The Matador

by Chris Wilsher

He opened the door to Sal's and stood just outside the doorway until his eyes became accustomed to the dark. Harvey “The Matador” Kline, a big man with light blue eyes and gray hair, thinning on top. It was Mr. Joseph Aiuppa himself who gave him the nickname on account of the red AMC Matador coupe Kline drove back in the early Seventies.

This day he had on a tan car coat that came down to his knees, comfortable corduroys, and a tweed cap that made him look like a country squire. He liked the coat. It had really deep pockets. You could have a good-sized handgun in each pocket and nobody would notice.

He surveyed the bar. The only light came from the red neon MILLER sign in the window. Sal's was a workingman's bar and it was late morning. The place was empty, the way it should be at that time of day. He eased into a seat at the end of the bar and ordered a double Chivas and water. He eyed the door, hunched over. Not like Joey to be late. The bartender put the glass in front of him and he emptied it, feeling the burn at the back of his throat and the warmth spreading through his gut. He rubbed his face to get the blood flowing. Hadn't slept worth shit for weeks, not since he caught that PI who'd been tailing him.

The door opened and Joey slid in, glancing right and left, a large manila envelope under his arm. Kline felt better. It was always good to see Joey with a large manila envelope under his arm. The barkeep put his rag down and went in the back, closing the door behind him.

Kline gave Joey a hug. Joey looked away, toward the door.

“Long time, no hear from,” Kline said.

Joey stared, his eyes unblinking and empty. “Been busy.”

“Good for you. Wish I could say the same. You got anything else for me?”

“No. Nothing.”

“I mean anything.”

“Nothing.”

“Keep me in mind. In the future, I mean.”

“Sure. Hey, I'll be seeing you around.” He walked out, leaving the envelope behind on the bar.

Kline swallowed the rest of his drink. He eyed the envelope. It was thicker at the bottom. That would be the wad of bills. Fifteen grand, Joey having already taken his one-third finder's fee. Joey would hold the other half in escrow until he did the job. Kline knew he should wait until he was home to open the envelope, but he wanted to know what the assignment was. He pulled on a pair of Italian leather driving gloves and picked up the envelope. He took out an eight by ten glossy. A young guy. In his twenties. Black hair. Good looking. The subject. He put the photo back and took out a piece of paper. A single typed sentence. SUBJECT WILL BE EATING DINNER AT SEVEN-THIRTY AT MOM AND DAD'S CAFE, US HIGHWAY 93, 114 MILES NORTH OF LAS VEGAS, ON WEDNESDAY JAN. 21. He turned the paper over to see if there was more information on the other side, but there was nothing.

He thought about another drink but it wasn't even noon yet and he felt a headache coming on. He dropped a twenty on the bar and walked out.

Standing outside, the envelope under his arm, he looked down the narrow gray street, past the shuttered store fronts and toward the river. He'd never had a job like this. Usually there was a name, a couple of addresses--work and home. A make and model of the subject's car. A license plate number. He wished Joey had stuck around to give him a little info. With that last job, the one with that U.S. Attorney, he knew everything about the guy. His whole history. Where he lived – at home with his parents, a couple of college professors. He thought that was funny. A guy still living at home trying to prosecute the Bergen City Mob.

He should take a pass. Give the money back, forget about the job. But that would be the last work he'd get from Joey. Hard to get good work now. Mostly government and corporate, and he didn't have the connections for that.

He suddenly wished he'd gotten more info out of that PI before he dumped him in the river, a fifty pound barbell tied to his ankles, cigarette burns all over his body.

He lumbered toward his car, feeling like a dinosaur. Hell, he was a dinosaur. A species that had out-lived its time. The cold January rain–more sleet than rain–stung his face. January in Vegas didn't sound too bad.

***

The kid stood out in the darkness, like a ghost. Had to be six-six, at least, with bright red hair and the whitest skin Kline had ever seen. How could he live in Vegas and not get sun poisoning? He stood next to an ancient Cadillac Fleetwood. It was parked on an empty construction site where the Stardust used to be, before they blew it up to build something else. In the Eighties, Kline had capped a guy in the parking lot at the Stardust, on the order of Mr. Spilotro, himself. He and Mr. Spilotro were running buddies, chasing broads and breaking heads together. Another time he'd shaken Mr. Frank Sinatra's hand at the Sands. Mr. Sinatra thanked him for breaking a photographer's camera. The memories made him sad, it all seemed so long ago.

Kline shook hands with the red-headed kid, not bothering to take his driving gloves off.

“A .22 with a suppressor, right?”

Kline nodded. He'd heard about this guy from the friend of a friend, and he was probably all right. But you never knew who might be wearing a wire.

The kid opened the trunk. He pulled back a blanket to reveal a half-dozen handguns. The kid put on a pair of white latex gloves, the kind food handlers wear. This made Kline feel a little better. Maybe the kid wasn't a complete flake, after all.

The kid picked up an automatic pistol with an attached silencer.

“A Ruger. Mk-II. With a suppressor it sounds like a fucking BB gun. Full mag. One in the chamber. It's not traceable. Stolen from a pawn shop. It's two grand.”

Kline tossed the bills one at a time into the trunk. The kid was talking too much.

“Hey, anything else I can get you interested in? I got a really cool .500 mag Smith & Wesson.” He picked up a revolver the size of a World War One howitzer. “Nine inch barrel. How about that?”

A gun nut, Kline thought. That explained everything. He hated gun nuts.

He shook his head.

“How do you do it?” The kid pointed his right index finger behind his right ear and pretended to pull a trigger. “One shot from a .22. Drop the gun. Walk away. Is that it?”

Kline was thinking he should give the kid a real-life demonstration.

“Real old school, I bet,” the kid said.

Kline turned and walked away.

“Don't worry,” the kid said. “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

***

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas . What did the kid mean by that? The thought rolled around in Kline's head as he drove through the desert. Stupid thing to say. Didn't make any sense.

Highway 93 was a narrow two-lane blacktop. On both sides, the desert, dusty brown and pock-marked with sagebrush. It was so flat. You could take up a position five hundred yards away and pick a guy off if you had the right kind of rifle with the right kind of scope. He didn't like the thought of that. He switched on the radio. Nothing but static. He checked the trip odometer--he'd set it to zero when he left Vegas. One hundred and twelve miles. Must be getting close. But close to what? He hadn't seen a town for a half-hour. He'd read this was America 's Loneliest Highway .

No shit.

He was thinking about what he was going to do. Get there a little early. Sit in the car, the engine off. The lights out. When the guy showed up, get out, plug him, get back in, and drive away.

Real old school.

The trip odometer read a 115 miles. Had he driven past it? Impossible. He would've seen it. He thought about turning around when he a shack on the side of the road. Fifty yards off the highway on the right, a couple of vehicles parked outside. He went up a bumpy dirt road to the shack. A hand-lettered sign saying, MOM AND DAD'S CAFE hung in front. It had originally been MOM'S CAFÉ, but somebody had scribbled AND DAD'S in above. Cute. Behind the shack was a small backhoe. Were they going to expand this place? Tear it down? Either seemed possible.

The digital clock on the dash read 7:27. He cursed himself for cutting it so close. Now he didn't know if the guy had arrived a little early and already gone inside. He'd have to get him after he came out, which would be harder, as he'd see Kline coming.

The photo of the guy lay on the passenger seat. The gun was underneath. Who was this guy, anyway? Had he taken off with a bunch of money? Ratted somebody out? Maybe he was in the Witness Protection Program. No way to know.

Kline looked out at the highway, expecting to see a car pull in at any minute. Not much traffic. Like none. How did the place stay in business?

Seven thirty-five and the guy still hadn't shown. He glanced at the two vehicles. A new SUV and an old POS. If Joey had given him the subject's license plate number, he'd be in a position to confirm he was there. Fucking Joey, not doing what he should.

He could go inside, see if the guy was there, but he didn't want to. There'd be people who could ID him later. But he didn't want to sit outside, either. It looked damned suspicious.

He put the gun in the pocket of the car coat and got out. The cold surprised him, the wind blowing hard across the desert. He stood for a minute, shivering, trying to decide what to do and thinking it was stupid to be standing out in the open.

He turned and went up the steps.

Inside the diner, a couple of tables and a lunch counter. A young couple sat at one table. The guy wasn't the subject. Kline took a seat at the other table where he could watch the door. An old woman came out from the kitchen, a pot of coffee in her hand.

“What can I get you?”

He reached for a menu.

“Coffee's fresh brewed if you want some. Free refills.”

“Okay. Give me a cup.”

He took a sip. The coffee was good. Brewed with chicory like they did in New Orleans . He'd done a couple of jobs in New Orleans for Mr. Carlos Marcello. He looked out the window. Pitch black. He couldn't see anything but his reflection. He quickly looked away.

He was thinking the subject looked like Mr. Spilotro. He didn't cap Mr. Spilotro. Mr. Aiuppa did that personally on account of how Mr. Spilotro had fucked everything up at the casinos and gotten Mr. Aiuppa indicted for skimming. Mr. Aiuppa was plenty pissed. He wielded that baseball bat like Mickey Mantle, himself. That's what Kline had told him while Kline was doing the spade work, burying Mr. Spilotro in the middle of a cornfield in Enos , Indiana , along with his brother. They were still breathing when he dumped the sandy dirt on them. The FBI found it in their lungs.

Mr. Spilotro's nickname had been the Ant. He thought that was funny, given the way he died.

“You want a refill?” The old woman waved the coffee pot at him. “Free refills.”

He nodded.

The clock on the wall said 7:50. The guy wasn't coming, Kline knew that. He was thinking maybe this was a set-up, somebody waiting outside to jump him, somebody from his past. He curled his right hand around the grip of his pistol.

Suddenly a shrieking noise. Kline jumped to his feet, the gun in his hand under the coat.

An old man in a stained apron, unshaven, his hair askew, came shambling out of the kitchen. “Is everybody all right?” he said, his voice a cackle. “Is everybody having a good time?”

Kline sat down, keeping an eye on the old man.

“Don't worry about him,” the old woman said, grinning. “He's harmless.”

Kline hardly heard her. He was eyeing the young couple. The guy kept looking at him. The woman said something and the guy looked away. Kline figured this for a set-up. But neither of them looked like hitters. The old woman refilled his cup. He was going to have to lay off the coffee, or he'd be up all night.

The old man appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. “Closing time is eight. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.”

“The geezer's right,” the old woman said. She had sharp, bird-like eyes. “Time to go.”

The couple got up and edged past Kline as they went out the door. Kline dropped a five on the table and went out right behind them. They would shield him as he came out the door.

He came down the steps with the couple in front. Watching them, he trotted to his car and got in. He drove out onto the dirt road and floored it, the rent car bouncing as it hit the ruts in the road.

He got on the highway and headed toward Vegas. It was much colder. Even with the heater on, he was shivering. The guy just hadn't shown up, that was all. He should be feeling good, he'd gotten money for nothing. But he wasn't feeling good. He had a stabbing pain in his gut and the shivering was worse. How far to the nearest town? Thirty miles at least. He didn't think he'd make it without passing out. He pulled over and took out his cell phone. No service.

He turned the car around and headed back. He'd have to call from the diner. He turned off the highway and got on the dirt road and drove toward the diner, grimacing every time he hit a rut.

The SUV was gone but the old POSwas still there . The lights in the diner were out. The place looked not just empty, but deserted. Like nobody had been there in a million years.

He heard something. A mechanical noise coming from behind the diner. He staggered out of the car.

“Help me,” he shouted. “I need help. I'm sick.”

No reply.

He took a step toward the diner and collapsed face down into the dirt. The sand got in his mouth and filled his nose. “Help me,” he croaked.

The noise stopped. Somebody must've heard him. He heard footsteps came crunching from around the side of the diner. A figure stepped into the glare of the headlights. It was the subject.

“What are you doing down there in the dirt?” he said.

“Help me. I feel bad.”

“Didn't you know? The diner is closed.”

“I feel real bad. I need help.”

“I'm not helping you, mister. You're a killer.”

Kline slipped his right hand into his coat, fumbling around for his gun. The target stepped on his arm. Hard. He ground his heel into Kline's forearm until he pulled his hand out of his pocket.

The target's head turned. An SUV came up the dirt road. It was the same SUV that had earlier been parked outside. Kline felt better. That young couple must've forgotten something. They would help him, they looked all right. They wouldn't let him die. All four doors opened. The young couple who had been the diner got out of the rear doors. An older woman dressed in an expensive-looking woolen pantsuit got out the front passenger's door. It took Kline a moment to recognize her as the waitress.

An old guy got out of the driver's door. He was wearing a leather jacket, designer jeans, and hand-tooled cowboy boots. It was the guy from the diner, clean shaven and his hair neatly combed.

“What the fuck is this?” Kline said, his voice a whisper.

“You don't look so good, Mr. Kline,” the old man said. His voice had a slight accent.

“I don't know you.”

“Let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Otto Huygens. This is my wife, Alma. This couple is my daughter Christina and her husband James.” He pointed at the target. “You've already met my son Edward. Also, you met my youngest son, Walter. In a parking garage. In Newark .”

Shit, that U.S. Attorney.

“You are probably wondering what is happening to you.”

“You poisoned me.”

“Very good. But not just any poison, but something special I prepared for the U.S. government.”

“The fuck you . . . talking about?”

He kneeled down, his face close to Kline's. “I am a biochemist and a damned good one, if I say so. The government about a year ago approached me. There are some government agencies in the same line of work as you. They wanted a tasteless, odorless, fast-acting poison that would not be detected on autopsy. I came up with compound 101. Perfect in every way, except too slow. Much too slow.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, Mr. Kline. Fuck you . Let me tell you what is going to happen. You ingested a potent neurotoxin. You are already experiencing limb weakness and numbness. Soon you will lose control of your bladder and your rectal muscles and you will soil yourself. You will experience severe pain as your autonomic and sympathetic nervous systems degrade. You will go blind. You will lose your cognitive capacities. All you will know is the pain. You will be worse than an animal. You could exist in this state for several hours, until your heart stops or your breathing ceases. I will sit here and enjoy your suffering. The last thing you will hear is my laughter.”

“Give me an antidote. I've got money. I'll pay you.”

Dr. Huygens turned to Edward. “Did you finish with the backhoe?”

“All finished.”

“Deep enough?”

“Plenty deep.”

“Take Mr. Kline's car to the airport. Park it in long term parking. Don't leave any fingerprints.”

“Didn't you hear me? I'll pay you . . . everything I have for an antidote.”

“There is no antidote. Anyway, I don't want your money, Mr. Kline. I want to see you suffer.”

I want to see you suffer. Kline closed his eyes as the pain got worse, like a hand clawing at his insides. God save me from amateurs.