THE MISFIT UNIT: 27) COIN FLIP

My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

Upon landing at Nice Cote d'Azur, Jeff Dalkin taxies to Monaco and alights at Place du Casino. Over a caffeine infusion at Cafe de Paris, he reads the International Herald Tribune, whose front page includes a story on the arrest of alleged CIA traitor Ralph Serafina. Then Dalkin descends to the basement, a public telephone, and touch-keys a number.

"Zudex International," says a voice.

"I need to speak with Michael Zudex," says Dalkin.

"Who is calling?"

"Tell him I have a message from Ralph Serafina."

Dalkin waits. The next thing he hears is a gruff male voice—a voice demanding the caller’s name.

"Jeff Dalkin—hot diggedy-dogaroonie. I'm Ralph's silent partner—which makes me your extra silent partner, partner."

"I don't want to talk on the phone," says Zudex.

"That makes two of us. Meet me in ten minutes."

"You are...?"

"Sure am. Ten minutes. The Columbus Hotel lobby."

Dalkin is already seated when Michael Zudex strides in with Baldy and several other goons, not knowing who or what to expect.

Dalkin waves.

Zudex focuses his cold eyes, not quite comprehending.

He marches over. "Aren't you...?"

"Bruce—willie-wankstain—Willis? No. Sit down.” Dalkin pats a chair beside him. Baldy appears from behind and aims himself for a chair, until Zudex utters a sharp command, and he leaves the lobby to stand guard outside.

"What happened?" Zudex demands.

Dalkin taps his Herald Trib. "It's pretty clear. For once the newspapers—nabobs of negativism, Spiro-fucking-Agnew—they got it right. Ralphy got arrested. He’s looking at the electric chair. So he cut a plea. That's why I'm here, Mike."

Zudex isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing.

"We know everything," Dalkin continues. "The five mil, his stake in Zudex and everything he yakked about to your SVR buddies. Oh, yeah—and how you whacked Jason Groner, that New York Times reporter.”

Zudex's pasty complexion turns a shade pastier. "You are bluffing."

"I don’t need to bluff with a straight-flush," says Dalkin. "The Justice Department wants to put you on trial for first-degree murder. In fact, a grand jury issued a sealed indictment this morning, and an extradition request has been drawn up, ready for presentation to the French—farting frogs.”

Zudex glances about in high anxiety, as if Dalkin’s Tourettic outburst is a code to signal an ambush.

"The U.S. Navy has orders to sink your yacht if to try to flee—or to shoot down your private jet if you try to get away by air." Dalkin pauses. "There's only one-way outta this soup, Mike."

Zudex finally breaks a vacuum of silence. "What way out?"

"From now on, you work for me."

"You?"

"The United States government—golly-glomping goo-goo butts. It's double-agent time. You know the drill."

"I need time to think."

"No time." Dalkin shakes his head. "It's a spot decision. I've got two DOJ bigwigs in Paris waiting on my call. If they don't hear good news in..." Dalkin checks his wristwatch "...forty-three minutes, they'll present their indictment to the French."

"If I say yes?"

"Where's your passport?" asks Dalkin.

Zudex reaches into his jacket.

Dalkin's instinct is to duck, but he doesn’t even flinch as the hand reemerges holding a Hungarian passport.

"Good. We're going to take a trip."

"I will not travel to America," huffs Zudex.

"No sweat," says Dalkin.

In fact, Zudex is perspiring like wild boar on a spit.

"You can excuse him." Dalkin gestures a wank in Baldy's direction. "Call your office, tell them you're going on a quick business trip to London." Dalkin again consults his watch. "We'll catch the evening flight."

Zudex remains motionless.

"Decision time." Dalkin reclines. "I'm relaxed whichever way you go with this. Flip a coin if you want."