April 7th 2011
General Gary James Roosevelt was a three star man who believed God is a U.S Marine. He waited for his day to retire to Belize. He was something special in Kabul, shot an al-Qaeda soldier in the head before he set his suicide vest off in the middle of Bagram Air Force Base. He drank Jack and coke to sleep at night. General Roosevelt had to be a suspicious man but not afraid to die; he reminded you of photos of Socrates in two button blue suits.
He was thick as a side of beef, bald headed and red bearded. They plucked him from George Washington University. Ex-college wrestler and O.C.S trained out of Camp Lejeune, South Carolina. He is a West Virginia boy with a brain. No wife. No kids. He read Military Monthly and had others kill for him. He was now a C.I.A man and he would always be in the corp. Nice guy to sit and have a beer with Gary blended well into the ancient halls of CIA and Pentagon shit diggers as a son of a railroad man and fourth generation Scotch-Irish. He relaxed by drinking good whiskey and he wrote poetry in private for enjoyment. He only had time for four women in his life…The Black Knights.
But it was with love and always a fuss about who would sleep with him tonight. Maybe all four? Gary was really a fuckin’ genius and great between a woman’s legs. Endowed from West Point and the Navy Seals. He was a geek but a scary geek. He smiled lightly at the four beautiful women in his office. He rubbed his chin, checked the time. Nine after ten in the morning, he poured himself another cup of coffee. Wednesdays were usually his bad days. No matter.
Fuck computers. He had his four Consultants to help him save America’s ass from Chairman Peng of the House of Two Fingers…Sharde, Diana, Bailey and Chill four of the best agents Uncle Sam could truly have.
Gary sucked on a mint cough drop. His stomach rolled with two ball eggs, toast, coffee and a glass of orange juice. He gazed over the gem stone women out of the Desert Storm arena– don’t ask any extra questions? They had been together about five years. They were Special Forces out of a Unit they formed in Iraq. They were the only four left from their platoon. No room number, only a red steel door. The meeting was in one of the rooms at Langley deep under the belly of Washington, D.C. The U.S. flag was on the wall with desk, beige sofa for the four women to sit together.
Chill listened to Bailey from Arkansas. She was a fiery red head with a sweet disposition toward knives, more than guns. She liked men, especially black men. Her daddy said: She couldn’t have a black man. She wanted a black man even more; when he said that. Bailey went straight to Naval Academy, just to be around more men.
“I talked to Senator Jenkins,” Sharde said, “he was too busy checking out my tits, but when I kneed him in the dick. He understood that this trip of the President would set the oil companies on their heads.”
Gary asked, “What companies?”
“Helicon, Taikoon, Panaco, QuestCOM and Alemagne”
“President Weadon is about to put his energy policy into effect with Iran, some Republicans are going to swing his way.”
“Our Israeli friends will resist this.” She liked kick boxing,” Diana said. She comes out of Brownsville Texas; her papa got her into guns. She went in the Air Force Academy and just in time for Desert Storm. Bailey popped two Prozac’s with her black coffee. Chill took a clonazepam; to chill out.
“Well, “he rubbed his hand down his neck-tie, “history in the making.”
“Understand?” Chill said, “baby steps.”
“Yes, orders were cut for you ladies to go to several countries and sweep out any bugs that might slow down the President.”
In this precious moment: Chill faded away into her past as she held her father in his arms. He was old in time and died of a heroin over dose. He gave up; Vietnam fucked him up. It was a war for heroin, bauxite, king of a shitty hill with a god damn plate of freedom. Chill is a Big Apple -Caribbean gal straight from the Bronx, West Point and Yale and Air Force Academy. She crossed her legs; she had green tea. She listened to this military man with a blue neck-tie; he talked with a voice of a calm breeze in changing times. He wore leather suspenders. He was comfortable in his suit and them after two years as their boss.
Bailey had cold coffee. She steadied her morning with a clonazepam. They helped her stay even in an uneven world. She’ll sleep on the plane, before she changed into another disguise to take out some insubordinate ass-hole that wanted to blow up our shit.
Sharde had Earl Grey tea. She had one man on her mind; their next kill. Black Ops paid well; since now they were government Contractors hired from the Black Knight Foundation; O’ beautiful head turning warriors. Iraq cluttered her life as she returned to the states with nothing, but her Phoebe Snow CD’s and a gold plated .45 Smith &Wesson from Sadaam’s crib.
“Achooo!” Bailey sneezed, “excuse me…sniffles from South Korea.”
Gary flipped open the folder, “Bailey…Germany.”
“Diana U.S. Virgin Islands.”
Diana asked, “Meeting still on?”
He answered, “Riyadh in March.”
“I like the Virgin Islands this time of year,” Diana stirred her coffee.
“Hi! I am Reporter Keith Matrick of WTTG coming to you with this emergency report…there has been a bombing at the San Pedro Airport, in Honduras Central America, one of it’s planes has just been bombed. I am hearing a few casualties, it was already grounded…but the terrorist group that has taken credit is called Dog Boys or Perro Chicos of Honduras.”
A crowd shopped at the market Saturday afternoon in the warehouse District on 3rd and M Street. They loved a little Italian place called Vincenzo’s. It had cobbled stoned floors, rustic tables, nice art, red and white tablecloths and a cherry wood bar for the men to watch sports. Photos floated on chipped yellow walls of small villages in northern Italy. Candles stuck in empty Chianti bottles on twenty tables, you didn’t need reservations.
Chill glanced around the restaurant, looked re-decorating. Maybe the owners came into some money. Mr. Vincenzo and his wife Pila greeted them at the door.
“Place looks nice,” Chill said.
“Thank! you,” he said, “ our family helps.”
They escorted the women at one of the booths. The waiter poured water and handed out menus. He left. Sharde noticed the guy wouldn’t look at her. She definitely had a new hair-do and she had on her short pleated skirt.
Sharde waved “Mr. Vincenzo,”
“Tell me about the waiter?”
“Awwww! he’s my nephew Roberto?”
“Yes,” she seemed concerned.
“He arrived about a month ago.”
Chill asked, “From where?”
Vincenzo smiled, “From our family village Cristobello Italy.”
Chill sipped her water, “I must put that on my itinerary.”
“Thank you Mr. Vincenzo.”
“Yes, mam!” he bowed and went behind the bar.
Sharde watched him hand out menus, “Jorge Galvo or EL Gatto…Bogota Colombia 2009.” She slipped her gun under the table, coughed as a heads up at the Waiter. Son of a bitch; his cologne was cheap; she remembered the stench from his breath of onions.
Bailey put her napkin over her gun.
Chill got up, and went to Vincenzo and his wife. “I like to talk to you two.” She took them in the back inside the men’s bathroom, “When the last time you seen your nephew?”
“Uh!Uh!” Vincenzo scratched his brow, “almost fifteen years.”
“Okay, just stay here.”
“Steak,” Chill winked over her menu, “looks good.”
Sharde got his attention, “Waiter!”
He came over,“Ready ladies?”
Diana stood with her gun on him, “Yes! put your hands behind your back.”
“EL Gatto,” Sharde had her gun on him, “do not fucking move.”
“Ouchhh!” Bailey twisted his wrists. Sharde shoved him. Patrons stopped eating. Silence. They got him out to a black Mercedes Benz with tinted windows in front of the door with two other agents in dark suits.