by L. J. Martin
"Not part of the deal."
I have to laugh, but Pax has lost his sense of humor. "Tell that prick at State, Rogers wasn't it...Allen Rogers, that I'll be seeing him around."
"It ain't over," I say to Natele.
"I'll do what I can," she says with sincerity.
"I've got to make a call," I say, and walk outside into the night, noting that it won't be night for long as the sky to the east is beginning to lighten up.
I dial my former commanding officer, Thomas Scroder, who got me into this deal in the first place.
He answers without a hello. "I've been expecting your call. Glad you got out of that shitstorm safe."
"Safe, but broke. Did you get the money in your account as I asked?"
"I did, son, but the U. S. Government are powerful folks. The five million was there, then it wasn't. The bank was as perplexed as I was. They said there was nothing they could do about it and worse that there was nothing they would try to do about it. Something about a call from the Federal Reserve. That's the bad news, the good is I got an agreement, executed, notarized, all that crap...holding you harmless for this op and the one in Afghanistan."
I'm silent for a moment. "Okay, boss. I appreciate that and your trying to get our dough. We got the shit shot out of us. The Holland girl escaped just before we got on the scene and we kept her pursuers very busy trying to stay alive, rather than running her down. That's success in my books...so you can tell the faithless lying pricks at State not to bother calling me again. Tell Rogers that Reardon said testicular cancer would be too good for him."
"It'll be my pleasure, but he's not taking my calls so I may not have the chance."
"Not your fault commander. You call me anytime, for anything."
"Semper fi. You guys did good, really good."
"Yeah," I say, "we did a good deed...and no good deed goes unpunished."
I go back inside and belly up to the table again.
"I can see by your face," Natele says, "you didn't get far with that call."
I laugh. "This is not the first time Uncle Sam has bent me over. Fuck 'em and feed 'em beans. We'll stay working with private industry and the good old American capitalists after this."
"You guys got enough dough to get you home?" Natele asks, then adds, "I've got lots of room on the old credit cards."
"We're fine. I've still got the dough in the satchel, and I'm going to use it and will likely use it all up on medical bills and transportation. Tell the State Department to sue me."
She laughs. "I've got a plane to catch," then she turns to Goings. "You coming Fletch. My instructions were to get you back to NATO headquarters."
He stands and gives her a hug and peck on the cheek. "Tell them I'm taking a few days off. I'm going to hang with these guys for a while."
She shrugs. "Your call," she says, and gives us a bit of a sad wave and heads out.
Almost as soon as the door closes, Goings turns to Pax and me, and says, in all seriousness, "I guess you guys wouldn't be interested in splitting up fifty mil or so?"
Now that got our attention and we both lean forward attentively. "Go on," I say.
"You've heard of a guy named Muammar Gaddafi?"
"Dead guy," I add.
"Yeah, but not before he stashed lots of good old American greenbacks."
And we pay even closer attention.
VIII
Overflow
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Prologue
Thirteen is known to be an unlucky number.
There are thirteen judges in the Federal District Court at 333 South Las Vegas Boulevard in Las Vegas, Nevada. One Chief judge, a half dozen district judges, and a half dozen senior judges.
Vegas is an interesting town for federal judges, of course it's always been a magnet for the mob, for lesser criminals, and for thousands of hustlers and small time grifters. Chicago, New York, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Miami and other metropolitan areas are the basis of mob wealth, and much of it has flown to Vegas as there's nowhere else that cash flows, and can be laundered and hidden, as it does in glitter town.
As it's known as sin city, and as those who think America is Satan central, it's also, presumably, one of the primary targets for Muslim extremists. Religious zealots who believe that cutting off a Christian's head is not a sin, but a strip club, or even a bar with maids in net stockings and uplifted cleavage, is the ultimate in debauchery. Of course they regularly attend such joints. We live in interesting times.
As a result of the town being an attractant for all kinds of unsavory types, there's the resultant plethora of law enforcement acronyms, FBI, ATF&E, etc.
One of those senior judges, Franco Alverez, is as conservative in his personal habits, including his parsimonious pecuniary lifestyle, as he is in his rulings. He doesn't own a car, unlike the Mercedes, BMWs, and Porches owned by his contemporaries—Judge Alverez rides the bus to and from work every day. He doesn't always return on the same bus, as his duties sometimes carry him late into the night, but every morning he climbs aboard bus 318 at precisely 7:20, presuming Hector Sanchez, who drives that bus five days a week, is on time. And Hector is a stickler for timeliness.
It’s said that Judge Alverez, being half-Italian and half-Spanish—although most think he’s Mexican—is reputed to be easy on the Mafia and on the abundant illegal aliens from Mexico who proliferate Vegas. He’s not; he’s a stickler for the law and more than any other judge on the district bench, follows the exact letter of the law. Of course, even the law is not always exacting.
This morning, as usual, the bus is full of regulars. A few culinary workers—Vegas has many tens of thousands—a half dozen grammar and high school age girls on their way to the Catholic school; one Black, two Hispanic or Latina, and three Caucasian. Two nuns are regulars, much to the chagrin of the young ladies as their activities have to be much more subdued than they'd prefer; one who teaches math and history, one who runs the cafeteria. A couple of barmaids and a bartender are on their way to an early shift—Vegas drinks around the clock. Two homeless guys who seem to disdain each other, one in mismatched tennis shoes, both in holed tee shirts, sit near each other and don’t speak. And two handfuls of other rather nondescript types are spotted about the bus.
It's the regular crowd. A cornucopia of colors, ages, and religions. A cross section of America, typical of Las Vegas.
Nobel Baddovic is not a regular. He boards the bus carrying a duffle bag; not the small backpacks of the students, or the lunch pails of a couple of construction guys, or the book bags and Bibles of the nuns. But a duffle bag large enough to hold a fair size sleeping bag...and he's lugging it as it's obviously much heavier than nylon and goose down.
His face a
ppears strained, beads of sweat lining his lip, but he's smiling even with the load and smiles and winks at the school girls as he passes to the rear of the bus. He’s a happy-go-lucky sort, but not so much as not to pay close attention to the directions of those who hired him. He was told, with very specific instruction, to sit in the rear, as the judge always sits, if the spot is unoccupied, in the seat directly behind the second door. The ‘use-only-in-case-of-emergency door’ only four rows from the back. Alverez, during his long tenure as a superior then federal judge, has seen more crime and tragedy than most forensic pathologists, so he's a cautious sort.
He occupies his time reading briefs while at the same time listening to Bach or Beethoven, his ears plugged with small white headphones originating from his iPhone.
One of his prize possessions is a fine rosewood Mont Blanc pen, one half a set given to him by his colleagues on the occasion of his tenth year on the federal bench. It is his habit to tap it in time with the music as he reads.
He's tapped well into the second movement of Beethoven's Fifth, his favorite. He doesn't reach the third.
The shattering blast erupting from Baddovic's duffle bag blows not only the windows out, but balloons the bus and sends doors and the rear portions of the roof spinning away, killing not only the twenty-two passengers in the bus—nearly evaporating a half dozen—and the driver, and additionally seven on the sidewalk and in adjacent traffic. Four more innocents are raced to the hospital in critical condition. Two dozen more are serious or in need of emergency treatment. The majority of those killed die immediately from the shock and concussion, and don't suffer from the searing heat that subsequently melts and twists even the heavy frame of the large vehicle.
Splatterings of flesh, blood, and bone from those not atomized are the horrific result of the blast
Luckily Las Vegas Boulevard has much less traffic at 7:45 than later in the day, when tourists crowd the sidewalks, or the death toll might have been a hundred or more.
The explosion occurs only a block from where the students would have changed buses, and six blocks from where the judge would reach his exit point.
The bus and three nearby cars are still in flames when the first police, fire, and EMT's arrive. The odors of smoke, burning rubber, and gore sicken even experienced EMT's.
The Federal District Court no longer has an unlucky number of judges.
Had he had time to be surprised, no one would have been more so than Baddovic. But Baddovic will only be identified by DNA, the search resulting from a video of him boarding and none of him exiting.
A little over a half block from the action a small peanut of a man, with thin hair and a very bad complexion uses his iPhone and the Snapchat app that will give his message very limited life—thus virtually untraceable—sends a text. It's done.
The morning following the explosion a group known as Destroy Satan America, not yet of enough interest to be known by the acronym DSA, claims credit for what they say will be the first of many attacks on sin city. Those claims appear in The Las Vegas Review-Journal and on KSNV TV. The whole city is angry, but many are laying low, absenteeism is at a record high, and immediately tourism falls drastically.
That won't sit well with the city fathers.
Two weeks later, my iPhone plays a few bars of the Marine Corps Hymn, signifying an unknown caller. Only a few people have my number. This is my real private line, not an oft used throw-away, and I don't advertise my private line. I let it ramble on for a couple of bars before answering as when it's an unknown caller, it's normally trouble, and I'm not sure I'm ready for more. I've had more than my share the last three years since I became known among a select few as the Repairman. You got a problem a lawyer or the cops can't solve, I'll normally take the job...so long as you're in the right.
But I need some dough—I’m not fond of my bank accounts going backward—as the last gig did not fatten my bank account, I answer.
“Reardon.”
“Mike Reardon?” a distinctly sultry female voice asks.
“Yes, ma'am, guilty.”
“Alex Pointer would like to see you.”
“Alex Pointer of the Majestic?”
“That's my boss.”
“I guess I can squeeze him in. What's a good time for Mr. Pointer?”
“You know the Whale's Lair here at the club?”
“Never had the pleasure, but I know it's on top. What, the 20th floor?”
“Twenty-fourth, at 1:00 for lunch. Mr. Pointer just received a shipment of live Maine lobster...so don't be late. Our security will be waiting at the private elevator near the high stakes baccarat tables to escort you up.”
“Works for me. I have a previous engagement with a pal I work with…who I’d like to bring along.”
“Hold a minute and I'll check with Mr. Pointer.”
She's gone for well less than a minute. “Is this someone you'd be working with on a...on an assignment? Someone you'd like to know your business?”
“Close as a tick in a lamb’s tail and has worked with me on every assignment.”
She laughs. “A colorful expression. Then Mr. Pointer says bring him along...I presume it's a him.”
“It's a him.”
“Mr. Pointer may ask him to leave the room at one time or another, if that's okay?”
“He's a big boy and has had more than his share of rejection. See you at 1:00.”
Pax, my best buddy and oft times partner in crime—or the solving thereof—is eyeing me across his wide rosewood desk.
“Who's a big boy?” he asks. Then adds, “I presume I'm the 'him' and, if so, you could have at least said 'a very handsome big boy’.”
“If I considered you handsome I would have said so. You're fortunate I didn't say a big-butted, butt-ugly, hairy-mole-on-his-face big boy’.”
“It wouldn't have taken long for them to discover how wrong you are as I obviously have no hairy mole on my face. So, what does one of our fair city's biggest players want of pissant Mike 'the dumb mick' Reardon?”
“Investment advice?” I say, obviously tongue-in-cheek.
“Or maybe how to KP the Majestic’s thousand toilet’s?”
“Very funny. We have a lunch date. Live Maine lobster. You'll owe me.”
“I was thinking a Subway Italian sausage, but I'm willing to slum it if you are.”
I glance down at my normal work wear. “Should I head to my apartment and change?”
He glances at his watch. “What time's the lobster come out of the pot?”
“We're due there at 1:00.”
He eyes me up and down with a rather smug look on his mug. “Let's see, combat boots, Levi's, Semper-Fi stenciled sweatshirt with only one hole ripped in the side...you're already overdressed compared to usual. We've got an hour and fifteen, but styling as you are I think you should not try and make them think you're a metrosexual clothes hog. Let's go as we are. You look tough; I’ll look tough, handsome and smart.”
“And you in a three-thousand-dollar suit...I guess the contrast makes sense.”
I glance at my iPhone for the time. “It'll take us thirty minutes to get downtown, so go back to work for a half hour then we'll see what the big man wants.”
So he does, and I go back to my Wired magazine.
1
The Majestic is one of the old downtown clubs, almost as old as old as the Nugget, and Pointer has been around nearly as long as the Binion family. He's old-school Vegas and well-known around town as a guy not to mess with. You get caught hustling or trying to scam the Majestic and you don't get turned over to the local law, you get turned into a pile of romped and stomped dog shit out in the alley. And it's rumored more than one cheap grifter or hustler has been buried out in the desert over the years. Oops, I guess we stomped too hard.
Pointer's got some very tough guys on his staff, so I'm very curious why he needs a guy of questionable repute who left the Corps with a General Courts Marshal. I'm sure he's got plenty of guys with search and destroy
skills.
Come to think of it, I hope he's not pissed at me for some unknown reason. Then again, if he were it's not likely he'd be inviting me to the top hog-trough in his place.
We valet park my buddy’s Jeep and wander through the club to an elevator marked PRIVATE near the high stakes baccarat tables. There’s a no-neck kid in his twenties standing at parade rest which makes me feel right at home. He's got peach fuzz on his face but gallon jugs for biceps.
“Corps?” I ask, without bothering with hello.
“No, sir. Shore Patrol.”
“A squid, eh?”
I don’t get a smile. “Mr. Pointer is waiting.”
He uses a card and the doors open. Much of the Majestic is a little shopworn as many of the downtown crowd are serious gamblers and locals who are tired of putting up with tourists on the Strip, so come to be with their own. This elevator, however, is anything but. A small crystal chandelier is centered on the ceiling and the walls are alternate walnut and mirror. The metal trim looks to be gold and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. There must be a vaporizer somewhere as it smells of lemon and not the rancid Lucky Strike odor of most the club.
It’s an express and it pins us to the floor as it accelerates then almost lifts us off our feet as it slows.
Two more no-necks await as we exit; Frick and Frack are mirror images of our escort, only older and even more serious. Without exchanging niceties we cross a vestibule to double doors at least ten feet tall. But we’re stopped short by one of the guys with a tight military cut and ice-blue eyes.
