Body Guard

by Rex Burns

  “Any idea how tall he was?”

  “Not as big as you.” She shrugged again. “I don’t know, average height maybe.”

  The vague description fit Vinny Landrum. “How long did he stay at Atencio’s?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see him come out. I just happened to be looking out the window when he came in, is all.”

  “Do you know what time it was?”

  “Couple hours ago, I guess. Just before my husband come home from work.”

  “Did Atencio have many visitors?”

  She shook her head, dark curls wagging stiffly. “He was real quiet. A good renter—paid up every month. I seen him around in the daytime last few days, though. Thought maybe he got fired or laid off or something. He didn’t say nothing about it, though.”

  “Did he ever talk about any friends?”

  “No. Just paid the rent and went to work as far as I could see. How long’s it going to take for the police to get here? I’m going to have to clean that place.”

  It didn’t take long once Bunch called. There were always patrol cars cruising that corner of northwest Denver. When the uniforms arrived, Bunch and Kirk made their statements to an officer while they waited for the homicide and forensics teams to get there. Then they said the same things all over again to Sergeant Kiefer. He also wanted to learn a lot more about what Kirk and Bunch knew of Atencio’s role in the Advantage case, why they just happened to come by for a visit, and why—as with Chris Newman—the people they visited just happened to be dead.

  Devlin said, “We wanted to ask him some questions, that’s all. We thought he might know something more about the people at the other end of the operation.”

  “All right, Kirk. Wait over there. I’ll get back to you.”

  It was almost ten when the crime scene was finally buttoned up and Kiefer, yawning and rubbing bloodshot eyes, finally closed his notebook. He tucked it into a pocket of his dark blue blazer. “You give a set of your prints to forensics?”

  “Yeah. But we didn’t touch anything except the door.”

  “Which was unlocked? Same as the Newman case?”

  Bunch lied. “Like I told you.”

  “And of course you’ve got no idea who that person was Mrs. Ramirez saw.”

  Both men shook their heads. “When you find out,” said Devlin, “let us know.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Kiefer sealed the door with a police lock and a Day-Glo orange sticker. “What happened to your ear, Bunchcroft? Girlfriend cross her legs?”

  “Naw, your wife bit me. You know how excited she gets. Then again, maybe you don’t.”

  “Funny son of a bitch, ain’t you?” He paused at the door of his unmarked sedan. “You people know more than you’re telling me. If it turns out to be accessory after or obstruction, I’m going to have your asses.”

  “Hey, Kief!” Bunch raised both hands, palms out. “We wouldn’t lie to you. Would we, Dev?”

  “No way.”

  They waited until the police officer’s white car turned out of sight, its exhaust a plume of steam in the cold air.

  “I think we talk to Arnie Minz,” said Devlin.

  “Yeah. He’s all we got left, now.”

  Arnie wasn’t happy to be pulled out of bed to answer the door. He was even unhappier to hear the name Vinny Landrum.

  “I don’t know him.” He kept his arm across the doorway and spoke through a short length of chain.

  Bunch tilted a photograph and pushed it through the slot. It showed two men sitting together on a park bench, heads bent in conversation. “That’s Vinny on the left. The one he’s talking to is you.”

  “You people cops?”

  “No. We people are looking for Vinny.”

  “I don’t know where he is. I mean that.”

  “Have you talked to him today or yesterday?”

  Minz hesitated. Beneath the ragged fringe of mustache that made up for the thinning hair over his eyebrows, the tip of his tongue slid pinkly across his lip.

  “He owes us something, Arnie. We’re looking only for him.”

  “Who are you guys? Who you with?”

  “We’re not cops. Just leave it at that, okay?” Bunch put both hands inside the crack of the door and sucked in a deep breath. His expanding chest popped the chain and stumbled Minz back into his living room, where the single floor lamp made circles of light, one on the beige carpet, another on the canted ceiling with its rectangle of dark skylight.

  “Hey—no rough stuff, now! I told you I don’t know where Landrum is. That’s the truth. I’m not looking for trouble with you.”

  “Good. We’re not looking for trouble either. Just Vinny Landrum.” Devlin closed the door quietly behind them. “When did he call you?”

  “This morning. Maybe about eleven. He—ah—wanted to know about a business deal we had going.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “Well, that’s all there is—a business deal. It went down yesterday and I sent the money like he told me: a post office box over in Littleton. It should of got there this afternoon. Like I told him.” Minz repeated, “It was a one-shot deal—we did our business and he got his share like he asked. That’s all I know about the guy.”

  “Did he ever mention a Johnny Atencio?”

  Minz shook his head, pulling his silk robe tighter around his neck. “I know he had some other people working with him. But he didn’t say who. We didn’t mention names.”

  “When did you do your part of the deal?” asked Devlin.

  Minz hesitated; Bunch leaned forward.

  “Couple days ago. It was all set up and went down real smooth. A one-shot deal. Look, if he got the stuff from you guys, I didn’t know about it. I swear! He told me his connection back east somewhere was shipping it in. That’s all he told me.”

  “And you don’t know where he is?”

  “I don’t! I swear to that.”

  Devlin asked, “Was he worried when he talked to you earlier?”

  “No. Didn’t seem to be, anyway. Just wanted to know if the money had been mailed, and I told him it had and he said thanks, nice to do business. That’s it.”

  Back in Bunch’s Bronco, they sat a few moments before he started the engine. “Sounds to me like he was telling the truth, Dev.”

  Devlin nodded. “Vinny’s holed up somewhere.”

  “Yeah.” Bunch pulled into the empty street toward a distant red light that gleamed icily. “Either because he killed Atencio or because he thinks somebody’s after him.”

  “I don’t figure it’s Minz.”

  Devlin shifted uncomfortably on the seat. “Maybe somebody Minz knows—somebody who heard about the deal and wants a slice of it.”

  Bunch glided the car toward a glowing telephone hood. “Let’s check the tap. Minz’ll be on the phone right now if he’s involved.”

  Devlin waited. A few minutes later, Bunch came back and started the car. “Line wasn’t busy—no recent calls about us.”

  Devlin twisted his torso again. “That leaves the post office box.”

  “Right. That scratch bothering you?”

  “It’s getting sore again.”

  Bunch yawned, his breath fogging the windshield momentarily. “Cuts’ll do that. My ear’s starting to hurt too. Well, screw it—we can’t try the post office until tomorrow. A good night’s sleep and things’ll look better, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  CHAPTER 28

  THE PORCH LIGHT over Mrs. Ottoboni’s front door was burned out, and a weary Devlin Kirk, his sore ribs stiffening his movements, made a mental note to replace it in the morning. He locked his car and crossed the worn concrete of the old sidewalk which had heaved like a string of uneven dominoes from the pressure of tree roots. His shoe scraped on one of the slabs, loud in the silence of the cold street, and the porch boards creaked as he fumbled a moment at the lock before swinging the door open. The only light in his living room came from the faint glow of streetlights filtered through the tall curt
ained windows, and from the gleams of his telephone answerer: faint green for On, a hot red for Message Waiting. He closed the door and flicked the wall switch that lit a small table lamp near the television. In the soft glow, tilted against the wall on a kitchen chair, a wide-eyed Vinny Landrum waited rigidly. He was still wearing the tan trench coat Mrs. Ramirez had described. His mouth—a lipless slit—stretched in a kind of smile.

  “Well, Vinny! What’d you do, come in the back door?”

  Landrum nodded stiffly.

  “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Kirk saw the man’s Adam’s apple bob. The words, when they finally came out, sounded rusty, as if his voice had been unused for a long time. “You see Johnny Atencio?”

  “That’s one of the reasons we’ve been looking. Homicide’s looking too.”

  “For me? I didn’t kill him.”

  Devlin gingerly slipped his jacket off and tossed it over the back of the lounge chair beside the black fireplace. Somewhere across town near the Gates Rubber plant, a diesel train honked a crossing—long, long, short, long. The small sound carried far and seemed to make the night emptier.

  “You switched the dope, Vinny. You and Johnny. You sold the pure to Arnie Minz, and when Johnny wanted his share, you got greedy.”

  Vinny didn’t bother to shake his head. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “You made the switch just before the bust, didn’t you? When you and Johnny were waiting for Scotty Martin to get to the storage locker. You had a two percent mix ready—Arnie Minz’s part of the scam—and hid the real stuff somewhere in your car. Right?”

  Vinny’s voice was flat. “In my locker. Safer. I brought in the mix that morning. When we drove out to the bust, I took that instead of the pure. Next day we went back and got the good stuff. Minz took it off our hands.”

  “That’s why you were so eager to spring Johnny. He’d spill if you didn’t get him out. What’d he do, Vinny? Threaten you for a bigger cut?”

  “I already told you.” He sounded tired of the repetition. “I didn’t kill him.”

  “Who else had motive, Vinny? That’s what Dave Kiefer’ll want to know.”

  The man, still unmoving except for the writhing line of his mouth, glanced past Kirk toward the door of the small study. Devlin heard the familiar sigh of the swinging hinge and turned. A bulky shadow stepped from the blackness of the room.

  Tony Pierson.

  “It was me, Kirk. I had motive.”

  The man held a revolver whose long, awkward barrel bore a silencer.

  “I cut the little fucker’s throat, didn’t I, Vinny?” Pierson motioned Kirk toward the wall with a wag of the revolver. “Vinny watched.” He winked at Devlin. “Almost crapped his pants when old Johnny started singing through his neck. Didn’t you, Vinny?”

  Vinny made some kind of little noise and pressed into the chair back. His toes lifted from the carpet as he dug his heels against the floor.

  “Why?”

  “He ripped me off. Him and shithead here. But he led me to Vinny first. Now Vinny’s led me to you—and guess who’s going to kill each other?”

  “I thought you’d be out of the country by now.”

  Pierson nodded, the motion bringing into the lamplight a swollen, purple lump along the man’s cheekbone. “Figured you might. Maybe I will, later. Maybe I’ll set up another organization. It was a good operation, Kirk. Made me a lot of money before you fucked it over.”

  “Now you’re getting rid of loose ends?”

  Pierson shrugged and tried to hide a wince. “Now I’m getting even. I don’t like being fucked over. Now you’re the fuckee. Let’s see how you like it.” The long, heavy barrel lifted slightly and the man’s eyes said he was through talking. Kirk, his spine rubbing the wall switch, watched the tendons rise on the back of the man’s gun hand. Then he dropped to douse the lamp and in the sudden blackness roll left and low. His head and shoulders curved across the hard floor, sending a fiery rip of pain down his ribs. The spurt of the revolver jabbed toward him, and he smelled the acrid gunpowder and somewhere behind him heard a thud like a light hammer blow. Vinny’s chair clattered as a thicker shadow scrambled crablike along the wall. Kirk lunged for the weapon. A second flare of orange and blue showed a glimpse of Pierson’s face, then Kirk had the man’s wrist and lifted. His knees drove hard up into flesh as his other hand gouged for Pierson’s eyes. His fingers dug into something hairy; a heavy fist thudded against Kirk’s nape and jarred orange and red fireworks across the black of his vision. He wrenched the pistol arm down, smelling the chemically sweet odor of men’s cologne. Pierson tried to twist sideways, his other arm groping for something behind him. Kirk swung blindly, the edge of his hand trying for the neck, the bridge of the nose, the eyes. Something that would stun the man. It bounced off a bristly part of his face, and his breath burst hot and wet at Kirk’s knuckles.

  “Vinny—light!”

  No answer except Pierson’s grunting effort to reach whatever he groped for. Kirk tangled a leg behind the man’s knee and shoved, tilting him over and down hard and through a table that splintered with a high-pitched crackle. This time Devlin caught a glimpse of the face above him and jammed up with his head to butt hard against the jaw, pale in the window light. The impact thudded loudly in Kirk’s ears and numbed his forehead. He felt Pierson go soft. He shook the pistol arm hard and the weapon clattered somewhere. Its heavy barrel skidded off the carpet onto the wooden floor by a wall. Then Pierson began swinging again. A fist caught Devlin on the clavicle and sent an electric fire down his arm. Another pounded at his ribs, where the ripping cut clenched the breath from his lungs and froze him momentarily in airless agony. Pierson felt him sag and twisted hard to roll on top of Devlin and try to pin his arms with his knees.

  “Vinny—pistol—get the pistol!”

  Pierson’s arm lifted and Kirk saw the glitter of steel. He drove a desperate fist with all his strength up into the stomach that stretched above him. A whoosh of air as the knife came down and Kirk rolled, bucking the man over enough to let Kirk wrap a leg around his neck and draw tight. His other leg clamped in a figure-four choke hold.

  “Vinny! Where the hell are you? Get the pistol!”

  The knife hand swung wildly and Kirk caught the man’s sleeve and wrenched the cloth tightly against the wrist to hold the hungry blade from his body.

  “Vinny! Turn on the goddamn light and get the pistol!”

  No answer. Kirk, sweat burning into his blinking eyes, stretched against Pierson’s desperate writhing and tightened his legs. A muffled nasal sound, and the man tried to twist and clamp his teeth into Devlin’s thigh. Devlin squeezed harder. Pierson began to choke with a heavy flop of his torso. The flesh along Devlin’s ribs tore wider from the strain. Pierson finally gave a convulsive twist and lay still, but Devlin kept the pressure tight across the man’s throat. In the silence, he heard his own harsh breath and, he thought, another gasping pant from a dim corner.

  “Vinny … if you’re here … and if you don’t turn on that light … I’ll kill you myself!”

  The lamp bulb popped with a white flash, and a moment later, Vinny found another switch that lit up the kitchen and spilled glare into the broken living room and on the tangle of two bodies still stretched tautly against each other. Kirk had Pierson’s head tightly clamped in the bend of his knee. Both hands pressed against the knife arm in a wrist lock that bent Pierson’s elbow at an unnatural angle. Pierson’s free arm was wrapped in the sogginess of Kirk’s bloody shirt, the fist clutched deep in the red wetness. Vinny, his dry mouth sour with the foretaste of vomit, grabbed the fallen table lamp and swung hard at the back of Pierson’s head. The solid thud tingled his hands, and Pierson’s arm flailed and dropped to leave Kirk gasping loudly and making some kind of wheezing, hurting noise as he slowly untangled from the limp man’s body.

  CHAPTER 29

  IN THE KITCHEN, Mrs. Ottoboni had the teakettle whistling and they could hear her rattle unfamiliarly throug
h Kirk’s counters for rags and cups and whatever it was she thought Devlin needed. Pierson, pale and still unconscious but breathing, lay half propped with his hands tied behind him and his head slightly raised to ease the effects of any concussion. Kirk was in the lounge chair panting lightly against the hurt of his ribs. Vinny walked back and forth between Kirk and Pierson and wiped nervously at the corners of his mouth.

  “I saved your life, Kirk. You owe me.”

  “Who saved—ouch—who?”

  Vinny glanced toward the kitchen and whispered hoarsely: “Me! If it hadn’t been for me hitting that bastard over the head, you’d be fucking buzzard bait now. I saved your life!”

  Somewhere in the distance, the growing wail of a siren worked its way across empty intersections toward the house and the injured men and the weapons that were out of reach on the mantel.

  “You say nothing about the dope, we call it even. I mean, what’s your life worth, Kirk? The dope’s gone anyway. Arnie … . My contact’s already got rid of it, so you can’t pin a goddamn thing on me. I mean, it’s my word against yours that I switched the crap, ain’t it?”

  “Pierson heard you.”

  Vinny chewed his lip. “I was lying to protect you—keep you alive a little longer. I saved your goddamn life—you owe me!”

  “I owe you a swat in the scrotum. You made me look goddamn bad with Dave Miller.”

  The siren was closer now. Probably the ambulance. Sergeant Kiefer would ride cold through the light traffic.

  “Well, it’s your fault as much as mine, damn you! I mean, you set up a deal like that and shoved it under my nose, Kirk. What the hell did you expect? Now I just saved your sorry life! You don’t want to feel grateful, that’s okay with me, man—it just tells me what kind of asshole you really are. You ungrateful son of a bitch!”

  The siren shut off but was still growling as the emergency vehicle slowed in the street outside. Devlin levered himself up on one elbow and tried to breathe through the grip of pain in his side. “You hear me, Vinny: Bunch wants to put you in a blender, piece by piece. And there’s not one thing in this world that can stop him. Not you. Not me. Not God Himself. Unless …”