by Rich Foster
“It's a criminal offense to threaten a federal officer!”
“You're just pissed off because you have screwed up twice. Don't make it a third or next time I'll shoot. That is not a threat but a promise. For the record I did not know Miguel Flores.”
“Sure. And that is why you were doing business with Marcelli in Vegas and with Donatello here in Red Lake?”
“I believe his interests locally are more amorous than pharmaceutical.”
Hurst began to rise.
“Sit!”
Hurst hesitated.
“If you have a warrant now is the time to show it, if not you are under citizens arrest for breaking and entry.”
Rolf Anderson finally spoke, “Perhaps we were hasty, Mr. Grim.”
“Okay, tell me what do you know about Flores?” Harry stressed the pronoun.
“He's a freelance shooter. He's suspected in the assassination of several mayors and a couple federalies south of the border.”
Harry said nothing.
“Look what good will it do to waste the time of the sheriff' and the court? Why don't you give us our guns and we can go our separate ways?”
“Sorry, I can't do it.” Harry said whimsically. “My insurance company requires a police report. I'll be stuck paying for a new door if you don't go in.”
Outside a siren announced the deputies arrival.
*
“Damn it Harry, you are pulling a tigers tail!” Gaines complained peevishly.
Harry knew his actions amused the sheriff but only if it did not stir up needless trouble with the federal government.
“They never announced themselves. And what about my door?”
“The door is the least of your problems. You have a Mexican gun slinger shooting at you and both the DEA and DOJ looking at you. Justice contacted me looking for background information on you.”
“I hoped you said nice things.”
Gaines harrumphed, “I told them you were a pain in the ass, had a distinguished military record and exposed ADX Praxis.”
“Really?”
“Yes, to which they said, Oh, that Harry Grim!”
“It is nice to be known and loved.”
“Seriously, Harry, why are they looking at you?”
Harry paused to consider how much to tell.
“I led them to believe I knew about a leak. Their interest tends to confirm that Stockman is no longer under D.O.J.'s control and the circumstances of his departure have them worried.”
“What about the shooter? DOJ sure didn't put out a contract on you.”
“I think that came from Donatello. And if someone should succeed I hope you will go straight to his door.”
“What does he have against you?”
“He has a hard-on for his sister-in-law, Julia. She took me out to lunch at her club and he found out about it. Last Friday night they went out to dinner. It was a short date and she came home early in a cab. The next morning Donatello packed his bags."
"Giving him a solid out of town alibi for Saturday afternoon when Flores came gunning for you."
Harry merely nodded. A long pause followed. Finally Gaines asked, “Are you and the Stockman woman having a thing?”
“No. She wanted to hire me for protection.”
“From what?”
“Donatello, or maybe someone else. I don't know. I'm not certain if she knows.”
“So you are working for her?”
“In theory, but it is a bit like handling a venomous snake. I don't trust her.”
*
Memorial day came and went. Other than crowds on the streets and too many boats on the lake life in Red Lake was normal. Over the ensuing days, Harry noticed a car that turned up too frequently in his rear view mirror, but other than being cautious he did little about it. One time he parked and circled back on foot to catch a glimpse of the driver but the face was unknown to him.
However, he did scan his office for electronic bugs and found two. This caused him to dust his file cabinet for latent prints. He found Paula's and his were smeared or wiped away by a hand that left no prints. He checked the download from his security camera.. It was only on the third viewing that he noticed the small shift of objects on his desk. Someone successfully deleted footage from the motion activated file.
He recalled mentioning the camera to Hurst however any competent searcher would have discovered the camera behind the heating duct grate. Other than being irritated there was nothing for him to do and even less for whoever searched the office to find.
On his e-mail there was a message, Dirk's voice said, "Call me from a safe line."
Harry opened his floor safe and pulled out a throw away cell phone. He left the office. In the alley he dialed the name on the G-mail account, a simple code. If he sent a reply to the e-mail he would find the account was closed.
“What's up?”
“Marcelli wants to see us.”
“Can't say I am at his beck and call.”
“I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. I'll meet you at the MGM Grand.”
“Any details?”
“Not on the phone.”
The line went dead.
Nothing to do but go to Las Vegas.
*
Harry got out of the shuttle bus and walked into the hotel. He passed the area that once had a cage of seemingly harmless and narcoleptic lions. When saw Barton slouched in a booth in the bar he couldn't help but draw a mental parallel. His eyes snapped open as Harry came close. He nodded toward the floor of the casino.
“Let's talk out there. It's harder to eavesdrop.”
They walked past the one armed bandits whose lights and bells tried to compensate for the loss of real coins clanging on the payout.
“Mr. Marcelli wants us to go to Mexico and see Salvador Montoya, he's a major player in their business.”
“And how does his business involve us?”
“Someone put a bullet through Mrs. Montoya's head while she was shopping in Juarez a week ago. Montoya put the word out and after some very wet work that left several bodies in the city streets he laid the hit at the feet of Miguel Flores an independent hitter.”
“I know the name.”
“So I was told. Marcelli's people say you iced him. This both pleased and annoyed Señor Montoya. He wants to give you his personal thanks.”
“”He can send me a card.” Harry said icily.
“Sure, Harry.”
“Look Montoya probably wants to pull my fingernails out one at a time to see if Flores was working for me and if I terminated him to avoid paying.”
Barton chuckled. “I'm sure he has thought of that. But I get the feeling Montoya is looking at Donatello for contracting the hit. Mr. Marcelli asked me to go south and try to avoid an all out war. He thought your presence might smooth the waters.”
“Why not send him Donatello in a body bag or better yet alive so Montoya can take his own revenge.”
“I presume loyalty and business reasons prevents him, besides it might set a bad precedent. I don't know his reasons but for now Marcelli is willing to protect him. Donatello thinks that Montoya was behind the murder of his wife, Jillian.”
“Why?”
“The gossip is that Donatello was down in Juarez on business. While there he made a pass at Carmen Montoya, Salvador Montoya's eighteen year old daughter. Montoya believed his family honor was offended.”
“Montoya would kill Donatello's wife over a pass?”
“I get the impression that the pass was completed, the girl more than willing and that she held hopes of moving to Las Vegas. Montoya was not going to let his daughter become the kept piece of a gringo thug. He accused Donatello of physically forcing himself upon her but the daughter swore he was innocent of any inappropriate behavior. Rather than call his daughter a liar he let it slide. But the general opinion is that Montoya had Jillian Donatello killed for revenge and to send a message Donatel
lo."
Harry paused in front of a slot and pushed a quarter in. He won four credits. Its not the same, he thought and left the credits in the machine. “So, Donatello blames Montoya for Jillian's murder?”
“Yes.”
“But other then her attackers being described as Latinos, there is no proof?”
“No, but it seems probable, though he might have nothing to do with it.”
“Sure, Donatello turns up in Red Lake and a hit man comes to my door shortly thereafter, who just happens to be implicated in the Montoya killing.”
They stopped near a crap table where a small crowd gathered to cheer and envy a player on a roll. An enormous pile of chips formed a mound on the green felt.
“Why should I give a damn about their problems or internal feuds?”
“You don't need to, but isn't it better to be Marcelli's friend than enemy?”
Harry turned to face Barton. “I don't give a rat's ass about his friendship! Why are you doing this?”
Barton's eyes held Harry's.
“Because debts have to be paid. Favors are a two way street.”
Harry stared bleakly at his friend, a man with whom he had trusted his life and who on several occasions saved it.
“We could be taking chances with this Dirk,” he then added, “fatal chances!”
Barton silently nodded.
“Just tell me your debt to Marcelli has nothing to do with the drug trade.”
Barton's eyes were clear, “Not a thing.”
“Okay, I'll go, not for Marcelli's sake, but because you asked.”
Behind them the high roller tossed snake eyes and crapped out. His luck was gone and soon, so was the crowd.
Dirk checked his a text on his cell phone. He spoke softly to Harry, his lips barely moving lest a lip reader was watching, “Mr. Marcelli would like to see us.”
Harry grunted. “Not at his office. Our last visit brought the DEA after me. Set up a meet somewhere else.”
Barton nodded, “Get a room. I'll make a call.”
*
Harry was dreaming of dirt mounds in Afghanistan. Bodies littered the side of the road. A small child begged in Arabic. The dull thud of mortar fire thumped in the distance. The noise grew. Harry snapped upright on the bed, his hand reaching for the automatic on the nightstand. The thump resolved itself into someone banging on his hotel room door.
“Who is it?”
“Me,” came Dirk's voice.
Harry let go of the pistol and went to the door.
“We have a meeting in thirty minutes. Lets go.”
Harry put on a shirt.
“Leave the gun. It will only make them nervous.”
Harry locked it into the wall safe.
They left the hotel and took the pedestrian ramp over Las Vegas Boulevard and then crossed to the Excalibur. The June heat was building but it failed to discourage the crowds that milled from casino to casino. Harry noticed Dirk glancing back to see if they had a tail. If there was one he failed to spot it.
After a brisk walk they came to the Excalibur Heliport. A helicopter that boasted of canyon tours, sat on the pad with its rotors turning. They stepped aboard and took a seat. Shortly the ground fell away and then the hotel. The craft banked to the southwest. Ten minutes later Lake Mead and then the face of Hoover Dam came into view. The white ring of exposed rock bore witness to the dwindling water supply in the Colorado plateau. The helicopter followed the deep canyon of the Colorado River until it circled and set down in a bowl a few miles south of the dam. It was a rocky place of inaccessibility.
A moment later another helicopter set down. After the dust settled Harry and Barton climbed out. The other copters rotor continued to slowly slice the hot air. Two men stepped out.
The first was Marcelli, closely followed by a bodyguard who might hold his own against Dirk..
Marcelli did not extend his hand, neither did Harry.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Grim. I have heard a bit about you and though I realize we may have differences I appreciate your willingness to help avoid an unfortunate situation from turning violent.”
The rocks under Harry's feet felt hot though the soles of his shoes despite the fact that the hills of the basin now shaded them. The heat brought beads of sweat to their skin but the dry air evaporated the sweat before it could run off their face.
“An associate in Mexico has suffered a loss. When he heard you took care of the cause of his loss he expressed a desire to meet you. I offered to do what I could to arrange a meeting.”
“I don't see what I can do for you?”
“Sometimes gestures are more important than deeds. Simply facilitating this meeting could help still troubled waters.”
A dust devil danced nearby sucking up bits of dirt into its vortex.
“Mr. Montoya guarantees your safety, you have my word.”
Marcelli put out his hand. Harry looked at it.
“I don't mean any offense Mr. Marcelli, but if I shake your hand does it mean anything more than thank you.?”
“Handshakes can mean many things, Mr. Grim.”
“Then, sir. I will accept your word and that will have to suffice. As I said, no offense intended.”
“I appreciate a man who is not rash in his commitments. No offense is taken.”
With calm dignity Marcelli withdrew his hand.
“We might have done well with you in our business,” he said, followed by a thin smile of perfect teeth. Without saying more he turned away.
By the time Marcelli reached the helicopter the blades were already picking up speed.
Harry let his eyes roam the hills. It was a private place but no place is free from prying eyes. He rolled his head back and looked up into the clear desert sky.
“What's up Harry?” Barton asked following his gaze.
“Just letting the bastards take my picture if they're watching.”
Harry looked back down and kicked a small rock that tumbled off.
“Let's go.”
They boarded. The pilot waited several minutes before he started the engine. By the time they lifted off and their helicopter cleared the rim of the basin, the other copter was out of sight.
*
The next morning a Cessna 525 jet awaited them at McCarren Airport. They arrived in the limo that had called for them at the hotel.
A hostess with killer legs and a smile to match welcomed them aboard.
“Can I get you anything?”
A few ideas came to both Harry's and Dirk's mind but in the cramped space of the small fuselage they settled for orange juice. Before it came, the hatch closed and the plane began to taxi.
The hostess served the juice trying to appear graceful in a crouch. Then she strapped herself in just as the planes engines spooled up and they began to roll up the runway. Harry looked out the port, the ground dropped away, soon Las Vegas looked small and petty, a receding bump in the desert landscape.
Neither knew where they were headed.
Harry closed his eyes and drifted back into sleep. A change in the engine's rhythm caused him to wake. He glanced at his watch and realized over four hours had passed. Barton was regaling the girl with a story that made her eyes dance with amusement. Her lipstick was slightly smudged and her blouse slightly askew. Seeing him awake she decamped to repair her makeup.
Far below he saw rugged desert but to the east and west lay open water. The plane steadily dropped altitude, as they banked to enter the landing pattern Harry recognized the rock formation El Arco at the tip of the Baja Peninsula. A few minutes later they set down at San Jose del Cabo Airport. They taxied over and took their place in a line of private jets occupying the tarmac.
Harry felt stiff, he looked forward to getting out of the plane.
The hatch opened and a wave of steamy air rolled in overwhelming the cool atmosphere of the jet's cabin. Outside the sunlight was harsh leaving colors washed out.
The pilot spoke to the man from passport control and Ha
rry and Barton were waived along without being asked for their documents. A driver awaited them beside a white Mercedes with darkened windows.
“Buenas dias, Señors.” He swung the door open not expecting an answer.
The villa was a swatch of white stucco and orange tile roof that stretched along the rocky bluffs above the azure water. The wrought iron gates swung open and a cobblestone drive curved through broad lawns and palm groves. The house was sheltered from the desert heat by its thick masonry walls and a fecund planting of palms and verdant grass. Brilliant tropical flowers added patches of color to the landscaping. However, among the beauty, moving in and out of the shadows were heavily armed guards. The Mercedes pulled under the portico. The thick oak doors swung open. The way the houseman pushed, Harry suspected the wood was clad around armored plating.
A large man spread his arms in greeting as if he found his long lost family.
“Señors, I am Salvador Montoya. Con mucho gusto! Mi casa es su casa.” The sweep of his arms took in the house and then swept on around to point the way in.
“We have lunch ready on the terrace.”
The food was ample and delicious. Nothing was said about their business. Montoya's daughter was not at the table.
Perhaps he has learned to keep his treasures locked up?
Wine flowed freely but Harry partook modestly. As their host amicably chatted about Cabo Harry considered how best to escape if things came to that.
While Montoya talked, Harry mental disarmed the guard closest to himself, used the weapon to kill the other two on the terrace and estimated the seconds it would take to have the gun against Montoya's head.
“Señor Grim,” the words cut into his thoughts, “tell me about this man who tried to kill you.”
Harry spread his hands, “There's little enough to say, I noticed him following me and when I came to my house he pulled in. When he drew his gun I shot him.”
“I like to think you may have been rushed and perhaps your bullet left the man to suffer or perhaps gave him time to tell you something of importance?”
“Two through the heart and one through the head. He didn't suffer.”
Montoya's face tightened. “That is too bad. I should have liked him to die slowly. Oh well!” He brushed the thought away as he might a pesky fly. “Why do you think he wanted to kill you?”
