Free Whack Job by Mike Baron

lap. “Gimme, gimme, gimme,” he said, tossing the unopened envelopes on the floor. There was no phone bill. There was no gas bill. There was no cable bill. There was a credit card bill. The magazines included Guns & Ammo , American Sportsman , and The American Spectator .
    They turned east on 14 and headed down the mountain. A pair of cycles passed them going the other way, straight pipes reverberating off the canyon walls. Otto turned into himself. He never was the life of the party. Stella turned on the radio, got lucky and found a Denver jazz station playing Sonny Criss. It waxed and waned with the canyon walls.
    Stella drove the old Jeep with verve and precision, slowing down before the hairpins. She slowed way down at one hairpin and some flatlanders in a Toyota came around straddling the middle line. Stella waited patiently for them to pass.
    As they passed Mishawaka Otto turned in his seat to look at the American flag painted on the roof. “That’s new.”
    “Yeah. Some artist gets five thou a pop to paint the American flag on roofs, barns.”
    “I’m just grateful it’s not a picture of the Virgin Mary fellating Jesus,” Otto said.
    They stopped in Fort Collins where Stella exchanged the Jeep for her rental. Mercifully, Crystal was not at home.
    “How’d it go with Crystal?” Otto said when they were underway.
    “Same old, same old. She was pleasantly bombed by the time I arrived. She’s got a new boyfriend. Tom Blaine the amplifier king. He’s invented an amp/speaker combo the size of a cigarette pack that’ll blast a stadium. Perfect for that garage band next door.”
    “You could mount one on the roof. HEY DOOFUS! GET OUT OF THE WAY!’“
    Stella laughed. It sounded like gold coins falling into Otto’s hands.
    “Tempting.”
    “So Sam was seeing a lobbyist. You think Pendragon has anything to do with this?”
    “I don’t know.”
    They arrived in Stapleton at six-thirty. Stella booked two rooms at a pet-friendly Best Western several blocks from FBI HQ. They entered the Pike’s Peak Lounge with Steve wearing a leather harness with a green banner that said Service Dog.
    The young hostess cooed over Steve and showed them to a corner booth. Stella ordered red wine and Otto ordered a beer. Steve lay beneath the table out of sight.
    Stella took out her iPhone and dialed someone. A few minutes later she said, “Margaret, it’s Stella. I have him.”
    She listened, then handed the phone to Otto.
    “Otto White,” Otto said.
    “Mr. White, this is National Security Director Margaret Yee. Thank you for serving your country.”
    “My pleasure, Madame Director.”
    “You will be operating directly under NSA auspices. You will report directly to me. Do you understand?”
    “Yes ma’am.”
    “You understand the mission?”
    “Yes ma’am.”
    “Good. We are calling this ‘Operation Flameout.’ Stella will give you my contact information. I look forward to meeting you soon. Let’s talk again tomorrow after you’re set up out there.”
    The director hung up. Otto handed the phone to Stella, who slid a piece of notepaper across the table containing the director’s private number.
    A sulfuric stench rose from beneath the table.
    Stella covered her nose and mouth and turned away. “Oh my God I forgot about Steve’s farts.”
    Otto removed a pack of matches from a pocket, lit several and waved them around.
    “I have a seven-forty flight,” Stella said, “so I probably won’t see you in the morning. Can you get yourself to the Feds in the morning? It’s two blocks west.”
    “I think so.”
    “Ask for Special Agent Lon Barnett.”
    Otto removed a small spiral pad and pen from his cargo pants pocket and made a note. “What’s your number?”
    Stella gave him both her numbers. Otto was not a talker. He ordered two buffalo burgers, gave one to Steve under the table. Occasionally Stella caught him looking at her with such longing it was a stab to the heart. But one thing she could always