by L. J. Martin
And he’s grinning like it’s Chinese New Year and he just won a ten-grand street-numbers lottery. Another of the enterprises of this Asian gang—numbers.
I jump the last six feet, but he’s only twenty feet away and closing, and has his .454 or whatever it is, laid down on me.
As quickly as I can move, I put both hands on top my head, in apparent surrender, as reaching for my Springfield would leave me at least three seconds late.
2
A Lapua .338 mag makes a hell of a noise if not suppressed, and the big slug creasing the pavement just behind plate-face and slamming into the metal building, makes him spin and drop to one knee. I’m sure he felt the shock of the passing slug.
I charge, pulling the .45 as I go, and catch him turning back my way. He’s a very big guy and I’m sure ox-strong, but agile is not on his resume. He stumbles trying to spin on the knee he dropped to. I’m not interested in blowing his gray matter all over the pavement, so take the next best tact and slam the heavy semiauto into the side of his head.
Did I say ox-strong? Ox-hard-headed is more like it. His eyes are spinning, but he’s not down and is trying to raise the .454. I deflect it with a kick and slam him again, then again, and finally he flops to his back on the pavement. I kick his revolver as hard as I can, and it slides in front of me toward the hole I’ve cut in the cyclone fence.
As I’m slipping through, trying to negotiate the fence cut without cutting my nuts off or even ripping my jeans, I realize the .454 would make a nice souvenir. I reach back through the fence and snake it up.
Foolish, as a slug ricochets off the pavement. Had I been a half second later, it would likely have taken my arm off at the elbow.
I scramble to get in between the cars in the parking lot of the adjacent warehouse when I hear the Lapua roar another one by me and look back to see a second Asian who’s rounded the back corner. He’s kicking up gravel behind as he retraces his steps and looks for cover.
I’m picking them up and putting ’em down as I haul ass away from the dozen bad guys, round the smaller warehouse next door and see my white knight. Pax is already crossing the parking lot of the potato chip plant and heading for our van.
In less than three minutes, he’s pulled up beside me and we’re heading for the Long Beach Freeway.
“You whole?” he asks.
“Far as I know. You threw a little lead around and got no blood. You losing your eye old man?”
“As I recall, we agreed the rules of engagement were leave ’em whole unless we fear getting holes in us.”
“That was it. Just making sure you meant to miss.”
“One hundred eighty yards? I could have notched his ears if I’d wanted no. Yes, I meant to miss. Call Uncle Al and tell the pompous prick we’ve found his wheels but the LA County Sheriff will have to gather them up, and we still expect to be paid.”
I do, and Mercedes dealer Albert Fenderson answers his cell on the first ring.
“Reardon,” he recognizes the incoming number, “you get my little darling?”
“Didn’t get it, per se, but know where it is, in fact had eyes on it.”
“Then why don’t you have it?”
“A little matter of eight hostiles with automatic weapons. We’re calling in the local law and you’ll have it back.”
“That wasn’t the deal,” he says.
“Your deal was finding the car. My deal was finding the car and don’t get killed.”
“The deal was recovering the car. Isn’t that what it says on your card; recoveries?”
“It does. Okay, forget it. We quit.”
“Where’s the car.”
“In a warehouse in L A County.”
“There’re million warehouses in L A County.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I say. “Good luck.” And I disconnect and wink at Pax.
I hardly get the phone down, when it rings again.
“Reardon, recoveries of all kinds,” I answer, knowing it’s him calling back.
“Forty thousand was the deal, right?” he says.
“That was the deal. But now it’s forty-two thou. I lost a drone.”
“Good for the goose, good for the gander. Forty if the cops recover your drone, another two if not.”
“Deal.”
“I’m at the Wilshire dealership. Come on over and we’ll settle up, conditionally, of course.”
“Of course. It’ll be most of an hour to get there.”
“I’ll hang,” he says, “besides, I got other business to talk to you two numb-nuts about,” and rings off.
I dial the private number of a buddy of mine, a dick with the L.A. County Sheriff. “Morganstein, do I have a deal for you,” I say, when he answers.
“Reardon, the last deal you had for me got me shot in the ass. I still pucker up every time I climb up on a bar stool.”
“Which is way too often. I heard the brain has no nerves or pain receptors, so it shouldn’t hurt when you sit on yours?”
“Ho, ho. Lay it out.”
And I do. And all those fine cars are now a problem for my old buddy Morganstein and the L.A. Sheriff. I tell him the charge for the tip is getting Fenderson’s car to him quickly, and he agrees.
Pax is admiring the revolver in my lap. “That’s a Ruger .454 Casull?”
“Sounds right.”
“Since I saved your ass, I presume you’re giving that to me?”
“I love you like a brother and would never risk you being the receiver of stolen property. So, I’m keeping it, but thanks for asking.”
“You friggin’ cheapskate.”
“It was my ass waiting to get busted by it, so, yes, I’m keeping it. It will always bring back fond memories of me remaining alive. Be a good boy and I’ll put it in your stocking come Christmas time.”
Pax glances over. “It’ll be six by the time we get there. Can we at least stick Fenderson for a fat steak at The Palm or Ruth’s Chris?”
“I doubt it,” I say.
“I’ll talk him into it.”
I have to laugh. Pax is always hungry. “Save your breath, dingus, you got to blow up your date when you get home.”
He gives me the finger, but I’m happy to say puts the hand right back on the wheel. You need both hands in L.A. traffic.
This is not a high paying gig; forty grand tops. In fact, we may barely break even. But things have been slow since we ducked in and out of North Korea, and Pax and I bore easily. So, we took the job, mostly because the cat whose car was stolen is the uncle of one of Weatherwax Internet Services’ favorite employees, Sol, who’s back in the fold after a long spell in rehab. It seems what was done to him, and what he did as retribution, screwed with his very big brain. So, it’s kind of a family thing, even if his Uncle Albert is a bit of a dickhead.
WIS is Pax’s company, founded with dough he got when he separated from the Marine Corps—separated with one leg three quarters of an inch shorter than the other, thanks to taking a whack from an AK47 while trying to drag me out of harm’s way. All I got was a boot in the butt and a general discharge—not dishonorable but not honorable either—and maybe a scrambled brain if you listen to Pax. The Corps took umbrage at me sending an Iraqi general to his seventy-two virgins. As much as I love the Corps, I’d do it again as he was among those stoning to death a couple of young Iraqi lasses. One of those freak things the Quran endorses is so-called honor killing. You can kill, stone to death with impunity, one of your own children if they’ve offended you. And if your wife is accused of infidelity, stone that woman even if you have your buddy accuse her—or if you’re merely tired of her. Cheaper than divorce, I guess. If that flew in the U.S., half the younger generation would likely be dodging boulders or concrete blocks, and women would never get married.
That said, both the Quran and the Bible have instructions modern religious devotees would as soon see excluded. Times do change and we cling to what our personality and mores are attracted to. And some personalities are attracted to
violence.
Pax and I now team up for the occasional gig doing recoveries or whatever else raises its head—occasional bounty hunting and fewer improbable tasks the U.S. government wants done but doesn’t want to appear to have anything to do with. Plausible deniability they call it. I call it federal fucking around where they normally shouldn’t. But it pays well. Gigs that are legal or at least reasonably so.
USA legal at least.
Semi-legal at least.
3
Pax didn’t save his breath and I’m happy he didn’t as we’re perched in a booth at Ruth’s Chris, on Beverly Drive in posh Beverly Hills, awaiting a medium rare New York, pommes frites, and sautéed spinach while gnawing warm hard bread and sipping a Jack rocks. My partner, Paxton Weatherwax, is at my left with Uncle Al across the table, swirling a single malt and still negotiating.
I prefer the wait staff at Hooters, but Frederick, our waiter, is a sly old dog and puts up with Uncle Al’s condescending bull crap like a pro. I’m enjoying Frederick far more than Al, except for the fact Al’s buying and the tab would likely cause me indigestion.
“Look, Reardon, it’s a commission-driven world. If I get you this job, you should knock at least ten grand off finding my Maybach.”
“Uncle Al, you’re Sol’s uncle, not mine, as much as we love and respect your nephew. And a gig that pays twenty grand a month for two months, maybe less, is suddenly only thirty grand not forty, if I give up ten on this one. Al, we’ve made four trips over from Vegas to run down your car for you and paid out a chunk of dough for gear. Fact is, we’re losing money already.”
“Oy vey, you're the first cousin to a raghead rug merchant. But think of the prestige,” he says, smiling with only half his mouth, which comes across more as smirk than smile. “Besides, you’ll have the gear for the next job.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Prestige buys no ammo. No question, it’s prestigious to bodyguard a twenty-five-year-old blonde dipshit with twenty grand of Beverly Hill’s surgical work who got her music published and pushed by an old man who’s one of the biggest producers in Hollywierd. As God is my witness, I don’t see the connection to prestige, and when did prestige ever make a couple of country boys a buck? Besides, I’ve got a new lady friend and don’t want to be gone while I’m seeing where this will lead.”
He smiles, only this time with the other half of his mouth, again a smirk. “You're way off, numb-nuts, it’s probably a hundred grand in plastic surgeon’s work. It’s obvious you’ve never had an eye lift or boob job at Beverly Hills rates.” We both laugh at that. “Look,” he says, changing his tone, now speaking slowly like he’s talking to a ten-year-old, “it’s prestigious to work with Simone and you’ll be next to her while the paparazzi is snapping pics all over the Med. It’ll bring you lots of celebrity work.”
I laugh. “Actually, I’ve avoided having my picture taken. There are times when it’s unhealthy to be easily recognized. And celebs? I prefer to work with folks who pay twenty-nine ninety-five for their jeans and got the holes in the knees from honest labor, and with guys who have five days’ beard because they don’t have time to shave or are downrange ducking lead. Not with assholes trying to prove their masculinity with perfectly trimmed stubble.”
“Look,” he again says, “I’ll talk Mort into paying your lady’s way as well. You’ll have a great cabin with a huge window looking at Spanish sunsets. Your toughest duty will be deflecting Simone’s fans who’d like to steal her hairbrush for a souvenir. Look at it like a vacation. Cruising from England to France to Portugal to Spain can’t be all bad. Then over to the film festival in Cannes. Hell, you should pay him.”
“It’s a month, right?”
“A month, maybe six weeks,” he repeats.
“I’ll do it for a hundred grand, providing it’s no longer than six weeks and I can convince my new darling to go along.”
“You’re fucking nuts,” he says.
“Yeah, and nuts is what you occasionally need in a good bodyguard.”
“I’ll convey your offer to Mort, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Provisional offer. I have to check with Connie.”
Pax has been strangely silent, cutting his eyes back and forth from Al to me like he’s watching a tennis match, while he, too, sips a Jack rocks, so I turn to him. “What’s with you? When did you stop putting in your two cents worth?”
“Anything that’ll get you out of my hair for a month is good news to me.” He gives me a phony grin.
I return the phony smile. “That alone will encourage me to take this gig. Getting away from you.”
Al laughs, then asks, “How long have you two been working together?”
Both of us say in unison, “Too fucking long.”
Near the East London Mosque, situated in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets between Whitechapel and Aldgate is a teahouse. It serves Great Britain's largest Muslim community. As there are over six hundred thousand Muslims in London, a safe meeting place is easy to find.
Three bearded men, a Kenyan, an American, and a Somali, none of whom have met before, enter the Swahili Tea Room, not far from the banks of the Thames River, at two-thirty in the afternoon with the place near empty.
The largest and darkest of them, Mumin Amir, the Somali, is already seated and rises as the others approach.
“As’ Salam alaikum,” he says as greeting. “May peace be upon you and God’s blessings.”
“Waa alaikum as’salam,” the others both reply.
“Know that paradise…” Mumin Amir, their leader, begins. He sits, then awaits a reply.
“Is under the shades of swords,” Abdul, the Kenyan, says, as he takes a seat.
The American—half-Irish, half-Nigerian—adds the balance of their coded greeting. “Sahih Bukhari, fifty-two seventy-three,” the location of the quote in the Quran.
“You will take tea?” Mumin offers, and waves to a Yemini waiter. As he approaches, Mumin cautions the others. “We will converse only using our assigned names. I, of course, am Mumin, and you are Abdul and Mohamid, as you have been instructed. Understand? Our contact at the union has filed papers with the purser using those names.”
Both men nod as the waiter pauses, and Mumin turns to him. “Three dark teas, sugar please.”
The waiter leaves for the kitchen and Mumin continues.
“Mohamid, as you are the most conversant in English, of course, you will report to the purser as Mohamid Ahmed who will work as a steward in the upper suite floors until we near Cadiz. An American Marine General and his wife are among those who will be in one of those suites. He’s a prime target.” Then he turns to Abdul, “And Abdul, as you have kitchen and restaurant experience you are assigned to stores. You’ll be receiving meat, vegetables, and canned and boxed goods and will stow them per the instruction of a cook’s helper, a man we will know as Gama, also a Sudanese. As you know, as you've had experience on a cruise ship, all dry and canned stores and frozen meat arrive at designated ports in containers. Crimson Cruise Line has a facility near Rome, and we have two compatriots at work there. Our special packages are already packed at that location.”
“And your job on board?”
“I will be a passenger.”
They speak for an hour until the place begins to fill up for four o’clock tea and pastries. Then Mumin rises. Abdul has one more question, “How will we remain devout? Won’t it be obvious— “
Mumin stops him with another quote, “If you are so devout you should know this quote: …and when you travel in the land, there is no sin on you if you shorten your Salat, your prayers, if you fear that the disbelievers may attack you, verily, the disbelievers are ever unto you open enemies.” He speaks harshly as he adds, “Shave your face clean, pray only when alone, ignore all that will point out to infidels that you are devout. You may even drink alcohol and eat pork, if necessary.”
Mohamid, the American, adds with a smile, “…unbelievers are to be killed and wounded, if necessary.
Survivors are to be held captive for ransom. The only reason Allah doesn't do the dirty work himself is to test the faithfulness of Muslims. Those who kill pass the test. Do not let so-called humanity cloud your judgement. Remember the millions Americans and Christians have killed of our people.”
Mumin smiles tightly for the first time. “It is good you know the most important quotes from the Quran. At least the intent of those important sections if not verbatim. Allah be with you,” he said, then hands them each a cell phone. “These are pay-as-you-go phones. Use them only to call me and, only then, if something happens that will keep you from our objective. My number is the only number encoded in the phone’s memory. Do not, I repeat, do not use the pay-as-you-go for any other reason, even if you lose your own or the battery dies.” And he leaves.
4
We’re home, each twenty grand, less costs, richer. The cops raided the warehouse while we were enjoying those medium rare New York strips and Uncle Al is scheduled to get his Maybach back in less than a week. I knew his car was insured so I wondered why he was willing to cough up to get it returned. At supper, he told me how far out the orders are for the top of the line Mercedes and he’d be a year or more without one, even being a dealer. It seems all those Arab sheiks have orders in for fleets of the things and Mercedes is more than a year behind. The Arabs like the fold down trays like they have on their jets—guess they like to eat on the go. Or maybe, they just like the peons to see them in quarter-million-dollar rides. So, I shrug it off. I learned early on, it’s not always wise to worry about a client’s motives.
I’m by the pool at Pax’s condo with my new squeeze, Constance Nordstrom, who has only recently separated from fifteen years with the CIA. A blonde beauty with hair to the center of her back and other superior attributes—that said, I love her for her brain. She’s quick with a quip and has no problem keeping up with Pax and me in the smart-ass department. She has an ass that’s far more than merely smart. Pax has accused me of getting serious, and made me wonder if I actually am.
