Everett had been talking to Morgan, but after Morgan left, he had taken Frederick aside and stressed that they were all depending on him. Project Nine failed or succeeded because of him. He was their assassin.
Well, he was going to join them at the rendezvous on Mulholland, where they’d get rid of the weapons and report a big green light for Project Nine. Thanks to Frederick Whitfield IV, all systems were go. He spent a few minutes while inching along the 405 freeway not noticing rush hour traffic, but in a beautiful dream, a dream in which Everett said, “Frederick, I just wanted to ask your opinion about something…”
He recalled with a little embarrassment his meeting with his lawyer this afternoon. But hell, he had to change his will anyway. Fuck if he was going to let his parents get a dime of his grandmother’s money. If she had wanted them to have it, she would have left it to them. Now that he had survived, he realized that he probably didn’t need to be so insistent about the appointment. One good thing about being stinking rich was, everyone made time for you. And a man facing death had to have his affairs in order. That was just the responsible thing to do.
He had been a little afraid this afternoon. He could admit that now. But he had shot that sniper just like Cameron told him to, in the left eye. And the guy had died, just like Cameron said he would.
Then Frederick had barfed, and that was probably a good thing, because when Ricky let him out, and he asked for a glass of water, it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. And so while Ricky was handing him the water, he shot Ricky in the left eye, too, and it worked just as well that time. He could see that he had totally surprised Ricky. Some bodyguard he must have been.
Frederick barfed again after that, and then got the tapes and drove off. He had to go back, because he had forgotten to put a number on the sniper, and damned if that didn’t make him sick again, because he had to get the key off Ricky’s body, and then go in there with the mess the sniper had made, and smell his own puke in there with him, and let’s face it, he thought now, what kind of asshole wouldn’t get sick after something like that?
He took off his gloves as he drove, and stuffed them in his pocket. He was glad he hadn’t worn his complete assassin’s outfit. He had an all-leather black outfit, and he had put it on, but he was really too damned hot in it. Except for the gloves, he had gone back to the James Dean look. You just couldn’t go wrong with James Dean, he decided. He thought about listening to the news on the way to the rendezvous, because they might have something on it about a double homicide in Del Aire. But then again, it was probably too early. He wondered if Everett was already at the rendezvous. He doubted Cameron and Morgan would have made it yet, because they were coming all the way from Palmdale, which was about sixty miles from where they were going to meet.
They were meeting at a little house Cameron owned. Frederick was right-Everett was already there. Frederick brought the tapes in, and they watched them together. They both laughed when Frederick got sick. Really, it was funny on the tape.
By the time Cameron and Morgan got there, it was getting dark. Frederick thought maybe the Bora had broken down, but Morgan got huffy about that and said that he had just gotten it back from the shop and it was running perfectly. They had hit a lot of traffic on the way in, Cameron explained, then said that the Bora was indeed running great. Morgan gave Cameron a dirty look, and that’s when Cameron told everyone that he had broken into Morgan’s place and ripped off the car. They had a good laugh over that.
Frederick and Everett got another laugh at Morgan’s expense, because he smelled like pee, and he kept trying to blame it on the prisoner. Frederick felt so sorry for him that after a while, he played the tape for him. Everybody got a kick out of that, too. It was just as funny the second time.
Cameron congratulated Frederick on doing the job just right and asked for his gun back. Frederick noticed that Morgan was looking unhappy again. He wondered what was eating him.
They sat around drinking toasts from a bottle of Dom Pérignon Everett had opened, eating caviar, and hearing about how things had gone in Mexico. Morgan didn’t take more than a few sips of champagne. He said he needed to be sober to drive on Mulholland.
Finally, Everett said, “We’ll leave one of the vans here. I’ll ride in the other van with Cameron. Morgan, you take Frederick and follow us, all right?”
Morgan rarely let anyone other than Everett ride in the Bora, and Frederick could see it chapped him a little that Everett was going to ride in a van instead of with him, but he didn’t complain. He really was in a weird mood, Frederick thought.
He didn’t talk in the car. Frederick asked if they could roll the windows down, because, after all, there was this pee smell. Morgan wouldn’t even crack his open, but Frederick rolled his all the way down. It was noisy but worth it because it was a warm night, and the fresh air felt good. They were way up in the Santa Monica Mountains, past Seminole Hot Springs and still going. Frederick thought he knew the plan-they’d drive on Mulholland all the way back to Pacific Coast Highway, nearly to the Ventura County line, and then go back down the coast to Malibu. The air smelled great, and you could really see the stars. He was leaning his head out a little so that he could see them better, when Everett signaled them to pull into a turnout. Cameron and Everett got out of the van and walked back toward them.
Everett asked Frederick if he’d change places with him. Frederick had liked riding in the Bora, even with the smell, but he graciously got out of the car. Morgan was smiling as Everett got into the passenger seat.
Frederick wasn’t all the way to the van when he heard the shot. Cameron turned back toward the car, and Frederick followed him, although he had this sick feeling again. Everett stepped out of the Maserati, and Frederick moved faster. Cameron let him run past him.
“What happened?”
“Get in the car,” Everett said.
“What happened?” he asked again.
“‘What happened?’” Cameron mocked from behind him. “What happened is that this dumb ass left his DNA on the rope at the peninsula.”
Frederick felt all the blood drain from his face. He turned to Everett. “You shot him because of that? You’ve known him since high school! He’s on our team!”
“He lied to me, Frederick.”
“I don’t like this, Everett. I don’t like it. I’m not playing anymore.”
He suddenly felt the gun at his back. “It’s almost nine o’clock,” Cameron said. “Get in the car and turn on the news.”
He started crying, but of course they didn’t care. He tried not to look at Morgan as he got in the car. Cameron held the gun to his temple and made him turn the radio on. Frederick kept looking in the rearview mirror, hoping someone would drive by, would see them.
“Our top story this hour…Sources close to law enforcement say that a Malibu man, Frederick Whitfield IV, is being sought for questioning in the deaths of four criminals on the FBI’s Most Wanted list…”
He said, “I’m famous!”
Cameron pulled the trigger.