the batter drop into the hot grease in perfect little “o” shapes, float halfway down the bubbling channel of oil, automatically get flipped and continue their journey to the flapper that pushes the delectable tidbits into a receiving tray. My job was to watch. Sal’s job was to sprinkle cinnamon-sugar on the hot mini donuts.
“Ain’t it great?”
Sal’s stomach growled agreement.
“Listen, Drago,” Cookie said, “that machine goes off every morning at seven. By seven-thirty the whole damn house smells like a bakery.”
“And your point?”
Cookie’s eyes turned into slits. “Move it, sluggo, or I’ll move it for you.”
“Aw, jeez, it’s perfect in here.”
“Put it in your den or one of the dozen outbuildings around this place. But get it the hell out of my kitchen! The drapes are beginning to smell of hot grease!” Cookie walked to the end of the donut maker, snatched two and left.
Sal asked, “Twelve enough?”
“It’s a start.”
“Get the coffee. I’ll take these to the picnic table.”
Grabbing the platter of Lil’ Orbits, I elbowed the slider open and stepped down to the deck. Sal put the coffee pot in the middle of the table along with a couple of mugs.
The big man turned somber. “Have you told Cookie?”
Grabbing a donut and popping it into my mouth. Warm. Sweet. Fried. Best purchase I’d made in a long time. “Not yet. But I think your plan is going to work.”
“It had better. Our collective butts are on the line if it doesn’t.”
“The Plan” was one of revenge.
The year previous, Sal and I got enmeshed in the Tree Man fiasco. Gold balls and Celtic symbols and the murder of some innocents by people unknown. Mostly unknown. Government for sure. But we couldn’t determine if it was official or off the books. Whole families disappeared. Entire databases were wiped clean. The mystery centered on the possibility local Indian tribes were predated in America by Europeans. Or were parallel civilizations.
A warning from a friend at Homeland Security to “unwind” from the investigation; we ignored it. And everything began to unravel.
When one of the “innocents” was suddenly and unexplainably dead, someone Sal had grown fond of, someone Sal pulled a couple of strings and had transferred to Walter Reed Hospital, Sal decided to take things into his own hands and get even.
Over the past year, however, he (and I) had moved from the outrage of emotional revenge to a more clinical “get even” attitude. We drifted from finding the maniac behind the deaths so we could rip his arms off to uncovering the face of the kingpin and understanding why. Then ripping his arms off.
Where Sal goes, so do I and vice versa.
“Here’s what we know,” the big man began, taking alternating pulls from his coffee mug and popping another mini-donut.
I pointed at his beard. He swiped a large left hand across his face to rid the whiskers of the errant crumbs.
“The fact that Homeland Security got wind of the plot and Artemus warned us off, tells us we’re dealing with government. Federal. Either the SOB behind this works for the government or he or she has inside info on the non-government group behind it.”
“Agreed.”
“We also know they – whoever they are – have some mighty big pull to be able to call up a black ops hit squad to take out anyone with knowledge of the Celtic arrival in America at or around the time Native Americans established their roots here.”
“Also agreed.”
“So why? What purpose? Why would anyone get their tighty whities in a knot because of something that happened ten thousand years ago?”
“Some sort of financial payoff…”
“Or damage to a financial source. Correct. This has to be based on money. And lots of it,” Sal said. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes and went silent for a minute. We’d been friends since high school and I knew when to keep my mouth shut and let him ponder. He was pondering.
I let the early morning sun wash my face, closing my eyes and seeing the glow on the backs of my eyelids. “Government and money usually means politics. Who loses if Indians are somehow found to be the second nation in America?”
“I’ve given that a lot of thought, Nick. Not the judicial branch. No reason. In fact, they’d probably welcome a case as complex as one pitting two ancient peoples fighting over who came here first. The legislative branch is a good possibility because, as we’ve so smartly determined, this is about money and who are the money grubbers of the first order? Senators and representatives.”
“Yeah, but do any of them have the power or connections to call in a hit squad?”
“A couple, maybe, but not likely.”
“That leaves the Executive branch. You think?”
“FBI, CIA, NSA, DHS…”
“Don’t forget CTU.”
“Please no Jack Bauer jokes, okay?”
“Once someone tried to tell Jack Bauer a ‘knock knock’ joke. He not only found out who was there, but who they worked for and where the damn bomb was.”
Sal shook his head. “Enough.”
“Jack Bauer shot Helen Keller in the knee to make her talk.”
“I said enough, Nick.”
“Know why there’s no life on Mars?”
“Stop.”
“Because Jack Bauer visited there once.”
“Are you done?”
Draining my coffee mug, “I got a million of ‘em, Sallie.” Opening my eyes and leaning forward so I could reach the donut plate, “So you think it was one of the alphabet gang?” Popping a Lil’ Orbit, “Don’t buy it. For what purpose? They’re good at getting the DNA of a dog dropping so they can send a hit team to capture someone’s Shih Tzu, but what reason would they have to get in the middle of an ancient civilization scuffle?”
A moment of silence, then, Sal said, “Aside from the gold, none. I’m not saying the orders came from the military or FBI or NSA or whoever, only that they’re the only ones with a black ops team sufficiently cold and ruthless that would kill innocent bystanders.”
“I could name drug cartels that would disagree with that.”
“For what purpose? The cartels don’t need the cash. They could care less about ancient civilizations unless there’s more gold to be found. And that would only be a drop in the bucket compared to what they make off
