THE MISFIT UNIT: 5) A SECOND MAVERICK MANIFESTS
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy
8.
Next afternoon, about 5:33, Jeff Dalkin moistens his lips with Luli chardonnay outside The Honor Bar in Montecito when a tall, gangly figure approaches and hovers over him.
"I'm Richard Thornington." The beaming Englishman displays a mouth overcrowded with teeth.
"Sit down." Dalkin gestures to a chair. "How'd you find me so fast?"
"Very simple." Thornington sits down, chuckling. "I had a mate back at headquarters in London connect your mobile phone number to your billing address." He points down Coast Village Road.
“My address is a UPS shop.”
“Uh-huh.” Thornington nods. "Someone at the Bureau told me that you look like Bruce Willis. So after waiting at the UPS shop for a while I took a walk, looking for a Bruce Willis look-alike. And here you are.”
"You're a very lucky man, Dick," says Dalkin.
"I go by Richard."
"That's fine, Dick,” says Dalkin. “You're still lucky.”
“How so?”
“Because not only have you managed to get yourself out of Washington, D.C., but you are here, in heaven. Do you have any idea why?"
Thornington looks at Dalkin with a quizzical expression. "Actually, no."
"Actually." Dalkin nods. "Actually, we've assessed you very carefully, Dick. And, actually, you are highly intelligent and exceptionally creative." He smirks. "Much too creative for mundane bureaucratic nonsense."
Thornington nods in appreciation of being appreciated.
"We at the F—fat-assed fuck-heads—B-I, we actually wish to put your intelligence and creativity to good use."
"Brilliant," says Thornington. "Doing what?"
Dalkin nods. "I'm actually glad you asked that. Tell me, Dick, if you could focus on anything you wanted, what would that actually be?"
Thornington considers this for several seconds. "The Red Mafia."
“Explain."
"At MI5 I uncovered a significant overlap between the SVR, Russia's foreign intelligence service, and the Russian mafia. They seem to work hand-in-hand these days. MI5 could only tackle this problem as it affected the security of Britain. I'd like to track it to source."
"Well I've got good news for you." Dalkin winks. "That's actually what you're going to do."
9.
Six weeks later, Dalkin returns to Washington D.C., all expenses-paid, having timed a progress report for R. James Cloverland of the FBI to overlap with deep consultations-of-the-flatulent-kind with counsel.
Bradley Fatwood of Bacon, Hump escorts Dalkin into a small conference room. "We filed a motion to dismiss," he says. "So did Ding-a-Ling, for the same reasons: jurisdiction and statute of limitations. Plaintiff's attorneys had seven days to respond. They did. Their argument is that their case is not time-barred because they only became aware of the facts—through Dick Mutton—within the last 12 months. As for jurisdiction, the plaintiff claims that you met her at least once in Washington." Fatwood pauses. "Did you?"
Dalkin shrugs. "Maybe. One stupid drink qualifies for jurisdiction?"
"Both sides make arguments, the judge decides."
"So what happens next?"
"We have a conference scheduled tomorrow," says Fatwood. "With Judge Rudolph."
"Who's we?"
"All defense counsel and the plaintiff's attorneys. Ding-a-Ling Widgets is represented by a Washington heavyweight, Lysucker and Bunkum. Another DC biggie, Dillywhacker and Ropey, represent the owner of Ding-a-Ling, who they’ve named personally as a defendant. His lawyer is Bernie Rosen. You ever heard of him?"
Dalkin shrugs.
Fatwood sniggers. "They call him Attila the Hun."
"What about the plaintiff's lawyers? Who the hell are they?"
"Worthog and Worthog," says Fatwood. "A father-and-son team. They're contingency lawyers. They do everything on spec and take 50 percent of the kill."
"Since Ding-a-Ling won’t cover my legal expenses, can't we just make a deal with the plaintiff?"
"The senior Mister Worthog already suggested that," says Fatwood. "For a million dollars they'll drop you as a defendant."
"A million dollars? Blow me."
"I don't know what they're smoking," says Fatwood. "Let them get a taste of Attila the Hun."
10.
From the law offices of Bacon, Hump, Dalkin saunters down Pennsylvania Avenue to the bunker-like J. Edgar Hoover Building, muttering so loudly about “gonad grippers” and “mutant masturbators” that a Secret Service officer manning the White House gate scribbles a note about Bruce Willis.
Dalkin is still muttering when a secretary escorts him into R. James Cloverland's executive office on the seventh floor.
"Perfidious is thrilled," says Cloverland, leaning back in a recliner, arms butterflied behind his head. "Not a peep out of their maverick—just what they wanted.” He sits up and opens a manila file stamped Top Secret in large red letters. "And we have a new maverick."
"Oh joy."
"This one's from CIA," says Cloverland. "Operations. A Ralph Serefina. He drinks too much. And possible drug use. Serefina has been at CIA for five years and recently went through s routine polygraph."
"What has he done at CIA?" asks Dalkin.
"One overseas stint. He served two years in Geneva under diplomatic cover. Very bright. The agency had high hopes for him. Until now."
"What does he know about my unit?"
"Nothing. We want you to pitch it yourself."
Dalkin squints an eye. "Why?"
"It's important that Serefina wants to do this," says Cloverland. "He considers himself a fast-tracker, doesn't know he failed his polygraph. There's probably a better chance of him not smelling a rat if you personally present what you're doing, make him think he has a choice, and make it so appealing that he chooses your unit." Cloverland pauses. "I'd like you to meet him while you're here. Pitch him, recruit him—and take him the hell back with you back to California."
Dalkin shrugs. "What's the hurry?"
"This guy makes people nervous," says Cloverland. "He's a networker, graduated from Georgetown University, has friends in congress, professional staffers. Enough said?"