Doing Hard Time

by Stuart Woods

  “I’ve brought enough things here so that I can live here without returning to the apartment,” she said.

  “You’re a smart woman,” Teddy said.

  “You can do the same.”

  Teddy laughed. “And getting smarter and smarter.”

  “Now tell me what might make us move?”

  “At least two people know where we are,” Teddy said.

  “Harry Katz and Peter Genaro,” she replied. “Who else?”

  “Whoever they might tell.”

  “I’ve known them both pretty well for a few years, and I don’t think either of them will tell anybody.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Teddy said, “but I’m alive and free because I’m a cautious one.”

  “Nothing wrong with caution. Are you ready to tell me what you’re running from?”

  “Quite frankly, I thought I was through running,” Teddy said. “I made a . . . an arrangement with the people who wanted most to find me, but then . . .”

  “Then, what?”

  “Then Peter Barrington and his friends came into my life, pursued by bad men, and I got involved. Now I’m very probably being pursued by the friends of those bad men.”

  “Majorov and the Viper?”

  “Exactly. And those two, in turn, have friends, and I don’t know how far that extends.”

  “What is your plan?”

  “I plan to stay in Los Angeles until I feel that Peter and everyone associated with him are perfectly safe, and then I plan to go to work for Strategic Services.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the second-largest security firm in the world,” Teddy said. “Throw a dart at a map of the world, and you’ll hit one of their offices.”

  “And where will we move when you take that job?”

  “That is undetermined, but I am of the impression that I may have some choice. I like Los Angeles. How would you feel about living here sort of permanently?”

  “I’m just fine with that, as long as you feel safe,” she said. “As it is, how long do you think we’ll be here?”

  “Long enough for you to get your pilot’s license and for Peter to learn to fly his new jet.”

  “So, what, three months?”

  “More likely six, but we’ll see. I like working at Centurion Studios, too. If we stay on, maybe I can find you a job there.”

  “I wouldn’t object to working in the movie business,” Betsy said.

  “After you’ve got your private license,” Teddy said. “Maybe your instrument rating, too.”

  “When I’ve done all that, will I be your copilot?”

  “Sweetie,” he said, kissing her, “after you’ve done all that, I’ll be your copilot.”

  She laughed, but Teddy was still worried. He had a history of seeing things go wrong after he had made plans.

  Majorov returned to his large suite after a good breakfast at the Bel-Air’s outdoor restaurant, and as he closed the door, he was immediately struck by the smell of gun oil. He walked to the door of the bedroom adjoining the living room, rapped and opened the door. He was met by the sight of Vlad, sitting on the bed, pointing a pistol at him.

  “That was very close,” Vlad said in Russian. Various gun parts were spread on a towel on the bed.

  “You are not here to shoot me,” Majorov said. “What are you doing to find Burnett?”

  “I will bring you up to date,” Vlad said. “There is no such person listed in any directory of any sort in the Greater Los Angeles area—no telephone, no mail delivery, no utilities, nothing. These are the tools for searching for someone, and Mr. Burnett has avoided them all. We know only two things: that Mr. Barrington is at The Arrington, up the street, and competently guarded, and that his son goes to the movie studio every day in a different car with an armed guard.”

  “Why can’t you get at him at the movie studio?”

  “Because it is fenced and guarded by its own police force, and because, even if I could get inside, I would not be able to find Peter Barrington. The place is like a small city.”

  “So you have nothing?”

  “Let me finish. You gave me details of Burnett’s airplane, but no such airplane with that registration number is registered with the Federal Aviation Administration, and no airplane of that color and with that registration number is parked at any airport in the Los Angeles area.”

  “Then Burnett is gone from Los Angeles.”

  “Possibly,” Vlad said. “But we know some people who might know something.”

  “And who might they be?”

  “The two gentlemen from Las Vegas: Genaro and Katz.”

  “They have denied knowing.”

  “Katz has a reputation as the best skip tracer in Vegas,” Vlad said. “I cannot believe he spent several days looking for Burnett without finding him. And if he knows where the man is, Genaro knows, too.”

  “Then why wouldn’t he tell me?”

  “Why would he tell you anything? The man drove you from a profitable business and ran you out of town. Genaro hates you.”

  “You’re right, he would never tell us anything.”

  “Katz might,” Vlad said.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Katz works for money. He sells the location of people to his employers.”

  “So I should offer him money?”

  “It would seem the best thing to do.” Vlad spread his hands. “And if that doesn’t work, there are other methods. After all, personal safety is as important to a sane man as money.”

  “So you want to go to Las Vegas?”

  “I’m told it is only a few hours by car.”

  “I can’t go to Vegas.”

  “I’m not suggesting you do. I don’t require your assistance to do my work. All I require is your money.”

  Majorov left the room for a couple of minutes then returned and tossed a bundle of hundred-dollar bills on the bed. “Here is thirty thousand dollars,” he said. “You may keep anything you don’t have to pay Katz. The concierge will obtain a rental car for you.” Majorov walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  • • •

  Vlad began repacking his weapons case, while whistling a little tune from his childhood. It brought back a fond memory: his father had been singing it when Vlad cut his throat with the man’s own razor. He had liked the razor as a tool ever since.

  • • •

  Harry Katz sat in his office near the casino late in the day; he finished transcribing his notes to his computer, shut the laptop, bent over and reached into his bottom drawer for the bottle of scotch and glass he kept there. When he straightened up, a little man was standing in the doorway to the small reception area, holding a suitcase in one hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Excuse me, please,” the man said. He was harmless-looking, sixtyish, maybe older, dressed in a black suit and wearing a fedora. “May I speak with you for a moment, Mr. Katz? About some business?”

  Harry couldn’t place the accent: something foreign with some New York in it. “Have a seat,” he said, waving him to a chair in front of the desk. “Would you like a drink?” He held up the bottle.

  “Thank you, perhaps a little later, after I have stated my proposition.”

  “Suit yourself,” Harry said. He poured himself two fingers and took a sip.

  The little man set down his suitcase next to his chair and bent over, out of Harry’s sight. Harry heard the snap of the locks opening, and when the man straightened, he was holding a pistol equipped with a silencer in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other. As if that weren’t alarming enough, he was also wearing surgical gloves.

  “Forgive me,” the man said, “but since I am not a strong person I would prefer it if you were temporarily immobilized whil
e we talk.” He rolled the duct tape across the desk, and Harry caught it. “If you would please roll your chair from behind the desk.”

  “What’s this about?” Harry asked, not moving.

  “If I must I will shoot you a little.”

  Harry rolled his chair sideways, following the motions of the pistol from behind the desk.

  “Good. Please tape your feet to the bottom of your chair.”

  Harry did so, but not too tightly.

  “Good. Now, please tape your right hand to the arm of the chair.”

  Harry couldn’t think of anything else to do that would not get him shot, so he did so.

  The man got up, walked over to Harry, and placed the silencer to his head. “Now grip the arm of the chair with your left hand.”

  Harry did so, and the man tore off a piece of the tape with his other hand and his teeth, then taped Harry’s left hand to the chair.

  “Now,” the man said. He took a bundle of money from his case and placed it on the desk. “There is twenty thousand dollars,” he said. “I wish some information.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask?” Harry said.

  “Because I feared you would not tell me what I want to know. But now I will give you twenty thousand dollars to tell me where to find Mr. William Burnett.” The man set his pistol on the desk, reached into an inside pocket, and came up with a straight razor. He unfolded it. “And if you do not tell me everything I want to know, I will cut your throat. But not before I have caused you quite a lot of pain.”

  Harry’s insides turned to water, and he reasoned quickly. He might tell the man everything and earn the money, or he might tell him everything and still get his throat cut. It wasn’t much of a choice. “I’ll tell you what I know,” he said.

  The man folded the razor and set it on the desk beside the gun. “Please continue.”

  “There’s a pad and pencil on the desk, if you want to write this down,” Harry said.

  “That will not be necessary. I have an excellent memory. Now, please, I am becoming bored.”

  Harry recited the address in Santa Monica. “Mr. Burnett lives in that building in the penthouse—the top floor.”

  “With Charmaine?”

  “Yes, with Charmaine.”

  “And what security precautions has Mr. Burnett taken?”

  “I know of none. I have not visited the apartment. I found Charmaine shopping in Beverly Hills and followed her home. Later I saw the two of them leave the building. I bribed the superintendent to tell me which apartment they occupied.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “They are married. I found a record of their marriage at the Los Angeles County Clerk’s Office.”

  “Ah, I did not think to look there. You are a good skip tracer. Does Peter Barrington visit Mr. Burnett at his apartment?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know that name.”

  The man picked up the razor and opened it.

  “Truly I do not know this Barrington. Who is he?”

  “A producer of movies.”

  “I know nothing of him and Burnett.”

  The man considered that. “Anything else? Last chance.”

  “Ask me anything you like. That is what I discovered in my investigation. I never spoke to Burnett, I just reported my findings to Pete Genaro at the casino.”

  “Please give me a complete physical description of Mr. Burnett and Charmaine.”

  “Charmaine is about thirty-five, five feet, seven inches tall, busty, but with an otherwise trim figure. She had blonde hair when I knew her, but since moving to Santa Monica she has dyed it a dark brown, blue eyes, very pretty.”

  “And Mr. Burnett?”

  “Mr. Burnett is difficult to describe because he is so ordinary-looking. He is between forty-five and fifty-five, about five-eleven, maybe six feet, maybe a hundred and sixty or seventy, fit-looking for his age. He was wearing a hat when I saw him, but I think his hair is dark, but graying. He was wearing sunglasses when I saw him.”

  “I believe you, Mr. Katz, so I will give you your life.” He walked over, the razor still in his hand.

  Harry winced as the man went through his pockets, relieving him of his pistol and cell phone.

  The man pocketed the cell phone and tossed the pistol into the next room. He tore off another piece of the tape and wrapped it securely around Harry’s head, covering his mouth completely, then he reinforced the bindings of his hands and feet. Finally, he unscrewed the silencer and put it and the pistol into his case and pocketed the razor. “There is your money,” he said. “Does a person come to clean your office at night?” he asked.

  Harry nodded.

  “What time?”

  Harry shrugged.

  The man found a sheet of paper and a marking pencil in a drawer and wrote DO NOT DISTURB on it. “I will place this on your outer door,” he said. “If you tell Mr. Burnett or Mr. Genaro of our conversation, I will come back and kill you slowly and painfully. Do you understand?”

  Harry nodded.

  The man reached over, lifted Harry’s glass of whiskey, sniffed it, then poured it slowly down his throat. Then he picked up his suitcase and, with the note in his other hand, left the office.

  Harry started to sweat at the thought of what he had avoided. He tried moving his hands and feet, to no avail. He was securely attached to the chair, and he needed badly to urinate. He would have to wait for the cleaning lady, and he didn’t know what time she came, or if she would ignore the sign on the door. After that, he would decide whether to call Charmaine.

  Harry held it together for nearly an hour, before he peed in his pants. Then he began to cry, softly.

  When he was back on I-15, driving toward Los Angeles, Vlad telephoned Majorov.

  “Yes, Vlad?”

  “I have spoken with Mr. Katz and he has very kindly given me the address of Mr. Burnett.”

  Majorov was suspicious. “He did?” he asked incredulously.

  “He was not forthcoming at first, but after the sight of the money and a brief chat, he told me everything he knows. Believe me, everything.”

  “And where is Burnett?”

  “Living in an apartment building in Santa Monica.” Vlad gave him the address. “In the penthouse apartment, no less. I am on my way there now.”

  “Good. Report to me after your visit, and may it be successful.”

  “From your lips to God’s ear,” Vlad replied, then hung up. Using the GPS unit supplied with his rental car, Vlad had no difficulty finding the apartment building. It was now just past eleven PM. He parked his rental car on the street, went to the trunk, opened his case, and removed what he needed, secreting the implements on his person. He noted the building’s garage, but did not enter it. He did not know, after all, what kind of car Burnett drove.

  He walked into the building’s lobby, which was deserted, and examined the elevator buttons; there were eight of them, plus one marked PH. He pressed that button and got on an elevator, which rose quickly, then he stepped out of the car into a hallway. The elevator door closed silently behind him.

  He examined the edges of the penthouse apartment’s double door: no light escaped from the apartment. He removed the silenced pistol from its holster, then rang the bell. He waited a minute, put an ear to the door, heard nothing, then rang it again. There was no response.

  Vlad knelt by the doorknob and examined the lock. Very ordinary; no problem. He took a small leather case from an inside pocket, selected a pair of lock picks, and went to work. In under a minute the lock turned. Vlad stood up, put away his tools, and, holding his pistol in one hand and a small flashlight in the other, slipped inside and closed the door gently behind him.

  He stood in the dark for a minute or so, listening for any sign of life: a television set, someone breathing or turning over in bed, a toilet flushing.
Dead quiet. There was enough light from outside filtering in so he didn’t need the flashlight. First, he found the bedroom, its door wide open; no one there. He checked the living room and the kitchen: no one.

  Then he turned on the flashlight and went to work. A few clothes, not many, both male and female, in the closets. Not much in the bathroom, either. He searched for a computer, but did not find one; there was no liquor in the bar. The refrigerator held milk, orange juice, and not much else. Very unsatisfying. Had his quarry moved? He went into the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat and urinated, then flushed. It had been a long drive.

  He let himself out of the apartment, rode down to the lobby, left the building, and got into his car. He was not going to wait there all night.

  As he turned the corner, two people came out of the restaurant across the street from the building, but Vlad did not see them.

  • • •

  Teddy and Betsy crossed the street, entered the building, and rode up to the penthouse. “That was the best dinner Michael’s has given us yet,” Betsy said. “I’m stuffed.”

  “Not too much to be stuffed again,” Teddy said, leering a little.

  “We’ll see.”

  Teddy let them into the apartment and switched on the living room light, while Betsy went into the bedroom.

  Teddy opened the sliding door to the terrace to let in the cool night air, then he heard a shriek from the bathroom and ran toward it. Betsy was struggling to her feet, her panties around her ankles.

  “What’s wrong?” Teddy asked.

  “You left the toilet seat up again, and I fell in,” she said crossly.

  “I didn’t do that,” he protested. “At least, I don’t remember doing it.”

  “You’re the only one who lives here who lifts the seat to pee,” she said, lowering the seat and sitting down.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I guess it was just automatic.”

  “You have to break yourself of that habit, Billy, there’s a woman living here now.”

  “I promise, I’ll break the habit.”

  They went to bed, but there was no sex that night.

  • • •