P N Elrod Omnibus

by P. N. Elrod

  He trotted up the metal exterior stairs and knocked on the Deacons’ door. No reply, but he’d expected that. Kyle usually played with a club band on weekends and Amanda went with him. That detail seen to, Tarrant pulled on surgical gloves and got out his collection of lock picks and skeleton keys, entering the loft about thirty seconds later.

  The place smelled heavily of incense and mildew; the housekeeping exceeded his most pessimistic prediction. Without a maid to look after things, they both proved to be slobs. Clothing, booze bottles, empty beer and diet drink containers littered the floor. Flipping on a light was unnecessary; they’d left several burning, indication of an after-dark departure.

  He made a quick search of the more obvious hiding holes, turning up a wad of fifties and twenties under the futon along with a loaded Glock. Tarrant had never warmed up to the brand. They got the job done, but just didn’t feel right in his hand. He decided this one would work better for him if he took the bullets out of the magazine and did so, dropping them into one of his vest pockets, not forgetting the round in the chamber. He slipped the pistol back into place, wondering if Kyle would notice the weight change. Probably not.

  Along with another Glock (which he also neutered) under the unmade bed, and a third (the owner must be a real fan) in the kitchen, Tarrant found a fine variety of pharmaceuticals: pot, some possible Ecstasy, and bags of small oblong blue pills that might be Xanax. A party-hearty starter set. His roughest estimate put them at a street value close to twenty grand, and these were just what he’d turned up on a surface search. It would be easy enough to make a phone call to have a couple of DEA types waiting there for the Deacons to return, but that would land Amanda in jail. Mrs. Pangford would not be pleased, though time in a lockup might do her step-brat some good.

  How had Kyle gotten the seed money for this kind of stash? Suppliers only sold in bulk, leaving the piss-ant sales to the small fry dealers. He’d need at least five figures to start with, then keep buying more stock with the profit money to build up the trade. Maybe he’d borrowed from a mob shark against his wife’s trust fund without mentioning the down side, like the wife being unable to touch the money. They might get mad at him if they learned the truth. Or they might not care and off them both if anything went wrong.

  Tarrant had an idea about how to turn that to his advantage, but first he had to close the store and dump the inventory.

  He now made a thorough search of the place, finding more illegal chemicals. Strips of LSD blotters lay in plain sight in the freezer. Kyle Deacon might possess a rat’s instinctive cunning, but he was dumb as a brick.

  Tarrant found a metal wastebasket and, after removing the battery from the fire alarm, made a little blaze of the blotters. The pot and pills he ground to oblivion in the kitchen garbage disposal, using gallons of hot water to dissolve everything. After putting the alarm battery back, he left, politely relocking the front door.

  The outside air was sweet and cold. He breathed deep to clear his lungs of the upstairs stuffiness and checked his watch. He’d been at work for over an hour. Not bad. He walked down the street as though he owned it, until he reached the Iguana’s Cave Club. According to regular charges on their cards, it was the couple’s favorite hangout.

  On Saturday nights after ten it changed its name to The Temple, and Goths in the area converged there to see who was the most groveling fashion slave. A slim girl walked past him as he checked the area. She wore a transparent black body suit, only just legal in public by the use of a G-string beneath and a few strips of electrician’s tape criss-crossed over her nipples.

  He grinned. And I’m getting paid to do this.

  He followed her toward the entrance. Though he was obviously of an age to drink, the bouncers asked for ID. He good-naturedly presented one that looked real and was passed in quick so he could pay the cover charge and get his hand stamped. He smiled at the girl ahead of him and wondered where the hell she kept her money.

  Techno music boomed loud in the lobby and grew deafening once he found his way inside. The main dance floor was an oblong pit with platforms at each end for the more extroverted types to show off their physical coordination skills. Both sexes and a few genders in between filled the place. Nearly all were head-to-toe in black with matching dyed hair, lipstick, nail polish, and bits of silver-plated hardware piercing various parts of their bodies. More often than not some of them sported fangs. A round-faced girl flashed hers at him in a teasing way, flicking her studded tongue, trying to look both dangerous and seductive. All he saw was jail-bait. Tattoos, once a male’s rite of passage to prove his toughness or to advertise a military affiliation, were now regulated to being a cliché fashion statement.

  Girls who wanted to be noticed as such were in paint-tight outfits, breasts pushed prominently high by corseting; the boys were either in equally tight jeans or pants so baggy and low on the hips as to make walking difficult and wedgies easy. One male slouched by in a black skirt and combat boots, his too-thin chest and nipple rings on display beneath a net T-shirt. Obviously from the peculiar end of the gene pool.

  Drugs were present. Tarrant didn’t have to see them; as a matter of course he simply noticed their effect on the crowd. There was an artificial quality to their body movements, like actors who’d played the same part too often. What a shame to be so young and world-weary.

  He looked for Kyle Deacon, but the platform where a live band should have been was thick with dancers, not instruments and players. He’d be difficult to spot in this mix of darkness and flashing lights. By the time Tarrant’s night vision adjusted the light show would change or a muffled faux explosion would take place. Then special effects smoke roiled across the flailing dancers and curled up to the ceiling. He’d seen real hell before in combat once upon a time; this was the fantasy version, dramatic enough for the inexperienced, just plain silly to one who knew.

  The music changed to a slower tempo, the driving bass vanishing for an extended phrase of electronic whooshing, like jets taking off. It made a change from the techno beat, which sounded like a breathing exercise for women in the last stages of labor. Amazingly, the kids were still dancing to it, if one could call it that. A tall girl with a too-black curtain of hair swayed in the middle of the pit. She appeared to be tossing invisible pizza dough the way she waved her arms over her head. It did show off her lack of a bra. Nice figure. She might make for a good weekend, providing she didn’t talk.

  Then with gratification he realized that under the dead white make-up she was Amanda Deacon, nèe Pangford. Now that was convenient. So where was Kyle? She didn’t seem to be dancing with anyone.

  None of them did.

  Time to gain a little altitude. Tarrant found stairs that took him to the upper level where a long balcony overlooked the pit. It was lined with tables, the patrons drinking, watching the dancers, or attempting to converse by means of shouting directly into one anothers’ ears. The lighting was a little better. He found a free space next to the rail and searched the shifting faces below. Amanda remained in place, her patience sometimes rewarded when the center spotlight picked her out. He wasn’t sure if she was on drugs or not, but decided it was safer to assume she’d indulged for the evening.

  He didn’t spot Kyle on the floor. The place was big, with a whole second dance area and a deck outside for people to catch fresh air and talk. Tarrant was glad of his nap; this could take all night.

  He made a casual cruise of the upper floor, his gaze not resting too long on any one person. He wanted to look like a someone trying to hook up with misplaced friends, not a man on the hunt.

  Toward the back, seated at a table for two, was Kyle. Finally. Tarrant didn’t miss a step as he passed close on his way to the bar. They served Coke, not Pepsi, overfilled the squat plastic airline cup with ice, and wanted three dollars for it plus a tip.

  God, I hate these joints.

  At the table, Kyle faced an older, white-bearded man who was dramatically out-of-place in this determinedly funereal
setting. He wore a red fedora hat, a well-fitted light brown suit with a shiny yellow brocade vest, polished wing-tips, and had a cane under one hand. His beard was carefully trimmed; reflections off his wire-rimmed glasses hid his eyes. Too classy to be a pimp, he looked like he’d been hired to lend quaint atmosphere to a place already flooded with it. He might have been part of the music business or a misplaced queen who’d wandered in from the Oak Lawn area by mistake.

  Kyle spoke earnestly with him; his body language trying hard to show self-assurance and presenting exactly the opposite. He was nervous, possibly afraid, but attempting to put himself on an equal footing with the fancy-pants. The man in the fedora held to a calm face, a bored sovereign hearing yet another a plea for favor from a supplicant peasant. That was interesting, and considering all the junk Kyle had had stashed in the loft, highly suggestive. Whatever was going on was important. Maybe this was the seed-money source. Tarrant shifted his focus to the hat-man.

  Was he confident enough to hide in plain sight, or a gaudy front for the real entrepreneur? Conspicuously posing was not a healthy way to run a drug business. It could be meant to impress the natives. It seemed to work on Kyle.

  They took their time. The music noise made talking difficult and eavesdropping attempts impossible. Tarrant went back to interpreting body language.

  The man had two guards, big and little. One for raw physical intimidation, the other for martial arts. They looked alert, and were smart enough not to hover too close. They noticed Tarrant. A couple of predators recognizing one of their own. He didn’t want to be mistaken for a cop or a rival supplier; he finished his watery Coke and moved on. No one followed.

  Tarrant found the other dance area. He sat at a table with a view of the front door, but out of view of the upper gallery. He pulled out a pen and wrote lines on a cocktail napkin. They didn’t serve Guinness here, so he settled for an overpriced Shiner and sat back to wait.

  About an hour later Kyle and Amanda walked past. He looked nervously smug; she looked half asleep and staggered against him every other step. Tarrant gave them a two-minute start, then rolled a twenty around his note and went up to one of the door bouncers.

  “Hey, bud, you know that old guy who sits in the back by the upstairs balcony? The one with the red hat?”

  The bouncer only shrugged. “I see ’em, I don’t know ’em.”

  I just bet you don’t. Tarrant held up the bill and the note. “Do me a favor and see that he gets this. I got a fire to put out or I’d go myself.”

  “Must be some fire.” But he took the money. He’d probably read the note, but there was nothing on it that would mean anything to him.

  Tarrant escaped from the noise and smoke. Kyle and Amanda were well ahead of him, but walking slow. Amanda was in a giggling, playful mood, bumping her hip against Kyle and pretending to trip so he had to catch her. He visibly snarled, not in the mood. Tarrant went one block over to the next street, going at a brisk walk until he was way in the lead, then cutting back again.

  His car was unscathed where he’d left it, but alone. Most of the fun seekers had had their fill and departed, freeing up parking spaces. He drove back toward the loft and found a spot close in. Before getting out, he slipped a semi-auto from its concealed bracket under the dash into one of his pockets, hoping he wouldn’t need it. He left the doors unlocked, but that was okay as he’d be within sight.

  Going behind the loft building he went up metal stairs to a fire exit that served as the Deacon’s back door. He picked the lock and left the door ajar. Just in case.

  Back on the street, Tarrant located an alcove between buildings and melded into its shadow. From here he commanded a view of the loft and the parking lot next to it.

  Things were much quieter now. The bars would be closing soon, their patrons either going home or seeking an after-hours club to round off the night. Only one patrol car crept past. As soon as it was gone a tan SUV rolled up not thirty feet away and parked, dousing its lights. His mouth tightened when the smaller of the bodyguards emerged and went up to the loft, entering without trouble. He returned soon after, walking fast, limbs stiff with anger. It looked like Tarrant’s note, helpfully suggesting that Kyle Deacon’s inventory had gone missing, had been taken seriously.

  What the fancy-pants boss’s reaction was remained a mystery, but Tarrant felt the satisfaction that comes from having made the right call. The larger guy came out next. Both bruisers stood ready by the loft building, waiting. Anyone within fifty yards could see they were loaded for bear; Tarrant was considerably closer. He swapped his ball cap out for a Balaclava from a cargo pocket and pulled it on. Running around Dallas looking like an urban ninja would get him arrested, but only if the cops saw him. Tarrant could trust the party in the SUV would be on the alert, telling him if he needed to duck.

  Neither of the Deacons noticed the gathered company until it was too late. Big grabbed Kyle; Little grabbed Amanda. The men knew their job, making sure it was done with a minimum of noise and movement. It helped that their victims were too flatfooted with surprise to make a fuss. Kyle knew better than to try and Amanda was still stoned.

  Both were dragged toward the vehicle, and the rear passenger window slid down. Tarrant got a glimpse of a red fedora. Kyle shook his head a lot, firmly denying whatever he heard from within. He gestured toward the loft, insistent.

  This was the tricky part, waiting for what fedora would do next. Take both kids in the car and drive off or settle things here and now? Tarrant’s hand drifted toward his pistol.

  The bruisers took the couple toward the loft. Tarrant faded from his shadow and sprinted across behind the building. He was up the fire escape and through back door while the unsteady foursome negotiated the stairs. Pulling on his surgeon’s gloves, he doused lights, scanning for a decent weapon. He lucked out, finding a nearly full bottle of vodka. It pleased him that it was a brand he hated.

  Tarrant was in time to get behind the front door just as it swung inward for Little and Amanda. She was whining and cursing and crying all at once, demanding to know what was going on, trying to shake off Little’s grip.

  Kyle was shoved in so hard he skidded and tripped. He didn’t have time to curse as he fell. Neither did Big once he was past the door. Tarrant smashed the heavy bottle in just the right spot on the temple.

  The man may have been of a size, but damn few were tough enough to ignore that kind of greeting. He went sprawling with a grunt.

  Before Little could react, Tarrant gave him a double punch in the back under the ribcage, one for each kidney. He also ceased to be an immediate problem.

  Amanda was just beginning to realize there was another player in the game. She got a clout in the jaw, just enough to ring her bells but not so hard that Tarrant couldn’t use his hand. She dropped. He pulled a small bottle and a fist-sized wad of cotton from another pocket. In moments she was out completely, chloroformed into dreamland. She might be sick later, but better that than dead.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Kyle demanded. He had a gun in hand and it wasn’t a Glock. Big’s coat tail had been yanked up, and if he’d kept a gun in the small of his back it wasn’t there now.

  Tarrant went still, arms out away from his body. “I’m the guy who just saved your life.”

  Kyle got to his feet. “What the fuck are you doing in my place?”

  “Saving you from bad guys,” said Tarrant, leaving out the word “asshole.” He pointed to Big and Little. “They’re here to snuff you and your old lady.”

  “What’d you do to her?”

  There was no good reply to that. Tarrant’s gaze went to something behind Kyle. “Oh, shit!”

  The kid was just dumb enough to fall for that one, and jerked his head in reaction. The wrong end of the gun ceased to point at Tarrant for half a second, which was all he needed. He slammed the bottle of chloroform at Kyle’s face, and dove forward, tackling him. They hit the floor with a solid whump, Kyle on the bottom with all the breath knocked out. Tarrant wrest
ed the gun away and slapped the still wet wad of cotton against the man’s nose and mouth. He didn’t have much fight left and went limp, but Tarrant kept the pressure up until he felt dizzy from the fumes himself.

  He got up, unsteady, and made for the kitchen sink, pulling the Balaklava clear of his mouth just in time. Caramel-colored spit gushed from him, followed by the dry heaves. He ran water and washed the stink from his gloved hands. The place reeked of chloroform. He staggered to the back door, yanked it wide, and gulped air, his head pounding.

  No time for this.

  Fancy-pants might get curious and come check on his troops.

  And Doc will laugh himself silly if I get popped by an old man in a red fedora.

  Can’t have that.

  Tarrant went back for the girl, hoisted her over one shoulder and took her down the back stairs.

  With her belted into his car’s passenger seat, he shifted to reverse and backed down the empty block, then cut a U-turn. He headed south until reaching I-30, then north on I-35 until he found a suitable cheap chain motel. There he checked in using his false ID and paying in cash. The night clerk noted down his car tag numbers anyway, but those were false as well.

  Tarrant carried Amanda into their allotted room, easing her down on the bed. She looked better unconscious, and cleaning off the white makeup would have made her pretty, but that wasn’t in his job description. She’d been removed from the line of fire for the time being, and that’s what mattered. He took off her shoes, tucked her still-dressed under the covers, and adjusted the room’s heater to circulate in some fresh from outside.

  He block-printed a note to her on motel paper.

  Don’t go back to the loft. Cops are after you. If you want help, call.

  He then wrote out a number for a disposable phone. He made sure she had cab fare, dropped the room key on the nightstand, and left.