The Ed Eagle Novels

by Stuart Woods

  Vittorio put the car in gear and drove off, dawdling along at fifty miles an hour. “Let’s let them gain a little on us,” he said.

  EAGLE WAS BACK at his desk at three o’clock, showered and relaxed.

  Betty buzzed him. “That realtor, Sally Potter, is on the phone.”

  Eagle picked it up. “Hi, Sally.”

  “Hi, Ed. I just sold a house; you up for a closing?”

  “Sure, send me the contract.”

  “I’ll have the buyer bring it over; you in all afternoon?”

  “I’ll be here until five.”

  “You’re not breaking a sweat over there, are you?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice.”

  “The buyer will be there in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll dust off the welcome mat.” He hung up. Sally Potter and other realtors often recommended him as an attorney for house buyers. He did forty or fifty closings a year, and an assistant did all the work. It paid for the copying machine and the phone bill, he reckoned.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Betty buzzed him. “Your buyer is here,” she said.

  “Send him in.”

  There was a chuckle from the other end of the line, and Betty hung up.

  Eagle looked up to see a knockout blonde walk into his office. She was in her thirties, five-seven, a hundred and twenty-five pounds, wearing tight, starched jeans, a fringed buckskin jacket and a chambray shirt with the top couple of buttons invitingly undone. Her breasts were contained in about a 36C, and he reckoned it was a cup size too small. Eagle was sure he had seen her someplace before, but he couldn’t place her. He was on his feet in a flash. “Good afternoon. I’m Ed Eagle.”

  “Hello,” she said in a throaty voice. “I’m Susannah Wilde.” She held out a hand.

  Eagle shook it and waved her to the sofa, taking the chair opposite. The movies, he thought. He didn’t go to the movies much, waiting for them to turn up on satellite TV, but he’d seen her in something. “So, you’ve bought a home in Santa Fe?”

  “Yes, I have. The seller accepted my offer a couple of hours ago.” She dug into a large handbag and came out with a paper. “Here’s the contract.”

  Eagle scanned the document. A nice place on Tano Norte. A writer had built it and sold it to somebody else, who was now selling it. Three million bucks; Ms. Wilde was either very successful in the movies or handsomely divorced, or both. “Will you require a mortgage?” he asked.

  “No, it will be a cash deal.”

  “I’ll get a title search done and arrange for title insurance. I can recommend an insurance agent for your homeowner’s policy.”

  “Thank you, but Sally has already put me in touch with somebody.”

  “What brings you to Santa Fe, Ms. Wilde?”

  “Please call me Susannah. I’m an actress, and I live in L.A., but frankly I’m tired of it. I’ve sold my house there, and I’ve found a pied-à-terre for when I’m there on business, but I plan to make my real home here.”

  “I know the original owner of your house, and I’ve been there for dinner. It’s a beautiful place. I especially remember the library.”

  “Yes, I’m thrilled to have it.”

  “When do you want to close?”

  “The owner says he can close quickly, so the sooner the better.” She gave him the name of the seller’s attorney.

  “A couple of weeks okay?”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the Inn of the Anasazi.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as we’ve agreed on a closing date. Will you be staying long?”

  “I’m going back to L.A. tomorrow, to get moved into my new apartment, but I’ll be back for the closing, and I’ll move in the same day, so can you schedule it for first thing in the morning?”

  “Of course.” He took a deep breath. “Would you like to have dinner tonight?”

  She smiled. “How kind of you. Is this all part of the service?”

  He smiled back. “No, this is a special occasion,” he said.

  “I’d love to.” She stood and shook his hand again. “What time?”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty, if that’s all right.”

  “I look forward to it.” She turned and walked out of his office.

  He watched her go. “Oh, shit,” he whispered to himself. “I may be in trouble again.”

  Twenty-four

  THEY ENTERED THE OUTSKIRTS OF PUERTO VALLARTA AND saw the airport sign.

  “Not yet,” Cupie said. “Drive into town; I got an idea that might buy us a little breathing room.”

  “Where do you want to go?” Vittorio asked.

  “The police station.”

  “I want to get out of here,” Barbara said.

  “Of course you do, sweetheart,” Cupie replied, “And I think I can make your trip a little bit safer. Don’t park out front, Vittorio; make it about a block away.”

  Vittorio found a parking spot, and Cupie walked down the street to the police station. As before, he was sent to the rear office of the captain, who was sitting at his desk reading a girlie magazine.

  “Buenos días, señor,” the captain said, immediately recognizing a man who had promised him a five-thousand-dollar reward.

  “And to you, captain,” Cupie said, taking a seat.

  “We are looking for your shooting lady very hard,” the captain said. “We have covered all the airports and border crossings.”

  “That’s what I came about,” Cupie said. “I want to withdraw the charges against the lady.”

  The captain’s face fell. “But, señor, this is not so easy, you know. Much paper has been, how you say, pressed?”

  “Pushed.”

  “Many man-hours have been expended in the search.”

  Yeah, sure, Cupie thought. “I’m aware of that, captain, and my client is very grateful for your cooperation.” Cupie reached into an inside pocket and came out with twenty one-hundred-dollar bills. “He has asked me to personally deliver to you this expression of his gratitude.” He laid the money on the desk. The captain made a motion with his hand, and it disappeared. “Even though the woman was not captured.”

  “But she shot you, señor,” the captain said, his voice trembling with outrage. “Surely, you cannot let such an insult pass.”

  “My client has made my honor whole,” Cupie said, “and the lady and I have settled our differences.”

  “So, you know where she is?”

  “She should be in New York by now, I think. Her husband sent a private aircraft for her, and I put her aboard it very early this morning.”

  “Señor,” the captain said, “I hesitate to mention this, but I have had reports of two gringos in a Toyota SUV who caused a serious accident outside Acapulco yesterday. I wonder if you are aware of this?”

  Cupie put on his most innocent face. “No, I have not heard of it,” he said. “My partner is not a gringo but an Apache Indian. He and I are driving a Toyota, but it is a sedan, not an SUV. I do hope the occupants of this car were not injured.”

  The captain shrugged. “Only their pride,” he said. “They are police officers, you see.”

  “Ah, any person would be very foolish who would cause an accident to police officers. Having been a policeman, myself, for thirty years, I can understand their displeasure. If you have a description of the two men, I would be happy to keep an eye out for them. Now that our work is done, my friend and I plan to spend a couple of days on the beach.”

  “I’m afraid I do not have a description, other than that they are gringos,” the captain said. He stood up and offered his hand. “But this is not your problem, señor; we are perfectly capable of finding them without your assistance.”

  Cupie stood up and shook the hand. “I am very sure you will do so, captain. Thank you again for your assistance, and I hope that we may meet again on some more pleasant occasion.”

  “Vaya con Dios,” the captain said.

  Cupie strol
led back to the car and got in. “I think,” he said, “that I may have gotten the dogs called off. I gave the captain two grand and asked him to end the search for our lady friend.”

  “You think that will work?” Barbara asked from the rear seat.

  “Let’s give the captain an hour to give some orders and then make a run at the airport,” Cupie said. “We’ve still got plan B, Tijuana, in reserve.”

  “I’m hungry,” Barbara said.

  “Do you think you can eat lying down?” Cupie asked.

  “Find me some food, and find me a place where I can eat without being seen,” she commanded.

  “Vittorio?”

  “Let’s look for a taco stand,” Vittorio said.

  Twenty-five

  THE THREE OF THEM SAT ON PINE NEEDLES IN A LITTLE patch of woods off the main road, eating tacos and drinking Dos Equis.

  “I hope this food doesn’t do things to my digestive tract,” Cupie said.

  “It’s cooked,” Vittorio pointed out, “and the beer isn’t going to hurt you.”

  Barbara finished her taco and stood up. “Excuse me, while I locate the powder room,” she said, then vanished into the trees.

  “There’s something I didn’t mention in front of the lady,” Cupie said.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “It’s not necessarily bad. The police captain told me his people are looking for the guys in the Toyota 4Runner; that’s you and me.”

  Vittorio allowed himself to look minutely alarmed. “And how is that not bad?”

  “They don’t have a description of us, just the SUV, and that is now history.”

  “I hope it’s history they don’t bother to check with the rental car people.”

  “So do I, but I think we’re okay. He took the two grand, made it disappear like a sleight-of-hand artist; that should mollify him. I also told him we put Barbara on a private jet out of here early this morning and that she’s halfway to New York by now.”

  “Let’s hope he buys that.”

  “He was disappointed, naturally, not to get the whole five grand.”

  “Not as disappointed as he was not to get her three hundred grand in travelers checks. The natural state of mind of your average Mexican cop is Greedy, with a capital G.”

  “Well, let’s hope he thinks she’s gone.”

  “You know what I’d like to do?” Vittorio said. “I’d like to give her the ten grand back and get the first plane out of here to anywhere.”

  “I don’t think you’d run out on the lady, after making her a promise, but I’d feel better if we were better armed,” Cupie said.

  “I can do something about that,” Vittorio replied.

  “You got a secret weapons cache?”

  “I got a guy in Mexico city who can deliver anything anywhere. What would you like?”

  “A nice twelve-gauge riot gun with an extended magazine would be nice. And a whole lot of double-ought buckshot.”

  Vittorio took out his cell phone, checked for a signal and speed-dialed a number. His conversation was brief and in Spanish. He closed the phone. “An hour from now, at a little cantina south of Puerto Vallarta, not a ten-minute drive from here.”

  “Now that’s what I call service,” Cupie said. “Your guy ought to be in the pizza business.”

  Barbara returned, sat down, got out a compact and tended to her makeup.

  “It’s nice of you to want to look pretty for us,” Cupie said.

  “Force of habit,” she replied, “regardless of the company. What’s next on the program?”

  “We’re going to wait here an hour, then stop at a cantina and pick up a package that Vittorio has ordered,” Cupie said.

  “Package?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “You’re not bringing drugs into this equation, are you?” she asked, looking alarmed.

  “Nope. I assure you, the package is pertinent to the effort to get you out of the country as quickly and as safely as possible. And the hour is well spent: it’s better for you if Vittorio and I are not seen on the street for a little while.”

  Barbara sighed. “I hope I hired the right guys.”

  “You hired the only guys,” Cupie replied.

  “That’s what I mean.”

  THEY PARKED THE CAR behind the cantina, left Barbara lying down in the backseat and walked in the back door. There was a filthy kitchen to their left and a restroom to their right that, given the state of the kitchen, Cupie didn’t want to see.

  There were four men in the place, two at a table and two at the bar. Vittorio made eye contact with each of them and didn’t get so much as a lifted eyebrow.

  “It appears my guy’s guy isn’t here yet,” he said.

  “Dos cervezas,” Cupie said to the bartender, holding up two fingers to prevent being misunderstood.

  The bartender placed two sweaty bottles on the bar, and Cupie gave him five bucks American. He still didn’t have any pesos. They sat down.

  “I don’t like this place,” Cupie said. “Where’s your guy’s guy?”

  “Relax, we’re ten minutes early.”

  Cupie stuck a hand under his jacket and manipulated something.

  “Take it easy, Cupie, we’re not getting into any gunfights.”

  Cupie leaned in close. “There are four guys in here, and every one of them looks like he lives for a gunfight. And I’m not too sure about the bartender, either.”

  “Cupie, it’s just a cantina, okay?”

  Cupie nursed his beer and continued to look worried.

  At the stroke of the hour a man holding a longish cardboard box walked in. The box bore the legend CALLAWAY GOLF. He looked around for a moment, then his eye alighted on Vittorio, who was wearing his hat. He came over.

  “Buenos días, señores,” he said. “Meester Vittorio?”

  Vittorio nodded. “What’s the bill?”

  “Nine hundred, señor. American.”

  Vittorio handed him the money, already counted out. “Ammunition?”

  “Two boxes double-ought, one of solid projectile,” the man said. “Bye-bye.” He turned and left.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Cupie whispered hoarsely.

  Vittorio got up and led the way, carrying the box, while Cupie walked backward behind him, watching the four men, whose expressions never changed.

  Vittorio opened the trunk, set the cardboard box inside and opened it. Keeping both weapons inside the trunk, he handed Cupie a Remington riot gun and took a stockless Ithaca for himself. Both men loaded their weapons with eight rounds, pumped one into the chamber, then loaded a ninth.

  “I like the extended magazine,” Cupie said. “Saves reloading when you’re about to die.”

  They picked up the remaining ammunition and got into the car, placing the shotguns on the floorboards.

  “Artillery?” Barbara said from the backseat. “Are we expecting war?”

  “The worst thing that can happen is what you didn’t prepare for,” Cupie explained. “I feel better now; don’t you feel better?”

  “I feel like getting on an airplane,” Barbara said.

  “Time to make a pass at the airport,” Vittorio said, starting the car.

  They drove back up the main highway to the airport turnoff, where Vittorio pulled off the road and stopped.

  “Why are we stopping?” Barbara asked.

  “Please be quiet,” Vittorio replied, picking up his binoculars and training them on the airport building, half a mile away. “Uh-oh,” he said, then handed the binoculars to Cupie.

  Cupie trained them on the airport building. “I see two cops and—oh, shit! That fucking black Suburban! Why can’t we shake those sons of bitches?”

  “Let’s go to Tijuana,” Vittorio said. “We’ll find a place for the night and get there tomorrow.”

  Twenty-six

  EAGLE WALKED INTO THE INN OF THE ANASAZI TO FIND Susannah Wilde waiting for him, standing in front of a roaring fireplace in the lobby. She was wearing a cream-colored lin
en dress that set off her tan, a string of pearls, a cashmere sweater over her shoulders and a big smile. She offered her hand.

  Eagle took it. “The car is right outside,” he said, “not that we need it. The restaurant is just up the street.” He put her into the passenger seat, tipped the carhop and drove the two blocks to Santa Café.

  “I’ve heard of this place,” she said as they were seated.

  “I’m glad to be the first to bring you here. We’re blessed with good restaurants in Santa Fe, but this is my favorite.”

  A waiter appeared.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked.

  “I’ll have a Knob Creek on the rocks, please,” Susannah said.

  “A woman after my own heart. Make that two. And where did an L.A. girl learn to drink hundred-proof bourbon?”

  “Oh, I’m not an L.A. girl at all; I’m a Georgia girl, small town called Delano.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Neither has anybody else, but it got me my first movie role.”

  “How?”

  “A couple of weeks after I first arrived in L.A., I was waiting outside Neiman Marcus for my car to be brought around, and I got into a conversation with an elderly man named Richard Barron.”

  “I’ve heard of Rick Barron,” he said. “He’s the chairman of Centurion Studios.”

  “I didn’t know that, at the time. We had a five-minute wait, and he asked me where I was from. I told him, and, to my astonishment, he told me he had been born in Delano, Georgia, though he left there when he was quite young. You can imagine his surprise when I told him I was from Delano, too. Our cars arrived, he gave me his card and asked me to call him. I did, and he arranged for me to meet the head of production at Centurion, who introduced me to several producers at lunch, and a week later, I had an agent and was working in my first movie.”

  “Are you always so lucky?”

  “Not always. I married one of the producers, and I wouldn’t call that lucky.”

  “Kids?”

  “Nope.”

  “How long have you been divorced?”

  “A little over a year. How about you?”

  Eagle looked at his watch. “By five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, if I’m lucky.”

  “How long separated?”

  “Less than a week.”

  “How do you get a divorce so quickly?”