by L. J. Martin
I have to nod, as that's the way I understood it. "So, how'd you get a security job with him?"
"I've worked security for ten years after I got out of Delta Force, two for Wedgeworth. Not much else for a guy to do whose first reaction is to tear someone's head off. We make piss poor real estate or insurance salesmen."
That makes me laugh. "I know the feeling, Marine recon myself. I need to know how to get hold of you, in case I have a job for you…after I check you out, that is."
"I damn sure need the work. I've got an ex-wife and two kids back in Kansas City and a fifty thousand dollar judgment to pay off for breaking some asshole's jaw who was trying to nail Wedgeworthless…and you don't think that prick would pay, do you?"
"You got a cell number?" I ask.
"No, I chucked it into the bird refuge when I knew the cops wanted to have a long talk with me."
"Good thinking. I've got a throwaway in the car and will give you one."
"What's the job?"
"Kicking ass, same old crap for you and me."
"That I know how to do."
"Any ideas about this G5?" I ask.
He gives me a hard look, then smiles. "It's Hank, by the way, nobody calls me Henry if they want to live. The G5? After I'm on the payroll."
I have to laugh again. I'm starting to like him.
I pop the clip on his 9mm Springfield semi-auto, eject the shell from the chamber, flip the clip into a far corner and the weapon to him. Which he deftly catches. "Follow me out to get the phone," I say, "and don't bother picking up the clip until I'm gone."
"No sweat," he says.
Now to tie up with Miss Carmen Fabulous Diaz.
I hated to go all the way back to Vegas, but there were a few things I had to pick up from my mini-storage there. Not everything I would need in Paraguay, I'm sure, as most of what I might need I couldn't get on any commercial flight.
I maintain mini-storage spaces in three cities: Las Vegas, Nevada; Ventura, California; and Sheridan, Wyoming. And they are not just for storing the normal crap a normal person collects. As I don't maintain an apartment, these ministorage units are all that tie me to the world, as most folks know it. I did acquire a Ford 250 and Lance camper last year, a big step for me as it smacks of a taste of being a homebody, but it's totally portable so it's not much of a taste. I still sleep in the ministorage units upon occasion.
In addition to the bug-out bag I keep in my van, and the mini-version thereof in the narrow storage bins on the back of my Harley, I have major ones in each storage room and the whole camper now is a bug-out bag. With any of the major bug-out bags, and even without the camper, I could live in the Rockies, the Sierras, or the deserts for a long, long time, if not forever, without the benefit of cities. If you can call cities a benefit.
I've accumulated a nice collection of weapons, and they are widely distributed among secret side panels in the van and in hideouts in the three storage rooms, and I'm slowly finding places to create hideouts in the camper. On casual observation, you see no weapons in any of my facilities. In each storage room I have an upright armoire size cabinet with hidden weapon storage. Both ends swing open with hidden push latches to reveal four long arms in each. Drawers under what appear to be three inch thick shelving hold ammunition, side arms, and other accouterments. The shelves are covered with clothes and other mundane items to make the armoire look as if that's its purpose.
I try to stay as close to a one man army as one man can.
Getting the itch to say goodbye to the beautiful Tatya, it's all I can do not to turn off on Hot Springs Road and head up to East Valley Road and the Wedgeworth estate, but as promised, I'll not give my new client any inkling that I know Miss Tatya more than to give a casual wave.
But I pass the turnoff with some niggling in my loins. And just as I do, my phone gives me a generic ring, and I look at, to my pleasure, the Wedgeworth residence calling…ask, I think, and ye shall receive. There's a Bluetooth earpiece in the ashtray of the Vette and I center it in my ear, hit the little receive button, and give who I hope is Tatya a howdy.
"Mike," the voice on the other end says, and it's not Tatya's.
"You got him," I say.
"This is Tenee."
"Who?"
"Athena Wedgeworth. You remember, we talked at the pool then you stiffed me for a ride down the drive—"
"Sure, kid, how are you?"
"Freakin'."
I have to pause for a moment, then ask, "Okay, what's freakin' you?"
"My dad, and my mom. Can I hire you?"
That makes me smile. Then I ask, "For what?"
"I have to get Venee…that's my little sister, Venus…Venee…and I out of here."
"Athena—"
"I hate that name, call me Tenee."
"Tenee, I'm working for your dad on a job that could make me a lot of money. I can't jeopardize that…besides, it would be a conflict of interest." Then I hesitate, and ask, "So, what's the problem?"
"If I can't hire you, I can't tell you."
"Don't you have a little brother also?"
"Yes, but he's not…he's not in trouble?"
"What kind of trouble?"
"I can't tell you."
"Then I can't help you."
"You said you couldn't help anyway…so it doesn't matter."
"Look, I'll be back in a week or two, and that should finish my business with your dad. Then we'll talk."
"That may be too long, but if I'm still here, then we can talk."
I'm at a loss, so I sigh, and say, "We'll talk then."
I hear a slight catch in her voice, and wonder if she's crying. Odds are ninety nine to one that it's some teenage bullshit like the old man's going to take her phone away, so I repeat, "We'll talk then," but she hangs up without replying.
Whatever it is, it's got to go on the back burner. So I call Pax and get him to call my potential translator and set up a meet.
In moments he calls back with a location, a Marie Callenders restaurant on the Magic Mountain Parkway turnoff in Valencia in an hour. I can just make it, and it's a perfect spot as it's only about a hundred yards out of my way.
But, being a man meeting up with a woman he's never met before, I have to ask, "So, is she a looker?"
He laughs. "The job is translation, remember. Looks to me, from the Linkedin picture, she's from a long line of tortilla eaters and mama made them with pure lard, but it was a head shot."
"Okay, other than a generous frame, how do I recognize her?"
"She said blue blouse, blue jeans, long black hair."
"Okay, I'm on my way."
I am close to heading out to Paraguay.
10
I don't have to look far as she's on a bench near the door, reading an international edition of the Wall Street Journal. At first glance, with her still seated, I can see that she hasn't spent much time knocking down lard-based tortillas. She looks solid, not fat; not svelte, but curvaceous. She's probably a head shorter than I, but she makes up for some of it with five inch high heels. Her hair is long, to the middle of her back, and raven-wing-black and bright as a new black Mercedes. She has gray eyes, smoked glass, deep, and mysterious. Bright red lipstick and nails are an interesting contrast. A tightly bound blue scarf, matching her silk blouse, in place of a belt, is threaded through her belt loops in jeans that look like they were painted on over the flare of hips. No hint of chubby. She's solid, curvy, and very interesting, easy on the eye.
"You're Mr. Reardon?" she asks, folding the paper carefully and putting it aside before rising. She extends a hand, and shakes. She has only the hint of an Hispanic accent.
"Guilty," I reply, taking the hand. "And you're Carmen." I like women with a firm handshake.
"Got time for a cup of coffee?" she asks.
"You bet." And we easily find a seat in the middle of the afternoon, between lunch and supper.
She orders coffee, and I do the same plus a piece of apple pie...after all it is Marie Callendars.
She gets right down to business. "I speak Spanish, of course, German, Portugese, and Guarani—"
"Whoa, what the hell is Guaraní?"
"So, you've never been to Corazón de America? The heart of America...of course, you'd say South America."
"I've been around Mexico some and Central America, a short gig in Columbia, and spent a couple of days in Rio, but that's it."
"Okay, so Guaraní are the indigenous people of Paraguay. Almost all Paraguayans are bilingual and speak that original language as well as Spanish. We're the only country who's maintained our heritage in that regard."
The coffee and pie arrives and I take a bite before continuing. Then ask, "So, you were employed by your consulate...a good job, I'd think. Why leave?"
"I had a little disagreement with the not-so-nice vice-counselor general, who still clings to the old ways."
"Which means?"
"After two wars in the eighteen hundreds Paraguay's population was decimated. We lost as many as seventy five percent of our population, and almost all our male population. Polygamy was common, and necessary, and even overlooked by the church."
"Which means?"
"May I be frank?"
"Do I look like a guy who minces words?"
She laughs, then says, "The son of a bitch wouldn't keep his hands off me and I finally kicked him in the huevos. He fired me, and tried to send me home, but I have a work visa from the U.S., outside of the embassy's control. A precaution I took, as I was determined not to be his puta, yet wanted to work in the States."
I'm starting to like, and gain respect for the lady.
She knows what she wants, and charges forward.
"I don't work cheap," she says.
"So, what's not cheap?"
"Two thousand a week and you pick up all expenses."
"You're right, that's not cheap. I was thinking more like a grand a week—"
"You're going to Paraguay, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And I know the language, have relatives there, and I know a half-dozen senators, the presidente, and a handful of generals as well as those powerful in industry and banking. I should be asking for five thousand a week."
"What's your family do?"
"Farms, primarily soy beans. But some corn and coffee too."
"So, they grow soy beans in...how'd you call it... Corazón de America, the heart of America?"
"We're the fourth largest producer of soy beans in the world."
"Okay, fifteen hundred a week."
"Do you have a visa? ...That can take months. I can get you one in an hour."
"Okay, okay, two grand a week."
"I'm paid weekly, on Friday, in cash. And a month guarantee?"
"You're a hard woman, Carmen Fabriana Diaz."
"It's a hard country. And looking at you, I doubt if you're going to my country to pick up knickknacks. Right?"
"I'm not much for knickknacks. I'm going down to retrieve some stolen property...can you handle that?"
"I don't believe in stealing, so I can get behind that, as you Americans say. You may be leaving the country without me, so long as you understand I have no interest in a vacation in Pacumbu High Security Prison. Women are a little too welcome there…the guards and the bull dykes would love me."
"I'll bet...if the women look like you. My buddy has your number. I'll call in the morning and tell you our schedule. When can you go to work?"
"As soon as we shake hands, I'm on the payroll."
Again, I laugh. "Okay, let's not shake until I'm ready to drive away."
Now it's her turn to laugh, and she does it very attractively and demurely, dropping her eyes and head, looking up like a coquette. "I'll need your passport number to get that visa."
"I'll call from Vegas. Be ready to go on a moment's notice."
"No hay problema, señor . Hasta mañana."
"Por la mañana. You an early riser?"
"When I have to be. Otherwise I curl up like a cat in the sun."
"Gato del sur. I'll put the call off until seven."
"Gata, thank you very much. And it's sol, not sur. Sur is the south. I can see this is going to be a contentious relationship." She frowns at me, but it quickly turns to a smile. She's teasing.
"Not unless you want to charge extra for the Spanish lessons. Do your work, don't whine...but then I can picture you growling, but not whining."
That gets a flashing smile from the lady. "I'll pull my weight."
I smile, grab the ticket, motion toward the door, and wait for her to rise and lead the way.
As we head for the cashier, she asks, "So, what got stolen?"
"We'll talk some about it on the plane...you're better off not knowing. I'll expect an education on Paraguay."
"I'm just the girl who can do it. First class, I hope."
"Not normally, but I plan to go under the cover of a successful business man, so first class it is."
"I'll be packed. Let's shake so we can get the meter running."
"A hard, hard woman."
11
Pax's office is a simple two-storey affair with a storefront facing a parking lot. The former beauty shop in the storefront has had the windows whitewashed with only the glass door remaining clear, and the small gold lettered sign announces Weatherwax Internet Services. He has six employees on site, and offices in three other cities. Consultants number another dozen in India and the Philippines who do contract work for him. His personal office is the size of a two-car garage and located second storey rear, with a great view of the strip in the distance, were he ever to open the drapes on his wide window. They normally remain closed, as the room sports at least a dozen monitors, one of which spreads at least fifty inches. The server room is next to his office, and in air-conditioned splendor are a half-dozen mysterious boxes as tall as myself, black as a foot up a bull's butt and constantly humming and flashing in their mysterious way.
Pax has his feet up on his spacious desk. If the old adage 'you can't trust a man with a clean desk' is true, my buddy is super trustworthy as his is piled six inches high, but at least in some kind of order that only he understands.
He knows it's me, as he says I'm the only one who comes in the back, takes the stairs three at a time, and comes in without paying the proper respect of an announcement. He has his face buried in some kind of manual, but glances up. "What the fuck, over?" he says, barely giving me a glance, then returning his attention to the book. He's always been able to concentrate, even with AK47 shells or RPG's singing overhead.
"I'm getting close to chasing this G5 and need a bad ass pilot."
He looks up, a little irritated at being interrupted. "I got a couple of guys, both pilots, both got there ass canned from United for being too gungho, both ex-Navy fighter jocks. It's all in the report that's piled over there on the side counter." He goes back to work dismissing me, so I take the hint and head over and pick up a three inch thick pile of printouts.
As usual, Pax has more background info than I can absorb in a week's reading. He's got more background info on Wedgeworth and his company, has put a Trojan horse into his personal computer and one into his secretary's—the beautiful Tatya—and has been recording all keystrokes on both for over twenty four hours, and is in the process of doing the same to a Paraguayan gentleman, General Hector Maldonado. But that's not the most important job he has, as I can't re-steal a very sophisticated aircraft without a skilled pilot, and hopefully co-pilot, and—almost too much to ask for—two guys with great big gonads who don't mind the occasional gun battle and probably fleeing from the Paraguayan air force...if the little country has one to be concerned with.
I have to laugh, as an inch of the book is a systems manual for a G5. I guess it's important that my guys know how to start the damn thing.
I get another belly laugh when I read about the guys Pax has turned up to serve as pilots and back up for me. Everett Alvarez is a hotshot F-18 pilot who left the Marine Corps and got qualified in mul
ti-engine, then went on to a job with United...and was canned for screwing a flight attendant in the driver's seat while his plane was on autopilot and the co-pilot was in the head barfing up his guts with the flu.
The second guy was also a F-18 jock, and also a United forced-retiree, who was canned for being a hotshot and flying his passenger plane like it was a Navy fighter on a carrier approach.
Pax has done it again, as both the pilots he's found are hotshots, out of work, and one of them has done a short term job for Blackwater, the mercenary company who decries the title 'mercenary' and prefers being called 'paramilitary'.
And speaking of paramilitary, we'll need arms just in case things get really tough. Pax has located a couple of names for us, one in Argentina and one in Brazil, both bad boys and both located just over the border from Paraguay, both near the city of Ciudad del Este.
After buzzing through the manual, I pick up my iPhone and call Blumenthal at CalGeoCyber. To my surprise, he takes the call and doesn't do the normal Jewish make-'em-wait-twenty-minutes, I'm-more-important-than-you bullshit.
"Make it quick," he says in the way of a greeting.
"Generalisimo Hector Maldonado?"
"Right, No. 1 guy at the Paraguayan Air Force and a major political power in Paraguayan politics, a problem for us as he continues to push their Attorney General to sue us because his people are too stupid to operate the systems we installed for their military; Army, Navy, Marine and Air force."
"So, is he our guy?"
"That's your job, not mine. My job is contracts and defending us in case he's successful in convincing his country to continue to sue us."
"I want everything you have on him and any other contacts CalGeo has with Paraguayans. And I need it ASAP as I'm heading down there shortly."
"I'll have to check with Wedgeworth—"
"As I recall, he told you to cooperate—"
"I'll have to check."
"Check. Write this down." I give him a general email address and a drop-file name for Weatherwax Internet Service in case the file is large, which it shouldn't be, then ring off.
My next call is to Alvarez, AKA his hotshot Navy call sign, Wetback, who agrees to fly into McCarran, as does Chad Madsen, AKA his call sign, Madman. Alvarez tells me he's fluent in Spanish, so that's a plus.
