He snapped his fingers. “Exactly. Or the villain invites him to dinner. Either way, the bad guy does this info dump where he brags about his evil master plan and basically tells Bond all the information he’d need to fuck him up if Bond ever got free. And Bond always gets free and then fucks him up.”
I said nothing.
“Which is crazy, ’cause why the hell would anyone do that? I mean, how stupid is that?”
“It doesn’t adequately reflect the real world.”
He grinned and nodded. “It’s a plot device. You read the books?”
“Sure. When I was a kid.”
“Same problem in the books,” said Bishop, nodding and grinning. Couple of guys bullshitting about movies. Like any other day. “But in the real world the hero would almost never meet the villain. Bond might tear down Blofeld’s plan or infiltrate Dr. No’s hollowed-out volcano with a bunch of ninjas, but if the super villain was there he’d be killed in any resulting firefight, am I right?”
“Ideally.”
“Unless—?” he prompted.
“Unless,” I said, “the op was to apprehend the bad guy and turn him over to an interrogation team.”
“Bingo. The hero and villain aren’t really going to meet and have a heart-to-heart. That doesn’t happen.”
“It doesn’t always happen.”
“What, you mean it does sometimes?”
“Life’s weird like that.”
He thought about it. “Fuck. I didn’t know that. You’ve done it? You’ve had that James Bond info-dump moment?”
“Not over dinner,” I said. “And never with a laser cannon.”
“But you’ve had it.”
“I guess.”
He looked excited. “I’d love to hear about it. Could you…you know…tell me about it? Just one or two.”
I smiled at him. “You are, of course, shitting me here.”
“No, I’m dead serious.”
“I’m tied to a chair with my junk hanging out.”
The goons laughed at that. The ugly one, Stanky McButtchunks, laughed hardest.
Bishop chuckled.
I did, too. It was a funny moment. Mind you, you’d have to be a few steps along the path to psychosis to find it funny, but I think we all qualified.
Bishop said, “I really would like to hear about it. Seriously.”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s classified.”
“Unclassify it. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Ummm….no. I don’t see it happening.”
He leaned casually on the wheeled cart on which the generator sat. “Try.”
“Can’t and won’t.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about that.”
It wasn’t something I wanted him to rush to prove.
So, I said, “What’s this all about, Myron? I thought you were going to go all Bond-villain on me and tell me about your master plan. Wasn’t that what you were leading up to?”
“No. I wanted to point out how stupid those movies are. Villains don’t have confessional moments with spies or assassins.”
“I’m not technically a spy.”
“You’re an assassin, though.”
“Labels are ugly things, Myron.”
He grinned, showing me expensive dental work. “Christ, I really like you, Joe. I even liked you that day when you were fucking up my life. You have balls—”
“As we can all clearly see.”
“—And you got a weird way of looking at the world. Skewed is the word, I think.”
“I prefer ‘unique perspective.’”
“Whatever. Point is, I got no evil master plan to reveal. I’m fucked. And I mean bent over a barrel with everyone from the SEC to NATO waiting in line to pull a train. I’m in total crash-and-burn mode here. My former customers and most of my business associates would like to see my head on a stick, and except for a few guys in my inner circle, I’ve got no one at my back.” When he mentioned his inner circle he gestured to Stanky and the other two.
I didn’t comment.
“So I am well and truly screwed here, Joe. A baby-raper in prison has a better chance than I do.”
“Nice comparison. You sure you want to run with that?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, I get you. Your empire has crumbled. Cut me loose, and we can go cry about it over some beers. Bring the goon squad if you want.”
“I think that ship has sailed.”
“Actually, it hasn’t.”
“You’re a federal agent. I’m pretty sure we committed about nine felonies in the last few minutes.”
“Which I’m willing to forgive and forget. No, don’t smile, I’m serious. So far all that’s happened is a little fun and games. I’m a big boy, I can let it slide. We’d rather have you come in where we can protect you—”
“—And interrogate me.”
“Let’s call it an extended interview. If you came in it would be with the understanding that you’re willing to cooperate, name names in exchange for immunity.”
“No one’s going to give me immunity.”
“No? Look in the front right pocket of my jeans.”
He did. The paper was in three pieces, thanks to Stanky and the knife, but Bishop smoothed them out on a desk and puzzled the pieces together. He grunted.
“That is an Executive Order from the President of the United States. It offers full immunity from prosecution in exchange for complete and unreserved cooperation. That means we protect you, we give you a completely new identity in a place no one will ever look, and we go out and arrest anyone who would ever want to do you harm. It also gives the State Department some iron boots with which to kick the ass of a few countries on our current shit list. The bottom line is that you get to have a good life and get to live that life. That was the offer I came to deliver today. That offer still stands. I can get a new copy of the Order. We can all step back off this diving board and end the day with everyone smiling.”
“I’m supposed to believe this after we kicked your ass?”
I laughed. “Dude, having my ass kicked is pretty much on my day-planner on any day that ends in a ‘y.’ I don’t burn up a lot of calories holding grudges. For me it’s all big picture, and my job gets easier if you’re in a nice split-level somewhere with no one shooting at you and the two of us swapping YouTube videos of kittens, you dig?”
“You really buying this shit?” asked Stanky. Even his voice was ugly.
For a moment it looked like Bishop was, in fact, buying it. Lots of different expressions crossed his face. Doubt, interest, some fear. The guy was an emotional train wreck, and I could see what months of stress were doing to him. Under his fake tan, his skin color was bad. There was a little tremolo in his voice, and his hands shook. I’d bet my pension that he was drinking too much and not getting any sleep unless he rode a sleeping pill down into troubled dreams.
In a weird, detached way I almost felt sorry for him. We’d done an even better job of ruining his life than I’d thought.
Now, understand me, when I say I felt sorry for him, it was only a fleeting thing. Like gas pains after a plate of nachos. He was a scum-sucking bottom feeder whose business deals had probably cost thousands of people pain and maybe put a few hundred in the dirt.
So, yeah, I’d actually kill him without blinking, but in that moment I felt bad. He looked like a hurt, scared, little kid.
Bishop turned away and paced the office for a few minutes. We all waited him out. Now was not the time to push. After a dozen turns back and forth, he stopped by a tall metal cabinet, opened it to reveal shelves filled with office products and cleaning supplies. He took down a box of Hefty trash bags, tugged one out, and turned to one of the other goons.