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  He and Sybille Haskin, pursuant to a series of delicately phrased messages passed through several intermediary websites, met at a McDonald’s in upper Northwest D.C., well away from Capitol Hill. He had the Fish McMayonnaise, she had the Quarter Pounder with Grease. Neither ate.

  He surveyed her with interest. An almost legendary being, much rumored but little known. Tall. Not attractive to him, no, not sexually anyway, as he was gay. But to a certain type of male, yes, he could see ...

  “Good afternoon,” said Haskin abruptly, “I need someone taken care of.”

  “And a fall-guy?”

  “Yes, I need that, too, unless you’d like to volunteer.”

  “What kind?”

  “What kind of what?”

  “What kind of fall-guy. Are we talking plausible robbery? Sex-revenge? Left or right-wing extremists? Chai Party?”

  “I don’t care,” Haskin said. “Someone. Robbery? Whatever. Just no political associations or political motive, that’s all. And he can’t be allowed to survive.”

  “OK. What kind of victim? It drives the price.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Crime lord, triple. Erring husband, standard rate. And so on.”

  “Member of Congress.”

  “Standard rate. When?”

  “October.”

  “Why so far ahead?”

  “Shut up.”

  “OK, OK. October it is. Give me a name.”

  Haskin passed George a name on a slip of paper. He read it. His eyes widened a little, not quite professionally.

  “Double,” he said.

  “There’s more to it,” she said. She explained exactly what was required.

  “Triple,” he said.

  Haskin nodded.

  Yes, Sebastian George needed to find a fall-guy; someone who could not be permitted to survive. He was good at that sort of thing.

  George felt certain she was working for Thomas Conning. Who else would want Ezra Barnes dead? He had said nothing about that, because he was a professional. But perhaps he could use that knowledge to his advantage, at some future time after he’d fulfilled the contract. That could be very profitable. And being profitable was very professional, wasn’t it?

  Sebastian George never discovered that, instead of Haskin working for Conning, it was the other way around.

  After Haskin left McDonald’s, George waited for some twelve minutes, and then he left also.

  On the way home, he thought through his mental rolodex of contacts. Not the sort of power crowd Haskin would know, but losers. People whose criminal record made them unfit for honest work, at least in the minds of employers. People who wouldn’t be missed, or if they were missed in the sense of gone missing, wouldn’t be missed as in, ‘I miss my old drinking buddy’.

  George carefully built a mental requirements list, as he was a thorough and methodical criminal. The fall-guy would have to be:

  .. A gunman, that is, someone with a prior for gun possession, or use of a gun in a robbery or assault.

  .. Willing to open fire in a public place, not just at night in a public housing project. Bank robbers might qualify.

  .. Not actively sought by law enforcement.

  .. Not known in any way to the authorities in Pennsylvania.

  .. Without, as far as anyone knew, close friends who might want to avenge his death; because George intended to see that his fall-guy was dead before he could implicate anyone, that is, before he could implicate Sebastian George. George’s desires in this matter coordinated nicely with Sybille Haskin’s demands.

  .. And most important, someone who could be coerced into performing what anyone with more than a two-digit IQ could see was a suicide mission, either shot on the spot or lethally injected later by a wrathful public. Someone with something to lose. Something important. Something to die for.

  This last requirement would be the most difficult to meet, George knew. He would have to survey all his contacts, while concealing what he was really up to. Not easy, but then Sebastian George had not achieved his wealth and reputation as one of the few successful elite criminals outside Wall Street by doing easy things.

  That May, Thomas Conning and Ezra Barnes were nominated by their respective parties for the U.S. Senate. Neither had significant competition.

  Chapter 8: Two and a Half Months Before the Assassination

  George reached out to his underworld contacts – not irresponsible drunks or 7-11 holdup artists, but pros who could keep a secret, who could hear out his list of requirements, make their recommendations, and then forget there ever was a list, or a Sebastian George.

  After three weeks of search and secret enquiry, and consultations with underworld figures, and access to a few data collections he wasn’t supposed to know even existed, he had looked at the records of some sixteen men and three women in the D.C. area who met his criteria – except the last: susceptibility to coercion.

  But persistence paid off, as Sebastian George eventually identified an ex-convict named Charley Dukes as the ideal assassin-slash-fall-guy. Dukes met all the criminal requirements on George’s list:

  .. “Not too bright” was the word on the street; “hard of thinking”

  .. Habitual criminal (robbery, mostly)

  .. Two firearms convictions

  .. Not strung out on dope

  .. Not currently sought by police

  .. No record in Pennsylvania

  .. And most important, seriously coercible.

  George’s sources mentioned a place in D.C. where Dukes might be found: The Stirrup on New York Avenue Northeast – good, he thought: heavy traffic on that street; no one would notice him going in or out.

  Poor Charley, George thought, even though said to be not very bright, or ‘dull normal’ as researchers would say, might still see he’d be on what could be, a suicide mission. But Charley had a weakness that George discovered: an illegitimate daughter in Roanoke whom he hadn’t seen since she was three years old, but to whom he sent anonymous money whenever he could, which was typically right after he’d held up a convenience store. Poor Charley, George thought. Caring for his daughter seemed to be his only virtue; but it would soon be his downfall. If Charley had never sent his daughter money, George’s friends would never have known he had any relatives at all.

  George had been in the Stirrup once, several years before. The full name of the place was the Stirrup Bar and Grill, but habitués referred to it as the “Strip Bar and Girl” for the goods on display to be rented by the hour, or by the quarter-hour for those of limited means or energy.

  He drove by, parked his dark Buick two blocks away, and carefully put on his hairpiece. No, Sebastian George wasn’t bald, or even thinning, although he kept his hair cut short. That night he planned to be ‘Art Albright,’ and ‘Art Albright’ was bald and wore a wig – a good one and only observant people could tell it was a wig – both as a disguise and so those observant people would assume he was bald – which he was not.

  He walked into the Stirrup. The place was almost deserted that Wednesday at 9:30 p.m. His intentions seem to have been mistaken, because the tit-feast who approached him said “Slow night, special price. It’s double on Saturdays. I’m Bella.”

  “And Sundays?” George rejoined.

  “Off duty. Go pray.”

  “No thanks, maybe later,” said George, “but I appreciate the offer.” He handed her four twenty-dollar bills and said “I’m looking for Charley – Charley Dukes – haven’t seen him in months. I’m Art Albright, an old friend, just got released.”

  Bella looked at her hand. “Four of a kind,” she remarked. “How about a flush?”

  “If you can tell me how to get hold of Charley, sure.”

  “OK, she said.”

  “Well?” he said.

  “Money first.”

  George looked at her carefully. Had to take a chance, didn’t he? He didn’t blame her for wanting money up front; in her place, he would too. He gave her another twent
y.

  “Charley’s in here maybe two-three nights a week,” she said, “but not on Wednesdays. Who knows why? Meeting or something I guess, maybe his parole officer or A.A., what a laugh. Because then he comes here to drink, I mean. Tomorrow or Friday, you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance. But he’ll be here sooner or later.”

  She started to turn away. “What does he look like?” George asked.

  Bella frowned. “I thought he was your friend?”

  “He will be,” said George.

  She stared at him, looked as if she were about to spit. George thought she must take him for an undercover. But she shrugged, said “Chunky white guy, about 50. Not much hair. Usually wears a collar shirt with sleeves rolled up, has a beer and swears it’s his last. OK?”

  “OK,” said George. “By the way, I’m not the law, so don’t scare him off.”

  “Shit,” she said, “who gives a fuck?” She stuffed the bills in a pocket and went back to the bar.

  George dropped by the next night, but no one was there who could be Charley. On Friday, there was something of a crowd, but he did see a plausible Charley, cuddling a Lite. Charley, however, was sitting at a table with several other men.

  George waited at the bar until he saw Charley head for the men’s room, and followed him, waited for the room to empty, and said hello.

  When George said hello, Charley looked at him suspiciously. Who the hell would bother saying hello to him?

  “Whatever, I don’t want any dope and I don’t do that other stuff,” Charley said, pulling back against the wall.

  “Charley Dukes?” George said.

  Charley looked at him. “Not a chance.”

  “Calm down, Charley. I’ve got a job for you.”

  “A job, or a ‘job’”?

  “You know. Now I’m going back into the bar and find an empty table. You go back to your friends and suddenly notice me, right? Then come over to my table. Say you just noticed your old friend Art.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Charley was sitting across the table from George. “What makes you think I’m Charley?” he asked.

  “Because you are.”

  Charley took a deep breath. It occurred to him Bella must have ratted on him. But the police knew where to find him; they didn’t have to send this guy. He looked tough, but he fit in his clothes. Charley had never fit well in his clothes, and to do so was a mark of distinction, in his mind, the mark of success as a crime professional that had evaded him.

  “OK,” he said, “to do what?” Nobody was going to fool good old Charley.

  “Kill a man,” said George.

  Charley’s chin dropped. “Are you crazy?” he asked. George looked as if he were about to answer the rather insulting cliché, but did not. There was a brief silence, then Charley said “OK, maybe. With conditions.” whispering this time.

  George outlined the situation. He didn’t tell Charley the name of the victim, or the place where the job, and the victim, would be executed.

  “In a crowd, you said?” Charley asked.

  “Yeah,” said George. “Maybe one-two hundred people. Outdoors.”

  “And where am I when I – do it.”

  “Right in front, Charley, with a handgun. You won’t be twelve feet from him.”

  “Fuck that! You’re crazy.”

  “Good money, Charley. Five thousand. No, make that ten.”

  “But I’m dead.”

  “Nobody’s going to shoot into a crowd. Someone might try to tackle you, but you can run for it.”

  “Twenty.”

  George put on the face of a car salesman whose integrity had just been impugned. “I know two-three shooters who come cheaper.”

  “So why me?”

  “I can trust you to do the job, not back out at the last minute, like you did at that bank job in Hyattsville a couple of years ago.”

  Charley’s eyes widened.

  “I checked up on you, Charley. Gun violations: 7-11’s, corner groceries. I’ve been told you chicken out sometimes, but you’ve hung in there enough to get caught with an unregistered gun twice, and sent up for it once.”

  Charley nodded. “So?”

  “So you can do this job for me. And I know you will.”

  “What if I won’t?”

  “Then I’ll hunt down your daughter over in Roanoke, and kill her.”

  Charley gasped. He gulped a few times, and with an unsteady voice said “How do you know about Darlene? Nobody knows that. I was never even married. That’s not in my record.”

  “My friends have their own records,” George replied.

  There followed several minutes of silence. Charley sucked on his bottle of Lite, as if seeking the consolation of a tit. Finally, “OK,” he said, “what choice do I have? I’m broke and nobody will hire me and Bella said Sid said this is my last beer because I owe so much. But it’s got to be twenty.”

  “That’s fine,” said George.

  But then a thought. “Up front,” said Charley. “I want my money in advance, at least a good chunk of it.”

  “No,” said George. “You’d just blow it where people would notice, or get a ride out of town and I’d never see you again. Besides, I need you to be acting alone. If the cops see you flashed a wad they’d know better. The next time we meet, I’ll show you the money in cash so you know it’s real.

  “But here’s what I’ll do for you right now. To show you I mean business, I mean. I’ll bet you have lots of debts. The bar tab here, for instance, as you just said. Or certain parties you can’t pay and who might shoot you down right outside here on the New York Avenue sidewalk, just as an object lesson.

  “I’ll pay off five K of that debt, this week. So you’ll hear some unknown person did that. Your creditors will have every reason not to mention it to the police. And you get the remaining fifteen thousand after the hit – less five hundred in cash.”

  George reached in his pocket and pulled out five hundreds, handed them to Charley.

  “What happens next?” asked Charley, staring down at the bills.

  “The hit will be the first week in October, not in town here but a place we’ll drive to, you and I. Don’t get in trouble with the law in the meantime, or do anything stupid. And give me a list of your debts right now.”

  “I’ll think about doing the job. Is that OK?”

  “Sure. Take some time. I’ll be back here on Monday, so you be here too.”

  “And you won’t hurt my daughter? I screwed up everything in my life, except her. Now I don’t even dare call her. But she’s all I have. Nothing else matters. She’ll be OK?”

  “She’ll be OK if everything works out. If you show up here on Monday, and if you do the job. And don’t tell her to run away – my sources can follow her anywhere. I won’t hurt your daughter if you do this job for me, and I won’t hurt your new grandson, either.”

  Charley’s mouth opened and his brows went up toward his receding hairline.

  “You didn’t know you had a grandson, did you?” George said casually.

  GEORGE

  The following Monday at ten o’clock, George reappeared and sat down at Charley’s table. They ordered drinks.

  “How are you doing, Charley?”

  “Not so good. I’ll be kicked out of my room if I don’t…”

  George reached in a pocket and handed Charley another hundred. “Money goes fast when you haven’t earned it yet, right? That’s the last money unless you do the job I want.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Murder conviction…” Charley murmured. “Life, or …” He looked up at George.

  George quietly pulled an ordinary paper bag out of a briefcase and gave Charley a flash of its contents. All the bills on top were hundreds.

  Charley swallowed, began to sweat. “This place – where the – job will be,” he said, “Do they have capital punishment?”

  “You know how many times killers are executed?” said George. “Damn few. And those are the ones who did
n’t plan or have any money, and no place to hide.”

  “And I’ll have all – three, right?”

  “I’ll give you all three.”

  “The guy must be important.”

  “He is.”

  “Look, I’ve been thinking,” said Charley after a pause, “I don’t know, money’s good, but the getaway? How chancy will that be?”

  George was wondering if this was the point where he should mention Charley’s daughter again, but he was interrupted by a firm hand on his shoulder. He looked up into the smiling face of a man whose name he didn’t remember. “Well hello, George,” the smiling face said, “What the hell are you doing in a shithole like this?”

  George stood up and stared into the other man’s eyes. “Look,” he said quietly but firmly, “I’m really sorry, but I’m conducting a critical business transaction here and I’d be very grateful if you’d just leave right now. Out the door. Now. I’ll catch you later.”

  George’s voice and rigid chin were convincing. “OK, all right.” the man said. “No problem. Just going.” The man left the Stirrup shaking his head and muttering something about so much for being friendly, and some people were just nasty shit jackasses, and he should’ve just told him to fuck off.

  George returned to his seat. He hoped Charley hadn’t heard that ‘George’. No, he thought, Charley’s face expressed its usual room-for-rent vacancy. What were we talking about? About money? No, about getting away. Well, he’d have to say something to Charley about that. Make up something good.

  But Charley had indeed heard ‘George’. Not that Charley had assumed ‘Art Albright’ was a real name, but now he knew what ‘Art’’s real name might be. Might. That information could be useful. Charley decided not to ask ‘Art’ why someone had just called him ‘George’. That’s my advantage, Charley thought. ‘Art’ is George. Or ‘George’ is someone else. Whatever. It’s one step closer to the truth, if Charley ever acted on his thought that blackmail would probably be the next logical step after the killing. Yes, Art-George seemed to be worth a lot of money – a lot more than twenty thousand. Art-George had something to lose. And could pay for silence.