Wednesday

An Unassuming Encounter

The sweat and smoke of a Texas truck diner can be nauseating at three in the morning. Rick Smolder ordered another pot of coffee and lit his twenty-seventh cigarette of the new day as the fifth loop of the CNN broadcast began on the ceiling mounted Zennith that still touted a large round channel dial and a single speaker behind molded mahogany-looking plastic. He hadn’t paid attention to the previous broadcasts, except to note that there had been no mention of Mexico. He was primarily occupied with the bizarre file he had picked up in Houston earlier that day. It was about a man that seemed to have lived beyond his means, literally. Smolder was not sure what to make of it all. He pushed the file away momentarily and went over the events of his previous case.

He’d returned to Houston that previous morning from the Rodriguez job where his orders were to cripple a drug syndicate that had been responsible for the kidnapping and blackmail of a certain daughter of a not so certain wealthy London business man. Smolder was to free the girl in the process. The mission was successful but messy. He managed to destroy the crop with a chemical agent that would ruin future harvests for years to come. Not very kind to the environment, but alas, necessary. Plus, he’d apprehended some loot that was intended for a European faction and blew up several storage facilities. With pressure coming from the Americans for the supply and from the Europeans for missing payments, the Mexican syndicate would collapse in on itself. That part of the mission had gone well. With the aid of some locals, he then freed the daughter who turned out to be disappointedly plain and somewhat obnoxious. What’s more, he ended up having to kill several men in securing her escape. Killing always bothered Smolder, even when he knew they were bad men. Fortunately, as he noted from the CNN broadcast, there was nothing about giant gas explosions or multiple killings in Mexico.

The coffee arrived and Smolder poured some in his cup. He took out his flask of Old Pogue Master’s Select and filled about a quarter of the cup. He then took a short pull directly from the flask and replaced it in his suit jacket.

As he thought about the past 24 hours, he remembered how he’d hoped that once the Rodriguez mission was over he’d be able to knock off for a few weeks R and R. He even thought to go somewhere exciting. Since the businessman’s daughter turned out to be unattractive, he wouldn’t take her, but he thought he might interest Miss Bailey, the secretary in the Houston field office, when he was to report there after the mission. But when he showed up to send a secure message to London and get Miss Bailey to agree to dinner, she laughed at his vacation proposal and handed him the Finknottle file instead. The off-hand rejection excited him to his purpose until he noticed that the file he’d just been handed was thick.

“This arrived by special courier two days ago, direct from E.D,” she said.

“What the devil does he want me to do? Doesn’t the old man know I just closed the Rodriguez case?”

“For which he congratulates you,” she replied coolly. “He sent you this communiqué as well,” she continued, handing him a note. It was from the spectrograph.


Package couriered, eyes only. Rendezvous with agency pigeon for further details. Locate main course and side dish. May be stir-fry. Await further instructions for scenarios 2 or 9. Digest slowly.


‘Hmm,’ thought Smolder as he took out his vintage Windmill Stormproof Lighter and brought it towards the note. The file on this Mr. Finknottle arrived alright, its thick mass was under his arm. So that’s what his job was, eh? Locate this Finknottle guy and whoever his assistant or side dish might be. And it sounded like Finknottle might be in the orient. But then what? 2 or 9? Either bring him back or….assassinate him? Bloody hell! Not that again! Digest slowly, the note read... so it wasn’t a rush job. Who was this Finknottle? What the devil was it all about? Why was this man so damned important? Smolder hoped the pigeon would sort out these details. He lit the note thoughtfully, used its flame to light a Lucky and dropped it into the waste basket.

“Who’s our pigeon?” he asked Bailey.

“A certain Jeffrey Hill,” she said. “Our section chief has had a man on him ever since he arrived at Hobby two days ago.”

“Any contact?”

“No. Though E.D. had acknowledged that Mr. Hill would know this month’s contact code.”

“Where will I find him?”

“He’s staying at the Hotel Granduca, but he leaves early and takes a helicopter down towards Kingsville where he has some quarter horses in training.”

“So he plays the ponies?”

“It looks that way. But according to our agents, he’s a poser.”

“Not a roller?”

“Hardly,” Miss Bailey said, “he publishes an irregular website that loses money hand over fist. One of our agents talked to some of the trainers and they say he has no eye for horses and doesn’t seem all that familiar with the sport,” Miss Bailey said as she calmly stomped out the fire in the waste bin with her shiny black heels.

“Where does he get his money?” Smolder asked.

“Who knows, but he acts like he has plenty.”

“Where are we going to have dinner tonight?” he slipped in.

“Don’t you have to get caught up on that file and make a drive down to Kingsville?”

“All in due time,” Smolder shot back.

“With you, it seems like it’s always time to hit on the ladies.”

“Here’s my schedule,” Smolder went on, not paying attention to Bailey’s last remark, “I’d like to get a car from the motor pool, then I’d like to stop by the agency bungalow, if it’s not being occupied, and take a shower and spend the afternoon looking at this blasted file. Then I’d like to pick you up and take you to Benihana’s for something fresh off the hibachi. After that, I’ll drive down to Kingsville and wait around until I can track down this Jeffrey Hill.”

“There’s only one problem with your plan,” she had said coyly. “I’m not hungry for Benihana’s. I’d rather have a ribeye at Saltgrass.”

“So long as we agree on the dessert,” Smolder winked with his cold gray eyes. Her serious demeanor made him think that perhaps she regretted getting involved with him two years before when she was stationed in Paris.

“I doubt we will,” she said, as if her reply was ice cold water in his lap.

But he didn’t miss a beat.

“At six then?”

“At six. You’re car is waiting across the street at the parking garage.”

“You’re an angel,” Smolder kissed her forehead and walked hurriedly with purpose until he had turned the corner and was out of view. He then assumed a casual pace to the lift and to the garage. He approached the garage attendant.

“My name is Smolder, I believe you have a car waiting for me.”

The attendant glanced down to a work order, read the number and scanned the board of keys until he found the appropriate one and handed it to Smolder.

“Level G in spot 152.”

“Thank you.”

The car was actually a pickup. A Ford F150. Comfortable, white, and generic. The Agency was generally good about maintaining vehicles that would blend in with the environment. The drive to the agency bungalow was supposed to take about thirty minutes, but in the gridlock that is Houston traffic, it took three times that long. The truck was new and its vinyl floors and seats put off an acrylic smell that Smolder could not determine whether it was agreeable or not. American vehicles were nice, but the interiors always seemed cheap. He surfed the radio dial, but found nothing worth listening to so he settled on a Spanish station which at least offered accordions.

Upon reaching the bungalow and setting his suitcase in the hallway, Smolder immediately took off his .38 Beretta Chetah in its angle draw holster, disrobed, took an ice cold shower, put on a light Japanese robe he’d picked up several weeks before in a store at the Omiya station near Tokyo and paid a visit to the agency wet bar. He was pleasantly surprised to see a bottle of Old Pogue in the cabinet and poured himself two fingers of the stuff over ice and added some branch water. He stirred the ice with his finger and took a sharp gulp from the glass. He thought for a moment and then walked over to his suitcase and extracted his flask. He rinsed it thoroughly and poured as much of the Old Pogue as he could and returned the flask to his suitcase. He finished his drink and poured another and then sat down on the couch and read over the Finknottle file. After several pages, he felt like a cartoon character who sees something implausible and throws his bottle of liquor away. There were articles and documents dating back hundreds of years. There was a letter of recommendation by a certain arch bishop of Canterbury from the 17th century, and warrant for treason issued on behalf of the Privy Seal dated two weeks prior. There was another personal letter written in Polish with an attached English translation from Mikolaj Kopernik addressed to his “good friend, Gussie” regarding some land deal in Warmia, wherein Mikolaj complimented Finknottle for successfully entertaining Sigismund I, the Old. And there were other astonishing bits in the file. Smolder rubbed his eyes, fought off the urge to quit drinking and poured himself another bourbon and branch, then laid his eyes to rest until around 4 o’clock. He dreamed a queer dream of men in pantaloons and uncomfortable collars in a room. There was a stench, seemingly of body odor that was stronger and stranger than anything Smolder had ever smelt. He seemed to be waiting for Finknottle to arrive, but all the while, he felt as though Finknottle was there near him, as if everyone in the room made up Finknottle. It did not make sense. When he got up, he took another cold shower and put on his suit.

The dinner with Miss Bailey did not go so well. She resisted his advances and teased him for an hour and turned the topic of conversation towards work and the Agency at every moment. Meanwhile, Smolder could not get over the fact that the restaurant had put a lump of butter over both of their steaks, which were already over-seasoned. The garlic in the mashed potatoes guaranteed that there would be no after dinner activity with Miss Bailey. The file and the dream were also gnawing at him. As pleasant and desirable as Miss Bailey was, by the time dinner was over, Smolder wanted nothing else but to take her home and drive immediately to the Kingsville area and study the file on this curious man. It was with some shock to Miss Bailey that after a few glasses of wine and a relaxed attitude towards the young cruelly handsome agent, that he aborted any notion of pursuing her and simply dropped her off at her house and sped off into the Texas night for Kingsville.

And that’s where he had been for several hours: in a diner outside Kingsville, pouring over the incredible file of Sir Augustus Finknottle. The sun had risen well above the horizon when Smolder, intently scrutinizing the accounts of Finknottle’s most recent adventures in the Pacific with his Assistante, heard a chopper fly over the diner. Smolder checked his watch and determined that Jeffrey Hill must be arriving at the training center. He gathered the file together, took one last swig from his strong black coffee, medium sweet, and piled into the F150 and made his way fifteen minutes to the facilities. The parking lot was practically empty and Smolder had no trouble parking the truck near the entrance. He checked his Beretta in his holster, put the Finknottle file in the hidden compartment beneath the seat, donned a trilby hat and walked casually into the training grounds and over to the nervous looking fellow with the dragoon moustache and white suit, who, himself, was walking with a limp to the guard rail next to the track. That fellow must be Mr. Hill, Smolder thought. The man was tall and thin, except for a round belly that made his long skinny legs look like toothpicks poked into a pear. When Smolder walked up astride the white figure leaning against the rail with his bamboo cane resting over his left wrist, Smolder realized that Jeffrey Hill wore a matching white eye-patch. With his matching white shoes and crisp straw hat, this Jeffrey character looked every bit the dandy. From a distance, he’d thought Mr. Hill was an elder man, but up close he was likely in his mid-thirties.

As the two stood a few feet apart, against the rail, watching one of the horses gallop leisurely up the far end of the track, Smolder took out a cigarette and said:

“I like horses, but I also enjoy fishing for marlin.”

“Until you have to cut bait.”

“Indeed,” Smolder agreed. Looking at the horse he said, “that’s not a bad specimen.”

“Yes,” Jeffrey blurted, “he’s the finest filly I own. I wanted to breed and train barrel racers for my young wife, but these men seemed to think this horse would be better off on the track. A more expensive program, I suppose, but you have to pay when you want the best.”

Miss Bailey wasn’t kidding about this man, Smolder thought to himself.

“Your Agency didn’t tell me you would contact me so soon,” Mr. Hill said.

“Is that a problem?” Smolder asked, wondering if there was anything behind the comment.

“I suppose not. Better to wrap this issue up in as timely a manner as possible,” Mr. Hill said matter of factly.

“I’ve read up on this man you are after,” Smolder paused for a reaction. Although the morning was still cool, Smolder noticed several sweat beads on the man's brow. Jeffrey Hill was a profuse sweater. “Just what do you intend I do once I find him?”

Mr. Hill smiled slightly, “I don’t have to tell you what to do, Mr. Smolder, once you find Augustus.”

Smolder exhaled his smoke, “Yes, Mr. Hill, I’m afraid you do. The Agency had suggested possible termination.”

“Termi….?” Mr. Hill caught himself from getting too excited. “I don’t want you to kill the man. Just bring him back.”

“Why bring him back? I mean, why is he so important?” Smolder asked.

Mr. Hill looked nervously around and then grabbed Smolders arm to lead him on a walk.

“I’d feel better if we were moving around a bit while we talk,” Mr. Hill explained. “It’s not that he’s important, he’s not. Not in any real sense. But you see, a man of his age and background comes with considerable baggage. He’s wracked up many debts, some with my firm. I’ve done my best to keep him away from my business accounts, but he’s a wily character and virtually every month I learn that he’s been dipping in to the Liverputty treasury.”

“Liverputty?”

“My life.”

“And you want him to repay the debts?”

“That would be nice, but no. That is to say that I believe he squanders the money faster than he steals it. The reason that I want him back is because he’s apparently had previous business deals with the Russian mafia, the yakuza, Maoist rebels, Arab slave traders, and who knows what else. Since he’s been gone, my staff and I at the Liverputty offices have encountered several villainous strangers hounding us for something that Finknottle has promised them. We’ve received threats. The safety of my staff is my main concern. It’s getting so that my secretary is afraid to go out to the parking garage…and for once, it’s not because of me.”

Smolder noticed that Mr. Hill had begun limping with the other leg, but he said nothing.

“Bring him back, Mr. Smolder,” he said directly, stopping to look Smolder right in the eye.

“The information I received gave me a lot of information…and questions.”

“Your questions will be fruitless, I assure you. The more you learn about Finknottle, the more confused you will surely be. I suggest forgetting what you have read and forgetting about your questions.”

“Well, for instance, where might he be now.”

“Oh?” Mr. Hill started. “Well, that’s a good question.” He reached into his suit jacket and took out a piece of folded newspaper and handed it to Smolder.

It was some sort of ad:


6/26/07
Finknottlo Abstracticon:
The Ultimate recipie book for occult information and getting stains out of harrd-to-launder clothing.
Change Your Horoscope Sign: it's legal and easy!
Never pay taxes again, the Undead are exem-pt. Booklet explains everything you need to know.
Genius seeks assistant
Assistant seeks his freedom from Genius


“I don’t get it,” Smolder confessed.

“We believe this ad in the Manila Times is from Finknottle.”

“We?”

“My lab.”

“So, Finknottle is in the Philippines.”

“Perhaps.”

“Then that is where I’ll go.”