Randy Hooker and the Faceless Men: Randy Hooker Series, #1

By Roman Richards

Georgetown bartender Randy Hooker's carefree lifestyle is turned upside-down when he receives an offer of employment from a man named Goldsmith who works for a clandestine organization known only as the Agency. Though Randy knows nothing of this man or his employers, they know all about him. They have been watching him for some time and claim him to have "special powers" of intuition. Thinking Goldsmith crazy, Randy rejects the offer.

However, a series of events leads Randy to reconsider the organization's bizarre proposal, including being attacked in his own home by unknown assailants. Reluctantly joining the Agency, he performs search and rescue missions, and learns he really does possess a strange intuition for finding missing persons, information and artifacts at the drop of a hat, with little or nothing to go on.

Events spiral out of control when Randy learns he has been targeted for unknown reasons by a reclusive billionaire who is using a strange technology to cause global destruction—and that the Agency could be involved. Racing against the clock, Randy teams up with a beautiful and deadly Czech princess to defeat his nemesis and to save a strange group of people who are the result of a scientific experiment gone horribly wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roman Richards
• Release date: Jun 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798201168834

Roman Richards

Roman Richards is an actor, entertainer and author. A fan of detective fiction and noir, his influences include John D. MacDonald, Christopher Moore, Rex Stout, Tom Clancy, Stephen King, Tom Robbins, John Grisham and Edgar Allan Poe.

Book preview

ROMAN RICHARDS

THE RANDY HOOKER SERIES

RANDY HOOKER AND THE FACELESS MEN

THE HIDDEN COUNTRY

PART 1

SECRETS

1.

GOLDSMITH

I

tstarted one night in Georgetown. I was twenty-seven at the time and tended bar at this place I managed called Amnesia, over on M Street, not far from the Key Bridge. Things were pretty good in my life, if you don't count the fact I was $50,000 in credit card debt. But I wouldn't let it get me down. As I was wiping down cocktail glasses and glancing out the side window at the Washington Monument, I considered all the goodies I had in life. I had a good job, great friends and a great girl. Plus, I was feeling a little animated that night, though for no reason in particular. I was alive, life was good and who needs a reason to feel excellent? That's how I thought about it.

It was a cool spring Wednesday evening, the eighteenth day of April, and the typically oppressive D.C. humidity was still weeks away. It was an evening where life just rolls right along and everything was in its place; nothing pressing forward nor lagging behind, everything just was, and anything could happen. Business was moderate. There were the usual after-work regulars: government workers, congressional staffers, local hotel employees, and a professor or two from Georgetown or Howard.

I was restocking the bar when a tall older guy wearing a shirt and a tie walked in.

Dr. Brockington, I said. Your usual? And where are your students tonight?

Dr. Brockington taught Economics and Political Science at Georgetown. He liked to hold his classes in the bar on occasion. He would expound on philosophical theory using alcohol to illustrate his points. The hit of his lectures was when he used jello shooters to demonstrate Occam's Razor. The staff and customers alike had a blast.

Oh, no class tonight, Randy, he responded. I'm meeting a friend of mine, Dr. Anthony. He's a professor of history over at American. We're putting together a joint university forum to discuss world politics. Tell me Randy, what do you think about a possible world government?

Well, thanks Doc, but I can't say I know enough to discuss world politics. I guess the only thing I could say about world government is, as long as they don't ban good beer, it's all cool.

He laughed. Well Randy, the Hoyas are part of the forum also, and since you're a Georgetown alum yourself, you're invited, of course. The current students would be interested in a viewpoint from one with experience in life.

Thanks, Doc, but I'm gonna stick with bartending. Suits me to a tee. I'll get you your highball.

As I was fixing his drink, Sharon Fallbrook, my girlfriend, walked in. Sharon was nearly as tall as my own six feet, and her dark Mediterranean looks mirrored my own Italian features. She was thin as a willow, with long full hair, the type of hair I like to call bouncy. She was a fashion model trying to break into television journalism.

Ugh! she said. Hello lover. It's been a day. I'm ready for an early weekend. Pour me a drink, baby? Her puffed, ruby red lips turned up just the slightest bit, making the underside of her eye crinkle, along with her nose.

I grinned. "Aren't you a little young to be drinking, little girl? I need to see some I.D."

She perked up. Sure, that's why I hang out with ancient bartenders older than the mountains, so they can buy me drinks.

You're having an affair with Elmer? Elmer also tended bar at Amnesia. He was pushing eighty and was a Washington tavern legend who'd managed to stick around long after retirement age. Elmer also resembled Alfred Hitchcock—and that was on a good day.

Bite me, baby, she said with a smile.

Now? But I'm at work. Be right back, darling. I took Dr. Brockington his highball. His friend arrived.

You must be Dr. Anthony. I hear you're a professor of history. But I don't know what your favorite drink is. I'll take a swing and guess Royal Manhattan.

Why, that's right. How did you know?

It's nothing. I can guess someone's order with pretty good accuracy.

Dr. Anthony was middle-aged with laugh lines around his face. He looked like he'd lived a vibrant life, with plenty more to go.

Really. Why, that's fantastic, said Dr. Anthony. Okay then, that guy coming through the door now. Have you ever seen him before? If not, what would you say he's going to order?

I leaned down and whispered never seen him before in my life. And I'll bet you another Royal Manhattan he's going to order a Long Island Iced Tea.

Why, young man, you're on.

Going back to Sharon, I leaned across the bar and kissed her.

So what time's the bachelor party? she asked.

Eight. In fact, I'm getting ready to bolt now.

"I still can't believe your brother's getting married. He's so not the type."

Elvis is not any type. Except weird.

I'd think you'd get married first, she said.

Is that a proposal? It sounds like it. But I'm sorry, baby, I'm already married. To the church.

She giggled. Oh right, next you're going to tell me you're a priest.

Yeah, and I'm angling for bishop. I hear the salary and perks are great. You and I could live in sin.

You're bad.

The guy mentioned by Dr. Anthony approached the bar and right away ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. After I made the drink I held it up for Drs. Anthony and Brockington to see. Dr. Brockington laughed, while Dr. Anthony just stared. He came over to the bar.

How'd you do that?

Like I told you, it's a talent. I really don't know how I do it.

Well, I'd like another demonstration. Uh, that gentleman coming in now. What about him?

I saw who was coming through the door. Oh, gee, let's say— and here I rubbed my temples to feign deep meditation, —gin and tonic.

Really. Why that young man seems barely old enough to drink. By his appearance, I'd say he was a degenerate. That's what we called men like him in my day. Besides, gin and tonics are for old farts, like me.

I went back to fix Sharon her drink as the guy approached, dressed in his standard gear: black leather jacket, spiked leather bracelets and a Pearl Jam tee. He had dark wild hair falling nearly to his shoulders, and tattoos ran up his neck.

Hey, he said to me in his raspy voice. He turned to Sharon. Hello, beautiful, he said, eyeing her up and down without any shame whatsoever.

She's taken, dillweed, I said.

Sharon looked at him. Hello, creep.

I sat the drink in front of Sharon and grinned at Elvis. She's having an affair with Elmer. How sexy.

Elvis tensed up, trying not to laugh.

So what can I get you today, sir?

You know my usual. When I just stood there, he said, c'mon, gin and tonic.

One gin and tonic coming right up! I said, waving a glass in the air to Dr. Anthony. He gawked while I fixed the drink.

Dr. Anthony, forgive me, I said, sliding the gin and tonic across the bar. It seems I have an unfair advantage on this one. This is my brother Elvis.

Dr. Brockington broke into huge guffaws while Dr. Anthony laughed and shook his head, putting his face in his hands. I fell right into that one, he said.

Elvis moved in quickly. Elvis Hooker. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Anthony. Elvis and Dr. Brockington were already acquainted. You know, I could use an opinion from our academic elite, he went on as he sailed over to their table. Elvis had a talent all his own: he could make serious money from just about anything. His latest venture was club promotions, and he was doing quite well at it. But what was his interest in talking to the professors? I had a feeling I knew what it was. I rolled my eyes to Sharon.

Hey, fair warning, guys, I yelled to the professors. Don't make any deals with him. He's a snake, a natural-born salesman. He'll steal your pants.

They laughed, waving me off. Elvis already had them eating out of his hand.

___________________

The sun was setting . In a couple of months it would last well into the evening, but for now it was content to drop its load a little before eight. The last remnants of glare bounced off the front door as it was being pulled open by a regular. He'd been coming in for a few weeks and usually sat across from the bar, near the wall so as to watch the tube or chat with the other regulars. But that night he moved up to the bar.

Normally, he ordered a Black Russian or a scotch and soda, and it was usually through the waitresses. This was the first time I would serve him myself. Hi, I said. Wanna go with the Russian tonight, or something different?

He was about thirty-five, clean cut, with short dark hair. Often he would show up in a jacket and tie with Windsors or a pair of Biarritz's. That night, however, he wore a dark brown leather flight jacket and had on black running shoes. He was usually playful and talkative with the wait staff, but now he looked straight ahead, and didn't so much as glance at me when he spoke. No. Give me a chupacabra verde instead.

Coming right up.

As I fixed the chupacabra, Sharon said you'd better behave yourself at the bachelor party tonight. In fact, I think I should come along.

Really, you wanna go? You can help entertain the dancers. Are you into that sort of thing?

She batted her eyelashes. You never know.

Elvis returned as Drs. Brockington and Anthony were leaving. It's all set. I invited your professor friends to the bachelor party. I'm gonna hook them up with some girls I know.

What's that all about? Sharon asked.

Elvis drained his gin and tonic. Hey, he rasped, slamming the glass to the counter. Nerdy professors need to get laid, too. I consider it a public service, he said, splaying his hand out across his chest, to demonstrate his saintly intentions. Besides, you never know when a girlfriend might need a good grade.

Oh, God, said Sharon. Sorry I asked.

Elvis turned to me. So are you ready to go?

Almost. Gotta close out this ticket. I think Sharon wants to go.

Seriously? said Elvis. So you wanna know what happens at bachelor parties? You're in for an education, little girl.

"I know exactly what happens at bachelor parties, little boy. Which is why I plan to kidnap your brother and take him away tonight."

Sounds kinky, I said, finishing up the chupacabra. Be right back. You two keep flirting.

"Ugh! As if!" Sharon retorted.

Didn't that phrase go out in the nineties? I asked, looking up in the air as if searching my memory. Then, walking over to the dark haired guy, I set the drink down in front of him. The waitresses seemed to like the guy and, word was he tipped well. So, you decided to move on up to the bar tonight, I said.

Hey, Randy, we're headed out! Elvis interrupted. We'll meet you over at Pistachi's. Sharon waved to me, laughing.

Sorry 'bout that. Family stuff, I said, turning to the man. He didn't look back or even speak. I shrugged it off and turned to walk away.

Quite alright, he said suddenly. Everyone needs a family, Randy Hooker.

___________________

Istopped and looked at him. Uh, do I know you, Mister . . .

No, he said, still staring straight ahead. "But we know you, Randy."

I looked over at Elvis and Sharon as they were already exiting through the front door.

I went with it. It had to be a prank. The waitresses liked to pull fast ones on the bartenders. They once had a guy show up pretending to be a health inspector intent on closing us down. And I run a spotless bar. They had me punked, but I had a great time.

Ah, it's a prank. Uh, so which waitress is helping you? Tell me, so I can turn the tables on her. It'll be fun.

No jokes. Just a chupacabra, he said. He still hadn't looked at me. His marble orbs seemed vacant.

Okay, so . . . how do you know my name? And what's yours? I wasn't angry, or afraid, but I was curious.

We know all about you, Randy Hooker. We've been watching you for some time. He rattled off a number, a number with nine digits. This number happened to be a social security number. My social security number. Then he recited my home address. You're a Georgetown grad. Music. Your brother Elvis seems to be doing quite well for himself. You're forty-nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty-five dollars in debt. Your parents died in a car accident when you were seventeen.

Stop, I said, reaching for the billy club under the bar. Who are you, and what do you want?

He finally looked in my direction. That's an excellent question, Randy. The name is Henry Goldsmith. And my organization would like you to come work for them.

I raised my head just the slightest bit. Goldsmith, huh? Ok, I'll bite. You must own a new bar in town. Sorry, I like where I work.

Oh, I'm sure you do, Randy. And that's good. Perhaps you'd like working somewhere else even better.

I shot back get to the point or I kick you out. How did you know my personal info?

He didn't smirk or get all he-man. His voice remained low, even. "You certainly are tough, a hard nut to crack. Here it is. I work for an organization, the name of which I can't tell you, Randy, because it doesn't have one. Like I said, we would like for you to work for us. That's it."

I was ready to knock the crap out of him with the billy club, but something was telling me to keep my cool. There was something going on with this guy, I couldn't place it. That he was on the level. Which made no sense. I plowed forward anyway.

Ahh, yeah, right. And, uh, just what does this organization do, Goldsmith, is it? And what is your role in this organization?

He laughed lightly. "Well, there's only so much I can tell you, Randy. Let's just say it's the job of a lifetime. Adventure, travel, perks. The money's good. More than good." He stopped smiling when he got to that last sentence.

You're a drug dealer. I'm not into that. Leave. Now.

Another small laugh. Oh no, Randy, no, I'm afraid I'm not a drug dealer. We're not into illegal activity. But we would like your help. And we'd like to help you in return.

I produced the billy club, holding it up so he could see it. You're still talking in circles, pal. Get to the point and make it fast.

He came right back, in total calm. Our organization investigates things. A lot of things. Don't worry, the work is easy. We'll make it worth your while.

What sort of things do you investigate? I'm not a detective.

He gave me a bemused look. You seem to be searching for something, Randy.

Great, an armchair psychologist. Okay, Goldsmith, time to go. Leave, now.

He held up a hand. Yes, of course, Randy, I understand. I'll be in touch.

No, you won't.

He just went right on anyway, as if I hadn't said a word. Anyway, no harm done. Here's a twenty for the drink, keep the change. And here's an extra little tip. He pulled out a black business card and wrapped a hundred dollar bill around it, then lightly laid it down flat on the bar. He drained the rest of his drink and got up to leave.

Great chupacabra. Best I ever had. See you later. He walked out, flirting with the waitresses on the way and shaking hands with a couple of regulars I'd seen him talk to before. Then, he disappeared into the twilight.

2.

THE BACHELOR PARTY

I

looked at the bill . It was a hundred alright. I examined the business card that was wrapped in the bill. It was black with pearly blue overtones. It contained only one word— Regal —followed by a phone number.

Who the hell is Regal? I said out loud.

I went over to one of the waitresses. Janet, I said. That guy that was just in here, the one I was just talking to. You've served him before. What do you know about him?

Oh that guy? He's cool. He talks. The girls like him. Mostly he watches TV. Great tipper.

I didn't know what to think. Of course, I was a little upset, who wouldn't be? But I wondered about the strange conversation. And the business card, with only a single word. Regal. Was that a person or a place? It had to be a person. So I guessed I was supposed to call this person. But for what purpose?

I cashed out and left. Pistachi's was only a short walk away, so I left the Corvette there at Amnesia and headed over to the bachelor party.

Going in, I found Elvis and Sharon at the bar, along with some other friends, guys and girls. Drs. Brockington and Anthony were there too. My talk with Goldsmith was still fresh on my mind, but I pushed it aside. This was fun time.

We're ready, I said, rubbing my hands together. Let the festivities begin. Sharon rolled her eyes.

I cannot believe this, said Sharon said to Elvis. You're going to get laid with a bunch of bimbos. You're such a sleaze-ball. Does Brittany know about this?

Who cares? She still gets to have sex with me. Hubba hubba, willya look at that. A hottie walked by and gave Elvis the eye.

Okay, little brother, up and at 'em. Let's take this party upstairs, I said, pointing to the dancers on the upper floor.

Suddenly, Sharon's hand was around my arm. You're not going anywhere, mister.

Ha ha, he got shackled, Elvis laughed. And I'm the one getting married.

I hugged Sharon tightly, pressing my cheek against hers. Yeah, well, let's just hope for your sake, little brother, that Brittany can shackle you the way this woman shackles me. I kissed Sharon full-on.

Right on, lover, she said, leaning her head back to gaze into my eyes.

So where are they, your shackles? In your purse?

Ugh!

___________________

When we got upstairs , Sharon strolled on over to one of the sofas. Elvis took a couple of beautiful young ladies over to the professors and introductions were made. I recognized the girls as dancers from one of his nightclubs. Afterwards, I took Elvis aside and told him what happened back at Amnesia.

It got really weird, I said. The guy told me my personal information. Said he wants me to go to work for his organization.

He's organized crime, he said immediately. Although it could be a practical joke, but I doubt it. Not with him saying that stuff, knowing your information. I trusted Elvis's judgments. Despite Elvis's rather, um, questionable moral outlook, he had a good head on his shoulders, with an even better bullshit detector than mine. He was twenty-six and a year younger than myself, and though we sometimes competed as brothers do, we were tighter than most siblings. When things got rough, the jokes ended, the competition ended, and we dealt with what was at hand.

That's what I was thinking. Look, I don't feel like drinking too much. I wanna keep a clear head. You go and have fun with the girls. I'll hang with Sharon. Sharon looked on from the couch, glancing away from time to time to enjoy the festivities.

Elvis slapped me on the side of the shoulder. You sure? I'm here, you know that.

I grinned, pushing him away. Get outta here. In fact, here comes a friend now. I nodded to the beautiful young dancer approaching. Hello darling. This is my kid brother, the lucky groom-to-be. Don't get too close to him, he has rabies. Elvis was practically licking his chops over the young lady.

The girl glared up and down at Elvis with judgment, then looked back to me and said, deadpan, I know his kind. He needs potty training.

Train away, sweetheart, I said, handing her a wad of bills. Her eyes lit up.

Wait, you don't have herpes, do you? Elvis asked her. She tilted her head and glared at him again. He grabbed her hand, leading her away. I put my face in my hand and laughed. I went back to Sharon, who was seated on the nearby sofa, gracefully holding an appletini and gently tossing her hair back.

As I sat down she asked, so what was that all about, with Elvis? You seemed serious for a sec.

That guy from the bar, before you and Elvis left, the chupacabra guy. He wanted to discuss something. I think he owns a new bar and wants me to come to work for him.

Sounds great. What's he offering?

We didn't get that far. The guy was a creep, I replied.

She peered over at me. Baby, are you sure there isn't something you wanna tell me?

Trust me. Anyway that's over and done with. Let's talk about you.

We ordered up drinks. I decided to stay sober, so I only nursed a whiskey sour. Elvis was in his heyday, talking up two dancers at once. The rest of our gang arrived, and joined Elvis in his debauchery. One of them, a friend of ours named Lonny, sat next to me on the sofa with his dancer friend. He glanced over at me.

Dude, you're not partaking? Oh, hey Sharon.

Oh yeah, right, 'oh hey Sharon.' Oh God, I am so glad I came here tonight, she said to me. There's no telling what kind of trouble you'd have gotten into. Oh my God, how is she doing that? Sharon squealed, gazing at Lonny's gal pal, now performing acrobatics of her own sorts with Lonny.

Oh, you've never done that one? I asked. Here, let me show you how.

And that's how it went. The fun time took my mind off Goldsmith and his weird offer, at least consciously. But a part of me, in the back of my mind, wouldn't let it go. I wondered what was it all about?

The party went on. Lonny and Elvis were teaching one of the dancers to walk while balancing a book on her head. Sharon and I couldn't stop laughing.

My laughing dissolved in a hurry. Sharon didn't notice, but over the railing I saw him, sitting at the downstairs bar, talking to some girls.

It was Goldsmith. He turned, looked up at me, and nodded.

___________________

Iwent over to Elvis . That guy down there. That's him. He looked down at Goldsmith, who had gone to back to chatting up three very attractive women.

Oh yeah, I remember that guy, said Elvis.

I said I'm gonna go talk to him, tell him I'm not interested in joining his organization, tell him to leave.

What organization? Sharon had snuck up and heard everything.

Oh shit, I said. Baby, it's that guy from before, at Amnesia. The weird guy.

So what's this about joining his organization?

He wouldn't say. But he said he could make my debt problems go away. I don't like this. I'm gonna go fix this. You two lose yourselves. Party it up. I'm going downstairs.

Sharon said I'm going too, I want to see what happens—

No! I steered her towards Elvis. Elvis, stay with Sharon.

I strolled down the stairs nonchalantly, glancing back now and then. Sharon and Elvis were at the railing, watching. Goldsmith had his lady friends laughing. I decided to relax, see what the whole thing was about.

Approaching, I had my arms down by my side. I looked at the colored bottles lining the wall, at the bartenders triple-teaming the infinite influx of drink orders, the waitresses dressed in skimpy outfits.

What are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to stay away?

Oh, me? I'm just hanging out, Randy, having the time of my life with these beautiful ladies. Wanna join us? he asked. The girls giggled again.

Facing the bar, I raised my voice a little to speak over the roar of the bar crowd that painted the background. I told you I'm not interested.

Ladies, he said, turning to the girls, take a hike. Business to discuss. Immediately the three women left. He turned back to me and the smile was gone.

I can understand that, Randy, and I hope you'll reconsider.

Why?

Because, Randy, you have talents. We'd like to use those talents. And we'd like to compensate you in return.

I kept facing the bar and spoke straight ahead, as Goldsmith was doing with me.

You're a funny guy, Henry. Look, I'm sure you mean well, and here I glanced back at Elvis, who had moved in to take a seat at a nearby table behind us while Sharon had crept down the stairway, watching. But you're going to have to leave. I don't ever want to see you again.

Very well, Randy. He got up, waved two twenties and left them on the bar. Later, Brad, he said to the bartender, whom I knew. Goldsmith turned to me. Tell me something, Randy, did you ever consider the idea that someone's life could change in an instant, for the better ?

He left. 

___________________

The party went on, but I wasn't in the mood. I kept Sharon company while Elvis and the gang went about their revelry. Elvis had excellent powers of compartmentalization, better than mine, and he wouldn't let what happened spoil the great time. Eventually we left, Elvis with dancers on each arm, Lonny with his new tall blonde friend. We walked along the backstreets of Georgetown, away from the waterfront. The plan was to head back over to Elvis's apartment to continue the festivities. We passed near Amnesia on the way.

I said I'm going to walk over here to Amnesia and grab the 'Vette. You guys go on to the house. I'll be there in a sec.

Sharon piped up. Randy, I don't like this, with that guy showing up. I'm coming with you.

No, Sharon, it's just a short walk. I'll be okay. Just stay with the others.

I made it back to Amnesia. Going inside, I checked with Janet to make sure everything was under control, then left. While I walked to the Corvette, I was so preoccupied with recent events that I only noticed with detachment the driver's window lowering in the Lexus parked in the space next to mine. Pressing the fob to unlock my door, I glanced overtop the Vette to see Goldsmith looking at me from inside the Lexus.      I was startled but not shocked. Goldsmith spoke.

Hello again. Randy.

I started look, you weirdo motherfu— but I stopped. Something, I couldn't explain what, told me to go with it. I quickly scanned the parking lot then looked back to him. I'm not going to get rid of you anytime soon, am I?

I wouldn't say that. Like I said, Randy, we're not into criminal activity and we're not into coercion. But we would like to talk to you.

Tell me who 'we' is again.

It would be better if we talk somewhere else. Like a diner, a bar.

I glanced back over the parking lot. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Back to the Lexus, the tinted windows prevented me from getting a clear view of the inside of the car. I made a decision.

Okay, Goldsmith, I'll listen to what you have to say. Where do you wanna meet?

Down the street at Sal's Restaurant.

I considered it. One thing. I'm gonna disappear for a few minutes. I'll meet you at Sal's at two A.M. Where will you be?

In the set of booths to the right, as you walk in, all the way down to the end.

I know where you mean.

And Randy. If you don't show up you'll never hear from us again.

I paused for a moment. Two A.M., I said, climbing into the Vette.

___________________

Afew minutes later I made it through the neighborhood to Elvis's front door, which threatened to rattle off its hinges from the sounds of the stereo. Checking my watch, it was 1:02 A.M., Thursday morning. Going in, I saw Elvis on the couch while his two dancer friends twisted and turned on the living room carpet. Lonny and his new lady friend were currently occupied. Other friends of ours were scattered throughout the apartment. Over in one corner sat Sharon, drink in hand, talking to another friend, Clarissa. They were discussing the action in front of them. I didn't want Sharon to worry, so I put on a happy face.

You like to watch, don't you? I said to Sharon.

I thought she would say ugh! again, but instead she pulled me close and whispered in my ear. We went off to the kitchen and began making out. In the back of my mind I was thinking of what to do with Sharon while I went to see this Goldsmith. I would have to hope Elvis was not yet too drunk so he could go with me. I pulled back from Sharon.

I have to go. Have Clarissa take you home.

She wrapped around me tighter. What? No, baby, I wanna—

I know, and so do I. But I have to go meet someone. I promise you, I'll stop by your house after I'm done.

She sighed loudly in frustration. Wait, what meeting? It's after one in the morning. Where are you going? Is it that guy from the bar? It is, isn't it?

I kissed her again. Something like that. Baby, I promise, I'll call you as soon as I'm done, and then we'll have the whole night to ourselves. Deal? She nodded.

We walked into the living room. I went to Elvis. He was preoccupied with the dancers.

Just call me Elvis, baby, I'm the King! he yelled over the music.

I would have laughed if not for the growing situation with Goldsmith.

I shouted into his ear. Elvis. Kitchen. Now. I went to the kitchen and stood by the stove.

Moments later he rolled right on in through the folding doors. Elvis suffered from a greater lack of depth perception than most drunks. He marched his short, hairy, pudgy frame right up to me and stood only a couple of inches from my face.

Dude, whassuuup, you're all serious all of a sudden he breathed on me. I grimaced in the cascade of fumes.

It's just that . . . eww! You smell like a distillery I said. He didn't get it. He just gazed at me with the dumb look on his face. Anyway, that guy, I just met him again, over at Amnesia, when I went to grab the Corvette.

What? Elvis went to the door and checked it. He came back quickly. Did he try to rob you or something?

No, no, he wants me to meet him. Sal's Restaurant at two A.M. He's says he'll tell me what this is all about. I'm going.

What? Dude, this guy's trouble. And I don't mean my-girlfriend-likes-handcuffs trouble.

I know. I'm going anyway. Shit. I wanted you to go with me. Too bad you're trashed.

Wait here, Elvis said.

A few moments later, he returned. The dancers pulled at his shirt as he tried to move through the swinging kitchen door.

Ladies, please! Form a line and wait for me, he rasped. He made it through the door.

From under his shirt he pulled out a .45 in its holster.

What are you doing with that? I asked. Those are illegal in this city.

His expression was blank. I'm sorry, I don't follow.

I unloosened my belt, took the weapon and wound my belt through the holster, then put my belt back on the rest of the way. The gun was in the small of my back and I pulled my black button-down over it just as Sharon plowed through the door.

Shh. Play along, I whispered to Elvis. I put my hand on his back. Hi, I'm Jeff Dunham, the great ventriloquist. Meet my friend, Milo the Martian.

Elvis turned his head back and forth, moving his mouth up and down like a ventriloquist's dummy. Take me to your Hagen-Dazs.

What's going on in here? Sharon asked. Randy, what's happened to you tonight? You're acting weird. She came over to me and put her arms around me. Her hands fell to my lower back and she felt the gun.

What's this? she asked, pulling up my shirt. Randy! What the fuck is going on?

Baby! Just chill! I'm going to meet that guy from Pistachi's I said, lightly grasping her shoulders.

She broke away. Don't 'baby' me! What are you involved in Randy? Why the gun? What do you expect is going to happen when you meet this guy?

Look, he just wants to talk. I'm going over to Sal's Restaurant to see what it's all about. The gun is just a precaution. Trust me, Sharon, I have everything under control.

The concern grew in Sharon.

Alright, but I'm coming with you—

No, Sharon—

Dooon't try to talk me out of it.

I'll go too, said Elvis.

That's great, Elvis, but you're drunk.

Oh, I don't mind.

I rolled my eyes and turned back to Sharon.

Sharon, you really don't have to go—

I'm going.

It was no use, she'd made her decision. Okay. But you guys sit far away.

She nodded. Okay.

3.

A BIZARRE OFFER

W

etook Elvis's car . By five minutes to two I walked into Sal's Restaurant. The windows were stained glass—Sal's was a former church—and wooden ceiling fans turned above the mahogany tables. It was a clean, classy place, with great food.

Taking a right as I entered, I headed down the aisle to the booth at the end. Glancing back, I saw Elvis and Sharon come in after me and heading across to the bar, so they could keep an eye on things from a distance.

He was already there, alone, hands on the table. I dumped myself into the opposite seat.

Talk, I said.

You seem to be taking the whole thing rather well.

I'm fine. Talk.

Good. Here it is. The organization I work for? They study things, worldwide.

What kinds of things?

Anomalies. By anomalies I mean scientific, social, political, natural and even paranormal anomalies. Things that don't make sense in the world. They would like to use your talents.

"Wait. You said paranormal anomalies. You mean like the X-Files? That's what this whole thing is about? Look pal, I'm not into conspiracy theories, I don't believe in little green men and frankly, I couldn't care less who shot JFK." I rose to leave.

It's nothing like that, Randy. We really would like to use your services.

I hesitated, then sat back down. What services? What are you talking about?

We've been watching you for some time. We know all about you.

You've been watching me? For what purpose?

You're gifted.

Gifted.

"Yes. The way you see things. That trick you do? Where