Cosmic Banditos by Weisbecker A. C

Author:Weisbecker, A. C. [C., Weisbecker, A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PENGUIN group
Published: 2011-02-17T14:05:14.550000+00:00

12

Quark Soup50

A Quarky Character is one who, as I see it, goes a bit beyond “spooky.” The term “spook” refers to someone involved in clandestine activities.

Some spooks are spies for one government or another, or several simultaneously; some run drugs, guns or, as is usually the case, a combination of the above. But the true Quarky Character (I have coined a concept here) is more difficult to define or, for that matter, locate. Subatomic Particles and clandestine operatives have a lot in common. He (or she, though I’ve met only one Quarky Female) not only plays both sides of the fence, but has no idea what a fence is at all.

George (that’s all we ever knew him as) was one such fellow. His diverse close friends and associates have included Bobby Vesco, Richard Nixon, General Mohamar Khaddafi, Golda Meir, Poppa Doc Duvalier, J: Edgar Hoover, Idi Amin, plus various fun-loving guys from various organized-crime groups in various countries. And, naturally, Captain C.O.D.

George was a soft-spoken, well-dressed, conservative-looking man. There was a weird look in his eye, however—a look that gave even Robert the shakes.

After Captain C.O.D. coughed up $890,000 for our gold buds in Manhattan, José talked us (we were now stuck with Flash and Aileron) into paying George a visit in order to procure weaponry for his Bandito Army in Colombia. José felt he was falling behind in the Dope Lord Arms Race.

Robert, Jim and I had met George through a certain ex-CIA operative who has recently come to the attention of the media because of some minor faux pas he made as an arms dealer in the Middle East. We had also hung out with George in Fort Lauderdale when he was associated with Kenny Burnstine, the legendary kingpin of the Marijuana Airforce.51

Robert, Jim and I always had disapproved of blatant gun-runners and hard-drug traffickers. We used guns and drugs, sure, but that was our business. George was different. To him, the world was one giant Pac-Man game and George felt that he had unlimited quarters.

George was not only Quarky—he was downright creepy. He was having dinner with a KGB agent when we located him in a posh Manhattan restaurant, although we had no idea of what was going down.

Unfortunately, the CIA surveillance team that was taking our pictures from across the street figured we were all in on whatever convoluted scheme George had cooked up with the Bolshevik. This didn’t do much for our already tarnished image with the authorities.

George was aware that he was under intense government scrutiny and I felt it was a breach of etiquette that he failed to mention it to us.

The shit hit the fan later that night in George’s warehouse in Soho. We’d accompanied José on a tour of inspection of George’s merchandise.

Even José was impressed by the awesome firepower the Feds let loose on us. But George was prepared for every scenario. We emerged from his escape route via a manhole on Houston Street.

Our group was now at the top of every governmental shit list.

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