Go Ahead, Make My Day

"Go ahead, make my day."

"What?"

"I just always wanted to say that."

It was 7:34 AM.  I was still in my pajamas, sipping coffee and reading the paper.  Bravo had a thing for Clint Eastwood movies.  I don't know why; after having lived and worked with him for several years now, he made Clint look like a pansy.  I was certain that Bravo had already completed his customary morning workout regimen, showered and eaten by the time he did his bad Eastwood impression (the still-wet but perfectly groomed hair gave it away).

"Feeling cheery this morning, are we?" I asked, wishing the headache that daily verified my caffeine addiction would go away.

"Yes."  And with that, he was gone.

I had learned that short replies were never good.  I finished my coffee, folded up and set aside my newspaper, and began cleaning my gun.  I had just finished reloading it and placing it back in the holster when Bravo returned.

"Rico, come with me."

We were in San Diego at the time (on the lam as usual), and we proceeded to walk down to the harbor.  Bravo pulled me into an alleyway between two buildings and began to explain.

"We have been offered $3 million to dispose of Frank Coletraine.  His yacht is currently out to sea.  It should be returning to harbor tonight.  I have procured a boat and supplies for the job."

With that, we left the alleyway and met a man down by the water, standing next to a boat.  He was a large, fierce-looking man, whose country of origin I could not determine.  Bravo approached and spoke a few words to him in a language I did not recognize.  The man's eyes betrayed his fear of whatever it was Bravo had said.  He allowed us onto the boat, slowly backed away, then turned and ran as if for his very life.

The boat contained a scuba suit, some food and water rations, and a small arsenal of weaponry.  "I didn't ask for these," said Bravo, as he dumped all of the weapons in the water.  We headed out of the harbor and, once on the open sea, he bade me don the scuba gear.  Bravo pulled a GPS device out of his bag and turned it on.  It immediately displayed heading coordinates.

"I planted a tracking bug on Coletraine's yacht before he left," stated Bravo.

"And why, exactly," I asked, "did you not instead plant an explosive device on his vessel?"

"Where is the thrill in that?" was his reply.

Frank Coletraine did not deserve just to be blown up, anyway.  He had introduced large amounts of illicit drugs into the California coastal region.  He had felled ten police officers in four different skirmishes in the city.  He was at the top of the CBI's Most Wanted list.  He was also at the top of the Chinese Mafia's Most Wanted list, for recently kidnapping a senior member's daughter.  Bravo had contacts within the Chinese Mafia, and they knew well of his exploits.  They had hired him to get her back.  No wonder Bravo hadn't just blown the ship to kingdom come.

We followed the GPS device's directions for about two hours when we finally saw it.  A small spec on the horizon, Coletraine's yacht.  Bravo pulled a small object out of his bag and handed it to me.

"Rico, you will place this on the hull of the ship.  I will take care of the rest.  We will meet back in the boat."

I took the item and we slowly took the boat closer in.  A thick fog had begun to roll in, concealing us from our target.  (Sometimes I think Bravo controlled the weather, too; the experiential vindication of that idea would not have surprised me in the least.)  Guided by the GPS, we were able to row silently directly up to the yacht and secure our boat to her.  I slipped into the water and began to swim toward the front of the boat.  Once there, I submerged and attached the small device Bravo had given me to the hull.  As soon as it was attached, it began to beep slowly.  I was not desirous to see how long the beeping would last, so I surfaced and began to make my way back to our boat.

At that moment, I saw something.  It was a large, black object that had fallen from the yacht to the water.  Taking a moment to process, I realized it was a man, one of Coletraine's armed guards.  A few seconds later, I saw another, similar object land in the water.  And then another.  And another.  And another.  I dodged the bodies floating in the water and made it back aboard the boat just as Bravo was coming off the yacht.  He had the Chinese girl, still tied up, and he was sporting a bloody lip.

"One of them got lucky.  Now let's go."

We untied the boat and started the engine.  We were off.  The yacht didn't move.  

That night, back at the condo, I turned on the local news.  (It was always interesting hearing reporters' interpretation of the events I had lived.)  The Chinese girl was safe and back with her family, and 3 million of their dollars were safe with us.  As expected, the top story was on Frank Coletraine.

"The US Coast Guard picked up infamous drug dealer Frank Coletraine today in his yacht, 25 miles off the coast of California.  Coast Guard officials say they received an anonymous tip of Coletraine's whereabouts, and that they were able to locate his yacht due to a homing beacon that had apparently been planted on the ship's hull.  Coletraine was found on the deck, handcuffed and shackled.  Five body guards were found dead in the water, as well, and although autopsies have not yet been performed, initial examinations show no trauma of any kind.  Upon arrest, Coletraine was found to be quite shaken and was repeatedly muttering the phrase, 'Go ahead, make my day.  Go ahead, make my day.'  Back to you, Tom."  

The Feud - Part I

We were on the run.

Bravo had assured me that his plan would go off without a hitch. Given past experience, I had no reason to doubt him. It really was a run-of-the-mill job. We had contracted our services out to an elderly man, an Ecuadorian varón named El Corazón. El Corazón was the patriarch of an ancient and noble Ecuadorian family, a family who had been engaged in a feud with la familia Pudín for seventy-five years. El Corazón was nearing death, and he wanted to take the Pudines with him to the grave. He asked us to do what he could not, and we happily obliged, taking a large amount of his pesos in the process. It was nothing we hadn’t done before.

When we first arrived in Guayaquil, I attempted to befriend Pachoso Pudín, the eldest grandson in the family. He was a young man, close to my own age, and I knew from El Corazón that he frequented a coffee shop on the port. He was a loudmouth, a braggart, and our target. I walked into the shop on a Tuesday morning and nonchalantly sat down near him. I ordered a macchiato and listened.

“No, you are a fool! Do you know nothing about me? Do you think that I could not do such a thing?” Pachoso demanded.

“I did not say you could not do such a thing. I merely stated my belief that you would not do such a thing, señor,” replied the other man.

“I will tell you what I will do or will not do! Get out of my sight, cerdo!” The other man smirked and walked out.

I took the opportunity presented to me. “You seem to have a way with people, señor.”

Pachoso turned and glared at me. “¿Tienes un problema conmigo? Do you have a problem with me?”

“Not at all,” I replied. “I notice that you are a passionate man, a strong man. It seems strange that you are in a coffee shop bickering with whomever enters, when you could be…”

My pregnant pause was the bait. Pachoso was the hungry fish. “Could be what?”

“Could be using your passion and strength to your advantage.”

His mood changed from rage to guarded curiosity. “What is your name, señor?” he asked.

“Rico. My name is Rico Sabor, and we have much to discuss.”

*****

Later that afternoon I returned to the hotel room, where Bravo, as usual, was reading a book. Not lifting his eyes from the page, he gave a brief nod of assent as I walked past. I sat down on my bed and recalled the events of the day.

After piquing Pachoso’s curiosity, I had informed him that I was a businessman with ties to the Peruvian underworld. I had been in Guayaquil for a few months looking for a suitable partner for some under-the-table business transactions. I had learned of him through a mutual acquaintance of his uncle, and I informed him that I thought he had the machismo to handle any unfortunate “tasks” that might have to be performed. I promised him a large salary and a cut of the profits to boot for his services. Although he was already rich with his family’s money, he was greedy. He was also a scared man on the inside, and he sought to prove his own machismo to himself through violence. He readily agreed to the deal without so much as asking a single question. El Corazón had identified his weaknesses perfectly.

By now Bravo had finished his book. He was an adept and skillful reader—devouring five pages per minute and retaining every word with his photographic memory. He could quote Shakespeare at length when pressed, or memorize the blueprints of a building at a single glance.

“He took the bait,” I reported.

“Good. Now we wait,” he replied.

To be continued...

For Emilio

"You need an alias," said Bravo one evening, in his usual nonplussed way, over a cup of coffee in Tallinn.

"You've never even asked me what my actual name is. Now I need an alias?" I responded.

"Yes."

"For the next job, right?"

"No. From now on. Here." He slid a passport across the table. The name under the picture (how did he even get my picture?) was Rico Sabor. "Now let's go."

He stood and left the building. I hurried along behind him, clutching my new identity tightly. I could feel my heart begin to pound against the inside of my chest, just like it always did when it was time. (The ancient Greeks had a word for this--kairos, the appointed time. I knew exactly what they meant.) My heart's rhythm matched precisely the beating against the outside of my chest made by the .357 in my shoulder holster. I hated the gun, hated using it, hating everything about it, but it had saved my life many times. It was a lucky burden.

We were heading to the warehouse district. It was a 10-minute brisk walk from the coffee shop, but Bravo's efficient gate forced us there in eight. We walked along the steel facades until we reached the door of one of them. Upon it was painted the number 27. The door was slightly ajar, and we slid into the darkness.

After my eyes adjusted, I knew why we were here. Before us was a lone helicopter. It was one I had seen before. It belonged to a Colombian drug lord, and no friend of Bravo's. The man had, in fact, "disposed of" the only family Bravo had ever had, a half-brother named Emilio. The drug lord had disappeared a number of months ago and was presumed dead. Bravo was furious at the news (although only a skilled observer could tell this--it was the split-second look in his eyes), but apparently he had learnt otherwise.

"Stand watch," Bravo ordered. I thought I had seen that look again, for the briefest moment. Nevertheless, I drew my weapon and stood by the helicopter as Bravo entered the cockpit. Five minutes later, he exited. "Let's go."

Exactly nine days later, we were in Gdansk. I was watching the BBC news, when I saw footage of a lone helicopter. A tourist had captured it on tape. The helicopter was flying erratically, like a drunken bumblebee, although there was no sign of any mechanical malfunctions. The pilot could be seen waving his arms wildly, as if vehemently refusing an order of rancid steak. Then, without warning, he stopped, crossed himself, and jumped out of the cockpit to the city streets below. If he had a parachute, he did not deploy it.

"That was for Emilio," said Bravo, looking up momentarily from his book. For a split second, I thought I saw a look of joy mixed with sorrow.

Bravo's Infamous Plan B.

I had known Bravo for about three months at the time. I was not yet sure where he received his income. It seemed that he continually pulled from some bottomless reservoir of funds, and although he indulged in (and seemed to enjoy) extravagances occasionally (usually while putting up a front during a con job), in actuality he lived modestly. We shared a small, three-bedroom condo, sparsely furnished, and filled with bookcases. Most were his; I owned a few.

I was flipping through one of his copies of Madame Bovary when he walked in. As usual, it was impossible to tell his mood. “We have a problem,” he said.

“Really,” I responded.

He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine. He thought for a moment, looked at me knowingly, and walked out again, the full glass still on the table. “I’ll be back.”

In an hour, he made good on his word. I had dozed off in a chair. When I fully awoke, he was in the kitchen. He had returned to his glass of wine.
“My patrons have pulled their funds.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked at him.

He picked up a slip of paper in his hand. “This is Plan B.” It was a lottery ticket.

“You’re crazy,” I said. “Do you know the odds of winning the lottery?”

He replied, “Do you know the odds of surviving a colossal squid attack?”

“No.”

“The odds are zero. It’s never been done. It can’t be done.” With that, he rolled up his left sleeve. There, just above the elbow, was a circular scar, about the size of the bottom of a coffee cup.

“A plastic surgeon took care of the rest. I left one as a reminder. A reminder that believing the odds is for suckers.”

At precisely ten o’clock that evening, he became a millionaire. At precisely 10:02, he went back to reading his book.

I didn't sleep for a week.

The Continuing Adventures of Bravo de la Tromeo.

That monkey was worth millions. It would soon be ours.

Bravo had learned of it from one of his countless, nameless sources. A pure jade monkey statuette, carved some 1200 years prior. It was made with such intricacy that archaeologists still had no idea how the artist had done it. It must have taken a lifetime of dedication to complete.

It was now housed in the Smithsonian, which is where we were. We stood before it. It was behind two layers of bullet-proof glass and a laser-beam security system. Two armed guards stood watch, night and day. I thought it was a lost cause--there was simply no way to get it. I glanced at Bravo. He had that twinkle in his eye. We left silently. I wondered what his plan was.

As usual, he didn't tell me what he was going to do. He only told me that I would wait outside.

We would steal the monkey the following day. We had learned that every evening at 6:10 PM, right after close, the museum switched its electricity from the power plant to a generator they owned. They ran the generator until opening the next day. During each of these switches, the power went down for 10 seconds. This was our window of opportunity.

The next evening, we entered the museum thirty minutes before it closed. Bravo slipped into a janitor's closest. I visited the monkey, reported back to Bravo and left the building. I bought a hot dog from a vendor outside and waited.

At precisely 6:12 PM, Bravo calmly walked out of the museum, a book bag slung over his shoulder. He signaled to me. I fell in line behind him. We approached a grey Ford Mustang. In fifteen seconds, Bravo had broken in an hot-wired it. We were a mile from the scene before the police were alerted.

Back at the hotel, we watched the ten o'clock news. The lead story, of course, was the theft of the jade monkey. Two security guards had been killed. There were no visible marks on them. The empty case bore no marks on it, not even a fingerprint. The monkey had simply disappeared, and the lives of the security guards with it.

I was stunned. I turned and looked at Bravo. He did not look at me. He seemed bored with the news. He turned off the television and picked up a book. I turned away from him and tried to sleep, wondering.

A Chance Meeting of Friends.

We met in a Turkish prison cell. I was caught on a covert mission for the CIA (curse that bartender! He was merely a serendipitous fool, and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time); he never told me why he was there. He did tell me how we were to escape, and escape we did.

With Houdini-like skill, he picked the lock on the door in the blink of an eye. "Follow me, and you may live," he told me. I did as instructed. Creeping along the shadows, backs against the wall, we made our way toward freedom. Near the hall entrance, he crept up behind a tall, burly guard, and with one precisely delivered blow, felled him silently to the ground. Now we were armed.

The guards at the main entrance never stood a chance. We were out of the jail within minutes, and nobody was the wiser.

After buying decent clothing and new passports (which weren't hard to come by if one knew the right people, which he did), we boarded a plane for Paris. On the plane, he said to me, "I cannot guarantee you will live to see tomorrow, but if you will be my partner, I can guarantee that you will not regret dying today." He said nothing else; I agreed with a nod.

I cannot speak of the adventures we had; it would take me a lifetime to recount them all. But I must speak of the day he died. He had been gut-shot during a botched train robbery in Luxembourg. We had still managed to flee the scene, but we had been forced to leave the Hope Diamond on the train. We hid in a small cave on a nearby hillside. I held him in my arms and knew he would not survive the hour. Though he seldom spoke in all the years I had known him, on this occasion, he thanked me for my service. "Kind friend," I replied, "I have served you faithfully since the day we met, and I have asked for little. But now, before you pass, I must know, what is your name?"

With his dying breath he whispered, "My name is Bravo de la Tromeo."