happened to that Felix guy?”
“Yes,” echoed Davette, who seemed genuinely interested. “I'd like to hear.”
“So would I,” said Adam, now without his collar once more. “Did you ever see him again?”
Jack eyed CM briefly, surprise and dawning gratitude on his face. He smiled and nodded to the question. “Yep. Twice more.”
Annabelle's smile was a knowing one. “What happened?”
“Well, to answer that, I've first got to talk about Mr. Peanut.”
Carl frowned. “What's Carter got to do with it? He wasn't president then.”
“No,” Jack agreed slowly. “But the damage was done. Who else told the world a bunch of unshaven purportedly religious punks could mob-storm an American embassy and capture and torture the diplomatic personnel for four hundred and forty-four days and get away with it?”
Carl frowned again. “So what's the point?”
Jack sipped and grinned. "That is the point. The whole world knew we lacked the one thing absolutely required to stop outlaws: the resolve to get the dirty job done. Without that, they knew if they pushed us hard enough and long enough, we'd back off.
“So they decided to murder DEA agents. One, anyway, so there would be a chance for Congress to whoop and holler and then do nothing and the agents themselves would see they had no backup after the second killing and quit. Not quit their jobs. Just quit doing them. And why shouldn't they? Why be targets for people who didn't care anymore about them than to say they did?”
“So what stopped it?” Adam wanted to know.
Jack's face was hard. “It wasn't stopped.”
Adam stared at him. “You're kidding.”
“Read the papers much, kid?”
Jack snorted, smiled. “Don't blame you. Anyway, they've killed five DEA men since 1983.”
“And they tried to kill you?” prompted Davette. “Kidnapped me first.” Jack drained his glass and signaled
the waitress for another round. “Which was stupid. Felix tried to warn me. He got word to me two days before but I had John Wayne fever or something and wouldn't get out like I should.”
“How,” asked Cat slowly, “did Felix know?”
“They were his gang. Those partners he was so worried about, trying to prove they could make it in the raw-brown-heroin business.”
Third Interlude: Audition
They trussed me up good. Four of 'em. They took me right out of my motel room in the early morning during my shower.
Stupid, stupid, stupid on my part. Just stupid!
But not bad on theirs. They were fast and rough and scared and they bad me down and wrapped up tight and then they pounded on me to show they meant it and then we left. At least they gave me my trousers.
Two hours later we're out in some abandoned mobile home way out in the sticks and I'm tied to a chair at the legs and armrests and shoved up against this rickety old kitchen table like they're going to feed me and then they sit down and shoot some more speed into their arms.
It was plenty scary. All four were Americans, all four young. All four wired to the gills. The dope didn't even seem to affect them, so God knows how long they'd been awake and psyching up to do this. Two or three days at least. Maybe a week.
I was dead meat.
There was a fifth guy there. Hispanic, but I knew damn well he wasn't a Mexican. He was cold sober and cold-eyed and dressed the way he thought American gangsters were supposed to dress. He chewed a toothpick and played with the gold on his wrists and fingers and around his neck. He was the one they were trying to impress. They kept offering him speed. He shook his head and smiled. Then he looked at me with a sly sneer of personal triumph. He suggested they keep the gag in my mouth. They did.
The moment came. They all exchanged nervous looks and then looked at the Hispanic and be looked at them as if to say, “Well?”
The leader looked a bit like Cat, thin and blond, and he licked his lips and nodded to the others and they all stood up. The leader reached for his gun. Two of
“Yes,” echoed Davette, who seemed genuinely interested. “I'd like to hear.”
“So would I,” said Adam, now without his collar once more. “Did you ever see him again?”
Jack eyed CM briefly, surprise and dawning gratitude on his face. He smiled and nodded to the question. “Yep. Twice more.”
Annabelle's smile was a knowing one. “What happened?”
“Well, to answer that, I've first got to talk about Mr. Peanut.”
Carl frowned. “What's Carter got to do with it? He wasn't president then.”
“No,” Jack agreed slowly. “But the damage was done. Who else told the world a bunch of unshaven purportedly religious punks could mob-storm an American embassy and capture and torture the diplomatic personnel for four hundred and forty-four days and get away with it?”
Carl frowned again. “So what's the point?”
Jack sipped and grinned. "That is the point. The whole world knew we lacked the one thing absolutely required to stop outlaws: the resolve to get the dirty job done. Without that, they knew if they pushed us hard enough and long enough, we'd back off.
“So they decided to murder DEA agents. One, anyway, so there would be a chance for Congress to whoop and holler and then do nothing and the agents themselves would see they had no backup after the second killing and quit. Not quit their jobs. Just quit doing them. And why shouldn't they? Why be targets for people who didn't care anymore about them than to say they did?”
“So what stopped it?” Adam wanted to know.
Jack's face was hard. “It wasn't stopped.”
Adam stared at him. “You're kidding.”
“Read the papers much, kid?”
Jack snorted, smiled. “Don't blame you. Anyway, they've killed five DEA men since 1983.”
“And they tried to kill you?” prompted Davette. “Kidnapped me first.” Jack drained his glass and signaled
the waitress for another round. “Which was stupid. Felix tried to warn me. He got word to me two days before but I had John Wayne fever or something and wouldn't get out like I should.”
“How,” asked Cat slowly, “did Felix know?”
“They were his gang. Those partners he was so worried about, trying to prove they could make it in the raw-brown-heroin business.”
Third Interlude: Audition
They trussed me up good. Four of 'em. They took me right out of my motel room in the early morning during my shower.
Stupid, stupid, stupid on my part. Just stupid!
But not bad on theirs. They were fast and rough and scared and they bad me down and wrapped up tight and then they pounded on me to show they meant it and then we left. At least they gave me my trousers.
Two hours later we're out in some abandoned mobile home way out in the sticks and I'm tied to a chair at the legs and armrests and shoved up against this rickety old kitchen table like they're going to feed me and then they sit down and shoot some more speed into their arms.
It was plenty scary. All four were Americans, all four young. All four wired to the gills. The dope didn't even seem to affect them, so God knows how long they'd been awake and psyching up to do this. Two or three days at least. Maybe a week.
I was dead meat.
There was a fifth guy there. Hispanic, but I knew damn well he wasn't a Mexican. He was cold sober and cold-eyed and dressed the way he thought American gangsters were supposed to dress. He chewed a toothpick and played with the gold on his wrists and fingers and around his neck. He was the one they were trying to impress. They kept offering him speed. He shook his head and smiled. Then he looked at me with a sly sneer of personal triumph. He suggested they keep the gag in my mouth. They did.
The moment came. They all exchanged nervous looks and then looked at the Hispanic and be looked at them as if to say, “Well?”
The leader looked a bit like Cat, thin and blond, and he licked his lips and nodded to the others and they all stood up. The leader reached for his gun. Two of
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