Private Eye - Part 8

Next Day.

3:47 pm.

The Olde Seadog bar was fashioned in the style of a boat, with ropes dangling at various intervals, wheels for steering hung up on the walls. Framed pictures of various sea-faring events adorned the spaces remaining.

It was a very old bar that contained very old people. Dark, claustrophobic, illuminated by candle-lit lamps and occupied by way too many men with beards. Some leaning at the bar, others seated at tables.

Carlos and Daniel were sitting at a table in a corner of the dark, seedy bar. The usual poison of choice sat in glasses in front of them.

“Are you all right?” asked Daniel, concerned. “How did you even get out of there? It was on the news and everything.”

“I’m fine,” replied Carlos. “I’m a fast runner.”

“So, this System Three sounds like it’s going to cause some problems. But we still don’t know what Nathan’s brother was doing with these people.”

“I’ll find out. Listen, I’ve told Nathan to get out of town for a while. You should do the same. I think now would be a good time to take a vacation. Just until I’ve closed this thing. For your own safety. I’ll keep in contact with you by phone and let you know when the coast is clear.”

“And if you can’t close it? If they get to you?”

“Then, I guess you won’t be hearing from me.”

“Where do you suggest I go?” asked Daniel.

“Far away,” replied Carlos. “I don’t want to know where.”

* * *

In the black Jaguar X-type parked up opposite the bar, Mort sat patiently in the drivers seat. He was wearing a t-shirt displaying a smiley face inside a heart with the words ’Smile! It makes the world go round!’

Frankie and Mitch were watching and waiting from the back seat.

After years of contract killing, Mort was an expert at finding and tailing people.

“I’m glad to see you’re taking a more subtle approach to things this time,” said Frankie, accusation in his voice.

“Shut up,” came the swift reply from Mort. “We’re fine, aren’t we? Just stay focused.”

Mitch, for the second time, noticed the effeminate t-shirt that Mort was wearing. “You like your, uh. . .happy clothing, don’t you?”

“I like what I like,” replied Mort. “And I like to stay positive. Negativity is a defect.”

“Ah. That’s how you get through the day as a contract killer. You stay positive while you’re bursting people’s heads open with sniper rifles.”

“What did I just say? Shut up and stay focused.”

There was silence while they waited and
watched the bar for movement. The only people that exited the bar were a few middle-aged women looking worse for wear and a UPS delivery man.

“You know, most people are too terrified of me to ask the sort of questions you do,” continued Mort. “For good reason.”

“Well, I would be terrified, but I just find you so fascinating,” came the sarcastic reply from Mitch.

“Here comes one of them,” said Frankie.

They focused their attention once more on the bar and noticed Daniel leave.

“Where’s the other one?” asked Mitch.

“They’re trying to be careful. They’re not sure if we’ve been following them or not,” stated Mort. “Carlos Vespa is already gone. He just walked out disguised as a delivery man.” He then pointed to Daniel. “Grab that guy.”

* * *

Carlos strode briskly along the busy street. He ripped the delivery man shirt off and threw it in a bin that he conveniently walked past. His attire was now white shirt, black trousers. He glanced behind and saw Mort pursuing him in the distance, navigating through the people.

Carlos crossed the road and entered a park where there was a fairground in full swing.

He weaved through the crowds of children running around, candyfloss in hand, laughing. There were parents milling around with their kids, teaching them how to shoot on the target ranges and trying to shut screaming babies up with big, cuddly toys.

He passed various attractions and rides in the form of merry-go-rounds, roller coasters, spinning tea-cups and such.

He took another glance behind and saw that Mort had picked up the pace. Carlos broke into a run.

* * *

Back in the black Jaguar X-type, Mitch was now seated in the driver’s seat, Frankie in the back with a recently captured Daniel. His hands were tied behind his back and duct-tape placed over his mouth, and he looked dishevelled, frightened.

“I think he might be gay, you know,” said Mitch, out of the blue, venting his suspicions.

“Who?” asked Frankie.

“Mort. The ear ring, those pussy t-shirts he keeps wearing. The nail varnish. He’s got to be. Why else would you walk around like that?”

“Black nail varnish is considered trendy in some scenes, you know that?”

“He is not trendy. I’m watchin’ myself around that guy,” Mitch stated. “And all that talk about being positive. HIV-positive maybe.”

* * *

Carlos was now sprinting through the crowded fairground with Mort in pursuit, slowly gaining ground. He noticed up ahead an attraction called The House Of Mirrors. After a few seconds more of sprinting, he reached the entrance and darted inside.

He took a quick look around. It was a mirror maze, with various routes and dead ends. Every
single wall and panel was made as a mirror. He chose a route and made a run for it.

Mort had now reached the entrance to The House Of Mirrors and made his way inside.

He took a second to look around at the mirror maze. He chose a route and cautiously walked around, gun in hand.

He thought he saw Carlos, so he quickly spun on the spot. He fired off a few shots, but it was just a reflection of himself elsewhere in the maze. He was just shooting and smashing mirrored panels. It was extremely disorienting and highly frustrating.

Eventually Mort lost his temper with this stupid game and started blasting, shot after shot, smashing glass all around him.

After a few more minutes of seemingly hopeless wandering around, with no sign of Carlos, Mort finally found the exit and stepped outside. Parts of his face and fore-arms were bleeding where the shattered glass from the gunshots had cut him.

He scanned the immediate area and eventually caught sight of Carlos running across the fairground. He immediately gave chase.

Carlos approached another attraction, this one called The Ghost House. The ride was set out to look like a big haunted house. There was a string of carriages that seated two people, each on a track that took you through the doors to the haunted house and around the ride.

There was a queue of people lining the steps up to the platform where they could then get in to a carriage. A young male ride operator, in his late teens or thereabouts, was seated in the control booth and a ride attendant, another boy of a similar age, directed people where to go from the platform, ushering them into the carriages.

Carlos came racing up to the ride and jumped up onto the platform, swinging himself over the
railings. As the doors to the haunted house opened and the carriages went through, he ran along beside them, and into the ride.

“Sir! Hey, you can’t go in there!” called the ride attendant. He turned to the ride operator. “You see that guy?”

“Call security,” said the ride operator. “I’ll stop the ride.”

The ride attendant took the walkie-talkie from his belt. The queue of people were making an agitated fuss, and from the midst of them Mort emerged, barging through on to the platform and, with the ride still operational, raced through the doors into the ride.

“What the hell, man?!” screamed the ride attendant. He again turned to the ride operator. “Come on, dude, stop the ride!”

“All right!” he replied.

The interior of the attraction was a series of dark, dimly lit rooms in the style of an old house with cobwebs and spiders hung down from the unseen ceiling, skeletons that popped out from the walls and creepy looking moving puppets of horror movie style characters that grabbed at the passengers as they passed by in the carriages. There was steam rising from the ground for added eerie effect.

The chain of carriages had now stopped and the kids on the ride were complaining and moaning amongst themselves.

Carlos came sprinting past the carriages and hurtled through into the next room, immediately pursued by Mort. Both were carrying guns in hand.

The kids gasped and watched the chase with excited, yet petrified interest. Carlos ran the length of the next room beside the carriages full of the bewildered youngsters and slid behind a grandfather clock that was part of the spooky scenery.

Mort entered at the other end and Carlos stepped out and opened fire. The carriage riders screamed in unison.

Mort ducked down behind the last carriage, much to the displeasure of the two terrified, wailing kids sitting therein. He returned fire and the terrified youngsters in the carriages bolted up and ran down the rest of the track in hysteria, searching frantically for the exit.

In the ensuing group of running people, Carlos made a break for it, dodging the puppets and skeletons jumping out of the walls and ceiling.

Mort got up from his ducked position and gave chase.

Suddenly, and without warning, a skeleton puppet swung down from the ceiling and Mort hit it full force with his head at full sprint, knocking him to the ground, flat on his back.

Carlos, along with the panicked passengers, rushed out of the ride at the end of the track and kept on running. Eventually he stopped to have a look back at the ride to see how much distance was between him and Mort, but scanning around, he couldn’t see him anywhere. Letting out a big sigh of relief, he turned and walked away.

* * *

Mort groaned and slowly turned over on to his front and pushed himself up on to his feet. He picked up his gun and took a step in the direction he was already going before the unwelcome skeleton attack, which was towards the exit of the ride.

Behind him, two fairground security officers had caught up and had their guns trained on him.

“Stop right there!” said the first officer. “Drop
the gun and turn around. Slowly.”

Mort turned around, still holding the gun casually down by his side.

“Drop the gun, sir, and get down on the ground! Now!” commanded the second officer.

“If you value your lives, you’ll let me go,” said Mort, calmly.

“Do it! Now!” screamed the first officer.

Mort started to bend his knees, slowly, lowering his gun down to the ground.

Suddenly he straightened up, and in one swift movement fired a double-tap into the head of the first officer and then a double-tap into the head of the second officer, dropping them to the ground, killing them both instantly.

Mort turned, unfazed, and continued to walk towards the exit.

* * *

Carlos was in a phone booth on a busy street with the phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone. It clicked as the call was answered.

“Daniel, are you all right?” said Carlos into the phone, immediately, without waiting for a greeting. “Did you leave, like I told you to?”

“Daniel is unavailable at the moment, Mr. Vespa,” came a calm, cold voice. Harry Draft.

Carlos dropped his head in despair. “Is he alive?”

“For now. But he’s far from comfortable. I’ll tell you what: you decide a meeting point, you come in, we’ll let Daniel go and I’ll call off the guys that are tailing Nathan as we speak.”

Carlos slammed the phone down on the
hook, furious. He stood there for a few seconds trying to compose himself, trying to slow his breathing down.

He picked the phone back up, put a few more coins in the slot and punched in another number. After a few seconds, the line picked up.

“Hello?” answered a female voice.

“Hey, baby,” said Carlos. “It’s about time I bought you a drink.”