Killerfest (2 page)

“Thank you,”
Arhaut said. 

“Challah
Akbar!,” the waiter shouted in reply and plunged the empty skewer so forcibly
into Arhaut’s throat it came out the back of his neck.

Arhaut made a
sound somewhere between a gurgle and a burp. As he toppled backwards amid a
cacophony of female screams, his arterial blood spurted upwards, most of it
landing on the $2,500 off-white Tadashi cocktail dress Buffy Wells had
purchased just for the occasion.

After another
thunderous “Challah Akbar!”, the waiter sprinted out a side door and jumped
into a nondescript black van.

***

“Did you
remember to shout the phrase?”

The waiter was
in the back of the van stripping off his uniform and peeling the fake moustache
from above his lip.

“Yes, yes.
Twice. ‘Challah Akbar, Challah Akbar.’ How many times you going to tell me. I
don’t even know what it means.”

The driver
shook her head. Challah fucking Akbar! Jesus. The idiot shouted that Jewish
bread is great! Well, what can you expect? Good help is hard to find. It would
take more than a novelty-store mustache to turn a dumb Ukrainian into a Muslim
terrorist. Hopefully, no one in the Waspish country club was paying attention.
After all, a man was being skewered to death.

The ex-waiter
was now down to his underwear.

“Where are my
other clothes?”

“In the other
car I rented. I want to switch out of this van. Someone might have called it
in. Put those clothes in that bag and just sit there. It’s only a couple of
miles.”

“And the rest
of my money?”

“With your
clothes.”

She could feel
his hot breath on her neck. She pulled the van down a side road heavily
canopied with trees.

“You know,
baby,” he said, “I could give you a little of my cut if you do the right thing
for me. We have time. It’s deserted around here. Nobody will bother us. Plenty
of room back here. I know you been wanting to.”

Vendela Noss
reached a hand back and stroked his crotch. She could feel his erection. The
murder had made him horny. She’d seen it before in other men. And she knew the
response wasn’t restricted to men alone. She occasionally became “wet” after a
job she did herself.

“You be a good
boy and sit back,” she purred. “This may be your lucky day.”

He did as he
was told, chucking softly. This was one crazy broad, he knew, but she was
goddamn gorgeous. He’d been hot for her since the first day. He couldn’t wait
to get his hands in her flowing red hair. He wondered if she was a natural
redhead. Well, he’d soon find out. Of course, a lot of them shaved down there
now. Got a Venezuelan or whatever they called it. That thought further inflamed
him.

Noss pulled
the van into a small cutoff next to another car and got out.

“Where are you
going?”

“To get your
clothes and your money,” she said, “and some condoms. Why don’t you get out of
your underwear?”

Condoms? Plural.
The man ripped off the rest of his clothes. He lay down and smiled at the roof,
slowly stroking his erect penis. He heard the trunk of the rental car open. A
moment later the rear doors of the van flew wide. He sat up. The woman smiled
at him. She had a paper bag in her hand. It looked heavy. How many condoms did
she have, he thought. Her eyes went to his groin.

“My God,” she
said. “That’s really impressive. Perhaps I should have rented a bigger van.”

The man
laughed.

“I hope you
brought a lot of rubbers, baby, extra-large” he said, eying the bag. “As you
can see, I’m ready to explode.”

“Glad to
oblige,” Noss said.

She pulled off
her wig and tossed it to the man. He looked at her uncertainly but then smiled.
He put the wig on his penis.

“How do I look,”
he said.

“Hot,” Noss
said. “And about to get hotter.”

She reached
into the bag and came out with a canister and flipped it to the man, who
reflexively caught it.

“Challah
Akbar, yourself,” she said, slamming the van doors closed.

The man looked
at the canister, which was hissing slightly, and saw the word PHOSPHOROUS just
as it detonated.

Outside, Noss
calmly walked to her rental car. Behind her she heard a popping sound, then a
whoosh, followed by unearthly howls of agony. She lit a cigarette. She sat in
her car until the horrible screams died down. White fireballs of phosphorous
shot out of the van as it turned into a Roman candle. Its windows started
cracking and the side of the vehicle warped in the heat. She knew it was
unprofessional, not to say, uncharitable, but she started to laugh. She
couldn’t help it. Her last view of the man was of him, with a quizzical look on
his face, holding a smoking grenade just above his wig-covered erect member.

“Another shish
kebob,” she said out loud. “Oh, Vendela, get a hold of yourself.”

Still
chuckling, Noss started her car and drove away. She was a quarter mile down the
road when she heard a loud “whomp!” as the van’s gas tank ignited. Fortunately,
it had been a rainy week and the ground was still soaked. She certainly didn’t
want to start a forest fire. Glancing in her rear view mirror, Noss could see a
glow. Momentarily distracted, she had to swerve to miss a car going in the
opposite direction.

CHAPTER 2
–
INFIDEL DOG

One Month
Later – New York City

“I’m moving to
Europe,” Emma Shields stated matter-of-factly once she’d gotten her breathing
under control.

“I hope it’s
not out of disappointment,” Scarne said, also somewhat breathlessly.

She laughed
and looked down at Scarne, whom she was still straddling.

“I’m serious,
Jake. Daddy wants me to oversee our French and German newspaper and cable
operations. Then he’ll probably send me to China for a spell.”

Scarne thought
it was a ridiculous conversation to have just after a bout of particularly
energetic sex, but these days Emma always seemed to have half her mind on the
multibillion-dollar family media empire.

“How long will
you be gone?”

“At least six
months, maybe as long as a year.”

Scarne
carefully didn’t suggest that he could always visit her. That would have to
come from her. Their relationship had deepened past its original physical
components, but certainly not to the point of commitment. After her recent
experience with a man who wanted to marry her but settled for trying to throw
her off a building, she was not looking for love. Sex, yes, but that was it.
Scarne knew that he wasn’t her only animal outlet. She was playing the field.
In her case, the field included yachts, private jets, secluded islands and men
with bank accounts with more than one comma between the zeroes.

“What about
Becky?”

Rebecca was
Emma’s daughter from her only marriage, which ended a few years earlier with
the death of her husband from cancer.

“She’s upstate
at camp near Hyde Park. I’ll put her in a school in Switzerland. It will be an
adventure. Then we’ll play it by ear.”

“Could be
tough on a kid her age.”

“I’m doing
this for her. She’s a Shields. She’s rich. She’ll adapt.” 

“It sounds as
if Randolph is grooming you to take over Shields Inc.,” Scarne said.

Emma wiggled
her hips and sighed with pleasure, but then got back on point.

“I guess I’m
as much at home in the boardroom as the bedroom,” she said. “But I think my
father has another agenda. He always does.”

“And that is
what?”

“He wants me
as far away from you as possible.”

Scarne felt
the twinge of annoyance that always surfaced when he realized someone was
trying to manipulate his life.

“And how do
you feel about that?”

“Probably the
same as you, Jake. It may be time for a temporary break. But you must think I’m
a cold, heartless bitch.”

Scarne ran his
hands across her breasts, still mottled red from her recent climax.

“You feel
pretty warm to me.”

“You know what
I mean. You saved my life.” She paused. “Wait. Did you just agree with me about
the heartless bitch part?”

“Hey,” Scarne
said. “It’s not an insult.” He leaned up to kiss a nipple. It hardened in his
mouth. “Why do you think your father thinks you have the ovaries to run the
Shields empire?”

“What kind of
woman leaves the man she owes so much?”

Scarne noted
that she had not said “loved so much.” He didn’t know whether to feel regret or
relief.

“Listen, Emma,
if every damsel in distress I saved from a madman thought they owed me
something, I’d never get any rest. I’m only human.”

“Oh, go fuck
yourself.”

“Looks like I
may have to.”

Emerald
Shields laughed and began moving her hips.

“Well, not
right away. I don’t leave for a week. Let me give you something to remember me
by.”

***

Emma was
sitting on the edge of Scarne’s bed looking out the window across Fifth Avenue
when he came out of the shower wearing a towel. She was still naked but had
pulled a sheet across her front.

“I can see
right into that building across the street,” she said. “There’s a man working
at a table.”

“It’s a design
studio.”

“My point is,
can they see us just as clearly?”

Possibly. I
think he gave me a thumbs up. He might be drawing a picture of your recent
activities.”

“Jesus. What
must they think?”

“Based on your
performance during the last hour, probably that I have a trampoline.”

Emma colored.

“I’m serious.”

Scarne kissed
her forehead.

“Take your
shower, honey. I’m hungry. Let’s go over to Babbo. Farewell dinner. Your old
man can pay. It’s the least he can do for torpedoing my sex life.”

***

“I’m going to
miss you.”

Scarne and
Emma had finished dinner and were sipping the last of their wine.

“Don’t get all
sappy on me, Emma. This is a big chance for you. Stay focused while you are
over there.”

“I feel lousy
about this.”

Scarne felt
that she was protesting too much.

 “I’ll be OK,”
he said easily.

 “That’s what
I’m afraid of.”

“You’re not
afraid of anything.”

 “It’s so easy
for a man,” she said. “You’ll be screwing someone next week.”

“Emma, I like
you. On some days, I think I may even love you. But let’s get one thing
straight. The only reason it may be easy for a man to get laid without really
trying is because there are so many woman out there who are willing to lay
them. At a certain point, it’s not even worth it unless there is some goddamn
emotion involved. It doesn’t even have to be love. Just some sort of, I don’t
know, feeling.”

 “You really
loved her, didn’t you.”

 “As much as
you can love anyone you kill.”

Emma knew she
had touched a nerve.

“Jake. I’m
sorry.”

“Don’t be. We’ve
both gone through hell these past couple of years. We’ll survive.”

Even as he
said it, Scarne wondered how long Alana Loeb would color his relationship with
Emma Shields – or any woman.

“OK. Then I’d
like to talk some business with you.”

Yes, Scarne thought,
Emma will survive. He signaled to a nearby waiter.

“I think I
need something stronger than wine for this conversation.”

He ordered
cognac for them both. After it came, Emma said, “I presume you know who
Sebastian Quimper is?”

“Of course.
He’s the worst writer in the English language.” Scarne twirled his cognac.
“Maybe any language.”

Emma looked
surprised. Then laughed.

“That’s a bit
harsh, don’t you think, Jake. Sebastian has more than 150 million books in
print, in 40 languages. He just about owns the
Times
bestseller list.
And I seem to recall you have a couple of Quimpers in your bookshelf.”

“I only put
them there so that some of my guests don’t think I’m a snob.”

“Ah. A man who
dumbs down his bookshelf to seduce. Who? A cocktail waitress? The books on
fishing, golf and Dave Barry; who are they meant for?”

“The Dave
Barry was for you. He’s got your weird sense of humor.”

“I’m crushed.
I thought the
Complete Works of William Shakespeare
, or maybe
Churchill’s
Duke of Marlboro,
were the bait for me.”

“You forgot to
mention the Longfellow.” Scarne did a fair imitation of Snidely Whiplash
twirling his handlebar mustache and she laughed. “And as I recall, my dear, we
never made it anywhere near the bookshelf.”

Emma actually
showed a little pink in her cheeks.

 “Now, back to
Quimper,” Scarne said. “I’ll fess up. I used to read his early stuff. Brain
candy, but entertaining. Lately, he’s been coasting. And what’s the deal with
all his co-authors? Does he even write anything of his own? It’s all so
formulaic, and interchangeable. He’s not an author, he’s an industry.”

“Yes. That’s
my point. Quimper is an industry and one that is important to the Shields
family. You know that we own his publisher?”

“Schuster
House?”

Emma took a
sip of her cognac.

“Yes.
Sebastian is probably responsible for 60 percent of their profits.”

“Right there,
you’ve described what’s wrong with the publishing industry.”

“I know that.
But we have an investment to protect. That’s where you can help.”

“You want me
to buy more of his books?”

“Keep it up,
Jake, and I may never come back from overseas.”

“Sorry. But
what can I do?”

“His life has
been threatened.”

“I’m not
surprised.”

Emma Shields
let out an exasperated sigh.

“Not by a
critic. Islamic fundamentalists.”

Scarne
laughed.

“Don’t tell me
we force terrorists to read his stuff! There may be a debate on water boarding,
but forcing someone to be Quimpered is out-and-out torture.”

Emma Shields
took a deep breath.

“Can you try
to be serious, just for a minute? Sebastian has lately been trying his hand at
spy novels. To stay more current, I guess. Did you read
From Here to
Tehranity
?”

 “Was that the
one where the Jones Beach lifeguard swims to Iran and drowns the Ayatollah?”

“No, Jake,
it’s the one where Quimper, or rather his fictional hero, a C.I.A. stud who is
half Bond, half Bourne and all ridiculous, mocks Islam and pokes fun at Allah.”

Scarne stared
at her.

“I was joking,
Emma. You mean there is actually a book called
From Here to Tehranity
?”

Emma looked
embarrassed, and then laughed.

“I kid you
not. It’s a goddamn bestseller, like all the rest of the crap he puts out.”

They paused
when another couple came over to their table to say hello to Emma. The man was
black and thick through the chest. He looked vaguely familiar to Scarne. His
companion was auburn haired and a head taller than the man. Emma made the
introductions.

“How’s the
knee,” Scarne said to the man as he stood to shake their hands. He now realized
who he was: the former star halfback for the Jets, sidelined by a variety of
injuries.

“It’s good.
But I’m done,” the man said. “I’m getting out before I start drooling.”

“Don’t blame
you,” Scarne said. “But I’m sorry to hear it. You had all the moves.”

“He still
does,” the woman, whose name was Sally, said.

“Curtis and Sally
are on
Dancing With the Stars,
” Emma explained.

 “It’s a lot
of work,” Curtis said. “Sally is the pro and is some taskmaster. But it beats
the hell out of getting mashed by some 260-pound linebacker.” He looked at
Scarne. “You play ball? That nose has been broken more than once.”

“College
rugby.”

“Now, that’s a
crazy sport.”

After the pair
left, Emma said, “Where was I? Oh, yes, a group called ‘The Arm of Allah’ sent
a letter to Schuster House saying that they are going to kill, and I quote,
‘Quimper, the infidel dog’.”

“Like Salman
Rushdie? A Fatwah?”

“Nothing
official like that. There hasn’t been a peep from the so-called mainstream
Islamics.”

“Look, Emma,
Quimper is certainly not the only writer taking shots at Islam. It’s almost a
cottage industry. Perhaps it’s a hoax. Has he gone to the police?”

“We have, on
his behalf. Apparently, the authorities have never heard of ‘The Arm of Allah.’
Neither have any of our correspondents or their sources, which is strange
because they are all pretty wired in about that kind of thing. But nutty fringe
groups pop up all the time, or split off from other cells. Many are full of hot
air, but we have ample reason to believe these people are serious.” Emma looked
embarrassed. “This was the second letter.”

“Same group?”

“Apparently.
It referenced the first letter, the one that came a week after Ralph Arhaut was
killed.”

The name was
unfamiliar to Scarne, but dead bodies always piqued his interest.

“Who is, or
was, Ralph Arhaut?”

“He was
Quimper’s co-author for
From Here to Tehranity.
He was murdered last
month outside of Philadelphia.”

“Philadelphia
can be a rough town. Maybe some Islamic group is just trying to capitalize on a
coincidence.”

“It was way
outside Philly, in Haverford. The last murder in Haverford prior to Arhaut’s
occurred when Ben Franklin was flying a kite. A waiter stuck a shish kebob
skewer in Arhaut’s throat during a book signing for
Tehranity
in front
of a hundred Main Line matrons at a posh country club.”

“Jesus.”

“It gets
better. The waiter yelled ‘Allah Akbar’ and escaped in a getaway car.”

“Did it have
Iranian license plates?”

“Oh, do shut
up.”

“I don’t
recall seeing anything about the murder.”

“It made a bit
of a splash in Philadelphia and some suburban media outlets but it was the same
day as another gun massacre so it didn’t go national. We were kind of hoping
that it was a random attack.”

“With a
getaway car?”

“Well, not
random, but maybe local. You know, some nut from a mosque or something. We
thought it might blow over.”