The Ed Eagle Novels

by Stuart Woods

“One: you have a signed financial settlement; two: you have a very good reason; and three: you have a good buddy who’s a judge. I have all three.”

  Their drinks came, and she raised her glass. “Here’s to all three,” she said.

  Eagle raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “I take it you’re not in a frame of mind to reconsider your marriage.”

  “You are a perceptive woman.”

  “It’s not hard to see the anger underneath your otherwise charming demeanor.”

  “That’s not anger,” he said. “It’s relief. The anger came when I found out she’d stolen over a million dollars from me and gone to Mexico.”

  “Compared to my settlement divorce, that’s a cheap divorce,” Susannah said.

  “That’s not counting the other four million she tried to steal but that I was able to hang onto. And it’s not costing me very much. I managed to get a lot of it back.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I hire good people. What about you? Are you still angry at your former husband?”

  “The anger pretty much went away when he made good on the settlement.”

  “Good for you. Anger is self-destructive. It’s why I don’t do divorce work anymore; I couldn’t take the anger my clients were radiating. Let’s change the subject. I loved your work in Big Deal and Dare Me.”

  “Thanks. You Googled me, didn’t you?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I Googled you, too.”

  He laughed. “Got me, but I did see both pictures and a couple of others, too.”

  “Supporting work is sometimes the best,” she said, “although, from your résumé, I take it you prefer to star.”

  Eagle laughed. “Nobody ever put it exactly that way before, but yes, I do. I prefer associates to partners. Do you intend to keep on working after your move to Santa Fe?”

  “Yes, but I’m not going to look very hard for it. I’ll let my agent do that, and I’ll only take the good roles. If I don’t get those, then I’ll produce something myself and shoot it in Santa Fe.”

  “You’re a smart girl,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind being called that.”

  “Smart or girl?”

  “Girl.”

  “I’m old enough to take it as a compliment.”

  They ordered dinner and a bottle of wine.

  “What tribe are you?” she asked.

  “An eastern tribe.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d believe I’m the last of the Mohicans?”

  “I know the story too well to buy that.”

  “Ashkenazie.”

  “That’s more like one of the tribes of Israel, isn’t it?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Funny, the Internet thinks you’re an Indian.”

  “I never said so to anybody,” Eagle said, “but I never contradicted anybody who thought so.”

  “You’re an interesting man, Ed Eagle.”

  “And you’re an interesting woman, Susannah Wilde.”

  Twenty-seven

  AFEW MILES NORTH OF PUERTO VALLARTA, VITTORIO spoke up. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

  “What?” Cupie responded. “What’s wrong?”

  Vittorio pulled over to the shoulder of the road and got out. He looked at the left front wheel, kicked it and screamed, “Goddammit!!!”

  Cupie got out. “Flat?”

  “Flat.” Vittorio opened the trunk.

  “Spare?”

  “It’s here,” Vittorio said, freeing the tire and rolling it to the front of the car. “Get the tools, will you?”

  Cupie went back to the trunk and returned with a jack and a lug wrench. He knelt down, placed the jack and pumped away, until the tire was nearly free of the road, then he handed the lug wrench to Vittorio. “The rest is yours,” he said. He leaned against the car and mopped his brow, then he glanced down the highway. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Black Suburban coming.”

  Vittorio yanked the flat off the car and stood up. “Not again,” he moaned. “Get in the car and get her down,” he said.

  Cupie got back in the car. “Barbara,” he said.

  She was sitting in the backseat, looking bored.

  “I want you to get all the way down on the floor, and right now.”

  “Shit,” she said, but she did it.

  Cupie picked up his shotgun, flipped off the safety, then opened the road map and used it to cover the weapon. “All set in here,” he said, then pretended to study the map.

  Vittorio got the spare on the car and had the lugs finger-tight before the Suburban arrived.

  The big, black vehicle slowed, then stopped, and the front passenger window slid down. Same bandito as before. “Buenos días, señores,” he said. “Do you have trouble?”

  “Not any more,” Vittorio said, tightening the lugs. He stood up and rolled the flat tire to the trunk and tossed it in, then went back for the tools.

  “Are you certain you do not require any help?”

  Vittorio closed the trunk then went and stood next to the rear door of the car, blocking any view of the backseat. “All done,” he said, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

  The rear window of the Suburban slid down a few inches, and this time Vittorio could see the figure in the rear seat. The window slid up again.

  “Vaya con Dios, señores,” the front passenger said, and the Suburban moved away.

  Vittorio got into the car. “The guy in the rear seat was wearing a police uniform,” he said. “I have the very strong feeling that we’re going to encounter a roadblock before we go too many more miles.”

  “Make a U-turn,” Cupie said. “I saw an interesting sign back there.”

  Vittorio turned the car around and started back. A mile or so down the road the sign appeared.

  EL RANCHO ENCANTADA

  Parador

  “Let’s take a look,” Cupie said, and Vittorio turned right. They drove down a single-track dirt road for a couple of miles, encouraged by further signs. As they crested a rise, the Pacific Ocean appeared, perhaps a mile ahead, and they could see a group of low buildings along the beach.

  “Looks nice,” Cupie said.

  Barbara peered over the backseat. “What looks nice?”

  Cupie pointed. “There. Now you get back down on the floor. We don’t want anybody to see you.”

  She did as she was told.

  Vittorio drove down the hill and pulled into the parking lot of the main building.

  “Let me do this,” Cupie said. “And, Barbara, you stay down.”

  Cupie got out and walked into the building. An attractive woman sat at a large leather-topped desk.

  “Buenos días,” she said.

  “And to you,” Cupie replied. “I wonder if you might have a cottage available?”

  “For how many people, señor?”

  “Two gentlemen, but we’d prefer separate bedrooms.

  “And for how long?”

  “One night, possibly two.”

  She consulted a ledger. “Yes, señor, we have such a cottage available.” She quoted a price. “Will you need help with your luggage?”

  “No, thank you; we’re traveling light.” He gave her a credit card and filled out the registration form. “How long a drive to Tijuana?”

  “Four to six hours,” she replied, “depending.”

  Depending on kidnappers, crooked cops and bandits, no doubt, Cupie thought.

  She handed him two keys. “Will you require a table for dinner?”

  “Is room service available?”

  “Yes, señor.”

  “I think we might order in. It’s been a long day.”

  “As you wish, señor. Your cottage is number twelve, the southernmost one. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you.” Cupie returned to the car. “Two bedrooms, and they have room service,” he said.

  “Can I get up now?” Barbara asked.

  �
��In a minute,” Cupie said. “It’s the last cottage.”

  Vittorio drove down a short road and stopped. He and Cupie got out, and Cupie used a key to open the front door. He looked up and down the road. “Okay, Barbara, run for it.”

  She got out of the car and sauntered into the cottage.

  “Not bad,” Cupie said, walking in. He looked into the two bedrooms, one on either side of the living room. “This one’s yours,” he said to her. “Vittorio and I will take the room with the twin beds.”

  “How disappointing for you,” she said. “I know you must have been looking forward to sleeping together.”

  Twenty-eight

  JOE BIG BEAR WRUNG OUT THE MOP AND WENT OVER THE bedroom of his trailer one more time. It had been a mess, what with bits of dried blood, flesh and brains spattered on the walls, but Joe was a stoic, and he cleaned the place thoroughly. He burned the bedding and the mattress behind the trailer and unloaded the new mattress from his pickup truck. Pretty soon, the place was neat and fresh again, ready for new action.

  Action was expensive, though, requiring beer money at the very least, and he was very short of money. The cost of the mattress had reduced his net worth considerably, and he hadn’t had any work since his arrest. What he needed was an injection of cash into his life, and enough to keep him going while he rebuilt his business. When he thought of money, his mind went unerringly to Harold, the would-be hit man, sitting up there in the county jail. Joe made a mental note to go see him the following morning.

  Cupie, Vittorio and Barbara sat around the table in their cottage, over the remains of a feastlike Mexican dinner, drinking tequila shooters. The atmosphere had grown convivial.

  “You know,” Barbara was saying, her words only slightly slurred, “you two sons of bitches aren’t such sons of bitches after all.”

  This struck Cupie and Vittorio as hilariously funny, and they collapsed in mirth, pounding the table.

  “And you aren’t so bad, yourself,” Cupie said.

  “Not bad at all,” Vittorio said, leering at Barbara.

  “And to think, a few days ago, you were trying to kill me,” Cupie said.

  Barbara rested her chin on her hand and frankly returned Vittorio’s gaze. “I never tried to kill you, did I?”

  “Not yet,” Vittorio said, glancing at his watch. “But it’s only nine o’clock.”

  Cupie looked from one to the other. “Well,” he said, placing his palms on the table and hoisting himself to his feet, “I think I’m going to turn in.” He stretched and yawned for effect.

  “Good night, Cupie,” Vittorio said.

  “Good night, Cupie,” Barbara echoed.

  They never stopped looking at each other.

  Cupie left them, stood in a shower for five minutes, put on a clean pair of pajamas and melted into his mattress. “God help both of them,” he said aloud, as he descended into unconsciousness.

  ED EAGLE LAY on his back in bed, projecting imaginary movies starring Susannah Wilde onto the ceiling. This was some girl, he thought, and she couldn’t have come along at a better moment. She was leaving for L.A. in the morning, but she’d be back as soon as she got moved into her new apartment. He’d see if he couldn’t move up the closing on her house for a few days, to get her back even sooner.

  He turned over and sought sleep, and something right out of left field popped into his mind: Pep Boys. Why the hell had he thought of that? He tried to trace the thought back to its origins and got as far as his courtroom questioning of Cartwright, in the Joe Big Bear case, but it went back farther than that. He let his mind roam free for Pep Boys references.

  Then he sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide open. Pep Boys. It was at his first meeting with Joe at the county jail. In his account of his afternoon, on the day of the triple murder, Joe had said that, while working on Cartwright’s car, he had had to go to Pep Boys, the auto parts place, for a fan belt. At something like three-thirty in the afternoon. Eagle had been so preoccupied with Barbara’s absconding that he had forgotten about it.

  Eagle placed Pep Boys in his mind: it was out on Cerrillos Road, a busy commercial thoroughfare, not far from Airport Road. Joe could have gone to Pep Boys, then to his trailer, and he could have been there in five minutes, with good traffic. Then back to Cartwright’s, and the whole thing, the triple murder, could have been accomplished in half an hour, tops.

  He sank back into bed. Why the hell hadn’t he remembered that sooner? Then he thought, “What would I have done if I had thought of it sooner?” He thought about that until he finally fell asleep.

  Twenty-nine

  CUPIE WOKE UP VERY EARLY, NEEDING THE BATHROOM. That accomplished, he passed a window on the way back to bed and was struck by what he saw. Barbara and Vittorio were emerging from the Pacific Ocean, hand in hand, laughing and naked. They walked back toward the cottage and flopped down on a blanket, shielded from the view of the rest of the empty beach by a screen of palm fronds. Then Barbara rolled over on top of Vittorio.

  Cupie went back to bed.

  JOE BIG BEAR turned up at the Santa Fe County Correctional Center in time for visiting hours and asked for Harold. Soon they were seated across a table from each other.

  “So?” Harold asked, looking at Joe narrowly.

  “So, Harold, I think you and I are going to do some business.”

  “What business? We got no business.”

  “Listen to me careful, Harold,” Joe said. “First of all, I want a phone number for Mrs. Eagle.”

  “You said she was in Mexico.”

  “She’s coming back, Harold,” he lied.

  “Why do you want her phone number?”

  “Harold, I got friends in this place who would mash you into the ground for twenty bucks. Give me the number.”

  Harold blinked a couple of times, then recited it from memory.

  Joe wrote it down. “Now, Harold, I’m going to take over Bobby’s role in your little plan.”

  “You mean you’re going to off Eagle?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you said I get to keep all the money.”

  “That was then, Harold; this is a whole new now.”

  “You’re going to do the job?”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself, Harold.”

  “For the same as Bobby?”

  “For twelve and a half grand, Harold, up front.”

  “But I already paid Bobby a thousand.”

  “That’s between you and Bobby, cost of doing business.”

  “I’m not giving you that kind of money up front.”

  “Sure you are, Harold. Remember my friends in here? There’s that, and then there’s the fact that if you don’t get on board with this right now, I’m going to go see your old lady and take all the money from her, and when you get out of here, you’ll have nothing.”

  Harold blinked some more.

  “So here’s what you do: you go back in there and call her, and tell her to bring twelve-five to the parking lot outside, and right now. You got that?”

  Harold thought about it.

  “Time’s up, Harold. Get it done now, or by the end of the day, you’re going to be broke, and nobody who knows you is going to recognize you for a long time.”

  “Okay,” Harold said, finally. “Twelve-five outside in an hour. But I want the job done before I get out of here. You got five days. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Joe replied. “Twelve-five, outside, sixty minutes,” he repeated, just to be sure Harold had it down.

  Harold nodded, got up and went back through the door behind him.

  Joe left the jail and drove up to Garcia Street, where there was a coffee shop he liked. He bought a double espresso and a newspaper and sat outside in the morning sun for a while, then he dialed the number Harold had given him. It rang four times before she answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Eagle?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “My name is Pepe,” he said, “and I’m ca
lling to do you a favor.”

  “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “I told you, my name is Pepe. I’m going to kill your husband for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know the other hombre you hired to do the job, Harold? Harold went and got himself busted; he’s in jail, and he ain’t getting out any time soon.”

  “What do you want?”

  “This is about what you want, Mrs. Eagle. If you want your husband dead within four days, it will cost you twenty-five thousand dollars, cash, wired to me in Santa Fe.”

  “How do I know you’re not a cop?”

  “Well, I guess you don’t know, but you’re in Mexico, so the cops can’t touch you. And look at it this way, the insurance company is paying for the work, not you.” Joe was guessing that Ed Eagle had mucho insurance.

  A long pause. “How can I reach you?”

  “You can reach me by wiring twenty-five thousand dollars to me today. There’s no other way. If I don’t receive it within twenty-four hours, your husband will go right on living, and you will collect nothing, and I’ll remind him to change the beneficiary on the life insurance policy. I don’t think you’re going to have another opportunity to arrange this hit from Mexico before he does that.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “What name do I wire it to?”

  “Well, let’s make up a name,” Joe said. “Wire it to Pepe Oso Grande”—he had a driver’s license with that name on it—“care of Western Union, Santa Fe.” He spelled the name for her.

  “Let me think about it,” she said.

  “Think about it all you like, but if the money isn’t in Santa Fe by noon tomorrow, Ed Eagle lives, and you lose, big time. I’ll look forward to hearing from you,” Joe replied and clicked off.

  Joe looked at his watch, finished his coffee and drove back to the jail. He had only a five-minute wait before the woman in the pickup turned into the parking lot. He walked over to her. “Good morning,” he said. “Harold sent me to pick up twelve thousand, five hundred dollars.”

  The woman looked at him with hatred. “Harold says if you don’t do it before he gets out, he’ll find you and kill you, Joe Big Bear.”

  So Harold had found out his name. “Thank you for that message,” Joe said. “Give me the money.”

  She handed him a red bandanna, tied up in a bundle.