Twelve: My Rusty Cage

Here's the next direct follow-up installment to the Mr. Spears saga. I don't get paid for this, so my only gratification is your comments. Thanks!

My Rusty Cage

“You wired me awake
And hit me with a hand of broken nails
You tied my lead and pulled my chain
To watch my blood begin to boil
But I’m gonna break
I’m gonna break my
I’m gonna break my rusty cage and run”

--From “Rusty Cage” by Soundgarden

I couldn’t follow up on the Mustang or its occupants right away. I let work take me away from it, which gave me time to absorb Tommy’s death. This was both a good and bad thing. I needed the time just to try to wrap my head around the sheer brutality of it. Unfortunately, my pensive mood made me sloppy on the job.

College Kid’s last name was Kassel, as in Conrad Kassel a guy with deep roots, and deeper pockets, in the Buffalo area. Conrad kept a full beard and a high forehead, both neatly trimmed. His blue eyes weren’t charming or sparkling, just cold. The suits he wore were slightly out of fashion, but perfectly tailored, like he was his own living ancestor. The arch of his eyebrows, flare of his nostrils and turned-up chin made him look like he was either thinking of some grand scheme or perpetually smelling something bad. Hell, it was Buffalo so it could have been both.

I rarely saw the man himself. Most of the executives I protected worked for other companies. Kessel & Koch Executive Services was just one arm of the Kessel Group, LLC. Also, most of the executives I protected didn’t really need protection. They just liked feeling like they did, a sort of paranoia that fed their egos. I mean, what do you get the man who has everything? Why, a strapping young lad with a gun, a vest and an earpiece. Oh, and sunglasses. Most of these corporate types had it drilled into their foreheads that bodyguards have to have the earpiece and sunglasses. I didn’t mind the earpiece, though I generally only had it hooked up to a transistor radio in my pocket. The glasses were annoying—how was I supposed to see anything in a dark environment? One of these suits actually told me to put the glasses back on even though we were at a dimly lit cocktail party. If a knife wielding maniac came after him, I’d never seen him coming in time.

Not that I’d take a knife or a bullet for these clowns. Rough up some drunken slob? Sure. Eat a left hook? No problem. Stop a bullet? Doubtful. But I saw my role as being more proactive and preemptive, to use boardroom speak, in that I preferred to ply my trade by roughing up potential trouble makers. Generally I listened to hockey games on the earpiece.

One night that changed. Mr. Kassel summoned me into his office, a room as old world as he was. All leather and dark wood with fine cigar smoke resting every where. When I reported in, he was ranting at someone on the phone. He was as red-faced and loud as I’d ever seen him, yelling in German into the handset. I had to resist the urge to click my heels together and stand at attention. I studied my feet until he was done, making sure they weren’t jackbooted.

“Schweinehund!” he cursed when he hung up. He dabbed his head with a folded handkerchief. “Sorry, young man. Family is man’s greatest joy and gravest pain. With mine, I sometimes feel only the latter.”

I nodded as noncommittally as I could, one of those “what ever you say, boss” moments.

Kassel looked me up and down.

“You’re not very intimidating for a bodyguard. Why did I hire you?”

“I saved Connie Jr. from an ass…unpleasant encounter with a three rednecks, sir.”

“Yes, I remember now.” His cold eyes continued to study me. Despite my stoic inner core, I felt a little shiver up my spine. Not for the first time I wondered what other businesses Kassel had his hand in.

“Well, I suppose you’ll do. You have your vest and gun?”

I tapped my chest and left side to signal in the affirmative.

“Good. You’ll be escorting me tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” I said outwardly. Inwardly, my stomach lurched. I knew I wouldn’t hear the blow-by-blow if the Sabre’s Rob Ray tangled with Toronto’s Tie Domi. But more than that, a little clarion of warning went off in my head. I attributed it to Kassel’s ill mood.

I should have listened to that voice.

In the Mercedes on the way over, Kassel and I sat in the back while his driver navigated the rain-slicked streets. The Mercedes had a large backseat, but Kassel still occupied enough of it that our knees touched. It also seemed unusually humid inside, and somebody in the car sweated garlic and nicotine out his pores. Kassel sat as coolly as the sphinx, so the odor came from either me or the driver. I was pretty sure it wasn’t me. But the longer we sat in the car, knees touching, sucking in the air, driving deeper into a city I had only a passing familiarity with, I may have added my own aroma to the air.

When Kassel finally spoke, he asked,

“You seem detached somehow, Mr. Spears. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes sir. Just thinking about a friend of mine. Someone hurt him very badly.”

“That’s terrible. What are you going to do about it?”

The question rocked me back. Who asks something like that? Most people would ask if the police were involved, or if I was OK. Not a man like Kassel.

I shrugged in response. He nodded. He knew what he’d do, and he assumed that I’d do the same thing. He was right.

“Are you any good with that?” He nodded at my left arm.

“The gun? Yeah, I’m all right.”

“Weren’t you a police officer?”

“Sort of.”

“Aren’t the police required to be proficient with their side arms?”

“I qualified with it, no problem, but I’m no Buffalo Bill. You might think cops are gun nuts, but to some, it’s just another appliance they use at work.”

“‘They’?”

“What?”

“You said ‘they’, not ‘we’. Most police officers I’ve met, even retired ones, will say ‘we’.”

I nodded. What else was I going to say? I doubted this man cared overmuch about my personal life, and I didn’t like sharing that info anyway.

“Are you not a fan of the police, Mr. Spears?”

“They’re OK.”

“And yet you decided not to become one of them.”

“True.”

Kassel cracked a smile. “I usually like to know a bit about my employees, Mr. Spears. We will take that up at another time. The only relevant information is that you have, in fact, trained with and fired a pistol before. Stephan, my usual man, is quite good with a gun. He’s ill tonight. That is why you’re here.”

I kept my face as rigid as I could. My quick glance at the door handle probably betrayed my thoughts. Thoughts like could I survive jumping from a moving car in downtown traffic?

Kassel laughed. I think. The noise that came out of him sounded very dry and cough-like, but since he was smiling, I figured it for a laugh.

“Easy, young man. I do not expect anything more dangerous tonight than an extra dry martini or three.”

“I’ll make sure that the bartender doesn’t use those plastic swords on the olives, sir.”

Kassel cough-laughed for a few seconds before continuing quietly.

“A man named Butcher will be at the bar tonight. He is a competitor of mine in business. Recently, I out maneuvered him in a deal. Normally, this would be of little consequence, but his personal life is also a shambles. He is reacting with unexpected emotion. Please make sure he does nothing stupid.”

The temperature in the Mercedes dropped a few degrees as the blood retracted from my extremities. I’d have to be alert for more than liquor garnish after all.

Things went sideways in a private club downtown. Looking back now, I am struck by the fearful symmetry with the night I killed Colón all these years later. Leather couches, heavy glass ashtrays, low lights and top shelf liquor, but this place wasn’t imitating the look the way Colón’s joint was. This was the real deal where old money came to do backroom deals.

A bird cage sat at the end of the bar. It was real old-fashion one that had enough years on it to prove it had actual birds and wasn’t just some prop. Someone had cleaned it, but the worn patina made it look dirty. Now, it sat vacant and decaying, its shabbiness incongruous in the leathery luxury of the place.

Kassel sat down at a table in the back and lit a large cigar. A waitress materialized and slipped a scotch on the rocks into his hand so smoothly, you’d have thought he walked in with the drink. He said something to her I couldn’t hear and she nodded so obsequiously, she almost bowed.

I realized I was too far away from Kassel if I couldn’t hear his order, so I strode forward. He waved me to a side table. It was good position with clear sight lines from the restrooms at the back to the front door. I unbuttoned my borrowed blazer and leaned forward with my elbows on the table. The drape of the jacket hid the pistol and vest. I wasn’t comfortable in the body armor, but company policy dictated we wear it when on the job.

If I could have gotten away with it, I would have downed one of those scotches myself. What the hell was I doing wearing a gun and body armor? It was the first time I felt in over my head and I swore after that night I wouldn’t let myself get into that situation again. So much for that oath.

I gradually relaxed. The time of night had thinned the dinner crowd and after work drinkers, so I had an easy time keeping an eye on things. The bar held two yuppies, one of each gender, allegedly dining together. Really, they put their lips on each other more than the food. A middle aged guy slumped at the bar, tie undone but not off, cigarette burning behind a long ash. I had scoped him when we entered, but Kassel had indicated he wasn’t our man.

No, our man banged open the men’s room door and stomped by Kassel just as his steak arrived. Butcher took two steps away, realized who he’d seen, and turned on his heel. Gaping, his face turned beet red. He was a bull of a man, barrel-chested to the point where he’d never quite look good in his off-the-rack suits. I eased out of my seat and on to the balls of my feet.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming here, Conrad,” Butcher said.

“Why is that, Francis?”

“You son of a bitch. You know why.”

“Francis, that was business…”

Banter built between them. Kassel kept his cool, but I could sense that he was baiting Butcher—something about the way he said Francis. Butcher probably went by Frank and found his proper name annoying.

Butcher took another step closer and leaned in. Kassel shot me a glance, but I was moving before that.

“Sir, you are going to step away now,” I said, moving between them. I put a hand out in a halt motion, not touching him.

“What’s this, Conrad?” Butcher said from around my hand. “You bring a goddamn thug with you? You come here to rub it in my face and don’t even have the balls to do it without your meat shield?”

“Sir, please step away.” I lowered my arm and took one step forward. “Let me get your coat for you.” I stepped as if to go by him then swung my full weight behind my shoulder and into his chest. It’s a subtle move, but one that jars beer muscles out of most hotheads. Butcher was no different. He stumbled back, eyebrows raised in shock.

“How clumsy of me, sir. Allow me to get you set up with a drink while your cab comes.”

“Cab? All right.”

I guided Butcher firmly by the elbow to the seat where I saw a raincoat and a half eaten chicken breast. I had missed it coming in as it was right next to the bird cage that had so transfixed me.

I could tell he was agitated. He sat ramrod straight, seething silently but unwilling to look at me. I signaled to the bartender to call a cab. I stood behind him until the cab came.

When it did, he stood up and looked me in the eye.

“I could have took you, boy. What are you, about a buck eighty? I could snap you like a twig.”

“I’m sure you could, sir. Happily, we won’t know. Here’s your cab now.”

He pfft air though his lips and bent down to fetch his raincoat. I saw the move coming, but he still managed to punch me in the balls. Deceptively quick for a big man. He kneed me in the face as I doubled over and I couldn’t tell if my balls or my head hurt more.

He went past me as I slumped down, but I managed to hook my foot around his and trip him. Butcher landed softly on a nearby couch, bounced up, and stomped down at me. Man-pain be damned, I rolled away and to my feet. He glanced a left jab off the top of my head which hurt his hand more than my head. I stepped inside his right hook and knifed an elbow at his jaw.

He didn’t go down, but he wanted to. Only the bar kept him vertical. I rushed in to escort him to the floor, but I underestimated his fortitude. He smashed the birdcage into the left side of my head. I guess the thing was some sort of brass wire, heavy as hell. I could feel it embed in my skin as I stumbled to the ground. Wire broke on the cage and stuck to my face. I couldn’t quite pull it off without ripping flesh. I struggled with it. Butcher stalked toward Kassel. My bloody fingers struggled pulled one bar free.

Butcher’s numb fingers fumbled with something in his pocket.

I pulled another bar free.

Butcher pulled a small snub-nosed revolver free.

I leapt to my feet.

Butcher pointed the gun toward Kassel.

The cage fell away from my cheek, taking some flesh.

He fumbled for the trigger.

My own gun was in my hand.

Butcher looked down the sights at Kassel.

“Don’t…” I said, moving forward.

His finger tensed on the trigger.

“…shoot!” Kassel yelled.

I clubbed Butcher in the temple with the butt of my pistol. His shaky fingers slipped off his revolver and it tumbled clear. I pistol whipped Butcher a couple more times to make sure he was out.

Kassel headed for the door and I jumped to follow him. I guessed we weren’t staying to talk to the cops. Kassel’s car pulled up and I loaded him in.

If the events inside bothered him, he didn’t show it. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to me. I press it to my bleeding face.

He sat for a long time, looking at me.

“Guns are for shooting, Mr. Spears.”

“I…yes, sir.”

“In the future, don’t weigh the life you protect against some inhibition. Inhibitions get people killed in our lifestyle.”

I nod, but I wasn’t really sure.

Silence. Then finally, as we pulled up to his building,

“I think you could do quite well in this line of work, Mr. Spears, but you’re not there yet. See my secretary tomorrow for your severance package.”

Ouch. I nodded glumly.

#

Looking back, Kassel was wrong. It wasn’t my inhibitions that killed Luís Colón.

#

The next day, I saw the secretary like I was told. The check inside was generous, but of more interest was the note.

Mr. Spears,

As I said last night, you may have a career in this line of work. You need to make some hard choices first. Perhaps clearing up this business about your friend will help. I suspect it will. When you are done and if you are ready, you may see me about a job again.

Good luck,

C.M Kassel

P.S. The man responsible for hurting your friend is named Blake.