The Buenos Aires Affair - Part II

Chance falls in way over his head. Things go awry quickly when Chance and his principal enter these uncharted waters...

 

It was every elegant fundraising dinner. At least every one that I’ve ever attended. It was in a hotel’s banquet room, or a governor’s mansion, or a banquet hall. In this case the Alvear Palace Hotel.

 

There was a string quartet. There is always a string quartet. At some point in the evening, the string quartet will play Boccherini’s Minuet from Quintet #11. Even if you don’t know classical music, you know this song. If you’ve ever even seen a movie in which a string quartet played, you know this song. Poor Boccherini. Everyone in the world seems to have heard his music, but if you mention his name, someone will more likely ask if you want it with grated cheese or a side of gravy.

 

A couple of things separated the Precipitación Fuera del Antrax from other hotel-renting, string-quartet-accompanied banquets. This one had an enormous dairy sculpture of an anatomically correct Argentinean Shorthorn bull standing in four tubs of ice in the center of the hall. That was a first for me. The other was the impending sanction against the guest of honor. Carlos Valdez would die tonight.

 

My attendance had been pre-arranged as part of my cover. I would arrive alone. Garcia would arrive shortly after, also alone. Our tuxedos were as deliberately different as one could make tuxedos without venturing toward the ridiculous. I wore a Gucci with black pants and a white dinner jacket. Garcia’s was an all black Armani. As this was the Argentinean summer, there was no coat check. I went through some deal of trouble to find a place to check my coat and hat. In the end, I left them with the men’s bathroom attendant. He secured them in a cupboard where he kept a bottle of gin. I tipped him a sawbuck and told him that I would triple it if it didn’t come back smelling like a distillery.

 

That night I would be employing a technique known as Awkward Chic. The Frenchman had pioneered it with a few of his classmates in honor of their favorite actor. Yeah, you guessed it - Jerry Lewis. When applied as Wingman craft, the technique works by promoting your principal through self-sacrifice. The Wingman begins the evening with an endearing faux pas or a self-deprecating joke. By doing this, he creates the illusion that the target or mark and his principal are in some way superior to the Wingman. This creates an imperceptible bond between the two. The Wingman then begins to make blunders of ever increasing severity to cement the relationship between principal and target.

 

The art in this comes from the Wingman’s ability to make himself look moderately foolish without making the target question why the principal would even associate with such a simple clod. I’ve had about a 92% success rate with Awkward Chic. Tonight, however, was different. I would be employing the technique as a method of distraction so that Larson could do what he needed to accomplish, rather than as a method to prop up Garcia. That meant that the gloves would come off. I could be as boorish as I needed.

 

I had seen photos of the vintage hotel ballroom, but I needed to take in the lay of the land. Cherry wood and brass mostly, with a smattering of engraved crystal. Worthy of royalty, but not as ostentatious as some that I had seen in Europe. There was a sea of penguins, some serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres, and some propping up women in garish dresses, being served. The men attending were standard: slightly to morbidly obese, in their fifties and sixties with varying types of facial hair cut, waxed, or trimmed to make them look as distinguished as possible.

 

On the other hand, there was a collection of female attendees that may have been equaled in my experience, but never surpassed. I had expected primarily Argentinean wives, being that I was in Buenos Aires, but the nationalities and backgrounds of the women were quite varied. Men of means tend to acquire whatever their tastes dictate. It’s what keeps la Confrerie in business.

 

Despite our best efforts, Garcia and I wouldn't melt in with the crowd. He was too young and I was too non-mustached and non-Argentinean. He had no cover. It was not unusual for a young entrepreneur to attempt a social climb by attending one of these events. He would not be accepted, but no one would question his attendance.

 

Larson was another story. His cover was as an assistant to the event planner. Looking at the enormous butter bull in the center of the room, I was wondering if he had any role in that monstrosity. Probably not. Larson had no sense of style. I noticed him working his way in and out of the service halls that led down to the kitchen.

 

It was about half past nine when Valdez showed up with the lovely Fatima. She was absolutely stunning. If this were a movie, the crowd would have turned when she walked into the room. The other women would have had either stood in awe or made some catty remark to their friends or spouses. I just don't see what the big deal is. Something like that. Also, that accursed string quartet would have paused for a few heaven sent seconds… but this wasn't a movie.

 

Fatima was a classic beauty with olive skin and almond eyes, but there were at least three women in the room that rivaled her. No, at this event, Valdez was the center of attention, a man of power that could make people disappear. That’s what people wanted to see, a stone killer.

 

It was show time for Garcia and I. I was a diversion. I knew very little about Larson’s job other than Valdez would receive a dose of a slow-acting poison at some point during the night. I had to create enough of a diversion for Garcia to slip a compact disk to Fatima. Of course, he would have to offer her an explanation and reassurances. The plan was for her to leave with Valdez, and around the time she would be viewing the contents of the disk, Valdez would expire. At that point, Garcia would reclaim her from her horrid life as Valdez’s mistress. It was a simple plan.

 

I began with some minor buffoonery. I dropped the olive in my martini on the floor and attempted to chase it down. People laughed, but the evasive Valdez and Fatima failed to notice from where they sat.

 

So I went over to the string quartet and attempted to get them to take my requests. I tried in French, English, and broken Spanish, but they stared stonily ahead and continued to play. I did notice that the bald cellist started to sweat. It actually was better that they didn’t respond. Their apathy drew more attention to me than if they had taken the offered twenty dollar bill and started playing Funky Cat by Elton John like I had asked. However, this wasn’t getting the attention of Valdez.

 

At this point, Larson took a big risk. I walked over to the corner of the room so that I could survey the landscape for more opportunities to draw unwanted attention to myself, when he nonchalantly stopped by and said, “Ransom, you’d better step it up. No one is even noticing you. It’s an embarrassment.” Yeah, Larson and I were really bonding on this assignment.

 

He was right, though. Awkward Chic may be a fantastic bit of Wingman craft, but it just wasn’t working here. I started to drift about the room looking for another crime against all good taste and manners. I was starting to feel just plain awkward when I suppose my Wingman instinct kicked in. I say that it was instinct because I don’t remember coming up with the idea of stretching my hand out to lean on the enormous butter testicles of the giant dairy bull. That got everyone’s attention, including a very amused Valdez, who immediately walked over toward me. Take that Larson.

 

I actually felt an unpleasant chill when Valdez spoke to me, not so much because of what I knew of the man’s character, but more due to the fact that he would be a corpse in a few hours.

 

“Mi amigo, es usted un veterinario?”

 

Looking at the buttery mess in the palm of my hand, I replied that I wasn’t, in broken Spanish. Everyone in the immediate area erupted with laughter. Valdez had shown them his superiority.

 

I don’t know whether it was because he recognized how unimpressive my Spanish was or as a peace offering for the joke that he had made at my expense, but he switched over to English. “Then why are you gelding my bull?” More laughter, although this time some of it was forced.

 

“I apologize. I was distracted.” Valdez’s next move surprised me, because it actually showed empathy for an embarrassed guest. He plucked a dinner roll from a server that was bringing a tray to the table and broke the bread in half. He then buttered the two halves on the testes of the butter bull and offered me one as he bit into the other. It was a grand conciliatory gesture that was as self-effacing as it was bizarre. However, I had no choice but to take the offered gift. I kind of felt like we were eating the balls of the bull. It wasn’t a warm feeling.

 

He held up the remnant of his roll half to the crowd like a trophy and they applauded. I couldn’t help but feel that this would not have gone over so well with anyone else. Valdez was a feared man. When he was angry, people shuddered. When he lamented, they cried. When he played the clown, they dutifully laughed. Great party.

“My friend, thank you for the amusement. I am Carlos Valdez. This is my lovely friend, Fatima.”

 

“Mr. Valdez….Fatima. My name is Charles Renari.” It was of course still me, Chance Ransom. Apparently you can’t use your real name for things like this.

 

“Renari…Renari.” The light appeared to go off in his head. “Banker, no?”

 

“Yes, that is correct, Mr. Valdez.” During what would be an otherwise pleasant discourse between two gentlemen around a buttered bull, a number of things were going on. Garcia had managed to slip the compact disk into Fatima’s fur stole. She had seen him and given him a faint smile.

Larson was attempting to position himself to swab a topical poison on any exposed skin of Valdez. It was a slow-acting toxin that would feign the symptoms of a heart attack, but if it was injected or administered orally, it would cause immediate death, and that would not do. Larson had put on a thin coating of clear polymer on his hands to prevent from dosing himself.

 

Looking back at the plan, there did seem to be a lot of errors. Larson was good, but in the assassination business he was still an amateur. Desperation should never be a substitute for an ironclad plan.

 

I’ll never know for sure what happened. A leak in the polymer glove? Maybe he swabbed some sweat off of his forehead with the poison. I didn’t really believe either one those hypotheses and told la Confrerie the same. Larson began to double over and fall sideways into the right hind leg of the butter bull, knocking the support out from under the massive beast. In the end, I don’t know if Larson was suffocated, had a heart attack, or was crushed to death. One thing I do know is that Larson’s final act was the greatest Awkward Chic in the history of Wingmen. We all felt totally superior, especially Valdez, who had a look like he had just polished off a porterhouse.

 

Of course the crowd was aghast. I had the presence of mind to pull him out from the butter, careful to avoid the swab or his hands. What bothered me the most about the event is that there was not a great deal of concern in investigating the situation. Just clean up the floor, get the body outside and, well, of course the bull had to go now.

 

Garcia knew the drill. Not that I had prepared him for Larson getting poisoned and crushed under a ton and a half of butter, but he knew that if something unexpected happened he was to leave in degrees. A minute to back out of the room, a minute to use the restroom, and then straight out of the building. He had taken a taxi there, but a car was waiting in the parking lot just in case. He took this route and picked me up on the side. That would prove to be another mistake. One of Valdez’s guards took note of me getting in and copied down the plates.

 

 

“Go east,” I ordered Garcia.

 

“Not back to the hotel?”

 

“Not yet. I’m not sure they weren’t suspicious.”

 

I had him take us through a bad part of town and then through the business district. When I was satisfied that we were not being followed, I told him to go back to the hotel.

 

“What now, Chance?”

 

I didn’t want conversation. I would have taken the kid’s head off, but it was a legitimate question. What now? Larson was dead. Valdez was alive. Fatima was a question mark. I lit up a Camel and tipped my hat back to give it some thought. When he pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, I instructed him to go around the side. I didn’t want the clerk to note my arrival or impending departure. The room was hired under an untraceable corporate account. So was the car, for that matter.

 

I told Garcia to wait in the car. If anyone suspicious pulled into the parking lot, he needed to call up to the room. I never unpack, so it would only take a minute. I didn’t think I was in any real danger, but I thought it better to get out of my formal wear and re-establish myself at Garcia’s house.

 

When I got up to the room, I opened the door slowly.

 

Someone was waiting inside. Strangely, this revelation gave me some degree of comfort. I recognized the unique smoke emanating from the burning end of a short cheroot, coupled with the distinctive smell of a very fine scotch.

 

The room was dark but I recognized the silhouette, as well as the voice that owned it.

 

“Bon soir.”

 

“Evening, Edgar. It’s been one hell of a night.”

 

To be continued…

 

 

http://www.myspace.com/chanceransom

 

 

Author's Note

As usual, please give me advice

Reviews

[Tamme]

Your description of the banquet hall for the Precipitaci�n Fuera del Antrax was absolutely excellent, very vivid without being to wordy. Can't wait for the next part, although it will probably take me another month to get to reading it.

[~ Tex]

Another great write! I'm not sure if the ending got chewed up by the server or not, but I was going to be hanging until the next chapter anyway! LOL Great job.

It's the little things you do that add to the storytelling... the subtle choice of words.... such as your use of "feint smile" when most others would have gone with "faint smile" - unfortunately, many readers today would have glossed over that and missed the subtle bit of extra description about Fatima that the word "feint" might impart versus 'faint' - so thank you for your language choice. Reading your stories with such enjoyable humor and solid plots, one might easily slip into failing to appreciate such seemingly minor details, yet they are no less significant than a single brush stroke by Picasso, or Van Gogh or any master of the paints.

Language in particular seems to be going the way of P.E. in the schools today, and so many people do not bother to look up words or care to use words of more than one or two syllables, so I simply felt the need to mention this particular point in the hopes that some young writer who reads this might develop not only an appreciation for your use of language in throughout your works, but also that they might learn how invaluable a tool it could be for them. Perhaps someone will help keep language alive in our writing in the future! LOL To some, maybe a "mock" smile is no different than a "minimal hint" of a smile - but to a Profiler or anyone who loves mystery/adventure/action/murder novels, then such differences are the foreshadowing that we seem to see so little of these days. Perhaps this has nothing to do with the coming chapters and events... perhaps it is no reflection upon Fatima and her personality since hooking up with Carlos... but the beauty of it is (much as was the case with old time talk radio shows like "The Shadow") that it allows for our imagination to kick in and open up the endless possibilities!

As writers, our goal is not merely to tell a story, but to effect some understanding or change or emotion in the reader(s). We cannot do that if, like TV, we simply tell them everything and leave them nothing to do except become mush-brains. Your writing is very enjoyable, but beyond that, a greater compliment is that it is very stimulating to the mind.

Keep up the great work my friend. I look forward to your next chapter!!

[tink1170]

Holy....... Bull?... no i mean Cow...... this is an awesome story Mike! I truly cannot wait to see what happens next!! Love It!

[desertraven]

very interesting. I like the intrigue that you've built. More to come?
Sandra♥

[Nicole (Carpe Diem)]

great second part to the story... very enjoyable to read.

[BrightEyes]

this is not usually a genre I read much...just a personal preference...yet I am enjoying this tale which says a lot for how well written it is....I like the splashes of humor throughout the writing...very nice description of the party, painting a picture for the reader...nicely done.


laura

[None]

A magnificant part two. You out did yourself here by mastering the content and the delivery. This was very easy on the eyes, enjoyable!

[Fran Marie]

a great sequel and enjoyable read~Well DonE!~Fran MArie

[Greg the Bard]

I like the story thus far and this is a great sequel. You image is really wonderful and the story is flowing from the first part very well. Great read.

[Beautifully Tragic xPoe..]

Great sequel to your story. Great Write