by L. J. Martin
“We have the lead.”
Pax steps in. “And you're convinced Destroy Satan America are the bad boys?”
He smiles again. “We're not convinced of anything or anybody. We have an ongoing investigation that will likely last out the year. With any luck at all we'll be issuing warrants, but until then we'll continue to explore all avenues. Anything else?”
He's polite, but stands; obviously the meeting is over...if you can call it that.
So I stand. “You got a card? We might stumble on something that will be of interest to you.”
“Stumble around somewhere that you won't be impeding our investigation. That's against the law, as I know you understand.”
Pax stands as well. “You'll never know we're in the area,” I say.
He chuckles. “Mr. Reardon, I have some knowledge of your background and your activities since you left the Corps. You've been a busy boy, skipping around on the edge of lawlessness, so I must tell you, I will cut you no slack if you step over the line.”
I give him a tight smile. “I'll walk carefully. If you want to know what we know, how about sharing that card?”
“I'll trade you. One with a number that will actually reach you.”
“Pax here can always reach me.”
“I heard that's the way you play things,” he says, but reaches in a shirt pocket and digs out a pair of cards and trades both Pax and I. He shakes again and says, “Hang on a moment and I'll have someone walk you out.”
In moments another well-dressed agent sticks his head in the door. “Gentlemen,” he says, and holds the door then escorts us all the way to the guard at the front doors, and we're out, feeling a little like we know less than we knew when we arrived. But I'm not surprised as that was exactly what I suspected.
“Now what?” I ask Pax as we head for his jeep.
“It's time to refresh. How about a drink and seeing if there are a couple of ladies who want to help us relieve the pressure.”
“Lead the way, amigo.”
9
As we drive out of the parking lot, I'm not quite ready to give give up for the evening. “How about we try the other joint that Baddovic hung out in? Rosco Rules, I think it was.”
“The address is in the file. However, I hope you're not thinking of scoring with some skank from that aquarium?”
“Aquarium?”
“Yeah, full of crabs, I'd guess.”
I laugh as he adds, “One drink then we'll find a high-class place. After all, you actually have on a pair of shoes and a sport coat. Let's not waste this rare chance.”
“Ten-four. Hit it, it's all the way across town.”
Rosco Rules is more than just a step up from The Purple Parrot. It's in a sharp strip mall with a cleaners, an upper class pawn shop, a Chinese take out, and a small Italian Market. The front of the place is red brick and the interior an old style red wall paper that mimics felt or cloth and dark walnut wood. The back bar is a replica of an 1870 Brunswick with lots of mirrors.
“You called this one wrong,” I say to Pax as we push inside.
“High-class for how I've figured Baddovic. Look at this, real carpet.”
The bar is lined with folks who look as if they came from work and stayed for a while. I glance at my phone and see it's nine thirty...so the after work crowd should be tipsy by now. There are a dozen tables and booths at one end and the walnut bar at the other, all with low lighting from chandeliers with faux candles. A half dozen slots are in an alcove off the bar, each with a player and a couple with kibitzers behind the player. I pass a table with folks eating fat steaks and decide the place is likely devoid of crabs, other than the edible variety, and ptomaine. But before we think of eating, we need to work the bar crowd and see what we can discover about Baddovic.
Pax, as schmoozers go, is by far the best of we two. There's a single seat at the bar so I push him forward just as a slot is vacated by a chubby lady who doesn't look happy by the results of her play. So I belly up and slip a twenty into the slot. A blue hair is to my left, her glasses resembling pink flamingo wings.
“Hi, sugar,” she says as I pick a poker game and bet fifty cents.
“Yes, ma'am, how are you,” I say in my most polite Sheridan, Wyoming country boy.
“Don't you ma'am me, honey,” she says, only half smiling. “I ain't your ma.”
I resist saying, “Even though you're old enough to be,” but say instead, “How about darlin’?”
“Way better, darling.”
She's pumping the slot handle on the old style replica machine like it's a pasture pump and she hasn't had a drink in a decade.
“You got better odds with jacks or better,” she advises.
“You play here a lot?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the hand I'm electronically dealt.
“I live just across the alley, so, yes, I play here most days. I'm Gladys, by the way.” I note she's playing dime hands so she can entertain herself for a long time if she's even a slightly better than average player.
“Nice meeting you, Gladys. I'm Richard Long.”
“Dick Long,” she says, and giggles.
“Richard if you don't mind.”
“I like Dick, Richard,” she says. And giggles again.
“Richard if you don't mind,” I repeat, and she looks like her feelings are hurt, so I charge forward. “I was looking for an old friend of mine....you might know him, Nobel Baddovic.”
“Nobby...you don't know?”
“Know what?”
“Nobby was on that bus that blew up.”
I act shocked. “You've got to be kidding.”
“Nope. He took a trip, probably up to the Pearly Gates as he was a pretty nice guy.”
“He was going to introduce me to a guy, a friend of his who might have some work for me.”
“Like I said, he was a good guy.”
“So, you notice him hanging with anyone in particular?”
“Nah, but he said he had lots of friends over at Sandy's, a grunge bar out closer to Henderson. And at The Purple Parrot. He did some work for the guy who owns that biker bar. The Parrot guy kept him pretty busy. Maybe your guy hung at one of those.”
“Maybe.” I triple my bet, lose quickly, and stand, noticing her highball glass is empty. “What are you drinking, Gladys?”
“Why, isn't that sweet of you, darling. Manhattan over...and not in a stem.”
“You got it. I'll have one sent over.”
“You leaving? I was kind of hoping...”
“Got to go and see if I can find some work. Good luck with the poker.”
She actually pouts sticking out her lower lip, as I head for the bar.
I sidle up to Pax, and ask in a low voice, “You learning anything?”
“Which horse to bet at Santa Anita. Other than that....”
“Let's head out. I got a lead on another bar where Baddovic hung out. And I got a surprise as he hung at The Purple Parrot, where I was this afternoon. And the jerk who owns the place lied to me. I gotta have another chat with the fat man.”
“Didn't you tell me you were eighty-sixed from there?”
“Yeah, but you're not. Let's swing by and pick up the van and you can ride the Sport after we clear this Sandy's joint.”
“Let's go straight to Sandy's then to your ministorage. And you can ride the damn Harley out to The Purple Parrot.”
“I was going to do some face tricks before I go back in there.”
“It's for damn sure you need some 'face tricks.' But making you half decent looking would take a week.”
“Bite me.”
“I hate to ride the damn bike.”
“Okay, then we'll leave the bike in the back of the van and you can ride it the last block. Okay, pussywillow?”
“You're the pussy, thinking the wind will disturb your disguise.”
I head for the door and he drops a ten on the bar and follows.
“Oops, I forgot something,” I say and return and order Gladys he
r Manhattan, pay for it, then we're off to Sandy's.
The place is another grunge hole only slightly better than The Purple Parrot. We go in separately as two guys together normally talk to each other, not another patron. Not conducive to digging up dirt on someone.
I take a stool at the bar, next to a big dude on my right and a couple of guys in cheap suits on my left. Flossy round bottom works her way down the bar and stops in front of me.
“What're ya drinkin'?” she asks.
“Jack rocks, please.” I hand her a twenty.
“And I'll have another beer and shot of Crown,” the big guy on my right says.
“Det, that's about seven for you,” the lady bartender says.
“What are you, my fucking mother?” he asks, with a little bit of a slur. But not nearly so much as I would if I'd had seven beers and seven shots.
“Put his on my tab,” I say, and stick out my hand to the guy she called Det.
He doesn't reach. “I ain't looking for no date, sunshine,” he says.
“Just being friendly, friend,” I say, leaving my hand extended. “Besides, you're hardly my type.”
“Is that boy type or girl type?” he asks, a smug smile on his face.
“I'm not going to start on the boys until I've finished all the ladies,” I snap, with a little edge to my voice, “and I figure I've got a couple of billion to go. How the hell did you get all the blisters?”
10
“What?” The guy she'd called Det snarls at me. “You writing writing a frickin' screenplay, or what?”
I laugh. “No, just needing a guy to do some heavy work around the house, and if you’re a guy who works hard enough to blister his paws like that....”
He reaches in a pocket and pulls out an inch and a half roll of bills. At least the outside one is a Franklin. “Does that look like a guy who needs grunt work?” he asks, and curls a lip at me.
I notice Pax at the Jukebox, and he's watching this come down, wondering if this guy, who outweighs me a hundred pounds, is giving me some crap. But then the big dude grabs my hand and shakes.
“Nope, you look solid as one of those red rock boulders out in the park. And I'm not writing a screenplay and I don't like boys.”
“You never know these days,” he says. “Even some guys as big and ugly as you might be light in their loafers...and you got on loafers.”
I laugh. “Yeah, first time in two months I haven't worn combat or hiking boots.”
“Then I feel better.” He guffaws deeply. “You don't look like no fag.”
“And, for your information, my mama said I was handsome as Clark Gable.”
He laughs. “And when did she have her glasses prescription corrected?”
“She was a tad nearsighted,” I confess.
We make small talk for a while with the bartender, who's introduced herself as Paula, and who spends her free time leaning on the bar across from us.
“I'm Richard Long,” I offer.
“Det,” he says.
“Det? An unusual name.
“Short for Detroit. A nickname I picked up a long time ago.”
I see the flash of a headlight outside as the front door opens and turn to see a guy in a black nylon windbreaker over a black knit golf shirt enter. He eyes the bar from one end to the other, and I get a tiny flash of recognition as he pauses on me for a half second, then he moves to the other end of the bar. It's the FBI agent who escorted us out after our meeting with Merrick.
I return my attention to Det and ask the big ol' boy, “I had a friend who hung out here...Nobel Baddovic. He been around?”
“Never heard of him,” Det snaps, a little too quickly.
“You know Nobby,” Paula says, as if Det has lost his mind. “Nice guy, but...” she turns to me, “...poor Nobby was on that bus that was blown up.”
Det's been silent for a second, then he gives Paula a glare under eyebrows that look like three-inch fuzzy black caterpillars that are about to kiss over the bridge of his wide blackhead covered nose. “I told you, ass eyes, I don't know no Nobby. Get it?”
“Okay, okay, you don't know Nobby. Don't get friggin' hostile.”
“My God,” I say, “how unlucky can a guy get.” Normally I'd take umbrage at a big ugly asshole being so rude to a woman, but it would break my cover should I slap ol' Det silly, and he might break my back if I wasn't able to do it...so I keep my mouth shut and shine it. But there's something about the obnoxious prick I really don't like. Maybe everything.
As we talk I dig my phone out of my pocket and pretend to be checking my email, but am actually taking Det's picture in the mirror behind the bar. Then I take Paula's.
We'll sic Sol on both of them. I'll be surprised if a big ugly guy like Det comes up clean, even if he has nothing to do with Baddovic.
It's time to leave the room to the FBI. Now I wish I had my van as this nice looking kid in the black nylon windbreaker is likely doing a good part of their field investigation, and I'd slip a GPS locator, a half-dozen of which I have in the van, under his fender. Nothing like an organization as good as the FBI doing your legwork for you. That's if we could figure out which car is his then follow him to his next stop without him making us...pretty hard with those boys. Even the junior G-men, like this kid, can spot a tail a mile away, particularly if he's on the elite Counter Intelligence Squad.
But we don't have the hardware, so it's off to get my van and Harley Sport, and to do a quick makeup job so I don't get shot walking in the door of The Purple Parrot.
There's five bucks change on the bar, so I give Paula a wink. “That's for you, sweetheart. You work every night?”
“Thanks. I come on at three and work till midnight. You come on back, ya hear.”
“I hear good. Likely see you tomorrow. I got to be in town a few days.”
“Tomorrow then,” she says.
I slap big ol' Det on his broad shoulder. “You take care, and don't take no wooden nickels.”
“Don't need 'em when you got a wad of hundreds,” he says, his voice slurring even more than before.
I head for the door and as I exit, I see Pax coming from the jukebox. We're off to play makeup, then to The Purple Parrot.
I'll bet the night crowd is even more fun than the day.
I'm at the little table in the back of my van, fitting a hat made for me by a friend in Hollywood along with some of his other tricks. The hat has clear plastic that makes my ears stick straight out. I have on a blond wig under the bill cap and have applied some dirty blond eyebrows. My only real tat is the Marine Corps insignia high on my left shoulder, but I apply a couple of lick and stick...a snake's head that crawls out of the sleeve of the long sleeve pullover I'm wearing, and a black panther on the back of the other hand. The last thing I do is fit some cheek inserts that fatten me.
There's little room in the back of my van as the Harley Sport rides there. Panels in the side and floor house enough weaponry to start a small revolution, but well hidden. She's powered with a Hemi and is no slouch in a chase, or when being chased as she has both an oil tank to make a pursuer spin out and some tetrapods that can be dumped with the pull of a lever and will blow the tires on anything but a Humvee.
I finish and head out the back and am opening the driver's door when Pax, who's been in the suicide seat reading a file, gets a call. Unknown caller.
I'm inserting the key when he says, “Hold on.” He hands me his iPhone. “Agent Merrick.”
“Yes, sir,” I answer.
“One of my field guys says he saw you in a place we've had under surveillance. That true?”
11
Agent Merrick does not sound happy.
“How would I know?” I lie. “You and your hundred or so agents must be watching half the places in town.”
“Don't BS me, Reardon. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in the world—”
“You're a Casablanca fan. Me too. Which gin joint?”
“You know which one.”
A
nd I know he doesn't want to give me a name, just in case it was a coincidence. He won't give up a place they're watching.
“Actually, I don't,” I lie again. “Pax and I troll lots of places and once in a while get lucky.”
“One more time. You're gonna get unlucky if you interfere in my investigation.”
“Wouldn't think of it, Agent Merrick.”
“Be careful out there, Reardon. If you get onto something, you call me.”
“Yes, sir. Tonight we're hoping for a blond and a redhead and we could probably score a brunette for you if you want to go on the hunt with us.”
He hangs up without a goodbye.
“Nice chat,” I say.
Pax smiles tightly. “I don't have time for a three-day grilling and a good-cop-bad-cop routine in a cold gray room. Let's dance carefully around Merrick. I get the distinct feeling he won't cut us much slack.”
“I don't remember anyone ever cutting us much slack. He will if we give him something, so let’s find something to give him. After we rock Patrino's world, let's head on out to Maximillian's and Tobias Roth.”
“What I hear about Roth, he makes Patrino and Pointer look like pussies. Not a big guy, but he carries a big hammer. What makes you think he'll be there this late?”
I laugh at that. “Read the file, Pax man. He's normally there after dinner...works nine to three or so. Likes to be around the action and doesn't trust any of his people. And as to making Pointer and Patrino look like pussies...good, then we won't have to be kind and gentle.”
As I back out and head for the gate of the ministorage, my phone plays the Marine Corps Hymn. An unknown caller.
“Mike,” I answer.
“Flannigan here. I need you here, front and center. At the Majestic, take the private elevator up.”
“What's up?”
“Mandy and Cindy, Mr. Pointer's granddaughter and personal assistant, got snatched coming out of the movie.”
“Kidnapped?”
“What the fuck do you think? Get over here, Pointer's going nuts.”
I flip a u-turn and head for downtown.
