Key Witness

by Sandra Bolton

  “Whoa,” Abe said, and whistled. “The real Emily comes out. How’d you manage to hide your gun in that outfit?” She looks sexy, he thought, though he liked the other Emily better.

  “Ankle holster.” Before anyone knew what happened, Emily whipped the gun from its hiding place. “Pretty smooth, huh?”

  Sally’s eyes rounded and her mouth hung open. “Do that again, Emily.”

  Abe shook his head silently and let out a sigh. He began drumming his fingers on the tabletop, and let his mind go somewhere else, lost momentarily in the music of Mozart’s Requiem.

  Emily put her hand over his and stopped the rhythmic tapping. “Are you nervous? You can leave,” she said.

  He looked into the dark pools of her eyes and shook his head. “I’m sticking with you, sweetheart. It’s already been decided.”

  The howling wind subsided to an occasional gust. Paco checked his watch—eight forty-five. “Anytime now. Who do you think’s gonna show first?”

  The few dim lights left burning gave the bar a ghostly appearance. Paco’s friends lounged on barstools, silently watching, their faint reflections making ominous shadows that danced along the wall as they tipped their drinks.

  At a nod from Paco, the men rose to their feet and disappeared behind the kitchen door. “Don’t worry, they’ll have you covered.”

  “Get in the Bronco,” Abe said to Sally. “You know what to do.”

  Something in his tone and the atmosphere inside Dick’s let Sally know this was no time for a smart comeback. She stood, her mouth a determined line, and silently nodded to everyone, then slipped out through the rear exit.

  Emily began clearing the table of beer bottles, her face a mask except for her eyes, which flashed hard and bright. Abe leaned his chair against the wall and watched the street while Paco pretended to be busy behind the bar. The dust had settled somewhat so headlights of cars were visible. Abe watched them as they crept by.

  “Nine o’clock.” Paco polished already clean glasses and lined them on a shelf. “The dust storm probably held them up.”

  They could only sit and wait, deal with the tension that crackled through the room like static electricity. Abe commenced drumming his fingers again, caught himself, and chewed a nail. A strong gust of wind swirled the dust and he saw a car approach, the headlights barely penetrating the haze. The vehicle turned into a parking space in front of Dick’s, and Abe recognized the shape of a large, dark-colored sedan. He couldn’t detect through the tinted windows how many were inside besides the driver, but he had no trouble making out the Kansas plates attached to the front bumper. Emily shot him a quick look and he responded with a barely perceptible nod. She took two Coronas out of the cooler and brought them to his table, pulled a chair up close, and sat down. Abe wrapped his fingers around the cold beer bottle, trying to assume a nonchalant attitude.

  24

  The driver, tall and muscular, with slicked-back hair, stepped out of the car and stood under the light of the neon sign outside Dick’s. He slowly looked up and down the street, turned his back to the wind, and shielded his lighter with a cupped hand while he lit a cigarette. The flash of the lighter illuminated the man’s face, his hawk-like nose and swarthy complexion, giving Abe no doubts as to his identity. He remembered that face from the Clayton restaurant. Tonight the man was dressed in light slacks, a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned halfway down, gold chains glittering on bare chest. After a final scan of the street, he opened the back door of the sedan.

  A squat, penguin-shaped man in a Western suit and cowboy hat stepped onto the sidewalk, followed closely by a tall blond in high heels and tight red dress that didn’t give much wiggle room. She pulled at her hemline, straightening clothing as best she could, while the heavy guy stood by and surveyed his surroundings. He adjusted his hat and waited for the driver to precede him through the entrance into Dick’s.

  “The short guy’s gotta be DiMarco.” Abe tilted the beer to his mouth. “The tall one is his bodyguard, I’m guessing. Plenty of room to hide a gun under that loose shirt.”

  “And it looks like there’s no one except DiMarco, his floozy, and chauffeur–hatchet man for now. I’ve seen that bodyguard’s face somewhere.” Emily took a sip of her Corona. “Wonder where Corazón is?”

  Abe realized how quiet it had become outside—no wind, no roar of motorcycle engines. “I’m pretty sure I heard some Harleys earlier. Might have lost their way in the dust storm.”

  “It’s just as well. We’ll deal with them one at a time.” She put her arm around Abe’s neck, tickled his ear. “Relax. This will be over soon. I didn’t tell you before, but I have a police-issue microrecorder tucked in my waistband. I’ll turn it on when they come to our table.” Emily smiled, kissed him on the cheek, easily slipping into the girlfriend role.

  Abe digested this new information. How she managed to hide anything in that outfit was a mystery. Emily never failed to surprise him. But he had to admit, he enjoyed the girlfriend part.

  The two men stepped inside the near-empty establishment, gave Abe and Emily a long, scrutinizing stare, then approached the bar. The blond tottered behind them on six-inch heels, knees close together. “You got a little-girls’ room? Oh geez, I gotta pee.”

  Paco pointed her in the direction of the bathroom, and turned his attention to the men. “What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

  “Give me a Dewar’s, neat,” said DiMarco in a bullfrog voice. “Make it a double, and some champagne for the lady—preferably pink. She likes that shit. Vito, here, on the other hand, never touches alcohol. Get him whatever the hell he wants.”

  “Kind of dead in here.” Vito twisted his neck, looking from side to side, taking in the layout of the room. His roaming eyes returned to Paco’s face. “Cream soda, tall glass, lots of ice.”

  “We’re closed to the public tonight. Special guests only.” Paco poured amber scotch into a glass, pushed it across the bar to DiMarco, and filled a glass with ice.

  “Vito Benavutti,” Emily whispered to Abe. “I recognize that vulture face. Used to be a hired gun for the Pannini syndicate in New York. I heard he came out West when the cops turned the heat on, and now it looks like he’s DiMarco’s trigger man. I’m turning on the tape.”

  Abe nodded and hoped his rattled nerves didn’t show. He could hear everything DiMarco said in his booming basso voice.

  DiMarco wrapped stubby fingers around his glass. “Jesus Eyes. That’s a helluva name, don’t you think? Ever hear of anyone with a name like that, bartender?”

  Paco opened a bottle of cream soda and tilted his head in the direction of Abe’s table. The other two men followed with their eyes, locking them momentarily on Abe’s. He returned their look with his own steady gaze.

  DiMarco took a long drink. “Let’s go get acquainted.” Before they headed toward Abe’s table, he pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet and laid them on the bar. “Another round for everybody, whatever they’re drinking, and give the lady a bottle of the pink stuff. Make sure you keep her glass full.”

  The woman came out of the bathroom patting her platinum hair, fresh cherry-colored lipstick smeared on her lips. “Oh, sugar. How’d ya know that’s the very thing I was dying for?” She picked up the champagne glass and downed the contents, then closed her eyes as if in bliss. When DiMarco moved away, she grabbed her glass and the bottle, intending to follow him.

  The mafia boss brushed her aside. “Sit over there in that booth. Tell the bartender to bring you another bottle if you run out. I got business to take care of.” DiMarco walked toward Abe’s table with a slow swagger that seemed to say he had all the time in the world.

  The girl pretended to pout, shrugged, and headed toward a back booth with her bottle of champagne. She tried to talk Paco into playing some music and dancing with her, but when that failed ,she slipped into the booth and began guzzling champagne while singing an off-key rendition of Muddy Waters’s “I Just Want to Make Love to You.”

  DiMarco stood in front of Abe.
“You Jesus Eyes?”

  “Who wants to know?” Abe looked at DiMarco through narrowed eyes.

  “Tell the broad to get lost,” said DiMarco. “And you’ll find out.” He snapped his fingers and Benavutti giggled with a high-pitched sound that whistled through his nose.

  “Uh-uh. Not unless you tell your flunky the same. My lady stays. We don’t have any secrets, do we, baby?” Abe draped an arm over Emily’s shoulder. She snuggled up closer and tipped her beer to her lips, smiling seductively.

  Benavutti bristled like a wet cat on a hot wire and reached behind his back.

  DiMarco lifted his palm. “Easy, Vito. Not now.” Benavutti relaxed his trigger finger and crossed his arms, but continued to give Abe a menacing look.

  “What the hell?” DiMarco glowered at Abe. “You want the broad around, don’t matter to me long as I get what I came for. Vito here gets kind of testy, though, so don’t try nothin’ cute.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, his bodyguard standing directly behind him.

  “I don’t think you introduced yourself.” Abe grabbed another Corona from the tray of drinks Paco had placed on the table.

  The mafia boss picked up his scotch and took a long pull. “Name’s Vicente DiMarco. Maybe you heard of me. I’m a businessman out of KC. A little bird told me about a missing key, something essential to my line of business. Somehow it fell into your hands, I hear. You wanna tell me how that happened, Jesus Eyes?”

  “Stumbled on a little key, you could say, me and my girlfriend, and heard it might be worth something—to more than one party.”

  “Where’s my key, now?” DiMarco had an edge to his voice, and Vito looked itchy again, like he wanted to pull out that gun of his, or bash Abe’s face in.

  “It’s in a safe place. It’ll cost you to find out where. Did you bring the money?” Emily had remained quiet so far, letting Abe take the lead while her recorder continued to run.

  “How do I know you aren’t lying? That you won’t send me on a wild-goose chase out in this stinking desert once you get your hands on the cash?”

  “Give the ten grand to my lady friend, and I’ll take you there myself.” Abe felt Emily’s kick from under the table but gave no indication. The key burned in his pocket, but he wanted to fish for more incriminating evidence from DiMarco. And even if he had to take them out to the site of the fire, Abe thought he could lose them in the dark. “You get your key, go back to KC or wherever. My girlfriend will wait an hour, then come out and pick me up.”

  DiMarco let out a sound halfway between a snort and a laugh. “If the key isn’t where you say, you’re a dead man. You know that?” Then he shrugged. “Give the chick the cash, Vito. You, Jesus Eyes, get over here. How far we gotta go?”

  “Not far. A little ways out of town.”

  Emily opened the envelope stuffed with ten bundles of hundreds and started counting. “It’s all here.” She dropped it in her bag. “Let me come with you.”

  “No, babe. You’ll need to pick me up when this is over. Wait till 10:30. You know the place, the old burned-out miner’s shack where they found the body of that gangbanger.” Abe listened to the wind. Between gusts he thought he heard motorcycles.

  “Fuckin’ A, boss,” said Vito, snickering. He pulled out a .22 pistol with a silencer and pointed it at Emily. “Hand over the ten grand, bitch. We don’t need you two—know the place myself—been there before. Who do you think toasted that skinhead punk? We might have another weenie roast . . .”

  “Shut up, Vito. You talk too much.” DiMarco turned back to Abe. “You’re not too smart, Jesus Eyes. What’s to stop us from taking the money back and going out there alone?”

  “You don’t know where the key is hidden. Hard to find anything out there, and I don’t think you want to dig around in ashes all night.”

  “And why shouldn’t we kill you once we get what we want, like we wasted that other punk?”

  “Yeah, the weenie roast,” Vito snickered. He still had his gun pointed at Abe. “Get in the car, asshole, and your girlfriend, too.” Abe stood up as if to leave with them, moving away from Emily.

  Emily looked at Paco. “I have everything I need.”

  Paco nodded briefly to alert his men and reached under the bar for his shotgun. At the same time, Emily made a move for her ankle holster and stood with her gun in hand. The blond had slid down in the booth, completely oblivious of the action taking place around her.

  But Vito wasn’t DiMarco’s hit man for nothing. He quickly reached out and grabbed Abe around the neck and, holding the pistol to his head, demanded that Emily put her piece down. For a moment everyone froze—a chaotic scene with Paco’s men materializing from the kitchen, their guns pulled, but no one daring to fire a shot.

  This is it, Abe thought when he felt the press of cold steel. Sweat beaded his forehead, and prickly hairs stood at attention on the back of his neck. Then he heard the roar of motorcycles announcing the arrival of more visitors.

  25

  The front door flew open and four riders barged in, guys in muscle shirts and leather vests. The sudden commotion caused Vito to turn his head, enough time for Emily to get off a shot. The bullet caught him in the shoulder and he yelled in pain, losing his grip on Abe and dropping the pistol. Abe made a dive for the weapon and scooted over to Emily’s side, Vito’s gun in hand.

  DiMarco looked at Vito with disgust. “Didn’t you learn nothin’ in New York?” he said to his whimpering bodyguard. “Get up off the floor and stop sniveling. We got company.”

  The bikers stood four abreast, surveying the scene with cool composure. One stepped forward. He had Rico Corazón’s drooping mustache and prominent canine teeth. A tattoo of a black hand with the letters “EME” across the palm covered his left shoulder. Abe remembered the first time those letters had caught his attention, on the vanity plates of the motorcycle in Clayton. Each of Rico Corazón’s companions wore an identical tattoo. It stood for the Mexican Mafia. Ironically it was also very similar to a motif from his Jewish upbringing, and he didn’t know why he hadn’t made the connection before. It resembled the Hamsa Hand, a popular design of a hand with the thumb and pinky pointed outward. It often depicted an eye or Hebrew letters in the middle, thought to represent protection against evil. Abe hoped it would protect him now. Emily and Abe kept their guns trained on DiMarco and his man while Paco and his men shifted their attention to the biker gang.

  “I can’t believe this shit.” DiMarco sat down, leaned back in his chair, and emptied his scotch.

  “Hope we didn’t miss the fiesta,” said Corazón. “We got held up by a little dust storm and some pussy gringo skinheads. They wanted to come to the party, but we had to send them on their way. Told ’em they needed a special invitation, like you gave me.”

  “Yeah, we sent them to the nearest hospital.” A heavyset newcomer sniggered. “A couple of broken bones and a little carving practice. Maybe they’ll live, but they’ll never look the same.” The rest of the gang joined in harsh laughter.

  Corazón sauntered up to Abe. “You must be the one I’m looking for. Came all the way to Las Cruces to invite me to your party, and look at the scum you brought along. Now tell your friends to put those guns, very slowly, on the floor. That’s not a nice way to treat guests, amigo.”

  “You son of a bitch,” said DiMarco.

  Blood trickled down Benavutti’s arm, and he whimpered. To Abe it appeared to be no more than a superficial wound, but Vito continued whining. “I need a doctor. I’m bleeding.”

  “Shut up, Vito,” DiMarco said.

  Corazón laughed, exposing yellow teeth, then looked at Abe. “So you’re the famous Jesus Eyes,” he said. “You don’t look like no Jesus to me, but if I wuz you, pendejo, I’d lay that gun on the table—very carefully. And you, too, squaw.” There was malice in his voice, any pretext of friendliness gone.

  Paco walked from behind the bar and pumped the shotgun. “Okay, payaso, the game is over. Who the hell you think you are, Superman? You’
re outnumbered.”

  “All of you, put your hands in the air,” said Emily to the four bikers.

  There were six guns aimed in Corazón’s direction. He briefly glanced at Emily, brushing her off like a fly. He locked his eyes on Paco, shook his head. “I wouldn’t be stupid enough to try anything, maricón. You better tell those perras of yours to back off.” Corazón laughed and turned his attention back to Abe. “Hey, Jesus Eyes, guess who we found in the alley? Oye, Flaco, bring the old lady in here so her friends can see her.”

  Nausea rose from the pit of Abe’s stomach when he saw Sally being led into the bar by a skinny, rough-looking biker. The little creep reminded Abe of a weasel, one that had gone without a good meal for a long time. His arms and chest were covered with black hair, and long, greasy strands encircled a face marked by scars. There was a mean, hungry look in his bloodshot eyes. The biker’s mouth hung open, then he shaped it into a sneer-like grin.

  “Here she is, jefe,” he said, pushing Sally in front. He had a hammerlock grip on her neck and a switchblade held at her throat. Duct tape covered her mouth. Her hands were tightly bound behind her back with more tape. Sally’s eyes flashed, in spite of the fear she must have felt. Though used as a human shield, she appeared stubborn as ever. “Some shitty little mutt tried to bite me when I grabbed the old lady, but I gave him a kick and sent him flying,” said the brute.

  Patch. The realization pierced Abe like a knife to his heart. How did he get in the Bronco? Where is he now?

  Paco raised a palm, cautioning his men to hold their fire. “Easy, compadres,” he said. The men lowered their weapons.

  “Let her go. Take me, instead,” said Abe. “I’ll lead you to that key. That’s what you came for, right? If you hurt her, you’ll never get it.” In the quiet that followed, Abe found himself silently repeating a long forgotten Jewish prayer for protection: “HaShem is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? HaShem is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”