Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  Quinn listened attentively to Amiti, aka Bailey, as he provided more details. Folding his hands on the desktop, he leaned forward. “So, this guy behind the blind offer I’m considering is Marcos Murtagh,” Quinn said. “You say he’s disreputable, while Don Fuentes is someone I’d be pleased to do business with. The don is willing to match Murtagh’s offer, and you say he intends to run the business as I have all these years.” Quinn paused. He leaned back in his chair, relaxed. “Murtagh, however, wants the company to launder dirty dough. Oh, and Murtagh can’t be trusted to complete the sale because he’s about to be killed. Is that the gist of it? Did I get it all?”

  “Yes, Mr. Quinn. That’s correct. May I tell Don Fuentes you’d welcome a written offer?”

  “Let me tell you something, Bailey. My lawyer was in the process of due diligence on this Murtagh offer, and then she disappeared for unknown reasons. Her boss is a pal of mine, Carson Starr. He was about to put another of his people in to finish everything up, but I told him not to. Starr sold me on Lacey, said she was the best, even if she’s kinda pricey. Now, I believed my pal, so I don’t want another lawyer to handle this for me. Not yet anyway. I’d rather have her carry on to the close.

  “Lacey seemed troubled by the shell-company aspects. Murtagh’s offer gives us several days to check out the details before I accept it. Time runs out at the end of the month. If this Don Fuentes can get me his proposal before that, I’ll be happy to consider it. That is, if I can get my lawyer back by then. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, I understand your requirements,” Amiti said. “Let me ask, are you under any time pressures to sell your assets? Please, what I want to confirm is that there’s no external reason to rush.”

  “I don’t know where you’re going with that, Bailey, but understand something about Quinn Industries: I can do whatever I want whenever I want.”

  Quinn stood up and walked a few steps away from where Amiti was seated.

  “I didn’t intend the question as a negotiating ploy, Mr. Quinn. It’s merely an honest effort to provide accurate details to Don Fuentes. If you’re at liberty to take your time, he’ll be more than happy to wait for your lawyer’s return. I believe I have the all the necessary information. On a slightly different subject, you attended the funeral services of Bobby Wainwright. May I ask, were you there in respect of his sister-in-law, Lacey Kinkaid Wainwright?”

  “No, I didn’t know she was Bobby’s relative. She uses her maiden name at the practice. I’ve never met the lady. Our business has been on the phone and via mail and fax. But I did business with Bobby for a long time. My cabinets are in most of his building projects. We even did commercial fixtures for him when he built schools.” Quinn took a seat in a chair closer to where Amiti sat. “I was a sub for Bobby for years,” he said. “He and I were good friends. How did you know I was in Ojai for the funeral?”

  Amiti smiled. “Mr. Quinn, Don Fuentes has considerable resources, financial as well as operational. That includes extensive information. The short answer is that he told me you attended the funeral. You were also present at the reception at Emma Shirey’s mansion in Montecito. Don Fuentes is most resourceful.”

  “I’ll be damned—if that don’t beat all! Long before I did business with Bobby’s outfit, I was good pals with his Aunt Emma, for decades. She was the one who introduced me to Bobby in the first place. My father told me he dated Emma long before I came along. I’ll bet you Don Fuentes doesn’t know that.”

  AMITI DROVE BACK TO the Budget Host Motel in Van Nuys. The Bentley convertible Don Fuentes had provided for his use was a bonus, although it stuck out in the parking lot among the Chevrolets, Fords, and Hondas. Amiti considered the meeting a success. He was eager to report to the don that Quinn would consider his proposal to buy Quinn Industries. Amiti considered the Quinn contact to be more of a favor to a friend. His primary assignment from Don Fuentes was to kill Murtagh and treat any leaders of the Murtagh mob with the same courtesy. Amiti didn’t know that Murtagh was in Monterrey instead of LA at the time he met with Quinn. He would receive this information later, when he spoke with the don. Although the don had turned legit some years earlier, old methods often proved to be more efficient.

  Killing Murtagh was a practical solution to a few problems. Primarily, it eliminated Murtagh’s offer to Quinn, opening the door for the don’s proposal. But it also added a complication; Amiti had to find the missing Lacey Kinkaid, wherever she might be, before Quinn would close the deal with Fuentes. Maybe he could find a way to do both at the same time—multitasking. But getting rid of Marcos Murtagh was still job one.

  In the motel room, he explained the essence of his meeting with Quinn to BJ. “He was adamant his interest should be handled by Lacy Kinkaid Wainwright. Between my resources and Don Fuentes’s, we should be able to locate one tiny woman and do it quickly.”

  “Why not call the don in Monterrey and ask him to make your plan a high priority? After all, it’s his deal with Quinn that depends on putting it in motion.”

  THEY SAID HE WAS AT the UCLA Medical Center—but that was a lie. Wainwright knew this was someplace else. He couldn’t recall the name, but he knew he wasn’t at UCLA. Still, why would they lie? He heard a doctor mention the word amnesia. Did he have amnesia? He couldn’t remember. But somehow he knew they had lied to him about this place.

  They called me Mr. Wainwright. That’s a lie too, just like when they said this is UCLA. I didn’t go to that school. I went to...Where did I go to college? I don’t remember, and my name...I should know my name. How do you forget your name, for Christ’s sake? This was yet another item on his list of persistent worries.

  “Mr. Wainwright, do you feel like a visitor today?” a young woman asked him.

  Now that’s a stupid question, you dumb candy striper. Do I look like I’m a visitor? Of course I don’t.

  “Mr. Shaw is in the waiting room. He’d like to know you if you’re up to it. May I show him to your room?”

  “Shaw? Who’s Shaw?” What a pleasure to be able to talk. So glad they removed the ventilator and took the wires off my jaw. But it still hurts to move it. Well, at least I’m a full-fledged member of a communicating society again.

  “I can’t say, sir. He just asked to see you. Dr. Fitzgerald has approved visitors for you, so if you—”

  Wainwright didn’t answer. The expression on his face was all the communication he needed to send. He motioned for her to bring in Shaw, whoever that was. He again managed to massage one of his wrists, which had been made sore by restraints. Using his cast arm made this exercise more difficult than it should have been. Thank God they took off those damned restraints. And I’ve lost a few tubes too. They must trust I’m not going to yank out the one in my arm hooked up to that...whatchamacallit.

  Wainwright didn’t recognize Tommy Shaw as he walked into the room, but then again, he didn’t expect to. He watched the man as he approached him. He was of average height, with just a hint of a weight lifter’s body hidden beneath his blue gabardine suit and button-down oxford. He wore his blond hair short and neatly trimmed. His broad shoulders seem to make his head look small in comparison.

  “Hey, pal, mind if I sit and chat with you?”

  The man’s clean-shaven face practically beamed as he extended his hand. He quickly withdrew it as he realized Wainwright couldn’t shake hands with his plaster-imprisoned appendage.

  “Not at all, but I have to tell you, I don’t recognize your name or face. Have we met?”

  “I’m Tommy. We’ve been best friends and business colleagues for many years. I understand you have a temporary form of amnesia. The doctors say it’s too soon to give any firm prognosis.”

  Wainwright frowned at this description of his condition. Why am I the last one to be told these things? “You said ‘business colleagues.’ In what way are we colleagues?”

  “Uh...the doctors want you to remember on your own, not have memories force-fed to you. So I guess, to follow doctors’ orders, I’d better leav
e that one alone.”

  Wainwright’s frown deepened. “Okay, then can you tell me what happened?” he asked. “That’s not a memory. It’s an explanation of why I’m in here, and by the way, what’s the name of this place?”

  “UCLA Medical. It’s in Westwood. Do you remember where Westwood is? You’ve been at this hospital for a while.”

  Another damn liar. What’s going on with these people? “UCLA, sure. But why am I here? What happened?”

  “The police haven’t figured out all the details yet,” Tommy said, “but a sheriff’s deputy found you pinned against the steering wheel of your car and pretty beat up at the bottom of a cliff. He smelled gasoline, so they got you out of the wreck fast.”

  “Which cliff? Where did this happen?”

  “You were driving back from Ojai. You and...I’ll have to skip some of this. Sorry. Anyway, the car wreck was on Topanga Canyon Boulevard, about halfway down the south side. You were in bad shape. Dr. Fitzgerald was in the ER when the ambulance brought you in.”

  Tommy was uncomfortable, not knowing if he was doing his old friend harm by talking about these things. He stood by the bed, leaned in against the railing, and continued.

  “He did most of the repair work and has stayed with you as your attending physician ever since. You lucked out with Dr. Fitz, pal. And with all the injuries you suffered, if it weren’t for the sheriff’s deputy, you would have bled out before the ambulance came—no question about it. Cuts and lacerations were the least of your injuries. You needed immediate medical attention for your head injury, exposed muscles, and broken bones. Buddy, you were a mess.”

  “I know about the broken arm, of course. What are the other things that don’t work, besides my memory?”

  “You have quite a list of injuries,” Tommy said, certain this was safe territory. “Are you sure you want to know all this?” Wainwright nodded. “Well, you don’t need to be told you broke your mandible. The fracture was stable; the doctor wired your upper and lower teeth together. Dr. Fitz is a talented surgeon, but he’s no tooth carpenter. The oral surgeon did that bit of work. Your forearm is broken too—the radius and the ulna. Two of your fingers are in a cast, and your scalp wounds were stapled. Your neck, arms, and legs received a combination of staples and sutures. I think that’s it, Garth.”

  “Did you say ‘Garth’? My name is Garth?”

  “Yeah, it is. I guess that falls in the ‘I screwed up big time,’ category, huh? Like I said, they want your memories to be your own. Anyway, tonight Dr. Fitz told me the swelling and bruising are way down, and you’re well on your way to a good mend.”

  “Have you been here to see me before?”

  “Oh, sure. Shirley and I have driven up from Laguna Beach several times, but tonight was the first time they let me in to visit. Shirl couldn’t make the trip. I came solo.”

  “Where’s Laguna Beach?”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. Since I know you know—or did know and will again—that’s one of those off-the-record things. But I will tell you that my office used to be our office in Bellevue, Washington. My wife, Shirley, and I have a home in Laguna and an apartment in Bellevue. When I’m working up there, I stay at the apartment. Shirley camps out with me there sometimes too.

  “Listen, old buddy, they limit visits to fifteen minutes, and I’ve been here twice that. I can’t make it back for a while. I’ll be in Bellevue, but I’ll stop in when I can. Okay?”

  “I appreciate your visiting with me. I enjoyed it and look forward to the next time. Maybe by then I’ll get my memory back.”

  With his left arm, Wainwright reached out to shake hands with this dear old friend, about whom he had no memory at all.

  Tommy took his buddy’s fingers in a modified handshake and said good-bye to the best friend he’d ever had.

  Staff and doctors had called him “Mr. Wainwright”; they knew that from his ID. But he’d never heard his first name mentioned before. That was a nice visit, he thought. He hoped it would eventually help him recall some of the things banging around in his head. He also hoped Tommy would come back soon.

  Since the doctors wanted Wainwright’s memories to be his own, Tommy never mentioned Lacey, his wedding, or Bobby’s funeral. So much personal information continued to be withheld from the patient in 476 West.

  DR. MARK FITZGERALD reminded Wainwright, “We’re pretty sure your memories will slowly come back. When you can tolerate some exercise, it’ll help with the healing and with getting your strength back. I recommended nonjarring workouts when you leave the hospital.”

  Wainwright now knew this really was UCLA Medical Center. He was told that a bit of paranoia is a part of early amnesia. That aspect of his injuries was going away, thank God.

  They had removed the cast from his two fingers last week and told him to return on May twenty-fourth to have the cast on his arm removed. Wainwright doubted he’d be able to wait that long.

  On his last full day at UCLA, a nurse came into his room to change the bedding.

  “Hi there, Mr. Wainwright. I understand you’re out of here tomorrow. Won’t you be glad to go home?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m happy to be leaving, except I have no idea where home is.”

  []

  SIX

  WHEN LACEY AWOKE, she was strapped in a seat and blindfolded. Her hands were tied, and she heard the roar of jet engines. She smelled something like kerosene. A jet plane, she thought. Her mouth was so dry. “Water,” she croaked to anyone who might hear her.

  Someone heard her and held a paper cup to her lips. She drank as if there would never be—

  “More, please.”

  “Give the bitch a shot.”

  The voice—she knew that voice. From where? Maybe—oh. A sharp pain in her deltoid muscle. That hurt. Oh, no. Not ag...They doped her once more.

  The voice—I remember hearing that voice as I woke up, but what did he say? Husband, something about a husband. Mine? My husband—dead? —no, he can’t be. The wreck...we crashed. My, God, Garth is dead. Oh, no, more sleep, please. Where the hell am I?

  Murtagh sat back in his plush personal leather lounge chair on his plush personal jet. “Hey, can’t you see my glass is empty? Get me another Jack.” He was in a foul mood, but he was always in one. The frightened flight attendant hurried back with a fresh glass of ice in one hand and a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other. “I’m sorry, Mr. Murtagh. I was taking care of your guest. I didn’t notice you’d finished your cocktail. It won’t happen again, sir.”

  “It better not. If I was you, I’d make damn sure the guy who signs my paycheck gets taken care of real good. And don’t be thinking that broad back there is some special guest. You just never mind about her. Do your job, damn it.”

  He looked back to where Lacey was strapped in a seat. Slowly, his ugly face took on something uglier. Facial muscles contorted into a combination of a sneer and a growl. His little yellow teeth were almost exposed. Before I’m finished, he thought, this bitch is gonna get a good taste of what she put me through. Then I’ll take what I want from her. Little Miss ADA will be ready to do what I tell her when I’m done with her.

  The next time Lacey woke, she had the mother of all headaches. Each time she tried to lift her head, her eyeballs felt like they might pop out and bounce on the floor. Better to stay flat and let the drug wear off. God, I hope it will wear off and this isn’t some kind of permanent condition. She kept her head flat, which was easy enough as there was no pillow, and fell asleep again.

  When Lacey woke up, her head felt better, but she was thirsty and hungry. Although she had long ago lost track of the passage of time, she sensed she was well into two weeks or more. Her abductor, whoever he was, could have killed her long ago, so she knew this wasn’t a simple murder. She couldn’t imagine she’d be the target of an assassination anyway. What could explain her being held hostage? A ransom?

  Wrong gal, guys. I’m sure you’re well-meaning and all, but really, let’s get me back home and...oh,
God, Garth is dead. Someone was talking about that when I woke up on the plane. He didn’t survive the car crash. It’s a wonder I did. That crazy guy, pushing our little car off the edge of the road, and over—oh, my sweet husband is gone. The last thing I remember was hitting my head on something as we went off the road. Why am I alive and Garth is gone? Why? What do I have to live for now? Let them do whatever they want. I’ve gone through much worse. Nothing matters anymore.

  AT THE HOSPITAL, WAINWRIGHT said good-bye to the staff who had cared for him. Nurse Crandall handed him a paper sack. “These are your personal things. Your wallet and key ring are in there. Your aunt had the clothing you wore when you were admitted cleaned and repaired. By the way, this is a really great-looking leather topcoat.”

  Wainwright didn’t understand why he’d been wearing these things. Was it possible that he was driving home from a costume party? He supposed it was just one of the many things Dr. Fitz insisted that he needed to remember on his own.

  “They cut off your shirt in the ER,” the nurse said, “so UCLA Medical Center is providing you with a Bruin sweatshirt. We had to cut off the right sleeve, though, to accommodate your cast.” He would later learn that they had added the cost for the gift-shop sweatshirt to his hospital bill.

  “Now, Mr. Wainwright,” Nurse Crandall continued, “we understand you’re eager to leave, but isn’t there someone who can take you home—you know, look after you a bit until you recover your memories?”

  “There isn’t anyone. None that I remember anyway. I want to start finding my life, and I can’t do that lying in bed here. Thanks for your concern, Nurse, but I’m ambulatory and perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  Wainwright traded the hospital gown for his clothes, put on his cowboy hat, and threaded his healthy arm into the duster; the other one was tucked inside the coat. This costume, for that’s what he thought of it, bothered his sense of style. Wainwright could have sworn these clothes belonged to someone else, except everything fit perfectly.