by L. J. Martin
"What the fuck, over?" he says then laughs if you can call the low grunt he exhales a laugh.
"Another cluster fuck, old buddy. Good odds though, only about two hundred fifty to one, now that you're here."
"Humph," he manages with a tone of disdain as I gun it away from the curb.
He pats the dashboard with some admiration, then asks, "When did you pick up this beauty?"
"A while back, and you'll be driving it and I want it back as pristine as she now is."
"Ain't room in this tight little cockpit to leave any pecker tracks on the seat, so presuming you don't get me and it shot full of holes, odds are you'll get it back as is." He guffaws at this. Then asks, "Where we off to, and what are we into?"
I explain the situation to him, and being the buddy he is, he asks, "My dough coming out of your pocket?"
"Yeah, so what?"
"So I'm okay. I got a good gig going in Reno. If you're working gratis, so am I, but you'll owe me."
"I already owe you."
"Yeah, but now you'll owe me more."
"We'll see how things fall. If we work it right, we might walk away with a score of some kind."
"Whatever."
I idle up beside the patrolman outside of Wally's condo. To his credit he seems alert.
"Hey, pardner, we're here now so you can beat a trail."
He eyes us like we're the problem, not the solution. "I've got to call Detective Bollinger."
"Whatever," I reply, and let the Vette idle alongside him until me makes his call, then hands the phone over to Skip who hands it on to me.
"Yes, sir," I say.
"You got this covered. This is being recorded."
"Touché," I say, and then laugh. "We got it covered."
"Give me back to the officer."
I do, and Skip passes it back, and the officer speaks a moment then nods, starts up his green and white, and roars off as if he's very happy to be gone.
When I introduce Skip to the lady, not having told him she's a flat fox with a body like sculpted iron, he gives me a look as if I'm Santa Claus. I ignore him and ask her to follow us back to Tropicana so I can get my Harley, so she can leave her car parked at the ministorage—so anyone investigating her condo will see her car's gone and think she is as well—and she can ride back to her place with Skip. To my dismay, and some amusement, she eyes Skip up and down and agrees in a heartbeat, then adds, "I do like them big." Then she turns to me, more seriously. "I need to get back to work sometime soon."
"So long as you can take the 'big boy' with you, no problem." Then she turns to Skip, "You got a good book?"
"I'm in the middle of Pride and Prejudice and have Call of the Wild and a half dozen more on my Kindle. I'll keep busy," he says.
She eyes him up and down again and giggles, "Call of the Wild I might understand…Pride and Prejudice…you've got to be kidding?"
"Catching up on the classics," he says, and returns the appreciative gaze from her high heels to her deep green eyes, and I think she's going to melt. Obviously she likes his reading tastes better than my classics—Mickey Spillane, Lawrence Sanders or the Scottish master Alistair MacLean.
I'm now glad I didn't mention that Wally and I spent the night in flagrante delicto—not that a gentleman like myself would—as they are appreciating each other like it could be a long term commitment. Of course, to Skip, two weeks has most often been long term. Still, their appreciation of each other makes me smile.
While at the mini-storage I fetch a Mossberg 12 gauge and a handful of double ought bucks for Skip so he's well armed for his guard-the-lady task.
He drops me off, she leaves her car, and I'm back to work again, riding the Harley.
It's time to get serious.
16
The rear of the bodega is layered double with slick rides two rows deep, all dark, all with tinted windows, a couple of them classics with five grand paintjobs—why one would pay that kind of dough to have something painted purple and another pea green is beyond me—lowered, probably equipped with barrio bouncers that are strong enough to pick the front wheels off the pavement.
I don’t circle the place, as the Harley is a little obvious, but rather roll slowly down the side street. The asshole stationed at the rear door looks fat, until you look a little closer. He’s a greaseball, but one with a neck that looks like the roots of a swamp cypress flaring out from his ears, disappearing into the folds of the hoody lying on his back. I can feel his stare all the way across the lane—my gut tightens—as I rumble slowly and then out of his line of sight and swing into the gas pumps out in front of the place.
Having no interest in using a credit card, even though one of mine would be tough to trace, I park at the pump, wander inside, and throw a ten down on the counter. The little chica behind the counter would be Latin luscious if it weren’t for the spider web tat on her neck and the crimson red eye shadow. She’s wearing tight black leather and Lycra and reminds me a little of a black widow spider. She looks me up and down like I’m a chicken taco, or maybe the proverbial fly, and gives me a wide grin...and damned if she doesn’t have a gold front tooth with a half caret diamond catching the afternoon light.
I glance around and see a hallway next to the cold box, a sign saying "baños," and head that way; the bathrooms, marked "muchacho" and "muchacha," are on either side of the hall and a door at it’s end is marked "Privado, No entrada," but I try the knob and it’s open, so I stumble in looking around as if I’m confused. It’s a single long room, a side of the "L" that is the Bodega building. There are a dozen ol’ boys in the room, all fresh from the border and members of the Oxiteca cartel, if my guess is right. Four surround a pool table in the center of the room; its bright swag lamp is a harsh contrast to the rest of the dim room. But it’s light enough to make out a half dozen leaning on a bar on the far side of the pool table and four more at a card table farther in the rear of the room. The windows have plywood nailed over them, a bit of a harsh contrast to decent carpet and painted walls, and the back door is a contrast as well, as it appears to be cold iron. These boys don’t want to be bothered with peeping Toms.
All of them stop, turn and stare at the interloper; I return their gaze with a stupid look and ask "men’s room?"
"Hey, motherfucker...get your ass out," the nearest snaps, his hand out of my sight at the center of his back where I presume there’s a weapon stuffed into his belt.
"Sorry," I say, extending both hands, palms out, in supplication. I back away, but not before I think I’ve made old hatchet-face cobra-eye sitting at the card table, heat roars up from the crack of my ass to the back of my head, and it's all I can do not to go for my weapon, at the small of my back under my leather jacket. He makes the mistake of rising and stepping forward, slightly into the light of the pool table swag. I’m more than half sure it’s him, even in the dim light, as his pearl eye reflects the light. Beltran Corrado, the boss man of the Oxiteca cartel in Nevada. My mouth goes dry and my palm itches for the grip of my Glock, but pulling on a room full of a dozen armed Oxiteca cartel cats would be suicide.
I'll bide my time.
I back away, close the door, ignore the men’s room, and head for the front door.
"Adios," the spider says, giving me a wink and a wave as I pass without hesitating.
"Hasta mañana," I reply. It’s probably somewhat of a surprise that I don’t even pause to see if the Harley will take enough gas to use up the ten I left on the counter, but in fact I don’t pause at all but rather jump aboard and roar away. I’m only a few blocks distant, heading for Pax’s office, when I feel the vibration of my phone in my pocket. I pull into another mini-market and park off to the side away from the pumps, under a billboard advertising Exotic Dating and Escort Service, so I can answer the call.
It’s Pax. "You staying out of trouble?" he asks.
"I'm out of the snake's den, and I can draw a plan of the place."
"I got another idea."
"Oh, yeah. What?"
"You remember that little act down on the Euphrates, where we got the Sunnis and the Shiites shooting the hell out of each other while our boys slipped away into the night?"
"How could I forget?"
"I’m into two computers at the Bodega, one of them for the store but the other seems to be used primarily for communication. North Vegas Internet is their provider, and their firewalls are made of tissue paper...anyway, I got lots of email going back a year, and it seems there’s been some disgruntledness on both sides of the long trip back and forth through hyperspace."
I laugh. "Is disgruntledness a word? Anyway, how so?"
"The big boss here is your boy cobra-eyes, this Beltran cat, but the big big boss is in Calexico, a guy who goes by the internet handle of Hombre Mucho, or Mooch to his buddies, and he’s got a big big big boss in Hermosillo, whose name everyone seems reluctant to mention. He's just referred to as Jefe Grande. Anyway, why not stir the pot and see if we can get it to boil over, so long as we can stay out of the way?"
"I’ll be there in a half hour and you can enlighten me."
"It would take a laser to light up your pea brain, but I’ll try."
I start to hang up, then have a second thought. "Hey, why don’t you call your new squeeze and see if she and the beautiful Jennifer want to grab a drink and a bite at Piero’s? If I'm going up against the Oxiteca five hundred I'd like to die happy."
Now it’s his turn to laugh. "Jennifer has related to me that she’ll be happy to fix you a drink—belladonna with a strychnine floater."
"Sounds tasty."
"I’ll ask, but don’t hold your breath. Get over here. This sounds like fun."
"Half hour."
I head inside the mini-mart and grab a cup of hot and black as I'm still feeling the effects of the adrenaline rush. When I head out, I see a four door black Dodge with tinted windows at the far side of the pumps. Why isn't someone heading out of it to pump some gas? It wasn't there when I came in, and a red flag goes up in my brain. I change hands with the hot coffee and reach to my back and rest my hand on the little Ruger 9mm LC9 semi-auto. She's only six plus one in the chamber, but my Glock is in my saddlebag…if I can get to it, and if I need it.
Quickly deciding offense is the best defense, I head directly toward the Dodge. When I'm ten feet away, the back window begins descending. And I begin pulling the Ruger, flipping off the safety at the same time.
And I'm right, and the shooter in the back makes the mistake of sticking the barrel of his automatic pistol out the window as it's coming down.
Not having any interest in resembling a sieve, I put three into the window before it hits the bottom and the barrel comes even with me, then two into the front. Knowing that those who haven't been hit are probably on the floorboards, I sprint the forty feet to the Harley, but don't try and mount and fire her up. The good news is the gas pumps hide me from view from the Dodge.
As I'm digging the Glock out the Dodge peels out but doesn't exit the lot. In a ballsy move it flips a U-turn and heads right for me. I have the Glock in my right hand and two left in the Ruger, now in my left. By the time the Dodge, spitting smoke out of the spinning tires, comes even with the pumps, I'm firing the 40mm Glock and the last two from my Ruger—three off and in the driver's side of the windshield and two in the passenger side by the time it reaches the end of the line of pumps.
He's headed directly for me and the Harley, so I abandon my second favorite ride and do the rabbit toward the street. Firearms are extended out of both sides of the Dodge, and spitting flame. The good news is they ought to try aiming as they're stitching a line across the boobs of the half-naked blonde pictured on the billboard overhead.
The Dodge slams into my bike and both it and the Dodge careen into the parking lot of a laundry next door, where the bike is squashed like a beer can in the road up against a Ford pickup and bursts into flames with a roar, shooting flame ten yards in the air as its gas tank is ruptured.
I can't see much over the smoke and flame, but enough to see two heads pop over the top of the Dodge as a pair of guys break from the car, run to the rear of the mini-mart, and disappear around the corner.
I find a spot between two cars in the laundry parking lot and watch the Dodge, the Ford, and my Harley go up in flames like they've been hit with a five-hundred-pound napalm bomb. The heat sears my face and the stench offends my nostrils.
Having to back away, coughing, to a more distant hidey-hole between vehicles, I continue to be on the alert, as the boys could have arrived in more than one car.
People are pouring out of the laundry and the clerk from the mini-market is outside. I yell at them all to get under cover as I expect…and yes, the gas tank of the Dodge explodes before I can finish the thought. The trunk lid of the Dodge goes fifty feet in the air, then sails through the window of the laundry. I duck. Luckily the crowd has taken my advice and is back inside.
While I'm hunkered down, I call Pax on his cell. Rude as always, he answers with "I thought your dumb ass was coming over?"
"My dumb ass is hunkered down watching my bike go to Harley heaven along with a barrio ride and probably a couple of Oxiteca gun goons…except they're on their way to cartel hell, not heaven."
He's silent for a moment. "I can't leave you alone for a minute. I guess this means you need a ride?"
"Yeah, but from Vegas PD. I'm fairly sure, as I cut loose with a barrage that would shame a platoon, that they'll want to monopolize my time for the next few hours. In the meantime, give the Gonzales boys a call and tell them I’ve got a five hundred buck bonus for them if they finish the van by closing time tomorrow."
"I'll also give Paddy Richards a call, just in case."
Paddy is our favorite bail bondsman in Vegas, for whom I've occasionally worked. "It was a righteous shooting, as they drew down on me first."
"They fired first?"
"Hell no, you think I'm getting slow? But it was an automatic pistol, which is probably still inside what's soon to be a shell of a doper's Dodge, and with luck they'll find it and another half dozen illegal weapons."
As I speak, cartridges begin to explode inside the burning Dodge. Everyone who hasn't already, begins to hit the ground.
He laughs, unaware of the excitement. "And I had you another date with Jennifer."
"Fuck!" I manage, just as the fire engine and a half-dozen blue and whites arrive. I holster the Ruger in its black canvas home, clipped to the back of my belt, and shove the Glock alongside into my belt at the back. I take my wallet out, as it has a Bail Enforcement Officer's badge, and hang it in the pocket of my jacket in plain sight. Flashing the brass can be a good thing in a trying time like this.
One of the patrol cops is in the doorway of the mini-mart, talking with the clerk, who points me out. The young cop palms his pistol and heads my way. I put both hands on my head, and as he nears, say, "Two weapons in my belt in the small of my back."
"Keep your hands where I can see them," he says, his voice in soprano mode and his hands shaking.
17
He's obviously young, scared, and inexperienced, so I speak in a relaxed even tone—difficult as adrenaline still floods my bloodstream. "No sweat, officer. You can see I was waiting for you to arrive."
"What's the badge?"
"Bail enforcement. We're brothers behind the badge. There's also a small concealed carry badge and I.D. card in a pocket."
"The hell we are brothers. At least not yet. Keep your hands on top your head."
"Call Detective Bollinger, he'll vouch for me." I say it, but in fact doubt it.
Another cop arrives about that time and the young cop advises him that I have weapons. He relieves me of them, then hooks me up behind my back and leads me to a cop car as the foam flows freely from the pumper truck onto the mess that used to be my Harley and the accordion metal that was the Dodge and a formerly decent Ford 150.
Que sera'.
In a half hour from the time the last shot was fired, I'm again in
an interview room awaiting the arrival of my new best buddy, Detective Andrew Bollinger.
To my great surprise the door swings aside and it’s not Bollinger, but rather Frick and Frack, the Marshal service's finest. This gives me a little pause as I’m still hooked up with hands behind my back, and I know they're carrying a big grudge. Bollinger sticks his head in after them.
"You’ve got fifteen minutes, then the asshole is mine," Bollinger says, then pulls the door shut, leaving me to the slathering wolves.
I manage a tight smile as the two Federal Marshals eyeball me smugly. I remember that Pax said Patterson had a cast on his wrist, and he does. "Marshal Patterson," I say, "if my memory serves me right." I turn my head to the other one, remembering Pax's conversation, "and I didn’t get your name during our short meeting, but you look Greek."
"Meeting? Ambush, you mean?" He’s not smiling and I expect a knuckle sandwich to rearrange my pearly whites at any moment. But the restraint of both of them is admirable. "And how do you know I’m of Greek heritage?"
"You got that Greek god body. Of course Bacchus, the little fat god of wine was Greek, wasn’t he?" I can’t help but laugh, but they don’t join in. Humor seems unappreciated.
Instead they pull up a chair.
Patterson does the talking. "We should be arresting you for assaulting an officer—"
"Wouldn’t that be a little embarrassing?" I ask.
"But the fact is, what we want is for you to stay the hell away from anything to do with the Zamudio family."
"Where’s the hot shot polo player?"
"In federal protection, that’s where. If you want to see him, watch the court dockets. Maybe you can get a seat in the balcony when he testifies."
I shrug, then ask, "and the little girl?"
"She’s in the best of hands, with her father, where the court says she should be."
"So, he didn’t kill his ex-wife?"
"Christ, you stupid a-hole, didn’t you hear me? He’s been in Federal custody and was when she was killed."
