The stocky man sat in his car, pulled up the GPS locator on his cell. He punched in the number and waited. The target's phone's current location was an industrial estate in the city. Handy devices, these phone tracking apps. He had to call in a favor from an old acquaintance to make it happen.

He gave the hacker Mr Greene's cell number, and the guy sent the phone a message purportedly from a woman on a popular messaging app. Once Mr Greene opened the message, the tracking device automatically installed. The stocky man chuckled. One might think a man with a doctorate in law would exercise more caution before opening a strange message.

A full two hours passed before the blue Honda pulled up outside the run-down pension. The stocky man watched as his target exited the back of the car. Followed by a gangly beanpole—that he recognized as one of the Dutch gang—who had to help Mr Greene to the entrance of the seedy hotel.

The stocky man watched the Honda take off and contemplated his next move.

Phil sat propped up by pillows on the bed in his hotel room, necking from a quart of whiskey. Naked, his soiled clothes in a plastic bag in the corner, his battered body still too sensitive to contemplate stepping under a shower. He didn't want to go into the bathroom, at any rate, couldn't bear to see his face in a mirror.

All he wanted to do was drink away the pain and curse his dumb luck. How could he have known the dumb thug he had been assigned to represent by chance would be back on the streets, let alone working with Reggie? And why, oh why had he taken it upon himself to warn the Dutch gangster of Chris's intentions to offer him (Max) up in exchange for a deal? To get in Max's good books. As his old dad used to say, son, you can't win favor with someone who doesn't care.

Phil turned his attention to the TV to take his mind off the shitstorm his life had become embroiled in, Canal Cuatro showing The Postman Always Rings Twice. The remake with Jack Nicholson and Hope Lange, not the Lana Turner black and white original. Apparently, Lana refused to watch the updated version, claiming she resented how the studio had turned it into pornographic trash. Lana was probably jealous it wasn't Jack pinning her down on a kitchen table, having remarked about her co-star John Garfield, Couldn't they at least hire someone attractive?

Phil knocked back the last of the whiskey. Didn't know why he was still watching, could barely see through his swollen eyes, the Spanish dub driving him insane. It's not like he couldn't understand. He spoke Spanish like a native. It was sacrilegious to hear Jack's smooth, cool tone and Hope's gentle, seductive voice replaced by the sharp inflections of jobbing Spanish actors. An actor's voice is a distinctive part of their personality, why Phil preferred to watch foreign films with subtitles. Imagine Michael Rapaport voicing Alain Delon?

Phil let his head rest against the wall, the warm whiskey taking effect.

A double-rap on the door jolted Phil back to reality. "¿Sí?"

"Room service," a jaunty American voice said.

"Shit," Phil said to himself before calling out, "Just a minute." Groaning audibly, he sat up and swung his legs off the bed. Hobbling across the cold tiles, he said, "One second," to the closed door and made it to the ensuite. He grabbed a white Terrycloth robe from the rail, wincing as he put his arms in. Liberally sprayed his chest and crotch with expensive cologne before tying the robe with a butterfly knot.

"Sweet merciful Jesus," the American said when Phil opened the door, "My daddy spent a year in a Hòa Lò POW camp, and he came home in a damn sight better shape than you."

"Cheers," Phil said, moving aside to let the big Yank in.

"They really did a number on you, boy." Hard to tell if this amused him, the Yank wearing a snug-fitting clown surgical mask, with a painted-on red nose and smiling mouth. The choice of face-covering spoke volumes about the wearer's personality.

And, of course, there were the goofy wraparound shades. The only other person Phil knew of that wore sunglasses indoors was Bono. With the black skullcap on his head and loose-fitting tracksuit, the only thing you could tell about the guy was, he was big. Couldn't even tell his ethnicity, not with those blue surgical gloves he had on, though Phil leaned toward Caucasian. He couldn't say why. Intuition.

Three months ago, the guy, wearing the same get-up as he did now, had walked into Phil's office. Then, this guy, looking like a villain from a Stan Lee nightmare, put a bound stack of fifties on the table. Five thousand. Told Phil to count it, and waited while he did. Five grand to hear him out. No strings, just listen to his proposition. Phil nodded, holding a bill to the light, expecting the Jokers' money would have a picture of Nixon on it. But no, orange scheme, with Renaissance arches and bridges, replete with holograms and watermarks. Legal tender.

Now that he'd gotten Phil's undivided attention, the Joker explained what he wanted. He'd came around the table and whispered it into Phil's ear. He wanted a man dead, had to look like a kidnapping gone wrong. Said he knew Phil had the right contacts to make it happen, and if he took the job, there would be a whole lot more stacks like the one he was holding in his hand.

Phil had agreed to look into it, not committing to anything, half-expecting the guy had more than the single screw loose. Had each note checked under UV light for any signs it had been marked or tampered with. Legal tender, and clean as a whistle.

A week passed, and Phil had heard nothing more. Put it down to a crank. Until a chilly Tuesday morning. As he made his way to his office, clutching a cup of coffee in one hand and a bundle of files in the other, he saw the Joker standing outside the entrance. The Joker walked up to him, put an attaché case by Phil's loafers, and whispered in his ear, "Go to work." In the case

was a forty thousand euro retainer. Legal tender, and clean as the Pope's cassock.

"What's that cologne you're wearing?" The joker face-mask drawing so close to Phil's chest, the painted pink tongue almost licked his wiry black chest hairs. "Lemme guess, musk, sandalwood, with a strong hint of stale urine. Am I right?"

"I thought it was your express wish we did not meet again in person," Phil said.

"Circumstances change," the blocky American said before being distracted by the TV. "Postman always rings twice. You know they never explain the meaning of the title in this version. Just one of the many ways it is inferior to the original. I never understand why they have to remake classics. Sure, take a so-so movie like Oceans Eleven and improve on it. But you can't make a classic better, that's why they are classics. You know, I still haven't watched the remakes of Psycho, or The Taking of the Pelham One, Two, Three.

"Twenty years from now, they'll be remaking Pulp Fiction. Probably have the Harry Potter kid play Vince Vega."

"Daniel Radcliffe is thirty," Phil said, hobbling over to the bed. "In twenty years he'll be old enough to play mister Wolfe. And I'll be in a nursing home."

The American chuckled. "Be a step up from this dump."

"Speaking of which," Phil said, "how did you find me?"

"You're six-three, and closing on two hundred pounds, you're not what one would call inconspicuous."

"You had me followed?"

"We like to monitor our investment." There he went again, the elusive we often alluded to never expanded upon.

"I don't suppose you would care to share with me just who we are?"

"Think of us as a controlling force," the American said, sitting down on the end of the double-bed like an over-familiar doctor with his patient. "Newton's laws of motion; An object at rest stays at rest and an object in motion stays in motion at a constant speed and direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force."

"Unbalanced is the first word that leaps to mind," Phil said, "when I think of you."

"Funny guy. Tell me, mister Greene, how did those jokes go over with your Dutch friends today?"

"You know about..."

"We know everything."

"And you didn't think to do anything?" Phil said, verging between perplexed and pissed-off. "What about protecting your investment?"

"We adopt a strict policy of non-intervention when—" the American said.

"Are you kidding me? You sit here spewing out garbage about controlling forces, next minute you're telling me you have a laissez-faire attitude—"

"A chess player controls the pieces on the board, they do not—"

"What did you win your Olympic gold in—mixed-metaphors? Jesus wept."

"Jesus won't be the only one weeping if you don't tell me exactly what you said to your Dutch friends." The big man's voice, cool, but carrying an incipient threat.

Phil eyed the big lump, built like he could kill you with his bare hands, and started talking. Fast. The American listened, occasionally interrupting with a question. The more he spoke, the more Phil realized the big man wasn't incorrect. He (Phil) was a pawn in someone's game.

"And all this time they were beating the soles of your feet with iron bars," the American said. "You never mentioned me?"

"Never."

"In my experience, if a person is resolved to protecting the information you wish to extract from them, even the most skilled torturer will fail. You, mister Greene, do not strike me as a person with resolve."

"One of the first things I learned as a lawyer," Phil said, "is the most important aspect of litigation is leverage. As my old college professor said to us, litigation involves discovery, motions, mediation and finally trial and possibly appeals. All arduous, costly, and time-consuming. It is in no-ones interest to ride the litigation train to its final stop. And that's where leverage comes into play. I owe Max a considerable sum of money. When this job of ours happens, I will repay him in full. Ergo, it is in Max's interest I stay very much alive. I give you up to Max. Maybe you two strike a deal and I lose my leverage."

Phil imagined the big man smiling behind the mask. "It's so much easier dealing with people who place their own self-interest above all else," the American said, getting to his feet. "Now, there's one more thing we need you to do."

Phil looked up at the big frame towering over him and felt his advantage slipping away.

"Call your man and tell them the job is set for Friday. Vic's bodyguard has come on board, and we're ready to roll."

Not for the first time today, Phil trembled. Only this time, the tremors resulted from the relief flooding through his body. The game was on. If everything went to plan, Reggie, Chris, and the Paddy would be dead, and the demented Dutchman would be reimbursed in full and out of his life forever.

"Also, tell them there is a magnum of champagne," the American said, "waiting for them at Club Xanadu. Tonight."

"Where you'll be waiting to meet them?" Phil said, wondering if the big man could think he was that stupid. "Haven't you been listening to a word I said regarding leverage?"

"Two things we should get clear," the American said. "I don't want to be here talking with you, let alone those scumbags you commissioned to do your dirty work. Two, I already know who they are. Afro-American who's too cool for school, and a white guy who looks like he takes his fashion directions from Magnum PI."

Phil's mouth hung open.

"Now, if you wouldn't mind making the call. The stink of piss in here is interfering with my ability to control my temper."

Phil grabbed his mobile phone from the nightstand. Too late, he remembered not to put it to his ear. Wincing, he transferred the phone to his left hand and brought it up to his good ear.

After disconnecting the call, Phil looked at the stocky American. "He said, They might be there."

"They'll be there, alright," the big man said confidently.

"How can you be sure?"

"Because most people are predictable. Unlike in the movies, people don't have character arcs. They have two primary goals; gratification and survival. Criminals, especially. And they repeat certain behavioral patterns or actions in order to achieve these ends, despite the consequences, hence the term habitual criminal."

"Which agency do you belong to?"

"Goodbye mister Greene." The big man made his way to the door, opened it, and walked out.

CIA. Phil would stake his life on it. He had done his due diligence on Victor Diamond. Kept abreast of his social media posts. Those inflammatory tweets, accusing the American intelligence community of pervasive snooping on its citizens. A virus worse than Covid was how he'd described the situation. How he (Vic) was working on the antidote; an impenetrable encryption system that would afford the denizens of the world wide web total anonymity.

Yeah, this had all the hallmarks of a Black Op. A false flag operation on foreign soil. Make it appear another entity is responsible. An assassination masquerading as a botched kidnapping attempt. Jesus! With no loose ends to tie it back to the agency.

His head felt light, floating. A loose end. A tsunami of dizziness overcame him, like he might pass out.