"Who gives a shit when he wakes up?" Cowboy finally answered. "He stays quiet, it's an easier drive."
"What's this about, anyway? He's just some talk-show guy, for Chrissakes."
"That's none of your business."
This wasn't about revenge. They'd been sent to the strip bar, and had mistaken that first businessman they'd assaulted for Bud Stone. Apparently, I'd interfered with their plans to attack him, and then had been seen talking to Bone, so now they'd been told to pick me up. One of them turned up the radio. A repetitive pop hit assaulted my ears. I wriggled my hands and feet to restore circulation. They were bound by plastic police ties.
No James Bond shit tonight, I was just going to have to be patient.
Times like this, you suddenly think about dying. How easy it can be to get taken out. And anyone who claims they don't feel sick to their stomach and loose in the bowels when that happens is lying. Being helpless was the worst part. It was almost too much to bear on top of feeling scared. I'd woken up with my hands tied like this back in Dry Wells, and this wasn't any easier.
We drove on. I drifted in and out of consciousness for quite a while. The head and neck pain probably kept me from going under for good, a dangerous possibility with a concussion. I did sleep a bit; I don't know for how long, and when I focused again my stomach had settled. The drone of the tires changed pitch as the driver slowed down, maybe for a traffic light. It was light out. I fell asleep again.
"Wake up, Clyde," Cowboy said to Windbreaker. "We're here."
My heart kicked. After a few minutes we drove over bumpy ground and came to a stop. They rolled a window down, and suddenly I caught the scent of freshly turned earth and distant sage. It was dead quiet. We were probably in the desert, many hours from Los Angeles. The seatbelt warning pinged. I opened my eyes slowly, wanting them to have time to adjust, and winced. The sunlight hurt my eyes.
It was mid-morning.
"He's awake," the other one said. The one Cowboy had called Clyde. He rolled me over onto my back, leaned down and ripped the taped gag away. My face burned. Clyde looked down coolly. "Don't look like much now, does he?"
"He still looks like more than you could handle," Cowboy said. "Grab his feet, tough guy."
They hauled me out of the van and dumped me on my side in the dirt. The world got sharp and clear. The hills were beautiful and the morning was fragrant with sage flowers. The ground was rich and moist, as if someone had recently planted here and was tending a new garden. Were they going to shoot me now?
"Why?"
At first I didn't recognize my own voice. I'd asked the question aloud. Cowboy ignored me. He pulled out a switchblade knife and flicked it open. I swallowed. He rolled me over, bent down behind me and cut away the plastic bonds. He nicked my skin, but the rush of blood covered that pain with another.
"The fuck you doing?"
Clyde. He didn't seem to like the idea of me getting back on my feet. He backed towards the van and produced a small handgun. I caught a reflection, but not the make and model. I blinked and looked around. We were at some kind of building site. Tractors were moving in the distance, despite the heat. A construction crew was working busily. A new hotel?
"Sit up, Callahan."
I did. Cowboy cut my ankles free. I massaged them, and my wrists. I turned my head and saw a giant complex, a new hotel of some kind. The pieces started to come together. I squinted against the glare, made out a few markers here and there. Found one that said "The Valley of Fire Corporation."
"Can you stand?"
I rolled over, got up onto hands and knees, then to my feet. "I'm okay." I listed to port, and Cowboy caught me. "Maybe not so okay."
He examined my forehead. "You got popped pretty good. Sorry about that. Clyde gets a little carried away sometimes."
"Me?" Clyde was literally shaking in his boots. "The fuck you mean me?"
Cowboy didn't answer. He pushed me at the small of the back. We started walking. They led me across some black asphalt and bright white sand. We moved through a glass door still covered with crosses of beige masking tape and then into a deserted hallway. Rolls of thick, busily patterned carpet lay everywhere, not yet installed. Our footsteps boomed and echoed.
"Thirsty." I sounded like the possessed little girl in The Exorcist.
"In a minute," Cowboy said. He led me into a huge lobby that most resembled a gigantic brass tube. We crossed carpeting, passed a tall planter and some paintings still in their shipping cartons, and then walked over to a pair of glass elevators. Cowboy leaned me against the back wall, punched the top button. The damned thing shot upwards like a carnival ride. I nearly threw up. One hell of a lot of numbers pinged by.
Unlike the lobby, the top floor was finished. Recessed lighting, alcoves with art, thick carpet in a calmer pattern, fountains. We went down a long hall toward huge wooden doors that were partly open. Light came from beyond. The left side of the corridor was all glass. I could see the open desert and reddish mountains outside. As we walked, I stared like a redneck tourist at one stunning collection. Any one of those sculptures would have cost more money than I'd made in my entire career.
We got to the end of the hall, some kind of master suite, where the big boys always come to play.
"I'll wait out here," Clyde said. He was sweating. Cowboy opened the door and led me by the elbow. The room was huge, bright, and everything inside was clear glass or redwood. The effect was to take any light and refract and reflect it into a rich glow, thus the "Valley of Fire."
There was a long conference table, polished well beyond fingerprints. There were two men, one extremely tall, sitting half in shadow near the far end of the table. I could not see their features.
"Good morning, Mr. Callahan."
I didn't react quickly enough, so Cowboy turned me. For a minute, I thought he was going to force me to genuflect. I blinked away the brightness. A portly man in Armani was coming my way, right hand extended. I recognized the face from the file Jerry had sent me. In person, "Big Paul" Pesci was far more immense horizontally than vertically. I shook his hand.
Pesci peered up at me with concern. He glared at Cowboy. His face was pleasant, but the mood changed. "What happened?"
Cowboy cleared his throat. "Uh. . . ."
"Clyde, please come in here," Pesci said. A few seconds later, the big door opened and Clyde came into the room. His arm pits were dark with sweat. Big Paul motioned with a finger. Clyde came closer, stood next to Cowboy. It appeared my escorts had stepped in it.
"He has been injured. I'm not pleased."
"Boss. . . ."
"Shut up. Can I offer you some breakfast or a coffee, Mr. Callahan? Or some mineral water, perhaps?"
"Some water would be nice." The faux courtesy felt ridiculous, but seemed imminently better than being beaten and kicked, so I figured why not go along with it. "Thank you."
"Eric, get the man a drink."
So Cowboy's name was Eric. He glided away with the skill of an English butler and left Clyde to face the music. Pesci walked around Clyde, carving a tight circle like a farmer examining an animal up for auction. He was posturing for my benefit, demonstrating his virtually limitless power. This was his world, and he wanted me to know it.
"Clyde, did I not give you precise instructions regarding Mr. Callahan? That he was not to be harmed?"
Clyde was screwed either way. Either he was calling the boss a liar, or he'd fucked up. No wonder he was sweating. I glanced around, first over at Cowboy Eric, who was taking his sweet time with that bottled water.
On the other side of the conference table, the tall man was easing his chair back. He stood. I flinched. The bastard had to be six-eight or so. I could now see his chiseled face and hungry expression. The big man had a shaved head and the eyes of a junkyard dog. Meanwhile Pesci circled Clyde. That big guy didn't move closer, just stayed on his feet as if waiting for orders.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pesci," Clyde whispered.
Pesci turned his look to E
ric, who finally brought a glass with ice and a bottle of sparkling water. He poured me some and I drank it down. Pesci couldn't get a rise out of Eric. Cowboy was cool under fire. He kept his face pleasant and tried to wait things out. I moved out of the shadows and away from Clyde. The sun roared in the window and made my skin feel hot. What the hell. . . .
"It was my fault," I said, letting them off the hook. "I didn't give these guys a chance to explain. Thought I was being jumped and fought back."
At the end of the conference table, where the shades were drawn, cool shadows shifted. The huge man sat down again. He looked vaguely disappointed, and a bit bored. The balding younger man next to him had balled his hands into fists. I saw them relax again. My two new friends Eric and Clyde looked about ready to cry.
I turned back to Pesci. "I don't know where he is."
"Mr. Stone."
"I saw him at the club that night and he asked me for a favor. I haven't talked to him since."
Pesci waved me over to some easy chairs. We sat down to talk. Eric and Clyde decided to hold up the wall nearest the door. I'd be willing to bet their knees were shaking.
"We could have done this over the phone, you know," I said to Pesci with a frown. "Your guys have seen too many movies."
Pesci laughed. "Maybe, maybe. However, these days, with the government spying on everybody, it seemed more prudent to ask you to come in for a visit, a little bit of face time. And when we're done, there will be some chips for your favorite casino, a girl if you want. Believe me I'll make it up to you."
"No need. And like I said, I don't know where he is."
"Oh, I believe you."
My turn to be surprised. "Then why are we doing all this?"
"I'm going to go out on a limb here and trust you," Pesci said. "You'll understand why in a minute. Hear me out. Your friend Bud has made a very serious mistake, and then appears to have compounded it again while trying to make it right."
"I'm listening."
"As a result of these actions, he may now have something I need very badly, something which is of no value to him but of huge significance to me. And I do mean huge. If you help me, you keep your friend alive. It's that simple."
I finished the glass, poured another to buy time. "I'm still listening."
"Nicky, come here."
It took me a second to realize Pesci was calling the big man over from the conference table. The sun vanished. It was like watching Godzilla take Tokyo on television when I was a kid. The guy sat down a few feet away. He did not offer his hand. Our eyes met and I felt someone walk on my grave.
"Nikolaou Argetoianu," the giant said softly. "Some call me Little Nicky. You may call me Nick."
"Nick, meet Mick." Pesci giggled at the poor joke. We didn't.
Nicky continued smoothly, with only the slightest trace of an accent. Yugoslavian, maybe? Eastern Europe for sure. "I represent the people who have bankrolled Mr. Pesci in this casino endeavor, Mr. Callahan. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that these are very important people. At this point we are merely asking for your assistance in a business matter. If you fail to cooperate, at some other juncture, things could become . . . messy. You understand?"
I understood well enough to feel queasy again. Oh, man. Bone, what have you gotten us into?
"Mr. Stone borrowed a lot of money, one hundred thousand dollars with interest, to be precise. Therefore he owes Mr. Pesci almost one hundred and twenty thousand as of today. The clock keeps running. And then there is the matter of another of Paul's associates, one Mr. Rico Diaz."
"He's an associate?" Nicky was saying that poor Bone owed money to another arm of the Pesci syndicate without knowing it, all because of Faber and Toole and their shenanigans. Good news and bad news. You owe a lot of cash, but it's kind of all in the same place. Oh, and there's more going on than you think.
"Just so, thus unfortunately, your friend also owes Mr. Pesci another fifty thousand dollars for a missing shipment of quality marijuana." He pronounced the word perfectly, like a man also fluent in Spanish. This Nicky was smart, in addition to being genuinely scary. "Despite the shooting of the mule, Paul has indicated that he will forgive any interest owed in this instance. He just wants payment in full."
I turned to the mob boss. "Mr. Pesci, my understanding is that it was Toole and Joey Faber that took you down, not Bud Stone. In fact, they ripped him off for his original investment, stole that shipment of grass and skipped town with everything, leaving him holding the bag. So whatever it is you're looking for, they're the guys you want."
"Perhaps," Pesci said. "But there is more to the story. Tell him, Nicky."
In a voice devoid of emotion, Nicky told me that some tough bastard had just gone after a gang leader and violent porn maker named Gordo. Someone with military experience, who'd disarmed and disabled bodyguards and used torture to make Gordo talk. It had to be Bud, intending to score enough cash to buy his way out of trouble. I didn't ask how they knew all these specific details, didn't want to know.
I finished the water to buy time. "If it was Bud, and if he got away with a ton of cash, he'll contact you to pay you back. Be patient."
Pesci shook his head. "We can't take the risk. He could run."
"Bud doesn't care much for rules, but he's an honorable man. And he knows you'd have him followed to the ends of the earth just as a matter of principle." I thought about Brandi DeLillo and hoped she and Jerry were safe. "He won't run. Bone won't put his family at risk that way. He wants this over. Frankly, so do I."
"Then listen carefully," Nicky said. He leaned closer. He had terrible breath, vaguely like fish food. "This Gordo person probably told your friend way too much for his own good. Not the entire picture, it was not entirely known by him, but possibly enough to endanger our operation. Believe me, Gordo was a fool to steal from us. We make your friend look like Mother Teresa. To make matters worse, Gordo talked, he gave your friend whatever he had hidden in the house, perhaps fifty thousand dollars in cash, some hard drugs. Most importantly, a package that was intended for me."
"This just keeps getting worse, doesn't it? This Gordo character sounds pretty low-rent. How did he get his hands on your property?"
Nick closed his eyes as if bored. "A bonded international courier was bringing in something from my associates, Mr. Callahan, something of tremendous importance. It was in a briefcase, rather like diamonds, and padlocked to her hand. She came to the United States on a private jet, and flew First Class from New York to Los Angeles. Someone intercepted her there and stole from us. Someone ruthless, who passed the item through Faber to Gordo."
"Ruthless?"
"My courier has not been found, just the empty briefcase and her hand. It had been severed at the wrist."
My stomach lurched at the image. "That someone plays rough."
"He deals in hard drugs and distributes snuff films."
Gordo. "Can you tell me what we're looking for?"
"I will tell you this much." Nicky held his hands apart as if to outline something the size of a compact disc. "The item in question is a small computer disc in a black plastic container. Mr. Callahan, see to this. I need it back, and at once."
His tone grated. "Write out a message. I'll tell him when he calls."
Nicky patted my hand. The touch made my skin wiggle. "Mr. Callahan, upon due consideration, I don't think I like you."
"Oh, that feeling is mutual."
He showed his feral teeth. "But of course."
"Mr. Callahan," Pesci said impatiently, "these are very substantial people, by that I mean Nicky's bosses, the guys that want that disc back. They are international players, okay? Very big-time. Give me a hand here, I'll make it worth your time."
Somebody else had already given a hand. I said, "I doubt that."
"This European cartel, for lack of a better term, represents ultra serious money, and I do mean the kind of loot that can wipe out a big bank or a small country at a moment's notice. They can buy and sell the rest of us with po
cket change. That's why I'm in business with them. You understand."
"So." Nicky sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. "Think hard. Where could your friend go to hide?"
"Not his wife or son. Not me again. I'll have to poke around." I chewed some ice. "Gentlemen, Bud doesn't know what he's got, does he?"
"No," Pesci said, "he doesn't. And it is best for him that he never finds out."
"Then I don't want to know, either. I won't ask for any more details. Let me see what I can do."
"Fine." Pesci got to his feet. Nicky remained seated, a gesture that somehow oozed arrogance and scorn. Pesci said, "If you do not wish to tell us where he might be, locate him yourself. Just retrieve the item we need. And please know that you have very little time before matters come to a head."
I blinked. "Then get me home."
"Also, this must be said." Nicky slowly picked at his nails. "If you help, both you and your friend Mr. Stone shall remain breathing and above the ground. If you fail, or try to leave town, people will get hurt."
I got up, hoping my own size would serve to intimidate somebody. It didn't work. "What do you mean by that?"
"Let me make this easy. I shall be even more specific. We know about Jerry Jover, Señorita Hernandez, and your friend Hal Solomon, for example. You must find Bud Stone, Mr. Callahan, or someone you know and love will die."
I almost went for him. The big man just looked up at me with sleepy eyes and smiled. I sighed. "Know what, Nicky? Fuck you."
"Fuck me?" Nicky chuckled. "We shall see."
The air got thick. Pesci knew he'd lost control of the room. He blustered a bit, and then gave up. He waved to his men. "Eric, Clyde. Give Mr. Callahan a few hundred in cash and put him on the next plane."
Eleven
McCarran International. Chirping slot machines, winking lights, the stench of booze mixed with stale cigarette smoke. Old folks in wrinkled polyester yanked handles or pushed bright buttons mindlessly. Small, unobtrusive signs listed the number of Gambler's Anonymous. The Vegas airport was already mobbed with people heading back to the LA area. Clyde waited in the parking lot, but Eric the cowboy walked me to the escalator. He looked down at the carpet and screwed around with the toe of his boot.
One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel Page 9
