by Aimée Thurlo
Charlie was several steps behind Gordon. When Gordon reached the top, a buzz-cut goon in a tropical guayabera and tan slacks saw the little guy. The goon yawned and strolled over. Gordon was forever underestimated, which gave him the advantage in a hand-to-hand situation.
The guy looked at Charlie coming up behind Gordon and stopped, realizing he’d not only lost the height advantage, but the numerical one as well.
“Gentlemen,” came a surprisingly soft voice, “this is a private lounge. Who is your host tonight?”
Charlie could see into the room, illuminated by recessed ceiling lights and a large-screen TV playing what looked like soft porn. Seated on comfortable looking leather-look sofas were a half-dozen or so men and women, paired up and snuggling seriously.
“At least they still have their clothes on,” Gordon commented matter-of-factly, a big grin on his face. “Hi, Guido, we’re here to talk to Mike about a mutual client.”
Charlie, who’d been watching three people clustered together across the room, saw two of them stand up—one of them a tall blond that fit Mike Schultz’s description.
“Mike, can we have a word? Up here, or maybe outside, if you prefer?” Charlie asked, loud enough to be heard above the gasps and groans coming from the video.
If it came to a fight he didn’t want any hookers or horndogs injured, and by giving Mike a choice it was a concession, of sorts. It also reduced the number of potential witnesses or participants.
“Keep your voice down, please?” Guido’s expression making it clear he wasn’t really asking. He moved his hand to his front pants pocket, where the outline of a big folding knife bulged.
“Like anyone else up here is interested in the dialogue,” Gordon muttered.
Mike was tall, lean, and clearly fit, with an overly pretty face, but he had the eyes and expression of a predator. The goon who’d accompanied him was a little shorter, about Charlie’s height of six one, but outweighing him by maybe fifty pounds. His low forehead suggested the guy was all muscle and no brains, but Charlie knew that believing in stereotypes could be dangerous. The worst ass-kicking could come from the least likely direction, and, at the moment, Charlie was grateful for his own training and experience. Then there was Gordon, who was worth two superheros, maybe two and a half.
“What can I do you for, friends? If you think we might have business to discuss, the parking lot is just fine with me. More privacy,” Mike offered, sounding amused.
The two goons exchanged glances, something Charlie knew Gordon had caught as well. There was going to be trouble, and Mike was going to watch. He’d probably already seen the movie.
Charlie gestured toward the stairs. “After you,” he said to Mike, thinking there was no way the guy would put his back to them. He and Gordo would have to precede him.
“Fernando—” Mike glanced over at the guy who’d first greeted them—the one in the Cuban shirt. “The back lot, please. Mátalos afuera.”
Fernando took a step down, turned, and motioned toward them. “Bueno. Follow me, gentlemen.”
Charlie spoke three languages, Navajo, English, and Pashto from his years in ’stan, so he couldn’t understand what Mike was telling the goons. Gordon, however, despite his blue eyes and Irish blood, had grown up in a Denver neighborhood full of Latino families.
“Charles, this reminds me of our first night in Honolulu. Those three lady Marines?” Gordon added, following right behind Fernando, who’d reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Yeah, it took us an hour to get them down to the beach,” Charlie replied. “Then there was that awkward moment when one of the girls realized she was the fifth wheel.”
“You ever have one woman too many on a date?” Charlie turned to look at Mike’s bodyguard. The Neanderthal guy packed fists the size of boxing gloves.
“One can never have too many women,” the guy answered with a grin.
“Amen,” Mike added, following at the rear of the column.
Charlie focused on his first move, trying not to tense up. Gordon had just reminded him of a night they’d both been set up for a beat down.
Fernando turned left instead of right, then stepped behind the bar and led the way through the kitchen area, which was empty at the moment except for Meg and another waitress. They were ladling salsa into serving bowls.
Charlie winked at her as they passed by, and he heard a faint “oh, shit” escape from her lips. “Out front, ladies,” Mike instructed firmly as Fernando reached the exit.
Fernando unlocked the door with the turn of a lever and stepped out, Gordon right behind him. Charlie followed, watching Fernando’s hands. His fists clenched and he whirled around, throwing a punch at Gordon, who blocked it effortlessly.
Charlie had noted the move out of the corner of his eye. He was already into his own turn, halfway around and sweeping his right leg into the door. The heavy metal door slammed into the side of Neanderthal’s skull as the guy lunged at him.
Ignoring the thuds and grunts coming from behind him, Charlie grabbed the door handle and slammed the door into Neanderthal’s shoulder as the stunned goon tried to block the blow with his forearm. Then Charlie jumped back, careful not to bump into Gordon, who was hammering Fernando with left and right body punches.
Blocked by his own man, Mike pushed the guy forward, slamming the door behind him. “Take that Indian down, Cesar,” Mike urged. The guy rushed Charlie like a blitzing linebacker, arms extended to make the tackle.
It only took a couple of seconds. Charlie faked a knee kick, then pulled his right leg back, letting Cesar grab his left knee. Extending both arms, Charlie brought his hands together and slapped the heels of both hands against the man’s head, pivoting sideways as the man brushed past him. They both fell to the pavement, Charlie’s attacker still clinging to him.
Cesar tried to wrap his arms around Charlie and save himself, but Charlie struck him on the right clavicle with a shuto strike, a chop with the edge of his hand.
The man groaned, let go, then rolled away, trying to sit up. Charlie stood, noting in his peripheral vision that Gordon had his opponent on the asphalt facedown with an arm-shoulder pin that suggested aikido.
“Enough!” Mike yelled, pulling back his silk jacket to reveal a small Ruger pistol at his belt. “Stop with this shit, guys. Clearly, you have some skills. You want to talk to me, okay, you’ve earned it. Let’s all cool down, I don’t want anyone calling the cops.”
“You okay with this?” Charlie asked Gordon, who didn’t appear to even be breathing hard.
“Sure, as long as everyone keeps their knives in their pockets and their guns away,” he replied, nodding at Mike’s weapon. Gordon released Fernando’s arm, but watched him carefully as the man struggled to stand. It took a few seconds because the guy was still wobbly and doubled over slightly.
Charlie held his palms up, showing the fight had ended, then took a step back, now nearly shoulder to chin with Gordon.
“Go inside and clean yourselves up,” Mike ordered, and the two damaged bouncers both reached for the handle. It was locked.
Mike chuckled, reached into his pocket, then brought out a ring of keys. “Leave it unlocked for me,” he said, tossing the keys. Fernando made the grab, and a few seconds later, Mike, Charlie, and Gordon were alone, facing the alley.
“Something tells me you two aren’t here looking for a job, and I’ve never run into you before, I’d have remembered. What do you want?” Mike asked, keeping his hand near the butt of his pistol.
“We’re looking for a young woman you’d worked with in the past, a gal in the same profession as the ladies getting your upstairs clients in the mood.”
“A good-looking Indian girl, maybe?” Mike asked, looking at Charlie closely. “Hey, the girls who work here come and go on their own. If your sister or girlfriend…”
“Naw, I’m not here to rescue anyone from their sinful ways, I’m just trying to locate Lola Tso. Have you seen her lately?”
“Ah, Lola, good-lo
oking, young, and a hard worker. We parted company about two and a half years ago, maybe three. Said she had enough money saved up to enroll in community college. Hated to see her go, but I had a big enough stable at the time to keep the money coming in. Why are you looking for her?”
“She’s got some people on her trail, violent people, and we need to find her first. She’s keeping a low profile right now, but she’s made a couple of costly mistakes. We were thinking she might have come around here looking for protection.”
“How do I know you’re not the ones out to hurt Lola?”
“If we were, your goons would be dead or dying and we’d be conducting whatever painful act was necessary to make you talk,” Gordon said. “You’re lucky we’re the good guys, trust me.”
“Unfortunately, you’re going to have to take me at my word. I haven’t seen Lola for almost two years, and if she’s still a hooker, it isn’t for me or anyone I know. And I’d know.”
Charlie brought out his pocket notebook and a pen and wrote a number down on a piece of paper. He tore it out and handed it to Mike.
“If you hear from Lola, or get some intel, either call this number or have her do it. This is important. The police are looking for Lola too. The quicker they find her, the easier it’ll be for any of her former employers to remain anonymous,” Charlie explained. “Assuming she’s still alive.”
“I get that,” Mike replied. “I like Lola and I’ll do what I can to keep her safe. I take care of my people.”
“Then we’re done.” Charlie nodded to Gordon, and they walked away, into the parking lot. There was no more reason to stay and chat with the pimp.
“Think he was lying?” Gordon asked as they reached the front of the building and walked toward Charlie’s Dodge.
“Nah, Mike’s a tool, but he seems smart enough not to make any enemies who could come back and cause trouble. Meg didn’t particularly like the guy, but she respects that he takes care of his own. That’s a good thing.”
“Whose phone number did you give to Slick?” Gordon asked.
“The one for my old burner phone. Remind me to take it out of the drawer and recharge it. I doubt we’ll hear from Mike again, but who knows? Instead of helping out he might decide to retaliate, and right now, we can’t afford any more trouble for FOB Pawn.”
“So what’s next?”
Charlie thought about it as they climbed into his car. “If we go by Lola’s apartment, the officer watching the place might see us. And if she had shown up, we’d have already received a call, probably, from Nancy.”
“But if Lola is smart, she might be in her neighborhood right now, watching to see if her apartment is clear,” Gordon surmised. “She might be keeping a low profile, disguising her looks and waiting for an opportunity to get at her stuff.”
“What about her car—it’s a black Ford Focus, right?”
Charlie nodded. “How about we cruise her neighborhood and see if any of the coffee shops, restaurants, or places have one of those cars in the lot? If we find one, we’ll ask Nancy to run the plates.”
“Lola’s place is in an apartment complex near Wyoming and Montgomery. Do you remember the name?” Gordon asked.
“Village Apartments, Village Square, something like that.” Charlie brought out his notebook and handed it to Gordon. “I took notes.”
“Schoolboy.”
“You’re the one with the college degree, Gordon.”
“It was either that or start knocking over convenience stores. That was a real career path in my ’hood. What about you?”
“My dad wanted me to get a degree and become a lawyer—my mom thought I’d make a good Navajo shepherd. So I joined the Army,” Charlie replied. They’d talked about their backgrounds a lot, but never their goals. In the beginning, when they’d first met in the service, their pasts were the only thing to share besides their gripes.
“Good compromise. In all three careers you’d be surrounded by coyotes and encouraged to carry a gun. And the Army has the best guns,” Gordon responded.
Fifteen minutes later they cruised through the parking lots of the multi-unit apartment complex, searching for a black Focus. Finding a total of two, they went to a coffee shop on the corner within sight of the apartments. They had coffee while Charlie called Nancy to see if either plate was for Lola’s car.
Gordon, sipping his Italian brew, had already checked out every customer. Lola wasn’t there.
Charlie ended the call, shook his head, then drank some coffee. “We struck out. So much for that idea.”
“Wanna check the lots up and down the neighborhood, just in case?” Gordon suggested. “She could be sleeping in her car.”
“Or in a motel in the area. There’s one at the west end of Montgomery, just off I-25.”
“Let’s work our way west, then. And if that doesn’t play out, maybe we should call it a night,” Gordon said, yawning.
Two hours later they gave up and headed west, back into the valley. Gordon had walked to work—he lived just a half mile from the shop—so Charlie dropped him off in front of his apartment, then reversed course and headed back east, to home.
He was just pulling into the driveway of his two-bedroom rental home when his cell phone rang. It was Nancy Medina’s private cell.
“What’s up, Nancy?” Charlie asked. He and Gina’s significant other had been through hell last year after Gina had been shot, but their friendship was solid now and Charlie really liked the tall, slender blonde with knockout looks. She was a good cop too.
“Detective DuPree got a hit on the guy who tried to redeem the squash blossom from a tribal database. He’s Steve Martinez—the half brother of the guy Lola’s been dating, Jerry Benally. Once DuPree got the ID on Steve, he tracked down photos of his siblings and came up with Jerry. The neighbors confirmed that Jerry had been seeing Lola.”
“You figure Jerry may have been the one who got shot?” Charlie asked.
“Fifty-fifty chance. DuPree’s got an ATL on those brothers underway. The photos are already going out to area clinics and other medical facilities, on and off the Rez,” Nancy said. “You two have any luck tracking down Lola Tso?”
Charlie described the incident with Mike Schultz and his goons, then his follow-up.
“You guys better take care of yourselves,” Nancy said. “Hang on, I’m getting another call.” There was a brief pause, then she spoke again. “Time to go earn my paycheck.”
“Bye,” Charlie replied, then saw she’d already disconnected. Nancy supervised several patrol officers on the evening shift, so he knew she might be busy for a while. Tucking the phone into his shirt pocket, he reached under his seat for his weapon and extra magazine, pulled the key from the ignition, and climbed out of the Charger. The sky was clear, and despite the glow of the city, he could see several constellations, enough with which to navigate out on the open desert. Or he could just follow the road signs. This was urban New Mexico, not Tangi Valley.
Chapter Six
The phone woke Charlie up with a start and he groped for the receiver on the nightstand. “Yeah, what?” he mumbled, trying to suppress a yawn.
“Hey, brother, now that you’re awake, can you help me burglarize somebody’s house? I need to build some street cred if I’m going to get in tight with these people.”
Charlie paused a moment, half asleep, wondering what the hell Al was talking about. Then the gray cells began to kick in. “You’re undercover, Al, I get that, but I’m no cop. If we get caught, even if that’s part of your plan, how would I stay out of jail?”
“Not to worry, this is just a setup and it should be an easy-in, easy-out operation. It’s going to make the news, and I’ll be stealing something that’ll prove to the right people I did the deed,” Al said, excited despite the early hour.
Charlie looked over at the clock on the nightstand—it was six fifteen in the morning and the sun wasn’t even up yet. He was a civilian now and didn’t need to put up with this crack-of-dawn crap anymore.
“You’re talking about today, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, this morning around nine thirty, after the neighborhood has gone to work. The early thief gets the jewelry, guns, and laptops,” Al replied. “People at home are settling in or doing laundry and the day shift of cops are working on a cup of coffee after their first call. Trust me, I know.”
“Let me tell Gordon I’m coming in late, then we’ll meet—where?”
“Your place? The target residence is only a few miles from there and I want to go over the details once or twice. That work for you?” Al asked.
“Yeah, okay, but don’t show up before seven thirty unless you’re bringing breakfast. You’re supplying the burglary tools, right?”
“Of course, and a disguise or two. See you in a while,” Al said, ending the call.
Charlie reached for his cell phone, but changed his mind. Might as well let Gordon sleep in ’til seven. Groaning, he stretched his long legs and rolled out of bed.
* * *
Charlie was used to kicking in doors of all shapes and sizes, but that was supposed to be part of his past. He and Gordon had spent many months together as a snatch-and-grab team, first in Iraq, then Afghanistan. They’d target and kidnap enemy combatants or suspected insurgents, then deliver them to intelligence units for interrogation. That usually involved infiltrating neighborhoods and conducting covert break-ins, ambushes, or whatever else was necessary to snatch informants, leaders, or anyone else who might have access to useful intel. They often accompanied units conducting sweeps in hope of capturing enemy leaders or their communications people, so they’d also had their share of firefights.
Today, though, he was just going to help his cop brother steal something—hopefully. If it would help Al or someone else bring in Cordell Buck’s killer, it was worth it.
Charlie pushed up his annoying fake glasses and fiddled with the itchy, heavily starched collar on the white uniform shirt Al had provided. Both the shirt and the dark blue pants he wore were used, faded, and stained. Today he was “Martinez,” according to the name tag above the pocket, an employee of a well-known local home heating-and-cooling outfit. Al had on a similar uniform. They were now approaching the target residence in a rented white van with one of those magnetic signs on each door.
