Nusquam Beckons

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Linda Rankin enters Harry’s Bar, an earthy establishment, not often visited. Normally after work gatherings are at Jailbird’s Café, near the offices of the U.S. Marshal’s Service. Curious that her supervisor, Rhonda Flamboise, desires to meet in an otherwise inconvenient place.

The woman of some fifty years is at the bar, a brew halfway consumed. She drinks directly from the bottle, the youthful manner of imbibing contrasting her aura of maturity. Rhonda is handsome but matronly, thus the scene surprises... as in envisioning one’s mother riding a skateboard. Linda waves, informing the hostess she is not in need of a table, and strolls to join.

“Thanks for coming, Linda,” Rhonda signaling for the bartender’s attention. “Hope the walk wasn’t too far.”

“No problem. Good to get away from Jailbird’s. Getting old on me.”

“And the patrons... a few too many... of us.”

Linda orders a brew, wondering if in pausing on the words ‘of us’ such is a double entendre... ‘us’ being deputy marshals and other Federal agents... or women with certain penchants well outside acceptance in the vanilla world.

“You wanted to talk... informally,” Linda quaffing in wait for a response.

“Yes. Good work on the Mansfield case.”

“Thank you.”

“You know Linda... you must know... that before being released on bail, the indicted are well vetted... lots of background information for the files... bank accounts, brokerage accounts, friends and family addresses and phone numbers... and physical attributes... scars, birthmarks, tattoos. It’s a pretty invasive process... performed with the concurrence of the perps so they can be released on bail and so we and other enforcement personnel can pick up a trail for those who rabbit.”

“Yes, I’m aware. DNA too. That confirmed Mansfield’s whereabouts.”

“Yep, no question you tracked down Mansfield. Too bad we’ll not know... not for now anyway... how he so quietly slipped away on us. All the way to Venezuela.”

“Agreed. He must have had help... well-funded, well organized as we concluded weeks ago.”

“And to end up in a hell hole South American prison... then to be circumcised... again... tsk, tsk.”

In emphasizing the word ‘again’, Linda senses an issue. She diverts her eyes from the piercing look of the long serving U.S. Marshal, lifting her brew, buying time before responding. In continuing, Rhonda Flamboise’s look softens, easing the apparent discomfort.

“Your skin sample for the DNA test... as a result of circumcision. I’m not a doctor, not overly familiar with the male anatomy, but one would think it is highly unusual for the male phallus to twice endure a snipping scalpel. How much foreskin can there be?”

Rhonda’s turn to pause, her knowing smile veiled as she lifts her head high to gulp down the remains of the bottle.

“Take a look at the Mansfield bio, Linda,” the beer bottle authoritatively banged on the bar. “As I said, they go deep with the info... are meticulous in listing identifying features... one of which was that at the time of posting bail, Mansfield’s c**k had been trimmed... circumcised as an infant.”

Rhonda lets her words percolate, signaling the bartender for another round. Linda knows an explanation is due, yet the informal setting offers latitude... informal by Rhonda Flamboise’s request. The discussion is not an official inquiry. Why has she been spared?

“Did you witness the so termed circumcision? How do you know Mansfield, relaxing in some Venezuelan resort, did not offer a piece of skin as a ruse... throw you off... having you interview some poor miscreant rotting in a Venezuelan cell while he frolics?”

The bartender delivers two more beers, offering Linda a welcomed diversion. Her own ruse unraveling.

“I’ve been asking myself if you were had... but after fifteen years of exemplary service, I doubted that. You’re too careful, Linda. No, you knew it was the Muskrat... but also knew the fingerprints would be questionable. Something happened to his hands. Though that’s not in your report. I hate to think there’s torture involved... though the likes of Mansfield is certainly deserving. I’m told there were a bevy of victims at his sentencing... elderly folks now sadly impoverished. After all these years, I know you, know of your determination... and that you have certain... shall we say... disdain for the male gender.

“Telling that you never married, Linda,” the words offered with noted emphasis.

Linda sips in thought. She’s caught... but her supervisor is giving her an out. Still she needs to reply. Perhaps boldness is best.

“Telling that you’re not married as well, Rhonda. Are you hungry? Let’s get some takeout. My apartment is a few stops up the Lexington line... and I have a houseboy who so much likes to serve.”