The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  And I'm not disappointed.

  We barely have her front door closed when she's on me. We lock lips and, hands wandering everywhere, stumble toward the bedroom, shedding clothes as we go. I'm in nothing but boxers and socks by the time we're beside a bed as big as the average bedroom, and she's in black lace thong panties and a bra that smacks of Victoria's Secret and barely hides what won't be a secret for long.

  It this day of body ink, it's my pleasure to wander over her body from beautiful brunette hair to scarlet toenails and not find a scribble. She has a body that needs no decoration.

  We finish a first bout, both gasping for breath, before she confesses. "You smell like a drunk tank…don't get me wrong, it was worth the whisper of old drunks…but let's hit the Jacuzzi before we get down to serious stuff."

  I'm dying to ask if what we'd been doing wasn't serious stuff, and if not, what was in store for me, but even as tired as I am I find myself un-sated. She gets up and heads for the john, and I get the full view of her athletic long limbed form. The lady doesn't have two percent body fat, and not a sign of a tan line.

  I can't help but whistle as she walks away, the morning sun streaming through her bedroom sliding glass door and painting her tan body golden. She flashes me a smile over her shoulder as she disappears into her master bath.

  It appears post-coital talk will have to be post-post-coital. Some things just have to wait. As much as I want to search her brain, I guess it will have to wait until after I continue to research her incredible body.

  This quest for information is hell!

  I'm pleased to say I leave her apparently well satisfied, as she's belly down enjoying the quiet murmur of deep sleep, one arm hanging off the edge of her bed, her long hair askew, uncovered in the glorious state she was created. Were I less of a gentlemen, I'd have used the very good camera on my little iPhone, but that would be taking advantage. I guess Pax will just have to take my word for how incredibly beautiful, and thankful to her white knight, she was and I hope will continue to be.

  Trust me, it was worth being hammered by two talented Vegas detectives for six hours.

  By the time we actually closed our eyes, I'd had twenty minutes of profitable conversation where she related that her former boyfriend, who remained un-named, had flown the coop with his daughter, due to a dangerous entanglement with some Mexican gentlemen, and at the behest of the Feds, but had promised to contact her as soon as he's settled.

  She's told me the truth, but hasn't told me anything I didn't know, or presumed, already.

  I manage three hours sleep, and have to call Pax to tell him I can't get to lunch until half past noon. We settle on a favorite Chinese restaurant on Tropicana, and I'm only five minutes late.

  The hell of it is, these scumbags are after her, obviously, trying to make a point with Raoul, I imagine. So she's not safe. I leave her a note, suggesting she find someplace else to stay until this rats' nest of cartel scumbags is cleaned out or they get to Raoul and are satisfied that their vengeance is taken, whichever comes first. I also suggest that she get some protection, and it'll have to be private. I have a buddy in Reno and I don't think the five hundred a day he charges will dent the deep pockets of O'Reilly and Rosenlieb, so I tell her in the note that I'm calling him and asking him to come down, and if she doesn't want to pay him, I will. I also leave the .38 on her bedside table, with it's own note, which basically says for her not to answer the door for anyone, and to point and pull the trigger should need be.

  Skip Allen is another Marine recon buddy, like Pax, who went into private security when he mustered out with a pair of burnt lungs from breathing fire. But he's one hundred percent now, and a two hundred forty pound bad son of a bitch if you're on his bad side.

  I'm glad I brought my car, but I hate to leave her alone, even for a short time. My first call from the Vette is to Detective Andre Bollinger. I insist that they patch me through to him and he doesn't sound happy when he answers.

  "Bollinger, this is Mike Reardon. I've got private protection on the way to watch over Miss Rosenlieb, but you need to station somebody at her condo until they arrive. They're coming from Reno, so it'll be most of the day."

  "Who the fuck do you think you are, Reardon? Vegas PD doesn't do bodyguard duty."

  "Fine. If the cartel cuts her head off this morning I'll call the Review-Journal and tell them good old Andre and Vegas PD knew she was in danger and did nothing about it. I'm recording this call by the way."

  He's quiet for a moment, then snarls, "Fuck you. However, I guess we can spare a car for a couple of hours."

  "I'll call you when and if I can get back there. In the meantime, take care of business."

  "You're a pompous asshole, Reardon."

  "True. Keep her alive until I get back there. I'll show you my humble side by buying you a steak and a couple of shooters."

  "So long as I don't have to have your company while I eat it."

  He hangs up, and my next call is to my buddy Skip, and thank God he answers. He has a current job, but it's one he can leave. So like the good buddy he is, he agrees to catch the next flight to Vegas. When he complains slightly, I remind him that it was he who put Sharon Janson Zamudio in touch with me. He started this whole mess. He’s sheepish, and I jump on it. I agree to pick him up at McCarran and provide him with wheels. He'll call me back with an arrival time.

  Pax is waiting patiently at the restaurant. After I fill him in on my exciting afternoon and evening in the pokey as we're dusting off two platters of pot stickers, black mushrooms and chow mien, he passes me another thumb drive and we finish the last bite of fortune cookie, with his admonition. "These are very, very bad boys, Mike. Why don't you forget this whole damn thing?"

  I smile tightly. "I know you've seen some bad stuff, Pax, but this thing in Santa Barbara is burned in my brain, and I don't think it'll ever go away, and certainly won't if I don't get some satisfaction for the lady. As it is, every time I close my eyes I get a flash of this beautiful woman, headless. I've got to make this end, not only for her sake, but for mine."

  He sighs deeply. "Take a look at the stuff on the thumb drive. The American side of this bunch of scumbags is headquartered in Calexico, best I can ascertain. The Mexican half is in Hermosillo. You're only outgunned about five hundred to one."

  "Yeah," I say with another tight grin, "but I got you."

  He ignores that. "But some of them are closer. They hang out in North Vegas in a Bodega out next to a recycling center…junkyard to you…near the Woman's Correctional Center on North Lamb."

  This is more than I could have hoped for, so I wave the waitress over for some more green tea. I shake my head in wonder. "How the hell do you come up with this stuff?"

  He gives me a half-shrug. "Captain of the vice squad, DeAngelo, has a lousy firewall on his home computer and takes his work home with him. If he ever discovers he's been compromised, his people will think it was from somebody in Calcutta."

  "You're the man."

  "I may be, but the man who you're interested in is Beltran Corrado, needless to say a Latino, but one here legally, born in San Antonio. He runs things in Vegas, and probably all of Nevada, for the Oxiteca Cartel. He's a bad hombre. One bad eye, tall, thin, and totally ruthless."

  "A bad eye? You got a picture of him on the drive? The guy on the passenger side of the red van had a bad eye. Tall, thin…. And the prick slipped away."

  "Nope, no one has a picture of him other than surveillance at a distance. But his description is six feet two and only a hundred seventy five pounds…but guess what?"

  "Don't tease me."

  "He flew to Santa Barbara a few days ago along with two of his pukes. Chaco Chavez and Enrico Alverez…at least those were the names on the reservation. I do have booking photos on those two. Chaco is covered with black ink…prison tats…and Enrico has a scar from ear to chin and is a very big guy. I'm surprised they didn't make him pay for two seats. They'll be hard to miss."

  "Bingo," I say,
feeling the heat rising in my backbone.

  "Alverez got a speeding ticket in Goleta on the day your lady was killed. He was driving a Dodge belonging to Tony Gomez, who owns a gardening service in Santa Barbara."

  "Double bingo." Goleta is a little university town where the Santa Barbara airport is located.

  He eyes me carefully, clears his throat, and asks, "So, what is your next step?"

  "Revenge, retribution. I'm going to send four scumbag fuck-heads to burn in hell, that's what."

  15

  Pax takes a deep breath, a sip of his tea, and a moment before he replies. "I've never known you to just kill somebody. I mean, other than another combatant."

  I smile a little sardonically. "I didn't say I was going to shoot them down like dogs. They'll know why and who's sending them to hell, and it'll pass muster when I do."

  "So, you're gonna antagonize them first. Sounds dangerous as hell."

  "Shit happens. Sometimes you gotta rattle the big dog’s cage."

  "How about the other four hundred and ninety six of them, if my estimate is correct?"

  "Find out who ordered Carol's head removed, and I'll add them to the list."

  He shakes his head. "Mike, me lad, you’re over the edge. Shades of Iraq and that didn't end well for you."

  "Maybe, maybe not. I'm doing work I like; I just climbed out of the sack, satiated, and left a beautiful woman hopefully equally satisfied. And I'm going to be able to sleep like a baby…as soon as these cartel boys meet their maker."

  As we exit the restaurant, my phone goes off with the unknown caller tone.

  "What can I do for you?" I answer.

  "Reardon, it's Rico."

  "To what do I owe the pleasure of your call, Mr. Zamudio?"

  "We got a package delivered to the front gate last night. And it's not a pleasant one."

  "Your daughter-in-law?"

  "Yep. I've called the Vegas PD and they're on their way here now. Are you making any progress?"

  "Who knows," I reply.

  "I just thought you should know, since you're part of our team. Don't bother dropping by, as we'll be out of here as soon as the cops do their thing. Somebody will check with Weatherwax to see how you're doing if you don't answer this number."

  "I won't be stopping by. Your place isn't on my dance card. And the only team I play on is my own. Have a nice trip."

  "Find my granddaughter."

  "Doing my damnedest."

  "Someone from my team will be checking with Weatherwax daily." He, too, hangs up without bothering with goodbye. Where have people's manners gone?

  I have four critical things on my plate. First is to make sure Miss Wallace Rosenlieb is safe and secure; second, to take care of my van which is in dire need of repair; third is to check back with Miss Crystal Janson as I’m a little worried that she too may be in peril, and fourth, which is the item I’m most looking forward to, is to recon these scumbags out in North Vegas and figure out how to set them up for a long overdue trip to hell. And of course I have to pick up the blonde giant Viking, Skip Allen, at the airport and get him where he can be Wally’s guardian angel for a while.

  Pax has put me onto a repair shop, coincidentally in North Vegas. After I call on Wally and check to make sure the local PD is on the job, I’m heading for Gonzalez Body and Frame. I’m almost to her condo when my phone goes off. I’ve fallen into the Bluetooth mode like the rest of the U.S. and have one of those little earpieces in place. I press it to answer.

  "Guess what?" Pax begins.

  "You’re a real kick in the butt with all these guessing games."

  "You may be about to be kicked in the butt, and maybe a few times in the head, which might serve to clear the cobwebs. Two guys with bad attitudes just left here."

  "Seems the bane of my existence these days. And to what great pleasure do you owe this visit by bad attitudes?"

  "They were looking for my buddy Mike Reardon. Both carried badges from the Federal Marshal’s service. The tall one, Patterson, has one of those nice little. Fiberglas casts on his wrist. The other, a short, stocky Greek gentlemen, Myconas I think he said, has a shiner and a fat lip. Funny thing was I recognized the two of them as you had me dig up a report on them a few days ago."

  I can’t help but chuckle. "I believe I met them in a stairwell in Ventura. They didn’t mention a warrant for my arrest?"

  "No, they said they merely want to have a conversation with you...but you know how folks lie these days."

  "You think?"

  "I told them I'd heard through the grapevine that you’d gone to Alaska on a fishing trip."

  "Yeah, you’re right about how people lie these days."

  "Watch your back."

  "And sides and front," I say, and we part phone company.

  The blue and white is parked across the street from Wally’s condo, and a young swarthy looking patrolman is reading the paper. I surprise him when I coast up in the Vette, and race the engine. He jumps and looks up quickly.

  "Hey, pardner," I say, and my tone is not pleasant, "these guys who might be coming after Miss Rosenlieb will grease your ass without bothering with good morning, so if I were you, I’d stay vigilant."

  "And who might you be?" he asks, setting the paper aside.

  "I’m the guy who doesn’t want to slip up on you only to find you stitched with nine millimeters."

  "That’s not an answer," he says, feigning aggression. He’s actually feeling a little foolish.

  "Ask Detective Bollinger, who put you on this gig. Just take my advice and stay alert. You don’t want your kids to be orphans and your old lady to be stupping another guy in month or so."

  "I’m not married," he says.

  I shrug and drive on. But I see in the rear view mirror that he does not pick the paper back up. Again my phone goes off. This time the ring is the Theme from The Vikings, Oden, and I know it’s my Viking buddy Skip. He tells me he’s due to hit the airport in an hour and a half, which will give me time to make a drive by of the Bodega where the cartel boys hang out, and visit Gonzalez Body and Frame and hopefully get them going on the van.

  I let the Vette idle past a surprisingly nice building housing what a sign on it's sidewall advertises as a Brazilian Bodega, actually a small mini-market with gas pumps. The signs outside advertise a carniceria, a meat market, so the place is a little more than a mini-market. However, since the signs are in Spanish, not Portuguese, it's a long ways from Brazilian. It’s an "L" shaped building, low, flat roofed, with a half dozen "too nice" cars parked in the rear, all of them a Mexican’s wet dream. I wheel the Vette around and circle the building. A dumb looking dude is leaning on a metal door at the rear of the "L" and there are no windows in the back section. He’s not one of the three guys who escaped the burning red van, although I didn’t get a good look at the two who bailed out of the back, leaving Wally to roast. He eyes me carefully as I pass. I give him a glance like he's something stinky stuck to the bottom of my brogan, then look away as I don't want my features burned in his brain. Not that it matters much, as I hope to empty his skull of it, into a pile of gray matter comprising what little brains all the boys inside might have, as I’m sure they’re the scumbags who visited Sharon, the former Santa Barbara beauty.

  I’m hardly ready to challenge the scumbags, so I gun it and head for Gonzalez Body and Frame, make arrangements for them to tow the van to their place, get a promise that they’ll have it in less than a week as I agree to take used parts, then head back to the mini-storage on Tropicana to clean it out and store the stuff, including my Harley, in my mini-storage unit. I’ll let Skip drive the Vette after I pick him up and he takes me back to climb on my bike.

  Skip is a great guy and an even better friend, but he’s got some dark places that he won’t let even his best buddies visit, places carefully mortared together and shaped and shaded by dark deeds none of us want to recall, but few of us can forget. When one charges into a waddie in Iraq or Afghanistan only to see an armed haji lo
ose a few rounds in your direction before retreating into a back room, and rather than charge in blindly you chuck a grenade and hit the deck, and then charge in as the dust clears...and a back door stands open and the haji is gone, but a three year old girl and her baby brother are bleeding out on the dirt floor and the scent of hot blood floods your nostrils and utter heart-rending remorse and disgust fill your head...well, those are sights, sounds, smells and dark deeds not easily put to bed until washed into unconsciousness with a bottle of Jack Daniels. None of us talk about what visits us in the night, but all of us who’ve puked our guts up over deeds done that can never be undone, have gargoyles creeping through our heads who laugh crazily, do back flips, and awaken us in sweat soaked bedding. Fighting an enemy who is dressed just like the friendlies around him is a sure path to a future of dry mouth and sleep only greased liberally with booze or dope. And Skip greases more than the rest of us. Still, I love him, and for good reason, just as I’d lay down my life for the Pax man.

  Skip's easy to spot as he's a half head taller than anyone exiting the building, has on cargo pants, combat boots and a muscle-fuck t-shirt advertising some weight lifter's supplement. The T's so tight it's about to split at the seams. Blonde curly hair that could pass for an Afro if it were black and longer sticks out from under a cameo bill cap. He walks like a man with a purpose…and you don't want to get in his way. He's got a small duffle thrown over his shoulder, the extent of his luggage. He knows I'll provide whatever hardware he might need. Still, his blue eyes only glint with a smile for a second, and then you can see deep into them, the depth of a hard life laced with blood and guts, demons and dead dreams.

  I yell "Semper Fi" and he quickly fills—and I mean two hundred seventy pounds fills—the passenger seat, grunts, and pushes it as far back as it'll go. The duffle fills his lap, covering muscled thighs as thick as basketballs.