The Retirement Plan

Chapter 13

The stocky man sat in his car, pulled up the GPS locator on his cell. He punched in the number and waited. The target's phone's current location was an industrial estate in the city. Handy devices, these phone tracking apps. He had to call in a favor from an old acquaintance to make it happen.

He gave the hacker Mr Greene's cell number, and the guy sent the phone a message purportedly from a woman on a popular messaging app. Once Mr Greene opened the message, the tracking device automatically installed. The stocky man chuckled. One might think a man with a doctorate in law would exercise more caution before opening a strange message.

A full two hours passed before the blue Honda pulled up outside the run-down pension. The stocky man watched as his target exited the back of the car. Followed by a gangly beanpole—that he recognized as one of the Dutch gang—who had to help Mr Greene to the entrance of the seedy hotel.

The stocky man watched the Honda take off and contemplated his next move.

Phil sat propped up by pillows on the bed in his hotel room, necking from a quart of whiskey. Naked, his soiled clothes in a plastic bag in the corner, his battered body still too sensitive to contemplate stepping under a shower. He didn't want to go into the bathroom, at any rate, couldn't bear to see his face in a mirror.

All he wanted to do was drink away the pain and curse his dumb luck. How could he have known the dumb thug he had been assigned to represent by chance would be back on the streets, let alone working with Reggie? And why, oh why had he taken it upon himself to warn the Dutch gangster of Chris's intentions to offer him (Max) up in exchange for a deal? To get in Max's good books. As his old dad used to say, son, you can't win favor with someone who doesn't care.

Phil turned his attention to the TV to take his mind off the shitstorm his life had become embroiled in, Canal Cuatro showing The Postman Always Rings Twice. The remake with Jack Nicholson and Hope Lange, not the Lana Turner black and white original. Apparently, Lana refused to watch the updated version, claiming she resented how the studio had turned it into pornographic trash. Lana was probably jealous it wasn't Jack pinning her down on a kitchen table, having remarked about her co-star John Garfield, Couldn't they at least hire someone attractive?

Phil knocked back the last of the whiskey. Didn't know why he was still watching, could barely see through his swollen eyes, the Spanish dub driving him insane. It's not like he couldn't understand. He spoke Spanish like a native. It was sacrilegious to hear Jack's smooth, cool tone and Hope's gentle, seductive voice replaced by the sharp inflections of jobbing Spanish actors. An actor's voice is a distinctive part of their personality, why Phil preferred to watch foreign films with subtitles. Imagine Michael Rapaport voicing Alain Delon?

Phil let his head rest against the wall, the warm whiskey taking effect.

A double-rap on the door jolted Phil back to reality. "¿Sí?"

"Room service," a jaunty American voice said.

"Shit," Phil said to himself before calling out, "Just a minute." Groaning audibly, he sat up and swung his legs off the bed. Hobbling across the cold tiles, he said, "One second," to the closed door and made it to the ensuite. He grabbed a white Terrycloth robe from the rail, wincing as he put his arms in. Liberally sprayed his chest and crotch with expensive cologne before tying the robe with a butterfly knot.

"Sweet merciful Jesus," the American said when Phil opened the door, "My daddy spent a year in a Hòa Lò POW camp, and he came home in a damn sight better shape than you."

"Cheers," Phil said, moving aside to let the big Yank in.

"They really did a number on you, boy." Hard to tell if this amused him, the Yank wearing a snug-fitting clown surgical mask, with a painted-on red nose and smiling mouth. The choice of face-covering spoke volumes about the wearer's personality.