“So you did want the gold,” I said.

“Can’t just leave this stuff exposed like this. What kind of villain leaves thirty trillion dollars in gold bars behind? Not this villain.”

We walked outside. A helicopter had landed. It was surrounded by men in black suits. In the middle of them was the nearly albino Vice President Shilling. His face was a smile and never did anyone look eviler to me.

“Nice, Mr. Sill, nice.”

“I thought we had wasted our time,” Sill said. “That vault is full of gold. But this box, this box is what I want.”

“What’s in it?” Shilling asked.

“Nothing, of course. You really don’t get it, do you? This has always been about nothing. And now I have it.”

Shilling stared into the building. “It’s really full of gold?”

“Yes,” Sill said, dismissively.

“What now?” Shilling asked.

“Well, first, I’d like to thank you and the senators for all of your help.”

Shilling looked around. “Where is Takitall?”

“Somebody sort of killed him.”

“You killed him.”

“No.” Sill shook his head. “Nor did I have him killed. I sort of liked the good general. But I could have killed him. That wouldn’t have been a big deal.”

“You’re crazy,” Shilling said, affectionately.

Sill nodded. He put a finger in the air, a signal. Gunfire rang out and all of the Secret Service agents and the marines at the helicopter fell to the ground.

“But I don’t like you,” Sill said to Shilling. “You bother me. You’re like a walking flag. When you open your mouth, I hear the anthem.”

“You fool, I’m the vice president.”

Sill held out his open hand and his man who had sat with Eigen ran over to give him a WWII-era German Luger and without another word Sill shot the vice president of the United States through his right eye, killing him.

“Sorry you had to see that,” he said to me. He returned the pistol. “It’s getting a little chilly. What do you say we head back to my house for refreshments? We can decide what we’re going to do with this.” He kissed the box.

Il n’y a pas de hors-texte

1

Back at Sill’s house the shoebox sat on the central counter in the massive kitchen. There was a rack of some thirty bananas on the surface as well. Nothing else. Eigen, Gloria, and I sat at one end of the long bocote table while Sill paced. He stopped at the bananas, tore off a couple, and tossed them to Eigen and me.

“Bananas are good for you,” he said. “These are Gros Michel. That Cavendish shit they sell in the markets are no good, tasteless. Smell that one.” He pointed to the banana in my hand. “Now that’s a banana. Fungus took the Gros Michel out.”

The banana did smell delicious.

“Have you noticed that there are no seeds in a banana?”

“They propagate vegetatively,” I said.

“You read a book about it,” he said.