The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination by R.F. Bright

We can arrange . . .”
    “I know what this is,” she said, glaring hatefully. “You’re the fixer. You’re the Beard. What happened to my dad? Really, what happened? You can tell me the truth. I don’t care what you have to tell your handlers, just tell me what happened to my dad. It won’t go beyond these walls.”
    This was the most meaningful conversation he’d had with a woman in a decade, and it was going straight to hell. “Ah. Look ma’am,” he stammered. “I’m not part of any . . . I, I, ah . . .”
    She raised a finger to hush him, paused for a good look, then dismissed him as too dumb to be in on what she imagined as a pretty sophisticated plot. “Who are you?” she asked, as though she’d missed his entrance.
    “Trooper MacIan, Bedford Barracks, Pennsylvania.”
    Camille believed she had a special ability to read people, and she certainly needed a quick sounding right here. She had to decide, now! Is he a good guy, or a bad guy? Her gut won. “Come here,” she said, heading toward a door on the other side of the expansive living room. Her voice had thawed. It was far from inviting but appropriate to the circumstances. She put her hand on the chrome doorknob and gave him one last look. A look that hung between them for nearly a minute before she committed. “I have to show you something.”

    * * *
    C amille led MacIan into a spacious home office decorated in the same streamlined style as the rest of the building. The floor to ceiling windows continued to dominate. She slid into her workstation, a glossy, cherry-wood built-in a few feet from her father’s matching desk. MacIan liked the look, but found the neatness cloying. The Manhattan view was still the loudest thing in the room.
    She relaxed as pangs of normalcy competed with her sadness. From here, from her desk, she’d focus her anger . Yes! This is what I need, she thought, a purpose. A why. She launched into a start-up ritual, explaining over her shoulder, “My father was a defense contractor, and yeah, OK, I’m sure he pulled a couple of fast ones, who didn’t? When the war was over . . .” She choked on that phrase, knowing most veterans took offense at it. “Look. I know. No one talks to a stranger about the war. Everybody’s got an opinion, smart folks keep it to themselves.” She felt her strength rising, but she couldn’t stop thinking of her father. “It’s impossible to find anyone competent. Anyone! Someone who does what they say they’ll do. That’s my father’s forte. Results. And special services. With a particular emphasis on finding important people who don’t want to be found. He liked to work for the kind of people who had those kinds of problems.”
    MacIan was intrigued. “What kind’a people would that be?”
    “The kind’a people who don’t ask how much it’ll cost. Or, more importantly, how you’re going to do it. Those kind’a people. Respectable posers.”
    “Was he looking for one of those people in Pennsylvania?”
    She pulled out a hanging-file drawer, removed a manila folder and tossed it onto her father’s desk. “Yeah, he was looking for someone. This guy.”
    MacIan turned the file to read the name on the tab, LEVI TUKE.
    “Levi Tu-kay, Toookey, Tuke,” he babbled. “That’s a tongue-stubber.”
    “Yeah, that’s it. Tuke.” She rolled her eye. “A real tongue-stubber.” It sounded just as corny when she said it. “You know, you’re almost charming.” She caught his eye for split second. “Tuke. Like puke with a T. It’s Dutch. Heard of him?”
    “I’m not from around here.”
    Camille read his neutral accent as west of here, but not by much. “Really? So, ah . . . You’re one of the good guys?”
    She was putting him on; he liked it. “Scout Master MacIan, at your service, ma’am.” He gave her a snappy salute, a little too silly maybe, considering the circumstances.
    Was he trying to be nice, she wondered? She opened the folder, picked through several sets of