The Ace in a Loop Hole

Samuel Anthony Creedy shifted uneasily from the balcony staring at the setting sun behind the tall Willow trees that bordered river Liffey. He hung his tall frame over the rails of the 12^th floor balcony of the Burlington Hotel deep in thought, as he released rings of smoke that curled up and disintegrated in the twilight air.

Sam was a 6 foot tall burly white skinned American with sand-colored hair and long legs. He often prided himself over his well-built shoulders and forearms as all these years amidst chaos and pressure at work, he always managed to squeeze in quality time at his office gym where he had sculpted his upper body, the biceps, torso, and all other major muscle groups.

Recalling his years, Sam vividly remembered graduating from Harvard Business School with an MBA. Being a recipient of the prestigious Magna Cum Laude, Sam easily got into McKinsey and at it was there at the beginning of his career where he averaged a minimum of 100 hours per week sacrificing sleep, hobbies, and social life. After six productive years, Sam was promoted as the regional resource manager, which he felt wasn’t satisfactory for a man of his talent, experience, and capabilities. Therefore it was expected that he quit McKinsey and join Novagen Laboratories, a pharmaceutical start up that employed 30 people managing a rough annual turn over of two million dollars.

He continued to work unabatedly and in four years Novagen’s annual budget reported an excess of 25 million dollars in its turn over. At the age of 37, Sam momentarily glimpsed satisfaction when he became the vice president of Novagen before he crafted his next set of immediate goals. It was a marvel that his wife hadn’t left him.

Sam, who always held a strong sense of work ethic, patiently bore afflictions he encountered from egoistic partners and business associates, and never retaliated. He used other ruthless ways to fire inefficient employees who would never have imagined this cold-blooded side of Sam that was well veiled beneath his cheerful countenance. However, if at all there was any one he hated presently, it was his boss William Harry Kramer, the chairman of Novagen. Right from day one, they had multiple differences in opinion and Sam still felt that had it not been for Will as the ultimate deciding authority, Novagen would have grossed 50 million by now. Many a lucrative deals were often turned down by William much to the consternation of Sam. Recently, Will declined a 200 million dollar merger with Johnson and Johnson that made Sam livid who would have otherwise cashed in on his shares after Novagen became public. His dreams of retiring and settling down in Dakar, Senegal were scuttled.

And now he was in an Irish hotel, on a business trip. It was getting dark and he thought of eating out that evening. Taking a quick shower, he donned a charcoal solid double-breasted suit that was a loose fit and ran low all the way to his lower thigh, while a twin pleat plain bottom khaki trousers ensured he wasn’t excessively formal. Deciding to go easy on his tie, Sam tied the shoelaces of his after-six formal black shoes and walked down the stairs in an effort to burn down the second helping of the grilled chicken breast sandwich that he had rejoiced at lunch.

Making a right onto O ‘Connell Street, Sam felt his forehead break into beads of sweat in the humid Irish climate that was a little intolerable even after sunset. Whistling to an old ragtime tune, he walked two blocks downhill and turned right onto Sussex Avenue where an italicized neon lighted Beckets, Irish bar and Restaurant signboard greeted his eyes. The bar wasn’t crowded and a blonde freckle-faced teenage waitress whose firm outline was well defined by her tightly clad apron easily spotted Sam.

Her cheeks became florid when she smiled and asked him, “What would you like today sir?”

Sam ordered Scotch whiskey, Chivas Regal, with extra ice for starters not taking his eyes of her hazel brown eyelashes. It didn’t take long for Sam to finish and enter his second round when he picked the Wild Turkey, American whiskey. Forty-five minutes later, the place was swelling with a medley of well-dressed businessmen, tired countrymen, teenage punks, and crones.

He nodded to a pot-bellied short statured man whose cheek appeared swollen and cancerous, perhaps due to excessive smoking who upon entering crossed Sam and took the table ahead of him. Soon, a hawk-nosed slovenly dressed man with unkempt hair and loose trousers made a beeline towards Sam’s neighbor.

They didn’t take care to keep their voices low and Sam could easily eavesdrop on the hawk-nosed man’s nasal tone, not that he was saying anything interesting. Apparently he was a car dealer and was cursing the Irish weather for poor sales and soon they drifted into European politics when Sam’s concentration was severed. He almost got up when the fat slob’s attention caught him.

“I’ve heard he is the best marksman in Dublin, perhaps the best in Europe. Never misses his aim”

“Right, had he been born twenty years earlier, he would have blown Charles De Gaulle’s brains off.”

“He hasn’t surfaced over in two years and last he was on Irish times was when Mark Stromberg was slugged in his head at Hyde Park in Foxrock.”

“I’ve heard he could shoot blindfolded”

Sam changing his decision signaled the waitress and ordered a steak and Guinness pie with a side order of club salad and a large Johnny Walker whiskey with no ice. Over the next three fourths of the hour, Sam’s attention was singular and taking care he learnt that the marksman was an assassin who went by the name Vulture. But for the mafia, no one knew his whereabouts and all special forces throughout Europe and America wanted him. What strikingly caught Sam’s attention was Vulture’s ability to not miss his mark when shooting at his victims from anywhere within half a mile.

After the two men left, Sam got up with a slight headache. He paid the bill and ambled towards the hotel. His hatred for Will had grown significantly over the past two years. Reaching his suite, he stripped himself off the suit and was naked except for his long checked pajamas. He grew restless and after repeated futile attempts of fixing his mind on a channel, he shut off the television. Interlacing his fingers behind the neck, Sam began devising a plot to get rid Will. It is obvious, he cognized, that I hunt down Vulture and hire him to terminate Will at a suitable location where his body could be easily disposed without any traces for the cops. He fixed himself more whisky on the rocks while he worked on the Machiavellian schemes

Sun soon found its way through the curtains and began illuminating the room while Sam was still preoccupied in his thoughts. Cursing his lack of sleep, he rose, got ready, and drove to work. Novagen had an office in Castleknock Ireland, a little west from central Dublin. At work, Sam’s current single track thought on Vulture continued while he absentmindedly kept knocking the white porcelain ash tray, painted with green Chinese dragons, on his mahogany desk. He visited Ireland frequently on business and aside work, he was very familiar with restaurants, exotic bars, and tourist places in Dublin. While dealing with clients, or during inter-city travel, or when drinking in bars, he bumped into a number of interesting people, some of whom he made friends with. It was during one of these encounters he had made friends with a fisherman who went by the name Toller. Charlie Hastings was his real name and he ran a small business of renting boats and fishing on the seafront suburbs of Dublin at a place called Killiney. Toller was quite famous in the seafront side and although his business seemed harmless, Sam was well aware of his nefarious activities. Often smuggled goods were shipped into his mini harbor during night. If at all there was anyone whom he could reach and obtain information on Vulture, it was Toller. However, Sam in so far, had limited his dealings with him to just purchase of marijuana for social parties.

His slender thin-waisted secretary, Anne, made a noisy entrance and disturbed Sam from his deep thoughts.

“Please cancel all appointments for today, I have some important work to attend to.”

Grabbing his coat, Sam walked down six floors and climbed into his olive green Mercedes SLK 350 convertible and in fifteen minutes he passed City Center and drove by the Dublin bay towards Killiney. A fresh gust of sea breeze drove his hair back. His receding hairline breaking forth from its disguise came into view and he subconsciously pushed his fair forward. Upon entering the store, Sam acknowledged to the owl-eyed cashier who had a broken teeth and asked him for Toller.

Sam was escorted to the pier and Toller, who seemed to be cleaning barnacles off a mini sea boat Sea Eagles, beamed upon making eye contact with Sam and after pleasantries were exchanged, he chortled

“What can I do for you Sam? Supplies for your social gathering?”

Ignoring his remark Sam spoke, “I need some information on Vulture.”

Toller became serious, and grabbing Sam on his back, he pulled him towards his office.

“I have heard of Vulture, from local seamen gossip, but what makes you think I know of him?”

Pulling a check for five thousand dollars from his wallet, Sam placed it on the desk with a loud thud.

“I will give you another five thousand after you lead me to vulture.”

Toller gulped and stared at the check open mouthed and no conversation happened for a few minutes. Sam lighted a cigarette and offered one to Toller.

“Sam, you’re out of your mind. I am sorry I cannot help you.”

Their conversation continued for a while and drifted towards general events pertaining to their lives. Sam stood up, “Keep the check with you and think over tonight. Here is a private number to reach me and give me an answer by tomorrow morning. He exited the shop and inspected the car for any signs of pilferage, as you wouldn’t normally park a Mercedes in decrepit sections of the society.

Next morning at work, inside his room, Sam sat staring at the giant group photograph that was framed and occupied nearly half the right side wall. In that photograph, Will was flashing his teeth, while his wife Marie had her fat arm looped across his neck. Onto his left was Sam with a hunting rifle while a few other echelons that worked at Novagen surrounded them. Behind, was nailed a stuffed overgrown male reindeer with brown and sinewy antlers that snaked above and over the fireplace, the vision being slightly blurred by the smoke emanating from a raging fire. Three years back all prominent delegates of Novagen were in Dublin on a business convention and on the Friday of that week, all of them convened at a private mansion they called Chateau De Chimera. The photograph was taken during that dinner.

The chateau, owned by Novagen, had long hallways that supported nineteen huge rooms whose walls were expansive and seemed to run forever like the great wall in China. Two huge brown chimneys, barely visible between two large oaks that bent towards each other at an odd angle, towered over the palatial structure giving the chateau an appearance of a castle; only that instead of a surrounding moat, Lake Claire gleamed 20 feet from the chateau’s entrance.

Sam jumped when a ring on a private line disturbed him and he heard the shrill voice of Toller on the other end that was hushed.

“On Friday after 11.00 pm, in the town Dalkey, at the intersection between Steven’s Avenue and Crossford Street make a right and you’ll see an old warehouse. Park your car and walk back to the rear fence. Further, please come alone and unarmed. You don’t know how dangerous the people whom you’re dealing with are. A liaison that will tip you about Vulture’s whereabouts will find you. And from there on, you’re by yourself and I am out of it.”

Sam drove towards the rendezvous a little early and calmed himself preparing to take any possible risk. At 11.02 pm, he heard a sharp voice asking him not to turn but raise his hands. Two beefy hands groped him from behind and relaxed after searching and finding Sam unarmed. Sam turned and found that he was staring into a huge 6-6 blond giant whose pockmarks were like craters in the moon; his red moustache was frail and his hair wispy, while a metallic chain gleamed in the moonlight.

Sam started, finding difficulty in forming words, “Do you know Vulture?”

The giant’s hands, which appeared hidden behind his tweed jacket, arched forward and raced towards Sam’s temple when Sam saw the glint coming from a Colt 0.32 semi-automatic.

“Listen, I do the talking,” the giant cut him off.

Sam was asked a few questions on how he learnt about Vulture and when the giant realized he was being honest relaxed the gun. Sam quickly pulled out a photograph of Will playing tennis from his jacket pocket and displayed it to the giant.

“I need help in killing this person. I am beginning my offer with fifty thousand U.S dollars and will give you another fifty after accomplishing the mission, however, if your party feels dissatisfied, I am willing to negotiate. That is all I have for you now.

The giant replied, “At this time, all I can reveal to you is Vulture can be reached. You will be contacted within two weeks and intimated on our decision. Do not try something foolish like following or trying to contact me. I will be watching you. Now face the fence and stay on for another fifteen minutes after which you may leave. Don’t attempt to do anything silly”

The giant left and Sam stood there shivering unsure whether it was due to the chill or the vengeance he bore towards Will. He returned to his hotel thinking, on the second week of January, Will would be present at Dublin to sign the contract with Proctor Associates. Further, whenever such a profitable transaction occurred in Europe, Will always flew to Ireland and celebrated at the chateau for at least a weekend and this time it would be the second Saturday of the month. Yes, Will must be terminated that day. The next plan of action was to drive down to the chateau.

Lying on the bed the same night, Sam smiled and envisioned everything about Will who had grown in Dublin and studied his initial few years there before his family had migrated to the US. Although he was a businessman in the US, he still found European clients and mingled with the elite classes in Dublin. He still had relatives and friends in plenty in Ireland. Well, it is definitely imperative that he perish in Ireland, Sam thought hideously, even better in his own chateau.

The foothills of Wicklow Mountains was an hour’s drive from Dublin city and on a sunny day, Sam had the cover off in his convertible as he drove, marveling the surrounding valley and the lone eagle that was soaring in the sky. Arching his neck towards his right, he had a glimpse of river Liffey gurgle when an approaching tunnel obstructed his vision. Sam had no idea how many go-betweens there were before the giant was linked to Vulture, but counted on his trust towards Toller.

Emerging from the tunnel, the ascent towards the mansion had begun and Sam dreamed. The plot was ugly but outcome rewarding and Will deserved it, a ruthless idiot he was, with inexorable demands he always placed on his immediate staffs. It wasn’t just one instance when Sam’s brilliance was stamped and extinguished. He would take over and turn Novagen into a billion dollar company. The rustic slopes, rushing brooks, and thick trunk elk trees that the tortuous drive offered couldn’t penetrate Sam’s raging mind.

Reaching Chateau De Chimera, he opened his trunk and inside was hidden a brown 7 mm magnum which after strapping to his shoulders, Sam marched and began his reconnaissance. First, he marched to the back of the mansion, where the grass sloped downhill from the back door and emptied into the dense vegetation comprising tall cedar, maple, spruce, and cottonwood trees. He could see the cellar door adjacent to the room where they stocked firewood. Opening the door, he climbed down the stairs and flicked on the light switch. A pack of rats scurried across and he scowled dancing on his toes in an attempt to avoid stepping on them. Three large barrels lay flushed to the left walls and quickly poising behind the cabinet onto his right, he could get a good view of the taps. Hmm, not a bad place to take a shot he mused aiming at one of the wine barrels with his rifle. However, he thought for a second, and figured that the chances of Will coming down to the cellar seemed bleak and quickly changing his mind he walked out

The chateau walls ran irregular and he could approximate the perimeter to a rectangle with the northern end, which had the front door, a hand’s throw from Lake Claire. The kitchen faced the eastern side and a small deck, where barbecue parties were held, had a few run down chairs and tables, and almost touching its wooden floor was the branch of an elm tree angling down. Behind, a grassy stretch devoid of trees continued until he could detect a faint array of trees that dotted the horizon. He hid behind the elm tree and took aim at the refrigerator inside the kitchen. This was an option he conceded.

The driveway, made of asphalt, continued parallel to the Lake and veered off towards the western side, which had the main road about half a mile and in between were dense trees again. He braced himself on a rock and took aim and most of the curtains were pulled low except the patio that was visible through glass doors inside which he could see a small mattress used for sunbathing.

The paddle lock itself would have weighed a ton and Sam furnished a half-foot key to unlock the giant door making a mental note to duplicate the key for Vulture. Inside the chateau, the hall looked like a cinema hall minus the chairs and was well furnished with expensive upholstery, the walls containing exotic paintings while the windows were well draped with turquoise blue satin curtains. A giant divan containing cushions embroidered with scorpions partially blocked the fireplace, which he figured was not in use during summer. He hid behind the divan inside the fire place and took aim all the way to the other end at a miniature structure that appeared well shrunk so much so that when he used his telescope, he gasped for it was a Steinway grand piano, one of those rare expensive acoustic instruments, and his eyes traced up an octave on the key of G. He hummed to Beethoven’s sixth symphony and considered getting Will, who often flaunted with his piano skills during those get-togethers to charm some women clad in minks, shot there. A second option.

He found a few other strategic locations where Vulture could hide and shoot but he still hadn’t found one quite to his liking, so deciding he would come back later for a second survey, he ran up the stairs skipping alternate ones and paused at the landing. He entered the master bedroom, a misnomer as all rooms seemed alike and spacious, and looked around. The windows faced Lake Claire and he saw the beech tree. He didn’t make much progress upstairs.

It was 4.30 pm and a couple hours before sunset and Sam deciding to hunt down his dinner, took his rifle and stepped out. Of the two possibilities of arriving to the chateau, one was by road and the other by riding across the lake from another town. He walked towards the pier and noticed its wooden posts being gently lapped by the waves of Lake Claire. He sunk his foot into the soft sands beneath the surface and waded towards the huge beech tree whose trunks were precariously perched on the banks. He suddenly stopped fearing that he may have heard something. He could just detect a high-pitched grating noise made by insects preparing to turn in for the night. He heard a crackle again and this time it startled him. He feverishly looked around with his rifle and then spotted it; it was a deer drinking water fifty feet onto to his left.

“Aha, tonight I’m celebrating with venison”, he exclaimed and shot the deer, the bullet finding its mark and the excitement causing him to fall onto the water that was knee deep.

He lay stunned and before he got up he glanced at Will’s bedroom through the tall reeds. He pulled his 7 mm magnum rifle and peered through the cross wire of his lens. He took aim and through the telescope observed a blurred image, due to his unsteady shaky hands, of the couch, the wall portrait of Simon Bolivar, a bed, a lamp, the dormer, and the sloping roof. That was it, the best position in terms of getting a good angle. He would move the table lamp away and put the recliner next to the window where Will would hopefully sit and do something like light reading. Vulture would kill him there.

Sam finished his dinner and was inside Will’s bedroom, he was now sitting on the recliner adjacent to the window and was drinking his fourth can of beer. Alcohol was dimming his vision, for it wasn’t the same that had pictured the room through the telescope two hours earlier from underneath the beech tree and beneath the pier. Likewise, again, it was from the same vision, another eye was observing Sam, from a distance; an acute eye that was well focused and far experienced being well supported by much steadier hands. The eye closed and its vision converged from the bedroom, Sam, and the couch; to Sam in his couch; to Sam; to his side burns; and finally rested on his temple. The dot in the cross wire did not shift coordinates and the image lay still except for the throbbing of Sam’s temple as it pulsated along with the heartbeat. The fingers closed on the trigger and a shot rang out, not from a 7mm magnum but a 0.50 BMG that found its aim and shattered the stillness of the night.

Early in the morning at 4.00 a.m. a call was placed from Denver Colorado to Dublin city from a public telephone. Recognizing the voice, the receiving end answered:

“Vulture here - terminated.”

A momentary silence ensued. Taking a deep breath the caller added, “Today by mid noon, the remaining 100 thousand Euros will be deposited into your account. You shall in no way try to contact me henceforth.”

Slamming the receiver in the cradle, Will breathed a sigh of satisfaction and walked towards his metallic silver BMW roadster in the freezing snow. He decided to celebrate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and hot coffee at Jim’s Steak house, the only joint where he could rejoice at that ungodly hour.