Loretta assumed this person was talking about her because she had the automatic in her hand, but then a skinny nervous-looking woman pointed at her and screeched. “Oh, my God! The prostitute has a gun, too! Call the police!”
The people in the immediate area scattered, but most of them hardly took notice. But there were also people scattering farther down the hallway. They must be running from Springer, Loretta thought.
Loretta dashed down the hallway and down a short flight of steps. She spotted an alarmed old gentleman in a white suit and a Panama hat. He nodded at the nearest shop, pointing with his eyes. Obviously he feared for his life and hoped that Loretta would spare him if he indicated where the other woman with the gun had gone.
“Thanks,” Loretta said as she went into the shop, gun pointed up. The space was big, almost as big as a supermarket. She wasn’t sure exactly what they sold here until she took a good whiff. Exotic aromas tingled her nose. She scanned the signs at the top of each aisle: Spices, Herbs, Oils & Vinegars, Condiments, Tea, Coffee.
The overpowering smells were making her light-headed. “Where are you, Springer?” she shouted. “Throw down your gun and come out right now.”
Suddenly a stampede of footsteps came out of nowhere as at least a dozen customers and staff bolted out of the aisles, running past Loretta and out of the store, giving her a wide berth. None of them was Springer.
“Springer!” she hollered. “Where are you?”
All of a sudden the store was so quiet Loretta could hear the fluorescent lights buzzing. She glanced back at the old gentleman in the white suit by the entrance. He just shrugged, eyes wide. She turned back to the aisles.
“Springer,” she shouted into the silence, “where are you, dammit?”
Marvelli couldn’t believe this. He’d followed Taffy into the Tattooed Walrus Brew Pub, but now he couldn’t find him. The place was packed with kids, the pierced-eyebrow crowd, and most of them were on the dance floor, stomping to the wails and shouts of a particularly bad grunge band up on stage. It was made up of the usual two guitars, bass, and drums, and Marvelli didn’t think much of them—big volume, little talent, zero fashion sense. But what was really bothering Marvelli was how Taffy could have disappeared in here. A guy in his fifties dressed like a Guido from Newark should stick out like a sore thumb in this place. Maybe Taffy had ducked out a back door, Marvelli thought. But how did he get through the sardine-can crush on the dance floor? It would definitely take more than a couple of minutes to do that.
The room was dark and cavernous, with random spotlights sending splashes of blue and yellow light across the bare brick walls. The bar itself was a battered and scarred dark-wood antique, and Marvelli imagined crusty old sailors getting plastered here a hundred years ago. Behind the bandstand there were four huge copper vats, almost two stories high, and each one had a hand-painted sign on it: Walrus India Pale Ale, Stinky Feet Pilsner, Bob’s Brown Ale, and Get Shorter Porter. Marvelli couldn’t imagine how that music didn’t curdle the beer.
The band abruptly ended the song they were playing and went into a huddle. It seemed like they were trying to figure out what to play next. Marvelli thumbed the safety on his gun, which was jammed into his waistband. He wasn’t about to use it in here. He waded out into the crowd, searching faces and looking for signs of Taffy’s salt-and-pepper blow dry among the cropped candy-colored cuts and the multiple piercings.
A skinny kid with short bleached-out hair and dark roots wearing a ripped white V-neck T-shirt stared at him as if he’d just arrived from the moon. “Hey, man, who are you supposed to be? Like John Travolta?”
Marvelli narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?” Coming from someone else, he would’ve taken that as a compliment.
The skinny kid laughed through his nose and stared at Marvelli’s clothes, which were just his normal work clothes—a black-and-white check sports jacket over a black T-shirt and pressed black jeans. “I mean, like, come on, dude,” the kid said. “You’re so … seventies.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Marvelli asked, trying hard not to take offense. The seventies were a very good time for him. He’d met Rene in the seventies.
“No, no, no, don’t get me wrong,” the kid said. “I think it’s cool… but it’s, like, weird.” The kid was looking past Marvelli.
The band started playing again with a high-impact blast that could’ve passed for a car crash. The kid was alternately grinning at him and looking past him. Finally Marvelli turned around to see what he was looking at. A girl with a nose ring and streaks of blue in her straggly brown hair was grinning at him mischievously.
“Hi,” she said, shouting over the music.
“Hi,” Marvelli said, trying to figure out what these two were up to.
But then suddenly Marvelli felt his knees buckling as he was lifted up off his feet and hoisted over the crowd on his back. “Hey!” he yelled.
“Relax, dude,” the skinny kid shouted. “This’ll do you some good.”
“No, it won’t. Put me down.”
“Easy, dude. Just go with it.”
“This isn’t funny,” Marvelli yelled. “Put me down!”
But there was no stopping the momentum as dozens of hands held him aloft, passing him over a shifting sea of arms and heads. Marvelli didn’t like the feeling of being out of control, and he started to panic He had to get down. He had to find Taffy, arrest him, get him in cuffs. Then he had to go help Loretta. She could be in trouble.
“Put me down!” he hollered.
But no one was listening. It was doubtful that they could even hear him over the band. The crowd jostled him up and down, jerking him this way and that. The hands on his back felt creepy, like bugs crawling all over him.
“Put me down! Come on!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “I’m afraid of heights! Put me—! Hey!”
Marvelli reached across his body to feel for his gun, but it wasn’t there. It was gone. It must have fallen out.
Oh, crap! Marvelli thought. Somewhere in this crowd of kids was a loaded automatic. He imagined them using it to pierce themselves.
“Put me down!” he shouted. “Please!”
But as he started drifting toward the band with his arms outstretched and his legs pinned together, he lifted his head and spotted Taffy, who was looking right at him. The mobster was behind the band between two of the copper beer vats. There was a look of determination in his eyes and a silver automatic in his hand down by his side.
Marvelli was carried closer to the bandstand, closer to Taffy. He struggled and tried to fight the hands holding him up, but it was no use. Taffy grinned as he raised his gun hand.
“Put me down!”
35
Taffy’s arm was outstretched, his silver automatic a gleaming point of light in the shadows of the beer vats. Unfortunately, Marvelli was the only one who seemed to notice.
He struggled and flailed. “Put me down! Come on!” But he’d given himself a sore throat from yelling, and his voice was hoarse and weak.
Taffy stepped out from behind the vats and muscled his way past the band, shoving the bass player to the floor. The band stopped playing, one instrument at a time, as each member finally realized that the old guy on stage was carrying a gun. The drummer played solo for almost a full minute before he noticed. The crowd saw the gun, too, and they abruptly dropped Marvelli to the floor, moving away from him as if he were poison. Taffy stood at the edge of the bandstand, pointing the gun down at Marvelli. Blue footlights streaked Taffy’s face. It looked like he was wearing war paint.
Sitting on the floor and leaning back on his hands, Marvelli stared up at Taffy, his heart slam-dancing in his chest.
This is it, Marvelli thought. The bastard killed Rene, now he’s gonna kill me.
Taffy’s arm stiffened. He was taking aim.
“Mexican standoff, dude!” a voice boomed through the room. The skinny kid with the bad dye job was standing behind Taffy, holding the lead singer’s mike in one hand, Marv
elli’s gun in the other. His arm was outstretched, the gun three feet from Taffy’s head.
“This is cool,” the kid said into the mike. “It’s, like, seventies night at the Walrus. Burt Reynolds versus John Travolta. Cool.”
Taffy’s face turned to stone. “I’m not kidding around here, son.”
“You are really great, man. I mean, like, you’re perfect.” The kid was grinning. He thought this was an act. “Okay, Burt,” he said, “like, drop the gun, man.” The kid advanced on Taffy and actually stuck the gun in Taffy’s ear. “Come on, dude. Move.”
Taffy moved two feet to the side and stumbled over the lead guitarist’s wahwah pedal, but he wasn’t letting go of his weapon. The expression on his face was pure malice. His fist was white around the butt of the gun.
“Get away from me, son.”
“No way, man. Like, I’ve got the upper hand now.”
“No you don’t.”
“What do you mean—? Hey!”
Taffy batted the kid’s hand away, and the gun flew across the stage, hitting one of the copper vats with a loud clang. He raised his gun and leveled it on the kid’s chest at point-blank range.
Taffy’s gaze sharpened to lethal pinpoints. “Say goodbye, son.”
“Hey, good line, man.” The kid was still grinning. He was totally oblivious to the danger he was in. He looked to Marvelli. “Isn’t Travolta supposed to be the good guy in this thing? Isn’t he supposed to, like, win?”
Taffy sneered at him. “What the frig are you talking—?”
A ruckus from the back of the bandstand suddenly distracted Taffy. He turned toward the noise, but it was too late to react. The drum set was charging him.
“Hey!” he shouted.
The drums kept coming, plowing into him and knocking him off the stage. Marvelli stood at the edge of the stage, looking down at the mobster sprawled out on the floor. Marvelli was holding the bass drum on his hip, using the crash cymbal as his shield. He had managed to sneak around to the back of the stage while Taffy was busy with the skinny kid.
Taffy was dazed, his eyes out of sync, but he was waving the gun in the air, looking for a target. “Marvelli!” he yelled. “Marvelli!”
“What?”
“I’m gonna kill you, you bastard. I’m gonna—” The drums landed on top of Taffy and shut him up immediately. Marvelli grabbed a solid-body electric guitar from a nearby stand and leaped off the stage, ready to clobber Taffy with it, but Taffy was out cold. Marvelli took the gun out of his limp hand.
“John Travolta beats Burt Reynolds. Pretty cool, wouldn’t you say?” The skinny kid was back at the mike. “Okay, next round. How about Travolta versus Marsha Brady? Any volunteers?”
Marvelli shook his head and sighed as he knelt over Taffy and pulled out his handcuffs.
Loretta walked slowly down the spice aisle, leading with her gun, her eyes darting left and right. The store was dead quiet, but she could feel Springer’s hostile presence. The woman had had it in for Loretta from the moment they’d met, and now Loretta knew her dirty little secret. If Springer was carrying a gun, which was pretty likely for an FBI agent, Loretta would be her prime target.
And Marvelli, Loretta thought, creasing her brow. Springer would want him out of the picture, too. Over my dead body, she thought.
As she moved down the aisle, Loretta caught glimpses of the bottles, boxes, and bags of spices that filled the racks: Anise, cumin, curry, garam masala, thyme, sage, rosemary, oregano, mace, cardamom, paprika, white peppercorns, pink peppercorns, black peppercorns, sea salt, kosher salt, chili powder, allspice, nutmeg, dill, tarragon, basil, and bay leaves as well as dozens of other spices she’d never even heard of. It got her to thinking of witches and the ingredients they boiled up in their cauldrons—eye of newt, balls of bullfrog, and all that stuff—and she imagined that Springer was someplace in the store, mixing up some kind of concoction that she could use against her and Marvelli, a potion that would make them both disappear forever.
Well, at least we’d be together, Loretta thought.
Loretta came to the end of the aisle and cautiously made the turn into the next aisle, the coffee aisle. Open burlap bags of coffee beans stood up at attention all the way down the aisle on both sides, like footmen in a royal coffee court. The smells went right to her head. It was gaseous caffeine. She could feel the jangling start in her veins, like little tambourines, traveling down her forearms all the way to her fingertips, rounding her scalp and zipping down her spine. The buzz intensified and started to feel like a radioactive glow emanating from her entire body. She felt like a hundred-watt lightbulb.
She scanned the stenciling on the burlap bags. Colombian, Mexican, Breakfast Blend, Sumatra, Tanzanian Peaberry, Kona, Jamaican Mountain Blue, Guatamalan Antigua, Mocha Java, Espresso, French Roast, Chicory, Vanilla, Amaretto, Almond, Hazelnut. How could she ever give all this up? What was she thinking when she’d decided to quit? Who in their right mind gives up coffee?
She spied a sack of chocolate-covered espresso beans, and she started to swoon. Chocolate and coffee together, the staples of life.
Just a couple, she thought. For energy. I’ll leave some money at the cash register.
She reached out for the sack, her fingertips swirling through the dark shiny beads as she admired how they caught the light. She started to close her fingers on a fistful, already anticipating the taste, when suddenly the whole sack toppled forward and spilled onto the floor in a dark brown splash. Loretta instinctively backed away as the beans buried her feet. Her first thought was that she was going to be blamed for this.
But then the next sack suddenly toppled over. And then the one after that. And then the next one, and the next, and the next. They fell over like dominoes, spilling so many beans the white tile floor was completely covered.
A lone figure appeared at the end of the aisle, and Loretta instantly assumed the three-point stance—feet apart, gun extended in both hands. She stared across the coffee-bean desert, and Special Agent Springer stared back at her. Their faces were as grim and determined as gunslingers.
Springer was holding a blue-steel revolver, but she raised both hands above her head in surrender. She pitched the gun into the coffee beans far out of reach. “I’m not armed,” she said, but she seemed too calm, calm to the point of being smug.
“You’re under arrest,” Loretta said as she waded through the beans.
“Me? What for?”
Loretta almost laughed out loud. Springer knew right well what she’d done. “Kidnapping,” Loretta said, “conspiracy to commit murder, extortion—”
Springer cut her short with a disinterested shrug. “That’s your word against mine.”
“Mine and Marvelli’s and Gus Rispoli’s.”
“Oh, yes, three stellar citizens,” Springer said sarcastically. “Two parole officers and a convicted murderer. Whose word do you think will count for more? You three or a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
“You seem pretty sure about that.”
Springer just shrugged.
“I’m still going to arrest you,” Loretta said. Her finger was tight on the trigger. She was struggling to keep a lid on her temper.
Springer was shaking her head. “You’re not here to arrest me, Loretta. You’re here to punish me.” She reached across her body and suddenly tore the breast pocket off her own blazer. Then she tore open her blouse, ripping all the buttons off.
Loretta frowned. “What the hell are you doing?”
Springer mussed up her hair. “You’re out for revenge, Loretta. That’s why you tracked me down. That’s why you made this big mess.” Springer waved her hand over the coffee-bean dunes. “This is a personal thing.”
Loretta just stared at her. Yes, she hated Springer’s guts, but she would never go on a rampage against anyone. She preferred to savor her vendettas.
“You just don’t like me,” Springer said with a smirk as she kicked off one shoe and sent it sailing up the aisl
e where it landed with a crunch. “You hate me for a lot of reasons. You hate me because I lost weight and you can’t.”
“That’s a lie.”
“You hate me because I’m a fed and you’re just a lowly PO.” Springer pulled out her shirttail and ripped it.
“You think this is gonna work?” Loretta said. “People are gonna believe I beat you up just because I didn’t like you? Dream on, toots. This won’t wash.”
“My word against yours, sweetie.”
“You’re dreaming. It doesn’t make sense. Your logic adds up to nothing.”
Springer grinned. “The big reason you hate me is because your heartthrob Marvelli has tight shorts for me instead of you.”
“You’re dreaming,” Loretta repeated, but her heart was beating fast. How did Springer know how she felt about Marvelli?
Springer laughed. “Fat girl pining away for her hunky partner loses out to the cute little blond fed. This kind of thing happens to you all the time, doesn’t it? But this time you just couldn’t take it anymore. This time you snapped.” Suddenly Springer banged her head hard against the corner of the stainless-steel shelving. She felt her temple and smiled when she saw blood on her fingers.
Tears welled in Loretta’s eyes, but she was determined not to cry. She wasn’t going to let this nut case get to her. What Springer had said wasn’t true. Marvelli had no feelings for either of them.
Springer stood on her toes and pulled down an electric coffeepot from a high shelf, carefully using her unfolded French cuffs to hold it so as not to leave any fingerprints. She turned out her knee and smashed it against her inner thigh, then did it again. She was making bruises.
“You’re nuts,” Loretta said, astounded by what she was seeing.
Springer grinned and shook her head. “Self-preservation. It’s an art.” She checked her head wound to make sure it was bleeding enough. “Now the way I see it, you have two choices. Either you can stick around and take the rap for beating me up and all the other illegal stunts you pulled since you arrived in Seattle. Or you can take off right now. Run. Hide. Maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe you’ll find another stud muffin like Marvelli at some truck stop out in the middle of nowhere. You can settle down and be the trailer park queen of East Overshoes, Arkansas.”
Double Espresso (A Loretta Kovacs thriller) Page 22
