KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set

by Gordon Kessler

  When the lights blared, I discovered why Osia Papadopoulos hadn't opened up the tavern this morning, and why See-Saw wasn't at his customary place, last stool at the end of bar.

  The old blind man was sitting in the corner of the storeroom, loose bottles, cans and peanuts littering the floor around him. In his arms was a very badly bloodied Osia Papadopoulos. Red splatters all around, pools of it on the floor, and Oz's face covered in it.

  See-Saw turned to face me, streams of tears rolling down his cheeks from under his dark glasses.

  "See-Saw?"

  The blind man's voice was even more frail than usual. "They kilt him. E Z, they kilt Oz. He ain't dead, yet, but they sure as hell kilt him."

  I poked my head back out into the tavern. "Let Jazzy go, and turn on the lights. And get those cops up here. Have them call an ambulance. Osia's hurt!"

  I went to See-Saw and started to pry Oz from his arms.

  "See-Saw, let go so I can have a look."

  "All right," the old man said. "But you take good care of him, and tell me if he needs me."

  Truly an enigma, the old blind man's brain was packed full of facts and figures, dates and trivia. He was like a walking encyclopedia, with more accurate information than any Internet site. He'd helped me a number of times in the past, and I had no doubt he'd come in handy again soon. For now, he was truly overwhelmed by his friend's condition.

  "Oz," I said as I gently took a hold of the big Greek and laid him flat on the floor. His breathing was shallow, heart rate fast but light, and he was unconscious. "Oz, can you hear me?" I asked and patted his forearm. "Oz, wake up. I need you to open your eyes, Oz."

  I rubbed his hand and patted his left knee, not knowing where his hidden injuries might be. Some of the more obvious wounds were gashes and bruises on his face, arms and hands. It looked like a couple of fingers were broken. His right pant leg was bloodied at the shin. And so much red — red all around.

  His eyes slowly opened, but not far.

  "Who did this to you, Oz?" I asked. "Who did this and what did they want?"

  "I saw 'em," the old blind man said.

  I ignored See-Saw, and coaxed Oz again. "Who?"

  His voice was a whisper. "Three thugs," the former merchant marine told me. "Had silencers. Two Italian; I think they both had small caliber Berettas. The leader was a Ruskie they called 'Karl'. He had a Makarov 9mm. And the shooter — one of the wops — I think I seen him here before. I think it was a couple of nights ago. He came in, had a drink and left. He musta been snooping around then. But they all had those knit hats on that covered most everything but their eyes"

  "Balaclava," See-Saw said.

  "No, they wasn't wearing desserts on their heads. They was like watch caps, you know, knit like we used to wear on ship to keep our heads and ears warm."

  Trying to get him to go on, I gently confirmed, "That's a balaclava. The dessert is baklava."

  "Oh, yeah. Yeah, that's right. I forgot. That's what some guys called 'em back on the ship."

  By now, Jazzy was in the room, whining behind me. She stood by See-Saw, and they seemed to be consoling one another. I knew the cops would be in soon, and I wanted to know more about Oz's attackers before it became confidential police business.

  "These men, Oz — why — what did they want?" I asked him.

  "You," he said and his head rolled to look at me. "They wanted you...dead."

  I frowned at him. "Are you sure? Me?"

  "Yeah. Didn't say why." He began sobbing. "Wanted to know where to find you."

  I was temporarily perplexed. I tried to cover my tracks fairly well, but one of my few confidants might have let my new locale slip. Then I remembered what little mail I received was delivered to the bar. I'd used the Wizard's Grog's address as my legal residence for the court, since they wouldn't take a PO box. Hoping to stay in hiding from other less-than-legal entities, until now it had kept me and those around me safe, as well.

  "It's okay, Oz," I said. "We're going to get you to the hospital and all fixed up."

  "But I told them. I didn't wanna, but I did. They beat me up something awful, but I held fast. Then they grabbed See-Saw and put a gun to his head. I couldn't tell 'em fast enough — 'he sleeps on his boat, Slip twelve.' Told 'em again to make sure they heard, 'Slip twelve on the Atlantis pier'." He sobbed more. "I didn't wanna, but I did. Then one shoved See-Saw down. Ol' See-Saw grabbed the mattress on the way and messed up the asshole's aim. Then he shot me."

  That explained Ol' Corky's boat blowing up. Her slip was number twelve and mine was twenty-one. Had Oz gotten the numbers switched on purpose or just forgotten such a small detail?

  A screaming ambulance siren penetrated the air from out front, then wound down.

  I told him, "The EMTs are here. They'll take care of you now." I squeezed his shoulder and noted the red line of blood where a bullet had grazed his temple.

  Oz said, "I'm hungry, do you think they brought pizza?" He gazed at me with one of those unfocused drunk looks, but Oz wasn't intoxicated. Then, more coherently, he said, "I won't tell the cops, anything. I know you're gonna wanna get this straightened out on your own. I've always said 'if you don't wanna get caught in a lie, when the cops ask questions, keep your mouth shut." His brow raised and his eyes went wide. He sniffed the air. "Pizza? Did somebody order a pizza?"

  He passed out just as two uniformed officers came to the doorway with Rabbit behind them.

  "Geez-hus! What a mess!" the first cop said. "Look at all the damn blood — geez-hus!"

  The second one cried out, "Shit! That damn dog's eating it!"

  I glanced over to Jazzy as I stood up. I shoved hard by the first cop, and he fell back — he was getting ready to kick my golden retriever.

  "Look at the can behind his head, dumbass," I growled, nodding to Oz.

  See-Saw squeaked out, "Tomato paste, ass-wipe — tomato paste. Smells like a pizzeria in here; cain't you smell it?"

  The cop glared up from the fifty-pound sack of peanuts he'd landed on, his hand on his holstered side arm.

  Jazzy and I moved quickly past the second officer and toward the door.

  "Hey, stop!" the cop ordered. "We need to question you."

  "Lt. Legend already did, a half hour ago," I said without looking back. "I don't know anything more about this than you do." Then I remembered See-Saw, and I looked back just long enough to say, "See-Saw will help you. He saw who did it."

  The two cops exchanged glances, and then turned to the blind man.

  I moved out of the way as the EMTs burst through the door, and Jazzy and I slipped out behind them.

  Time was growing short, and I wondered about my upcoming meeting with Jason at Devil's Horn. He'd be desperate to get his daughter back safely. The kidnappers had been clear about only one thing. According to the note, they wanted me. Nothing about any kind of ransom had been mentioned. Jason was the one who suggested they wanted money — the note just said they wanted me. And Devil's Horn would be the perfect place to kill someone and get rid of the body, all in one little push.

  I began to wonder just how good of friends Jason and I were.

  CHAPTER 5

  A Quick Drive

  Normally, I don't take Jazzy Brass when I leave the marina. But I felt uneasy about her being around a cop that was about to kick her. Generally, Jazzy's a lover, not a fighter. Besides, I would enjoy my companion's company on the forty-five minute trip toward the foothills.

  Behind Smokey's Marina was a large four-car garage and utility shed. Few people knew it, unless they actually saw me pull my car in or out of that garage, but Smokey had let me rent one of the stalls.

  At the outside walk-in, I glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Then I took a set of keys from my pocket and unlocked the padlocked door. Jazzy and I then slipped inside.

  After turning on the garage bay light, I stepped to the muscle car, covered with a custom tarp, and I pulled it off, rolling it in my arms. Underneath was a bright red, 1968 Shelby
Mustang convertible.

  After taking the cover past my loyal companion, I laid it on the workbench in front of the car. I couldn't help but think about the three sets of SCUBA equipment, carefully bagged and hung on the wall above the bench. Smokey, her deceased husband and their son Rabbit had all been avid SCUBA divers — such a fun sport, especially if the whole family can enjoy it. I was pretty sure none of the equipment had even been touched since Smokey's husband died.

  As Jazzy impatiently nuzzled my hand — reminding me that we should get going, I solemnly shook my head.

  I opened the driver's side door of my sparkling red mustang and Jazzy jumped in. She immediately moved over to the passenger's side and sat there like the perfect little lady she was, leaning against the door, right front leg on the door armrest.

  After starting up my vintage Mustang muscle car, I cranked the ragtop back. Still a beautiful California day for February, even the shit storm we'd been thrown into wouldn't take all the fun out of it. I pressed the garage door remote button, and we were off.

  My Shelby was the GT 500KR model, and as we pulled out of the gravel parking lot and accelerated onto the street, the big 428 cubic inch engine with dual fours purred a low, throaty growl. I'd fallen in love with that sound the first time I'd heard it decades ago in my father's garage. The KR stood for King of the Road, and it felt like it. I could tell Jazzy loved it as well. She gave me one of those yeah, uh-hu, that's-what-I'm-talking-about looks. I nodded back and yanked it into second. The tachometer needle flicked to the right as the wide back tires chirped — still keeping within the speed limit. I didn't need a ticket on top of my other troubles. I threw the shifter into third gear with another tire chirp.

  But, when I checked the rearview mirror, I noticed a dark Nissan sedan pull out behind us from the parking lot across the street from the marina.

  "Great!" I said, thinking it was an unmarked patrol car. The cop probably heard the tires chirp and was about to pull me over for drag racing, reckless driving or some other petty crap.

  I made a few unnecessary turns, driving within the law, just to see for sure if the guy was tailing me. He was — he'd followed at every corner. By now, I was pretty sure it wasn't a cop car, and it looked like there were another couple of goons in with the driver.

  If someone was trying to kill me, and they'd rigged Ol' Corky's boat to blow up thinking it was mine, I was lucky they hadn't found my car and planted a bomb in it. The tail could be the guys who roughed up Oz and See-Saw. But those pricks didn't fit the profile of the kidnappers. The ones who leaned on Oz had probably done that kind of thing a few times before, but they weren't professionals. They were more likely wannabes, low-level mob at most — probably local yokels who were trying to make the transition to the big money fast.

  I had three things in my favor against a car bomb: the perpetrators might not yet know they blew up the wrong boat; they probably didn't know where I kept my car; and, if they even put a scratch on my Shelby, I would have torn their arms off and shoved them up their asses after beating them to death with their own appendages.

  Jazzy and I hadn't had our breakfast yet this morning, so we stopped by a neighborhood Starbucks Cafe. I ordered one venti Caramel Macchiato and an old fashion donut for me, as well as one bacon, egg and cheese sandwich for each of us, and a small cup of whipped cream they called a Puppy Latte for Jazzy. Some Starbucks attendants would give us the whipped cream, gratis, whenever I went through their drive-up with my puppy-dog girlfriend beside me. Jazzy loves her Starbucks.

  Back on the street, my focus was more on my drink and sandwich than on the pricks in the Nissan. Jazzy had already finished her sandwich and was licking her Puppy Latte from a plastic cup holder I had hanging from the passenger side door. Still, I noticed the Nissan pull out from the curb about hundred yards behind me. While finishing our breakfasts, we led them around by the nose.

  After the last sip of Macchiato, I gave my detective friend a call to let her know about the tail. Harp insisted I do nothing rash — told me she'd dispatch a couple of black and whites to apprehend the bad boys in the Nissan for questioning.

  At that very second, the goon on the Nissan's passenger side leaned out his window and took a pot shot at me. He was lucky he'd missed my car.

  "Sorry, Harp," I told her. "Looks like rash is going to be the order of the day."

  I pushed the End button and dropped the phone into the console.

  Staring into the rearview mirror, I decided these goombas weren't going to ruin my day any more than they already had.

  * * *

  "Hold on, Jazzy Brass," I tell her, and she hunkers down as I bring the seatbelt through her collar and across her body, while hoping it might do some good and not strangle her if things get rough. "We're about to have a little fun."

  I pull out an ancient eight-track tape from a plastic case and shove it into an even more ancient tape player. At the next corner, I shift back from third to second and take the turn with my foot half-way down on the accelerator. As Steppenwolf blares out "Magic Carpet Ride," the ass end catches fire, tires smoking, fishtailing. Then I floor it, and follow up with a throw into third.

  In the rearview, I see the goofballs tailing me slide sideways at the corner, hit the curb and have to back away from a street sign. Still, the driver punches it, and gets a little smoke from his front wheels.

  Traffic is light, but the Nissan has a close call at the next intersection and runs up onto the sidewalk. I'm pulling away from him fast, although I'm watchful at the cross streets.

  We're a block from the South Coast Highway ramp at Dana Point, and the sedan is a tiny spot in my mirror. I let off the gas some. We're going 85 in third gear when I look over at Jazzy Brass. Her lips are stretched by the wind, her nose high and ears flying, loving every minute.

  Even though the goofs tailing us are a good four blocks behind, I don't want to take any chances. And, as far as the cops go, I'll push my luck a little longer.

  I'll take Interstate 5 North, toward San Juan Capistrano, where we'll head east on Highway 74, a.k.a. Ortega Highway, into the mountains. It's one of those twisty-winding roads that motorcyclists love, and where the driving really gets fun.

  As we take the ramp, I put the pedal to the metal and get some real mean rubber. At 6000 rpms, I yank the shifter back into fourth gear, and we're screaming. As the speedometer pegs past 135, I double check the rearview and see nothing but empty pavement. Even at well over 140 mph, my old Shelby still has some pedal and a whole lot of tachometer left.

  So, I lost the goombas this time. But will they be back? If so, maybe they'll have something a little faster, more competitive. Bring it on, boys!

  "Ha-ha," I say, and push it to the floor. "Color me gone, baby!"

  Jazzy Brass is smiling.

  * * *

  We were cruising along at the speed limit, after my brief reenactment of the 1971 classic movie "Two Lane Blacktop." The fools in the Nissan sedan were only a memory. I had twenty minutes before my meeting with Jason, and it looked like we'd be right on time. We were starting to get into the hilly, winding roadway, where you see more of nature's life-filled green than man's lifeless concrete, steel and paint. Jazzy had her nose out the side of the car about as far as it could go, enjoying the breeze coming down from the mountains. It was time for me to puzzle a few things out.

  First off, I believe in coincidences, but what had been going on today stretched that belief about as far as the elastic in Colonel Sander's shorts.

  It seemed there were two separate concerns, but somehow related. One was the kidnappers who didn't want money; wanting me, instead. They seemed like professionals — not only able to make an explosive vest with what looked like Semtex, but disable the very robust security system of a well-known celebrity, as well.

  The second was a bunch of misfit-mobster wannabes, deadly and just as dangerous because of their unpredictability. They used silencers, which meant they went to some effort to gain the tools of their craft, a
nd they had at least a basic understanding of how to make a boat blow up. They hadn't killed anyone yet, but it wasn't because they weren't trying.

  When the bastards holding my goddaughter decided to kill, I feared they wouldn't prove as inept as the goombas.

  CHAPTER 6

  Everybody Wants to Get Even

  When I arrived at Devil's Horn, I found two cars parked off the road. Jason stood by himself near the cliff's edge. He waited in that same spot when I came out to California to live, about a year ago.

  I thought it'd be different, then. I thought we were meeting as two old friends who'd been through Hell together, hooking back up after several years. He had Sophie with him at the time. And she called me Uncle E Z. That was nice. She was cute — almost as cute as my own daughter. But that meeting had lasted only ten minutes, and I talked with Sophie more than Jason. He seemed in such a strange mood that, after that meeting, I honestly didn't think we'd see each other again.

  I pulled in between a black Mercedes limousine and Jason's aqua blue metallic 911 Porsche convertible. Both had their front windows down. In the limo was a man I recognized as Jason's driver — Andre, I believe. An old-school chauffer, he was uniformed and very proper. He faced forward and paid no attention to me, his eyes on his boss at all times.

  Inside the little Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet was the cute Russian gal who'd given me the photo and warning this morning. Her bright-red lips turned up into a smile, and then puckered as she blew me a kiss.

  That, I didn't acknowledge.

  Jazzy and I got out, and she ran up to Jason immediately.

  "Careful, girl," I called out. "Don't knock him off the cliff!"

  Jason turned, and with a quick grin, he bent down and patted Jazzy on the head. "Thanks for coming, E Z. I'm really sorry to get you involved."

  "You didn't — the kidnappers did. No reason to be sorry. You know I'd do anything to get Sophie back safe and sound. Anything."

  "Thanks, E Z. And I know you mean it." Jason stared out at the rolling hills and mountains from the edge of the cliff.