“So why’d you do it?”
Her mouth set in a stubborn line. “Got good reasons. Maybe later, okay?”
“Why not now?”
“The moment you tell me you’re not a bouncer at that dump, I’ll start talking. Until then,” she mimed zipping her lips, “I’ve decided, not a word.”
Mrs. Guzman cut off the blower and went back into her apartment. A power boat worked its way slowly down the pass; tide must be coming in. A gull cried. Jan sighed contentedly.
Should he tell her why he was at Crave? No. They might be having prize-worthy sex, but he knew almost nothing about her. Other than she lied. Her hand stole across his ribs, fluttered across his belly, tickled the hair around his cock. Which immediately perked up. The marvels of a new sexual partner. Mentally, he zipped his lips. Two could play that game.
Besides, at the moment there was a better game to play.
***
The distinctive ring-tone woke him from a sated sleep. Sunlight slanted from high above. He rolled over, flung one arm out. Empty. Cool. When had she left? He slid off the demolished bed, searched, and in the living room found the phone in his jacket pocket. He returned Athena’s call. She was horribly perky for a Sunday morning.
“How’d your stage debut go, Tanner?”
“Laugh a minute.”
“Right. You looked pretty good.”
“You saw? How?”
“Social media. Heard of it? You and the whole mob are on YouTube.” He groaned and Athena went on. “That business with the last guy and Agostino was hilarious.” She chuckled. “Somebody could die over that, the look on Agostino’s face.”
“Tell me all my new colleagues haven’t seen this.”
“I could, but I’d be lying. Those g-strings, in the right light, vanish. Did you know that? You all looked like you were prancing around nekkit.”
There hadn’t been a bad body on that stage. Some of them, Agostino and one of the EMTs particularly, had been totally ripped. Tanner had, until recently, had no problem with nudity. Getting nekkit either alone or as a couple or in groups, had been fine by him. But not on YouTube in front of millions. And not with those fresh scars, garish symbols of his failure. Nude had been his preferred state. Until Sonora.
“I’m going to join a monastery,” he said. “There’s one way up in the Dakota Badlands where I can be unnoticed...”
“Not like you to whine, Tanner. Is the assignment going nowhere?”
“Pretty much. But Agostino drugged someone last night, an old friend of his. Number Twelve, maybe you saw him.”
“Oh yeah.” Momentarily, her voice got dreamy. “That business with him on that pole? Ooo-eee. And the wardrobe malfunction? I know that guy up close and personal. Me and a million others.”
“I’d bet he doesn’t remember any of it.” Could he go on YouTube and watch? Never. “I’m working on a theory. I’ll bring you some bottles to be analyzed. See you in a couple of hours.”
***
He called Jan Jones. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have voice mail. He considered, then texted her.
—Great evening. Dinner tonight?
No reply.
***
Tanner took the bottles to Omega, asked for possible fingerprint IDs. Both Gordon and Agostino had prints in the files Omega had access to. A lucky break that could confirm Tanner’s suspicions.
“Find that particular bottle,” he said, “and see what’s in the liquid left, if any. Test particularly for roofies.”
“On it,” the tech said, and returned to her lair at the back of the Omega offices.
That evening, dining alone at the beach bar, he got a text.
—One bottle trace flunitrazepam. Two sets prints, identified. Call for details.
Tanner called.
“Okay,” the tech said, “on most bottles is Richard Francis Agostino. The roofie is in the bottle with prints of an Arthur Justice Gordon. And a few other smudges.” Her voice lightened up. “Is this the Art of the amazing wardrobe malfunction?”
“Yeah.”
“Mmm. Introduce me?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monday, December 4
Tanner ran, from Sunset Beach north to John’s Pass and back, the better part of a half marathon. He didn’t wear a watch and he didn’t time himself. He stopped on Madeira Beach to admire a gang of grade-school cousins from Detroit who were building a two yard-square sand city.
At John’s Pass, he watched the drawbridge rise and party boats cut through the choppy water, heading out into the Gulf of Mexico for a bit of fishing and a lot of drinking.
The run cleared his head, allowed the back of his mind to sort out problems and information. Most of them.
He did take his phone. Jan didn’t call or text.
***
Tuesday: an endless evening. Another front was moving through and rain slapped down, filling the parking lot dips. Green hit his bottle often and holed up at the front door, gazing morosely out at the gusting night.
“We’re overstaffed,” Tanner said, at nine. The place smelled stale, almost echoed. “I’ll leave if you want. You can even dock my pay.”
“Anybody goes, it’s me,” Green said, pounding his chest in his typical attempt to relieve endless gastrointestinal distress. “Do the rounds, make sure everything’s okay.”
On his third pass, Tanner noticed the light in the back hallway was off. Burned out? No, the switch was down. He flicked it up. The light blazed and he saw Agostino, at the far end, a wide-eyed woman on her knees in front of him. He gripped her long hair in both fists as his hips moved in savage jerks.
Pure fury filled Tanner. “What the hell...?”
Agostino’s head turned. He smiled dreamily at Tanner, thrust a final few times. His body bowed and he shuddered, released the gagging woman. With a choked cry, she scrambled away and backed against the exit door. Pulling a handkerchief out with a flourish, Agostino wiped himself and tucked his penis into his pants.
“Your turn, you want,” he said in a pass-the-pepper tone, sauntering down the hall. He reached past Tanner for the light switch. “Maybe a bit of priv—”
The sound of the slap was like a gunshot. Agostino’s head jerked sideways, then ricocheted when Tanner’s vicious backhand caught him on the return. Tanner yanked the silk lapels, gave him a couple of vigorous shakes, then jammed his back against the wall. He’d pulled his arm back for another round when Agostino’s eyes rolled up and he passed out.
Sure had softened up since his pro days.
Green stepped through the curtain, Cobb bright-eyed at his back.
“Put your fuckin’ hands on the wall, Carl.”
Tanner pushed Agostino away, grabbed Green by his black tie and swung him in a tight arc at the same moment he jerked Cobb completely through the curtain. Adrenalin blasting through him, he slammed the two together, relishing the meaty crunches they made on contact.
Both men were tough, experienced brawlers. They’d bounce back fast: Cobb was already looking alert; his head must be solid rock. Tanner kneed Cobb and slammed Green face-first against the wall, bringing one hand up tight between his shoulder blades.
“Listen to me,” Tanner said, conscious that Agostino was coming around and Cobb’d be close behind. “This isn’t your fight. You and Cobb stand down for now. You want, we’ll address it later. Tonight, one on one, two on one, your call.” Green breathed like he had COPD. Tanner went on. “There’s maybe three dozen women out there and an assaulted woman in here. You want to imagine what those women out there would do if they saw this?” Agostino cursed weakly and Tanner turned Green to face him. “D’you really care about this puke?”
As the puke coughed and swore, Green pondered. On the other side of the curtain, the finale began, guests cheering and laughing, music pounding.
They had maybe eight minutes to wrap this and get Agostino’s victim taken care of.
“C’mon, Stanley, it’s not that big a decision.”
Gr
een nodded. “Okay. For now.” Tanner released his arm and he massaged his shoulder. His eyes read rational, willing to wait for any payback. He flicked an annoyed glance at Agostino.
“Take the asshole to his office,” Tanner said.
“You fuck, I’m gonna gut you like a fish,” Agostino snarled.
He had a knife in his hand but was still on his knees. How dim was that? The blade swept in. Tanner brought one hard-edged hand down and the slender thing clattered away. A whine leaking from his gaping mouth, Agostino clutched his wrist, cradling it against his body. Tanner was ready to kick him in the nuts—
“I got the knife,” the woman said. She laughed nastily, her swollen lips slurring the words. “And I’m gonna use it. Guess where?”
Agostino’s face paled and he threw himself toward the wall. “Keep the bitch away from me.” Hands hovering in front of his groin, he stared up at Tanner. “It was a fuckin’ blow job, for chrissakes. What’s the big deal? With a mouth like that, what’d she expect?”
“Don’t use it,” Tanner said to the advancing woman. “He isn’t worth jail time.” He turned to Green. “Can you get him to his office or not?”
“You’re a dead man, you fucker,” Agostino panted. “And it’ll be a long time coming.”
“I’m sure it will be,” Tanner said. He didn’t take his gaze away from Green. “Stanley? Before the house lights come up?”
“Boss? You don’t want the guests to see...” He blew out a disgusted breath. “We’ll settle this later tonight.”
“Bet your fuckin’ ass we will, dickwad.”
Agostino, still cradling his wrist, composed his face and straightened. He nodded, humiliation and rage staining his cheeks, making Tanner’s two handprints even darker.
“You’re dead meat, Tanner.”
Who wrote his lines? “Shut up.” He shoved Agostino’s shoulder and Green caught him as he stumbled. The trio walked through the curtain as if they were inspecting troops.
Tanner strode to the woman. Despite her death grip on the knife, a slim, silver, deadly thing, she shrank back. Reddened eyes almost bulging, one hand waved the weapon as if she was buttering bread.
“Don’t touch me.” Her chest heaved with her rapid breathing.
He examined her swollen face. “You want me to document this, miss? So we can show it to the cops?”
“Cops?” She reared back. “You’re joking, right?”
“He forced you.” He didn’t keep the fury from his voice.
“And you bitch-slapped him.” She lowered the hand holding the knife. “You really know your stuff. That...that was very nice of you. Here.” She handed over the stiletto.
“That wasn’t nice, it was normal,” he said, and regretted it when she flushed and stared at the floor. “There’s a bathroom in the performer’s dressing room. We’ve got a couple of minutes. You want to use it?”
She nodded. He stood guard until she came out, hair tidied and face repaired, and once more whispered her thanks. Grabbing his arm, she leaned in.
“I can’t rat him out. I can’t. You don’t mess with guys like that.”
“I’m going to,” Tanner said.
She stepped away. “But you already did.”
“That was temporary,” he said. “I’m looking for permanent.”
***
Agostino’s office was locked. Green shrugged and gave Tanner a blank, bleary look when asked where he was.
“What’d you do to him? He couldn’t even talk straight for a while.”
“Nothing compared to what he deserved.”
“Watch your back. He’s a sneaky little fucker.”
The endless evening ground on, the performers low energy and the audience getting bored and pissy. Everyone seemed looking for a fight. Except Agostino, who had vanished.
Tanner did the lock-up search and let himself out the back door, punching in the code that a third-grader could figure: the building number. Rain fell, a light, chill drizzle. He slogged to his car and eased it down the oyster shell-covered track past the kitchen door and into the customer parking lot. Just in time to see Richie Agostino come out of the building, his right hand cradled carefully against his chest.
Fresh rage blasted through Tanner as Agostino slipped into the Beamer and closed the door. A second later the engine roared, along with the custom sub-woofers all gangbanger wannabes have had installed.
The SUV pulled out onto the boulevard with a wild squeal of tires. Why hadn’t he wondered before now why Agostino drove an SUV? If anyone was a ragtop guy, this jerk was. Tooling around in a BMW 2-series, an Audi Quattro, even a Vette. But this? Made no sense.
Noise floated back as Agostino cranked the volume. Still was an adolescent. But a dangerous adolescent that needed to be stopped. How? Had to be done quietly, without blowing the place wide open and exposing the owner for the total hypocrite he was.
Tanner knew more was riding on this than just getting the job done. After the Sonora debacle, he had plenty to live down, if only in his own mind. More than just his physical confidence had been shaken. He needed to solve the problem at Crave and rack up a win. Cutting Agostino down wouldn’t hurt either.
It was midnight. Overcast. Should he follow Agostino home, have a quick come-to-Jesus meeting? Would there be any point to it? But Agostino turned left instead of right.
Probably going for coffee. Or a girlfriend? Distant possibility, given he was one-handed. Challenging to explain.
So: maybe coffee. He could do with a cup himself, he was burping seltzer. He turned left, trying to figure out where up the road a decent cup of joe could be found at this time of night. Agostino’s bass line thundered on the air. Amazing he wasn’t totally deaf.
The Beamer veered left down a two-lane road in between rows of five-star retiree trailer parks. Tanner followed, keeping back, miles of darkened trailers blurring past, then undeveloped land and the distant lights of a house, all else dark.
Why was he doing this? Did he really think there was coffee down here? No. But there was something.
The SUV’s headlights reflected off the leaves, making a washed out, lacy-topped tunnel beneath the arching live oaks. The mist rising off the wet asphalt made the road look like something out of a fantasy flick.
Tanner yawned. He really needed that coffee.
Light blossomed in his rear-view mirror, a single beam, coming up fast. Motorcycle? The rain slanted down and his wipers beat against the glass. The light came on, angling out to pass. Tanner slowed, opened the glove box and pulled out his Glock. Ahead, Agostino braked, the high tail lights violently red.
The motorcycle, a Ducati, roared past, covering the space between his car and the slowing Beamer fast, way too fast. The cycle went into a skid, the rear wheel slewing out, the rider fighting the skid but losing. Tanner had jammed on his own brakes, felt the tires lose traction, the automatic system pulsing. His tires grabbed at the same moment the Ducati and its rider cartwheeled off the road and flew between the trunks of two ancient oaks. Tires shrieking, Tanner yanked the Infinity to the verge.
Oblivious or uncaring, the SUV went left, vanishing down a narrow track between old trailers and freight containers converted into housing. Near one container, two pairs of green eyes gleamed from the underbrush: dogs, big ones. Tanner hoped they were chained up.
He set the warning lights, grabbed a flashlight and shoved the Glock into the back of his waistband. He followed the gouges into the scrub. Thirty feet in, the riderless cycle was nose-deep in a tangle of palmettos. Out on the road, a silver car went slowly past but didn’t stop, even as Tanner whistled for help.
“Hey,” he called into the brush, “where are you?”
The worst response: none. He swept the light, followed the trail of disturbed vegetation. A wide reflective stripe gleamed momentarily, then a denim-clad leg, unmoving. Heavier rain filtered through the trees: great timing.
He found a slack wrist. Pulse: okay. He dialed 911, and took a quick survey. Fifty-plus
feet from the road on a rainy night. Acres of thick Florida scrub. Probably scores of rattlesnakes, black widow spiders. Coral snakes. Chiggers. Pansy.
The Ducati driver groaned. His visible arm twitched.
“Stay still, sir,” Tanner ordered. “You might have broken something important.” Finally 911 answered, gave him aggro because he didn’t know which jurisdiction he was in. He gave them his GPS coordinates and hung up. Checked the pulse again: still steady. The driver cursed weakly.
Where had Agostino gone?
Across the road, a couple of lights had come on, and he realized that he’d left the Infiniti unlocked and the keys in the ignition. Tanner, you idiot, you’re going civilian.
And now, on the crown of the road, two gigantic German Shepherds, trotting forward with a beautiful economy of motion, coming to a stop in his headlights’ glare with the patient attention that marked well-trained guard dogs.
***
“What the hell did you do last night?” Athena, curious. “I got a call from Denton this morning, almost crawling through the phone. Agostino wants you fired.”
“I’ll bet he does,” Tanner said, fighting a mighty yawn. He’d gotten to bed just before dawn and dreamed about attacking dogs. The beasts had morphed, over and over, into screaming, stick-wielding women with huge, bloody, canine teeth.
He gave Athena a summary, including the later confrontation with the bouncers, neither of whom wanted to loose any teeth over Agostino. Green, as the leader, called it quits. Cobb sulked. They’d finished with insincere assertions of mutual regard. He’d watch his back even more carefully, but the situation was defused.
He related tailing Agostino, the Ducati, and the dogs. After a tense few minutes, Tanner shouting into the night for the owner to call the animals off, the unseen person had whistled them back home. It had taken the EMTs another thirty minutes, time spent ordering the motorcyclist to stay still in case his spine had been compromised, Tanner down on his hands and knees groping, trying to find fresh blood. With no results other than soggy knees.
The spine was fine. The guy had been highly pissed off at having to lay in the scrub getting rained on while a sadistic giant ordered him to stay still or else. Nothing would stop the complaining. What ever happened to ordinary human gratitude? Tanner could’ve ignored the half-drunk idiot, left him laying there all night, and gone in chase of Agostino.
The Omega Team: IT COULD BE FUN (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Carl Tanner Book 1) Page 8
