The Tipping Point: A Wainwright Mystery

by Walter Danley

  His car phone buzzed and he picked up on the second ring. It was Cassie. She asked him to pick up a pack of her distinctive brand English cigarettes. A specialty liquor store carried that particular brand, and it was on his way. He’d run this errand for her before and knew the establishment. “Please, baby, stop for Cassie. She’ll be oh, so grateful.”

  Clyburn enjoyed his expensive dates with Cassie, with the exception of two things: Cassie referred to herself in the third person, as if she were royalty or something. Well, in her line of work and with what I pay, she truly is some kind of royalty. Okay, scratch that one. The other offense was she smoked those damn Limey cigarettes. He hated the smell when he was with her; in the room, in her hair, then all over him. He had never smoked. He heard ex-smokers were much less tolerant than non-smokers were when it came to objecting to the habit—he was the exception. “Sure, honey, I’ll be happy to get you a pack if you’re sure you’ll be grateful, very grateful.”

  “Cassie will be so appreciative and happy, she will do anything at all for you, baby.”

  “That works for me, sweet lips. I’ll be just a few minutes longer, so meet me in the suite, not at the bar, okay? Just pick up the room key at the concierge desk. They know you and will take care of you till I get there to do the taking care of.” Clyburn was wealthy, but he was also boorish, crude, immoral, a cheat…and he had a bad sense of humor.

  In the shadows of the liquor store’s south side, four men stood far back in the throat of the alley. Their view was to the street fronting the store. One man moved from the shadows to the alley’s mouth. He stood with his left foot braced against the building behind him, his back leaning into it; he lit a cigarette to wait.

  The Assassin’s instructions were to make the hit look accidental. His plan required Green Turban and three of his biggest people to help accomplish the hit. The lookout posted at the alley mouth saw what he was waiting for; the sentry executed the prearranged signal. Three others saw the sign and moved toward the street.

  Carlos pulled the stretch Lincoln to the curb in front of the liquor store just off North Michigan Avenue. This was the only establishment in the city that specialized in UK imports: ale, liquor, cigarettes, and cigars. Clyburn sat with a property report file on his lap as Carlos put the limo in park and opened his door to run his boss’ errand. He was halfway across the sidewalk when he turned and jogged back to the car. He clicked his key fob remote and opened the rear passenger door. “Sorry, Mr. Clyburn, what was the brand you want again?”

  “Lambert and Butler. Get the menthol kind, but just one pack, Carlos. I’m not about to keep her stocked up with those damn things. You know, if I keep seeing her, I could die of secondhand smoke.” That was true—he was about to die, but not from secondhand smoke.

  Carlos was still leaning into the passenger compartment when three large men attacked from either side. Carlos was not small, but was in no way able to withstand the battery from the alley. The thugs knocked him down and beat him unconscious as a fourth man moved quickly from behind the back of the limo. With his left hand, the Assassin grabbed a handful of Calvin Klein; pulling Clyburn from his seat, impaling him on a five-inch blade steady in the attacker’s right hand as it pierced his heart. Clyburn died instantly, with little blood seeping from the wound. A dead heart no longer pumps. The Assassin withdrew his weapon, pulled the dead Clyburn entirely from the rear compartment, and let him fall face-first onto the sidewalk beside the comatose Carlos.

  “Ya want for me to do dis dude, boss?” he asked, pointing to the unconscious driver.

  The Assassin picked up the key fob from Carlos’ hand and tossed it underhanded to one of his mates. “No, he’s out and didn’t see any of us. Just leave him where he is and beat it.” The three gangbangers jumped into the empty limo. The Lincoln was soon headed south toward Woodlawn. The Assassin’s well-planned attack lasted all of thirty-five seconds. Billy Clyburn would never learn just how grateful Cassie intended to be.

  Classy Cassie waited in the suite; waiting for the man her manager said would come. The terry cloth robe covered what little Cassie was wearing underneath. Black patent four-inch heels, fishnets, and a thin black ribbon around her lovely neck. The outfit, such as it was, happened to be Clyburn’s favorite look. After Clyburn’s call, Cassie phoned her business manager—she hated the word pimp—to tell him of Clyburn’s request to meet him at the hotel. Her El Rukn manager instructed her to send Clyburn to the liquor store to purchase her cigarettes. While she didn’t know why her pimp wanted Clyburn to stop at that particular location, she was pretty sure it would put Clyburn at a distinct disadvantage. That wasn’t good, and meant she probably would never see Billy Clyburn again.

  Once before, Cassie failed to follow her pimp’s instructions, and paid a very serious price. She stayed in the hospital for three months with her jaw wired shut. Oh, her pimp knew how to inflict pain and suffering without leaving marks on her beautiful body. He merely wanted to teach her to obey without question, not to disfigure a profitable asset. When—and in this business there is always a when—Cassie’s usefulness ended for the Blackstone Rangers, disfigurement would no longer be a consideration.

  Cassie answered the door on the first knock. She knew it wasn’t Billy. Clyburn wouldn’t knock, anyway; he had a key to his permanently retained suite. Cassie opened the door, admitting Amiti, who she didn’t know, but was told to expect. He was taller than Clyburn, with a darkly handsome face framed in longish curly black locks. He was clean-shaven, but with the kind of five o’clock shadow she found sexy. This handsome stranger appealed to her, and that was unique.

  The good news was Cassie’s pimp told her this stranger would bring a larger gratuity than what Clyburn always left. The bad news was he didn’t bring her cigarettes. As she led Amiti into the suite, she loosened the belt and let the front of her robe slip open, just enough that her professional assets peeked into view. After all, he is paying dearly for it, right? Why not give him a full value for his money?

  She reached the center of the living room where the back of a large upholstered settee divided the room. She turned toward the stranger and smiled up at him. He saw what she eagerly offered, and his facial expression told Cassie all she needed to know. Slowly the robe slipped off one shoulder; she kept eye contact with him as she let loose the other. Her pink breasts stood proud, her nipples erect. This stranger clearly excited her, and that was special, too.

  Amiti stepped to her and surrounded her waist with his arms, sliding the palms of both hands to Cassie’s beautiful, firm ass. He gently squeezed her tight butt but said not a word. Their eyes were locked as she drew a deep breath. She pressed herself into his groin to find he was standing at attention, ready. She seductively swiveled her hips against him as she unbuttoned his beltless jeans and let them drop to the floor. Still locked in eye contact, Cassie reached down to hold his manhood in one hand, then lowered herself and knelt in front of him. Holding his member with both her hands, she parted her pouty lip to take the moist tip of his excitement into her mouth. Amiti groaned with pleasure.

  With considerable expertise, Cassie decided to progress to another phase of their passionate performance. She rose slowly, running her hands up his calves, stroking his thighs underneath his buttocks and upward to the small of his back. Cassie sensed her elation excited him, a bonus for the client. Cassie didn’t notice when the stranger slipped his blade from his shirtsleeve. Cassie looked up into his gray-green eyes from where her palms caressed his chest. He lowered his head to kiss her; she closed her eyes as his hand encircled the back of her long, graceful neck. She felt his lips on hers—then a sharp pain as his assault knife slipped between her ribs to the center of her heart. She crumpled to the carpet, his kiss still on her lips.

  She’d been silenced, as Green Turban directed. Amiti regretted what he had just done. The one outside connection had now been severed. The trail ended with Classy Cassie.

  The Assassin left the hotel silently by the rear stairs.r />
  Sixteen

  “We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard to remain stupid.” ~ Benjamin Franklin

  TUESDAY EVENING—OCTOBER | The Assassin was told to meet Dallas at Webster Street Square, a tourist spot on the Oakland waterfront. The square is crowded night and day with hundreds of moms and dads trailing after troops of kids from Kansas City or Cincinnati. Other than the larger-than-life bronze statue and a replica of his Yukon log cabin where he lived while writing Call of the Wild, there isn’t much to see about Jack London.

  Dallas had a next assignment rush job and that dictated the Assassin meet with his client. The Assassin did not like anything to be rushed, particularly an assignment. Hurry always led to poor planning, bad logistics, and too many opportunities for errors. He recalled that some information provided to him on the Aspen contract was in error. Dallas made mistakes, and that was unacceptable. Meeting with the client was something he never allowed…but his fee was being delivered in cash tonight. Compromise is, after all, a way of life.

  The stores in Webster Street Square are leased to restaurants, gift shops, and tourist bars. The establishment Dallas selected for the meet was Boyles Bar and Bayside Saloon, alleged to have been Jack London’s historic watering hole. It turned out to be a very touristy joint. It was a good choice, since tourists patronized it, reducing the chance of being recognized by any locals. The locals are wise to the ways of the tourist trade and don’t pay premium prices for their booze.

  The Assassin was here to meet his franchise client, the one ordering the hits. Dallas told him his fee in small bills would fill an attaché case, which is how he would recognize Dallas. The Assassin arrived early, as was his habit. He saw a man lugging a heavy attaché into the tourist bar, moving toward the rear, bumping into a man who’d already exceeded his legal blood-alcohol limit before arriving at the booth where the Assassin waved him over, and he sat.

  “Have you been waiting long?” Dallas asked him, extending his hand to shake. Dallas’ palm was smooth and waxy, his grip limp and weak.

  “No. Try to be calm and comfortable. You look like you just missed the last train out of town. By the way, your choice of a place to meet was inspired. You seem to be very careful, and I appreciate that in a client. In my business one must be alert, or one will soon not have a business,” the Assassin said.

  A waitress took their drink order, then left to pass it on to the barkeep. Dallas was smiling. “After doing business on the phone and dead-drops, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “No, my friend, it is not nice to meet. I never meet with clients. Now you know my face and I know yours. We are now both expendable and dangerous to each other. I suggest you forget my face for your own safety. I would like to conclude our business here as quickly as feasible. May I see your case?”

  The client picked up the attaché from beneath the table and slid it onto the vinyl-covered banquet. Unsnapping the clasps, he raised the lid, hiding the contents from a passerby. Dallas lifted a large brown envelope from on top. Bank-banded bills filled the case. Stacked by denomination—mostly hundreds in five-thousand-dollar bundles, some fifties and twenty dollar packs, but nothing smaller. “Counting it here might prove to be problematic,” Dallas offered.

  “That won’t be necessary. Should there be any discrepancy, there will be a delay in the assignment until corrections have been made. Now tell me who, what, when and where. I don’t need to know why, and, of course, I will determine the how based on those other answers.” The Assassin shut the case and locked both clasps, leaving the case on the seat between them.

  Dallas passed the envelope to him. “Right, the who is still in limbo, but the—”

  “Excuse me a moment,” the Assassin whispered as he leaned into the table toward his companion. “You’ve ordered a hit and don’t know whom you want dead?”

  “It’s not that. There are three potential targets. Only one is needed to make our point, and we haven’t decided on—”

  “What’s with this WE business? I thought I was doing business with you, Dallas. What’s up with ‘we’?”

  “I have associates with a stake in this deal. It’s not anything for you to worry about. The other data is all there.” He pointed to the envelope in the Assassin’s hand. “Relax!”

  The Assassin grimaced. “Relaxing is something I rarely do without a guitar on my knee, so keep your foolish suggestions to yourself.” Pausing for breath, he said through gritted teeth, “You know, I haven’t liked the way these assignments have been handled. For one thing, you gave me incomplete information for Aspen. Also, there are too many cutout people, as in Chicago, and now you tell me you are nothing more than an additional cutout man, a messenger. I do not deal with messengers, Dallas. You make me nervous, and I don’t function well in that state. This situation is not good, not good at all.”

  The Assassin thought, the concern is I didn’t know until now that Dallas is not the principal. I am vulnerable to this weak link. He has always been weak—but now that I know he is only a link in a longer chain, steps must be taken to deal with the problem to make it go away. “When will you have the other information I require?”

  “I gave you most of it in the envelope, along with your large fee. The when is easy. You know we have a short timeline on this one. When will be any time before Saturday morning, three days from tomorrow. You already know the what, but unlike the other two, this assignment need not be made to look like an accident. You are at liberty to use any means as long as the target is eliminated by Saturday morning, okay? The timing is a critical factor.”

  “Go on. Let me hear all your requirements, then I’ll tell you if it’s okay or not.”

  “Fine. The where is dependent upon the who, of course. If it is subject A, you’ll be in Sacramento. If it is either subject B or C, you’ll need to be in southern California. I can phone you with the identity before noon tomorrow. The phone number I used this afternoon will still work, right?”

  “Three days to set up the logistics and execute is not enough time. The contract must be delayed. You want this done correctly, do you not?”

  “I’m sorry for the short notice. It’s not my doing, but no, it absolutely must occur by Saturday morning. Can you do it? Make it happen in the time available?”

  The Assassin focused on Dallas’ face. “What? Do you intend to call in a B team? Merde! This will cost you and your associates more. Call it a rush-job fee. When you call me, you will also confirm that another seventy-five thousand is on deposit in the same offshore account you used for Aspen and Chicago. Call me at exactly eleven thirty in the morning. If you do not, there will be no contract and your associates are out seventy-five large.” He patted the case next to him. “You can call that a cancelation fee,” he told Dallas. He gripped the case, slid from the booth, walking quickly away from the bar into the darkness of the parking lot, and was gone.

  As Amiti walked the path skirting the waterfront toward his rental car, he considered all Dallas had said. Well, my fondest dream of a franchise has come true. But since he can identify me, since he is only a messenger, and since he lied to me, that is the ‘mistake trifecta.’ He must die. What the hell? I did all right without a franchise client before. Yes, he’ll need to be dead, and soon.

  A light rain fell on his hotel earlier this morning. It was coming down heavier and colder on the mountain road he drove to Lake Tahoe. Keating was a careful driver and was familiar with this highway, and the rain. Interstate 80 between Sacramento and Reno passes through the highest elevations in the Sierra Nevadas, with Lake Tahoe in the middle of that stretch. Altitude and winter rain is a dangerous combination. When they lived in Sacramento, Keating, his wife Caroline, and the girls would drive to their condominium in Tahoe at least three times a month. Winter was always his favorite season there, so icy roads were nothing new and Keating knew how to handle the dreaded ‘black ice.’

  After school on Thursday, Caroline drove the family car with the girls up the mountain. K
eating’s long lunch with the auditors kept him at his Sacramento hotel late Friday and into this morning to finish his reports before he could leave to join his family in Tahoe.

  Keating was driving his sports car. He enjoyed driving the responsive machine that ran effortlessly on the highway. The expensive German automobile purred its way up to 70 mph before Keating realized the speed had crept up dangerously. The rainstorm was blowing east, in his direction of travel. Despite the heavy rain cells, this drive always relaxed him. He was eager to see his kids, but he slowed the car to be safe.

  The Keating family condo clustered with three other units on the beach of Lake Tahoe’s North Shore. That is the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe, which straddles two states. The area is unique for several reasons, and among them is the fact it is the second deepest alpine lake in the country, and the borders of California and Nevada meet in the middle, high in the Sierra Nevada range. Permanent residents who live on Nevada’s North Shore pay no state income tax. Those on the South Shore owe their lives to the California Franchise Tax Board. As an accountant and tax lawyer, the distinction was not lost on Robert Keating, so the family claimed residency in Nevada. He glanced at his dashboard clock. Another seventy minutes and he’d be with his family.

  High above the highway on the upslope side of the mountain, the Assassin continued to watch the descending road below him through the rifle’s high-powered scope. He considered the technical aspects; the target would track across his field of fire at 60–70 mph, from right to left, moving downhill. His field of fire would be no wider than eighteen inches, and he would have two seconds to make the shot. The logistics of his plan required the bullet to hit the tire from a distance of two hundred and sixty yards at a steep downward angle. It must strike the tire at a spot exactly one-quarter mile from the sharp bend of the road. Easy, peasy.