Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  The messenger, still at attention, said, “Jefe, what of the Americanos?”

  Murtagh stopped but didn’t turn to his subordinate. He snapped a lighter to life and held the flame under the cigar. He rotated the hand-rolled weed and puffed. Three, just three brief puffs. As was his habit, he took the stogie from his mouth and blew, turning the white ash red with his breath. Speaking around the cigar, he muttered, “Kill ’em. Kill ’em both.”

  AFTER THEIR SUCCESSFUL lunch at the Polo Lounge, the newly minted Beverly Hills best buddies had agreed to check out another dinner place together. Quinn thought Bailey’s wife would enjoy the ambience of the Bistro Gardens. He asked the owner, Christopher Niklas to seat them at a table next to the French doors separating the patio from the dining room. This was a prime people-peeping place. Quinn was a regular at this Canon Drive eatery and warranted the courtesy.

  When Quinn met Beatrice Bailey at lunch, he was very much impressed with her beauty and wit. Clearly, this was a fun-loving, exciting woman. Not to mention she was blessed with an hourglass figure, a most complimentary asset to her exquisite face. Quinn needed to discuss a few things about Fuentes’s offer, but these items could easily have been addressed on the phone. His invitation to dine was a ploy to spend more time in the company of beautiful Beatrice.

  After they were seated, Amiti asked his host, “Have you completed your review of the don’s offer?”

  “Well, yeah, I read it a couple of times. Bailey, like I said before, this deal won’t get done without Lacey Kinkaid. Speaking of her, have you heard any news about her being found?”

  Amiti smiled broadly. “It’s funny you should bring that up. I was just informed by Don Fuentes that Lacey was seen and positively identified. Little of this sighting is known, other than she was being escorted by a few men at an airport in Mexico. I was also told her husband has plans to mount a rescue. That isn’t much news, but it’s pertinent to your question, Sean.”

  “When is this rescue going to take place?” Quinn asked.

  “Those details weren’t provided. Sorry.”

  Quinn focused his attention back to BJ, aka Beatrice, and her low-cut knit top. “Are you enjoying your stay in LA, Eugenia?”

  “Oh, yes, but please, you must call me Bea, my middle name is Beatrice. I prefer that. Sean, your beautiful city is a special place.”

  Sean nodded. “It is, from your point of view, I guess. But I’ve lived here my whole life and seen it change a lot over the decades. It used to be just home, but now I feel like I’m living in Disneyland. There are more tourists here than the Grand Canyon.”

  Quinn reluctantly turned his attention to Amiti. “I’m committed to getting this deal done, but there’s no hurry till my lawyer gets back to base. My buddy Starr has been insisting on a new guy, but I’m holding him off a bit more. Please ask Don Fuentes if waiting a little longer is okay with him. I really want Lacey on this closing.”

  Amiti understood. “If I receive any further information about Ms. Kinkaid, I will, of course, pass it on to you, Sean.”

  But Amiti did have information he kept from Quinn. The don’s network of informants had alerted him that Murtagh was in residence at his Monterrey ranch, and for some reason, he was holding a woman named Kinkaid. The don had passed this on to Amiti, where it went no further.

  Amiti considered this an opportunity, if you’ll pardon the expression, to “kill two birds with one stone.” He could take out Murtagh and as many of his mob that were with him and bring Lacey back to finish the deal between Quinn and Don Fuentes. Not a bad afternoon’s work. Amiti was off to Mexico.

  WAINWRIGHT AND WILSON entered the town of Monterrey four hours after crossing the Rio Grande at Laredo. The stop by the army patrol had delayed their arrival in Monterrey until dusk.

  Monterrey was Mexico’s biggest industrial city. A small hill in the middle divided the town; on one side lay Independencia, a district so run-down that donkeys still carried heavy goods to the top of the hill. On the other was San Pedro Garza Garcia, one of Latin America’s most affluent neighborhoods and home to its largest companies. That was where Wainwright and Wilson found the sprawling Murtagh ranch. Wilson wanted to wait until nightfall to reconnoiter the layout of the property.

  “Yep. Makes good sense. How about we grab something to eat while we wait for dark?”

  After a meal of tamales and carne asade tacos from a small roadside restaurant, they walked around the irregularly shaped plot. The entire property was fenced. Eight-foot-tall chain link surrounded three sides, while the front was enclosed by an eight-foot-high stone wall with broken bottles and glass shards on top to deter trespassers from climbing the wall.

  Wainwright, the ex-landman said, “This piece of dirt looks to be at least sixty acres. See that creek that crosses behind the hacienda? Wanna bet we can avoid climbing the fence and find an easier entry there?”

  A dirt road at the rear of the property passed beyond the creek to a wooded area. Wainwright and Wilson found a secluded spot and parked the jeep out of the glare of the bright moonlight.

  Well inside the property, Wainwright whispered to Wilson, “Three large men are patrolling the hacienda’s perimeter.”

  “What? You didn’t get your invitation to the party? It sure looks like they’ve been expecting us.”

  All the buildings were situated on a gentle hill, with several outbuildings scattered to the sides and rear of the main house. None displayed any activity within, except one. The casita behind and to the right of the hacienda caught Wainwright’s attention. A fourth guard sat on a wooden chair next to the door of this little building, which might have been a guesthouse. Wainwright’s instincts had been fine-tuned in the jungles of Vietnam. They now told him this was where he would find Lacey. And he had that itch again.

  They had a logistical problem. The guard at the door had to be taken out silently. A shot would alert the roving patrol. Wainwright and Wilson were between three roving men and the chair thug. An MIT engineer would have trouble with the geometry, but they had to solve this problem—and quick.

  Lacey had been missing for two months and probably would need medical aid and nourishment—if she was alive, that is. With the guard there, Wainwright was jolted with hope. Why guard an empty room?

  Wilson interrupted his pondering. “I’ll scout the right flank and rear for access while you approach from the left front.”

  They could avoid the three-man patrol by timing their movements so that they went toward the building between passes.

  Wainwright nodded his agreement. “I can’t think of a better plan...or for that matter, any plan.”

  Wilson waited until the patrol passed then did a fast duck walk run to the far right, where he took cover in a thicket of mesquite. Wainwright gave the patrol a few beats then moved to his left, running around some dense underbrush set among large granite rocks. Concealed behind the stones, he watched the door as he inched closer.

  Now he and the guard in the chair were twenty yards apart. Twenty yards! When he ran track for the Naval Academy, his best time in the twenty was 2.7 seconds. Now he was twenty pounds and twenty-five years past that. Not to mention having recently had major bones broken, sutures sewn, and staples applied to his body. Sure, he was fit, kinda, but far from the athlete he’d once been.

  It was just him and his adversary and the doorway of the single-story casita. He hoped, with all his heart, it held his wife—alive. The last fifteen yards were wide open, with nothing for concealment. Wainwright’s front would be exposed to the thug, his back to the patrolling guards.

  He hadn’t gotten any kind of signal from Wilson. Did he find a way into the casita? Is he inside the building or, God forbid, dead? If Wilson found an entry point, could he distract the guard for a frontal assault on my part? No, he couldn’t. He would have no way to know when I started my rush. If he didn’t find a way in, where the hell is he? Maybe he’s around the back, approaching the front on my side.

  He guessed the front of
the casita was about twenty-five feet wide. The guard remained still. Maybe he’s napping? Wainwright looked to his far left, past the casita and toward the hacienda. No patrol in sight. Good! He’d give Wilson a few minutes to show himself or a sign of his plan, if he had a plan.

  He looked back to the guard leaning against the wall. He seemed bored and relaxed. He gave no sign he was aware of visitors in the form of Wainwright or Wilson. Slumped in his chair, which was tilted against the wall, the big man dangled his feet just off the porch deck. His left arm hung at his side while his right hand lay peacefully in his lap. Wainwright hoped he was asleep; it would tip the operation’s balance in his favor.

  But that was still an if—a colossal if. So, where’s my DA buddy? Wainwright had waited long enough; he’d have to make his move without Wilson. One more look at the guard. Oh, please be sleeping! Okay, this is it.

  He sucked in a deep breath, held it in his lungs, then exhaled slowly. He moved into a sprinter’s crouch, as if settling into starting blocks, then took one last look at the thug in the doorway.

  Two long strides to my left around the rocks, a forty-five-degree cut to the right. Then straight ahead as fast as I can go.

  He prayed that all the forces of good against evil were with him tonight. There was only a slim chance that he could reach the guard before being shot in the face by this thug or in the back by the patrol. All right, let’s do this.

  Wainwright quickly covered half the distance. He kept his eyes on the thug. The guard hadn’t moved. But then he did. Wainwright saw him raise his right arm from his lap. The hand held a pistol, and it was pointed at Wainwright’s face. The thug was so confident of his superior position that his chair remained tilted back, his smile exposing one gold-capped incisor. Wainwright was out of options. He ran flat out to embrace certain death.

  []

  TEN

  LACEY BEGAN TO WAKE. Actually, she wasn’t sure whether she was waking up or experiencing the memory of the dead. Her eyes were closed against the light. This time she wasn’t gagged, but she was still blindfolded.

  This time! My God, how long have I been held hostage? It must be months. Easy, girl. The air—it smells like salt air, good air, and clean. Suck it in.

  Her hands tingled. They’d lost circulation while tied behind her back. The feeling was like when you hit your funny bone. Her feet were taped together as well. Suddenly she realized she was lying on a mattress. It was soft but reeked of cigarettes and body odor.

  Lacey heard a door opening and more than one pair of feet entering the space. She sensed two men—well, at least two male smells—one with enough cologne to supply Macy testor’s for years. That one must be standing away from me. The closer smell is sweat, vomit, and cigarettes. B.O. Man is leaning close to me, blocking out Macy Man’s scent.

  “Want me to strip ’er for ya, boss?”

  There was no answer, no verbal answer that Lacey heard. Then a sound, farther back in the space, Macy Man she guessed. Not a growl exactly, but close to that. Maybe more of a harrumph. Foot shuffles, only three or four, both people moving at the same time in a small space.

  Lacey was still in a fetal position on her right side, her legs drawn up, her knees to her chest. Suddenly a hand grabbed her bound feet and spun them, her shoulder the pivot point. Her feet were now against the wall, her head hanging over the edge of the mattress. A large hand encircled most of her scalp, gently, respectfully. The hand stroked her hair softly, then more aggressively; now it hurt. The hand was too large to be a woman’s, and the scent of Macy Man was masculine. Macy Man was crushing her head. He stopped abruptly, his hand still in her hair. Now he clutched a handful of hair. Slowly he tightened his fist, tighter, tighter....

  “Aaargh!” Lacey cried out, but the grip didn’t change. His cologne was augmented with an overpowering stench of bad breath. The person pulling her hair was now leaning into her face, as if he were about to kiss her. His putrid breath almost obliterated his words. “You have something I want. And I will have it...or you will die.” He had a distinctive voice, baritone, with a lisp covered by a Boston brogue. Her hair was being pulled from her head by the roots. Lacey screamed as loud and has hard as she could. Macy Man laughed, pulled harder, then released.

  More shuffling sounds, and then the door opened and slammed shut. Lacey hadn’t been aware that she was holding her breath—a reaction to the pain and a defense to his breath. She exhaled; just as quickly, she cried and cried and cried herself to sleep.

  When she awoke, she had no way of knowing how much time had passed. The hair pulling had loosened her blindfold enough that she could rub her head on the mattress and pull it off. Don’t open your eyes too fast. Eager to learn her location and find a way to escape, she dared to open her eyes: it was a small, poorly lit space. She was on a lower bunk, with a mattress above her head and another to her left, set at a sharp angle.

  Now she sensed motion but not like when she was in the car on the road. This movement was up and down and side to side. She heard...A boat. I’m on a boat! Spotting a porthole above the top bunk, she realized she could look outside if she could get her knees under her. Her stomach churned from the motion, and she felt dizzy and nauseous. Beads of cold sweat formed on her forehead, but her bindings prevented any movement. She lay back, knowing she’d be sick.

  Just then, the cabin door opened, and a stranger carrying a tray of food entered the compartment.

  “Hey, chickadee, you hungry?” Not Macy Man and not B.O. Man. He set the tray on the small desk next to the door.

  Oh, my God...food...the last thing I could tolerate right now. She didn’t answer as she remained lying on her side.

  The guy was small of build and wiry, maybe in his midthirties. His T-shirt was stained with perspiration and other unknown substances. With at least a three-day growth on his cheeks and body odor that nearly matched B.O Man, his personal hygiene was in serious question.

  “What’s the matter with you? Lookin’ a little green in the gills, girly.”

  The man moved closer and reached into a jeans pocket. He withdrew something with his right hand and flicked it open. The blade gleamed in the light from the porthole.

  This is it! He’s here to kill me. Lacey rolled onto her back, her thighs to her chest, prepared to use her feet for defense.

  “Hey, stop that. I ain’t gonna hurt you. I’m just gonna cut the ties so you can eat. Roll over and show me your hands.”

  Lacey had no other choice. Seasick and bound hand and foot, she did as the man commanded. He cut her bonds. With great relief, she brought her hands in front of her, the blood rushing through her arms. She rubbed her wrists to help speed up the circulation.

  “You sure a pretty one. The boss gonna have some fun with you. Wouldn’t mind doin’ ya my ownself, but...” He moved off the edge of the mattress.

  Lacey said nothing, hoping he would leave the cabin. She guessed he was weighing the ramifications of abusing his employer’s prize. She saw him thinking hard as his eyes undressed her. She worried that lustful urges had overcome his fear of retribution. All the while, she was trying to bring blood back to her numb hands.

  The thug had unbuckled his belt and was lowering his zipper as he approached her.

  “You know what I want, girly, so let’s just do this with no big hassle.”

  Lacey rolled onto her back again to use her bound feet as weapons as she screamed. “Get away from me.”

  “Oh, come, on babe. I ain’t never had no complaints...heh-heh.”

  He pushed her knees down with his left hand. Her bound feet followed as he reached with his right hand for the back of Lacey’s neck. She clawed at his face with numb fingers that felt nothing.

  The door opened halfway. “Whitey, the boss is inbound. I doubt he’ll like what you’re up to with his property. If I were you—and I’m sure glad I’m not—I’d zip back up and get topside. Mr. Murtagh’s chopper is about to land.”

  Considering his comrade’s advice on pleasure versus
pain, Whitey got off Lacey. He straightened his clothes and turned to her. “You don’t know what you missed, bitch.” Turning to join his shipmate, he left Lacey unmolested.

  Murtagh! She now had the name of her abductor. The guy at the door said Murtagh was coming. That’s who has me—Murtagh. That was his voice I heard before. The sleazebag. Oh, she knew Marcos Murtagh, all right. As the ADA in Boston, she had put the crook in prison, where he belonged.

  Hey, wait a minute. Murtagh had a twenty-five-year sentence. That was in...what was it? Yes, 1971, my first big-time conviction. What’s he doing free in 1982? Escape? Good behavior? That’s a joke. That bozo couldn’t even spell good behavior. He must have been broken out. From Marion? Not likely, so GB? Will wonders never cease?

  She took a deep breath; glad the would-be-rapist had been dissuaded from his task. Now she wondered, what is it about me that invites men to abuse and degrade me? What sin am I being punished for?

  She stared at the stain-covered bottom bunk and let those questions percolate. She rubbed her hands and thought some more. You know the answer to that only too well!

  With her stomach roiling, the food tray was out of the question, although the answer to her question wasn’t. She thought back to what Delilah had done to aid and abet her escape from the horror of Uncle Timothy’s imprisonment. How long ago did that nightmare end?

  A senior in high school, Lacey had saved enough money from those Boston schoolboys to move to New Hampshire with the Travis family. A few months after she graduated, Uncle Timothy discovered where she was and took her back to Beacon Hill.

  All the way back to Boston in his car, he wanted to know how she had gotten the money she had. She recalled seething with hatred for the man. He was charged to protect her, but instead he had used her for his pleasures and the entertainment of his perverted pals.

  “Who gave you money, Lacey?” she remembered him saying.

  She had cried for reasons he’d never know, but he had insisted on an answer. Uncle Timothy had suspected one of his friends had violated his rules and given her cash.