by Brian Drake
Unless--
Gambolini and Amis were one and the same.
Wolf returned to the Chrysler and sped away. There was still plenty of work to do before he brought the house down.
Miles Kincaid, the killer sent from New York to clean up the Palakis situation, stayed cooped up in his hotel room during the days following his shooting of Vince Palakis. He’d had no problem with that bit of target practice. Palakis had caused nothing but trouble and Miles couldn’t excuse the death of the Brock boy.
He’d explained the situation to Ugo Califano over the phone, making no excuses. Califano said nothing for a bit, then: “If there was no other way, there was no other way.”
“Um-hmm.”
“About the disk.”
“Still out there. And I have no idea who I’m looking for.”
“Leads?”
“Only the son, and he’s long gone.”
“The hooker?”
“Dead.”
“Search her flop?”
“No.”
“The cop?”
“No.”
“Too many cops?”
“Yes.”
“What are your plans?”
“Something will turn up.”
“That’s what I like about you, Miles. You’re so confident.”
And the call ended. Miles stayed put. He wasn’t dodging his duties but wanted a few days to pass before he hit the street. Let the heat fade.
He watched the D.A.’s press conference with interest. The District Attorney introduced Inspector John Callaway, who told the story straight-faced. Palakis shot himself, he claimed. Miles only recognized the name of Palakis’s son and the cop, Brock, when the D.A. explained their role. No mention of the man in black who helped Brock. When he noticed Callaway’s cute daughter, he thought he could find both Scott Palakis and Brock’s helper through Callaway by taking a shot at his little girl.
The thought sent a chill up his back. He turned off the television, looked over at the nightstand where his dead daughter’s picture stood. No, he couldn’t hurt Kiki Callaway. There were lines he would not cross, and that was a big one. But he could use her to make her father talk.
Automatic doors rumbled open as Wolf entered the City Planning Department.
He crossed the gray carpet to a circular desk in the center of the lobby. The place looked like a library with scattered seats and tables but wasn’t as quiet. Plenty of voices, computer noises, shuffling papers. Wolf told the receptionist that he was a journalist doing a story on Magnum Engineering and wanted to see their license information. The young woman didn’t ask to see a press card or I.D., but instead quoted Wolf a fee, which he paid.
A clerk led Wolf to a small private room with a table and chair and small port window in the door. The bright fluorescent light bounced off the plain white walls. Wolf was tempted to put on his sunglasses. The clerk handed Wolf a file folder, told him to return it to the receptionist when he finished, and left Wolf alone. He welcomed the silence.
That morning he had called Kiki, making no mention of his visit with her father. He asked her to gather some background on Gambolini and Regan and meet him later in the afternoon. He wanted some basic info on Gambolini’s company first.
The file contained an up-to-date business license for Magnum; the paperwork had all the official stamps and signatures. A copy of a receipt said “Jack Amis” had paid all of his fees, and it was signed off by the head of the department. The file also included Amis’s original letter approaching the department for a business license, and an endorsement from the Chamber of Commerce saying Amis was a member in good standing with the New York City Chamber and would be a great asset to Las Palmas.
The paperwork went back four years.
Another set of papers showed details of his purchase of Excalibur Records, a local shop, from the previous owner. Wolf rubbed his forehead. Why would he want the record shop? Maybe he was a music buff, but Wolf didn’t think so. He put the pages back in order and returned the file.
Kiki sat outside a Starbucks with an iced coffee, long bare legs crossed, her heels off and lying askew beneath the table. The breeze chilled her legs. The cold metal chair made her rear end sore, and she kept shifting. She liked sitting outside because inside felt too claustrophobic, but she wished they’d put cushions on the chairs.
She smiled when the gray Chrysler 300 rumbled into the lot. Wolf joined her at the table. One of his chair legs was short, and he leaned toward her for balance. She touched his arm and said hello.
“How’s Sheila?” he said.
“Hello to you, too,” Kiki said.
He grinned. “Sorry. Hi, Kiki.”
“Hi. Sheila’s okay. At the doctor’s right now and I have to pick her up in a half hour.”
“Whaddya got?”
Kiki sipped her coffee. The ice cubes scraped together. She pulled a file from her purse and flipped it open. “Your friends have quite a background.” She consulted the pages. The papers flapped in the breeze. She spread a hand out to keep them flat. “Let’s start with Gambolini. Big in New York. Worked with Vito Scarlatta for ages. They were like brothers; grew up together, ran the whole show. Gambolini was the drug guy, that’s how he kept the money coming in. Ran his operations through front companies.”
“Like a construction business?”
Her eyes brightened. “Exactly. That’s Gambolini’s trade. One of his companies was busted once for that very reason, but because certain witnesses either turned up dead or refused to talk, the case didn’t go very far.”
“Why is Gambolini out here now?”
“He and Scarlatta had a falling out about five years ago. Teddy didn’t like some attention Vito was getting from the Feds and tried to kill him. Scarlatta found out and tried to turn the assassination the other way, but Gambolini and Regan dodged the killers and headed west.”
“The contract is still open, isn’t it?” Wolf said.
“Half-million dollars. Scarlatta put up the money.”
Wolf rolled the new information around in his head. It explained some of what he’d heard while hiding under the trailer. Brock had stated that Ugo Califano, Palakis’s friend, had been Gambolini’s arch rival and that the video theft had been a ruse to get Palakis to reveal Califano’s hideout, so they could use it as a peace offering and cancel the contract. It made sense. Nobody could run from a $500,000 murder contract forever.
“So, they’re into drugs. You check that angle?”
Kiki drank some iced coffee.
“That’s the other thing that caught my attention,” she said, “and I did some digging.”
She pulled another folder from her purse and extracted several copies of newspaper stories and handed them to Wolf. The newsprint fluttered. Wolf held them tight, scanning the headlines, frowning as he read.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“Those are stories about drug busts in and around Las Palmas over the last four years.”
“So?”
“Despite the busts, drug activity hasn’t gone down, and we’re seeing a resurgence in meth. One article I couldn’t find concerned a raid on a meth lab back in September. That lab had the potential to churn out three-and-a-half million dollars-worth of that garbage. The narc team and the DEA say that Las Palmas is becoming the meth capitol of this state.”
“Meth is easy to cook, and the druggies make more money on it than other drugs. They don’t need to import it.”
“Right,” Kiki said. “Most of those raids were meth labs. Ninety-four raids last year. And there’s another fly in the ointment, too. Ever hear of a drug called XTC? Or MMDA?”
“Ecstasy,” Wolf said.
“That’s turning up more within the younger set. Lots of overdoses so far. These kids pop the pills at a party and wind up dead.”
“How do you explain the overdoses if it might not be deadly?”
“Goes back to the meth,” Kiki said. “Drug dealers cook meth and sell it as X. All the kids
hear is that X can’t hurt so they think there’s nothing wrong with popping a few pills and some of them get hooked and some of them die.”
Kiki sipped her coffee.
“We had a case last month that involved a sixteen-year-old girl,” she said. “Poor kid went to one of those all-night rave parties. People think they’re clean because they advertise as alcohol free, but they’re not. The girl thought she was popping X, but the coroner found meth in her system. She was sixteen.”
“Arrests?”
“None.”
Wolf leaned forward. “Okay, my turn. I think Gambolini is working under the name Jack Amis and uses a construction company for a cover. He set up shop out here four years ago.”
“Same time as--”
“Those busts? He ratted out the competition so he’d be the only game in town.”
Kiki sat back and folded her arms. She smiled and her nose crinkled. “Some detective,” she said. “What now?”
“I think I may know how Gambolini gets his drugs on the street.”
20
Wolf drove to Excalibur Records, the other company owned by “Jack Amis”, and went inside. Young adults in street clothes occupied the cash registers left and right of the entrance. The skinny male had close-cropped hair, goatee, and smudged glasses. The girl wore black, long black hair with red highlights, steel spike horizontally through the bottom of her nose. She glanced at Wolf, smiled and said hello and he said hello back as he walked into the main floor. Loud music played over ceiling speakers, a hard-rock riff he didn’t recognize.
A pair of teens browsed an aisle; at the magazine rack, a guy hid behind a C.D. layout with an issue of Big Buns in hand. Posters promoted various artists or movies. Wolf wandered around, lingering in the movie section. Some classic titles reminded him of afternoons at the Paradise Theater.
He stayed about an hour but saw nothing of interest, so he returned to the car. Presently a low-rider truck pulled into the handicapped slot. Bass boomed from the truck’s speakers. The driver jumped out, leaving the engine running and a buddy in the passenger seat. The driver, a skinny white kid with blue hair, dashed inside.
Wolf saw the transaction through the front window. Blue Hair collected a wrapped brown paper bag from one of the clerks, exited, jumped back into the truck, and drove off. Wolf followed one or two car lengths behind. Blue Hair and his buddy gave no indication that they knew he was tailing them. Left on Stoneridge, past a housing project that didn’t have a Magnum Engineering sign, and the truck turned into a quiet cul-de-sac. Wolf waited at the corner. The truck parked in front of a two-story home. Blue Hair and Friend entered the house. Wolf shut off his car and let five minutes tick by.
He wanted to talk with Blue Hair, a.k.a. Noodles Flanagan, a street pusher who had, so far, evaded arrest. Wolf pulled the Chrysler up in front of the house. When he reached the porch, he pressed the doorbell.
The friend, with a pierced nose and slicked-back white hair, answered, started to open his mouth.
Wolf punched him. The kid’s lips split. The kid hit the carpet and Wolf kicked him in the head.
“Mike?”
A clatter from the kitchen; a moment later Noodles raced into the front room carrying a bottle of beer. He saw Wolf, stopping short, dropping the bottle to reach behind his back. Wolf kicked him in the stomach. As the pusher doubled over, Wolf struck the side of his head. Noodles landed on the floor, in the puddle of beer, with a squish. Wolf left him there and moved deeper into the house.
A wrapped package sat on the kitchen table and Wolf ripped the package open. Little bags of white pills inside. He checked the living room and bedrooms but found nobody else.
The phone started ringing. Wolf went back to Noodles and rolled him onto his back. Beer stained the front of his shirt. The phone kept ringing. Noodles’ eyes were sealed shut. The phone rang twice more and then stopped. Wolf kicked Noodles’ fallen gun across the room. The pusher had the usual wallet and car keys. In the wallet Wolf found a wad of twenties, and he put the twenties in his own pocket.
Wolf searched the friend. Baggie of white pills. Wallet, no cash, no gun. His I.D. said Michael Boyles. Wolf didn’t know him.
Back to Noodles. Wolf hoisted the blue-haired pusher over his shoulders, grunting a little. Some of the beer from Noodles’ shirt soaked Wolf’s back. Wolf carried him to the Chrysler, placing him in the passenger seat. Wolf opened the trunk and took out his roadside emergency kit, from which he grabbed a roll of duct tape. Wolf wrapped the tape around Noodles’ ankles, hands, slapped a strip across his mouth.
He drove straight toward the mountains outside the city and hoped an air freshener would kill the beer smell filling the car. Farms and open space, rolling grassy hills, stretched out ahead of the big car.
He kept driving until he found a clearing, turned, and the Chrysler crunched over dirt and rocks. He parked beside a hill where trees sheltered the car. He opened the passenger door and slapped Noodles’ stubble-lined jaw until the pusher awoke. Noodles flapped around and tried to kick but the duct tape held, and Wolf just smiled and said:
“It’s just you and me, Noodles.”
The pusher swallowed, beads of sweat popping out of his forehead. “Cars comin’ by.”
“I don’t hear any cars, do you?” Wolf cupped a hand over his head. “Nuh-uh. Just the wind.”
“I got friends.”
Wolf shook his head.
Noodles tried to shift his arms. He flapped some more, stopped with a huff. “We can make a deal.”
“Talk. Live.”
“If I talk, I’ll be killed.”
“And if you don’t talk,” Wolf said, “you’ll be killed.”
Noodles swallowed again. Sweat trickled down the side of his face.
“So?” Wolf said.
“Ask me somethin’.”
“Tell me about the drugs at Excalibur.”
“I pick up the junk there.”
“Meth made to look like X?”
“Yeah.”
“Make a lot of money?”
“You saw my truck,” Noodles said.
“Who’s running the show?”
“No clue.”
“Jack Amis?”
“Means nothin’.”
“How ‘bout Gambolini?” Wolf said.
“Don’t know, man, I don’t know.”
“Who do you deal with?”
“Jake.”
“Jake who?”
“Sanborn, Jake Sanborn.”
“Long-haired surfer type?”
“That’s him.”
“Where’s his flop?”
“Townhouse on Sprice. Off Crow Canyon, White Eagle Village. Out by all the new development. Jake’s place is two-seventeen. Can I go now?”
Wolf grabbed a handful of the pusher’s shirt, roughly dragged him out of the car and onto the dirt. “Hey!” Wolf wiped his wet hands and then clutched at the taped ankles and pulled Noodles across the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust. Noodles hollered and thrashed, and the dust cloud grew thicker.
“Hey, hey--”
Wolf rolled Noodles into the thick of the trees, leaving him on his back. Noodles’ chest pumped up and down, his breath coming in quick, choked gasps, wide eyes pleading. Wolf took out his gun.
“Whoa, don’t--”
The snap of the .45 echoed through the hills.
The White Eagle Village was a gated complex. The gate wasn’t closed when Wolf drove up the cobblestone drive. He found a guest parking slot. The white stucco town homes were joined one to another, some buildings with two stories and a few single. Wolf’s shoes crunched fallen leaves and snapped pieces of bark as he walked through the concrete path between the buildings; a tan cat bolted from some bushes and took cover in another alcove. Wolf found 217 and rang the bell. No answer. He rang again. A section of glass next to the door with a drawn blind prevented him from seeing inside. He walked around the building and found an empty parking slot marked 217 and returned to the Chrysler.
Within a half hour a rumbling Corvette, the same convertible he’d seen at the Magnum site, rolled across the cobblestones. Wolf scanned the driver’s face. Long surfer ‘do, mirrored sunglasses.
Jake Sanborn powered up the cloth top, sprung out, twirled his keys. His soft tennis shoes made no sound on the pavement as he started along the path. Wolf waited a few seconds and followed. As Sanborn slipped his key into the lock, Wolf moved behind and shifted to the neighbor’s door. Sanborn’s door creaked open. The long-haired man stepped inside. Wolf slid the Colt .45 from shoulder leather and smashed the gun against Sanborn’s head.
Sanborn screamed and staggered a few steps. His legs clunked against a chair and he tumbled to the thick carpet. Wolf bashed him again and Sanborn fell flat. Wolf pushed the door shut. He was in the living room. Across from him, the kitchen, dark and quiet. Empty bedroom around the right corner. On the left another bedroom and bath. Wolf searched the bedroom first. On the nightstand, an alarm clock, sci-fi novel. Nothing of note on the messy dresser or inside the drawers. Normal things in the bathroom. Car and girlie magazines on the living room coffee table. The kitchen table had an abstract centerpiece that Wolf glossed over. Beside the countertop telephone was a notepad. Top page blank, but there were visible pen tracings. He rummaged through a drawer, found a pencil, and began bushing the side of the pencil lead along the tracing. Soon words took shape. Meet @ Mill, 10:15 pm Wed.
Tomorrow night. But that didn’t mean much. Lines creased Wolf’s brow. He didn’t know anyplace in Las Palmas called “the Mill” except for an old chain of hardware stores which had closed long ago. He folded the paper and stuck it in a pocket.
He checked Sanborn again. Still out but breathing. Wolf was about to slap him awake when he stopped.
The Mill wasn’t the name of a place at all. It was a nickname for Gambolini’s lumber yard.
He left Sanborn on the carpet.
Miles Kincaid sat in a booth with his back to the wall. The mug of beer remained full to the brim, the fuzzy head fading. The bar’s low lighting and soft jazz band provided the kind of environment he wanted to let his mind review the day’s activity.
