by L. J. Martin
“Det is a wanted man, in Cleveland, but we won't learn anything if you pick him up, and we can collect a little reward when it's time if you leave him be for a while. Stay away from him, please.”
“Please? I got a please from Mike Reardon. Mark that down, Weatherwax.”
Pax smiles. “It's a red-letter day.”
“Can you hold off looking for him?” I ask.
“We've already been to his apartment, and his stuff is cleaned out. Unless we tie him to the crime, no one at LVPD will be expending assets to find him. We would like to take a look at his tires…but that problem seems to be rampant here in Vegas.”
“Very funny, Andre,” I say, and get a chuckle from him.
“And the FBI?” Pax asks.
Shrugging again. “A couple of bodies in the desert are the bailiwick of the sheriff's department. A couple of our guys accompanied them to the apartment as a courtesy, since it's in the city. So, how did you get onto this Det guy?”
“I know where he hangs, and it's the same place that Nobel Baddovic hung.”
“That could be more than a coincident…coincidence,” he corrects himself.
“I'll keep you posted. You keep me posted on Roth…deal?”
“Deal,” he says, and shakes. We spend the rest of supper talking basketball, the chances of UNLV in the coming season, and about the U.S. National Team training in Vegas.
When we've finished the after-dinner drinks, he says he's got to roll and waits for me to rise.
“I'm staying a while, Andre. I've got to make sure my silverware and glasses go through a very hot dishwashing machine.”
He guffaws, all the way to the door.
19
I sack out at Pax's condo again, as neither of us are able to interest any of the ladies in the Racquet Room in extracurricular activities. An exception for my smooth talking buddy Pax, not particularly for me.
Over coffee this morning we discuss our next effort.
Pax suggests, “Let's see if we can find someone, some patriotic Muslim, who hates the DSA?”
“Not likely. First, they won't give up another haji no matter if they hate them. Second, you're likely to find yourself talking to an undercover FBI agent and Merrick suggested more than a little strongly that I keep my nose out of his investigation. I think we should go back to Sandy's and see if we can get a line on ol' Det…at least make sure he's not skipped town.”
“How about Sister Agnes Anne? Her priest or other sisters might know something.”
I shake my head. “Again, we're likely to run into the fibbies. You got to know they're watching her people in case someone else there might be a threat to Roth.”
“How about Judge Alverez? He's got to have a clerk or a bailiff and we might learn something.”
I think for a moment, then shake my head again. “Again, the FBI will be all over them. What was the guy's name who was feeding the buzzards alongside the Russian?”
“The Ruskee was Victor Ovechkin, the other guy was Duane Peterson…no, Pemberton, and I've got Sol doing backgrounds on both of them.”
“Great, bug Sol and make sure he's on it, and then we go to breakfast until he has something for us, then we follow up on Pemberton, then we go to Sandy's and work our charms on the barmaid…Paula, as I recall. And we should make another run on the Purple Parrot. We got waylaid last time.”
“Then I better shower, shave, and get handsome.”
“Fuck, we've got to get there before closing time. And reconstructive facial surgery takes days.”
“Chuck you, Farley. I'll be a half hour.”
Sol, who has a contact at the Coroner's office, is able to find an address for Pemberton, and after stuffing our faces with steak and eggs at Binion’s, we head out to a motel almost all the way to Henderson, a one-story place built when there was nothing else for a half mile in any direction. It's dirty white with multicolored doors so I guess if the customer can't read the clerk can advise, “The pea green door down at the end.”
The clerk—who has a bag of cocoa-flavored cereal he must have bought at some box store, as it's as tall as the arm of his chair—is stuffing his mouth while watching some inane game show, and washing it down with a quart bottle of Cola. I'm a little surprised the guy can rise and make it to the counter, as he'd go four hundred. He's got a creviced brow and a dewlap that swings as he walks. If I were a betting man I'd take two to one he wouldn't make it another year...and even money that he won't make it back to his deep...in fact broken-down...easy chair.
“What'cha, need, boys?” he asks, his mouth half full of chomped brown mush.
“Information,” Pax says.
“Duane Pemberton,” he surmises, backhanding some dribble from his fat lips. “I've had the FBI, the LVPD, and now you two. You don't look like no cops. You got badges?”
I flash the brass, my bail enforcement officer shield, and he looks disappointed as he's eager to get back to the tube.
“Just a couple more questions,” I say.
“I tolt the Vegas boys, I'm busy. I don't have time—”
Before he can finish I have a Jackson slapped on the counter. “That'll buy you another bag of that slop you're chowing down.”
“Them cocoa thingys are the best. Okay, what?”
“Pemberton have any friends?” I ask.
“Never saw nobody visit.”
“Can we see his room?” Pax asks.
“FBI released it early this morning. It's been cleaned. Bastards left that black fingerprint crap all over.”
“We'll pass, they don't miss much. Did he give you any other address when he registered?” I ask.
“We ain't too technical about registration. That all?”
Pax and I look at each other, and I shrug. “Hell, I guess that's it.”
As we head to the car, Pax asks, “What now, Sherlock?”
“Det first, then Roth. We'll try the Purple Parrot tonight, presuming we don't get on another trail.”
“So, back to Sandy's?” Pax suggests.
“They serve a mean corned beef sandwich, or so says the sign. Free if you're feeding their slots. We've got a couple of hours to kill before lunch...they don't even open until eleven thirty...so let's go by Black Rifle Armory and see what's new?”
“You're on, brother.” Pax smiles widely. “I hated drowning those M4's.”
“If you recall, I paid for them, so I hated it way worse than you did.”
Pax and I can spend hours in a gun store, but it's only moments before we zero in onto a pair of fine close combat weapons. Kel-Tec KSG semi-auto shotguns. Twelve-gauge, eighteen and a half inch legal barrels, and the best part, fourteen- shot magazines. And I'm pretty sure our personal armorer can give them a switch and make an alternative for fully auto.
Two guys with fourteen-shot magazines, and a couple more in their tact vest, of double-ought buck. That's nine .33 caliber slugs per shell or one hundred twenty-six slugs per magazine, or three hundred seventy-eight slugs in three magazines. You could take out a platoon with that kind of firepower, so long as they're close. And if you could live long enough.
We'd buy them but then our purchase would be public record, and not wise in our line of work. Rather, we'll do what any self-respecting criminal—and there's not such an animal—would do, and that's buy them through a contact who doesn't mind not knowing to whom he resells. When guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns.
And we'll have them in two days, shipped to another who won't know our names, but will know what denomination bills Ben Franklin is pictured upon.
The good news is shotguns don't leave forensic traces, and using them will mean they don’t have to be deep-sixed. Of course, one hundred twenty-six slugs in a perp might be a clue to the weapon in question.
Although we can't buy the weapons here, we do buy a case of double-ought buck to help keep a great gun store alive.
And, having them at hand might keep us alive. However, this detective gig is much safer than most we've
undertaken. Sitting in bars shooting the bull is lots better than lying in the snow or in hot desert sand getting shot at.
Speaking of bars, by the time we get to Sandy's it'll be lunch time.
20
Zebron ‘Det’ Zebrowski lost his roommate, thanks to orders orders from those willing to pay for his hard work, and thanks to his utter lack of remorse in taking a life, even one of a close associate. He still has the remnants of blisters from burying the assholes...big Vic Ovechkin and the little prick, Pemberton. Ovechkin was a filthy bastard, and no loss. The son of a bitch knew too much and consequently was dangerous…and had not paid his portion of the rent, so Det had no problem pumping him full of lead. But he was now short a roommate, and this time he was going to have one who not only paid a fair share, but wrapped her legs around him. He was a big guy, and Paula, at Sandy's had just the voluptuous—if big qualifies—butt to support a big guy. And he happened to know she was in debt, hated her job, and liked to get banged. He'd bent her over a table after closing time no more than a week ago.
Vegas was no longer a healthy place for Det. The bodies had been discovered and the guy he'd done the job for was not known to put up with shoddy work.
He'd talk Paula into tying up with him, then head to Florida, where he had some old friends he'd worked with in Cleveland.
Hell, they'd have some work for him in Miami.
As we are riding to Sandy's, Pax gets a call from Sol and Gilbert, another of his hotshot kids who works the web for information. Both are on the phone and tell him they have something interesting, and if we'll buy supper at some steakhouse—presuming we won't make it back to Weatherwax Internet Services before supper time—they'll give us a lesson in Vegas history over a fat T-bone. And they don't want to do so on a cell phone, even one encrypted, or a throwaway, as we all use. They pique our interest and there are long hours to kill between finishing at Sandy's, finishing lunch, and going to the Purple Parrot, which we didn't plan to do until past nine when the action starts there.
There's another guy I'd like to talk with, and after we finish seeing what Paula knows, we'll head for the hospital and see if Iver Brown, poor little Lina's chauffeur, is up to talking. No question he has a real hard on for Pointer and his security boys, whom I’m sure are responsible for his broken ribs, arm, leg, and busted spleen. Why didn't they just toss him in front of a train? Then again, he may not want it to happen again and may take the advice wielded with fist and bludgeon and keep his mouth shut. But he sure as hell won't give up anything if we don't ask.
We're in the van so I have lots of armament, and electronics, and some disguises. I want to go back to the Purple Parrot incognito, but no reason to do so at Sandy's…besides I was striking up a friendship with the barmaid, Paula, if memory serves. And who knows, good old Det may drop by for a free corned beef sandwich or to reminisce about his now demised roommate.
Sandy's is crowded, even at lunch. Run-down, not exactly a class joint, but with management smart enough to offer inexpensive drinks and free sandwiches, so long as you're feeding the slots. It pulls in a crowd.
We're lucky to find two adjoining stools at the bar, and I'm disappointed to note that Paula is not the barmaid. In fact, it's a butt-ugly ol' boy with a handlebar mustache which is not wide enough to cover a pockmarked face. His eyes, however, are bright and constantly moving.
“What's yer pleasure,” he asks both of us at the same time.
“Paula not working?” I ask.
“Come's on at six today. Six to closing. However, I know how to pop a beer and mix a drink. Been doing it right here for twenty-eight years.”
I smile and stick out a hand. “Dick...Dick Long.”
“Texas Slim, Tex to my friends.” He shakes, with a hand with steel wire for tendons and callouses that belie a bartender. He's more suited for throwing around kegs of beer or barrels of whiskey than bending a wrist making a Cosmo. He must have been slim as a kid, as he sure isn't now.
“Then I hope it's Tex for me,” I say, happy to get my hand back.
He gives me a bit of a hard look as if he's yet to decide, then asks, “Now, what's your pleasure?”
“Jack rocks for me.”
“Same,” Pax says, and he, too, extends a hand and shakes, and mouths, “Elliot…Elliot Ness.” He's as big a smartass as I am, if not as clever.
We no more than get our drinks and pay up—this is not the kind of joint to run a tab—when in walks the reason for our visit.
I elbow Pax in the ribs, but he doesn't turn to look, but in the mirror behind the bar he sees me motion with a head throw toward the back door, as Det fills the short hallway with his wide beer-barrel body and ambles into the room. He stands looking for a seat at the bar, which is full, and I whisper to Pax, “Give up the seat,” and he downs his drink and heads for the door.
And, as hoped, Det heads for the vacancy. Pax heads out the front door, but I know he'll return, and likely take a seat at one of the slots.
Det plops his wide butt at the bar, and I act surprised. “Didn't we shoot the bull in here a couple of days ago?”
He eyes me up and down, and grunts, “Damn if we didn't.”
“Detroit, right?” I ask.
“Close enough,” he says, and waves to Tex who's at the other end of the bar.
“Usual?” Tex shouts.
Det nods, then looks at me with more interest. “Ain't you the guy asked me if I knew Nobby?”
“Yeah, you said you didn't.” This is getting more interesting as Nobby is the nickname Noble Baddovic went by. Baddovic, who we think was the bus bomber.
“I didn't...don't…but he was one of them guys killed in the bus bombing. So I remember you asking.”
“Yeah,” I say, giving him a sad look. “I knew him from Rosco Rules. His middle name must have been Bad Luck.”
“Wouldn't know,” Det says, turning away.
As he does, I notice the front door opening, and in walks another guy I recognize. It's the young FBI agent who was here the last time I had a chat with Mr. Det Zebrowski…I presume he's tailing one and the same.
Again, the young fibbi is dressed in dark sunglasses which he doesn't remove, a black golf-shirt…but one that's of generous size and un-tucked, likely hiding a semi-auto at his back. There's also a telltale bulge on his right ankle. This new style of tight pants doesn't lend itself to hideout guns. He moves to a distant table and as I watch out of the corner of my eye, raises his iPhone and acts as if he's reading something, but I'm sure he's taking a picture of Det and I chumming it up.
Not far behind him, Pax re-enters and takes a seat at another table, only one separated from the young fibbi.
And then, as Tex is placing a bottle of beer and a shot glass full of what looks to be whiskey in front of Det, the door opens again. It's getting to be old home week as it's Frick, from Pointer's Majestic. About the same time, in from the back door and the alley, comes his partner, Frack.
There's enough beef in the room, in addition to a dozen of what I presume are regulars, to fill a Costco meat counter.
I'm careful to keep my eyes off either of them as it seems I haven't been recognized as of yet.
Things are getting very, very interesting.
21
Frick, who’s blond and looks like a German storm trooper, or trooper, or maybe a Viking as his hair is shoulder length, crosses the room and edges up behind Det. Det sees him in the mirror and spins on the stool, but his forearms rest on his thighs and he seems unconcerned. I don't turn, as I don't want to be recognized. Although I think I've been made by the young FBI agent, as he took the iPhone pic.
I do, however, keep attuned to the conversation.
Although he’s trying to be friendly, it doesn't come across as such when Frick asks, “Hey, man, the boss is outside and wants to talk for a second.”
“Outside?” Det responds, and no longer looks quite so confident, and doesn't move.
“Yeah, he's waiting. Let's go.”
“Rot
h or Pointer?” Det asks, and that confuses me. I'll have to conjure on that later.
“Just come on out,” Frick snaps, losing patience.
“Bullshit. Tell him to come on in. I'll buy him a drink.”
Frick chuckles, but it's a phony laugh, then moves closer and speaks low as if he doesn't want me or the old barfly on Dex's left to overhear. “You know he don't wanna be seen with you. Let's go.”
“Fuck that,” Det says.
“Now,” Frick says, his voice hardening, and I glance back to see he has a hand in his pocket and something looking like a small barrel is aimed at Det's mid-section.
“You gonna plug me in this joint?”
“I'd rather not,” Frick says, now growling. “The boss just wants to talk, so let's go.”
Det starts to ease off the stool, and is cautioned by Frick. “Keep your hands out of your pockets. Walk in front.”
Frick has been pretty smooth, as no one in the joint seems to notice what's coming down.
They move toward the short hallway with Frick less than an arm’s length behind. Frack rises from the table he's taken, and follows, a dozen paces behind.
The back door no more than closes behind Frack, when the young agent stands. His iPhone at his ear, probably calling for back up, he follows while he talks.
As he hits the hallway, I throw a twenty on the bar and head that way and see Pax is right behind me.
It's a parade.
The young FBI agent is careful, with his hand at his back beneath his shirt he hesitates for a moment, then shoves the door open.
Light floods the hallway and I'm blinded for a second by the brightness. I hesitate and Pax almost runs into me, so I turn. “Go get the van and station yourself at the east end of the alley. And be careful. Shit's coming down.”
He doesn't question or argue, and jogs for the front door.
I turn back as the young agent exits the door, just in time to see the door stitched by automatic fire. Luckily it's at an angle and takes the men's room door and the wall of the hallway to my left.
