Vegas Moon

by John Locke

  Now I’m starting to get a little nervous.

  “What’s the range for detonating it?”

  “Sixty yards.”

  “The trash can is metal.”

  “So?”

  “Want to change your range estimate?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s a pretty bold statement,” I say, “for someone who hasn’t seen the trash can yet. What are you basing the distance on?”

  “Educated guess.”

  “A guess,” I repeat.

  “Yes sir.”

  “And have you tested the range before?”

  “Of course.”

  “In a metal trash can?”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t even know if it will detonate.”

  “Oh, it’ll detonate, all right!” he says, enthusiastically.

  I may have doubted the kid at first. But now I believe him. I like a guy who loves his work.

  “And the bomb is safe?” I say.

  “Define safe.”

  “Big bang, no injuries.”

  “Where’s the opening on the can?”

  “There’s a round hole on the top, maybe a foot in diameter.”

  “When you detonate it, make sure no one’s leaning over the top.”

  “Because?”

  “The explosion’s going to shoot up about ten feet.”

  “But nothing through the sides?”

  “No. It’s a noise bomb. And smoke. I assumed you wanted smoke.”

  “Smoke is good.”

  “If there’s paper in the trash can, it’ll ignite.”

  “They can deal with that later.”

  I put the garage door detonator in my pocket and say, “Show me the gun and silencer.”

  He opens the duffel enough so I can look inside. I reach in and heft it.

  Feels right.

  I use my pocket knife to cut a hole in the duffel bag large enough to accommodate the barrel of the silencer. Then push the barrel through the hole about an inch, and cover that part of the duffel with my jacket. I keep the top of the duffel unzipped, so I can reach in and shoot when the time comes, without having to brandish the gun.

  “Ready?” I say.

  “Can’t wait to get out of here,” he says.

  I hand the kid his soft drink bomb and say, “Pretend to sip from the straw while we walk through baggage handling. When we get to the steps, you take the lead. Walk through the door at the top of the steps, go thirty yards to the trash can. Stand there a few seconds, pretend to take one last sip, then drop it in the trash. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. After dumping the container, you’re free to go out the front door, catch a cab, and go wherever you like. If the bomb works I’ll send you some serious cash as a token of my appreciation. Any questions?”

  “No sir.”

  When he climbs the steps and walks out the door, I turn and retrace my steps back out the door and walk a hundred yards to a second entrance, climb those steps and backtrack toward Carousel #6, with the duffel over my shoulder. I’ll walk there like any other passenger who’s landed and is waiting for luggage.

  40.

  The first thing I see upon entering the main baggage claim area is a line of limo drivers, all of whom are holding signs. I scan them as I walk by, but don’t see the name Diego Santosch. Good thing, since M’s driver shouldn’t be in this area.

  Just beyond the rental car kiosks, I come to Carousel #6. I take up my position by the conveyor belt on the far side, next to the opening where the baggage exits.

  A dozen men and women are standing around, waiting for bags from the previous flight. I glance at my watch. M’s flight should be arriving in twelve minutes. I’m positive he’s not on it, but don’t see anyone in the vicinity of Carousel #6 who I’d profile as a possible terrorist.

  More people wander into the area. Most position themselves near the baggage entrance. A few gather at the middle. No one is standing near me. A few more people drift in. Among them is a well-dressed man in a suit, holding a sign at his side. I’m sure this is the driver. The fact he hasn’t lifted the sign tells me he knows M hasn’t arrived in the area yet. That doesn’t mean he knows M. It could simply mean he knows the flight hasn’t arrived yet.

  Five minutes passes, and now there are thirty people standing around the conveyor belt. One lady walks past the others and takes up a position fifteen feet from me, and turns around to face the baggage entrance door. She’s foreign, but I can’t place her nationality based on the quick glance I got.

  Suddenly I spot two men that could be my targets. One standing at the center of the conveyor, where it makes a half circle, the other looking around, as if trying to find a porter to help with his luggage.

  Only he doesn’t seem to notice the porter standing near the rental car kiosk a mere thirty feet away.

  If something’s going to happen, I hope it’s now, because the area’s not too crowded yet, and I have clear sight lines to the driver.

  I’m looking at the driver, and the guy who’s looking around. The driver puts his right hand in his pocket, and holds the sign up with his left hand. I focus on the hand in his pocket. He’s holding something that could be a small gun. The guy who’s being far too obvious about looking around suddenly notices the sign and holds up his hand. He walks over to the driver, who lowers the sign but keeps his hand in his pocket.

  This isn’t going down the way I expected. The two of them are standing there, making small talk. More people are heading toward Carousel #6. Dozens of them. If I wait much longer, I won’t have a clear shot.

  I don’t know what M looks like, but I’m positive the guy standing by the driver isn’t him. I’m also positive the driver is holding a gun in his right pocket. As the people are about to overtake our carousel, I glance at the trash can to make sure there’s no one within fifteen feet of it. There’s not.

  But where’s M?

  Where the fuck is M?

  I have to do something.

  I put my hand in the duffel, turn slightly, and shoot the driver. The face of the guy standing next to him registers shock as he sees blood squirting from the driver’s chest. He turns and looks at me. I shoot him, and pause a split second, then fire two shots at the foreign lady whose back is to me. Both shots slam into the base of her skull. The impact spins her around, and she lands on her back. As it registers through the crowd that three people are on the floor, bleeding, I run toward the lady, as if attempting to offer help. At the same time I reach into my pocket for the detonator. As I get to her, I press the button, and the trash can explodes. People everywhere are screaming and ducking for cover. No one is looking in my direction. Standing over the lady, I shoot her point blank between the eyes, turn, and run through baggage exit, down the conveyor belt, out the door, and into the car.

  41.

  The driver Lou hired is very good.

  Seconds later, he’s got us through the gate, racing toward my private jet. Ten minutes after that, I’m on board. I want to call Callie, have her turn on the TV and let me know what’s happening. But I can’t use my cell phone to do it, since I don’t trust Lou or Darwin not to hone in on my signal with a surface to air missile. For this reason I only use my cell on planes when we’re above 20,000 feet. As the engines start firing, I try calling Callie using the onboard flight phone, but amazingly, her phone is still dark.

  I think about calling Gwen, but decide against it. I don’t know what the TV announcers are saying, or if I’ve been videoed on someone’s cell phone. I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong opinion about me. I mean, the right opinion. I also don’t want to tip Lucky off to our relationship until I’m there to protect her. I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to hit her, but why give him the chance to consider it?

  I call Lou.

  “You made the news,” he says.

  “Me?”

  “They’re looking for Connor Payne. He’s a person of interest in the airport attack.”

  “What’re they
saying?”

  “That he’s a foreign agent who breached security. Had phony papers that gave him top-level security clearance.”

  “What’s the government say?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Typical.”

  “What happened?” Lou says.

  “What are they reporting?”

  “Three people dead, twenty-three wounded.”

  “Wounded?”

  “Stampede. Apparently a bomb went off. People freaked.”

  “Anyone seriously injured?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Thank God for that. Hang on a sec.”

  The co-pilot turns to me and motions me to end the call.

  “We’re taking off,” I say. “Call you later.”

  When we pass 20,000 feet, I put the battery back in my cell phone and see that Callie has called me twice, and Darwin has called five times. My phone buzzes. I check the caller ID. Make that six times.

  “Where are you?” he snaps.

  “Airborn.”

  “You never made contact with the limo driver. Why?”

  “He knew them.”

  He pauses. “How do you know?”

  “Several reasons. In addition to those, he had a gun in his pocket. I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Really?”

  “He was one of ours.”

  “Ours?”

  Uh oh.

  I ask, “Have you heard from him?”

  “No, asshole. You killed him, remember?”

  “Who told you?”

  “Marshalls service. What do you mean he knew them?”

  “When he recognized one of them, he put his right hand in his pocket, where his gun was. Then he raised the sign with his left hand.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “You weren’t there. Trust me, he knew them.”

  He pauses.

  “I thought he might. That’s why we put him there.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I wanted to see how you’d handle it. Figured you’d kill him if he deserved to die.”

  “You had me assassinate one of our guys?”

  “I didn’t make you pull the trigger. Why did you, by the way? And how did you know M was dressed like a woman?”

  “The driver knew the accomplice, but not M. The accomplice knew M and the driver. I figured if I shot the driver suddenly, without sound or warning, the accomplice would instinctively turn to look at M. I was right. He looked directly at the woman in front of me. Couldn’t take his eyes off her. Looked nowhere else. It had to be M.”

  “So you shot her.”

  “Him.”

  “What if you’d been wrong?”

  “I’d feel terrible.”

  “But you’d get over it.”

  “I never get over it. But I move along.”

  Darwin pauses a long time before speaking. At no time does he thank me for a job well done, or congratulate me, or say anything to make me feel wanted, needed, or appreciated. Doesn’t even give me the reassurance he isn’t plotting to kill me. When he speaks, he’s curt.

  “I’ll call you when I need you,” he says.

  And that’s that.

  Take off to landing is eighty-three minutes, according to the on-board display panel. I spend most of it talking to Lou. I probe him about Darwin, to see if he’s got an opinion about what happened. He says all the right things, but who knows what he, or Darwin, or both of them might be up to. I tell him to send twenty grand to the nervous kid who made the bomb, and add it to my bill.

  “We were lucky to find him on such short notice,” Lou says.

  “Keep him on the payroll. The kid knows his bombs. What’s his name?”

  “Joe Penny.”

  “Good kid,” I say.

  “I’ll tell him you said so.”

  We hang up and I think about what Darwin asked. How would I feel if I’d shot an innocent woman in the back? Thinking about it now, I can’t imagine I took a chance like that. But at the time, when I was in the moment, it seemed obvious.

  And maybe that’s the real difference between a hit man and an assassin.

  42.

  I’m in the rental car, heading to Lucky’s house.

  I called Gwen after landing, but got no answer. I thought about leaving a message, but I’m the world’s worst when it comes to voice mail. If Gwen isn’t waiting up to let me in I’ll sleep in the car. In fact, I’ll sleep in the car anyway, and make Lucky happy.

  This guy Lucky never warmed up to me after I threatened to kill him. Nor was he thrilled I made Hampton Hill feel him up. Nor will he be pleased to learn I spent two hours fucking his wife instead of guarding him. Hell, when Gwen and I run off together he’ll probably be upset about that, too.

  It’s like my grandpa often said: “There’s just no pleasing some people.”

  I’m a mile away from Lucky’s when I realize something is terribly wrong up ahead. The road is flat, the horizon full of colors. The kind of colors cop cars and ambulances make.

  The line of cop cars starts a hundred yards before Lucky’s gates, and continues fifty yards beyond. There are a dozen cars in Lucky’s front yard, and at least two ambulances. Though it’s after midnight, there’s traffic, and it’s crawling as people crane their necks to gawk. Two cops are directing, telling everyone to move along. I want to say something, but can’t. If I ask what’s happened, the cops’ll tell me to move along. If I tell them I’m Lucky’s bodyguard, all hell will break loose. They’ll want to know where I was, what I was doing, who was I with, why wasn’t I here, and of course, I’ll become their primary suspect. They’ll start looking into my past and see I have none. This will raise eyebrows and next thing you know, I’m in lockup.

  What’s the best thing that can happen at that point? That someone in San Francisco took my picture on their cell phone and help me establish an alibi? That I won’t be in trouble for whatever happened at Lucky’s because I was busy setting off a bomb and killing people in San Francisco?

  No thanks.

  As I slowly pass Lucky’s entrance, I stop as long as I can and crane my neck, same as all the others did. Except that I’m looking for Lucky and Gwen among the two dozen people talking and taking pictures around the gate, in the yard, and around the house. I don’t see either of them, but I do see two large blankets covering two large bodies next to the gates. My best guess is someone killed the gate goons, and Lucky called the cops.

  I don’t think Lucky and Gwen are hurt, because if someone planned to kill them, they’d have to kill the gate goons first. You say obviously they did, but I say why leave them lying on the ground? If, after killing the gate goons, you still had to kill Lucky and Gwen, wouldn’t you drag the bodies out of plain sight before approaching the house?

  I would.

  So I’m not overly concerned about Mr. and Mrs. Peters.

  I keep moving.

  After passing Lucky and Gwen’s house, I keep driving until I find a little L-shaped neighborhood shopping center that has a sports bar. Business isn’t booming, but the joint’s not empty, either. I find a parking place, go inside, and belly up to the bar. The bartender’s busy, but he nods, and I take it to mean I’m next on his list.

  “You come from the town side?” he says.

  I nod. “Any idea what happened?”

  “From what they’re sayin’…” he gestures to one of the TV’s. “It’s four people dead. All of ’em shot execution style.” He goes on to explain what that means: “Once in the chest, once in the head.”

  I don’t care what he’s saying. I’m suddenly in a daze.

  “Four people?”

  “That’s what they’re sayin’.” He digs some ear wax out of his ear with his little finger, inspects it, then flicks it at the empty space between me and the grizzled drunk who’s sitting two stools down from me.

  “Hey, Benny!” he shouts at the smal
l group crowded around another TV.

  A young guy with a beard and a faded blue work shirt turns around.

  Bartender says, “What’s the latest?”

  Young guy says, “Which one? Airport or Lucky Peters?”

  Bartender looks at me. “You hear about the airport?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bartender nods and yells, “Peters! They identify the bodies yet?”

  “They think it’s him and his wife, and two body guards.”

  “Have they made a positive ID yet?” I ask.

  “Dunno. Want a drink?”

  “It’s a bar, right?”

  “It’s the only bar, three miles, every direction.”

  “Then I’ll have whatever your best bourbon is.”

  “Water, ice, twist?”

  “Are you shitting me?” I growl.

  He stares at me.

  “Straight up,” I say.

  With a heavy heart I toss the bourbon down my throat and join the group huddled around the TV broadcasting news instead of ballgames.

  “They’re showin’ pictures of Lucky and Gwen Peters,” one of them says as I pull up a stool.

  “Anyone here know them?” I say.

  They look around at each other.

  “Just heard of Lucky, is all,” the young guy with the work shirt says. “You?”

  “Nope.”

  The cameras are live, at Lucky’s house. On the screen, they superimpose several photos. There’s a shot of Lucky accepting some sort of giant check. Next, a shot of the vacant lot with a giant sign that says Vegas Moon. Next, a photo of Lucky and Gwen, taken at their Vegas church wedding a few months ago. She’s wearing the same cutoff jeans she had on earlier today. Or yesterday, or whenever it was. She’s got one foot on the floor, other in the air showing off the white lace garter on her thigh. One of the guys says, “Now that there is one fine piece of ass.”

  My mood is so foul, had he insulted her, I would’ve killed him.

  43.

  Carmine “The Chin” Porrello is hard of hearing, I decide, based on the sound coming from the speakers in his theater room. He’s so busy watching the Lucky Peters drama unfold, he doesn’t even notice me standing behind him.