100 Lives Black Jack Savage Part 1of4

Walt Disney Presents: The 100 Lives of Black Jack Savage


“Life’s a Beach, Then You Die…”

Revised 5/22/02


Written By: Melinda Reynolds

First Printed: June 1994, PSYCHIC INVESTIGATIONS #3


SECTION 1 OF 4:


I



Nsaku, once a proud warrior of the ManiKongo, was no longer feeling proud or war-like; he felt, instead, primeval anger that gave truth to the name he was now known by: Black Jack Savage. For one of the few times since his death, he would gladly have given his soul – what was left of it – to be able to reach out and touch someone. Not touch, exactly - more like smash up side the head. And the ‘someone’ would be one Barry Tarberry, ex-high-rolling-financier who was currently enduring self-enforced exile in the luxurious surroundings of Blackbird Castle.


~~“When,”~~ Black Jack asked in a barely civil tone, ~~“when was the last time we saved any lives? Bet you can’t remember, can you? Probably can’t even remember the month, much less the day.”~~


Tarberry waved him aside, much as he would have any other flunky who was groveling for his attention. “Not important. I remember important things, Jack. Like the day I earned my first billion, the day of my first take-over of a major corporation, and—” he sighed deeply as he recalled the most pleasant memory of all, “—the day I first cheated the good ol’ IRS out of millions! God, what a rush!”


~~“We’re falling behind schedule, Tarberry. Need I remind you that you have just as much at stake in this as I have? In fact,”~~ he added with cutting insight, ~~“probably more so, judging from what I’ve seen of your methods in the past few months.”~~


“Yeah, yeah… if you can’t compete, condemn. The burden of all great men of foresight and major Swiss accounts. We’re the targets for all the weaklings who can’t cut it in a dog-eat-dog world.”


Savage paused in his pacing, watched with annoyance as Tarberry finished the perfect knot in the red Dior silk tie that contrasted perfectly with the charcoal gray Armani suit. Barry Tarberry was perfect in every way, especially being a perfect asshole 99.9 per cent of the time. He supposed it was that point one per cent that had made Tarberry agree to rescue both their souls from the potential clutches of Hell; but now, it seemed the aggressive, greedy, self-serving lifestyle he’d abandoned for a few short months was once again taking control.


If Tarberry had found a way to return to the United States without facing prosecution for insider trading, fraud, tax evasion, and who knew what else, he wouldn’t hesitate to bail out of their agreement, taking the possibility of their joint salvation with him. The Wall Street mogul wouldn’t think twice about breaking a deal if it served in his favor… and Savage had a bad feeling that that was exactly what Barry had in mind.


~~“So, the deal’s off, then? Going back to your life’s work: Looking out for Number One? Who cares if it gets you a Front Row seat in Hell, at least it’s First Class, eh?”~~

Tarberry flashed him his most infuriating smirk. “Jack, old boy, if I can pull off this deal, my future will be so bright that I won’t have to worry about the Afterlife. I’ll be able to buy Heaven, or pay off the Devil -- whichever is cheaper. And I will finally get out of this designer-forsaken hellhole and back to civilization.” With that, he strode from the bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door.


Savage glared after him, unwilling to follow, not angry enough to risk leaving the boundaries of Blackbird Castle and giving Hell’s Bounty Hunters, the Snarks, a shot at him. ~~“ ‘Hellhole’, huh?”~~ The dark face smiled grimly. ~~“Tarberry, you don’t know the meaning of the word.


“But you will; believe me, you will.”~~



II


General Abel Vasquez, the diminutive dictator of San Pietro, shifted uncomfortably in his over-sized, made-for-comfort-and-to-impress chair. The two men standing before his ornate desk did nothing to ease his discomfort; they were, in fact, the cause of it. He began to think that perhaps he had been a bit too hasty in accepting the ‘negotiator’s fee’ for arranging the meeting between the two men and Barry Tarberry. Somehow, Mr. Tom Smith and Mr. John Jones didn’t have the aura of the high-powered corporate executives that they had professed to be. He had relayed, via a private, trusted messenger, the business offer to Barry Tarberry at Blackbird Castle, and Tarberry, in turn, had immediately phoned, agreeing to the ‘preliminary’ meeting in Vasquez’s office. The uneasiness had set in when very shark-like smiles appeared on the two men’s faces at Tarberry’s willingness to meet with them.


“Gentlemen, could I have my secretary bring you something? A drink, perhaps?”


Mr. Smith shook his head. “No, thank you, Governor General. My associate and I have learned to keep a clear head when dealing with Mr. Tarberry.”


Again, the predatory look passed between the two Americans. Before Vasquez could select another topic from his limited store of social graces, his adjutant knocked quietly, then opened the double doors. “A Mr. Tarberry to see you, Governor Vasquez.”


“Ah, yes, show him in, Juan.” Vasquez nodded to the young officer, who retreated. The governor reached for his gold lighter to re-light his Cuban cigar, missing the significance of the ‘executives’ moving to each side of his desk, their backs to him.


Tarberry was ushered in, the doors closing with a quiet click behind him. He had entered the office with his best “I’m-ready-to-deal-and-screw-you-six-ways-from-Sunday” expression – an expression that froze, then turned to one of shocked horror.


“Vasquez, you idiot! These guys aren’t corporate executives…” Even as he spoke, he was turning, hand reaching for the doorknob. “They’re here to—”


And before Tarberry could turn the latch, or even finish his sentence, two .38s appeared, fired almost simultaneously, silencers effectively muffling the noise. Vasquez watched the scene in total, open-mouthed astonishment, the semi-lit cigar falling from his lips; watched as the bullets struck Tarberry’s back, less than ten feet away; watched as his hand slipped from the door latch and he crumpled to the floor. Then, looking to his own safety, he slid open a desk drawer, reaching for the 9MM inside.


Abruptly, Mr. Jones turned to him, gun ready, voice and eyes a deadly warning. “Touch that, and you die, too.”


The Governor smiled weakly, reached instead for a small black notebook. Carefully closing the drawer, he retrieved his smoldering cigar from his lap.


Mr. Smith’s dark eyes were equally threatening. “Forget about this, Vasquez; as far as this is concerned, you’re suddenly deaf and dumb – ‘cause if you’re not, this lovely little island will be needing a new Governor General. Understand?”


“But, of course. It is, after all, not my quarrel.”


Mr. Smith nodded. “Very wise.” He glanced over to his companion, holstering his gun. “C’mon, we’re outta here.”


They crossed quickly to the doors, stepping over Tarberry’s prone body. Smith paused at the door, glancing down at the unmoving form. “Regards from Mr. Cooper, Tarberry. He doesn’t like guys accepting his bail money, and then leaving the country. He’ll see you in Hell.”


Vasquez counted to ten after the doors closed behind the two gunmen, then rose from his chair. Even from across the room, he could see the blood spreading from under Tarberry’s chest, over the highly polished parquet floor, seeping toward the outer edge of the inlaid mosaic of the Governor General’s own stylized features.


“Mr. Tarberry…?” Vasquez knelt, touched a shoulder gingerly. Getting no response, he carefully turned the wounded man over; that action elicited a groan, and pain-dulled eyes looked up at him reproachfully.


“…leave… leave it to you… to confuse a… K-Mart off-the-Clearance-rack … with… ” He paused, breathing difficult; his voice grew weaker as he continued, “with a half-way… decent business suit…” His eyes closed, and he coughed, a faint gurgling sound accompanying each labored breath.


Vasquez grimaced at the bloodstained shirt. At least one bullet had exited, leaving a good-sized hole in the breast pocket. The other bullet was still inside, or had missed. He didn’t think it was the latter.


“Sir…”


The Governor glanced up, startled; he hadn’t heard the adjutant enter. He replaced the suit coat, already dark with blood, over the wound, and resumed his authoritative demeanor. “Juan, call the hospital; have them send the ambulance, immediately.”


“Yes, Governor General.” The officer saluted, left on the run.


“The ambulance will be here in less than five minutes; my own personal surgeon will see to you…” Vasquez wasn’t sure if Tarberry was still aware of anything. His eyes had taken on a glassy look, and his pulse was rapid and erratic.


There was another cough, another harsh gasp for breath. “…hope they… paid you… in advance…” His voice trailed off, consciousness fading.


The Governor eased him on his side in a somewhat belated attempt to help the blood drain from his lungs and mouth. Vasquez studied the pale features, knowing all too well the signs of impending death. “Madre Dios…” He placed a blood soaked hand on Tarberry’s neck, shook his head. “Well, my friend, I fear you will no longer be supporting me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed…”


~*~*~*~


Logan Murphy slammed his fist against the steering wheel in frustration. He had just missed catching Barry Tarberry before he reached the Governor’s palace. He picked up a clipboard holding the various-sized statements and due bills. Bills owed by Tarberry Enterprises, and going on 90-days-plus overdue. During the first month or so, Murphy hadn’t been too concerned; after all, having just been released from the U.S. government defense program, he was used to big businesses and corporations taking their time about paying. Something about getting as much interest as possible before paying high-dollar amount bills – and although his innate genius had earned him the nickname of FX Murphy, high-finance always had been, and always would be, a completely foreign and incomprehensible language to him.


When the massive government layoffs had taken effect, Murphy found himself suddenly without an income and a home. He’d been forced to make use of an inherited warehouse, left to him by some distant relative who had lived on the small island of San Pietro. It had taken all his meager savings and severance pay to get the warehouse in shape, properly stocked, and furnished for temporary living quarters. At least, he had hoped it would be temporary. That had been nearly five years ago, and he was still living in a corner of the warehouse, just barely making ends meet with what little electronic work that came his way.


He hadn’t been sure, when the new owner of Blackbird Castle arrived, if he was pleased or not. His past experiences with the Castle’s owners had been unprofitable, to say the least; and downright infuriating to say the most. The last owner - a drug-runner, he’d found out later – had commissioned him to design and build the ultimate in powerboats. That commission had resulted in the creation of the Blackbird, its sleek lines and speed inspired by the Stealth spy plane of the same name. But, once again, he’d allowed his good nature and naiveté to overrule his common sense by letting the drug dealer to take possession of the Blackbird before paying for it. And after the man had been arrested and jailed, his one attempt to reclaim his property, or payment thereof, had resulted in reinforcing his dislike for the Castle’s owners. Barry Tarberry had all but tossed him out on his ear, without payment, and without the Blackbird. Then… then the man had had the incredible nerve to come to him for help. He had tried to be firm and refuse, but Tarberry was smooth, promising restitution, promising payment… promising anything to get what he wanted.


And so far, that was all that Murphy had gotten from Tarberry – promises.


Now, with bills overdue and no payment in sight despite his frequent inquiries and requests, Murphy decided that he, too, could play hardball. The newest gadget that Tarberry had insisted he build (and had actually paid for the supplies, if not the labor), was something called a ‘Snark-Catcher’ – a Snark, supposedly, a theoretically conceived entity created in Tarberry’s fertile, if somewhat strange, imagination. ‘Just to see if it can be done,’ he had said. Millionaires were supposed to be a little crazy, so Murphy figured billionaires were really out there. But he needed the money, and had agreed. The trial run had been successful, he supposed, as he had to take Tarberry’s word for it. But no payment had been forthcoming, so he took the Snark-Catcher in for ‘fine-tuning’, then let Mr. Tarberry know he would be keeping the contraption until he was paid in full. No more Mr. Nice Guy Murphy; no money, no gadget.


And it had worked. Two days ago, a letter had arrived with specific terms for delivery and payment. Murphy had been on his way to Blackbird Castle when Barry’s Mercedes had roared past him, going in the opposite direction. Not to be evaded any longer, he had U-turned and followed the Mercedes back into town, then to the Governor’s palace – where he was now parked and waiting.


“Okay, Mr. ‘I-never-carry-a-checkbook-bill-it-to-my-company’ Tarberry, I’ll just wait out here until you come out. Yessir… you want to see persistence, well, I tell you, I can be persistent!”


He settled back with the current issue of Scientific Monthly, and it seemed only a short time before he was jarred out of a very absorbing article on Quantum phase physics by the piercing wail of a siren. Not a police siren, but an ambulance. An ambulance? At the Governor’s Palace? Interest piqued, he tossed the magazine aside and drove to the circular driveway, parking a few yards from the ambulance.


“Hello…?” He glanced inside the opulent, but empty, foyer. “Hello, anybody here?”


He’d ventured a few steps inside when the doors to Vasquez’s office burst open, and a paramedic team guiding a stretcher came barreling through. He only had a brief second’s glimpse of the sheet-draped body before he jumped aside, startled at their sudden appearance, and subsequent disappearance out of the front door. Vasquez’s secretary, adjutant, and guards left the Governor’s office, seemingly not noticing Murphy’s presence, and resumed their respective posts. Murphy stepped through the open office door, noting absently that the janitor was just finishing mopping the floor.


Vasquez looked up from his desk, laying aside a folder as he frowned at his visitor, trying to place him. Average height, mismatched clothes more suited to a Florida tourist, sandy brown close-cropped hair in need of a good haircut, brown eyes, pale skin… The latter point clicked in Vasquez’s memory. There was only one person in all of San Pietro who didn’t have an island tan. “Yes, is there something you want, Mr., uh, Murphy, is it?”


“That’s right, Governor Vasquez.” Murphy regained his composure, looking around for signs of his quarry, who had no doubt sighted Murphy and scooted out the back door. “I saw Mr. Tarberry come in. Is he still here?”


There was an odd look in Vasquez’s dark eyes, and he shook his head. “I’m afraid, Mr. Murphy, that you just …missed him.”


“Darn it! He’s always doing this to me. It isn’t right… A man like Mr. Tarberry, with all his money – he should have no problem taking care of…things.” Logan looked to Vasquez for sympathy. “I mean, if somebody commissions an original, unique piece of heretofore not-existing equipment, made to certain and exact specifications, and guarantees reimbursement of all expenses incurred, allowing a 40% profit margin over and above actual costs, with a mandated and agreed upon hourly rate for labor to research and build said piece of equipment… Well, it stands to reason that a man of honor would, uh, honor such a commitment. Right?”


The Governor had a dazed expression, having lost interest at the third or fourth sentence. “Yes, one would think so.”


“Then… why does he do this?” Logan threw his hands in the air, and began pacing, knowing he wouldn’t get an answer.


He didn’t. The Governor General merely shrugged. “That…problem…seems rather prevalent with Mr. Tarberry, judging by what just happened here.”


Murphy stopped his frustrated pacing. “What do you mean? What happened here?”


“Some of Mr. Tarberry’s business associates came to collect an overdue loan… They weren’t the kind that settled disputes in court; they were the kind that shoot first and leave bodies.”


It took several seconds for the statement to sink in. Murphy found himself staring at the still-damp floor; its sparkling cleanliness somehow more horrifying than a lake of blood would have been. “You mean… the ambulance… the stretcher… That was Mr. Tarberry they took out?”


Vasquez nodded.


“You mean they just… gunned him down? Here?? In your office?” Eyes wide, Logan’s voice rose with each sentence. “But that’s… that’s … terrible!”


Another nod. “Yes. It appears that you may never be paid.”


“Paid? Who cares about that? Is he hurt bad? Is he going to be okay? Why didn’t you tell me this when I first came in?”


Apparently unconcerned, Vasquez picked up the folder he had been studying when Logan came in. “I have weightier matters on my mind. I have a haunted castle to dispose of.” Because, the Governor General knew all too well, the government of San Pietro (i.e., himself) was not about to become its new owner.


Murphy looked at the Governor in disbelief, unable to comprehend the other man’s callousness. He straightened, started for the door, then paused. “It seems to me, Governor Vasquez,” he said, eyes and voice betraying a coldness he rarely felt, “that you could at least wait until the funeral… if there is one.”


Vasquez granted him a courtesy that was seldom given to anyone outside the Governor’s immediate influence. “Believe me, Mr. Murphy, Barry Tarberry would understand.” He smiled faintly, “He would probably approve.”


III

The Emmanuel Enrique Miguel Vasquez Memorial Hospital, so named to honor Abel’s long-departed father, was as ultra-modern and as high-tech as 20th century science could make it. And within five minutes of LaPlaya, the Governor’s Palace. The Emergency Room was busy, not with the dozen or so San Pietro residents waiting in the large lobby, but with the recent arrival of Governor Vasquez’s close personal associate.


He could see the flurry of activity behind the partially glassed-in double doors. Suddenly feeling out of place, Murphy was turning to leave when a secretary at the Admitting Desk noticed him.


“Can I help you, sir?”


Logan hesitated. He had intended to call the hospital from his workshop, to check on Barry’s condition without being too intrusive. But now faced with the opportunity, he decided to bluff it through. “Yes, I’m here regarding Mr. Barry Tarberry. I believe he was just brought in?”


She checked her computer screen. “Yes, that’s right. Are you a relative?”




Murphy didn’t bat an eye. “Yeah, I’m his… nephew.” That was easier than he thought it would be; of course, the Islanders thought all Americans looked alike anyway.


She smiled broadly. “Oh, then you’ll be able to guarantee payment, Mr.—?”


“Murphy, Logan Murphy.” He looked at her in confusion. “What payment?”


“We were able to get Mr. Tarberry’s vital information from his identification and insurance cards. However, we need a signature to ensure payment in case Mr. Tarberry is unable to sign.”


“They’ll take care of him, though; I mean, even if I don’t sign?”


The smile dimmed. “I’m afraid, sir, that without having the proper forms signed, there is little that we would be authorized to do. You understand, of course, that it is hospital procedure.”


Sighing, Murphy picked up the forms. “Even here, he’s doing it to me…”


Returning the papers, he waited expectantly. She quickly placed the information into her computer terminal, and then promptly forgot his presence. “Uh… Miss…?” He prompted.


“Yes?”


“Mr. Tarberry… can you tell me anything about him?”


“Oh, you’ll have to check with Hospital Information. This is the Business Office.” She directed him down the hall to another cubicle.


Once there, he repeated his quest to another young lady seated, it seemed, before an identical computer. She smiled, nodded, and punched in the request. “Mr. Tarberry is in surgery. His doctor is Thomas Blackthorn. You will need to speak to the doctor about his condition. The Nurse’s Station on the second floor may be able to help you.”


He found the Nurse’s Station a few doors down from the bank of elevators on the second floor. An older nurse glanced up at his approach. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”


“They told me downstairs that you could tell me about a patient currently in surgery. A Barry Tarberry?… I’m his nephew,” he added helpfully.


“Just a moment.” She consulted some records. “Mr. Tarberry will probably be in surgery for several hours.”


“Will he be all right?”


“You’ll have to talk with Dr. Blackthorn. He’ll know more after the surgery.”


“Can I come back later today and see Mr—Uncle Barry?”


“Of course. I would allow two to three hours for surgery, then another thirty to forty-five minutes in Recovery. He’ll be taken directly to ICU on the third floor before being sent down here; check with the nurse on duty for visiting hours.”


“Thank you. I’ll do that.”


~*~*~*~


“Mr. Murphy?”


Logan rose as a petite nurse entered the waiting room adjoining the ICU. “Yeah, that’s me.”


“You may see the patient for a few minutes, Mr. Murphy. Come with me.”


“How is he? Is he going to be okay?”


“You’ll have to talk to Dr. Blackthorn. He’s currently listed in critical but stable condition.” She paused outside the small room with glass walls. “He may be groggy, but he’s conscious.” Opening the door, she stepped aside.


Murphy wasn’t sure what to expect, being unfamiliar with situations like this. His hospital experiences were confined to tonsillectomies, the odd broken bone, and occasional visits to the pediatric ward. He stood, just inside the door, his eyes traveling over the myriad tubes and wires attached to various life-saving and life-maintaining equipment. He saw everything, but he didn’t want to look.


Walking slowly toward the bed, Murphy tried to make as little noise as possible. Barry Tarberry, multi-billionaire and Wall Street raider, didn’t look imposing and powerful. He looked ashen, weak, and drained. The white sheet was pulled halfway up his chest, not touching the bandage taped over the upper left side. His breathing was slow and shallow, and his eyes were closed. Logan paused next to the bed, unsure about what to do or say.


“M-Mr. Tarberry… are you awake?”


Tarberry’s head turned slightly toward the sound of Murphy’s voice, eyes opening with gradual awareness. The self-assured arrogance had drained away as well, leaving pale grayish-blue eyes glassy with pain. “…Logan…?” His voice was low, raspy, barely audible, and Murphy leaned closer. “…sorry… don’t have… my checkbook… on me…”


“Awwww, Mr. Tarberry. You know I’m not here for that. Look, uh, I don’t want you to worry, or anything. I mean, I took care of things downstairs, signed a bunch of stupid forms and stuff. They got the best doctors here that money can buy – and I’m sure you can appreciate that. The Governor General wouldn’t have anyone but the best on staff, and they know what they’re doing, and—”


Tarberry tried to raise his hand to halt the flow of words, but he managed only a few inches before letting it fall back on the sheet. “Logan… shut… up…”


Murphy broke off in mid-sentence, waiting for Barry to finish. There were long pauses between his sentences, as he either had to concentrate on his words, or gather enough strength to continue – perhaps both.


“Listen… it’s important… Promise you’ll do exactly… exactly what I say…”


“Of course, I’ll do whatever you want; just say the word.”


“Go back to Castle… the safe, combination… red, blue, blue, green—”


Logan hastily scribbled on the back of his hand. “Red, blue, blue, green… Got it.”


“…Wonderful… take what cash you need, keep the rest safe for me… get house keys from nurse…” He took a deep, careful breath, biting back the pain. “Logan… will you… will you stay at the Castle for me? … Look after things… take care of it?”


“Sure, Mr. Tarberry, that would be a blast, living in a great place like that.” Murphy glanced around conspiratorially. “And, just between the two of us, I’ve never believed that story about Black Jack Savage haunting the place.”


“…You don’t?”


“Nah, just stories for scaring kids and building up the tourist trade. C’mon, Mr. Tarberry, we’re both men of the world, far too sophisticated to believe such drivel.”


There was a long silence, and Murphy thought Barry had fallen asleep, when he spoke again. “One more thing… if I don’t make it—”


“Don’t say that, Mr. Tarberry. You’ll be fine.”


Murphy received a considerably toned down glare, but a glare just the same. “…Will you… let me finish? … If I don’t live through this… look in glove compartment of car… deed to Blackbird Castle is in there… Take it, I’ve… already signed it… After I’m… gone, fill in date and sign it. I want you to have it…. But don’t sign it before I’m—”


Logan gave him an offended look. “Mr. Tarberry, I wouldn’t take advantage of your situation. Not even for a place like Blackbird Castle.”


“…sorry. Guess I’ve been… keeping company with myself for too long…”


The nurse opened the door, leaned inside, “Mr. Murphy, you’ll have to leave now.”


“I’ll be right out, Miss.”


“Logan…” Barry reached for him, and Murphy gently took his hand. “…thanks.”


Murphy nodded. “Anytime, Mr. Tarberry, anytime…”


CONTINUED IN PART 2: "100 Lives Black Jack Savage Part 2of4"