Goodell said, ‘Mr. Balls, they have a saying in Chicago: “Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, the third time it’s enemy action.”‘

PART 1 – HAPPENSTANCE

Chapter One

Balls of Steel , with two double bourbons inside him, sat at the bar at Terminal B of Las Vegas McCarran International Airport and thought about life and death.

It was part of his profession to kill people.  He had never liked doing it and when he had to kill he did it as well as he knew how and forgot about it.  If it happened, it happened.  Regret was not only unprofessional, it was a weight on his soul like a lead vest.  And yet there had been something different about the death of the Mexican.  It’s not that he didn’t deserve to die.  It was certainly time for him to die, but when Balls killed him, life had gone out of the body so quickly, so utterly, that Balls had almost seen it coming out of his mouth.

The death of the Mexican had been the finishing touch to a bad assignment.  A big man in Mexico had some marijuana fields that employed plenty of people. It was an orderly commerce that was legally sanctioned in many countries and even some US states.  Then, far away in England, the Government, urged on by special interest groups, announced a new war on drugs.  In Mexico City, a soft-spoken Import and Export merchant named Whitehall had a mother with cancer in Leeds.  He loved her and felt sorry for her and when she would call complaining about the pain, he set about investigating the illicit drug trade in Mexico.

In the process, he came to know about the economics of the trade and he decided that if he could make a fortune and at the same time help suffering humanity, he had found the Secret of Life.  Carriage to England was swiftly arranged by the Mexican.  Unfortunately, the man on the English side was a bad man, unconcerned with suffering humanity.  Scotland Yard got wind of the activities and investigated the source of the supply.  At that stage, since a foreign country was concerned, the Service had to be called in and Balls was ordered to find out where the courier got his supplies and to destroy the channel at the source.

Posing as a buyer, Balls quickly got to the big Mexican.  The Mexican received him amiably and referred him to Whitehall. Balls had rather taken to Whitehall.  He knew nothing about his mother, but the man was obviously an amateur and his bitterness about the marijuana ban in England rang true.  Balls broke into his warehouse and left a thermite bomb.  The next morning, he telephoned Whitehall.  He stretched a black handkerchief across the mouthpiece and spoke through it.

‘Sorry you lost your business last night. I’m afraid insurance won’t cover the agricultural stock.’

‘Who’s that?  Who’s speaking?’

‘I’m from England.  Santos won’t be coming with his diplomatic bag anymore.  Smythe will be in London jail tonight.  That fellow Balls you’ve been speaking with won’t get out of the net either.  The police are after him now.’

Frightened words came out of his mouth.  Balls felt compassion. ‘All right, just don’t do it again.’  He hung up.

Whitehall wouldn’t have had the wits.  It was obviously the big Mexican who had seen through the false narrative.  As Balls walked back to his Zona Rosa hotel, a man suddenly stood in his way.

‘You like woman?  Dirty Sanchez?

‘No’

‘Black girl?  Fine ass?

‘No’

‘Mebbe picture?

The gesture of the hand slipping into the coat was so familiar to Balls that, when the hand flashed out and the long silver finger went for his throat, Balls was on balance and ready for it. Almost automatically, Balls went into the ‘Parry Defense against Underhand Thrust’ out of the book. His right arm cut across, his body swivelling with it.  The two forearms met mid-way between the two bodies, banging the Mexican’s knife arm off target and opening his guard.  Balls’ blow almost lifted the man off the sidewalk.  Perhaps it had been that blow that killed him, broken his neck, but as he staggered back on his way to the ground, Balls had drawn back his right hand and slashed sideways at the taut, offered throat.  If the Mexican was still alive, he was certainly dead before he hit the ground.

Balls got the first flight out of Mexico City, which happened to be heading to Los Angeles.  Balls changed terminals and got the next flight to Houston, by way of Las Vegas.   The annoying loudspeaker buzzed and the muffled voice spoke.  His flight to Houston had been cancelled due to a mechanical issue.  A replacement plane could not arrive until the next day.

So, that too!  Should he transfer to another flight to another city or spend the night in Vegas?  Balls had forgotten his drink.  He picked it up again and, tilting his head back, swallowed the bourbon to the last drop.  That was it.   He would spend the night in Vegas and get drunk.  So stinking drunk that he would have to be carried to bed by whatever girl he picked up.  He hadn’t been drunk for years.  It was about time.  This extra night, thrown at him out of the blue, was a spare night, a gone night.  He would put it to good use.

He was too tense.  Too introspective.  What the hell was he doing, glooming about this Mexican who had been sent to kill him?  It had been kill or be killed.

The last light of the day had gone.  The sunset was making its westerly trek past Death Valley, past the California coast, and onwards to Hawaii, leaving behind a big black ocean of darkness.  Balls’ lips turned down.  Stop being so damned morbid.  Playing Disintegration on repeat had been a bad idea.  All this reaction from a dirty assignment.  You’re stale. You’ve seen too much death.  You want a slice of life – easy, soft, high.

Balls was conscious of steps approaching.  They stopped at his side.  Balls looked up.  It was a clean, rich-looking man.  His expression was embarrassed, deprecating.

‘Pardon me, but surely it’s Mr. Balls?

Balls liked anonymity.  His ‘Yes, it is’ was discouraging.

‘Well, that’s a mighty coincidence!’ The man held out his hand.  Balls rose slowly, took the hand, and released it.

‘My name is Brady.  Tom Brady.  I guess you won’t remember me, but we’ve met before.  Mind if I sit down?’

to be continued…