by David Putnam
“That’s right, nothing too difficult,” Louis continued on the tape recording. “I want you to put her in jeopardy so she calls her daddy for help. I need it done tomorrow at noon or just before, so I can get out of court and catch the early bus back. Can you do that?”
“I can do it, but it’s going to cost you. You gotta wipe out what I owe dem boys on Pearl.”
“That’s not a problem. If you do this right, you can be sure I’ll take good care of you, ah … soon, if you know what I mean.”
The second voice had a vague sense of familiarity, but I couldn’t place it. The guy must’ve had his hand over the receiver, muffling the words.
The tape went mute. Judge Connors pushed the stop button.
I said to Wicks, “Give me five minutes, I’ll get my gear.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I stopped in the hall to listen. Around the corner and a short distance away out of view, Wicks must’ve been standing with Judge Connors talking in front of the double doors of the courtroom. Connors said, “You wound Bruno up like some kind of toy soldier. Now you’re going to turn him loose? Don’t you think that’s a little dangerous, not to mention unfair to Bruno?”
“Putting Bruno on the case will only be unfair for that asshole Louis Borkow. Borkow’s the one who called the game, not me. Think about it. If he kills someone while he’s out, there’s going to be hell to pay. The county will be on the hook for huge checks with lots of zeros going to the all the victims’ families. Not to mention the black eye it’s going to give the department. No, Bruno is absolutely our best chance of grabbing this guy quick. So I have no problem as you say ‘winding him up like a toy soldier.’ The department knows what’s at stake; they’ll take care of him.”
“To a certain point,” Connors said.
“To a certain point, that’s right.”
“That tape proves Borkow used Bruno as a diversion so he could get out of my courtroom and sent back to the jail early. Don’t you feel the least bit concerned that you’re doing the same thing? You’re using him like some kind of tool. He’s your friend.”
I stayed around the corner out of view, listening as I eased the body armor over my head and strapped it on. I shrugged into my khaki colored shirt with Karl embroidered over the breast and the trucking emblem on the other. How was I going to explain this to Olivia?
I stopped dressing to listen for Wicks’ answer and held my breath. I thought I knew what he’d say. When you worked together as long as we had, you could finish each other’s sentences. But it had been two years since we had worked together, and people change.
Wicks’ tone turned more serious, with a hint of anger. “You know as well as I do Bruno is a wasted asset sitting in there behind a desk. This jailbreak is the best thing that could have happened for him. So don’t try and lay this off on me. I wasn’t the asshole who used Bruno’s daughter as a pawn. I wasn’t the asshole who organized the biggest escape in the history of this county.”
“No, but you are the asshole who played the tape for him.”
“You know, you keep talking your trash, Your Honor, and I’m going to have to change my opinion of you.”
“That right?”
“That’s right.”
I hurried around the corner, arranging my guns under my shirt in my waistband. “Hey,” I said to get their attention and to disrupt the escalating conversation. “You guys ready to go?”
They both turned to look at me coming their way.
Presiding Judge James D. Hockney, Judge Connors’ boss, approached from the opposite end of the hallway. He came up on Wicks and Connors the same time I did. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
Connors said, “I think you heard. I had to declare a mistrial due to the escape.”
“Yes, I’m aware. And?”
Connors said, “Lieutenant Wicks has conscripted my bailiff to assist in the manhunt.”
“I have no problem with Deputy Johnson being utilized for this purpose,” Hockney said. “I just want to be sure you know your place. After yesterday’s little escapade, you tarnished a near perfect reputation and put this court’s integrity in question. In other words, Phil, you gave us a black eye. I came down here to be sure there wouldn’t be a second lapse in your judgment.”
Wicks said, “It’s okay. I called and got clearance with my department. Judge Connors’ Reserve Deputy status has been reinstated. He will be acting under the color of authority.”
“Phil, you’re not going. I won’t entertain another word about it.” Hockney walked off.
Connors muttered under his breath, “That pompous little pissant. How the hell did he find out?”
Wicks shook his head. “That’s too bad, Your Honor. I was really looking forward to having you along. I was going to show you how real police work gets done.”
Wicks said it with a neutral expression, but I caught that twinkle in his eye that said otherwise.
“I’m sorry, too, Your Honor.” I turned to Wicks. “Come on, let’s get going.”
We walked off. Behind us Judge Connors said, “Bruno, call me with any updates, would you please?”
I didn’t turn around. I just raised my arm in the air to acknowledge his pitiful request.
Wicks said in a half-whisper, “You call him, I’ll take a big bite out of your ass, you hear me?”
“Yeah, I figured it would be something like that.”
We stepped into the elevator as the doors opened. Two gang members dressed in their gang garb—baggy denim pants, blue bandannas, and white tee shirts—started to get on with us. Wicks squeezed in between them and put up his hand. “Sorry, fellas, this car is occupied. Take the next one.”
The bigger one said, “Hey. Hey. What the—”
The smarter one grabbed his friend by the arm and pulled him back out. “Jus’ shut yo’ hole and get outta their way.”
Wicks shot them a grin and pushed the button for the lobby. The doors closed and we started down. “Don’t look at me like that, Bruno. What, you wanted a member of the court looking over our shoulders while we chase some of the baddest assholes we’ve ever gone after?”
“How did the presiding judge happen to come sauntering down the main hall just at the right moment? How come you two were conveniently waiting in the hall? Judge Connors never goes out in that hall. He always uses the back one. And Hockney used the words black eye, just like you did not minutes ago.”
Wicks shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A smile crept across his face.
I liked Connors a great deal and respected him, but he had no business out on the street. He had fired an unwarranted warning shot into the ceiling of a rock house.
Wicks was right about that part. I couldn’t help it; I started laughing. It was good to be back in the saddle with my conniving old partner. The laughter helped to lighten a heavy load.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LOUIS BORKOW STOOD in Muscle Max, a defunct gym directly across the wide parking lot from his closed-down Grand Orchid Massage Parlor, the flagship of his massage parlor chain, a place where everyone in law enforcement would be looking for him. This had been Payaso’s idea, to hide in plain sight right under their noses. Still, anxiety to be on the move, to run, wouldn’t let him sit and pretend everything was okay. He paced back and forth, back and forth, and would soon wear a path in the cheap carpet.
The Orchid was the biggest in square footage and had employed a higher percentage of the most beautiful women in his stable: more of the taller, leggy Russians, and fewer of the shorter, dusky Guatemalans that made up his other smaller operations. He yearned for the time past when he could come and go as he pleased from the Orchid, a mere hundred feet away—now the same as a deadly poison if he set even one foot across the threshold.
He’d made the business office of Muscle Max his personal area so he could periodically peek through the slit in the curtains, look across the parking lot to his flagship.
Ha
rold, Muscle Max’s caretaker and Borkow’s bodyguard, had taken out the desk and file cabinets and brought in a comfy chair and bed along with one of those little refrigerators. The place reminded Borkow too much of a jail cell as if he’d exchanged his air miles for an upgrade, but he still could not step foot outside.
He moved over to the door to call Harold to tell him he wanted Lizzette in there pronto. He’d already been out of jail for twelve hours or more and his need for sex bordered on dire. He craved relief, ready to do anything for it, and would even settle for Lizzette. Lizzette had a dynamite pair of legs. Only she came with an ugly pair of feet. He wasn’t a foot freak—he just liked elegant and delicate-boned feet to come with the rest of the package.
Though he did have a thing for cleanliness. He’d sent Lizzette to sit in the Muscle Max sauna for an hour, then the jacuzzi, then the pool. He couldn’t wait for her any longer.
Just as Borkow was about to push the door to the office open to check on the holdup, he overheard Harold in the hall whispering in a confidential huddle with Lizzette. Those two were thick as thieves. Lizzette said to Harold, “No, that’s not what happened at all. That silly Stacy simply lost her head over Borkow.” A sick joke even for Lizzette. They both giggled like a couple of little girls. Harold had a thing for Lizzette that he carried around in his eyes as he watched her walk and move.
Borkow let Lizzette’s words roll off his back, but filed them away for later. He stepped backward, away from the door, and deeper into the office. “Harold,” he called out, “where’s Lizzette? Go get her and send her in.”
The door opened. Harold leaned in, holding onto the knob. “Here she is, boss.” Harold had muscles on top of muscles and wore a tee shirt two sizes too small. His shoulders humped with muscle, making it appear that whoever had put him together had forgotten a neck.
Lizzette came in, fluffy white terry cloth towel wrapped around her, one of the nice ones brought over from the Orchid. “I’m here, Louis.” She didn’t want to be there as evidenced by her glum expression and tone of voice. At one time, she’d been one of his best earners at the Orchid, but never a favorite for his personal servicing.
Borkow backed up a couple of steps, took off his shirt, and let his pants drop to the floor, stepping out of them. The back of his legs bumped the bed. He sat down. “That’ll be all, Harold. We are not to be disturbed.”
“You got it, boss.” He closed the door all but a couple of inches. Borkow wanted to believe it was so Harold could keep close tabs on him for security reasons and not because he was a perv.
Borkow picked up a shoebox from the bed next him, forced a smile, and held it out. Lizzette’s eyes lit up. She appreciated a nice pair of women’s shoes almost as much as he did. And these shoes were top of the line—a pair of $2,400, bejeweled Christian Louboutins, Arletta crystal-embellished high heels.
Her angelic face lit up like a child’s at Christmas as she snatched the box out of his hands. She let the towel drop to the floor and stood in front of him, bending at the waist to put on the shoes one at a time. He usually loved this part of his ritual, but not with her bony, knobby feet, so he looked away. She strolled nude back and forth in front of him as he looked down her long legs at the shoes.
“Come here,” he said.
The light in her expression died. He raised his hand and motioned for her to come closer. She hesitated and finally complied. Still sitting, he reached up and put his hand on her hip, her flesh hot to the touch. Now he lost his smile. She’d not gone in the pool after the sauna and jacuzzi. He preferred cool, almost cold flesh, over hot and sweaty. She knew that and did it on purpose, a minor form of revolt. He slowly stood. She took a step back but didn’t flee. She used to be more afraid of him. He’d have to fix that. Later, though.
The door burst open and in rushed Harold. “Boss, there’s a car pulling up in front of the Orchid.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
NAKED, BORKOW HURRIED over to the window. Without touching it, he peeked through the narrow slit in the curtains. A black Monte Carlo with dark-tinted windows pulled up and parked among the forty or fifty other cars scattered about the parking lot of the large horseshoe-shaped strip center. People doing business at the hair salon, the auto parts store, the big box pharmacy, and a realtor office. The driver of the Monte Carlo had chosen a slot lined up with the door of the Grand Orchid. Borkow couldn’t see the driver of the Monte Carlo and didn’t recognize the car as it just sat there, engine running. Cops? Or one of his many enemies eager to kick him when he was down, take him out while his restricted movements made him a prime target? His lack of freedom irked him. He’d give anything to have it back the way it was before Tasty Stacy stumbled into his life … and then stumbled out.
Lizzette stood close to him, her back against the wall next to the window. She’d rewrapped the towel around her. Moist heat radiated from her body. He couldn’t get a read from her. Did she care if the cops had actually found him?
He’d spent a year all pent up physically and sexually in a small cage awaiting trial while he put together the intricate plan to escape, a whole year without the benefit of female companionship, a year without beautiful feet clad in beautiful shoes. Oh, he so needed relief. He didn’t need this kind of shit show, not now.
Borkow watched the shiny black Monte Carlo with wisps of white exhaust coming from the tailpipe.
The engine shut off.
The door opened.
He held his breath, ready to grab his clothes and his gun and flee out the back. How had they found him so quickly? The word had gone out that the Orchid was closed to all customers. It had been that way for the past two weeks in preparation for his return. It could be fat Stanky Frank looking to get even for being left back at the jail the night of the escape. That might’ve been a mistake. If Frank wanted, he could tear down the whole building with his brute force.
A denim-clad leg came out of the Monte Carlo. A beat-up cowboy boot with a silver-colored chain around it stepped onto the asphalt. A medium-sized man rose from the car, stood, and looked around for a tail, anyone who might have been following him. After a moment, he started walking toward Muscle Max.
Borkow let out his breath in a long sigh, turned, put his open hand on Lizzette’s face, and shoved her hard. “Why didn’t you tell me Payaso changed cars?” She stumbled back on the tall heels, regained her balance, and came at him with her nails bared, her mouth in an ugly snarl. Borkow shoved back again and socked her full in the face. She went to the floor with a yelp.
He used one finger and eased the curtain open just a hair. The pleasant throb of his knuckles reminded him he was still alive.
Payaso left the car parked in front of the Orchid and came across the lot right toward Borkow’s curtained window.
Payaso never flaunted his money, and he had a lot of it—money he’d earned working as Borkow’s number two. He wore simple clothes without flashy jewelry and never got a second look from Mr. Johnny Law. Borkow didn’t even know his real name. Payaso, in Mex, meant Clown. This guy was anything but. He was an expert in the South American necktie, a reputation Payaso wasn’t afraid to trade on.
Lizzette had gotten up and sauntered across the room, moving away from him as if nothing had happened. Borkow watched her. He knew the little viper well enough to be cautious. He saw her pick up her purse, open it, and stick her hand in.
He said, “Harold?”
A shotgun’s sawed-off barrel poked through the doorway into the room. Lizzette froze. Her grimace shifted to a half-smile. She eased her hand back out of the purse. Her stupid little attempt at a liaison with Harold trying to soften him up hadn’t worked out the way she’d planned it.
“I’m okay, Louis, really I am,” she said. “That was my fault. I should’ve told you about the car, that he’d changed to a Monte Carlo.” With the heel of her hand, she dabbed at the blood that trickled from the corner of her mouth and down her chin. She scowled at the open doorway. Harold had denied her loyalty and had do
ne his job.
The shotgun barrel disappeared.
Borkow walked over, picked up her fallen towel, and wrapped it around his waist. He moved over to Lizzette. She stood up straighter as he drew near and raised her chin in defiance. She pretended to be brave, holding her ground no matter what. He loved her for it. He kissed her on the lips. “I’m sorry. Please don’t do that again. This will be your final warning.”
Payaso came in the room.
Borkow stepped back from Lizzette and flicked his hands in dismissal.
Lizzette’s eyes softened. “Louis, honey, can I keep the shoes, please?” She thought she could play on the injury he’d inflicted, when he socked her, thought he’d have a twinge of guilt over it.
He gave her the stare.
One leg at a time, she brought her foot up and slipped off a shoe, dropping four inches in height. She handed them over. A little sob slipped out. She loved the shoes almost as much as he did. He’d happened onto her stash of shoes purely by accident when she had moved out of the Grand Orchid and refused to tell him where she was staying—avoided the question with, “Here and there. Just couch surfing till I can find someplace I like and can afford.” So he’d followed her one night and hot-prowled her apartment in Santa Monica while she was in bed with her lover Twyla. He hadn’t told Lizzette he’d found her clandestine place and relationship. He’d never do anything to her—not unless she violated one of his rules—like Stacy had.
“Please leave us,” Borkow said.
She hurried over, scooped up her clothes, and fled on bare ugly feet. His eyes tracked her as she left. If she looked back and scowled, he wouldn’t be able to trust her ever again. He watched, sorry and angry he’d treated her so poorly. It wasn’t his fault that he had to hide out. It made him edgy.
She made it to the door. She hesitated. Her shoulders pulled back. Her head rose a little.
