The Winner: Part Thirty

I don’t even notice there is another person sitting in the back of the towncar until my butt is planted on the black leather seat. Not only has Burke decided to show up for this golf game, Carl Van Hertzwelder is sitting there as well.

“Come on, Mr. Peanutz,” he says. “We mustn’t keep the President waiting.”

Burke slams the passenger door shut and gets in the driver’s seat. He adjusts the mirror, then holds his wrist up to his mouth. “Unit Twelve to Candlestick, second VIP is in the box. We are proceeding to primary location; over.”

The car starts moving and I look out the window, watching the buildings pass by. Van Hertzwelder nudges me. “Are you surprised to see me Peanutz?”

I nod. “Yes.”

He chuckles. “Well, I hope in your shock seeing the both of us, you will still be able to complete your task. You know what’s on the line.”

I smirk. “Look, I’m surprised, but I’m not shocked. Let me guess, Burke is your inside man with the Secret Service.”

Van Hertzwelder nods. “It’s good to see you’re not too slow on the uptake. Maybe you’ll have the brains to see this through after all.”

I give him an insincere smile to go along with his backhanded compliment. “Well, since I figured that out, you care to shed some light on why you’re accompanying us on this little coup d’etat?”

“Absolutely,” Van Hertzwelder says. “Two reasons actually. One is, I really, really, want to be there when your faggot ass gets splattered all over the links.”

I grunt. I’m getting real sick of everyone thinking I’m gay just because I did what I had to do in prison. “What’s reason number two?”

“Reason number two is that the cabal believes it would be advantageous to my impending campaign if I’m present during the death of the President. Think Guiliani on 9/11, or Jesse Jackson on the balcony with Martin Luther King. We believe my being present will instantly put me in the public consciousness and give me enormous name recognition.”

“Perhaps I wasn’t paying attention during nigger history month, but I didn’t realize Jesse Jackson was with Martin Luther King when he got offed.”

“Peanutz, what did I tell you about using the N-word?” Burke growls at me predictably.

“Fuck you, you can’t do shit to me now and you know it, nigger. Nigger nigger nigger nigger nigger. I’m sure your cabal wouldn’t take too kindly to you fucking up their well laid plans just because I went all Michael Richards on you.”

Burke growls, “I’m gonna enjoy watching you die, Peanutz.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll have cornbread and grits when you join me in hell...nigger.”

“That’s enough, Peanutz!” Van Hertzwelder yells. “You’d better get your act together, after all, you do still have something to lose here. The stripper doesn’t get her kids back until we say so.”

“If you don’t give her kids back, I’ll tell every Secret Service guy at the golf course that isn’t Burke about what you’re up to. It’ll be kind of difficult for you to contain that, won’t it?”

“Peanutz, you’d better keep in mind that we have left nothing to chance here,” Burke says.

I smirk, since I’m pretty sure they have no idea what I have in store for them here.

Anyway, I quiet down for the time being. It’s time to quit fucking with these two and focus. I hadn’t figured on Van Hertzwelder being here, but the more I think about it I realize this makes my plans that much easier. In fact, it makes my plans too easy. “Van Hertzwelder, you fucked up. You do realize that as soon as you put the bomb on me, I’m gonna make sure to detonate it when I’m standing right next to the both of you.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Burke says. “Especially since I’ll the one with the remote detonator. I’ll be sure to that both myself and Mr. Van Hertzwelder are well out of the device’s kill radius before I set it off.”

I shrug, “I guess that makes sense, for you at least.” I knew they couldn’t have been dumb enough to overlook that. Well, at least I know what I’m working with here.

The Cherry Creek Country Club is only a ten minute drive from downtown, so we arrive there pretty quickly (which is good since I’m sick of being in such close proximity to Burke and Van Hertzwelder). I’d driven or taken the bus past the country club almost all my life, but I never imagined I’d be going there, or, more accurately, I never cared about going in there. Golf was never my thing and I never planned on taking it up, even after receiving my windfall from the lottery. Now, of all ironies, my life has a serious chance of ending here. However, the past month of living with this has made me kind of Zen about it all. Even with all my preparations, if my plans do not go off precisely the way I intend them, I’ll be dead by the end of the day. Strangely, it doesn’t bother me too much. Considering what an admittedly self-serving bastard I am, I’m more concerned with making sure Apple and her children are safe and that Van Hertzwelder’s plans go to shit than I am with preserving my own life.

Burke drives the towncar up to the roundabout in front of the country club. He mutters some more of his Secret Service codeword gibberish into his wrist mic, then flashes an ID through the window to some other agents who step up to the car carrying some rather large PDAs. There looks like what must be an entire platoon of Marines patrolling the grounds, their M4 carbines hanging against the chest plates of their body armor.

“It’s time, Peanutz” Burke says ominously. “Play it cool.”

“Fuck you,” I say, then I step out of the car with a big shit-eating grin to the Secret Service agents outside. “Hi fellas! Cold enough for ya out here?”

They don’t seem to have much time for pleasantries. They hold the PDA up to my face, “Sir, please look directly into the camera and hold still for five seconds.”

I do like he says. Van Hertzwelder gets out of the car and the other agent does the same to him. After examining the PDA, the agent goes, “VIP is authentic. Clear for entry into the grounds.”

Burke has gone around to the back of the car and popped open the trunk. I stand there for a minute and look at him, expecting him to get my clubs for me. After a few moments of standing there, he impatiently motions for me to pick them up. I guess it’s too much to expect him to play caddy for me. Once I’ve got mine, Van Hertzwelder hefts up his bag and Burke shuts the trunk. “If you would both follow me…”

We walk into the country club. The interior is very lush, all velvet drapes, burnished wood, with game trophies on the walls and what I swear are endangered birds of prey stuffed and mounted in every little nook and cranny around the damn place. Besides staff members and Secret Service agents patrolling the hallways with MP5s, it looks like we are the only people inside the country club. Burke walks up to one of the other agents, whispers something in his ear, then turns to Van Hertzwelder. “Agent Simmons here will escort you to your private locker room. Mr. Peanutz, I will show you to yours.”

“Delightful,” Van Hertzwelder says, then looks at me. “If we have some time before the match, perhaps you’d join me and the other members of our party for a cigar brandy at the bar.”

I’m about to say “fuck off” to him as well, but I gotta stay in character here. “Yes yes, good sir. That sounds absolutely, well, scrumptious, if I do say.”

Van Hertzwelder looks at me funny, but then says, “Very well then,” and goes off with Agent Simmons. I follow Burke down the hallway to my own dressing room. He’s nice enough to open the door for me as I step inside.

“How am I doing?” I say, loosening my tie. The fucking thing is choking me.

“Fine, Peanutz,” he says, opening up a fancy schmancy wooden locker and pulling out some clothes. “You are well on your way to being the one of the most notorious men of the twenty-first century. Here’s your clothes. I believe we got them in your size.”

I take them, pause, then say, “Do you mind if I have a little privacy here?”

“I’m afraid not,” Burke says. “As much as I don’t want to see you naked, I do have to ensure that you don’t try to do anything to undermine our plans.”

I groan. “Not that there’s much I could do at this point, but fine, have it your way.”

I strip off the suit and don’t bother to fold it or anything. I just leave it on a heap on the ground since this is the last time I’ll ever be wearing it. Unfortunately, when I look at the clothes Burke brought for me, I think I would be more dignified to die in that suit. The pants are polyester of the most hideously colored plaid, along with a salmon colored polo shirt and a white golf cap. This shit was probably Van Hertzwelder’s idea, to humiliate me even further in my death.

“This stuff is real nice,” I mutter, looking at myself in the full length mirror in the room. “Real stylin’. This shit looks like something my color blind grandpa would wear.”

“You have obviously never played golf before,” Burke says. “Those clothes are from very high end sporting stores.”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I snort. “I don’t see Tiger Woods wearing crap like this.”

“I also don’t see Tiger Woods walking around with a brown cumstain on his slacks,” Burke sneers. “At least with those pants, no one could tell if you decided to masturbate all over yourself like you usually do.”

I turn and face him. “That mean you don’t mind if I rub one out here really quick with you watching, Mandingo?”

Burke smiles but doesn’t answer me. He pulls his phone out of pocket and checks his messages. “Okay, Mr. Peanutz. It looks like we’re ready to get to business. My associates have just informed me that they have given your stripper friend back her children and she is ready to talk to you now.” He presses a button on the phone and speaks into it, “Put her on now…Ms. Clements? Yes, has everything gone to your satisfaction?…Please calm down ma’am…please be quiet for just a second…Perhaps Mr. Peanutz can explain that to you…” Burke hands the phone over to me. “Here’s your chance to talk with her, like we agreed…”

I take the phone from him and put it up to my ear. “Apple...”

I don’t get a chance to say more than that before she starts babbling hysterically into the phone. “Poopy, what’s wrong with Bubba? Where’s his arm? What happened to my precious little Bubba’s arm, Poopy?”

“Apple, calm down. Do you have the kids? Are they alive?”

Apple is crying too much to say anything, so prod her again and finally she says, “Yes, they’re alive but…Bubba…he’s deformed!”

“Goddammit, they told me they wouldn’t do anything to them,” I say, trying to act like I didn’t know this had happened all along. “Don’t worry, Apple. Because they did that, I’m not going to pay them everything I said I would. I’m gonna take that money and send it to you so you can buy him a prosthetic arm. Is that better?”

Apple says nothing, she just keeps crying into the phone. Obviously the prospect of getting extra money doesn’t dull the pain of seeing her child mutilated. “Apple, the people who met with you, have they let you go yet?”

“Noo,” she sobs. “They’re still here. They have gunnns…” she says, then I hear her protesting as the phone is taken away from her.

I hand the phone back to Burke. “Tell them to let her go.”

Burke holds up a shiny looking gold Rolex watch. “Put this on.”

I take the watch and put it on my left wrist. It feels heavier than a typical watch, and the band feels a couple of links too tight for my wrist. Burke watches me do this and says into the phone, “Okay. Let her go. Don’t trail her, just go to your secondary location and wait for instructions. Over.”

He snaps the phone shut, and I fiddle with the clasp of the watch, seeing if I can get it into a position where it’s not cutting off the circulation to my hand. He screams, “DON’T DO THAT!”

I’m taken aback, but I take my fingers away from the clasp. Burke sighs with relief.

“Mr. Peanutz, don’t try and take that off again. If you attempt to remove it, the circuit will be broken and the explosive will go off.”

“Jesus Christ, you could have told me that before I put this thing on you know.”

Burke puts the phone back in his pocket and pulls out his own pocket watch. “I have the detonator on me here. It’s a one time use, neutron burst transmitter. The signal cannot be jammed and does not need line of sight to work. It can set the explosive off even if it’s behind ten feet of steel and concrete, so don’t think you can save yourself with any sort of stunt.”

“I’m not planning on it,” I lie. “You kept your end of the bargain, I’ll keep mine.”

“Very well then,” Burke says. “The device on your wrist is a binary explosive. Wherever the President goes, the Secret Service places bomb sniffers that will detect all conventional explosives in the area. The binary explosive uses two chemicals that are inert until their mixed, which will trick the sniffers. However, it takes about five seconds from the moment I press the detonator for the chemicals to mix before it goes off. It will begin making a noise and vibrating when it’s been set, so be sure to have the President close by when you feel it. The effective kill radius is ten feet, but the closer you are to him, the better.”

I nod. “Any idea when you’re going to set it off?”

“I’ll do it when Van Hertzwelder and myself are out of range. I am assigned to guard the inner perimeter of the VIP party, so I will be close, but not too close. I will be far enough away that even if you decide to charge at me once the bomb is set, you will not be able to take me with you.”

“I told you, I’ll keep up my end of the bargain,” I say. “Though, since you’re the agent assigned to search me before the game, it’s gonna look awfully suspicious if you let a fucking explosive strapped to my wrist get by you.”

Burke nods. “It will look bad for me, but we’ve got this figured out so it will look like mere incompetence rather than being complicit,” he grins. “I’ll be reprimanded, demoted, suspended, probably placed on a Treasury detail checking the serial numbers on one-hundred dollar bills in some remote office. And after a year or two, when the entire mess has settled down, I’ll call in my favors, retire from the Service and get cushy work as a well paid security consultant for some of the companies that will benefit from today’s events.”

“So it won’t bother you that you’ll be one of the worst traitors in American history? That’s not going to bug your conscious in the least.”

“Mr. Peanutz, myself and the people I work for, we are not traitors. In fact, we are quite the opposite. Despite the circumstances in which you are recruited, I want you to die knowing that in the end you really are helping your country by doing this. You and I both know that if there was any president just asking to be assassinated, it is this one.”

“I don’t care,” I say. “It’s not like I’ll be around to benefit from it.”

“That you won’t,” Burke looks down at his non-explosive watch and sees the time. “Now, we have to leave if we’re going to keep the schedule. Mr. Peanutz, please follow me…”

Again, Burke holds the door open for me and I step out into the country club’s lush hallway. He leads me down a different hallway, past more Secret Service agents coolly surveying everything behind their dark glasses.

He takes me to a spiral staircase that leads up to the club’s bar. I hear a distant beating noise which seems to come closer and closer. The game trophies begin to rattle on the wall as the noise becomes louder. It sounds like a chopper is landing outside. I hear one of the agent’s radios squawk out orders.

“Marine One is wheels down. All sections, alert condition alpha. Tumbler is on premises, repeat, Tumbler is on the premises. Stand by.”