Myth Man (28 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY

P
RITAM LOCHAB, AT LAST, fell into his favorite, albeit beat up, recliner when the telephone rang. He expected the call; only he had hoped the man would be late. He was as tired and ragged as the frayed chair that supported him.

The day’s festivities had been had been splendid. As Granthi, or reader of the Guru Granth, the Sikh’s scripture book, he was also owner of the house that acted as a Gurdwara.

The day started early and ended late. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were all served in the makeshift dining hall which was a converted basement. He cherished every day, especially one that drew attention to the tenets of his faith. Yet, since he passed the big six-o, he found himself easily exhausted. Thankfully, sleep was not far away. He had one more matter to deal with.

About six weeks earlier, a man he’d never seen before attended a service. Afterward, he lingered around and then introduced himself as Amar Deepinder. He said he was on business in New York and wanted to scout the area for a possible relocation from Chicago. The visitor was likeable and well-versed in his faith.

A few weeks later, Deepinder called again and explained that indeed he was moving to New York City. First he’d come alone and find a place to live. Then he’d bring his family. He did say he lamented the loss of their Cultural Center and pledged to provide a
significant
contribution to make the new center one of the finest in the United States.

Lochab expected to see Deepinder for the Baisakhi festivities, but he called and explained there were flight delays due to a storm in Chicago, and thus, he would not arrive until late that evening. An hour ago, he called again, in a huff. A hotel clerk had called him a terrorist, and there had been a heated exchange. Deepinder explained he could not dishonor his faith and spend the night in such an establishment. He asked if he could spend the evening at the Gurdwara.

Naturally, Lochab accepted. He empathized with Deepinder’s experience. Mistaken for Muslims, many Sikh’s had been subjected to racial attacks along those lines. He would never turn away a brother in need, and a proper Gurdwara stayed open twenty-four hours a day.

Lochab answered the phone. “Amar?”

“Yes,” he answered. “I’m outside now.”

“I’m coming now.” Lochab went to the door. At the hallway entrance, he faced a painted image of Guru Granth Sahib and bowed before he continued on.

Lochab opened the door and invited his guest in. In proper tradition, Myth Man had removed his shoes and also bowed to the Guru; his head touched the ground. He then placed a fifty-dollar bill in a bowl beside the picture.

“Thank you for rescuing me, Pritam.”

“Think nothing of it,” Lochab replied warmly. “Come with me.” As he led Myth Man to a guest room, he felt a simultaneous hand on his shoulder and a prick in his neck.

Lochab crumbled to the ground. Confused, he tried to rise but was unable. He looked up to Deepinder, who now leered at him, and spoke in an entirely different accent.

“You know what this is?” the assailant asked. In his grasp was a Kirpan, the sacred sword of Sikhs.

Locab knew but was unable to reply. He wondered if this was Deepinder, the man he’d met earlier or someone pretending to be him. No, he was sure this was the same man. It did not matter. He knew the man that stood over him was the notorious Myth Man.

“Normally, I like to spend some time with my victims and tell them how silly their religion is, but I must apologize. Tonight, time is scarce, and I must be on my way. I know that must be a disappointment. Trust me, the feeling’s mutual. Oh well,” Myth Man said and crouched with the Kirpan
aligned with Lochab’s throat.

He smiled triumphantly. “I’m the eleventh guru. Like the original Khalsa, you were willing to die for your faith.”

Myth Man looked at his watch, shrugged, and then with fierce determination, split Lochab’s throat.

When he was done, he left, but not before taking his fifty dollars back.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

A
LTHOUGH HE HAD NOT arrived first, Myth Man entered the Mash Mill and occupied an empty booth in the rear. He saw his contact peeking out from a phone booth across the street. This was confirmed when the contact arrived with the same blue jeans and black loafers that he’d just seen.

The man slid into the booth across the table.

They greeted with a firm handshake and pulled away, wriggling their fingers, something they had done since they’d met at college. They were total campus opposites. Myth Man was shy and stayed to himself, while his counterpart was the ladies’ man, fraternity president, and party animal. Friends and faculty were amazed when the student known more for his drunken antics than classroom brilliance graduated at the top of his class. In fact, there was no prior scholastic precedent for his sudden performance. It was not as if anyone witnessed him tackling his books. Booze and broads were his majors.

Ambitious, but not willing to work for it, he heard about a shy student’s acumen. In the campus cafeteria, he had approached Myth Man and asked for his help. He offered money, drugs, whatever he desired to help him pass a few classes. At first, he thought his offer was to be declined, but instead, the kid scribbled his off-campus apartment number and told him to call.

A few days later, they met, and what the shy guy proposed was crazy but brilliant. At most, he hoped he could get him to write a paper or two and tutor him enough to get by. Myth Man had a different idea. He asked for two hours alone and told him to return.

When he returned to the apartment and the door opened, his jaw dropped like a hard struck, pocketed billiard ball. It was as if he opened the door to a mirror. Momentarily, he wondered if he had an identical twin that had been separated at birth, but he knew this was the student.

The brain would take the tests for him. He was confident it would work. The brain mimicked his voice and swagger perfectly. It was the kid’s price that shocked him.

He figured the scheme would cost him dearly, both in dollars and ass kissing. His father was rich, so he’d charm the money from his mother. Money, however, was not the brain’s wish. Instead, he stated three names, all of who were part time girlfriends of the debtor. The brain wanted to bed three of his hottest babes.

Not for a second was he repulsed. A guy needs it, he reasoned, and clearly this kid wasn’t getting much. The price was right—free for him, at least. In fact, there was a certain thrill to getting his girls drunk and horny and then leaving the room for some indiscriminate reason, only to have his double appear and finish the job.

The relationship was a boon to both men, and a bond was forged, one that no one knew existed. It had to be that way.

This time his old double was dressed in a turban, and his skin shaded. If he had not known about his planned assault on the Sikh’s, he would have never guessed it was his friend. In fact, it had been a long time since he’d seen him in anything but a disguise. “Nice getup.” His visage grew more serious. “So, did you? A finger quickly went to his throat and drew back.

Myth Man smiled like he’d hit a game winning home run. “Sure did. It was so beautiful. I feel like a heavyweight champion who retires undefeated but always wonders if he had a few more paydays in him before he’s eventually dethroned. I need a break, but in time,” he said with a crooked grin, “I may come out of retirement.”

The other man exhaled caution. “You’ll have a whole new identity. Give it time, but if you wanted to pad the resume and continue the rebellion against the religious hegemony duping mankind, there’s no doubt that you could reappear.”

“Yeah, but for starters, not having to spend another minute of my life with my wife is worth it all. Bitch,” Myth Man snorted. “I’ll have to get myself a new honey, a nice church-going girl whom I can corrupt and enlighten.”

“Hey, at least your new persona is hip. This Chip Dexter was quite a ladies’ man at the casinos. Thankfully, he was more committed to cards than making a woman honest. Dexter, by the way, was a whore. Those high-stakes players always get pussy, even if they pay for it. The guy in the morgue said Dexter suffered from multiple sexually transmitted diseases, but at least you won’t have to look like a square the rest of your life. Live it up, in a quiet sort of way.”

A waitress who looked as aged as the other colonial relics that made up the dim décor stopped by for their order. When she left, she eyed them with some curiosity. She returned several long minutes later with their drinks. Like old times, they toasted White Russian drinks and enjoyed the silence as they contemplated the end and the future.

Myth Man killed his drink and propped a black and beaten briefcase on the table. Carefully, with the lip opening away from the bar, he flashed the money. He took out a stack and shut the lid. He handed the money across the table. “Buy yourself a new suit and some ties. You looked frumpy last time I saw you on the TV.” He pushed the case against the wall next to a print of mounted hunters, who followed a pack of hounds on an apparent foxhunt.

Next, a second, new briefcase rose from the bench to the table. “Everything you need is in here,” the contact said. “Take a look if you want.” He then pulled car keys from his pocket. “Dexter has some nice wheels.”

Myth Man saw the BMW emblem and took the keys. “Thanks.”

“Oh, by the way, the car’s double-parked across the street with the hazards on. Fear not, there’s a large laminated pass on the dash. Any cop who sees that vehicle will likely guard it.”

Myth Man looked his long-time associate over for the last time and realized the man had never changed. Despite some prominence, he was still a scoundrel and nothing more than a bureaucratic lackey.

Myth Man reached across the table and patted the man on the shoulder. “I guess this is it.”

The man looked both forlorn and excited at the same time. “This sounds cheesy, but it’s been real.”

“It has. Bye,” he said and got up, “for now.”

Myth Man walked to the entrance and left. Outside he looked at his watch, specifically the second hand. Then he noticed the blinking BMW and quickly walked over.

Inside the bar, the man grabbed the briefcase and walked to the front. Outside the window, he saw the BMW drive away and out of sight. Giddy, he went to the bar, ordered one last drink, and returned to the same table.

He sipped his drink. It made him think of blue waters, palm trees, and bikinis. He fingered the briefcase. He never knew money could look so beautiful. In fact, he wanted, no, he needed, to see those crisp bills again. His fingers found the snaps and pressed.

Myth Man had slowed and was still only a few blocks away when he heard the explosion. He looked at his watch. He was surprised to discover that more than three minutes had elapsed before his contact, Spencer Hoole, opened the briefcase a second time.

He privately guessed it would take less than a ninety seconds.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

T
HERE WAS ANOTHER EXPLOSION. This time it was Presto’s fist as it slammed down upon his prized desk. The impetus was both anger for knowing who had sold him out and joy for connecting Dean Fallow with Spencer Hoole.

Through the night and into the morning, he poured through the reports he’d requested from Ridgewood. He’d almost fallen asleep as the names merged together. It was like reading a phone book. But then, listed in Fallow’s campus directory, he found the name Spencer Hoole.

In reality, Presto could have saved himself time. He primarily suspected Hoole but chose not to be name-specific in his search for a connection to Myth Man. Fallow and Hoole went to college together. Fallow
had
to be Myth Man, and Hoole was his contact.

Although it was nearly four o’clock in the morning, he grabbed his cell with the intent of dialing Ridgewood, when he was startled to hear his phone ring, and see her name appear on the screen. He thought of some paranormal, cosmic connection. Camille would have been amused and have some metaphysical answer for the event.

“Ridgewood?”

“Yeah. You sound awake,” she said, sounding edgy.

Presto sighed, but his voice perked up. “I have news for you, but I presume you have something as well, since you called.”

“Yeah,” she said energized. “Fallow called, frantic. He was cursing us, saying he’s trapped in a black van. He said that guy he had mentioned turned up. He accused us of being followed and claims he’s been abducted. He guessed they were somewhere in Brooklyn. He gave me the man’s name. Gary Sykes. I …”

“Bullshit,” Presto interjected. This meant Fallow was on the run and had some patsy lined up from the beginning. Why not? This had been well orchestrated from the get go. His mind raced. “I have to tell you something first.”

“What, Dom?”

“Keep this quiet for now. Myth Man had inside info on our case, so I knew someone fed him information. Thanks to the lists you ran for me, it seems Fallow and Spencer Hoole from the mayor’s office graduated from college together, top of the class. It’s not a coincidence, Lorraine. Fallow
is
our man.”

“I believe you. I’ll call and get someone to triangulate Fallow’s cell phone call. We might as well pursue this name he gave us, Sykes. If it’s Fallow, he pointed us there for a reason. Should we go, or should I give Danko a call and have him send someone there?”

“Tell Danko to send someone there, but tell them to proceed with caution. This may be a trap. Like you said, Fallow wants us there for a reason; let’s not assume it’s a good one. Let’s meet at Danko’s in an hour.”

“I’m tired as can be,” groaned Ridgewood, “yet you sound alert. What’s the secret? Lots of coffee?”

“Nah, sugar is my caffeine. I had a box of chocolates and rationed them well,” he said as he gazed at it. All the different slots that were once filled with chocolate treats were now vacant.

*****

“My God,” Presto said as the cab neared Danko’s station. There was some commotion ahead, so Presto thanked the cabbie and got out. The first thing he noticed was a throng of news vans. Police officers were everywhere. Something was going on.

Once inside, it was evident something terrible had transpired. On the way to Danko’s office, he passed a group of officers, three with grave expressions and another who cried softly.

Danko stood outside his office, talking to a few of his men. When he saw Presto, he gestured him to his office and then followed several long seconds later.

When Danko rounded his desk, he punched the back of his chair back and then got angry when the chair rolled away from him as he tried to sit. Finally seated, he scratched at his thumb. “I lost four of my men tonight at Sykes’s place. Another two are in critical condition, not to mention others who were severely wounded. These are not just people who report to me but friends.” His voice trailed off, and his eyelids fluttered.

Danko recalled the memories they shared. While Presto vaguely knew only one of the injured, he shared Danko’s remorse. Despite any internal differences, the police force was a family that stuck together in dire times.

Danko was in the midst of a story about a camping trip when it occurred to Presto that he’d yet to hear where and how the tragedy occurred. He was about to ask when the two agents arrived. For once, sensing the unrest, Donavan was quiet.

Danko explained he had decided not to act on Hoole yet and instead wait and see what turned up at Sykes’s home first. In the meantime, Danko dispatched two of his men to watch Hoole’s apartment entrance, just in case he made a sudden, unexpected dash. Danko had planned, with relish, to be at city hall before Hoole’s normal 8:00 am arrival time. He despised the man, but for now, it had to wait. The fate of his men was his only concern.

Danko was reluctant to broach what had happened. These were his brothers. His mind drifted to their wives and children. For the first time, he thought about quitting the force. He remembered being elated when he’d been assigned this case. Since then, his family had left him, and now he’d lost friends. He had a hard time remembering the last time he was happy, not counting his drunken spree with Agent Donavan.

Danko tried to fight back a geyser of painful emotions, “Detective Rick Hoglan was on the line when I heard the explosion.” He swallowed and continued. “Sykes’s place was rigged in at least two locations. The injured and dead were removed, and the bomb squad’s been sent in. They’ll call when it’s safe to investigate further.

Almost on cue, the phone rang. Danko picked up and listened. His face grew still. After a few moments, he hung up. His eyes looked at but through them. “The two men in critical condition … they’re dead.”