Mop and Bucket Man

I can’t tell you my real name, but my professional name is Moe the Mop and Bucket Man and there are very good reasons why I carry that code-name with me wherever I go.  In my business the code-name is the hook and the rest is gravy. Perhaps I should explain as recent events have put me in grave jeopardy to say the least. My company has disavowed any knowledge of my existence and I’ve been on the run for some time. See this capsule?  If I think I’m going to cornered, I just slip it under my tongue and by the time they get to me, it will be too late. I know this sounds like a lot of Mickey Spillane cloak and dagger pulp fiction, but this is how things are on the inside. A lot of regular joes dream about the James Bond life with martinis shaken not stirred, but let me clue you in, the inside is nothing, but a shark tank and you are nothing more than chum dumped into the open sea.  Yeah, yeah, once again, I’m being too dramatic, but after three weeks on the run, you start getting chippy.

Where do I start?  Oh God, where do I start? 

Even the truth begins to sound like fiction from some dime novel.  Covert operations have been my domain for over fifteen years in a business where the average lifespan is no more than seven, so I guess you could say I’ve either been lucky or I’m living on borrowed time.  Either way, I’ve been a trigger man for an organization I will call “The Hole in the Wall.” You know like in the old days when there used to be holes in Ebbets Field where you could look in at the ballgame for nothing.  Well, the Hole in the Wall hired me for a mop up job. I’d like to say that this was my first time, but I guess you kind of figured that would be a big old lie, because they have kept me flush with business opportunities for over ten years. 

Hey, I’ll buy the next round.  Barkeep, two more brewski’s.

So where was I?

Anyway this guy, I’ll call, Oscar the Goon calls me on my cell phone and let’s me know what’s going down.  We set up a meeting at some coffee place and he lays out the papers from his briefcase right there in front of me, but so many hipsters are so plugged into whatever devices they have connected to the free WiFi, that they have no idea what’s taking place.  Oscar says this is really big and the payoff will be sent to my Swiss bank account. This doesn’t sound like a mop up to me and I start getting anxious. He rolls up his sleeve on his pinstripe suit and checks his Rolex watch, gold plated, the works. He says it’s set by the big Swiss clock in the sky or something like that.  So he tells me to synchronize our watches. My is just a cheap piece of crap I bought at Walmart. He tells me that I need to go to this island where the Japanese Prime Minister and this Russian muckety-muck only known to me as Boris the Enforcer who is there at this secret location to sign a trade agreement that will bankrupt a dozen American businesses with defense contracts with Tokyo.  Russian hardware running through Japan. Could mean the end of an alliance that MacArthur established over fifty years ago. So are you starting to get the drift? Lotsa moolya. Lotsa Russian weapon on the island. Could swing the balance, he tells me.

I tell him, I’m just a mop up man sent in most times just to take out a couple of shit-stirrers to quell the civil unrest.  This is a bigger dog than I’m used to dealing with, but you know me, always looking to step up in the profession.

Barkeep, keep the tip.  You are welcome.

Anyway, I get on this Lear Jet and wing my way to some isolated island out there in the Pacific.  White sand, blue warm ocean with warm waves lapping on the shore, drinks with little umbrellas in them that taste like mother’s milk, sunglasses, lots of suntan lotion with block 50 or higher, cabana boys who would wipe your hindside if you tip them, the works.  Women wearing as little as possible with big old rocks on their little fingers with husbands named Oliver who are at least twenty years older than they are who can afford boob jobs and liposuction. I look around and feel this is where I belong. This is where I’m supposed to be.  

There are quite a lot of people gathered in the lounge area just past the Tiki bar where drinks are served with tiny umbrellas and fruit soaked in alcohol.  I order a Mai Tai and sit down next to the bar waiting for my mark. There is a lady vividly describing her latest liposuction procedure to include the most gory details imaginable.  I close my eyes. The day is warm and soothing and I find a soft place to land in my fuzz dream. My eyes pop open when I hear someone start to talk nearby. Straining my eyes, I tried to zero in on the source, but there are too many people milling about.   

“My name is Boris.” He downed his vodka in a single gulp.

“My name is Mr. Saynomo.” I hear a response, but still I cannot find them in the crowd. 

“Let us order a couple of drinks before we go to the conference room I have reserved.” Boris suggested  As the waiter headed for the pair with two new drinks, I managed to slip a listening device on his tray, knowing he would leave the tray in the conference room with them and I would be able to eavesdrop.

“This island, Mr. Saynomo, did not exist forty years ago.  We Russians had sand and gravel shipped in during the Cold War to set up a surveillance station here, but we lost the Cold War and so it was turned this into a resort.” Boris explained.

“Very impressive.” Mr. Saynomo responded.

“Now we use this secluded retreat as a place to conduct business.” Boris sounded as if he was walking away from the tray as his voice faded.

“I see.” Mr. Saynomo had not moved, but I could hear him take a sip of his cocktail.  

“So I will be blunt.” Boris coughed, “We are willing to make this deal which will make your country a world power militarily.” 

“We have in-terr-est, yes.”  I could almost hear him bow.

“This will set the United States back decades like in Cold War days, eh?” Boris’ laugh was coarse as the vodka in his tumbler. 

“Our current arrangements are not in keeping with the times, I must admit.” Saynomo’s voice lowered as he was getting down to brass tacks.

“And your current prime minister has expressed the ancient Japanese desire of controlling the shores of the Pacific as they attempted in 1941.” Boris assessed.

“That is correct.” The hair on the back of my neck tingled as Mr. Saynomo spoke.  I patted my holster where my Glock rested against my heartbeat.

“Together comrade, we could attain that dream.  We could set a tariff so high those Americans could no longer compete with us on a global scale.” His laugh was as evil as any I had ever heard and I wondered if he had practiced it during his time an integrator with the KGB back in the day.  

“We can no longer accept what the Americans drop down to us from their tables.” Mr. Saynomo’s voice lowered even further as I started to make my way inside the hotel passing brown skinned people smelling of Block 50 suntan lotion conversing what marina they had parked their yachts while they stayed on the island.  It did seem rather ingenious that the Russians had built this island we were all standing on, changing the purpose as the times changed, but now we were once again heading down that familiar road. What were their goals? I had known old timers who had served in the war in the Pacific where Japanese Imperial troops would charge heavily defended positions fighting to the last man in a desperate bonsai charge.  For what purpose? An entire generation of young men were butchered for a cause none of them really understood. Now the monster was waking like in the old Godzilla movies, ready to wreak havoc on the American shores. Where? Los Angeles? The weapons this time would be much more sophisticated than they were back then, capable of devastation unimaginable by rice farmers turned soldiers. 

“Are they shaking hands?” Oscar texted me as I hovered outside the conference room where the two men were meeting. 

“I can’t see.” I text back, but there were no windows I could look in to see.  I still had my ear piece in, but neither man was saying anything and a cold feeling ran through my gut as I thought perhaps they were signing a deal as I waited.   With no recourse, I shouldered the door holding my Glock in my hand. Over a hundred women gawked at me with mouths agape as I read the banner over the podium, “Welcome Ladies to our annual Mary Kaye Meeting.” 

Feeling as if I had entered the room completely naked, I backed out quickly holstering my gun hoping they would not recover and scream at my concealed weapon.  

“Sorry.” I waved and smiled as I backed out of the room with my dignity in shreds.  Quickly I made a beeline to the front desk where a young man named Daryl, if his name tag was to be believed, and I asked if there was another conference room in the hotel.

“Yes sir, we have seven.” He answered like a true professional with a polished smile on his perfect face.

“I am looking for two men.  One Russian and one Japanese.” I put my elbow on the desk knowing that he wouldn’t have a clue about the people I was in search of.

“Sorry, I can’t tell you that.” He grinned, “As our bookings are confidential.” 

“Look, it’s important that I join them for this meeting.” I pulled out my billfold and place a couple of Ben Franklins on the marbled counter.  He glanced at them and smiled again with that boyish charm.

“Sorry, no can do.” He shook his head. 

“Are all the conference rooms on the main floor?” I figured I’d go by process of elimination. 

“We have two small ones upstairs.” He pointed to the exquisit staircase where couples dressed only in skimpy swimsuits were parading up and down the wide staircase. 

Small?  That’s where they’d be.  So I pushed my way past the traffic going up and found two rooms marked “Conference Room.” I did not wish to make the same mistake I had made with the Mary Kaye ladies, so I paused and saw a janitor’s cart.  With a quick check of my surroundings, I did not see a janitor presently in the area, so I pushed the cart in front of me.

“Sir.” Someone called out from behind.  “Sir!” This time a little more insistent and I turned and saw a bathrobed lady waving a finger at me.

“Yes ma’am.” I responded.

“I need clean towels and soap.” She walked up to me hiding behind the cart.

My head went on a swivel as I looked around for the real janitor, but then she reached into the cart and withdrew two clean towels that I had no idea were on the cart and then with a quick flick of her wrist snatched two small soaps wrapped in fancy paper.

“Thank you.” She replied sarcastically as she rolled her eyes.

“Your welcome.” I called after her, because I did not want to ruin the great service of the hotel staff just because I decided to disguise myself as a janitor.  My luck has never been very good, so when I opened the door to the room, I saw an old man with his pants down around his ankles and a much younger woman sprawled out on the table.  She was quite perturbed as she hissed, “You told me you took your blue pills.” 

He just shrugged sadly and bowed his head in disgrace.

“Why doncha leave us, please.” The woman snapped at me and I felt this was a good time to beat a hasty retreat so fast I nearly dumped half of the supplies on my cart.

“Boy!” A man called out as I reentered the hallway.

“Sir.” I did not know what to say.  

“My toilet seems to be plugged.  Would you have a look-see?” He pointed to his open door where his wife was standing looking very forlorn.  I nodded and followed him down to the room. I am not a janitor, but even I could see that the toilet was clogged with a foul substance and a simple plunger was not going to dislodge the clog.  Sweat began to pour down my back and my skin felt hot and prickly.  

“I need to get some tools.” I said not sure of where to begin.

“Very well.” He nodded and then turned to his wife, “Miriam, I told you not to flush your makeup down the toilet even if the sun has melted a lot of it.” 

I walked to the conference room when I heard Boris exclaim, “Well done.  We have a deal.”

Opening the door, I raised my gun and pulled the trigger as Boris dove beneath the table and my shot went wide.  Adrenaline was pumping through my veins as I turned to Mr. Saynomo and upon seeing him froze like a statue. While his voice seemed as if he was a businessman, the person standing in front of me quaking like a deer in the headlights was a man-child and nothing more.  With his wireless earbuds and his hand-held gaming unit, Mr. Saynomo was not a fearsome imperialist as I was led to believe.  

“Please don’t shoot.” He waved his hands over his head as Boris poked his head out from under the table and I was startled, because he too, was too young to be a fearsome communist of a Cold War regime.  “We were role playing.” Saynomo explained still holding his hands up.  

I had been had.  I put my gun away looking at the ding I had put in their solid wooden table, a mar in the highly polished surface and I ran my hand over the splintered mark.  Nodding, I composed myself by saying, “Sorry gentlemen, there seems to have been some kind of mistake, but if you will excuse me, I have a toilet to attend to.”

Later, still seething about the encounter, I called Oscar as the sun splashed over the blue ocean waters and the hotel staff lit the tiki torches to set the serene mood of the resort island.  The Russians had built it? It was hard to believe, but the more I sipped on my Mai Tai, the more fuzzy the world became. The placid colors blended into each other like a watercolor painting. 

“Hello?” Oscar’s voice filled my left ear.

“Oscar, I found my mark, but they were just gamers.” I slurped on my straw.

“Uh-huh.” He responded.

“Uh-huh?  I thought you told me that they had to be taken out.” I felt a bit of rage.

“Taken out?  No, what I said was they were to be prevented from forming a coalition, because both of them would rule the game.  My son plays that game and he told me that if Boris and Kiyoke formed an alliance, it would close the other players out.” 

Game?  It was all a game?  Perhaps all my years as the Mop and Bucket Man was just a game.  What if the Cold War was nothing more than an elaborate role playing game?  Pulling the trigger seemed all too real. But then what if it was all just make believe? Sometimes reality can become the best fiction of all making Patterson and la Carre seem pale in comparison.  

Buy ya another round?  I get it. Wife and kids.  Run along. It was good talking to ya and getting this all off my chest.  Remember. Mop and Bucket Man. Sure thing. Bar keep, hit me with another.  Naw, I going to call Uber when I pay my tab. Ya got the game on? Good. Me?  Oh I can’t tell you, it’s all hush-hush, top secret, cloak and dagger stuff...