more than a health farm, really. Perhaps a little bit more than a health
farm.
You see, my
client is a physiologist; and he discovered during the Tokyo Olympics that a
certain combination of chemicals and anabolic steroids could develop an ordinary
athlete into a super athlete... tireless, aggressive, and unstoppable.”
“I thought
anabolic steroids were banned by most athletics associations,” Gerard had
interrupted.
“They are,”
Esmeralda had agreed. “Yes, they are. But my client has been clever enough to
apply his knowledge to another field, a field of prime concern in the United
States, and in many parts of the Middle East, and that is personal security.
Using the techniques he developed at the Tokyo Olympics, my client now wishes
to develop a stable of bodyguards, superbodyguards, who will be rented out to
anybody who needs them. They will be available to protect industrialists,
politicians, even senior mafiosi . They will be
bodyguards of invincible strength, crushing capabilities. If Reagan had only
had one when John Hinckley shot at him, Hinckley would have been torn to tiny
shreds! You can call them killer bodyguards, if you like. They will terrify
anyone who comes near them.”
Gcrard had
said, “I stopped believing in fairy stories when I was seven years old, Mr.
Esmeralda.”
“You think I’m
telling you a fairy story? You want some kind of proof?’’
“I don’t want
anything from you. I just want you to leave.”
‘‘Look at
this,’’ Esmeralda had said, and produced from the inside pocket of his coat a
manila envelope. He had opened it, and taken out a 5 x 4 glossy black-and-white
print, which he had passed over to Gerard in a hand that trembled ever so
slightly.
Gerard had not
looked down at the picture at first: but then he had slowly lowered his eyes and
taken in a blurred, overexposed scene of a short, stocky man holding something
up over his head. The picture must have been taken in the mountains somewhere:
the ground was sloping, and there were conifer trees and rocks. It was only
when Gerard had peered closer, though, that he had begun to understand what it
was that the stocky man was holding up. It was a deer, or the remains of a
deer, which looked as if it had been torn apart like a gory telephone
directory. Its guts hung between the man’s outstretched arms, and its head was
falling back at a grotesque angle.
“This could
have been staged,” Gerard had said cautiously.
“Of course it
could.” Esmeralda had smiled. “But it was not. That man tore that deer to
pieces with his bare hands.”
Gerard had
handed the photograph back and looked at Esmeralda with great suspicion. He had
not yet wholly believed. But he had been prepared to listen.
Esmeralda had
admired his well-polished fingernails, and then added, “My client needs
somebody who can manage his interests in California. Someone
to help him with organization and transportation; someone to fetch and carry. Someone sophisticated and unscrupulous. And that
someone will be you.”
Gerard had
stood up and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “Mr. Esmeralda,” he
said fiercely, “I want you to get out of my office.”
“Of course you
do.” Esmeralda had smiled, and his voice had been as oily and soothing as warm
coconut milk. “But you’ve been running risks for years now, selling arms and
drugs to whichever client will pay you the most money, and there always comes a
time in lives like yours when chickens come home to roost. This is it, Mr.
Crowley. This is when your chickens come home.”
Gerard had
slowly closed the door of his office, and then he and Esmeralda had talked in
private for three hours. At the end of that time, Gerard had agreed, grudgingly
but curiously, to supervise the day-to-day fetching and carrying that was going
to be needed by the men who were running the program, and to liaise with
whomever else Esmeralda might appoint to assist him. “I have already chosen
farm.
You see, my
client is a physiologist; and he discovered during the Tokyo Olympics that a
certain combination of chemicals and anabolic steroids could develop an ordinary
athlete into a super athlete... tireless, aggressive, and unstoppable.”
“I thought
anabolic steroids were banned by most athletics associations,” Gerard had
interrupted.
“They are,”
Esmeralda had agreed. “Yes, they are. But my client has been clever enough to
apply his knowledge to another field, a field of prime concern in the United
States, and in many parts of the Middle East, and that is personal security.
Using the techniques he developed at the Tokyo Olympics, my client now wishes
to develop a stable of bodyguards, superbodyguards, who will be rented out to
anybody who needs them. They will be available to protect industrialists,
politicians, even senior mafiosi . They will be
bodyguards of invincible strength, crushing capabilities. If Reagan had only
had one when John Hinckley shot at him, Hinckley would have been torn to tiny
shreds! You can call them killer bodyguards, if you like. They will terrify
anyone who comes near them.”
Gcrard had
said, “I stopped believing in fairy stories when I was seven years old, Mr.
Esmeralda.”
“You think I’m
telling you a fairy story? You want some kind of proof?’’
“I don’t want
anything from you. I just want you to leave.”
‘‘Look at
this,’’ Esmeralda had said, and produced from the inside pocket of his coat a
manila envelope. He had opened it, and taken out a 5 x 4 glossy black-and-white
print, which he had passed over to Gerard in a hand that trembled ever so
slightly.
Gerard had not
looked down at the picture at first: but then he had slowly lowered his eyes and
taken in a blurred, overexposed scene of a short, stocky man holding something
up over his head. The picture must have been taken in the mountains somewhere:
the ground was sloping, and there were conifer trees and rocks. It was only
when Gerard had peered closer, though, that he had begun to understand what it
was that the stocky man was holding up. It was a deer, or the remains of a
deer, which looked as if it had been torn apart like a gory telephone
directory. Its guts hung between the man’s outstretched arms, and its head was
falling back at a grotesque angle.
“This could
have been staged,” Gerard had said cautiously.
“Of course it
could.” Esmeralda had smiled. “But it was not. That man tore that deer to
pieces with his bare hands.”
Gerard had
handed the photograph back and looked at Esmeralda with great suspicion. He had
not yet wholly believed. But he had been prepared to listen.
Esmeralda had
admired his well-polished fingernails, and then added, “My client needs
somebody who can manage his interests in California. Someone
to help him with organization and transportation; someone to fetch and carry. Someone sophisticated and unscrupulous. And that
someone will be you.”
Gerard had
stood up and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. “Mr. Esmeralda,” he
said fiercely, “I want you to get out of my office.”
“Of course you
do.” Esmeralda had smiled, and his voice had been as oily and soothing as warm
coconut milk. “But you’ve been running risks for years now, selling arms and
drugs to whichever client will pay you the most money, and there always comes a
time in lives like yours when chickens come home to roost. This is it, Mr.
Crowley. This is when your chickens come home.”
Gerard had
slowly closed the door of his office, and then he and Esmeralda had talked in
private for three hours. At the end of that time, Gerard had agreed, grudgingly
but curiously, to supervise the day-to-day fetching and carrying that was going
to be needed by the men who were running the program, and to liaise with
whomever else Esmeralda might appoint to assist him. “I have already chosen
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