by Rich Foster
Again Harry shrugged modestly. “It is more easy to acquire enemies than friends.”
“But you must suspect someone?”
“Señor Montoya, I have had my house blown up, my car shot, and people attempt to kill me by several means. Why does not matter, only that one is quicker.”
Montoya burst out laughing. “That is good! You are quite the philosopher, Mr. Grim” He paused. Harry felt an aura of danger radiating from his host. Montoya chose his words carefully.
“Do you know a man named Donatello?”
“I know of someone by that name, but no I do not know him.”
Harry sensed the man was fishing. He possessed some facts, he was looking for others.
“The Donatello I know recently bought a house in my home town. Why he came I don't know but his wife died there, perhaps he wants to be close to her spirit.”
“But you do not know him?”
“No I did some work for his brother-in-law. I know his sister-in-law, but Donatello and I have never met.”
“Do you think he might want to kill you?”
Harry displayed a shocked and dismayed face. “Why? Why would a stranger want to kill me?”
“Are you sure you have not crossed swords in business?”
Harry shook his head. “No. My business is small and of little concern to most.”
Montoya put his wine glass down and leaned ever so slightly forward. “Why do I have the feeling you know more than you are willing to tell, Mr. Grim?”
“Perhaps I have a dishonest face?”
Montoya burst out laughing again. “You are very funny, Mr. Grim.”
He stood up. “If you should learn why or who wanted to kill you I would appreciate knowing, here is my private number. Thank you for coming, the both of you. Give my regards to your boss. When you are finished dining Martin will take you back to the airport.”
Montoya was about to leave when Harry spoke up, “Sir, I don't have a boss,” his words were soft but emphatic, “I am here at the request of Mr. Marcelli to answer your questions about the man who tried to kill me, but let me repeat, I do not have a boss!”
Montoya's smile was unctuous, “Well greet Mr. Marcelli if you should see him.”
And with that he left them on the terrace.
*
The note was on the their kitchen table when he returned from Mexico. It was the model of brevity.
'I am going to visit Danica in Seattle.
I need time to think.
You should too, Harry.
Paula.'
No 'love' preceded her signature and Harry sensed even less in her note. He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips but it did nothing to clear his mixed emotions. He let the note lie and went up to his empty bed.
Chapter Ten
Somewhere a church bell tolled midnight. Clouds scudded across the sky leaving patches of starry sky twinkling between black voids. The wind worked the tops of the trees. In tall grass just beyond the fence of Donatello's lake house Harry and Barton lay on their bellies
The bright glow of cigarette butts made the two men on patrol easy to track.
“Filthy habit.” Barton muttered.
“But useful.”
Barton pulled a pair of dykes from his pocket and snipped the chain link fence. They wiggled through, trusting the gusting wind to hide any noise they might make.
Barton pointed to himself and then the rear of the house. He pointed Harry toward the front. They separated.
Harry waited behind the oak. He heard the crunch of feet on the gravel and smelled the tobacco smoke carried to him by the wind. The heavy set guard strolled past oblivious of Harry in the deep shadows. With a karate chop to the clavicle at the base of the neck Harry felled him. He picked up the butt and put it between his teeth. After ten years the smoke that he took in as he dragged the man into the shadows proved tantalizing. In less than a minute the guard was bound and gagged. Harry strolled down the path toward the rear of the house. The cigarette in one hand and a pistol in the other.
The glow of a cigarette approached. Harry slowed, there was a muffled grunt and the cigarette fell to the ground.. Harry resisted the desire to draw deeply on the one between his lips and instead let it fall and ground it out with his boot.
Barton materialized beside him. “There is one more in the house.”
The upstairs lights were dark. From the lower level light spilled from a pair of windows. While they watched they went out.
“Think Donatello heard something?”
“No, I think it's bedtime.”
The security system was twenty years old, nothing more than a simple bell wired to the windows. Harry sprayed expanding foam around the clapper until it oozed out around the bell.
Meanwhile Barton worked the window. When it slid up Harry heard the soft buzz as the actuator tried to move within the bell but no greater noise was made.
“Find the guy on the upstairs floor. I want Donatello to feel stripped naked in the morning.”
Barton moved to the stairs while Harry slipped down the hall.
There were a pair of doors to the left and only one to the right. In the soft green glow of night goggles they took on a Twilight Zone quality. Harry turned the handle and slid into the room moving against the wall so as to not be back lit. The bed was empty but a blinding glare came from around the frame of the bathroom door. He flipped the lenses up and let his eyes accustom to the dim light.
He listened as Donatello brushed and spit. He heard the sound of piss falling into the toilet and then the loud slosh as it flushed. Under its cover he dashed over to the bathroom door and waited.
The light clicked off, the door swung open and Harry telegraphed a punch into Donatello's gut. As he fell past him Harry threw a left handed hook into the kidney that drove Donatello forward as he went down on all fours. Harry brought his boot up between Donatello's legs with a kick that would put any man out of action.
Donatello rolled around in a fetal position, when his quivering slowed and he fell to softly moaning Harry pulled out his combat knife.
“That kick was for trying to kill me. If you ever try it again, even if you succeed, word will reach Salvador Montoya that you iced his wife. And that his daughter lied to save your skin, that in fact you admitted to raping her.”
Donatello tried to speak but the words came out in a confused series of stammers mingled with curses and unfinished threats. Harry pushed the point of the knife against the soft under palette of Donatello's chin, a spot of bright red blood oozed out around the point. “And if you should go after my woman the way you went after Montoya's something much worse than dying awaits you.”
“I'll kill you.” Vito swore.
“I was afraid that might be your attitude. So I am going to kick the crap out of you to adjust your thinking, though my best judgment says I should kill you now.”
After the first kick, Donatello threw up, Harry set to work pummeling the body so that not an inch of it would be free of pain, an art in violence he acquired in Afghanistan. Only Donatello's face was left alone. Harry broke a sweat as he fell into the rhythm of the beating.
Finally he quit. “Remember, you lift a finger against me and you are signing your own death warrant. Why don't you go back to Las Vegas?”
Donatello managed to bob his head but, he also cursed him but when Harry left, he was helpless to pursue.
*
Dirk popped the top off a beer in Harry's kitchen. “You think you scared him off?”
Harry shrugged and took a long drink. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Barton shook his head as though reluctantly admitting an unpleasant reality. “Sooner or later he'll be back. A guy like that won't be able to let it go.”
“Yea, and if so, I will have to kill him,” Harry said grimly.
“People won't like that in Vegas.”
“True but there are ways around that.” Harry took a long draught of beer, “Maybe Donatello will be smart enough to go home?
”
“Sure Harry, and maybe there really is a Santa Claus!" Then he changed the subject as he tossed his empty bottle into the recycle bin "When does Paula get back?”
“Not sure. While we went south she took off to see a friend in Seattle. Maybe a week. I don't know for sure.”
“Are things alright between you guys?”
Harry's mouth twitched.
“She wants to know where our relationship is heading.”
“Oh!” Barton stood up and yawned. He patted Harry on the shoulder. As he went off to bed he added, “I don't have much advice on that one, except I hear it is easier to get in, than to get out.”
*
The blinds were drawn on the glass that separated Sheriff Gaines from the front counter but his door was ajar and an authoritative voice carried in from the lobby.
“I want to see your boss, deputy.”
It was a command, not a request.
“About what, sir?”
“That's for me to tell him.”
“I'll ask if he is in. And your name?”
“Special Agent Lawrence with the Drug Enforcement Agency.”
Gaines admired Mitch Conners ability to hide the irritation he surely felt. Conners' temper was short with those he perceived as insolent.
A gentle rap came at the door frame.
“Come in!”
Conners stepped in and closed the door. “I suppose you heard that?”
Gaines smiled. “Couldn't miss it.”
“Do you want to see him?”
“Want and will are two different words. Let him stew, the feds irritate me, they treat us like mushrooms.”
Conners grinned, “Keep us in the dark and feed us bull....”
“Right,” Gaines interrupted him before he added the last word. “We all know the joke. Tell the man when I am off the phone I will see him.”
Conners left and Gaines returned to paperwork and his imaginary phone call. Ten minutes later he buzzed the desk.
“Send him in, Mitch.”
The agent was about fifty, physically fit, with closely cropped graying hair.
Not many more years for him until retirement, what is it fifty-six or fifty-seven? Gaines thought. I'm close to sixty-seven, perhaps it's time for me to quit, too?
“Drew Lawrence, DEA,” he thrust forward a hand whose grip was quick and caught only the fingers. It was a familiar trick and it caused animus for the man to rise.
“Gavin Gaines, Sheriff Canaan County. Have a seat.”
Drew more than filled the chair, he set a briefcase on the floor beside him and leaned forward bringing his personal intensity to bear.
“Sheriff we are stretched thin, Most of the drugs we interdict come up from the south but there are signs that a new corridor may be under development here in the north of some western states. We have identified a possible player. And a well known middleman has moved to your area.”
“Vito Donatello?”
“So you are aware of his presence.”
Gaines nodded and waited for him to continue.
“We believe he is up here to establish the new corridor. Normally we would pursue this by ourselves, however, in that Red Lake is, um...”
“Small and out of the way?” Gaines offered.
“Yes. I thought we might combine our resources. After all I am sure you do not want drugs to establish a beachhead in your jurisdiction.”
“You're twenty years too late to stop that. We have our share of methamphetamine, coke and grass.”
“This could be much bigger! Donatello is in contact with a local man. Do you know a Harry Grim?”
Gaines almost burst out laughing but suppressed it to a rueful smile. “Yes. He is your lead?”
“Absolutely. And I must say Sheriff I am not too happy with either your levity concerning the situation nor the way you permitted Special Agents Hurst and Anderson to be assaulted by him. I would expect a bit more cooperation from local law enforcement.”
“Such as your men checking in with me? Oh right they forgot that! Or identifying themselves before they kidnap a citizen?”
Lawrence shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Okay perhaps we were wrong to leave you out of the loop.”
“Perhaps?”
Lawrence took a deep breath, “We were wrong. I'm sorry. Can we start over?”
“I'm willing to listen.”
“Three weeks ago Grim and his associate Barton Dirk met in the Las Vegas offices of Rico Marcelli, who is a major player in the Nevada crime world. He is not the sort of man an average citizen drops in on. Donatello works for him and has bought a house on Red Lake. Grim and he have been in contact.”
Lawrence picked up his briefcase and pulled out a file folder. He set a stack of photos on the sheriff's desk.. The top photo was a shot of Harry eating at the table next to Donatello's at Marie's Restaurant..
“Three days ago Grim and Dirk held a clandestine meeting with Marcelli outside of Las Vegas.”
Agent Lawrence laid out a half dozen photos that were taken from a satellite or a drone. The clarity was impressive. Two helicopters sat in a rocky basin. In the center four men stood in a circle.
“Harry?” Gaines said incredulously as he picked up the last photo wherein Grim stared straight up, as if he knew the cameras were watching. Why would Harry meet in the open if he thought they were being watched?
Lawrence took the photo back.
“The next day they flew to Cabo San Lucas aboard a private jet. The charter company is believed to be a front for money laundering by elements of organized crime.”
Drew set down a photo of Grim and Dirk walking away from a jet parked on the tarmac and toward a waiting car.
“While in Mexico, Grim and his buddy were guests at the oceanfront villa of a notorious narco dealer, Salvador Montoya.”
The next several photos descended to a villa and then to a table on the terrace. In the photo Gaines could tell what Harry ate for lunch..
“Grim is pretty chummy with some very bad people.” Drew said sarcastically. He leaned forward even more, “I repeat sheriff, these are not men you just happen to know or drop in on for lunch, Montoya is a hard, vicious killer who clawed his way up out of the slums of Acapulco and is at the top echelon of the drug trade. Grim is dirty!”
Gaines was not about to commit either way but everything he knew about Grim made this dubious. Yet the question remained, What reason could Grim have for being there?
Lawrence relaxed. Having made his point he leaned back.
“I know Grim got some good headlines a couple years back over that stuff at the federal prison, but that was Bureau of Prison stuff. He may have been a Boy Scout then but this guy has switched sides.”
“You present a convincing case.” Gaines said aloud, but knowing Grim he silently figured there were several other possible scenarios.
“I shouldn't need to remind you Sheriff that this information is confidential.”
Gaines looked up, irritation flashed in his eyes.
“You won't get too far by insulting me. I know my job and I know my obligations to the law. Judging by the actions of two of your men, I can't say the same for your team.”
“Touché! I apologize for that. So, can I count on your cooperation?”
Gaines felt he should be crossing his fingers as he said, "Yes.” His experience being cooperation with the feds was often a one way or dead end street.
“Do you want me to bring Grim in?”
“No it's early days, just keep an eye on Donatello and Grim and stay aware of the situation.”
Agent Lawrence rose. “We'll be in touch.”
When the door closed Gaines rummaged through the papers on his desk until he found the booking photo of Donatello. The arrest was from several years back and there was no conviction from the case because the witness developed amnesia before the trial, but Gaines felt he would recognize him on the street.
What Lawrence said did not jibe with what Harry told him abo
ut Donatello. By what machinations it occurred, Gaines could not fathom, but somehow Harry's questions brought him into contact with Marcelli and Montoya.
Damned if I can ask him directly, Gaines thought, and if he is dirty I can hardly expect an honest answer.”
*
Donatello awoke with his face lying in a dry puddle of vomit. The odor almost caused him to repeat the event but he felt such excruciating pain as his stomach muscles tensed that the impulse to heave was forgotten. He heaved himself up on all fours and crawled toward the bathroom. Inside he leveraged himself up onto the toilet before his legs buckled. He sat there panting from the effort and sweat beaded on his from the waves of pain that each attempt to move brought upon him.
He tried to call for the hired help but his tongue was thick and his throat dry, the words were little more than a guttural grunt. He fingered his side, without a doubt several ribs were broken. Vito finally, summoned up the strength to stand. On rubbery legs he managed to stumble four steps over to the vanity and braced himself against it so he would not fall. The man who looked back at him from the mirror was familiar but it was an ashen face, one that had misplaced it arrogance and self-confidence. A dark line of dried blood ran from his chin down the side of his throat, Bits of dried vomit clung to his left cheek. Donatello attempted to bring thoughts of revenge to mind but his efforts tripped over by waves of pain. Instead he ran cold water into the sink, tossed a towel in and then pulled it out and wrapped it around his face.
Slowly, his balance retuned. He went to unbutton his shirt and realized three of the fingers on his left hand were broken. Using his right hand he turned on the shower and without removing his pajamas stepped into the stream of hot water. As his mind slowly cleared he reached up and grabbed the collar of his pajama top and ripped it open, sending buttons flying and fabric tearing. He dropped it in a clump on the bathroom floor, But when he tried to drop the pajama pants he tripped and sprawled on the floor with the pants around his ankles. The impact on the tile floor sent a shock wave through his battered body and he happily slid back under the comfort of unconsciousness.
