by Jim Johnson
In twenty seconds, she came hurrying out with a wheelchair, bent over it and showing a lot of breast. She threw the cop a beleaguered look and sort of shrugged her shoulders. She opened Tommy’s door and snapped off his seatbelt. “Lean on me,” she said. He did and collapsed into the wheelchair. She spun him around and headed into the emergency room. It was crowded, a definite sign of good luck. She kept pushing him until they were out of the line of sight from the pneumatic doors.
Tommy looked at the signs and ignored them. It looked like maybe they were supposed to check in at a triage desk maybe—or the finance desk first if you could, he didn’t know. But they were efficient and very busy. They’d seen it all before. He wheeled himself alongside a chair where he could see a corner of the pavement outside the entrance. María Elena was getting into the Jeep and held up a finger to the cop, telling him to wait a second while she got out of the way and parked. The cop waved her off and got in his own vehicle and followed her through. Tommy saw him cut back to the way they came in and drive off. Moments later, María Elena came in and went over to Tommy.
“Jeez, I gotta pee again.”
“Good exit strategy,” he said quietly. “Me, too.” An old lady had been watching them. Tommy asked her, “Where are the restrooms?” His voice was louder so that people would know that’s where they were headed. The old lady pointed to a prominent sign. Tommy gave her a sheepish grin. “Thanks.”
María Elena wheeled him toward the rest rooms. Of course they were wheelchair accessible. Afterwards, she pushed him farther down the corridor and toward the main entrance to the hospital, acting totally natural. Next to an unmanned courtesy desk were several wheelchairs for visitors and patients alike. The lobby was large and airy. She pushed him outside and past a row of palms and he climbed out gingerly and sat on a bench. While no one was particularly watching them, you still don’t want to do something out of character. She wheeled the chair back inside to the wheelchair corral and came out and went into the parking lot. In two more minutes, she pulled up out front and he climbed in to the Jeep.
She didn’t exit the hospital parking lot the way they’d come in, she went out the back and drove around and soon they found themselves on something called Peak Drive. Smart; don’t give the cop another glimpse of them in case he was parked nearby doing paperwork or checking them out on the computer.
“See,” said Tommy, “the really good thing about that hospital was if anybody recognized us or wanted to nail us, we had plenty of exits, and any hospital is a maze to locate people in. Doors on all sides of the hospital and cars all over you can steal and get away in a couple of minutes. Did you plan it that way?”
She gave him a half smile. “Yes and no. No because it was our only hope to dodge the cop and his questions. Yes, because I did remember your lesson about when you go into any building, always figure an alternate way out immediately. So, when I ran inside, I eyeballed other corridors and exits from the emergency room and knew we could run for it if we had to. Problem is that he saw us.”
“Sort of. I kept my head down and he was busy looking at your tits.”
“So were you.”
“Well, yeah, and with pleasure.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“And you in that killer dress gave credibility to an emergency room visit as if we were doing something else, something formal, and you had to bring me here. Also, your physical movements carried a sense of urgency. You done good, Pocahontas.” He winked at her. “Now I know why I never suggested a bra holster for you. Don’t want to ruin that fine profile.”
She smiled acknowledgement at his praise.
“And another thing. It appears you’ve already learned the lesson: situational awareness. You go in a house, an office, a store, the first thing you do is figure out where the exits are. Boy Scout motto.”
“And, in my case, the bathrooms,” she said.
“Now we go hunting,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: HER
They drove to the strip and into the parking lot behind Caesars Palace. She dropped Tommy off and drove away. She went to the Luxor Hotel and parked as far out from the building as she could. When she was sure no one was watching, she slipped the dealer magnet plate she’d stolen in San Antonio onto the rear tag of the Jeep. Just in case they were looking for the tag the cop had seen. In a few minutes, she saw Tommy cruising up and down parking isles in a Buick.
She got out of the Jeep and flagged him down. He pulled up to block the Jeep and she moved the stuff wrapped in a blanket into the Buick. From there they went to Caesars Palace and María Elena moved into the driver’s seat of the Buick and he got out. Later, she was sitting in the Buick at the crowded Mandalay Bay when he called on their recently purchased pre-paid phones. “Some kind of green Ford F-150 pickup,” he said and disconnected.
Ten minutes later he stopped in front of her in the pickup. She waited for two cars to navigate around them and got out and slid the long blanket wrapped package through his open door. He slammed the door and accelerated away.
Now it was all up to her.
Having plenty of time, she drove slowly. Flamingo to Durango to Alta Drive and then she was on Rampart Boulevard and pulling into the Rampart Casino. She drove close to the front guessing that’s where the Maybach would be parked and she was right. She parked nose out on the Marriott side where she could exit to Canyon Rim Drive quicker than the exit for the Maybach on North Rampart just like it had two nights ago. She peeled off her fancy gloves and put them in her purse—right alongside her pistol. She thought about but was certain she had left no prints; nor had Tommy when he’d stolen the Buick. The ignition lock was a mess, though. Shortly, that wouldn’t matter.
She went inside and wandered through the casino. It certainly was more sedate than the casinos way over on the strip. The Rampart was tucked right into the Red Rock section of western Las Vegas. As a matter of fact, it sat at the foot of Charleston Mountain, part of the range between Vegas and Pahrump where they were staying. Just on the far side of Pahrump, Death Valley sweltered.
The Rampart Casino had much less smoke than other casinos. Maybe they had better air handlers. This thought gave her an idea. She went and bought a pack of cigarettes and got a pack of matches to go with it. Cigarettes sometimes provide a good cover.
She found Hamilton in a semi-private area playing poker. She’d found his picture online on Facebook and she and Tommy had followed him on and off for a week. She was still sort of jealous about the Maybach 62 he was using as a limo. An Internet search told her that car started around five hundred K. While she was wondering how people lived like that, she coincidentally wondered at living like that herself. She decided that if she had that kind of money, she’d be more than willing to spend it—though not necessarily in such a flashy manner. Yeah, right, like that dream would ever happen. Although, she admitted, Tommy did keep coming up with bags of one hundred thousand dollars.
She searched for the chauffeur and found him sitting off to the side like a spectator watching the action. She memorized what each was wearing and then went outside the front entrance as if to take a break and have a smoke. She was awkward trying to smoke the cigarette since she had never done so in the past. She wandered off to the side to be out of the way, but also so she could keep an eye on the Maybach.
After that, she went to a bar from where she could see the exit to watch for Hamilton and the chauffeur and drank two glasses of tonic water.
Four men hit on her with varying degrees of seriousness.
She continuously checked her watch and looked over at the entrance.
The bald bartender eventually stopped in front of her. “Look, lady, you’re obviously not a hooker or you wouldn’t have turned those men down. But management here might not know that. We kind of discourage soliciting here.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I ought to be, the last guy offered me a grand for two hours.” She shook her head and looked at her watch again. “It looks like I’ve
been stood up.”
“Jesus. What incredible dumbass would stand you up?”
She shrugged. “He won’t do it again.” She stood off the bar stool. “What a worthless son of a bitch.”
“If you want to get even with him…?” he asked with raised eyebrows.
“No, but thanks for listening.” She left an appropriate tip not wanting to over tip and be remembered. But, she thought, a little late for that. Her plans were such that she didn’t think that the police would think they had to review all of the obligatory camera footage. They couldn’t have enough manpower, even if they connected her with the deed.
But she left anyway. Outside, she dialed Tommy’s cell. “They’re beginning to notice me—“
“No, shit?”
“Never mind the sarcasm, Tommy. Do you have line of sight on the Maybach?”
“I do.”
“I’ll wait in the Buick then, until you call.”
“Done, Pocahontas. Good luck.”
“Yes, dear. You too.”
Before she stepped into the Buick, she pulled a rodeo vest out of the back seat. Tommy had bought it. It was designed for bull riders, bronco riders, clowns, others. It was built to absorb shock and blows and protect from other direct trauma. It was made of high density foam and layers of fiber and resins. This one had an outer cover of leather. María Elena zippered and Velcroed herself into the thing, grateful that Tommy had made her try it on earlier.
At one thirty in the morning, María Elena was bored out of her mind. She was thinking about smoking a cigarette for real just to stave off the boredom. Her cell rang twice and stopped.
This was it.
She reviewed what she had to do in steps. She checked to see if she had what she needed in her purse. For the third time. She started the Buick.
The last time they’d followed Hamilton, the Maybach had left by the Rampart Casino entrance/exit onto North Rampart Boulevard and turned right, driving south alongside Angel Park golf course and past Canyon Run Drive.
The phone rang again and this time she picked it up. “They’re on the move. Must be nice to have parking up front.”
“I’m on my way, Tommy.” She put the phone on speaker and sat it beside her. She drove out the Marriot exit toward Canyon Run.
Timing was everything. She tried to go slow and hoped there weren’t any cameras to identify her. She’d parked in the most remote place she could find and departed the car and approached the car later in a circuitous route with her head down, and then slid in the more protected passenger’s side. Theoretically, it shouldn’t matter.
“I’m going slowly and there’s no traffic right now,” she said, surprised her voice was so calm.
“I think the timing is about right,” Tommy told her. “That’s what dry runs and watches are for.”
“Okay. I’m turning onto Canyon Rim right now.”
“You’re doing fine, college girl. There they come. Nice damn car.”
“Yeah, too bad.”
“We hope. Okay,” Tommy said, “his blinker is on to turn right onto Rampart and you still got no traffic. Nice of them to accommodate us at such an accommodating time.”
“Are you okay, Tommy?”
His voice turned cold. “Don’t worry about me. Do your part. I’m professional at this.”
“Okay, I was just…okay.”
“They’re accelerating toward the light and the intersection with you. They have a green and no other traffic to trigger a change if that’s the way it works. Go ahead and accelerate.”
She did so, the intersection of Rampart and Canyon Rim right ahead. According to plan, she killed the phone as soon as she spotted the Maybach. She stuffed it into her purse and tugged her gloves a little tighter. She sped up because she could always slow down before the collision, which in fact was her intention so the impact wouldn’t affect her as much.
The red light ahead seemed to glow with a special fury.
The Maybach entered the intersection, and she had to goose the accelerator.
She shot into the intersection, touched the brake, swung the wheel to hit with her front left quarter panel, and slammed on the gas again.
The Buick slewed into a four-wheel drift and when she accelerated, the car straightened out and smashed into the right rear door of the Maybach. The collision was a grating cacophony of metal on metal and tires screeching, reminiscent of a NASCAR wreck at Talladega.
“Good thing I’m an excellent driver,” she said aloud.
The airbag deployed immediately, banged her back into the seat, and she felt like she was suffocating. She’d wanted to disable that function, but Tommy had nixed the idea in favor of her safety. For some reason she could not explain, some kind of smoke or gas came out and blew out the window. Maybe CO2 spillage? Dust? Propellant? She found she had no idea what inflates airbags. Even as the cars continued to spin in their macabre dance, she pulled out her Swiss Army knife which was stuck open into the passenger seat, half buried for quick access of the largest blade. She jammed the knife into the airbag quickly several times and it began to deflate. She pushed it in to hurry the process as she folded the knife back and dropped it into her purse. When she got out, she didn’t want to have to return to the car for any belongings.
Suddenly, there was an eerie silence. Her driver’s door still worked, but she’d left all the windows open in case she had to crawl out, not to mention it minimized the danger of flying glass. In the silence she reflected appreciation for what bull riders went through.
She started to climb out of the Buick and her left side complained. She remembered the airbag hitting her. Maybe she was turned in the seat wrong. She remembered her head bouncing around but without whiplash. If it hadn’t been choreographed safely like it was, Tommy wouldn’t have gone with this plan. But it was so much easier to get to Hamilton without a bunch of goons around. She pushed the limp airbag aside.
She got out shrugging her purse over her left shoulder. She made sure she went around to the Maybach’s left side where Hamilton and the driver would get out. The choreography had been specifically designed for Hamilton, if he were able, to get out. If the wreck had involved a male or several males, he would likely have remained locked in the car while the bodyguard checked out the situation. Their plan hinged on Hamilton exiting the Maybach—or else María Elena was going to have to smoke him out or kill him herself. Tommy didn’t want that. He’d insisted she do no killing other than in self-protection. She’d been willing, but he was adamant. Maybe this was better. On the other hand, she was bait, and a willing accomplice in the eyes of the law.
She staggered around as if dizzy and disoriented. As she did so, she checked both directions on Rampart and back down Canyon Rim. She saw no other cars yet, though there was some activity in the Rampart parking lot if she could tell by moving lights.
The burly driver/bodyguard was pushing himself out of the Maybach shaking his head.
No activity came from the back seat, so María Elena banged on the window and shouted, “Are you all right in there?” They’d already decided Hamilton would not get out of the car should there be one or more men involved.
The door rattled and began to open. Good, the impact hadn’t affected this side of the automobile as much. The door did screech as if out of alignment.
Hamilton’s left hand was atop the door frame pulling himself up and out.
María Elena stepped toward the driver, ignoring Hamilton. “Can you understand me?”
He looked at her strangely. It was not a question he expected. His eyes catalogued her fancy short black dress and the tight bull riding vest above her waist. The discontinuity seemed to stop him in his tracks.
She spared a glance toward the dark golf course lining the intersection. She could see nothing in the dark shadows. “Do you hear me?” she asked again, tensing her shoulders. Her right hand snaked into her purse to seek the butt of her gun.
“Yeah,” said the bodyguard, her move to her purse alerting him
to something. This guy was sharper than she would have thought.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hamilton coming around the back door toward them.
“It’s going down,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice level. “If you move at all, you will die. Discipline yourself.”
The nearby blast of a high powered rifle came simultaneously with Hamilton slamming up against the car, pushing the door closed with force against it. Another shot and his midsection exploded and she fancied she could hear the bullet plow through him and prang against the metal of the door. Hamilton slid down to the pavement already dead.
The driver was frozen.
“Very good,” she said to him, his eyes still staring at Hamilton. As much death as she’d seen lately, up close and personal it still wasn’t pretty. She thought she smelled blood.
The driver sort of lifted his arms as if in a holdup.
María Elena pulled out an envelope and handed it to him.
“What the fuck’s that?” he asked, voice harsh.
“Look inside,” she told him.
He did so. “Son of a bitch. I know them. Six of the guys. Their drivers’ licenses. All dead in Arizona.”
“You got it,” María Elena said, knowing time was flying. “Here’s the deal. Paybacks are hell. Got that? You tell that to whoever controls Hamilton. We know he acted alone in that hit attempt, but this is a warning. Anybody else wants in, they end up the same. Got that?”
“Jesus. Yes, ma’am.”
“What’s your name?” she demanded.
“Tony Caputo.”
“Give me your wallet.”
He dug into his rear pocket.
“Slowly.”
He pulled out his wallet and handed it to her.
“Face the golf course and don’t move.”
He did so, and she could tell he knew full well he was facing the shooter.
“Remove your handgun, please. Slowly.”
His right hand went beneath his jacket and brought out an automatic.
