Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “Ed, sit down,” Manuel ordered.

  “And if I don’t?”

  “He will carve you up and take great pleasure in slowly flaying you alive. So sit down and control yourself. All is not lost … yet.”

  Undercover officers sometimes develop actual friendships with these criminals.

  —Police Procedure & Investigation: A Guide For Writers

  61

  McMahon settled back to enjoy the sight of the full moon sparkling across the surface of Howe Sound. He opened a can of beer and raised it to his lips. Before he could take a drink, a voice said, “You got a spare beer?”

  “Nope. They only come twenty-four to the case. You’re welcome to one, though.”

  Rock Stone took a bottle from the cooler and dropped into an empty chair. “I saw you talking with Miss Everything this morning.”

  “Yeah, you have a problem with that?”

  “She needs someone to breed her, maybe take some of the starch out of her spine.”

  McMahon felt his face flush with anger. “And I suppose you’re just the man to do it?”

  “Naw, too much work to train one like her. I like mine to be a bit more … shall we say … knowledgeable.”

  “Sounds as if you have quite a bit of experience.”

  “Ever hear of a movie called Slaves Of Desire?”

  “Sounds like a porno to me.”

  “It is. Not just any run-of-the-mill one though. Jabłoński directed it—”

  “And you starred in it?”

  “Male lead … Emma Ho got top billing.” He looked into the distance, a wistful expression on his face. “God, that woman was built …”

  McMahon fought back the urge to immediately ask if Stone knew anything about The Black Orchid. But he didn’t want to burst his bubble—not until he had the information he needed. He was certain that if he was patient, Stone’s ego would provide him with everything he needed to bring him and Jabłoński down.

  “I made some damned good pornos. They actually had a plot—a real storyline,” Stone said. “I never understood why I couldn’t make the transition—”

  “Not many actors successfully make it from adult to mainstream film,” McMahon commented.

  “Yeah, but when you got as much charisma as me, I knew it was only a matter of time before Hollywood came knocking …”

  Too bad, McMahon thought, Hollywood didn’t knock you on your ass.

  Stone continued his soliloquy of self-importance. “Yeah, the girls in the valley were heartbroken when ole Rock Hardon made the big-time.”

  “The valley?”

  “Yeah, the San Fernando Valley. We filmed all our adult movies there.”

  “I gather that you were Rock Hardon?”

  “My stage name … what else could you call a man who’s—”

  “I get your point,” McMahon interrupted. “I’m surprised that Kondrat got involved in that stuff.”

  “Jack, you got no idea of some of the shit that Pollack is into.”

  “Such as?”

  “Any fuckin’ thing that’ll make him a buck. Believe me, the last thing you ever want to do is get between him and a dollar bill. He’ll run you over to get to it.”

  Stone chugged down his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood. “Well, I gotta get some shuteye.” McMahon kept a straight face when Stone looked at his quarters with envy. McMahon had spent his first night on set in the trailer that Stone’s demotion had placed him in—it was so small a preschooler could tow it with a tricycle. “How you like these digs?” Stone asked.

  “They’re okay.”

  “Well, enjoy it while you can. You fall a lot quicker than you climb in the movie biz. I learned a long time ago to never forget the people you meet on the way up … because you’re gonna pass them again on the way back down.”

  “Sounds like good advice to me—no matter what you do in life.”

  Stone walked to the edge of the light and said, “We ought to do this more often.” He waved and disappeared into the darkness.

  When his guest was out of sight, McMahon gathered up the empty bottles and the cooler and went inside the trailer. He had just finished putting everything away when there was a knock at the door. He opened it and Abigail Allen stood at the foot of the steps. She was barefoot, wearing a loose-fitting robe, and holding a bottle of wine. “How about a nightcap?”

  Nighttime surveillance presents unusual problems … because of darkness the suspect is able to view any vehicle following him due to the presence of headlights.

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  62

  Deborah followed Provost into Canoga Park, where he turned into the parking lot of a strip club. As much as she hated losing sight of him, there was no way she was going into a place like that. Not that she was a prude or felt herself too good for such a place, but because she knew she would stand out like a moose in a mall parking lot. She parked across the street and settled in for what she hoped would not be a long night. She turned on the satellite radio and listened to oldies music. It was not long before her eyes closed.

  She woke to a rapping on her window. Deborah blinked her eyes, trying to erase the effects of sleep, and glanced at the digital display on the car’s radio: it was two thirty in the morning. The rapping was repeated. Still groggy with incomplete sleep, she lowered the window.

  A hand reached in and grabbed her shoulder. She tried to pull away, but the grip tightened. She turned her head and stared into Larry Provost’s face.

  “You want something, lady?”

  “N-n-no …”

  “Then why have you been shadowing my every move for the past few days?”

  “I-I haven’t—”

  “Get out of the car. You’re coming with me.” He pushed a small handgun through the window. “Do it quietly and don’t let a bad decision affect the rest of your life.” He said, “Keep both your hands where I can see them.”

  Deborah stared at the angry maw of the pistol, realized that she’d never get the handgun out of her bag without him seeing, and knew she had no recourse but to follow his instructions. Moving slowly, she placed both of her hands on the top of the steering wheel. Then, Provost reached through the open window, and unlocked her door. He stepped back and motioned with his free hand. “Get out.”

  She unhooked her seat belt and slid out. Provost motioned for her to walk forward and when she did, he closed the car door and positioned himself behind her. “Cross the street.” His order was terse and having no other option, she complied.

  He forced her across the street and into the strip club’s parking lot, where he led her to his Jaguar. He motioned for her to get in on the passenger side. One look at his face told her that if she got in that car, it could very well mean the end of her life.

  “I said get in.”

  Just as Deborah reached for the door handle, a loud whoop sounded, followed by a flash of blue lights. A police car pulled into the parking lot and slid to a halt behind the Jaguar.

  Deborah saw a brief look of fear flash across Provost’s face, only to be replaced by a look of cocky self-assurance, and she stepped back.

  Angela Engle, in uniform, got out of the police cruiser and with one hand on her sidearm, she stepped toward them. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  Provost saw a second cop exit the cruiser and quickly slid the small pistol into his jacket pocket. “Everything is fine, officer. My friend and I were just heading home.”

  “Is that why you took her out of her car?”

  Provost knew that he had been observed, so he fell back on the one thing he had always been able to rely on—his political reputation. “Officer?”

  The second cop, a large well-proportioned male, walked around the cruiser and positioned himself so that Provost was in front of him. The cop’s hand hovered close to his service pistol.

  “Engle.”

  “Officer Engle, I’m—”

  “I know who you are, Dr.
Provost. That’s the only reason you aren’t being handcuffed as we speak. Now, in the interest of all parties, why don’t we all forget about this incident and go our separate ways?”

  Deborah saw him stand in place for a second, as if he was trying to determine how trustworthy this cop was. It was obvious that the last thing he needed was for the tabloids to learn that he was picking up women at a strip club. Engle took the decision from him when she said, “Or we can go to the station and work this out …”

  Provost held up his hand in defeat and circled around his car. Before getting in, he looked across the roof at Deborah and said, “Call me, darling … we need to discuss this.” He climbed in, started the engine, and backed out, burning rubber and almost clipping Engle’s car as he sped away.

  Deborah turned to Engle and said, “Thank God you came along, Angela.”

  “I didn’t come along. I’ve had your every move under observation since you started trailing him. One of our patrol cars called me to tell me where you were—and that you were sleeping in your car. Do you have any idea how bad this neighborhood is?”

  Deborah scanned the area and said, “No.”

  “It’s no place for a young woman to be sleeping in her car, that’s for sure.”

  Deborah looked embarrassed in the stark blue light that oscillated from atop the police car.

  Engle took her by the arm. “I want you to go home.” She turned her head to her partner. “I’ll be right back.”

  Once Deborah was safely behind the wheel of the rental car, Engle leaned in the window. “Deborah, don’t be stupid. I know you want the guys who murdered your sister, but getting yourself killed isn’t the way to do it. Now, go to your hotel and wait there until I call you this afternoon.”

  “I know what I did was stupid and that I should let the pros do it, but I can’t just sit around waiting for Jack, Ed, and Manuel to return.”

  “I understand that, which is why we’re going to put our heads together and determine what we can do. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “I want you to keep one thing in mind. As of right now, we got nothing on Provost, other than that he knows Skidgel. You keep doing what you’re doing and he’ll run like a jackrabbit. You got a good team of professionals working this—let them do what they do best, okay?”

  When Deborah nodded, Engle smiled at her and said, “Now get outta here and go back to your hotel.”

  The Juárez Cartel has a large and longstanding transportation, storage and security operation throughout the country. It counts on its ability to co-opt local and state law enforcement, especially the judicial or ministerial police (detectives) and the municipal forces.

  —Insightcrime.org

  63

  They were taken back to their cell and left alone. “Who in the hell is that sonuvabitch?” Traynor asked.

  “Joaquin Sevilla Fitzpatrick.”

  “Fitzpatrick? You know him?”

  “In the early eighteen hundreds, a lot of Catholic Irish from English Protestant-controlled Ireland came down here. They fought against the Americans during the Texas Revolution as well as during the Mexican-American War. As for how I know him … every DEA agent in Mexico knows who he is.”

  “So what is his place in the overall scheme of things?”

  “He runs one of the largest drug cartels in northern Mexico. Once he’s done with Toledo, he’ll probably run the largest drug business in all of Mexico, if not North America.”

  “That bullshit with the pistol,” Traynor said, feeling renewed anger and indignation, “was sadistic.”

  “But it was psychologically effective. We both know that Toledo is softer than a shit-milkshake. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Toledo isn’t singing an aria as we speak.”

  “Will it buy him anything?”

  “No doubt he thinks it will.” Manuel flopped to the dirt floor and leaned back against the adobe wall. “The best Toledo will get is a quick death.” He considered a moment, then said, “… Or a slow one, if he suddenly grows a pair.”

  “So, either way, Toledo’s ass is grass …”

  “And he’s directly in the path of a lawn mower.”

  They sat in silence until Traynor finally asked, “How are we going to get out of this?”

  “That,” Manuel said, “is what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “What if we try to bargain with him? Tell him we work for a wealthy American who will pay him for our release?”

  “Maybe … but only as a last resort. The only reason we’re still alive is because Fitzpatrick has some use for us. For instance, if he thinks someone will ransom us, he’ll take the money and send them our bodies in return.”

  Traynor stared up at the few stars he could see through the small portal. “What do you think will happen tomorrow?”

  “One of three things,” Manuel said. “One, they let us walk. Two, they don’t. Three, they kill us.”

  “Wonderful…. I vote for option one.”

  The chamber was so dark that Traynor couldn’t see his companion. From the dark he heard Manuel say, “Me too, only this ain’t a democracy—it’s a dictatorship and we got no say in the matter.”

  Police officers are human. They have emotions … and they can become sympathetic or emotionally attached to their target criminals …

  —Police Procedure & Investigation: A Guide For Writers

  64

  Allen left McMahon in the early morning hours, sometime between two and three. He barely stirred when she rolled out of the bed, wrapped her robe around her, and disappeared into the frosty Canadian morning.

  She crossed the lot to the house where Jabłoński was staying, stepped onto the deck, and walked to the dark, shadowy figure sitting by the railing. “Well?” Jabłoński asked.

  “I learned nothing. But no way in hell is his name Peter Puller. I’m certain that he’s the guy we were told about.”

  “Hah!” He spat over the rail.

  “There’s always tonight,” she said. “And the next …”

  Jabłoński reached out and gently stroked her right buttock and thigh. His fingers trailed across her body in slow, sensuous circles. A shudder of pleasure coursed through her body; he must have felt her respond to his touch, because he said, “Abigail, be careful that you do not enjoy your work too much …”

  “Don’t worry, Kondrat. I read Skidgel’s message too.”

  “It was too bad he did not sent a photo.”

  McMahon stood in the dark and watched Allen rendezvous with her boss. Maybe Jabłoński was shrewder than he had thought. He obviously did not trust easily, and maybe he wanted to keep an eye on McMahon as much as McMahon did him. He turned back to his bed to get another couple of hours’ sleep. They had a five o’clock shoot.

  They ended the day’s shoot just after three in the afternoon. McMahon watched Allen as she returned to her trailer. Throughout the day he had observed the interactions between her and Jabłoński. If he had not witnessed their late-night rendezvous, he would have assumed that their relationship was strictly business. Rather than being upset about the way she had manipulated him, he found it amusing. He knew when she showed up barely clothed, with wine in hand, that she had some ulterior motive.

  He liked to think of himself as an attractive man. He was aware that his six-foot two-inch height, broad shoulders, and narrow waist were appealing to many women; he knew that from experience. His face was not a detriment either. His square jaw and dark brown hair gave him a Christopher Reeve look. But he had no delusions about a woman like Abigail Allen throwing herself at him the way she had. On one hand, the brazen seduction flattered him; on the other, it made him suspicious. Did Jabłoński know more than he was letting on? What was Allen’s role in the production of The Black Orchid? She had already stated that she knew Kondrat made porn movies and that he had a sadistic mien to his sexual preferences. He had also learned firsthand that she was aggressive in bed and enjoyed rough sex.

  He strolled across the p
arking area, using the time to survey the lot. He had not seen Stone since they wrapped their last scene together. That was another thing that was eating at him. Stone had accepted his demotion too easily. If all McMahon had been told about Stone’s ego was true, he ought to have been madder than hell. In his place, McMahon would have done everything in his power to undermine the inexperienced usurper to his throne. He figured that he must be up against at least a triumvirate and that they knew more about him than he was comfortable with.

  He entered his trailer, filled his cooler with beer and ice, and then returned to his seat under the awning. As he sipped the cold brew, McMahon wondered if he would have guests again that evening.

  He didn’t have long to wait before Rock Stone flopped into one of the vacant chairs. Already so drunk that he was unsteady on his feet, Stone pointed to the cooler that was centered between the chairs. “You got any more?”

  McMahon reached out with his right foot and raised the lid. “Help yourself.”

  Stone pulled out a can of Labatt’s and popped the top. When a mound of foam appeared through the opening, he sucked it into his mouth and took a drink. “I see you had a visitor last night.”

  McMahon stared at his guest. “You keeping an eye on me?” He sat back and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Be careful with that one,” Stone warned.

  “Oh?”

  “Back when I was a little kid, I heard this song about a woman who finds a venomous snake on a freezing day. She takes it home and thaws it out, saving its life. As soon as the snake thaws, she picks it up and it bites her. When she asks why, the snake replies, ‘Because I’m a snake, what did you expect?’ Abigail is one of those snakes. Her beauty makes her even more deadly because you let your guard down around her.”

  McMahon wanted to probe further into the topic. “Maybe you could be a bit more specific.”