by L. J. Martin
“Clean, bro. If that was you, good shot.”
“No hill for a stepper. Are the ladies there?”
“Yeah, I haven't checked their health, but they are here.”
“Dibs on the one of legal age,” he says, and laughs.
“Hey, I'm the hero here, the guy on the white charger. I'm going to check them out, then your clay pigeon, then bring the M4 to you and you get them the hell out of here, just in case the locals show up.”
“10-4 to the M4,” he replies.
I hurry to the side of the ladies and strip the tape away from the blond, Cindy, who's wide blue eyes—one at least as the other is swollen almost shut—are bulging and cutting back and forth.
“You hurt?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
“Mona?” she asks.
The girl looks to be about fourteen, and seems unhurt. I peel her tape away and she's sobbing so hard she can't answer my, “You hurt?”
Both the ladies are in scuffed high heels, now dirty athletic tights and wrinkled and dirt smudged silk blouses. I pull my sheath knife from its pocket in the vest and cut the cable ties from Cindy's wrists, then instruct her. “Cut the girl free. I'll be right back.”
“You're bleeding like hell,” she says, and I glance down at my left arm, cut by the fence. “It's not that deep,” I say and glance back.
She's staring at the Hispanic guy and asks, “Is he dead.”
“Likely,” I say, a little sarcastically, “with that hole in his forehead and another in his chest. I'll be right back.”
I hustle out and run for my Harley, then ride to where the other guy is down. He's not moving and from the blood on his chest I figure Pax got him dead center in the back about heart high. He's either a dark Hispanic or Black. Just to be sure I check his neck for a pulse and don't get the smallest bump. Then I mount up to head for where Pax has returned to the cut in the fence. As I do so I notice a small plane has taxied up to the end of the runway, but is not taking off. In fact, it's canted so the plane’s powerful landing lights are flooding our way.
Then I get it. The boys were going to fly out of here. So I spin the bike back and head straight for the plane, which as I get closer looks to be a Cessna 182 with balloon tires. They are likely heading to some small strip in the mountains or even more likely to some dirt airfield in Mexico with their loot.
So if this isn't a rent-a-ride, it's another bad guy.
14
As I near the plane, the pilot cuts the engine and, unknowingly, reaches across and opens the passenger side door. I roll up under the wing and can see the pilot, a Black guy, and he sees that I'm not who he expects. I leap from the bike and shove the barrel of the M4 into the door as he's trying to start her up again.
“Turn it off, Albert,” I command, and he puts both hands on his head like he's been here before and luckily the engine hasn't fired. It's the bartender from Pointer's rooftop bar where we ate the lobster.
“Get out of the plane and lay flat, face down, hands at the center of your back.”
His eyes are so bugged out you can see the white all around his pupils, and his mouth is hanging open. He'll be no trouble unless he runs, and who'd be stupid enough to think you could outrun the Harley across several hundred yards of flat airfield, or a .223 from an M4.
He jumps from the plane. I reach in and take the keys and back out the passenger side, walk around to find him flat on his face as instructed, and luckily I have three more sets of cable ties. It takes two to bind his ankles and the third to bind his wrists.
“Hey, man, you can have half the money, you let me go.”
I laugh. “Damn, that's good of you, Albert. I got it all and I can have half? You're a negotiating som'bitch. Don't move so I don't have to shoot your dumb ass.”
“Where's my bro?” he asks.
“Your brother?”
“My little brother. Where he at?”
“Likely being escorted into the roaring ovens of hell about now.”
“Oh shit…oh no, our mama gonna kill me.”
You shouldn't laugh at a guy who just learned he lost a brother, but I can't help it.
Only then do I get on my iPhone, wishing I had a throwaway, but I don't. My first call is to Flannigan, Pointer's head of security. “We got the girls, both are fine. We also have three bodies and a prisoner, and I'd like to keep the cops out of this.”
“You know we don't want cops. Where?” he asks.
“North Vegas Air Park, on the North Simmons side. You better hurry as there's a plane sitting here on the end of the runway and airport security is bound to show up to see why it's not answering the radio or moving.”
“Pointer is only blocks from there after delivering the money…you got the money?”
“We got a bag full of something. We'll be on North Simmons, white Dodge van, with the bag, the ladies, and the prisoner. Tell him to hurry.”
Now, how the hell am I going to get Albert to the fence, three hundred yards away? I go back to him and cut the binding on his ankles and jerk him to his feet, and point. “Albert, run that way unless you want to join your bro in hell. I'll be right behind you and there’s a guy who's very good shot with the sniper rifle he has trained on you. I'll catch up.”
And Albert does the turpentined-cat imitation, kicking up gravel behind. He's fast, particularly for a guy with his wrists bound at the small of his back. I can hear the radio in the plane and the tower inquiring as to what the trouble is. I pass Albert on the way to the ladies. Loading Mona on behind, we pass Albert again heading for Pax and I do so again heading back to get Cindy.
We get back to the hole in the fence just as the black Lincoln pulls up. Pax has gotten the ladies and Albert through the fence.
“Albert, you motherfucker,” Pointer yells, sounding a little in shock.
He and Pointer shove Albert into the trunk of the Lincoln and the girls and money are loaded in the back seat as well. Without a word, Pointer peels out as I get the Harley loaded and climb back into the driver's seat.
I can see the headlights of a truck and a car at the Cessna as we speed away.
Pax sighs deeply. “I wouldn't want to be that guy.”
“You didn't recognize him? That was Albert, one of Pointer's bartenders, the guy who made us the drinks on Pointer's rooftop.”
“Damn,” he mutters, as I spin the wheels getting out of there, but don't turn on the headlights until we pass the first stop sign.
“Why the damn?” I ask.
“Then the bus explosion is not solved. These assholes were trying to make an easy hit on a guy who was already down. What assholes.”
“An understatement. We still haven't eaten,” I say.
“Five Guys or In and Out is fine with me. Shooting someone, even a no-account creep, ruins my appetite.”
“And a double burger, fries, and a shake is what you eat when you're off your feed?”
“Fuck you. I'm just gonna get a single…shows what you know.”
“Let's ditch the firepower first,” I say, worried, “ just in case someone made the van. And I want to get rid of the bike's tires.” Forensics will be all over this.
“Okay, let's go get a burger, then go fishing in the morning. Work for you?”
I shake my head. “Nope, I don't want to get busted for this, even though it was self-defense. I want to dump the M4's and the tires, so head for the lake.”
“I'm hungry,” he complains, “and pissed.”
“Hungry I understand. Why pissed?”
“Those ladies didn't bother to say thank you or fuck you or go to hell. And Pointer…that prick didn't either. There are no manners left in the world.”
“We'll check him out tomorrow and see if he's more appreciative…after we dump the incriminating evidence.”
“Which we'll do after we get a burger, so don't pass a drive thru.”
“Okay, okay, I'll stop, but first we'll dress the van.”
“Find a dark alley.”
And I d
o, and in less than five minutes we have two blue magnetic stripes from front to rear and two signs proclaiming Clark Pest Control. I also have coveralls and hats in the back, but we don't bother with them.
As we return to the front seats, he's on his iPhone. “There's an In and Out Burger on North Nellis, on the way out of town.”
“Yes, bwana,” I say, and laugh. Just as my phone rings with an unknown.
I hit the answer. “Reardon.”
“We want to talk,” Flannigan says without bothering with howdy.
“Got to be in the morning,” I say.
“Why not now?”
“We've got chores to do after the dance.”
“I get it. We're not exactly morning people. Make it noon…” then someone is talking in the background as it's clear he's covered up the phone, then he's back, “…or better yet, one. Pointer is inviting you both to lunch.”
“Hope he's in a better mood,” I say, and can't help but laugh.
“He don't invite people to lunch if he's in a bad mood.”
“Good, he sorta ruined my appetite that last time we chatted.”
“Just be here.”
15
Pax keeps a party boat at Powerhouse Marina, the nearest boat slips to Hoover Dam, where the water is six hundred feet deep. It takes us the better part of an hour to get to the boat and another two hours to get the wheels deflated and pulled and out to where we can deep six both the M4's and the wheels and tires sixty stories deep into the lake. I hate to see the chrome spoke wheels go with the tires, but we don't have the tools to pop the tires. So I'm about forty-five hundred bucks into the dumping of the evidence…but that's better than forty-five years in the slammer.
Pax's condo is closer than my ministorage or my Ford truck and camper, so I beg a rack at his place. He's just been dumped by, or has dumped, his latest live in, so there are no distractions. It's four thirty by the time we hit the rack, and as usual, I awake too damned early. I make it to six, an hour past my usual hit-the-deck time, and hear Pax snoring away. A couple of hours on his kitchen laptop—there's a computer in every room of the condo—and then I head out to Dunkin Donuts and bring back coffee and a half dozen maple bars, a Las Vegas Sun, an L.A. Times , and a Wall Street Journal, and have read them all by the time he rolls out of the sack at nine thirty. I've seen the old boy snoring way in the back of a Humvee while bouncing over a rutted Iraqi road, while choppering into an op, and while bouncing over the desert in a DPV, a desert petrol vehicle, so nothing surprises me about his ability to sack out.
And of course the first words out of his mouth, after a yawn, are, “Coffee's cold and I like the chocolate bars better.”
“Lick my dick, doofus. You're lucky I saved you two maples.”
“I'm going to shower. Make some hot coffee. You ain't just a pretty face.” And he disappears back into his lair, flipping me off as he goes, an already chomped on maple bar in the other hand.
After he's dressed and ready to roll, we still have three hours to kill before lunching with our favorite casino owner, who should be in a much better mood than the last time we visited. So we head to Pax's office, a two-story affair with a storefront facing a parking lot and a line of parking across the rear off the alley. 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 consultants consist of another dozen in India, three in Malta, a couple in Egypt, and a couple in the Philippines who do contract work for him. His personal office is the size of a two-car garage and located second story rear with a great view of the strip in the distance were he ever to open the drapes on his wide window. A half dozen parking spaces are off the alley below. The window blinds 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 dozen boxes as tall as myself, ominously black, and constantly humming and flashing in their mysterious way.
And Pax puts them to good use; keeping me under the radar is a very small part of the work he does for businesses across the west—he has offices in Bakersfield, Fresno and Ventura, California; Sheridan, Wyoming and recently Salt Lake City. I couldn't operate as I do without his cover.
We slip in the back way and climb the stairs that lead directly to his office, and his intercom buzzes immediately and he has a dozen calls to answer. I, on the other hand, have a Guns and Ammo, a Sports Afield, and a Wired magazine to consume my undivided attention. A knock on his door echoes across the room almost as soon as we're seated.
“Enter,” he yells, and in comes Sol, his number one guy. Sol's a twenty-five year old pudge who may hit five feet four in his lifts, and a brain that I'm surprised isn't pushing out of his Dumbo replica ears. He's wearing a Burning Man tee shirt and pink tennis shoes, which I would think branded him a 'skippy' but knowing what a horn dog he is….
“Hey, man,” he says, and gives me a manly fist bump, then rubs his knuckles as if he's bruised. “Great article in that Wired about the new drones. Make sure you check it out.”
“Will do,” I say, and go back to reading my Sports Afield.
“You gonna be a while?” he asks his boss, who's listening intently with a phone receiver to his ear. He gets a nod then turns back to me. “Guess what?” he asks.
“Brad and Angelina are adopting a Martian.”
He laughs a little too enthusiastically. Then informs me, “Brad and the beauty are getting divorcesd.
“Shows what I know, so what?”
“The FBI called Pointer and your name came up in the conversation.”
That gets my attention. “In what context?”
“It seems they tied a phone call from your cell to Pointer's office, to Flannigan to be exact, last night about the same time some bodies were found in and in close proximity to a federal navigation site, thus the Federal involvement. An out-of-service OMNI to be exact, located on the North Las Vegas Air Park.”
“And…”
“And Flannigan denied having any conversation with anyone in that neighborhood.”
“How did they know it was from the Air Park.”
“They didn't, just fishing, as they only knew it was from a cell tower serving that area and they had a crime scene there. You need to be ready to explain why that call came from that area.”
“Sure, we were at the WalMart Super Center across from the air park shopping for some new threads.”
Sol laughs. “Close enough. However, nobody will believe Pax buys his rags at WalMart.”
“Okay, so he was helping me shop.”
“That they'll believe.”
We no more than finish the exchange and my cell phone goes off with an unknown caller. “Reardon,” I answer.
Sol waves and heads for the door, as his boss is still involved in a call.
“Hello, hot shot.” I recognize the voice.
“Why, as I live and breathe, Agent Tony Merrick.”
“My sainted mother is the only one who calls me Tony.”
“Okay, Anthony. What's up?” As if I didn't know, thanks to Sol.
“Agent Merrick to you. We need a few minutes of your time.”
“Didn't we just have a chat?”
“New business. We'll talk about it when you get here. Bring Weatherwax if he's following you around, as usual.”
“Pax is a leader, not a follower. I have a meeting at one. How about this afternoon? Come to think of it, I was at your place last time. How about meeting me at….at say, The Majestic, around two thirty?”
“You want me to have you picked up, Reardon?”
“Jeez, no reason to get grumpy. Three o'clock, your office.”
He hangs up without a go to hell or goodbye. I've got to suggest to the fibbies they take common courtesy classes…then again, maybe not.
Pax is redialing, so I ask, “You wanna go to see Agent Merrick
with me after our lunch?”
“I'd prefer to get my five-year proctology exam. That's a no.”
“Okay, we've got an hour, then we head out to have lunch with our favorite ex-client, who, if we're lucky, wants to reward us for returning his granddaughter and number one delicious executive assistant.”
“Yeah, that would be nice, or maybe he wants us to haul Albert's remains out into the desert and feed them to the coyotes.”
“And, it could be that.” I return to my magazines and look up the drone article Sol has suggested.
16
The no-neck squid is again awaiting us at the elevator next to next to the high stakes baccarat tables, and rides up with us. Only Frick, of Frick and Frack fame, meets us at the top floor and escorts us into Pointer's outer office. I'm sorry to note the beautiful Cindy is not at her desk, and it's Squid who takes us directly into the inner sanctum amid the walls of dead African critters.
Pointer is at his big desk, and I'm happy to note both Cindy and Mona are across from him. Cindy with long well-tanned legs crossed, Mona with her legs folded under her in a manner only a limber fourteen-year-old could accomplish comfortably. Cindy is not quite so striking with an eye now blue and almost totally swollen shut…but with a body like that little else is noticeable. She could have a wart on the end of her nose the size of a walnut and one would barely notice.
The girls each have a magazine, Pointer's reading paperwork out of an open folder on his desk. He stands, and strides around the desk and extends his hand. “Thank you. Thank you both.”
He shakes with me, then Pax, covering our hand with his free one in a most friendly manner. It would seem we're back in his good graces. He returns to his chair and snaps at Squid. “Get them something to sit in.”
While Squid's chasing chairs from a wall next to the billiard table, both Cindy and Mona rise and each in turn gives us a hug and a sincere thanks.
We perch on a couple of ebony-black, zebra-hide-upholstered, ladder-back chairs, Squid exits the room, and Pointer wastes no time. “I want you back on the bus explosion, and I've got a sack full of cash for you for past favors,” he nods at a small duffle bag on the corner of his desk, “as a thank you for snatching the girls back from those scumbags.”
