutes, then say that."

I raised a brow. "If it lasted longer than five minutes, maybe." It was a low blow. When it came to sex Finn didn't have any worries on that score, but I was backpedaling. The gun was teasingly close but then I remembered the kids upstairs and swore under my breath.

"Aren't you going to ask about Harold Smith?"

"I thought he was a dead issue."

Finn grinned wider. "You've gotten more hard-boiled in the years."

"Working with tourists will do that," I quipped and pulled out another cigarette.

"I found out who hired Harold Smith, in other words who set you up."

"Neat trick, that." Suddenly lights turned into the long drive and he scrambled off the fixed bench. "Meet me tomorrow at noon, the bridge over the river, street is K-12-J. Come alone."

I glanced and realized it was Hamm and the kid. "Fine."

Finn began stalking off to the shallow woods and stopped. "Who'd you marry?"

I stood and tucked then in my front, dropping my shirt over it. "Luis Javier."

I turned and didn't even look back to see how he took the news.

***

Hamm was let go and nodded to the boy who backed out. "Well?"

"Why didn't you show you spoke English? My cover was you're my wife. Strange you wouldn't speak English yet I do."

"Thought perhaps I spoke German," I replied, lying. I knew when word got back there was a tall woman who didn't seem to fit with Hamm Finn might take notice, and indeed he did.

"How did it go?"

"Can I take a drag?"

I nodded and passed him the cigarette. "Finish it, I've had enough for now."

"Thanks. No sign of Finn but I dropped enough hints. Mostly talked business, I went with a story about a real hotel running tourism trips. He bought it but I should probably skip town by nightfall tomorrow or he'll want real cash."

"I can swing some. Let's just wait and see what the day brings."

He took the last drag. "You know your husband has a lot of lovers, right?"

I sighed. "You wanna fuck me?"

He stared at me like I'd announced I was the new president of Chile, then slowly nodded.

I stepped closer and cupper his crotch. He was flying at half mast and decently sized. "All right, let's go inside." I started walking back to the house.

He flicked the butt. "That easy?"

I looked over my shoulder. "You sure seem so."

He laughed and followed me in.

In the bedroom I made him strip for me. He had a decent body, not gym honed, not too skinny, not fat. Average, something I hadn't had in a while and it was nice. He had a golden tone all over that matched the hair and complimented his green eyes.

I leaned against the queen size bed and eyed him up and down. Decent dick, nice smile, good hands. Christ when had I become so detached?

When you stopped being you, a distant voice said in my head. I squelched it and stood up. "C'mere."

He was only an inch taller than me, handy when no one had to bend a neck to kiss. His kiss was soft, his lower lip plush, and he didn't touch me.

My body came alive. Luis was a good lover but had hardcore kinks that never took a day off. He liked pure cleanliness and total control. No pain, nothing rough, but total control.

I liked it rough more often than not and I didn't mind submitting so long as at some point I got to call the shots. With Luis I never did and that's why my other lovers were few and far between. In a machismo culture finding a man who got off on being treated like a glorified sex toy was surprisingly rare.

I grabbed the back of his head and discovered the ponytail was real. I grabbed his ass and it was firm.

"On the bed," I said when we pulled back.

He pulled down the bedspread and sat after tossing a condom onto the nightstand. I dumped my gun on the dresser and ignored the raised eyebrow, then stripped efficiently. He turned on the bedside lamp so when naked I turned off the overhead.

It was kind of a surprise, I found as I straddled his stomach, that for once I was the dark one and he was the pale one. A little fantasy of being an Amazon with a capture began to fill my head.

I leaned down, gripping the headboard and he didn't need any more urging. His hands came up to cup my breasts, merely holding them aloft for his mouth.

Closing my eyes, I arched my back and he teased me with hot breath and cool lips. Only when I growled slightly did I feel his tongue circle my nipples.

I moaned and, encouraged, he began to suck. "Harder," I breathed out and his teeth joined.

I began to skid my wet pussy along his stomach, teasing myself as he got rougher and rougher with the bites. I leaned on hand back and grabbed his dick, stroking it roughly.