Continental Divide

Contents

C H A P T E R 1

C H A P T E R 2

C H A P T E R 3

C H A P T E R 4

C H A P T E R 5

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 7

C H A P T E R 8

C H A P T E R 9

C H A P T E R 10

C H A P T E R 11

C H A P T E R 12

C H A P T E R 13

C H A P T E R 14

C H A P T E R 15

C H A P T E R 16

C H A P T E R 17

C H A P T E R 18

C H A P T E R 19

C H A P T E R 20

C H A P T E R 21

C H A P T E R 22

C H A P T E R 1

When the phone rang late at night, David Marsupial woke up woozily. Startled and out of breath, he looked at the phone display and breathed easy when it showed Tom Palance’s name—his pal. With a sigh of relief he picked up the receiver. It was Tom.

"Listen, we are in big trouble unless we cocoon, meet me right now in an hour’s time at The Salon. We have to talk or we are toast," he said hurriedly.

I’ll be there, said Dave, hung up the phone and rushed to the washroom, splashed his face gargled on a gulp of mouthwash, in a flash jumped into his jeans and was out of his apartment door to the garage. He had to hit the road soon as The Salon was a good 50, or so, minute drive.

Hanging a right near Santa Marina Boulevard, his jaguar XJS swerved, careening the sidewalk. The jolt fully woke him up, and in the rear view mirror, he could see a ghost of a flicker of a car about a couple of blocks back.

Well, nothing wrong with that, he mused, other cars have to be on the road too, I don’t goddamn own the road.

But 1.30 in the morning and with the risky business he was in, any car at the back even a few blocks was undesirable, especially if it appeared to be trailing him for too long.

Flooring the accelerator, he soon lost the car, which he was now convinced, was, after all, not on his trail. But one has to be careful when very soon things could turn into a matter of life or death. When the stakes are high, death stares at you from every corner of the road ready to ambush you like a highway robber desperate for a kill.

The neon lights grew denser as he approached the main strip and very soon the familiar crimson and red streaming neon display of The Salon with the intermittent flicker of a cowboy’s figure working incessantly on his lasso, appeared on the horizon. Underneath was the brightly lit, on again off again, neon light in pink, with the letter N on the fritz, displaying The Salo until it would be repaired. A quick glance at his watch and Dave knew he had made it in time. Two minutes more to snag a parking space would land him to his destination right smack 50 minutes after his conversation on phone with Tom.

As he entered the main doorway of the lounge the all too familiar voice of Tom Palance greeted him.

Hey good show, this way fella, Tom said, motioning toward the bar. Dave moved to the direction of the bar where Tom, a big mountain of a man, was comfortably hoisted on the barstool. He looked composed with a characteristic grin on his face, a sort of a cross between a grin and a smirk.

So what’s the scoop big guy? Dave blurted, almost out of breath.

Tom was grinning. Cool it, he said, it was just a false alarm, but I will unload in a bit, sit snug.

Dave jumped on his bar stool like a cowboy shifting into the saddle of a familiar horse, and in a jiffy his drink appeared. With a little recognition nod, Big Al, the good old barman, who knew he preferred his double scotch with just a few ice cubes, had already set the clinking glass on the table and then moved away to attend to the two girls sitting on the opposite end where Dave and Tom were placed. Dave reached for the rock glass, funneled some alcohol down his thirsty throat and relaxed.

He hated how Tom would always act too laid back, volunteering information only when forced to, keeping you guessing, always expecting you to ask before he would squeeze anything out of his fat thoracic region in a deep tone that would resonate like a monotone bass drum. Why could he not get to the point, but always had to sit there like a toad, muttering away about everything else but the sought after information?

He was now calmly talking about how he felt that his Rickards Red was probably brewed a bit short and that he needed to switch to ale that was paler.

"Perhaps a grasshopper would be the way to go for me," he groaned, with his face depicting disappointment and brooding about something he perceived as being awfully serious, as if someone had done him some grievous, irreparable harm. And this was the last thing Dave could be interested in and yet he could not figure out why was this observation about different types of beer so very imperative at this time.

But that face, with all its contours, each one meant for a different expression, appeared good for now, as Tom’s overall display of calmness had a tonic effect in relaxing Dave. So it was not an emergency and things were fine, anyway. So really, where was the hurry to know whatever prompted Tom to call him here, he reasoned. He had now put his mind at ease, engrossing himself at scrutinizing the chicks across him, while all along Tom was croaking something that almost sounded like a frog’s mating song, especially after Dave lost count of the subject matter.

In fact, he was surprised that Tom went on talking with the same gusto even though there was no indication of any interest on Dave’s part. It was only when Tom pointed his finger and asked the question during his monologue that Dave was forced to pay attention. The question was a tame one, but the gesticulation that was a deliberate attempt to get his attention, was what brought him back into paying attention to Tom.

Tom, after some cryptic talk had asked: …you have been to Napa Valley have you not, eh, eh? There was a desperation in his tone, especially the eh part. Above all the eh he was so fond of using gave him away as a Canadian. That this time he was flooding the question with a string of ehs indicated to Dave that he was annoyed at losing Dave’s interest in the conversation.

Dave felt like a schoolboy who is caught daydreaming in the class but then quickly jolted back to reality by a professionally trained teacher, who knows how the power of interrogation can wake up a slacker. Dave was forced to pay attention. That is when he realized that Tom had still not abandoned the topic associated with grading beer. But that is the way Tom was. He never jumped from subject to subject, but believed in exhausting any particular topic to the utmost before moving on to the next one. He never liked the idea of someone not paying attention to what he was saying, either.

Who gives a damn about Napa Valley…I am more interested in knowing if that girl in red across from us is smiling at you or me? said Dave.

It is quite obvious that she is looking at you…hey, I am a married man you know?

But she doesn’t know that you are married, you think everyone works for the intelligence department or what? said Dave.

Tom was suddenly silent for a while. Dave looked at him as he industriously rolled his tobacco into a cigarette.

To answer your question. Yeah, I have been to Napa Valley several times, said Dave, almost feeling guilty that he ought to have given a straight answer to a straight question.

Never mind. said Tom smiling, as he put the rolled cigarette in his pocket, realizing that smoking laws did not permit him to light up in this establishment.

Dave had worked now for a good few months with Tom, but they had been in step from the very start as they had the proper chemistry that turned them into friends, overnight. Dave sometimes wondered if in a short time he didn’t know Tom better than even Maggie, his wife, who always was threatening to find a good girl for Dave and end his bachelorhood. Tom had become his partner, friend and mentor.

Why should a guy think of marriage in this profession where you could hardly spend time with your wife, was a mystery to Dave. On the other hand, life on the road in the thick of crime and intrigue did offer all the rewards for bachelors—a choice of dames, fast cars, adventure and thrills.

Just as Dave was entertaining this train of thought, the joint started rocking. The rock group was back on stage and the guitarist was going wild. Tom gave up his muttering, that he had resumed, overwhelmed by the competition of the noise in the joint, opting now to diligently concentrate on a newly acquired sleeve of the grasshopper he had ordered.

Who said that life of a CIA agent was easy, and even though both were drinking right now, life was not booze either. There was much more to their profession: the intrigue, the suspense the harrowing experiences, the narrow escapes that are, thanks goodness, not the lot of everyone.

The concealed gun, in its holster on the waist, with its neighbor bullet proof chest guard, does give a macho feeling but the glamour wears thin when situations make one sweat bullets even before they can be fired. And when you are forced to end up making corpses out of live people the tension builds, the plot thickens.

But whatever, the fact was, Dave was a good agent, a dedicated honest one, who enjoyed his profession enough to hang in there. Being a rebel by nature, a number of police department actions did not sit well with him. He despised bureaucracy, but this Dave recognized came with the territory. After a few excruciatingly painful years that took to establish his outspoken and definitive opinions about matters, Dave now found that he was, more often than not, left alone to pursue course of actions as he willed, with least interference. Besides, it was great to work with Tom, a senior agent, an experienced man with a number of years over Dave, more a friend than a colleague.

The top 40 band opted for rest to their overstrained vocal chords and stretched strings of their musical paraphernalia. The girls who were sitting across had left content to call it a night. Dave could have hit on them as they were certainly exhibiting interest in him, especially the blonde in the red dress. But Dave was not in that mood of wooing and had lost some of his enthusiasm in snaring new dames since he had met Kathy. No, he was not going steady with her. But she seemed to have what it took to please him.

Big Al, the barman was busy putting his bar to order. Dave had decided against calling for one more drink but succumbed to Tom’s persuasion. Tom was battling with his second pint of grasshopper. This is when he finally felt encouraged to unravel the mystery of why Dave was summoned here in such hurry.

In a hushed tone, Tom began explaining that a report had hit the wire late evening, but was later discredited as being false. He said, "It was reported that the inner security triple buzz was broken into by the Argentinean UltraGoucho group, which was stalking the CIA agent in Buenos Aires who was captured and tortured to pass information of the operation and description of all six candor agents," of which Tom and Dave were a part.

Our ass would have been on line big time. Tom said with greatest sincerity. Then with a twinkle in his eyes he added: We’ll get the gay-holes in the end. Dave nodded in the affirmative.

The other important news, if you don’t yet know, you could find your butt in Kashmir soon.

Kashmir…Kashmir? You mean Kashmir near the Himalayas? Why the hell will they send me to Kashmir? That is not in our present operation jurisdiction. Be serious, Dave sounded amazed.

Geez, I have no idea why, but I just heard it through the grape wine that they want you there…I do my homework you know…I am not a blast from the past, if you know what I mean, Tom replied.

Oh, I agree you are not, even though you would not care about that girl in the red dress who was smiling at you, said Dave jokingly.

Hey, get thee behind me Satan. said Tom, with a priestly seriousness of a biblical proportion look, before he started laughing exhibiting his rearranged teeth and the immaculate hard work of some talented dentist.

Just then, Dave realized that he was tired. He wanted to go home. He enjoyed Tom’s company