Scratchy snorts like he’s about to spit. Says, “So. Calling shots on this one, soldier? That’s the sit rep? Huh? Seems like you don’t care who you’re working for as long as that money’s green. A real patriot.”

  “Shit. Starting to figure me out, Scratch. You continue to impress, son, going places for sure. Plus, you’d know all about that mercenary mind-set, right? You wrote the handbook on that steez.”

  A molded rubber finger flicks my SD laminate. Strokes it, wipes away the brownish water, saying: “Look at you, with your fake gold teeth, hiding behind this dusty Federale stuff. Huh? You’re batting for the wrong fucking team. Not much left of that office, huh? Buncha ghosts floating around moaning about the way we were. No real power there. No way. Not no more.” He drops the lammie and pokes his index finger into my neck, hard. “Not that we’d have you back, you piece-of-shit turncoat. Rat-ass motherfucker.”

  Deflect his hand. I step sideways (left), put him between myself and the bulk of the soldiers. Best they can do now is shoot me in the back, I reckon, thinking about those snipers.

  “You talking like I’m a joiner, man, but I never did no work for nobody but myself, Scratch, and I am doing just fine. But dig, the concern is appreciated. Your crew on the other hand?” I tsk tsk, a damn shame. “A dying breed. Shit’s natural selection, ya heard? Plus: we’re supposed to be on the same side.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I carry on: “You wanna talk about Washington got no more mojo? Well, y’all clowns are on motherfucking life support, DNR style. Just ain’t competitive no more. Losing all your best gigs to the new kids . . . Yo, I understand, Scratch, you get tired, man . . . These Chinese, son, they got mad energy . . . and they just keeping coming . . .”

  Scratch gets yet further in my muzzle, snarly. “The way I see it, you’re already dead. Huh? We got a running bet back at HQ over when you’re going to figure it out—sneak away and dig yourself a hole, stop wasting good citizens’ time.”

  The barrel of his old-school MAC-11 returns to my midsection. It’s ’90s ghetto kit, a drive-by prop. Known to jam or misfire.

  Reflexively, I slide a hand into my jacket, touch the butt of the Sig .357, and this action excites Scratch enormously.

  “You gonna draw on me, sergeant major? You gonna draw on me now, right here?” he rasps, voice cracking like a teenager, pushing his jaw further into my personal space. “Just give me a reason to air you out and I can die a happy man. Do yourself a favor, buddy. Huh? Spare yourself some misery. Go ahead and draw on me.”

  Fluttering my eyelids against the precip, I show the man what remains of my yellowed chompers, or the absence thereof.

  By now I’m pretty sure he’s acting on his own. Getting emotional like that. So I relax a touch. “Scratch, where is the love tonight? I’m stung, fam. We go back, I thought we was tight. Trying to say this thing we got is over?”

  The bigger man isn’t giving a centimeter, him hissing, “The moment you stop looking over your shoulder, I’m gonna be there, Decimal. It’ll be my personal . . .”

  He keeps spieling in this vein. Thing about it is: I believe him. Which is an issue.

  Disconcerting talking to somebody when you can’t see lips move. Much less having never seen his face.

  Yeah. Old Scratch has grown into a thorn I ignore at my peril.

  There’s that particular cocktail of mixed emotions when you know the man you’re looking at is gonna have to die. Add a couple degrees of bitter when it’s you who’s gonna have to do the duty. Y’all know what I’m spraying. God bless you if you don’t.

  Yes sir. A mash-up of adrenaline-fueled impatience, let’s just do this fucking thing, and the depressing inevitability of it all.

  Look south. The cruise ship is nearing, everybody getting a better look at the monstrosity.

  Christ on a crepe. That’s no commercial pleasure cruiser. I hear walkie-talkie chatter amongst the security. Folks checking their weapons or just plain gawking. Try to discreetly shake the sand out of my sleeve . . .

  By the lights of its escorts I can make out the vessel’s name: PRINCE ABDULAZIZ. I’m looking at a privately owned boat, a yacht if something of this mass can be termed such, and it’s an obscenity. Turning now, apparently with huge effort, into the docking area. Though little can be heard over the roar of multiple engines and the churning of displaced sludge and water, I can see the reception committee stirring, exchanging glances.

  Very few have witnessed anything like this, even those having done time in the UAE or some such place, and that’s most of us on this dock. Moodily, I pop yet another pill.

  Scratch still talking low, saying, “. . . in your sleep, junkie, any fucking night of the week, Decimal. You might as well—”

  Cut him off: “Damn, Scratch, you still here? Okay, let’s wrap up this convo, my man. No need to butter me further, star, I’m all yours. Plenty of time to kick me on my way back down.” Wink at his mask.

  Man snorts again. “You’ll get yours, Decimal. I’m not worried.” Thus sayeth Scratch, his attention diverted to the appalling Prince Abdulaziz now as well. He taps his helmet. “Not worried at all.” Then, “Copy that,” he says into an unseen microphone.

  Pat the man, gentle on his beefy shoulder. GI fucking Joe. “Sure you’re right, son. On the flip then.”

  Step left around Scratchy, him back on the job too, jabbering staccato into the built-in ’com on his headpiece . . . Set to limping toward the docking area, I raise my laminate. Slip on the soaked leather soles of my wingtips, regain and push forward into the bright staging area.

  Trying to clear my tract, what for the fucking sand . . .

  “State Department! To me, folks, I’m on point!” I call, and the boys fade back.

  The choppers flanking the outsize boat bank away, take up hover positions. The smaller gunboats peel off as well.

  The Abdulaziz looms, nautical Arabic bling writ supersized, its searchlights making the scene vibe Hollywood on Oscar night. I’m looking everywhere, rain obscuring certain details, thinking these Saudi people must have their own security here . . . Saudi Mabahith or whatever . . . but I’m unable to make a determination. Take a moment to apply PurellTM. When did I have my last pill? Fuck it, safety first—I down another.

  So yeah: fuck it. Guess I’m just gonna wing this suicide gig, which is how I tend to roll anyhow. Cause most of the time the only way out of shit is to go straight through it.

  A mobile stairwell with DELTA emblazoned on the side is shoved toward the edge of the dock as the ship draws forward like a glacier. I figure what the hell, spin left, clamber up the stairs, Astroturf carpet waterlogged. Turn (left) to face the troops. At random I signal a pair of soldiers closest to my position.

  “Listen up! You two up here with me, let’s go! Everybody else, back up and keep your eyes open!”

  The men hesitate. One turns slightly in the direction of Scratchy, standing on top of an armored car, arms folded. The situation wobbles.

  “Motherfuckers!” I holler, my throat fatigued with all the sand. “Whatever personal issues you may have with my ass, fact is I am running point on this operation on behalf of the State Department and the United States Senate body, et cetera. Whose desire is y’all motherfuckers follow my orders, ya heard me now?”

  Still, one or three ass-clowns look to Scratchy. Unbelievable. Other heads turning, domino style. Losing ground.

  Scratch gives an exaggerated bow in my direction, extending his hands as if in supplication. Asshole taking his time with it. Energy shifts back toward my end of the court.

  The boys jog up the steps as the behemoth scrapes the rubber siding on the dock, water churning, splashing up the edges of the pier. River’s a fuck of a lot higher than it used to be since Greenland slid completely off the map. Though folks like the senator and his catatonic wife will tell you it’s just been an unusually precipitous winter. Still these fucks cling to that tired rap, as if it freaking matters anymore.

  Man below pushing the stairs flush with the area where the gangplank would normally extend, and squinting through the nasty wet I get my first look at a quartet of Saudis onboard. Red berets and digital camo. A short, puffy guy, maybe midfifties, standing slighting in front, sporting a highly structured goatee and red brassard around his arm, this is clearly the ranking officer. All cradle assault rifles.

  Back it up. Just not getting the logic of putting Dewey Decimal in charge of this here op, you’d expect at the very least some kinda . . . diplomatic welcome, this being a state visit kind of deal, after all . . . What’s clear is I’m here for a reason and am likely to get fucked. I am very aware of my pawn status as I raise my hands in . . . what? Do I salute? Who are these guys?

  Just cause I speak the language don’t mean I can rock the protocol, especially with royalty. Trying to summon up my most sincere look of pleasure, and attempting to not imagine the sheer tonnage of foreign bacteria swarming off the boat, nibbling eagerly at my immune system . . .

  Over the grinding boat motors I greet them in standard Arabic, put a foot on the boat. “Ahlan wa sahlan, welcome to New York City, gentlemen! We have—”

  Whoopsie daisy. Scuffle as two soldiers quick-step around the goatee, seize both my arms, and attempt to force me to the ground, me saying, “Whoa now, hold up, hold up . . .”

  Cyna-corp guys overdo it as usual, commence hollering and raising their guns sideways like they do, me trying to dial it back, “Stand the fuck down! Stand down, gentlemen!”

  The Saudis are wrestling with me, we’re skating all over the slick deck, but I lock my knee and am somehow able to remain standing, steering things leftwise. Keeping it in Arabic, saying into my armpit, “Gentlemen. I am State Department, proxy for US Senator Howard. Any misunderstanding—”

  “Tell your men to put away their weapons,” says the goatee. Quiet, calm like that.

  Me saying, “All right. All right. Let’s everybody relax.” The Cyna-corp boys stay aggro and I do a little lopsided dance, attempting to simultaneously shuck the Saudis and get a hand on each of my guys, repeating in English, “Relax, you fucks.”

  “Okay,” says the goatee mildly, barely moving his mouth. His people withdraw.

  I’m catching my breath. “Sir, we’re not—”

  “They will need to disarm,” he interrupts, indicating the boys.

  I just figured out what the issue is with his mug: the man is wrinkle free, his flesh like an infant, vibing major Botox. His affect is waxy and flat, sizing me up, my suit, the rubber gloves . . .

  “I’m sorry, we can’t do that just yet.” Present my laminate. “As I was saying . . .”

  “Where is the senator? Where is our escort?”

  See what I’m talking about? This looks more and more like a straight setup. Mental note to have a word with Howard, should I scrape out of this one. Say, “Getting off on the wrong foot here, gentlemen. I represent the senator’s office, and in this capacity—”

  “To send a civilian. Can you imagine?” Goatee sighs, looking at my front teeth. “And a Negro as well. So very . . .” Words fail him. Man wags his head.

  I grimace and try to let that jive float. “Yes sir, all apologies. If it improves your dim view of the scene I am not a civilian. And the transportation is arranged, as specified . . .” I lean back, lids fluttering against the spray, hold up two fingers in the direction of the street. All Escalades start rolling forward.

  Goatee surveys the vehicles, regards the mob on the dock, mouth slightly open, brow spookily still. He has a gigantic mole on his cheekbone from which thick hairs protrude. Wiping his unlined forehead with a handkerchief, he glances up at the choppers, seems to be mouthing something. Then faces me head-on, forced to angle his face up to compensate for the perhaps nine-inch height differential. Gazing long and deep into my eyes for what seems like a fucking age. I’m freezing, drenched, and feeling the aftereffects of my wrestling match. But for all this I’m still braced for any fucking thing. Fully expecting a bullet to the dome, good night and goodbye. Why not?

  “Okay,” he says finally. “Stand aside.”

  _________________

  Happens fast as fuck, and per the plan.

  Doorway pops open and out come two figures, wrapped cap to toe in black and white burqas, respectively. A Saudi soldier produces a huge umbrella with a Hermès logo, hustles them down the stairs and into one of the Escalades.

  Within seconds, an identical pair materializes, black and white outfits, indistinguishable from the first. They too are shielded against the elements with a designer parasol, this one by Moschino, and guided off the vessel and into the second Escalade.

  My ride pulls forward, boy Chip at the helm. Gives a little nod.

  Yet a third pair of Saudis appear, presumably one male and one female, but who can say for sure, tricked out in that contrasting white and black.

  “Fi amanullah,” says the goatee to me flatly. His insincerity is palpable.

  No time to indulge a hater. I’d be paralyzed should I try to address ’em all.

  Lacking a fancy umbrella, I simply grab the two hooded royals, rotate left, and guide them down the steps but quick, the three of us followed by a perspiring Saudi security officer, doing the tango with a vast Chanel umbrella.

  “Your Highnesses,” I say to the shrouds, and get nothing back. The one in white, presumably male, flinches as rain hits his head garb.

  The officer is unable to get that umbrella open before I’m bundling the three of them into the back of the vehicle. Can already tell this guy will be a problem, he radiates a worryingly hapless vibe, and what makes me think this might be purposeful on somebody’s part?

  Pirouette left and commence sliding in the passenger seat, pulling out the walkie-talkie. Freeze as I clock:

  A bizarre sight now—a for-real civilian in for-real civilian duds, bareheaded and bald, a park squatter no doubt, one of Miss Marcia’s, a female (I think), unfurling a handmade sign, THOSE WHO CANNOT REMEMBER THE PAST R DOOMED TO—I know the passage, Santayana from his Reason in Common Sense, oft misquoted, and Scratch is approaching her, vibing bad bad bad, I’ve got the door open and am halfway out into the rain yelling, “No, no, no!” unheard over the choppers and vehicles peeling out . . .

  Scratch has his Kel-Tec P-11 up, popping the female in the back of the neck, and she slaps wet concrete quick like a bag of rocks.

  Scratch just dug his own plot. You don’t do noncombatants, that’s just the golden rule. Dude just jumped the line VIP style, made the tippity top of my shit hit list. But not today, cause I’m working, even as things get swervy, feeling ill . . .

  “Go! We must go!” the sweaty Saudi soldier is yapping at me and I realize he’s been doing so for some time. I shut out what I’ve just seen re: Scratch, file it for future processing, Scratch and a growing number of soldiers strolling casually toward a group of maybe eight unmasked civilians across 11th Avenue, bailing on their posts, what the fuck, paramilitary breaking into a light jog as the civies start to turn one by one, make a break for it . . .

  “Hold your positions! That’s an order!” My voice thrashed, I say fuck it. Slide back in the Caddy.

  “Diversion.” The Saudi is beside himself, straining his neck to peer backward at the ship, where his boss is looking toward the site of the shooting. The cloaked pair sit stock-still. “Oh, this is what they do. For the love of God, let’s move.”

  Snap to, Decimal. Reflections come later. I depress the talk button on my walkie, light-headed, go on autopilot, hearing myself say: “All right, y’all, roll out in order, stick to your route and don’t go crazy with the wet roads.”

  One after another, the vehicles continue reversing out of the dock area, tires squealing.

  I watch cars one and two take off in opposite directions—they’ve got their routing and we’ve got our System-friendly run.

  Chip hits it, left up 10th Avenue, a sickening left around a traffic circle, left again south down 11th, losing traction slightly . . .

  “Fucking slow down,” I tell the man at the wheel. My lips are numb. Still on autopilot.

  As we rip past Gansevoort I try to get a look at the doomed civies (what the fuck are they doing?), but we’re moving too fast . . .

  Hairpin left onto Horatio, driver showing no sign of having heard me, and I decide that’s totally fine. Bounce the short blocks to Greenwich Street/9th Avenue, cut left, and shoot north.

  At 35th Street we take the left, one block and another left onto Dyer, another block and we careen onto 34th Street, eastbound.

  Three vehicles. The designated safe house a former NYPD precinct down on Varick. Only myself, the senator, and Chip know this. Fair enough, so far, so good.

  As plans go, I’d give this one a C+. Not bad. Not great. But it’s an oldie and I reckon it’s worked more than it’s failed, so why not give it a whirl. Something quaint about this approach.

  Three cars, three targets. It’s barrio classico. We called it the Monty Hall, a.k.a. the street version/tourist trap known as “Three-Card Monte.” In the Philippines they call it “Meatball.” Or my personal favorite—“Find the Lady.” Seems like you’ve got a good shot at hitting the prize, am I right? Doesn’t seem so tough. One in three odds, right?

  Wrong, fuck-o.

  Bam, past the shell of Madison Square Garden, open-air deflated like a soufflé, steam rising out the gaping hole in the roof.

  The setup here is fundamental. I’m assuming that hostile entities are monitoring all this with the intention of disrupting events. Including any shortwave radios. Working under this presumption, we have established a shill, a Saudi agent who will be on the horn calling out misinformation. He’s been at work, supposedly, since yesterday evening, tossing out tasty morsels to attract the rodentia.

  This accomplished, we have the shill “flip one card,” and let whoever’s listening know which vehicle does not contain the royals.