As I sat at my computer desk in The Room, working at putting something resembling a plan together, I realized something rather unusual; I was feeling stressed.
The largely theoretical time limit on this job was really starting to play havoc with my nerves, and my multiple failed attempts to stop Stevie, or even slow him down for that matter, weren't helping matters any. My understanding of the world had been fragmented and scattered to the four winds these past few days, and I hadn't even had a chance to sit back and attempt to put things back together in a way that made even a small iota of sense. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd worked out, an activity which I've realized over the years plays an important part in the successful management of my stress levels. Top it all off with working non-stop through the night and into the morning, something I knew I'd pay a harsh penalty for later, all to try and piece together a plan to deal with supernatural weirdness I only half-understood in the first place? Well, let's just say that I wasn't exactly the happiest of campers right at that particular moment.
I finished off the last of my coffee with a gulp, then got up to brew yet another cup, probably my sixth or so. Thank goodness for Jamaican Blue Mountain, which was the only thing that was making this all-nighter bearable. Freshly roasted, ground, and brewed... right there in my kitchen. And if you can't taste the difference roasting your own coffee beans makes, you should probably just stop drinking coffee altogether. Trust me.
Actually, I realized that I probably needed to stop drinking quite so much coffee as well. While it was currently doing a good job of keeping me awake, the accompanying jittery feeling wasn't something I needed at this point. True, there were a whole host of things I didn't really need at this point, but at least coffee consumption was something I could control.
Control. I pushed the button on my coffee maker and stood there in my kitchen, pondering the word.
That was the crux of the whole problem, really. Any time I attempted to exert any sort of control over any aspect of this job something unexpected or impossible would happen, and I'd find myself beating a hasty retreat to someplace safe. What I needed was a situation where I couldn't lose the kind of control I needed to put an end to this whole thing. And that meant building contingency plans into contingency plans, accounting for every possibility that could arise.
Difficult thing to achieve when your quarry can do the impossible.
My coffee maker shut itself off with a quiet whirr and beeped softly, letting me know that my fresh cup of work juice was ready. I picked up my mug and took a quick sip, then headed back to my computer desk.
"Mrowr?" Myrrh murmured, regarding me inquisitively from the section of couch he'd claimed as his own this morning.
"Oh hush, you," I said, walking past him and into The Room. "I'll figure out something eventually."
Hey, say something often enough and sometimes you end up believing it yourself....
Sitting down at my desk with a quiet sigh, I put my coffee to one side and leafed through the four pages of pier locations I'd printed.
I wasn't making a whole lot of progress on this. I knew roughly where I wanted everything to go down, enough to narrow it down to three possible locations. The refrigerated shipping container was a bit of a question-mark though. For starters, it wasn't exactly the sort of thing you just went down to the docks and forked over a bunch of cash to acquire. A few cursory searches on the internet led me to discover that the whole thing would probably cost no more than a few thousand dollars. But then again, I had some pretty specific requirements. None of my contacts had gotten back to me about it yet, but then it was still pretty early in the morning.
In a pinch there was always picking up a regular, extra-sturdy shipping container and putting together a do-it-yourself flash refrigeration solution, though something like that would take time. Time it felt like I didn't have. Plus, I only had the vaguest notion of what that might look like, or how to go about it. Exactly how does one go about turning a regular shipping container into a makeshift storage freezer in about a day or so?
Logistically, however, I was feeling pretty okay with the shipping container idea in general... despite Stevie's earlier demonstration of brute strength, vis-a-vis him smashing his way out of a metal coffin. I realized that although he was insanely strong, he was still bound by the laws of physics, or at least some of them. His superhuman strength had enabled him to get out of the box because he wasn't simply punching the sides, he was also laying against it, which gave him the leverage he needed to apply the kind of force necessary to warp the metal and crack his prison open. Inside of a much larger box, like a shipping container, he wouldn't be able to do the same thing - there was nothing for him to leverage against. He could stand there punching metal for weeks and barely make a dent. Strong as he was, even if he threw himself at the inside walls of a shipping container with as much force as he could muster it was very likely he'd simply bounce off.
Then again, the laws of physics and biology had been acting pretty twitchy around Stevie as of late.
There were other things to consider, of course, like what to do with Stevie and the shipping container once he'd been trapped or frozen inside of it, but first I had to find out how feasible the first portion of the plan was. There was no point in making elaborate plans involving a shipping container if I didn't even know if I'd be able to get one in the first place. And that meant waiting for word from my sources. Which reminded me....
I pulled up an application window on my computer and checked my website folder for uploads, something I'd been doing every couple of hours or so. Rather than an empty folder, I saw that my open window now had a small text file in it, one that had been uploaded about an hour and a half ago, according to the timestamp. Smiling, I double-clicked it and began to read.
Then I saw the note had nothing to do with my attempts to purchase a refrigerated shipping container, and my smile became something else entirely.
Need to meet in order to discuss progress. I shall come to your place, likely to arrive at eleven. Taking precautions, but will leave pets outside and my purse at home. -Maria
Yeah, that's what I needed right now... to provide my employer's right-hand woman with an update on how things were coming along. And at a time when the only two things I knew with unfailing certainty were 'jack' and 'shit'.
I checked the time. Twenty to eleven, which gave me a bit of time to get ready, but not a lot. I re-read Calvino's message a couple of times and frowned.
Things had gone off the rails in spectacular fashion last night, and I was all but guaranteed to receive some sort of dressing down as a result of Diavolo's guy getting murdered. Calvino appeared to know how these sorts of things worked though - speaking obliquely and using metaphors - which was a plus. What she was essentially saying was that she would have an escort with her, likely of the thick-necked and well-armed variety, but wouldn't bring them in the bar with her. That, and she wouldn't have any weapons on her person.
I would, of course, but she probably already knew that, too.
There's a certain amount of courage required when you're planning to sit down with someone whose professional occupation involves killing people and disposing of their bodies. In fact, I've had some customers who were more jittery and nervous at the prospect of seeing me than some of my marks. Given that Calvino knew exactly who I was and never appeared to be anything but calm and collected in our dealings with one another, she had that sort of courage in spades.
Grabbing a Beretta F-92 from my wall, as well as some of my notes and Stevie's bio, I locked up The Room and pressed the button that would quietly lower it back to its usual spot around the second floor. Then I opted to take a quick shower, donned a fresh change of clothing, and mentally began preparing for my unexpected meeting.
At one point I found myself checking my hair in my bathroom mirror for some reason. That was a little weird.
As I took the elevator downstairs to the bar I began mentally putting together a detailed description of what had happened at the funeral home, since the particulars of last night's encounter were likely going to be the primary topic of conversation. I shook my arms out and rolled my neck a few times, trying to force myself to relax. This would likely be tense, and while I was fairly adept and handling those sorts of conversations, I was usually in a position where I was in complete control of things when I did so. Right this minute, not so much. I had theories, and a whole plethora of new questions, but very few concrete answers.
The elevator doors opened with a ding, and I immediately headed for the shelves of liquor behind the bar, poured myself a double of scotch, then took a seat at my usual table and got comfortable. While taking my first sip I glanced at the wall clock in order to verify the time. Almost eleven. I set my drink on the table, took a deep breath, rolled my neck a couple of times and adjusted my suit, verifying that my Beretta was sitting in my right jacket pocket as I did so.
While Calvino implied she wouldn't be bringing a weapon with her, you never really knew in these sorts of situations. I didn't want to have my gun out in the open, or in a shoulder holster, because I had a feeling this meeting was going to be tense enough already, and a casual display of arms would likely increase tension levels even more, which wasn't what I wanted. Of course, I could always choose not to have a gun on my person - there were various weapons stashed behind the bar, in addition to the two well concealed weapons that were easily within reach of my table, hidden from view. For my own peace of mind I took a moment to verify that they were still there as well.
From there I just sat in my chair, going over the more insane details of the night before in my head so I wouldn't be caught off guard. Despite the uncertainty of my current situation, I wanted to project the idea that I was already two steps ahead of things, and had overlooked nothing.
The front door to my bar shook slightly, producing the brief rattle of wood on wood. From the same door there came two gentle knocks a second later.
Fuck... forgot to unlock the door. Way to think ahead, Joe.
I decided I really missed having Nate around.
Jumping up from my seat, I hurried over to the front door and unlocked the twin bolts, then gently pushed the door open, allowing in the first rays of sunshine the inside of my bar had seen for several days. Calvino gave me a smile that attempted to compete with the sunlight in terms of brightness, nodded demurely and entered my bar, looking-
Well... fantastic, really.
Her hair was pulled up and fixed in place with two odd-looking chopsticks, and the slender purse she was carrying gave every indication of being frightfully expensive. As for the dress she was wearing, it was light grey, and hugged her body so tightly that it appeared its sole purpose was convincing onlookers that the woman wearing it most certainly wasn't concealing a weapon on her person, or wearing a wire.
Or a bra, for that matter.
The prehistoric, lizard-brain part of my mind took a moment to remind me that I was, in fact, heterosexual. I was already convinced there was no need to pat her down for weapons, but right at that moment I really, really wanted to.
Yeah, so not the time for something like that, Joe.
I returned her smile as best I could, focused on keeping my gaze directed at her eyes and drew my arm back to indicate my table. My gesture of invitation which was accepted with a second demure nod. I locked the door once it had closed behind her, then followed behind Calvino as she made her way over to my table. She regarded my glass of scotch with a half-smirk, bent at the waist slightly to sniff the contents, then straightened and regarded me.
"Mortlach?" asked Calvino. "I'm tempted to say... a sixteen?"
And on top of everything, she was a scotch girl.
The prehistoric, lizard-brain part of me began doing excited somersaults.
"You know your scotches," I said. "I'm impressed."
"Bit early for that sort of thing, isn't it?" she asked, her tone amused.
"It would be if I had slept. I'm still operating on the assumption that it's currently really, really late." I grinned, gesturing for her to take a seat. To my surprise, she declined with a slight shake of her head.
"Third floor, if we could." She indicated the room we currently occupied with a quick toss of her head. "I know this is where you conduct most of your business, but today I require someplace a bit more private. You had mentioned a run-in with the FBI earlier, and given that your employee, Nate, has been absent from here for several days, this area has the potential to be compromised. Plus, I'm not certain if you're aware of a new listening device the Bureau has, but it uses refracted light from lasers to detect minute vibrations picked up by panes of glass, which in turn allows them to listen in on conversations from over a block away simply by pointing the device at a window. Your apartment on the third floor, however, is not only soundproof, but has bulletproof windows made of two-ply laminated Lexan. I figure that should protect us from prying ears nicely."
I tried not to show it, but I was rather startled and alarmed by the fact that she knew anything about my apartment whatsoever.
"I... uh, we," I said, trying my best not to sound like I'd been taken completely off guard by her request. "We... could go up there, I suppose. Except I don't really... that is-" I paused, considered my lack of alternatives for a second, then frowned. "Yeah, okay. Let's discuss matters up there."
Calvino treated me to another one of her magnificent smiles, then raised her eyebrows and tilted her head as if to indicate I should lead the way.
I did so.
The elevator ride up to my apartment was both silent and awkward, though I'm pretty certain that last one only applied to me and how I was feeling just then. Soon we arrived at the main door for my apartment, and Calvino found an uninteresting section of hallway to stare at while I punched the door code into the keypad on the wall beside it. There was a beep and a click, at which point I opened the door and the two of us entered.
She walked around the place slowly, nodding to herself from time to time, taking in the rather sparse but functional decore.
"Nice place," she said, finally. "Bring many people up here?"
"Nobody comes up here," I said. Then I chuckled. "Pardon the pun."
She smiled a little at that and made her way over to my couch, at which point both she and Myrrh became aware of one another. Calvino stretched her arm out so that her relaxed hand was a few inches away from Myrrh's face, and he leaned forward to give it an obligatory suspicious sniff. Apparently satisfied by that, he rested his head back between his front paws and continued to regard her, obviously watching for any sign that he might be evicted from his spot on the couch.
"What's his name?" she asked, opting to sit in a spot right next to the petite feline.
"Myrrh."
"Named after the resin?"
"Well, at first I called him that because that was the only sound he seemed able to make, but he's gained a larger vocabulary since then."
That elicited a larger smile from her. At that moment I decided I would be nothing but witty and charming around this woman, if only so I could get treated to more of those smiles, which-
Not the time, Joe. This was a client asking about how well a job was going, and at present I was maybe a stone's throw away from being down a particular creek without a certain rowing implement. It was time to put my thinking cap on, and pay attention to every detail of the conversation we were about to engage in.
I cleared my throat.
"So, I'm certain you've heard something about how last night went-" I began, but Calvino rose a single apologetic finger to interrupt me before slowly opening her purse and reaching inside, her eyes calmly fixed on me as she did so. Her movements were intentionally slow, so I'd know she wasn't about to pull out something dangerous and attempt to get the drop on me. A courteous and polite sort of gesture, one that suggested she'd had many, many dealings with assassins before.
From the handbag she retrieved a cellphone and a small, futuristic-looking portable conference phone contraption. She rested the latter on the coffee table in front of her before sliding her finger across the surface of her phone, then tapped a quick pattern on the screen with her thumbs.
So not just a chat with her, but one with Diavolo as well. I kind of figured that would be the case.
"No walkie-talkie style phone today?"
"Mister Diavolo's current location doesn't allow for it. He's restricted to a land line at the moment." She plugged the bottom port of her cellphone into the cable that extended from the Star-Trek-looking thing she'd brought with her and then tapped the surface of her phone eleven more times. After a few seconds I could hear a mechanical voice intone 'We are sorry, but the number you have-' before being cut off by Calvino tapping her screen six more times. There was a tone, followed by a click, followed by the sound of a phone ringing on the other end. It was answered after a single ring.
"Maria?" asked Diavolo's slightly distorted voice.
"Here. We have a secure line, in a secure area." Calvino looked to me as if for confirmation, and I nodded back to her. "I have Joe here with me."
I realized that somewhere in all of this I had become 'Joe' to her, and was no longer referred to as 'Mister Nobody' during these calls with Diavolo. I'd probably have to start calling her 'Maria' now, rather than 'Miss Calvino', if only to return the favor.
Of course, I wasn't going to start calling Diavolo 'Angelo' all of a sudden. When engaging in damage control, maintaining a proper amount of respect is a valuable tool.
"Good morning, Mister Diavolo," I announced in the general direction of the speakerphone, walking over to the couch and taking the available seat next to Maria.
There was a tinny sigh. "Well, perhaps just 'Morning' would suffice, given recent events. 'Good' might be stretching things a little bit."
I winced a little at that. His words had been spoken in a manner that was both polite and calm, but it definitely wasn't a good start to the conversation. There was also something different in his voice this time around. Undercurrents of anger, certainly, but there was something else, too. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on.
I cleared my throat. It was the second time I'd done that, I realized. Briefly, I wondered if I was coming down with a cold. That seemed consistent with the kind of luck I'd been having as of late....
"Yes, I suppose that's a fair assessment. Last night didn't work out as hoped, as I'm sure you've heard by now. It was also considerably stranger than my previous encounters with Steven," I said.
"Do tell," Diavolo said. "You have my undivided attention."
At that point I provided him and Maria with all of the details of the botched job I figured were pertinent, leaving out some of the more mundane and theatrical details for the sake of economy. I also put particular emphasis on the three most unlikely, and in my mind most important, things that had happened with Stevie most recently - the fact that he'd punched his way out of a reinforced steel box, the way he appeared to sense the guy on the roof, and the complete lack of any sort of 'ka-boom' when my grenade had taken him in the back. That last detail caused a single one of Maria's eyebrows to raise, which I decided to interpret as surprise.
"So, given that I no longer even had my backup option available to me, I had to make a strategic withdrawal. It was unfortunate, but given the situation there wasn't anything I could have done to help... what was his name again?"
"Paulo."
"Right. And I'm sorry for not being able to prevent what ended up happening to him. He seemed like a decent enough guy."
He'd seemed like a bit of an asshole, actually, but it didn't seem like the thing to say during a call like this.
"Actually," Diavolo said, "I didn't care for him much. He was a bit of an asshole, when it comes right down to it."
Hmm. Both candid and blunt. Well, at least he wasn't beating around the bush.
"So, that's another name we can scratch off of the list of Steven's potential targets," I said. "That brings the number of people left on that list to five, if I'm not mistaken."
There was a significant pause.
"Four," said Diavolo.
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. "Pardon?"
"I've been informed that there was a second incident which occurred a couple of hours after your encounter at the funeral home. The condition in which my man was found suggests it was Steven who was responsible."
"How? I thought you'd sent all of your other guys who were at risk out of town."
Diavolo gave a light sigh. "I had rather hoped that things would be taken care of by now, as I've been having some problems of my own. Morale amongst those who we suspect have been targetted has become chaotic and uncertain. Steven's second victim was a man named Nicholas, whom I believe you escorted around some of my properties some time ago. He hadn't told me that he was back in town, but from what we could gather it appears as though he was attempting to retrieve some of his more important things from his apartment before leaving town on a more or less permanent basis."
I processed that. He was referring to Nick, the convenience-store-robbing idiot I'd tailed the night Furio was killed. It made some measure of sense - Nick hadn't seemed like he had much use for the whole concept of planning ahead, and probably didn't think past what he could get away with at any moment. Discovering that he was targeted for death, locked into an organization that not only seemed unable to protect him, but occasionally used him as 'bait'... yeah. A short-term thinker like him would probably get nervous, cut ties with Diavolo and bail, regardless of what the long-term consequences of his actions might be.
"So, I'm guessing that these morale issues have also been presenting themselves in other ways?" I asked.
"Correct. Despite his faults Mister Wellzotti, or 'Shoe' as he was known, was able to maintain discipline rather effectively. His passing, as well as the fact that I've distanced myself from the day-to-day operations, has resulted in a few problems. Once this is all over I'll likely have some tidying up to do, but for now it is what it is. I also doubt that Nicholas was alone in his desire to leave my employment and get out of town. Three of my employees who remain on the list have gone so far as to start dodging my phone calls, which... well, most of my employees know not to do that sort of thing, as they've seen what happens to people who do. But then again, given these events with Steven, perhaps those three are not as worried about me at this particular moment. The fourth employee, Lucca, has been in contact with me and confirmed that he is where he should be, though I currently have no way of verifying this."
"I'll follow up with that, and provide you with an update once I've confirmed it," said Maria, who had taken to scratching Myrrh gently behind his ears. Myrrh, apparently coming to the conclusion that he wasn't being evicted from his spot on the couch, had decided he would graciously allow her to do so.
"Thank you, Maria. So as you can imagine, Mister Nobody, these morale problems will likely impact your ability to stage the sorts of things you've been attempting lately."
He didn't actually say the words 'And I'm not exactly thrilled by the fact that this hasn't all been dealt with already', but his tone made it pretty obvious he was thinking it.
"It does look like your employees are a significant factor when it comes to determining where and when Steven is going to show up, unfortunately. He has this way of finding them, like he can sense them nearby, or knows roughly where they are. That's the one thing we've got going for us right now... the 'bait' we used last night worked exactly as it was supposed to, and brought him running. I don't know how he's doing it, but that's the one thing we appear able to count on."
"So that's it then? We try again? Continue to do the same thing, banging our head against the wall over and over again, uselessly?"
"Not exactly. Same setup, but different execution in each case, and as we know more about him we fine-tune the process to get better results. I've been working on a theory regarding Steven's current nature, and it would seem to explain several things, including those thermal pictures of him you showed me from before."
"Elaborate."
"Okay, those pictures showed that not only was Steven room temperature at the time of the killing, but that there was no residual heat on the knife he'd just used. The heat from our bodies is very conductive, as is metal, so a stab wound, regardless of how briefly the blade made contact, would have resulted in some sort of temperature change."
"The scientists we brought in told us as much," Maria commented.
"Right. And I also noticed during our encounter on the rooftops from a few nights ago that Shoe's lips were blue once he'd been killed, like he was cold. I figure that Steven is somehow able to do something with energy in various forms, draw it into himself somehow. The cold knife, Shoe's body, ignoring the fact his leg was on fire, the grenade not going off last night... it could all point to something like that. In fact," I said, just now realizing something, "that could be the entire reason he's using a knife in the first place. Steven was conversant with firearms, was he not?"
"Yes," said Diavolo.
"So why would he limit himself to a weapon where he needs to get within arms reach in order to be effective... unless he can't actually use a gun? What if he absorbs kinetic energy unconsciously from everything he touches, and it's preventing the primers in the bullets from igniting? It might also explain why he's been walking around everywhere instead of driving, which is much more efficient. What if he literally can't drive a car, for the exact same reason?"
My words provoked some thoughtful silence, and I allowed it to hang there a while.
"Well," said Diavolo, finally, "while I'm glad that you've modified your thinking in order to deal with this rather... unusual problem, I'm not certain what that observation buys us."
"It allows us to reject several ways of dealing with Steven that won't be effective. Process of elimination. We've tried things that didn't work, so our observation of those results may give us an indication of what will."
"I'm assuming you have an idea."
"We freeze him," I said, simply. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maria slowly nod her head a couple of times. "We deprive him of energy of any kind. If he's absorbing energy but not giving off heat, he's probably using it for something, transforming it. Mechanical energy, perhaps? Maybe by cutting off his access to it we make it so he can't simply smash his way out, or do all of his other impossible, superhuman things."
There was some more silence.
"That seems... interesting, actually," said Diavolo, his tone now sounding a shade more optimistic. "And how were you thinking of going about this?"
"Whatever we use to trap him has to be spacious. Steven is strong, but he's still bound by the laws of physics. The flaw with the plan at the funeral home was the size of the metal box I'd trapped him in - it was small enough that he could push against the sides, and he had enough leverage to use his brute strength to punch himself free. If he were trapped inside something larger, he'd be unable to do that. So... something large that we can control the temperature of."
"Would a bank vault work?" asked Diavolo.
I blinked. "You could arrange that?"
"Without too much trouble, yes."
I took a moment to consider the idea, then shook my head. "I don't think that would be advisable. Would you necessarily feel safe locking him up in a bank vault and sealing it? Sure, you might for a year or two, but imagine knowing in the back of your mind that he was someplace nearby, still working away at the insides of his prison, trying to get out."
There was a significant pause.
"No," said Diavolo. "I suppose I wouldn't care for that. You have an idea?"
"Most of the activity has been by the docks anyways... so we use a shipping container."
"Something like that would be easier to break out of than a bank vault, I would think. Why a shipping container?"
"It's fairly solid, but it can be transported. Even if it won't hold him forever, it will likely last long enough to take him somewhere far away, deal with him there."
"Deal with how, exactly?"
"We install a pinhole camera and observe him," I said, attempting to sound as though my sleep-deprived brain hadn't just come up with that answer. "We see how cold affects him. If adequate, we deposit him somewhere that never gets warm. Antarctica seems like a safe bet. If he remains unaffected, we haul him someplace isolated and, well..." I gave a little shrug, realizing halfway through that the gesture was meaningless when engaged in a conference call.
"Well?"
"Well, at this point I'm thinking a Hellfire missile wouldn't exactly be overkill," I joked.
"You could get your hands on one? Would that work, you think?"
Oookay, so he didn't take it as a joke.
"High explosive anti-tank ammo? Well, from what I understand from a physics standpoint... between the high velocity metal of the warhead and the shrapnel from the shipping container, there might just be enough left of him afterwards to find with a really good magnifying glass."
"But if your theory proves correct, and he absorbs energy? Wouldn't a massive explosion actually help him?"
Bits of him flew off, okay?
"There would be limits to something like that, and I've already observed some of them," I said, ad-libbing answers to his questions as fast as my brain would allow. "Historical anecdotes regarding revenants suggest that they require an actual presence in order to carry out their objectives - be physically able to do it. Projectiles have passed through Steven in the past, causing damage and removing pieces of him in the process. If he could have absorbed the energy from that sort of high-speed impact he would have. And we're talking about thousands upon thousands of similar projectiles here, moving at an even greater speed. If I had to guess, the number of pieces he'd be left in would be in the millions. Hard to go around killing people when you're in itty-bitty pieces that have been scattered over a wide area..."
"You make a good point. I'm afraid I'm not exactly current on the... ah, the underground military-grade weapons market. How much would an explosion like that cost?"
An actual Hellfire missile would definitely be a pricey solution - at least a hundred grand, and that's not including the cost of retrofitting a Humvee, or something else that was capable of launching it properly. But if it actually came down to it...
"I'd take care of it, Mister Diavolo. Unless there's a special request at the beginning of the contract, ordinance and other materials needed for the completion of a job is something that comes out of the hitter's take, not your pocket. And if it turns out an actual Hellfire missile is necessary, then that's what'll get used. But there are a few things about setting this plan in motion that I would consider to be more pressing and immediate than the purchase of a missile. So far I've been unable to get any traction regarding a suitable shipping container. From what I'm given to understand, most of the refrigerated variety of those come with much of the mechanical workings located on the inside, which means that Stevie could get at it, which wouldn't be good. And converting a heavy-duty shipping container into something usable would be difficult."
"I could perhaps expedite that," said Maria, reaching into her purse once more and pulling out a small pad of paper, as well as a pen. "Describe the container you require, and the modifications you would need."
Which was the very thing I'd been unsuccessfully trying to come up with these past few hours.
Come on, brain... think!
"Normal-looking exterior," I began, trying to picture a solution in my head. "Featureless interior... flat steel on the sides rather than corrugated. Uh-" I looked up, thinking furiously.
"Yes?" asked Maria, looking at me with great interest. "Simple enough to acquire. And the modifications?"
Simple.
I had it.
"Waterproofed," I said. "Three inches or so of the bottom of it, at least. A grid of holes drilled in the roof at one end, say a foot-and-a-half square, eighth of an inch diameter, spaced a half-inch apart."
"Check," she said, writing the words 'One thousand, three-hundred and sixty-nine' on the pad she held.
Wow. I'd have to double-check the math, but I was pretty certain she'd just calculated exactly how many holes would need to be drilled based on the dimensions I'd given her mere seconds ago.
I realized she was looking at me expectantly.
"Uh... two inch strips of metal welded in place along the outside of the holes to form a basin. Thin vents cut in the ceiling at various intervals along the rest of the container. Some form of platform capable of holding at least five-hundred pounds attached halfway up on the end opposite the doors of the container, which would preferably be the same end where the holes have been drilled. Something that would hide me from view. A sturdy ladder welded above the platform so I can access the top of the container. Get me something like that, as well as a whole lot of liquid nitrogen, and I think I'd be set."
"Liquid nitrogen," Maria repeated, writing the words down and nodding to herself.
"A sort of improvised 'cold shower' if you will," I said, smiling at her briefly. "The vents would be necessary once the liquid nitrogen became gas again, and I'm fairly certain I'd need to keep some oxygen with me for breathing purposes, just in case. Of course, from a bystander perspective the whole thing will look very strange, and there will likely be some cold fog based on the humidity around the docks, so I'd probably need this to happen in a fairly remote corner, cleared of any people not involved in this. I've got three potential spots I've been looking at so far. It would need to be someplace that has a loading crane, and a man to work it. "
"And a transport ship of some sort?" Maria asked.
"I think so, and I don't really know how that's going to work. Maybe an aging garbage scow or something like that. We'll sort out the details regarding transportation later, since we'll have to be flexible enough to accommodate a variety of different outcomes when it comes to Stevie and this container once they've been brought together."
"I'm assuming you would also require 'bait'?" Diavolo asked.
"Yes. Without bringing one of your guys into this plan, I can't imagine a scenario where I can get him to walk inside of the thing. Stevie's ability to track down your guys is pretty spooky, but it's also been the only thing that has happened on a consistent basis. We'll have to leverage that."
"Shall I call Lucca and order him back into town?"
"Maybe hold off on that until we know how long these modifications are going to take. I'm assuming Maria will be doing that?" I caught her nod, which I returned.
"Yes," Diavolo answered unnecessarily. "Well then, good. Maria, please continue working with this gentleman and provide him whatever resources you see fit, at your discretion. Contact me once you know how long the work required on the shipping container is likely to take. Once that's known, Joe, if you could tell Maria when and where Lucca's presence will be required, she'll relay that information to me and I'll make the arrangements with him."
"Yes sir," I said. Because hey, a little respect in the form of a quick 'yes sir' at the end of a phone call probably wouldn't hurt at this point.
The speakerphone clicked, clicked again and went dead. Maria tapped her phone once, bringing the surface alive, then touched a glowing button to end the call.
"Tell me," she asked, regarding me with a greatly amused expression, "just how much of this plan of yours did you make up on the spot?"
Okay, this just wasn't fair. A woman who could calculate reasonably difficult math equations on the fly, who was perceptive enough to pick up on the fact that I'd bullshitted my way out of a bad situation just now, and who was self-assured enough to actually joke around about it in the apartment of a guy she knew was a hit-man? Well, a woman like that shouldn't be able to look as good as Maria did.
And she was a scotch girl, to boot.
I realized it would probably be a good idea if I kept my time with this woman to a minimum, lest I find myself tempted to propose something irrational and insane, like the two of us grabbing a coffee somewhere. Nothing good could possibly come of that. When it comes to general lifestyle choices, there's a good reason why the term 'lone gunman' is used describe assassins so frequently. Heck, even just having a cat around was pushing things....
"Oh, I had most of the details already," I lied. "I just needed an opportunity to nail it down to specifics is all. So, thank you for that."
She smiled, then began putting her various electronics back into her purse. "I'll upload another note once I've calculated the time your modifications will take, looked into some of the other arrangements and have a projected timeframe ready. Expect something within two hours." She finished loading her purse, gave Myrrh one last scratch for good measure, then stood from the couch and looked down at me. "So, Joe, is there anything else you might require? Anything at all?"
The last question was asked in a playful manner, and the accompanying smirk made it clear that she'd noticed that I'd noticed that... well, that she was very worthy of notice. Maybe once this was all over we could-
Nope. Unprofessional, Joe. And a very, very bad idea under the circumstances. Stick to business.
After a few seconds thought I realized something, and I frowned. "Say, those three other employees Diavolo mentioned, the ones who were ducking his calls. Are they fairly close to one another? Pals, maybe?"
"I would say they are friends, yes. Two of them were best men for the third's marriage a couple of years ago, if I'm not mistaken," said Maria.
Heh. 'If I'm not mistaken'. Given how quick this woman seemed at times, and how heavily Diavolo relied on her, I didn't doubt she'd be able to provide me with the actual wedding date off the top of her head if I'd needed it.
"If your people are getting spooked they might end up coming back into town to pick up whatever nest-egg they've stashed away before heading for the hills. If they're good friends that means they might think there's an advantage to sticking together and taking care of it as a unit, but in this particular case it might be the exact opposite. If Steven can sense the whereabouts of individuals on that list, and if the three of them just happen to be together, he may be able to sense them even stronger. Plus he gets served up three at once, rather than having to pick them off one by one, and I doubt Diavolo would be particularly happy about that. If they're hunkering down like a trio of dazed rabbits, finding them and maybe letting them know what they're doing is a terrible idea might just be priority one."
Maria frowned. "A valid point. I shall inform Angelo of that possibility, see what can be done."
"In the meantime, would it be possible to get me the cell numbers for the three men in question?"
She frowned. "They're ducking Angelo's calls, but you think they might pick up the phone for you?"
"Nope. Just another random idea I came up with on the spot," I said, also standing up from the couch.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. They may still have their phones on their person in order to call one another, and while they may be ducking Diavolo, you can't duck triangulation via cellphone towers."
"Hmm. Unfortunately, that requires access to the sort of technology that neither I nor Angelo currently possess."
"As luck would have it, there may be a guy I could talk to," I said. Then I sighed, realizing what my afternoon was probably going to look like. "See, there's this fed I know who I suspect really, really wants me to owe him a favor..."