Chapter 2 — History of Lies
History? A lie agreed upon.
— Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France
My first glimpse of Adrian Telmar was not encouraging. He was wearing nondescript clothing and dark sunglasses. He did not have the look of money; certainly not the 22,000 portraits of George Washington which I needed to square things with Delaney.
He took off the sunglasses and I started to evaluate his potential. He was average height which of course meant that he was taller than me. His hairline had started to retreat; but the withdraw had ended and the follicles appeared to be mounting a valiant defense leaving a defined widow’s peak in his ash blonde-hair. His face was pinched into a permanent frown. His blue eyes blinked a few times as they adjusted to the new lighting conditions.
“Are you Mr. Chase? Mr. Nicholas Chase?” He asked. I immediately found his tone of voice irritating. The man, when taken as a whole, reminded me of a squirrel, twitchy and hyper. One eye on the sky watching for hawks the other scanning the ground for crumbs. I masked my misgivings perfectly and gave a patented PI response.
“That depends on whether or not you’re with the AG’s office?”
“Are you expecting someone?” He glanced at the stack of guns on my desk, and then around the room, as if he was worried the Gestapo might come crashing through the door at any moment.
“No, not really, but in my line of work you can’t be too careful.” I began transferring the guns back to the desk drawers. He looked relieved. “So, Mr...?” I paused to give him a chance to fill in his name. Rule number one in the private eye business, if you let people talk without asking direct questions, they usually let more information slip.
He paused and looked around, “Is our conversation being recorded?”
“What?” I was surprised and shocked. I make it a point not to start recording conversations until I’m told what the job entails.
“Is this conversation being recorded?” He repeated.
“No!” I answered as firmly as possible. “And my professional integrity is shocked that you would even ask such a question.”
“Then why do you have a microphone hidden in that smoke alarm?” He asked pointing toward the ceiling.
I looked up, following his pointing finger, and decided not to try and bluff my way out. “Because occasionally, I am placed in a situation where I need conclusive evidence that I am not involved in criminal activities.”
“Do you object to engaging in criminal activities?”
I did not like the turn this conversation was taking. I was also glad that I was not yet recording, as my next words were probably going to be incriminating. “A private eye is responsible for working alongside the regular law enforcement agencies. However, because of their unofficial status,” I moved into the speech which I gave my more shady clientele. “Private eyes have broader discretionary powers, which can at times venture into that fuzzy grey area known as interpretive law.”
“How would you feel about helping a federal fugitive?”
“That depends on how big the bounty is?” I laughed.
The guy surprised me by grabbing the remaining automatic off my desk, a Glock 36 if you’re interested, and leveling it at my midsection. “I would not joke about things like that, Mr. Chase.” He said.
“Ok.” I replied, reaching under the desk for the sawed-off shotgun. “First of all, if you’re going to threaten someone, do it properly.” It was now my turn to level a gun at his midsection. “For example, bring your own gun. Because, you never know if one which you pick up along the way is actually going to be loaded. Case in point, yours is not.”
He stared at my shotgun, then gave a rueful chuckle as he slid the magazine out of the grip. He immediately saw that it was empty and set the gun on the desk.
“What did you do? And what is your name?” I asked again, keeping the shotgun pointed at him.
“My name is Dr. Adrian Telmar.” He said this with an emphasis which suggested I should’ve heard of the name before. I hadn’t, so I gave no sign of recognition. This deflated him a bit, but he continued. “As for what I did; well, I didn’t do anything.” He put a lot of extra emphasis on the word “do,” strongly suggesting that whatever he was involved in it wasn’t his fault. I wasn’t buying it.
“Mr. Telmar, the relationship between a private eye and his client, is much like that between a lawyer, or a doctor, and their clients. I need to know everything.”
“I am wanted for insurance fraud.” He said with a resigned look at the shotgun, which I still had trained on him.
“I see. You know, at least in Chicago, that doesn’t rate as federal crime.”
“Yeah, but skipping bail, defrauding the bail bondsman, and crossing five state lines in the process qualify as federal crimes.”
I really didn’t have an answer to that. He seemed like such a mild-mannered guy; like Dr. Jekyll before the potion. I adjusted tack and continued the questioning. “You say that the charges of insurance fraud were false? Care to explain that?”
“Oh yes, my house burned down under suspicious circumstances.”
“Elaborate.” I put the shotgun back under the desk and scooped the Glock and its magazine into a drawer.
“It was three weeks ago. A paramilitary hit team torched the place. I was supposed to die in the fire; but they tipped their hand, so I was already a few blocks away. Unfortunately, a police car caught me as I was leaving my neighborhood. Needless to say, appearances were against me. I couldn’t afford to be trapped in any one place. The hit squad was sure to try again, so I posted bail and skipped the state.”
I was getting a vibe that this was a guy who liked to talk and would run away with the conversation if you weren’t careful. “And why didn’t you go to the police when you first felt your life was being threatened?”
“Isn’t that currently a moot point? I mean, I can’t go to the police now.”
“I’m trying to come up with a reason not to just hand you over to the FBI. The more information you provide the easier it will be for me to make a decision with the potential to benefit you.”
“If you had read any of my books, you would understand why I can’t go to the police; not now, not ever.”
For all the words he was spewing, I wasn’t getting any further in my understanding of the man. I let my frustration show. “Yeah, but I, like the vast majority of the world’s population, have not read your books. So, once again I ask; why couldn’t you go to the police?”
“The police are just pawns, in and of themselves not dangerous. But the minute I come under the jurisdiction of the government, I am a walking dead man. In my books, I have demonstrated that the government is really a sham.” I raised my eyebrows at this. “JFK was the last president with any real executive authority, and you know how that ended.”
“Wait, I distinctly remember voting for...”
He cut me off with a wave of his hand. “Of course people still vote. If the Black Hand abolished voting there would be rioting in the streets. But it doesn’t matter who you vote for, because they are not the ones in authority.”
“What?” I suddenly realized that this man was firmly encamped in what I call the “Tin-Foil Hat Crowd.”
“There is this group. In my books, I call it the Black Hand. I named it after the Serbian revolutionary party which shot Archduke Franz Ferdinand, precipitating World War One; which was also a setup by the way. The founders were a group of scientists and military officers who were stationed in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947. As most people know, this was the sight of the most famous UFO incident in history. In this case the term UFO is a misnomer. The object in question had already crashed into the earth at supraterminal velocity and was no longer flying at the point of its discovery. But that is neither here nor there.
“This group of scientists attempted to determine the purpose of the crashed spaceship. Needless to say, this was not an easy task. It was similar to what would happen should an F-22 crash on a civil war battlefield. It took them nearly 15 years to figure out how to interpret the data off of the ships computers.”
“Good for them.” I said.
“No, you don’t understand this was bad. Remember, time is passing. It’s not 1947 it’s now 1960; JFK is running for president against Richard Nixon. The election results were the closest in the 20th century, with Kennedy winning by .1% of the popular vote. If it was not for the Black Hand, he would not have won at all.
“As a senator, Kennedy vociferously denounced the manned space program. But within six months of taking office, he announced his plans to put a man on the moon. Why this sudden change? Because it was the price he agreed to pay the Black Hand for the election.
“At some point, the Black Hand realized that they had made a mistake. Kennedy was a maverick; he didn’t like taking orders from other people. He had served his purpose, and it was time to get rid of him. 1963: Kennedy is shot and killed in Dallas Texas. The plot was engineered by the Black Hand.
“When LBJ took office, he was given an ultimatum: toe the line or meet the same fate as Kennedy. This is the choice which has been given to every president since. A few people have objected; tried to shake the Black Hand’s iron grip on the government. Nixon was indicted for Watergate and forced to resign from office. Reagan was the subject of an attempted assassination plot. The consequences for disobeying the Black Hand are very serious.”
I needed a way to get this train wreck of a conversation back on track; or if that was not possible end it before my brain started to become infected with his paranoia. I had enough real enemies without bringing a Big-Brotheresque organization into my life. “I think that you are wandering off topic. You started with Roswell and the Apollo missions.”
“It’s all tied together, all part of the same plot, the same web of lies and deception. There are a lot of really dumb people out there, who believe that we never went to the moon, but where else would we be sending the Saturn Vs? The arguments are mostly based on fringe evidence; they say that if you closely examine the photographs and video, you will see that the events recorded could not have happened on the moon. In one sense they are right. All of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin’s scenes, and all the dialogue from the flight, was filmed on a soundstage in New Mexico prior to launch. The real mission was a secret, all of the recordings and findings were classified. The astronauts were tasked with recovering additional alien technology. You see, after seven years of research, the Black Hand discovered the true purpose of the Roswell craft.” He paused dramatically, “It was a distress probe.” “Wait, so all of the Apollo missions were faked?”
“No just eleven through fourteen. The remaining three were actual scientific surveys. But the first four were up there to recover the wreckage of an alien colony ship. This ship’s crew was intended to occupy earth. Unfortunately for the colonists, it was hulled by an asteroid as it passed through the ecliptic plane. This accident crippled navigation and life support. Instead of taking up a stationary orbit around earth, it crashed into the surface of the moon. The automatic systems, which were still in effect, dispatched a probe: the Roswell UFO. This craft was swatted out of the air via an EMP pulse, caused by the government’s reckless exoatmospheric nuclear tests.
“Once the Black Hand recovered as much of the technology as possible, they began experimenting. These experiments have been responsible for most of the natural disasters in the last four decades. Incidentally, they are also responsible for the power blackouts of 2003. Once the Black Hand’s research is complete, they intend to take over the world using mind control technology. This technology was originally designed by the alien race to restore the memories of colonists who were stored in stasis chambers for interstellar travel.”
I sat back and stared at him in shock. I knew that he was a little unstable when he grabbed the gun off my desk, but now I was convinced this guy was completely insane. Mind control theories are the last stage before terminal psychosis.
“I see that this is difficult for you to believe. Discovering that everything you thought you knew about the world is a lie isn’t easy. But it is important that people discover the truth.”
“Did you come up with all of that on your own?” I asked, as my mind frantically tried to come up with a witty repartee to this lunacy.
“I merely connected the dots.” Telmar replied sagely. “The evidence, the facts are all there; you just have to look hard enough.”
“Right, so are there any other conspiracy theories you want to use to explain why you need the services of a private eye? The Philadelphia Experiment? Or perhaps Tesla’s death ray?”
“I do not write about conspiracy theories!” He said vehemently. “Conspiracy theories are things like lizards living in human skin, infiltrating our society, and slowly taking over the world. What I write about are clearly demonstrated facts, which are slightly outside of the mainstream interpretation of history.”
“Sure, whatever. So, why would the Black Hand want to blow up your house?” I want to make it perfectly clear that I did not believe a word of what the paranoid man was saying. I was simply trying to edge the conversation to a point where we could start discussing fee structure.
“About six months ago,” Telmar continued. “I discovered the primary source of the Black Hand’s funding. They are a far more insidious enemy than even I had previously imagined. They have already infiltrated every area of our lives.”
“Spare me the melodrama, and just tell me what’s going on.”
“Not here.” He said glancing around.
“What do you mean ‘not here’? This is my office. This is where I discuss contracts.”
“As a result, it is not safe. It is the most obvious location for someone to try and eavesdrop on our conversation. I can only assume by the arsenal on your desk that you have enemies.”
“Maybe I’m just a well prepared private eye.”
“Maybe, but since it is my life on the line, I insist that we find a secure location to discuss our business.”
“Look, I haven’t even agreed to take you on as a client.” I said. This would be the make or break point, either he would pony up the dough I needed, or this diverting conversation was over.
“Very well, Mr. Chase, what are your terms?”
I stopped and thought for a minute. If I could get five grand up front, I might be able to convince Delaney that I would be good for the rest. “That depends on how long you require my services.”
“I will require your services for an indefinite period of time.” I liked the sound of that. It meant that I could sock him with a huge retainer, assuming of course that he was good for it.
“My standard fee is five hundred dollars a day plus expenses. But, if you want to retain my services for an indefinite period of time, there will be a substantial upfront cost; as I will have to postpone several lucrative arrangements.”
He glanced at me with undisguised skepticism. “I seriously doubt that you have anything lucrative lined up.”
Before he could say anything further, I continued, “I will want three thousand dollars up front for a retainer, plus another two thousand for possible expenses. And,” I added. “I only take cash.”
He looked disappointed. “I am afraid that all I have, in cash, is five hundred dollars.”
“And I’m afraid that will not do.” I said standing up, the traditional non-verbal cue that a conversation is over. “It has been nice talking to you, good luck stopping the Black Hand.”
“Do you think this is a joke?” Telmar bristled. “The fate of our world is in jeopardy, and all you care about is money. Frankly, I am disgusted.”
“Frankly, I don’t care; I run a business not a charity.” I paused, his answer hadn’t quite rung true. “Are you seriously telling me that all you have is five hundred dollars? Don’t you have a Swiss bank account which you can pull funds from? You’re an author who has published multiple books. Don’t you have something you can pawn?”
“Of course, I have a bank account; but as a wanted federal fugitive, I can’t access any of the money.”
“Someone as paranoid as you should have some offshore accounts hidden under false identities.”
“I have those as well. However, this new information, which I mentioned in passing but refused to elaborate on, renders those accounts temporarily unavailable.” He stated obtusely.
“You must have some assets; otherwise you are the most naïve individual whom I have ever come across. Did you honestly believe that you could hire a private eye, indefinitely, for five hundred dollars?”
“Of course not; I am always prepared for trouble. And as the currency market is constantly fluctuating, due to the subversive influences of multinational corporations, I carry gold instead of paper currency.” He opened the briefcase, which he had walked in with, and showed me the contents: Several hundred small plastic bags, like the ones you might by cocaine in; except each of these bags contained a one ounce gold button.
I stared at the man. I was already convinced of his paranoia. Anyone who tried to connect Roswell and the Kennedy Assassination had some serious problems. But anyone who carried a suitcase of gold ingots into the south side of Chicago, in anything less than an armored car, was a moron of staggering proportions.
I glanced from the case to the window. Good, the blinds were closed. “Please tell me you didn’t show that to anyone else?”
“Of course not. What do you take me for an idiot?”
“Yes. You are lucky that I still believe in, a little something I like to call, a sense of honor. Otherwise, you would be floating in the river while I made off with your small fortune.”
“Since you are a man of honor, I expect you to do nothing of the sort.” He counted out five of the small plastic bags. “This is worth slightly more than your stated retainer. You may keep the difference as compensation for the trouble of exchanging it for cash.”
I took the proffered bags. The weight felt about right. I ducked down behind the desk and spun the combination knob on my floor safe. I dropped the bags in on top of my passport and safety deposit keys. I stood up to see Telmar grinning; his teeth flashing in an irritating smile. “Before we find someplace safe to discuss our business, I have a car which I need to dispose of quietly.”
“Where did you leave it?” I asked, “The airport, bus station...” I waited for his answer.
“I left it parked outside your office,” I groaned again. For a guy who liked to connect obscure dots to create his own little fantasy worlds, he missed some really important details. “Then you probably won’t have to worry about disposing of the vehicle.” I glanced down at my watch. “You’ve been here for half an hour. By now, your car is probably scattered across nine different south-side chop shops; especially if it had out of state plates on it.”
“It did.” He said nodding his head.
“Ok, lesson number two; always get a taxi to drop you off. Never leave your car on the street in the south-side, unless of course you never want to see it again.”
I picked up my phone and called a taxi service. The dispatcher promised that a cab would be over shortly.
When we reached the street, it was obvious that Telmar’s car was gone. The only sign that it had ever existed were the two license plates. These lay more or less where they would have, had they fallen off the car while it sat parked. Telmar walked over and kicked the plates down a storm drain. “You’re not planning on saving those for a souvenir?”
“It wasn’t my car.” He said with a shrug.
“Oh.” This day was getting better and better. Before long, I would have the cops, as well as mobsters, after me for being an accomplice in grand theft auto.
A taxi cab pulled up to the curb. The driver looked like he could have bench pressed the cab with Telmar and myself inside. Telmar gulped nervously when he saw him. I didn’t blame him. I was pretty sure that this guy moonlighted as an enforcer for one mob or another. It would be a waste of the physique not to. After all, he made Delany’s gorilla look like dwarf lemur. His head looked like it had been lifted from the surface of a roman coin: chiseled jaw; hooked nose, which looked like it had been broken at some point; and a slightly receding mop of short-cropped, curly, black, hair.
He also got top billing for his taxi service. After the first four blocks, I could tell that his meter was off by about 400%. But I wasn’t about to correct him when he presented his bill. I was pretty sure that they never found the bodies of his disgruntled customers. Telmar lacked my self-restraint. “Mr. Dantini.” He said staring at the taxi license. “I believe that your meter is inaccurate.”
I winced. It was always possible that our driver was a jolly giant; the sort who was heartbroken if he ran over a squirrel. But from the glance which I had of his face, he looked more like the type who chopped up squirrels and stirred the remains into his porridge for breakfast.
He turned in his seat, and I don’t know which frightened me more; the menace on his face, or the fact that he was speeding in one of Chicago’s more dangerous neighborhoods; and not watching where he was going. “Do you have a problem?” He asked with a snarl.
I knew that none of us would ever have any problems ever again if he didn’t adjust course to avoid the fuel tanker, which was crossing at the intersection directly ahead.
Telmar gave a little squeak. Before he could say anything that would raise the incredibly high probability of us getting killed, I spoke up. “His only problem is that he’s insane.” The driver looked ahead, saw the tanker, and spun the wheel to the right; missing the tankers rear wheel by centimeters. He screamed something in Italian at the tanker’s driver, and then turned back to look at me. I continued talking, “This man recently escaped from a psychiatric hospital. I was hired by his family to track him down. I’m taking him back to the hospital now.”
“You told me to take you to Señor Delgado’s restaurant.”
“It’s like a last meal for a condemned man.” I explained. “If his family has its way, he’ll never see the light of day again.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. Both of my brothers are in for life. I’ll probably join them some day.”
What were they incarcerated for?” Telmar asked, before I could get my hand over his mouth. I was also interested in the answer, but I was smart enough not to ask the question. The driver’s face changed colors rapidly. I could tell that he was not happy, and that we would be lucky to get out of his car with all of our limbs attached. Telmar blanched, I remained stoic and clamped a hand over Telmar’s mouth. “I apologize, Mr. Dantini, for this man’s insensitive question...” That is as far as I got. I never found out what he would have done next; although I felt he would have let his handgun do his talking for him. As I was saying, it was at this moment that fate decided to stick her oar in and muddy the water a little.
A large black sedan pulled up alongside the taxi and one of the heavily tinted windows rolled down. “The Reillys say hello.” A voice shouted and, instead of a glowering face, the muzzle of a dangerous automatic weapon poked through the window. I ducked down and wishing that cost reduction initiatives hadn’t reducted the thickness of car side panels. I seriously doubted that 70 thou. of steel would protect me from whoever was on the other side of the gun. But anything is better than looking at the silenced barrel of a submachine gun. The first bullet shattered the rear driver’s window of the taxi cab. It passed about three inches above my head and exited the rear passenger’s window about one inch behind Dr. Telmar’s head.
After this point everything seemed to happen at once. I saw Dantini spin the wheel to the left, smashing the bumper of the taxi cab into the passenger door of the sedan. Had my head been poking up, which it certainly was not, I would have been shocked to see the fender of the taxi cab crumple, without leaving a dent in the sedan. Apparently, the Reillys rode in air-conditioned bullet-proof luxury.
However, I did not see this, because I was not poking my head up; being too busy trying to save both our lives. I pulled Telmar down with one hand, while I reached under my jacket for the .45 with the other. A single thought flashed through my mind, every dark cloud has a silver lining. I might get the chance to shoot something after all.