The Monkey's Fist would never pass for a nightclub, or a bar or a pub or even a honky-tonk for that matter. The Monkey's Fist was a sailor's dive where the drinks were as rough as the drinkers, where conversations were often conducted with fists.
On this warm June afternoon, sunlight and humid air poured through the open front door of the windowless one-story, cinder-block building. Oily-rotten-fish smells drifted in from San Pedro harbor waters that lapped at the breakwater just yards away. In the distance, festively-dressed vacationers debarked from buses and taxi cabs and began queuing up to board the giant passenger ships that crowded the harborside at cruise terminals.
Inside the Monkey's Fist, a dozen men slumped against the worn Formica bar, tossing back shots, chasing them with Budweiser from disposable plastic cups and watching the ancient television with its Impressionistic focus and Surrealist colors. The local station was running news briefs during the seventh inning stretch, the Dodgers leading the Giants 5-4.
"Jesus H., look at the knockers on that fucking cunt," muttered a grizzled old-timer as he wiped the foam from his mouth with the sleeve of a matted wool shirt. The other men at the bar turned to look at the screen. Even the two Bangladeshi men and their Thai buddy -- understanding little English but instantly recognizing the word "cunt" -- looked up.
"C'n see her damn tits pushing even inside that fucking dyke suit she's wearing." He rubbed at his crotch, watched Kate Blackwood explain to a television Barbie doll interviewer that genetic engineering attracted lunatics "thicker than politicians to plain white envelopes full of hundred-dollar bills."
"Ah whatcher tryin' t'do," the old-timer's mate replied, taking in the screen and his friend's crotch, "You been shootin' blanks for twenty years."
In the corner two men, who had anted up deposits so they could drink their beer from glass instead of plastic, sat down at one of the Monkey Fist's two tables that had not been reduced to kindling in fights. The two men sipped at the fresh watery brew and looked over at the attractive woman on the television.
"Brains and looks too," said one of the men nervously. He was a slight, forgettable white man of average looks and average build. His near-invisibility directly supported his ability to stay alive and out of jail.
"Shh-h-h-h," Connor O'Kane focused on the television, straining to catch the woman's words.
"What are you after all these years, boyo? Taking up a second career in genetical engineering?" The forgettable man took a long draught of his beer. Then he smiled. "Or you just chasing skirts again?"
Instants later, the screen cut to a mob of reporters scrambling over the attorneys defending a Beverly Hills madame on trial for killing some of her celebrity clients and cooking up their most sensitive parts, Sweeny Todd-style. Coming up next, the announcer said, was exclusive coverage of a triple murder-suicide involving gasoline and piano wire. Just another day in L.A.
O'Kane turned back to his featureless companion, a long-time forger and supplier of flawless fake documents who, currently, was going by the name Marty Allen. O'Kane suspected that Allen had used so many sets of his own work that he sometimes forgot his real name.
With one long pull, Allen finished his beer. He set the glass back on the table and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I never really believed you was dead." He looked forlornly at his empty glass and watched the condensation snail its way down to the table, where it joined the wet ring soaking into the table's bare wood. "I guess you can't believe everything you read."
"I'm surprised a forger believes anything he reads." O'Kane smiled broadly and discreetly pulled a piece of paper from the front pocket of his ratty blue jeans. He palmed the paper across the table to Allen. "Read this, and believe."
The forgettable forger reached for O'Kane's hand then hesitated. His gaze flickered from O'Kane's face to his hand and back.
"C'mon, old son," O'Kane urged him. "I'm not going to bite you."
"How do I know you ain't part of some sting? That they didn't bring you back so's they can get rid of me?"
"How long have you known me? Fifteen years? Twenty?"
Allen nodded.
"Don't you know a few things about me from before I joined the agency?"
Allen smiled. "More'n just a few, I'll tell you right now. A few of 'em would fix you up right proper -- you and your agency."
"I believe that's the assurance you need." O'Kane took a sip of his beer.
A long penetrating blast from a departing ship's horn blasted through the open door, causing the table vibrate for five seconds or more.
"Criminy!" The little forger took the paper from O'Kane's hand. Allen's eyes grew large when he saw the paper was a thousand-dollar bill. His gaze darted quickly about the room, like those of a sparrow among raptors. He crumpled up the bill like it was waste paper and casually shoved it in his pocket.
"That's just for listening to me," O'Kane said. "And for keeping your mouth shut. I'll pay your usual if we decide on something. Okay?"
Nodding, the forger sipped thoughtfully at his beer. "You know, the other Customs guys talk about your funeral. Some of 'em talk like they enjoyed it pretty much. That ain't nice. That's why I take their money but don't give 'em anything extra. Not like I useta you."
He paused a beat. His hand made its own involuntary way down to his pants pocket and touched the crumpled bill. "You pissed 'em off; y'know that?" His gaze lingered on his empty glass, moved to the bar then back.
O'Kane nodded; he knew.
The forger got up and made his way to the bar.
Loners were viewed suspiciously by the Customs Service. Despite occasional brilliance, Customs was a bureaucracy-bound organization that prized those whose work married the efficiency of the Post Office with the compassion of the IRS. They especially didn't cotton to a loner who was a former Mediterranean smuggler of counterfeit wine, no matter how good he was, no matter that he technically had violated no U.S. laws, no matter that he worked undercover and rarely saw his co-workers. He was too good, and he made them look bad.
All of that was long ago now. O'Kane hadn't cared much about it back then, and he cared less now. O'Kane stared at the television as the camera panned the crowd. Seeing the families was what hurt the most.
Wonderful Anne; she'd be his age now. Good old Andy; he'd never taste a Dodger Dog, never scramble for foul balls. O'Kane fought to keep his eyes dry. Andy had been a piece of him, and when the boy died, something bright and warm inside O'Kane had gone dark and cold and empty.
Allen returned. "Jesus, I haven't seen a face like that since JFK's funeral."
O'Kane looked up as the forger put two fresh glasses of beer on the table and sat down. He ignored the forger's remark, drained his old beer in one long chug and reached for the second one.
O'Kane looked at the draft Budweiser."Horse piss, that."
The forger looked at him curiously and shrugged as he took a swallow from his own beer. "You didn't call me up to talk about beer. He used the back of his wrist to wipe at the foam on his lip. "Otherwise we'd've met at some place with a lot of wood and ferns and fermentation tanks behind a plate glass window."
O'Kane studied the anonymous little man. Calling him had been a last-minute lark. There was a cruise ship to catch right on the little man's home turf, turf O'Kane had once called home as well.
He'd had no idea if he could still reach the little man who created paper that could lubricate the bureaucratic gears of scores of countries. Visas, bills of lading, passports, drivers' licenses, insurance documents -- pick the country and the little man could supply undetectable paper. With this forger's help, O'Kane had been many people in many countries. It was ironic: back then he'd never minded playing new identities, never forgotten a name or a cover legend, even if he had only a few minutes to scan the details.
But now, after five years, he frequently failed to recall details of the new life the Witness Protection Program had provided for him. It seemed silly, but O'Kane needed a link with the past, confirmation of his true identity even if it were counterfeit.
It had taken O'Kane less than half a dozen phone calls, two well-placed hundred dollar bills and part of one evening to find Allen.
"So, boyo," Allen asked finally, "who do you want to be this time?"
"Me," O'Kane said without
hesitation.