Become a Fan
Dead of a Pedophile
By Georg E Mateos
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Rated "PG13" by the Author.
From "The Job"
The third book of the trilogy, the meat on the bone of the chapter with the same name.
When you have friends in high places, like in the Washington White Teepee, with political or otherwise big-stick power you would think you can do anything because you are protected (in the Mob it is “connected” which if you think deep is the same thing).
Well, your sexual inclination, leanings or whatisname, should and is a personal matter, but not when they molest small children, there the line in the sand is drawn and the game of “Dare & Consequences” starts.
He got by mail a padded envelope with a very small bullet inside, so little that the X-rays of the post office confused it for one of those charms that business love to send people as a solid-advertising, and let it go to his address.
His friends ordered a police car to park in front of the house.
One morning his wife let a shrill of a scream as she still wearing a nightgown entered the kitchen half numb, zombie like, and found a hole on the fridge door and looking over her shoulder a hole in the window glass pane with all those fine white lines radiating from hit.
As nobody had heard the shot, it was supposed that it was done using a silencer (or sound suppressor, to be politically correct)
The bullet in the envelope and the hole in the window never got to the newspapers. Hush-hush was the word. And the calls made to few national wide newspapers ones were intercepted by someone that candidly whispered in the ear of a few journalists that accidents happen.
And the whys never made public thanks to his good friends.
His wife didn’t know a thing about his sexual preferences, right? Because she never made a fuss, and was all smiles in the high society parties circuit.
But his friends, some of them with the same forbidden taste, took it so seriously that they got him a Secret Service Detail to watch the well being of his ass.
They called me via this time by the International Herald Tribune printed in Europe with a cute “100 yards dash running shoes shave seconds”
My little black book told me the number besides 100sc and from a public telephone with none of those damn surveillance cameras around, made a 39 seconds collect-call (they can zero in you from forty seconds up this days)
The voice at the other end told me where the dossier was, the opening code and all the information needed in a file that once open will delete itself in minutes and couldn’t be copied or printed or be available to any hacker of any agency.
Going home First Class by British Airways as a up in years old smiling a lot gentleman from, the passport, Italian extract retired long ago loaded businessman, I sat comfortable being pampered by those cute stewardesses that king of help me because my hands seems to shake a little now and then.
At JFK-airport I was offer a wheel chair that I graciously and thankfully accepted and was rolled pass a sympathetic immigration lady that refrained the automatic “business or pleasure” question, rubber stamped the OK and through the Customs where my expensive luggage, which someone from the BA had kindly retrieved for me, with a perfunctory check and out I went to the waiting chauffeured limo from the Waldorf and I was in my way.
Seeing the eyes of my driver looking curiously at me, I was obliged to explain that after eight hours sitting on the plain they insisted on wheelchair me, maybe thinking that if the old man collapses a monstrous suit would hit them like that tsunami somewhere doing some serious damage.
His eyes relaxed and he was kind of happy at the idea of not leaving the car to help the old geezer.
At the hotel Reception I signed the papers and was escorted to my room by a piccolo the size of that fellow wrestler Ventura that made Governor somewhere.
As I said, I was an old man, and old men forget a lot.
As told in the dossier, in the corner, and facing the wall, of the mattress near the night board with the telephone was a tiny cut with a car key hidden there.
Next morning took a cab to the rent-a-garage place and found the car. After closing the door inspected the contents of the baggage room and found cushioned in its wooden case, that beloved Bushnell 13-1650 16x50mm.
Over it in a recess the long range scope and lined like little brass soldiers a half dozen cartridges each in its private recess. (Six cartridges? If you need so many you aren’t the man for the job, but hey! What I know I am an old man remember?)
Another cab took me to the sights, and I strolled among many admiring the trees, smiling at little running children don’t looking ahead and bumping onto my legs and hearing the embarrassed apologies of their mothers.
Some red balloon got lose in the process and a big wail ran for freedom.
Casually I wandered to the inner line of threes in front of a gravel road used for the transport of senior citizens on sightseeing, looking forward to of an open space full of delicately groomed grass with a few bushes here and there.
For some particular abnormality Tuesdays wasn’t favored by nobody, the traffic was on the avenue side was told by a grateful beggar looking more at the five dollar inside the cup than at my face but volunteering all kind of Cicerone information just in a few seconds. Tuesday was bad for business so he wasn’t there but around the Memorial.
Back in the hotel, as I was retrieving my room key, a young Concierge, eager, full of customer service gun-ho (and making a few buck on the side) excused himself if I could spare a minute saying that being Sunday and Broadway full of great shows he could provide tickets to any of them at my pleasure.
So, I smile and told him yes, that Weber fellow seemed to know how to make a show work and got a ticked for the night performance charged of course to my legit Italian credit card and a the picture of Ulysses Grant for tips.
Monday I would have also a few brochures from top-notch investment firms to add to the ticked if anyone should be curious about my long weekend, which would be just one day longer.
That reminded me to phone British Airways and change my departure for a late fly on Tuesday (First Class has not the same troubles than Coach, never they are full) “It will be convenient early evening Sir?” It was.
I am not too much for musicals, but after a first class meal (thank God no one of those gourmets ones with a pea, a green straw over an anemic anchovy and few drops of something brown to make a culinary statement on you platter) with a rosé wine that brought a frown from the Sommelier for choosing it instead one of his “superb red wines at my disposition for red meat”
The coffee wasn’t like in Europe, but better, the 25 years old Remy Martin cognac (in a glass big enough to put that dumb Sommelier inside) was like silk going down searching for the spot in my stomach to explode with pleasure.
Apparently special suites people don’t need a cab to be transported to any Broadway show as the limousine was waiting for me (different driver) and off we went to hear the merry song.
A few blocks from the hotel after an early morning pleasurable walkabout I took a cab to the garage; after making all the fiddling and preparation of my tools I drove to my shooting range in a dark green you see one you see plenty of them around car, driving with the mad flow until was my turn to abandon the stream and aimed for the side way within 50 yards from the corner, the gravel road going through the trees alley until I reached the elected place, parked unobtrusively on one side (in case one of those senior citizen vans) with bushes hiding it from view from the open field and from the park and main road.
The rear and side mirrors told me, that I was surrounded by millions but no one of them had a clue I was there.
If you move too quickly you will call attention, if you do your thing like giving a damn if someone was looking, you can go away with murder.
After retrieving the gun loaded with one cartridge (how bragging can you get) and clicking in position the scope I hold it close to my body as I move toward the low bush just in front of the end tree line with the car decking my back.
Why holding the gun against my body you ask? Well, it isn’t a fishing rod and there wasn’t any water around, so, that’s a stupid question if you don’t want to advertise that you are a gunslinger in town.
A four by seven feet thin blanked would do to no mess my clothes, the grass was dry but why tempt fate?
The dossier said that between 10 to 11 AM everyday he put at test his guardians by going surfacing for fresh air.
My watch said 10.04 and my scope said no one there, yet.
My ears had blocked all the sounds beyond fifty yards and concentrated on any centipede group or twigs breaking feet on tour.
At 10.13 I saw the group walking like having nothing in the world to worry, but the younger men were looking suspiciously at everything, perhaps even at their associates.
Then, they stopped about in the middle of the clearing.
My target (calling them that dehumanize them, kind of) was 622 yards away by telemetry, the scope zoomed right to the point where I could determine is religion denomination.
He was just standing there, sure as everyday, defiantly, his lips moving, perhaps telling the Secret Service guys what a pain in the ass they were insisting that he kept his sorry ass indoors.
The guys in black, wearing smoked shadows (Rayban’s?) had a funny wire sticking out of one ear like cloned robots looking apprehensively and suspiciously towards buildings, trees and bushes that encircled them by three sides.
Between them and me…just an open field with nowhere to hide, even a rabbit.
The Secret boys gave in my direction just a perfunctory glance, they couldn’t see so far away anything behind the flat bush where the gun rest was firmly stuck in the ground, nor could they see the car covered from their side by some kind of bush that I hope wasn’t poison ivy (flunked botanic course).
Sometimes the gods are good to you and that guy from the Olympus, whatisname? Was not blowing his breath on my path, no cross wind, not even a feeble breeze to deviate the bullet.
The scope cross-hairs was just below his Adam apple, the bullet would exit at a velocity of a couple of thousand feet per second and hit dead center on his chest,
it was to give the few centimeters that the weight of the bullet would make it to descend, otherwise, aiming at his heart, the bullet perhaps wouldn’t kill him but we could have another soprano in town.
He was the perfect target, covered from all sides but mine, his back against some kind of low rail, puffin a forbidden to every one but him a big Cuban cigar.
Because I had plugs in my ears when the trigger finger slowly reached the point of no return, the sound blast didn’t kick my auditory system way out to the deaf’s department.
A short second went by, I had my scope trained on his face, the bullet would arrive before it’s sound.
Suddenly I saw a rainbow of expressions, surprise, pain, fear and then the force of the bullet passing through his chest punched him right to the canvas for the final count like hit by Iron Mike on a rage trip.
The Secrets boys, guns waiving ran to the fallen man with a pool of blood getting bigger under him and the red blotch in the chest.
Then they reacted like a synchronized ballet looking for the attacker, which they couldn’t pinpoint to as the new positions didn’t recalled from where the sound of the single shot came, after all, it was a lot of empty space around but plenty of windows and trees and cars and…
One of the safety boys scanned the surroundings with a small binocular, just going in a wide sweep on my open space and deciding that there couldn’t be a gun that far away and concentrating his googles on the around buildings.
They had totally forgotten in their panicky confusion of “there goes my job” that the man was shot looking right ahead the open field.
Eventually the CSI people would figure it and determine where I had been.
Bending over as low as I could, moving slowly (no need to catch the eye of the boys far away) got at last behind the trees and the bush hiding the car, open the lid and put back everything in place.
Started the car and moved slowly towards the exit, strange enough not wailing sirens, no racing about of disregarding traffic cars, nothing.
I was able to join unobtrusively the flow and twenty minutes after I was back in the garage, after, as paranoia dictates being sure that I hadn’t picked up a tail.
With the car stashed back at his home it took me about ten minutes walk to the “main road” and after finding a bus stop, sat in an empty bench to wait.
The main office after hear-dropping that the job was done gave the go ahead to my request of a limo with “Merry & Lynch” logo.
Fifteen minutes of wait and the car arrived with a uniformed driver with a face you wouldn’t want to see past midnight on an empty back alley.
Officiously he went around and opened the back passenger door for the old gentleman and we were on our way back to the hotel.
The empty and pristine ashtray suddenly got a key deposit and that was that.
The doorman came to the car like it was in fire and he wanted to help me out of it, but not before taking note of the Financial Institution logo, and after thanking him I went inside to calmly reach my room but not before asking Reception to have someone to pack my bags up and bring them down (the valet that had unpacked my bags would have an extra thing or two, Broadway tickets, Financial and Wall Street top notch Investments and a few fake certificates of a few thousand of recently bought shares, no need to left behind mysteries, questions, buts or what’s) as I would checking up at 1500 hours sharp to go to JFK British Airways departures.
I was in the room just to put things “right” and to unload my bowls ballast reading US-Today paper going all over the place because some baseball dude open his clam and started talking steroids pointing fingers at everybody but the Pope; the political commentators just pasted from their old paper old political commentaries to the today’s column, you read all that before a few times.
It was nearly noon when I decided that lunch was in order and went to the intimate restaurant reserved, I supposed, for the high rollers and aristocracy.
Their cook, pardon me, their Chef d’Cuisine, was as perfect as it can get when there is a price tag on each dish enough to buy a medium size country.
After the meal I went to the room where you can have your coffee, cigars, brandy, newspapers, and a big screen TV (low volume) with a CNN channel frozen in it.
Then…1400 hours sharp…BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS BREAKING NEWS traveling on the lower strip of the screen and a Cary Grand look alike breathless man (they thing that breaking news should be said in a millisecond) told the grieving city that their beloved man had suffered a massive heart attack and was DOA (dead on arrival, for you that can’t master that modern curse of putting letters to anything)
No news of any shot, perhaps of a car backfiring if anybody cared, in a city where shots where as common as pigeons shitting statues.
I paid with my CC (credit card, you dummy!) and the Consierge-du-jour with a big smile of capped teeth tried his hand at Italian saying, “tanti grazie Signore e buon ritorno” which got a smiled back from me (with not capped teeth)
The fly back was uneventful and after jumping to Paris (different passport) from London and to my destination (another Pass) from there, I was back home after a five days journey.
My PC (personal computer) pals were asking if anything was wrong, after all I didn’t communicate (some of them didn’t received my e-mail saying I will be silent for a few days) so, I opened my mail page, clicked Compose, pasted all the e-mail names where to, and asked them if they had forgotten that I was kind of an old man writing a book, doing research forgetting a little of this and a little of that…but that now I was back.
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|Reviewed by Stacy Mantle
|Reviewed by 000 000
|Most excellent!! Great writing that was detailed as to keep me following and interested. But who will read/explain this to ED?
|Reviewed by Rose Rideout
|You pulled me into this and yes I can see a novel coming, Thank you georg for sharing.
Newfie hugs, Rose
|Reviewed by Karen Lynn Vidra, The Texas Tornado
|EXCELLENT writing, Georg; great to see you doing stories again! I've missed them!
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in America, Karen Lynn in Texas. :D
Will be writing probably by tomorrow; am leanin' on the Lord to get us through this time....Took a few days' break to think, regroup, get myself together....
|Reviewed by Flying Fox Ted L Glines
|Yep, don't you hate those gorgeous gormet plates which do not contain enough food for a flea - all the while looking like a painting. I have bad news for the chef - it is not beautiful anymore in my still hungry stomach! Good story, you rascally shooter, you, and an excellent choice of targets :-)
|Reviewed by Morning Star
|WOOOOOW I love i was in suspense all through
Very intriguing story!!
I agreed with Fee a novel I think even a miny movie!!
Peace Love and Light....Morning Star
|Reviewed by m j hollingshead
|Reviewed by Felix Perry
|EXcellant short story with definate makings of a novel or novelette
|Reviewed by Bonnie May
|You are one little devil, I had no idea you wrote these wonderful, intriging stories. You had me sitting on the edge of my seat my friend. Totally enjoyed, totally entranced through the whole thing. I even liked your humor and explantions for us dummies. Love, Bonnie|