by Rob Ashman
He liked the routine of getting his men together once a week. It was a good discipline he had read about in a self-help book about running a successful company. It gave him the opportunity to bond with his team and hold them accountable for their performance, or that’s what the book said. For Bonelli it was an opportunity to look into the whites of their eyes to tell if they were lying.
The meeting was drawing to a close and each person had reported on their activities for the week. Most importantly they had reported on how much money they had made.
‘Has anyone got anything else they want to raise?’ Bonelli said.
‘Yes, Boss, I got something.’
Bonelli nodded at the forty-year-old man, with a shaved head, bursting out of his suit.
‘Do you recall a while back we were looking for two men, one white and one black. They were connected with Harry Silverton. We circulated mug shots of them both, remember?’
Bonelli leaned forward from his chair.
‘Turns out, one of my guys thinks he saw them yesterday.’
Lucas drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while he watched the front of the two-up two-down town house in the trendy Ocean Bay area. It was 7am.
Jameson clocked him as he closed his front door and got into his car. Lucas followed him. They pulled onto the highway, bound for the dirt road leading to the piece of waste ground under the railway bridge.
The surface of the road seemed to have deteriorated since Lucas last drove it. The suspension complained every time the wheels sank into a pothole. This was killing his car, or, more precisely, the rental company’s car.
They swung around on the waste ground and Jameson jumped out. Lucas did the same.
‘I told you not to do that,’ he barked.
‘Save it,’ Lucas said. ‘My client was delighted by the progress and ecstatic with the details you provided.’
‘That’s good. I am flexible towards my client’s needs.’
‘Yes, you are, and it is appreciated, I can assure you.’
‘I aim to please.’
‘Do you have an update?’
‘I do. I have a finalised date. Tell your guy that the job will go down next Friday.’
‘How will I know when it’s done?’
‘You strike me as a well-informed man. I don’t think it will be necessary for me to tell you.’
‘That’s a good point, we will probably know before Bonelli.’
Jameson cracked a smile.
‘How do you want the balance of the money paid?’
‘Cabrillo Bridge. Be there at 3pm on Friday. That will give me time to get confirmation.’
‘That’s good. By then I will also have confirmation. We can compare notes.’
There was nothing more to be said.
Lucas bounced down the road wrecking the shock absorbers on the rental car, not looking forward to the long drive back to Vegas.
Bonelli catapulted out of his chair. The forty-year-old guy bulging out of his suit thought he was a dead man.
‘When? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?’
‘But I’m telling you now, Boss.’
‘When did he see them?’
‘It was yesterday. A woman was nosing around the back of the Mint and said something about looking for her purse. One of our men talked to her, she got confused and left.’
‘And? Where do the two guys come into it?’
‘She walked off the parking lot and met up with them. The two men from the mug shots. It was them.’
‘Is he certain?’
‘Yes, he’s a reliable guy. If he says it was them, I’d put money on it.’
Everyone else was welded to their seats.
‘Why the fucking hell didn’t you think to bring this to me yesterday?’ Bonelli flung his arms in the air and slapped them onto the arms of the chair.
‘I knew we were getting together today, so I assumed it would be okay to tell you now.’
‘You assumed, you assumed?’ Bonelli was turning red.
‘Sorry, Boss. I thought it would be okay.’
Bonelli jumped up and marched around the room.
‘Let me get this straight. Yesterday one of your men spots the white guy who killed two of our men. You know they are linked to the death of my brother, right? And you think it’s okay to tell me about it today?’ His voice rattled the chandeliers.
‘Sorry, Boss.’
‘Sorry!’ Bonelli drew his gun and pointed it at the man quivering in his chair. He walked up to him and drove the muzzle into his forehead.
‘Sorry?’ Bonelli said, his hand shaking.
The man cowered with his head between his knees.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry …’ His snivelling voice filled the room.
Bonelli jammed the gun into the back of his head.
The man pissed himself.
39
Harper wasn’t too sure what Lucas meant when he told him to keep a low profile while he was in San Diego. He interpreted it to mean ‘stay in your hotel and don’t be an idiot’.
He had been holed up for most of the day and so far so good. But now Harper was restless and thirsty, with almost twenty thousand dollars in a sports bag stuffed in a closet. It was not the ideal set of circumstances to ensure a low profile.
He hailed a cab, jumped in the back and leaned forward over the front seat.
‘Fremont Street, please.’
Harper sat back with a token of Fabiano Bassano’s appreciation tucked away in his wallet.
The driver dropped him off outside the Horseshoe, and Harper made a beeline for the bar. The first ice-cold beer didn’t touch the sides as he chugged it down. Before the barman had a chance to return with his change he needed another. Keeping a low profile was thirsty business.
The place was a cacophony of noise with slot machines chiming out honky-tonk tunes and spewing coins into metal trays, while guys in denim shirts huddled around the gaming tables hollering and whooping. It was built-in entertainment.
Harper was especially entertained by the casino waitresses in their low-cut mini-dresses with a split up one thigh. They served the punters gambling away their hard-earned cash. It almost made Harper wish he were a gambler, but gambling wasn’t one of his numerous vices. However, ogling the women as they weaved their way through the throng, balancing their trays high in the air, definitely was.
After three more rapid beers the effect of the mini-dresses and low-cut tops was getting to him. He left the Horseshoe and turned right. He could see the neon signs of the Golden Goose and Glitter Gulch up ahead.
There was a soft tap on the front door. Moran opened it to find Mills standing on the step.
‘Have you come to arrest me this time?’
‘No, but I do have more questions.’
‘Look, Mills, it’s late. I don’t have the patience to come down to the station to look at pictures of random strangers in yellow jackets. Can’t this wait till tomorrow?’
‘We don’t have to do this at the station. It won’t take long.’
Moran moved over and Mills stepped inside.
She perched on the edge on the sofa and he settled into the chair.
‘What is it this time?’ she said.
Mills pulled two mug shots from his pocket and handed them to Moran.
‘How do you know these men?’
Moran nearly fell on the floor. Staring back at her from the two four-by-six prints were Harper and Lucas. She froze everything trying not to react.
Moran pursed her lips and shook her head.
‘Am I supposed to know them?’
‘You were with them the other night.’
‘I was? Where the hell was that?’
‘You were with them in Fremont Street, at the back of the Mint.’
Moran’s head felt like it was about to explode.
Where in hell’s name was this going? she thought looking at the photos.
‘I’ve never seen these guys before, who are they?’
>
‘I need to ask the questions. How do you know them?’
‘We’ve done that one already. The straight answer is, I don’t. What is this about?’
‘You were seen at the back of the Mint, where you met with these two men.’
Sparks of realisation started popping in her head. The guard. The guard must have seen her chatting to Lucas and Harper. But what would that have to do with Mills?
‘I was at the back of the Mint the other night, although what the hell that has to do with the police is beyond me. I had dropped my purse and a security guy helped me look for it.’
‘That’s right, and when you left the parking lot you were with these two men.’
‘Look, I am getting bored of saying this. I was not with them.’
‘The guard says you were.’
Moran had a burst of clarity which stunned her into silence. This was not a police matter – if it was she would be answering questions at the station. This had to be about something else.
The explanation chilled Moran to the bone.
The security guard had to be on Bonelli’s payroll and recognised Lucas and Harper from the manhunt a year ago. He reported it up the chain of command and Bonelli had squeezed his network to get information and find them. Mills must be part of that network. The back of the Mint was plastered with surveillance cameras, her face must have been circulated, Mills knew exactly where to start.
The realisation hit her full on. Mills was not only a useless cop, he was bent as well.
Moran found her acting skills.
‘Wait a moment. After I looked for my purse, two men asked me for directions. I don’t know who was more drunk, me or them.’
‘You were drunk?’
‘Yeah, I was drunk. Here’s a newsflash for you, Mills, it’s been a fucking stressful time.’
Mills flinched at the rebuke.
‘And these were the men you spoke to?’
‘They might have been. I spoke to a ton of people that night.’
Mills reached out and took the photographs from her hand.
‘I still don’t understand. What does this have to do with me?’ Moran asked.
‘We want to speak to them. Did they say where they were going?’
‘Look, Mills, I can hardly recall talking to them.’
Mills stood up. The conversation was over. He headed for the front door.
‘If you run into them again, give me a call.’
‘Are they dangerous?’
‘We need to ask them a few questions.’
Moran opened the door and showed him out. She leaned on the doorframe and watched him go. She had to find Harper fast.
40
Harper sauntered past the Mint and ducked inside the first strip joint he came to. The man on the door was the size of a family wardrobe. He nodded as Harper made his way inside. The wall of music hit him as he pushed against the inner door.
The ceiling was packed with glitter balls, while spinning spotlights cascaded a starburst of red, purple and blue around the room. Speakers hung in the corners, thumping out the beat like giant metronomes. The bar was to the left and a black raised runway ran down the centre. Above the runway a carpet of lights spilled a patchwork of colour onto the stage. A row of chairs ran down either side, occupied by glassy eyed men with their tongues hanging out.
Women strutted up and down the runway in their underwear, making eye contact with the men and gyrating in front of them. When a punter stuck a bill into her panties the woman was his for the next three minutes. Around the walls were signs saying No Touching.
Harper went to the bar, ordered a beer and took in the sights around him. There were booth seats against the far wall occupied by groups of men. Women wearing next to nothing flitted around to ensure the guys were having a good time and had a drink in their hand.
The beers flowed and Harper found himself drawn to the runway. One woman kept crooking her finger to beckon him over. The first few times, he waved his hand and looked away. She was absolutely gorgeous and Harper was finding it difficult to say no.
She rotated her hips and stuck out her ass. Harper caved in.
He picked up his drink, moseyed over to where she was dancing and plonked himself on a chair. She dropped down in front of him, licked her finger and drew it up the centre of her body. He reached in his pocket for money. He found a five dollar bill. She turned and bent over, Harper slipped the note into her panties. She started grinding away.
But Harper wasn’t looking at her. His attention was drawn to the wardrobe-sized man ushering two men into the club. They were dressed in double-breasted suits and stuck out from the rest of the punters like a sore thumb. They scanned the room paying no attention to the women. They were looking for someone.
Harper ducked down so his chin was almost level with the top of the runway. The dancer took this as a sign for her to get down and dirty. She sank to the floor and spread her legs wide. She was totally bemused when Harper slid from his chair and used a passing waitress to shield him from view as he scurried to the back. He could feel the gun tucked into the back of his belt. It gave him a small swell of comfort, but a fire fight in a crowded bar was not a good idea.
The men in suits split up and paced either side of the runway.
Harper reached the back of the club and found the restrooms. He dashed into the ladies’ room and banged open each of the stalls. The one at the end had a window set into the outside wall.
He went inside, locked the door and climbed onto the seat. The latch on the window was welded shut with paint, and try as he might he couldn’t free it. Harper removed his jacket and wrapped it around his gun. He smashed it into the glass. The window shattered.
Moran flung the car against the kerb and jumped out. She was met by a wall of tourists clogging up the sidewalk. One question hammered away at her. Where would Harper go?
The answer was straightforward and she headed up Fremont Street to the nearest strip club. The wardrobe-sized doorman gave her a quizzical look as she arrived at the entrance. She darted back to the kerb and looked around. Shit, there were so many clubs. Which one? Moran thought hard. The answer was obvious: the first one he came to.
She was about to go in when she heard the faint sound of glass shattering. The doorman heard nothing over the noise in the club.
Moran darted to her right and ran down First Street.
The men in suits were working their way through the room, checking everyone out. They moved in unison to the back of the club and came to the restrooms. They burst open the door to the men’s room.
Harper could hear the thumping noise of doors slamming next door. He covered the window ledge with his jacket and squeezed through the gap. Shards of glass buried in the window frame tore at his shirt and bloodied his skin. He rolled out onto the single-storey sloping roof.
Harper slid down the tiles and tumbled off the edge. He hit the concrete hard and his gun spun from his hand. Above him he could hear the sound of raised voices.
Moran ran across the back of the strip joints looking for a way in. She could see the window with the glass missing – two men in suits were forcing themselves through the gap.
Harper was dazed from his fall. Pain shot up his legs as he sat on the ground.
Where the hell is my gun?
He scrambled to his feet. He could hear the men sliding down the roof. He spun left and hobbled down a narrow alley at the side of the building. His path was blocked by a brick wall. He was trapped.
Harper looked around, the walls on either side were too high to scale. He hid behind a bin which was spilling over with empty bottles. The sound of metal-heeled shoes striking concrete filled the yard.
Moran tried a door in the back wall but it was locked. She tried another, that was locked. The third one opened. She cracked it ajar to see the men in suits. They had their backs to her and were poking around, their guns on show.
Moran drew her weapon.
Harper could hear the men ta
lking in low tones as they searched the yard.
‘Hey, look,’ one of them said picking Harper’s handgun off the floor.
Harper pushed himself tight against the wall. He could hear their footsteps getting closer. They rounded the corner and headed down the alley.
Moran slipped through the door and crabbed her way across the yard. The men were in front of her, edging closer to Harper.
They spotted him.
‘On your feet,’ one of them said, levelling his gun at Harper’s head. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’
Harper shuffled to his feet.
The other man pulled a dog-eared photograph from his pocket.
‘It’s him,’ he said.
‘Okay, old-timer, we are going to take a walk, nice and gentle. If you feel like being a hero, we can carry you out of here if you prefer.’
Moran crept around the corner.
Harper saw her but kept his eyes glued to the man in front.
Moran stepped closer and held up three fingers on her left hand.
She counted them down.
‘Come on, old man, move it.’
Three, two, one.
Harper darted to his left and the men sprang forward.
Moran slammed the Berretta into the back of the first guy’s skull. His legs buckled and he slumped down.
The second man hesitated. He had to stop Harper from running but there was something happening behind him. The split second of indecision was all she needed.
Moran pivoted on her left leg and smashed the instep of her right foot into his face. His nose burst into a bloody pulp and his cheekbone shattered. He keeled over sideways and smacked into the wall, sliding to the floor in a heap.
The first man was groaning. He had heaved himself onto all fours with blood running down his neck onto his shirt. Moran stepped back and lashed out with her boot. It caught the guy behind the ear. He hit the ground with a splat.
