by L. J. Martin
"Margo," I snap, without turning back to her. "You're about to add the cost of a funeral to your already high medical bills."
"Tony!" she screams, "You're the best houseboy we ever had. Put that down before dipshit here lays you out or you hit me."
Tony skids to a stop. It's a green Ruger SR9 he's carrying and I can see by the pop-up on the top that it's not cocked.
"Tony," I say with a little condemnation in my voice, "you better leave the grunt work to the goomba boys here. Even though I'm sure they're not good at it either. Your weapon is not cocked, and if you cock it I'm going to blow your cock off."
He's turning red in the face and doing a little dance like a nervous hen about to lay an egg.
"Tony," Margo yells again. "Put the piece down."
And he does, but I can see the whole thing frustrates him a lot. I walk to the little glass top table and pick up the six hundred. Maybe the total of what I'll make for this whole gig, then head for the door. As I come even with Tony, I pause to use the Ruger for a hockey puck and put it in the nearby deep end of the swimming pool with a nice side-kick, then keep walking.
I slip into the Vette, fire her up and am pulling away when I see two other Castiano employees are in the main garage, one vacuuming and one polishing a van…a white van, as was described at the scene of Tammy's abduction.
Chapter Nine
I love it when I tangle and don't bust a knuckle, and I didn't. Not even a bruise.
One of the great things about the 21st Century is satellite radio, and I'm in a good mood and feeling a little like an outlaw, so I tune in Outlaw Country and get in the middle of I'm The Only Hell My Mama Ever Raised and Johnny Paycheck is doing a great job as always. I'm trying to remember the words and sing along as I pull out onto Pacific Coast Highway, and don't get through one verse before red and blue lights fill my rear view mirrors. Luckily we're in one of the few spots in Malibu where one can easily pull over, and I do. I slip the .380 out of its holster shoved in my belt at the small of my back, pop the clip, and leave the little Smith and Wesson on the passenger seat. I also work the slide and eject the one in the chamber.
I'm only a little surprised when the CHP opens his white door with the huge badge emblazoned thereon, and crouches behind it, weapon drawn. He looks like a surfer dude in uniform, blonde hair shining in the sun.
"Keep the hands where I can see them. Climb out, hands on your head, and back this way."
I do, and to his credit, he tells me to lean over the back of the Vette. "Just hold there for a minute."
I hear another car slide to a stop behind him, and footsteps trotting our way.
"My back up has you covered, hot shot." He pats me down, a good job including crotch and ankles. "I'm gonna hook you up so leave your left hand on your head and place your right hand behind your back." He does. "Now your left." He keeps a hand between my shoulder blades, with pressure forward, keeping me off balance over the trunk of the Vette.
Good police procedure on their part. I'm impressed.
"Anything in your pockets I should worry about? Needle maybe?"
"No, sir. Live it up."
He digs my wallet out and flips it open. "Michael Reardon. The name phone-in was Dick Strong."
"That's a condition, not a name."
"Very funny."
"So, you got the wrong guy. How about cutting me loose?"
"FFC," he says.
"Fat fucking chance."
"California Highway Patrol officers don't swear...at least not on the job."
"Admirable," I offer.
"You want him?" the highway patrolman asks the other officer, who I now see is an L.A. County Sheriff.
"Yes, I got a call from one of our detectives, right after I saw the APB, and he definitely wants him."
"My pleasure," the CHP says.
"And we were getting on so well," I say to the blonde surfer cop, and flash him a grin, his nameplate says Brown. "The surf's up and you having to work. A real pity. So, did uncle Moonbeam get you the job?" I'd ruin my well-established rep if I wasn't a little bit of a smart ass. Brown ignores me.
"I've got to wait for another unit and a tow truck," the sheriff says, and I see by his nameplate, he's De La Hoya. He's light for a Hispanic.
"De La Hoya, there's a weapon on the passenger seat. Please note it's unloaded and in plain sight. And make it a trailer, not a tow truck. You're on notice that the car is a classic antique and worth about fifty grand."
"Oh, yeah," he says. "You got a permit to carry?"
"I do. A Wyoming permit."
He laughs. We both know California doesn't recognize permits from any other state, and consequently many other states don't recognize California's.
"What's the charge?" I ask, maybe a little too adamantly. "I wasn't speeding."
"Ha, that's hardly the charge. Home invasion."
I have to chuckle at that one. "So, I invaded a home by myself, a home with five or six armed goomba guards right out of the Godfather and one Mafia mama who thinks she's a blonde Sophia Loren...and is about the same age?"
"That's the call we got."
I laugh again, then add, "And you believe and double down on any call coming from the Castiano compound?"
"Not your concern. Move back to my unit on the passenger side. You're going in the back seat to wait."
He's got a hand on my elbow and again with good cop procedure keeps pressure on it, throwing me off balance just enough to rob confidence.
"You related to Oscar?" I ask.
"Not that I know of. You a fan?"
"Damn right. Hard not to be."
"If he shows up at a family reunion, I'll give him your regards." He opens the back door and with a hand on my head and one on my elbow, ushers me in.
"Careful with the Vette," I admonish as he slams the door.
So, I'm off to the lockup, about my twentieth time.
I wish I was as zoned out as my buddy Pax, so I could use up the waiting time with a nap. Not to be. Instead, I pass the time listening to the cop calls until another unit arrives and they toss the car, bag the weapon, and the tow truck arrives. De La Hoya has paid little attention to my admonitions as it's a Tommy's Towing Truck, the conventional variety.
Why am I not surprised when we arrive at the L. A. County Sheriff's station, in Agoura, over the Santa Monica Mountains near the Ventura freeway, and I'm ushered into a conference room to be greeted by my favorite dick. Frumpy as always, potbelly straining at his shirt buttons, however there are no stains on his tie...yet. He's sipping coffee white with cream, so hope reigns eternal.
De La Hoya hooks me to an iron loop on the table top, so at least my arms are in front and I can lean on my elbow.
"How you doin', Howard?" I say, and De La Hoya gives me a curious look, then slips out.
"You screwed up my lunch hour."
"Sorry about that. How about you going back to lunch and I'll head for the impound to pick up my Vette?"
"I doubt if you'll see your little ride for a couple of years. If not a lot more if they can make the home invasion stick."
I have to chuckle.
"You think that’s amusing?" he asks.
"I do, and so do you. If this guy wasn't a major Moonbeam supporter, you'd be giving me a pat on the head for bringing his help down to size."
"A little more than that. You busted one's leg."
"Yeah, and mussed Margo's wig and embarrassed her main man, Sergio. Big fucking deal."
"What the hell were you doing there?" he asks.
"Enjoying the seaside. You told me to stay away from your case."
"What the hell were you doing there?"
"I guess you didn't notice a white van was one of the vehicles in the garage."
"There are lots of white vans in California. A couple of hundred thousand, or more, I'd guess."
"Right on, however not owned by someone who's owed a mil or more by Tammy Houston's manager."
"Man, that's a stretch."
&
nbsp; I hear the door open behind me, and Howard jumps to his feet.
"Leave us, Howard. Bring me a coffee." It's a deep raspy voice. Harold heads around one side of the table, and a guy in a three thousand dollar gray sharkskin suit that had to be tailored by Omar the tent maker, circles the other side and plops down in the seat Harold formerly occupied. He's a very fat man, with a small inner tube for a neck and another set of bulges under his ears. The white shirt has to be tailored as well, but the collar button is open and the blue and gray striped tie pulled down three inches. A puff of gray chest hair shows above the knot. He's not bald, but there's a cul-de-sac on the top of his head all the way back and encompassing his pate. The hair he has is gray and trimmed to a quarter inch. And he has a Hollywood stylish four or five days of whisker growth, gray matching his hair.
He puts both fat elbows on the table and steeples his corncob size fingers alongside his wide nose, dividing watery gray eyes. He gives me a knowing look, then shakes his head.
"You gonna owe me a few grand, tough guy."
We're both silent as Harold returns with a cup of coffee. He forgot mine.
"Where's your manners, Harold?" I snap, and he waves a center finger at me as he leaves.
So I turn back to the fat man. "I presume you're Castiano?" No reply, like everyone should know, so I continue. "A few grand? For taking advantage of your hospitality, or what?"
"It's mister to you. A few grand for fucking up my second cousin, Sergio and his dipshit buddy who I should never have hired. And for scaring my houseboy half to death. Tony's a nice boy. And you really pissed Margo off. She's five grand apiece into those wigs."
"So, consider it a test run on your security and the quality of Margo's hair piece. Where do I send the bill?"
Chapter Ten
"You're a real wise ass," Castiano says.
"Just doing my job."
"Which is?"
"Finding Tammy Houston."
He shrugs. "Ain't my problem."
"Oh, I think it is."
"Why's that?"
"Coogan owes you a cool mil—"
"Mil two, with the vig."
"Whatever. Tammy's guy, who depends upon Tammy for every dime he makes, owes you dough."
"Dumb fuck shouldn't like the tables so much."
"And Tammy was hit by some guys in a white van...and guess what the Castiano garage holds?"
"What?"
"A white van."
He laughs, kind of a low rumble that comes up from somewhere in his voluminous body. "And you think I'd be so stupid to use my own vehicle? What with CSI like it is these days. Don't you watch T.V., Reardon?"
"What's to gain by snatching Tammy? Isn't that kind of like killing the goose that laid the golden egg?"
"I like the girl and I think she likes me just fine. She's been to a couple of functions at my place and even went with Margo shopping. She's like family."
"Yeah, and you'd sell your grandma for a quarter."
He gets red in the face. "Look, you smartass punk, I take care of family and you don't even think about mentioning my people. Everybody thinks that because I live on the water and do okay, that I don't have anyone to answer to. We all got people to answer to. I got an eight figure payback coming up, and I got to have that dough back from that Irish piece of shit."
I shrug. The grandma remark was probably uncalled for.
His tone levels out a little. "You haven't ask me if I'm gonna press charges."
"The home invasion is a hoot. Who'd buy that? You might get me on simple assault, but even a first year law student could probably get me off on that one. Three guys and poor little me. And I bet Sergio and the dipshit have sheets as long as my arm—"
"Yours ain't exactly a piece of note paper."
"—and no, you’re not gonna press charges. It's not your style. Blindside me in an alley, maybe. You really are not interested in being embarrassed...a tough guy like you...with having one guy wander in and fuck up your muscle. Hell, everyone will be doing it if they think it's that easy."
He's silent for a moment, then eyes me with his pig eyes. "Tell you what, smart guy. You beat a trail back to Wyoming, or wherever friggin' hillbilly place you hail from, and I'll forget the whole thing." He looks up at the video camera on a ceiling-high mount and holds a fat hand up so his lips can't be seen. His whisper is more like a rasp. "Otherwise, next time it's both knees, and the third time if you're dumb enough to come back in a year or so when you heal up. That will be the charm. Chum for my shark fishing."
I shrug. No sense in intimidating him more than I already have. After all. Governor Moonbeam does come to his house for fundraisers.
He gets up and strides around the table, amazingly light on his feet for a fat guy who must be in his seventies, and the door closes behind me then almost as quickly opens again.
Harold rounds the table and takes his seat again.
I give him my best boy scout smile. "You cutting me loose?"
"Nope."
"How about my phone call?"
"As soon as you’re processed."
"You know that guy in Peanuts...the one with the flies always circling his head."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm pretty sure he was your namesake." His tie is now spotted, coffee with cream, I imagine.
"Fuck you, Reardon."
"Uncuff me and I'll take bets about who’s the fuckee."
He rises and goes back to the door, and yells out. "Parkenson, back me up here."
A big burly black sergeant fills the doorway as Harold uncuffs me from the table tie-down, then re-cuffs me behind my back.
"Process him in," Harold says.
"What charge?" the sergeant asks.
"Stupidity. How about a seventy-two hour psychiatric hold." He guffaws as if he's enjoyed his own joke, then adds, "No, felony assault will do for the time being."
"My phone call?" I ask, but Harold is walking away, so I turn to the sergeant who's now guiding me down the hall with a ham-like hand on my upper arm. "My phone call?"
"Soon as you’re processed," he says.
"Thanks."
And he's a man of his word. I have to call Pax collect.
"Wondered where you've been?" he asks.
"Lounging, at the expense of the County of Los Angeles."
"Enjoying yourself and the accommodations? How much bail money?"
"I don't know, call Mort downtown and get him on it, and," I hesitate as I'm sure I'm being recorded, then figure, what the hell, "and get someone on properties owned by Sammy...Samuel probably...Castiano, et. al., et. ex., partnerships, corporations...the whole bit. As soon as I'm out of here I'll want to meet someone at Barstow and trade vehicles. I'll need my..." again I hesitate, "...my work rig."
"You need some backup?"
"I may, but I'll let you know."
"What's up with the girl?"
"Not much more, but I'm getting pissed so I'll be hitting it lots harder."
"What's the charge?"
"Felony assault, but it's totally hokey."
"What?"
"I beat up a couple of guys and screwed up the hairdo of an old broad."
"Old guys?" He laughs.
"Just give Mort a call, please."
"Will do."
They throw me in the drunk tank. I look good in jail orange and flip-flops. The good news, it isn't Saturday night so the place is not so puke covered as it might be. The better news, it isn't downtown so of the six drunks in the twenty-foot square cell, four of them are in business suits. I find a bench and plop down, and am soon sawing logs. I guess I've missed lunch so the next time I open my eyes, we're being led out to supper. Jail food ain't what it used to be. Now you actually get some healthy stuff with your white bread, pasta, beans, or potatoes. I'm not returned to the drunk tank, but rather to a cell with three black-ink tat-covered Hispanic guys who are about my age and look fresh from the cartel and the border. I'm motioned to a top bunk and take it without arguing
.
The boys eye me up and down but say nothing until I light in the upper bunk. Then one who looks a little like El Gordo the Mexican professional wrestler, leans on my bunk and asks, "Hey, pendejo, you suck cocks?"
"Why, you a pussy maricon?" I ask if he's queer.
He growls and I sit up enough so I have a leg cocked and can drive one of my flip-flops down his throat if he reaches for me.
I'm surprised to see he has the globe and anchor tat on his neck, so I add. "Semper Fi."
He gets a half-assed grin, gives me a thumbs up, then backs away and sits in a blackjack game with his two buddies.
I'd like to say I slept well, but one eye open is not very restful.
I get two more meals on the county before a jailer comes for me in the middle of the afternoon. "Roll it up, Reardon. You're bailed."
The officer on the desk hands me a card, which shouldn't be a surprise as Tammy's abduction will be considered a kidnapping, and a high profile one. The card is FBI Special Agent Robbie Quintana. And I'm instructed to call her. I pick up my stuff and change clothes, happy to return the jail orange, and when I exit a side door into the parking lot, am very surprised to see a tall brunette leaning on a new Mercedes.
"Hi, Reardon. You don't write, you don't call. This is a hell of a way to have to meet up."
"Tyler Thompson, as I live and breathe...."
Chapter Eleven
"And I'm glad you still do," she says, then adds, "Live and breathe, I mean. I'm a little surprised as I hear you stormed the ramparts at the Castiano place." She sighs deeply, then asks, "Is it too early for a cocktail?"
"Only if the joint has a shower. I smell like a feed yard and feel like I need to be run through a truck wash. You haven't seen anyone else here to bail me?"
"Nope. Somebody called while I was doing the paperwork." She flashes a smile and look that would melt a weaker man, then adds, "Well, big boy, there's a Hampton Inn just down the road and about a half mile from it is the Thousand Oaks version of The Grill On The Alley. Probably not as good as jail food. I'll loan you enough dough to buy dinner."
