Still breathing a little hard from the effort, B.U. promptly shook out a cigarette and fired up. Then, streaming smoke, he said, "Listen, men, gotta tell ya—hope you don't mind, but I went ahead and invited another fella to join us on our little fish hunt this mornin'."
Thunderbringer and I both gave a "no problem" response. Plenty of room, the more the merrier and all that. Abby's twelve-year-old son, Dusty, often made a fourth when our crew went out, but on this occasion he wasn't around because he was having a sleepover at a school chum's house in Ogallala. Besides, bottom line, it was B.U.'s boat; he could invite whomever he wanted.
Nevertheless he felt the need to explain a bit further. "This guy's out here for a few days' stay, burnin' up some leftover vacation time he had to use or lose. Easy fella to talk to and shoots a helluva mean game of pool, let me tell you. He's been comin' around the Walley sorta regular. Says he likes the 'ambience' of the place—whatever that means." B.U. blew some more smoke. "Anyway, he showed up for the fish feed last night and stayed 'til near closin' time. Came over and sat at the bar after things had slowed down and me 'n him took to shootin' the breeze. Like I said, he's easy to talk to. Somewhere along the way I mentioned our plans to go out on the lake this mornin' and, well, it just felt natural and polite to invite him along."
"Quit worrying about it, will you?" I said. "Once and for all—it's not a problem."
B.U. checked his watch. "I'm surprised he ain't here yet. I told him five sharp. He seemed plenty eager to...." He let his words trail off and looked around at the row of cabins that comprise the lodge part of Abby's operation. Mine was at the opposite end, farthest away from the beach. Four cabins closer there was one with the lights burning inside and, as Thunderbringer and I followed the line of B.U.'s gaze, we saw the door open and a man emerge. "Okay. Here he comes now," said B.U.
Whoa. Maybe not so okay.
In the moment he was silhouetted in the lighted doorway before killing the switch and turning to head in our direction, his profile with its distinctly oversized nose revealed our new fishing buddy to be none other than the guy calling himself David Gale, aka Dale Garma, notorious New Orleans hit man!
* * *
It all made for a weird, somewhat tense, awkward to the point of being almost comical situation. Thunderbringer and I only had time to throw a couple of what the fuck? looks back and forth and then Garma/Gale was right there in our midst, smiling, shaking our hands, and thanking us for letting him tag along under such impromptu circumstances. B.U. went ahead and made introductions that were only partially necessary and only partially accurate, as far as that goes, since he introduced Garma under his David Gale guise.
After that there was nothing for it but to commence with our fishing. The only alternative would have been to call a halt to the proceedings, confront Garma with what we knew about his true identity, and demand to know the real reason for him being here. But we'd already covered that option last night and decided not to play it that way. We'd agreed to instead hang loose and keep an eye on the guy in order to try and determine his intentions before making any kind of move against him. None of which, unfortunately, we had shared with B.U. Partly because there hadn't seemed any particular urgency to do so. But mostly because we left the Walleye not long after finishing our meals last night while other diners were still packing the place and both he and Mamie were being kept so busy taking care of business that we'd barely had any opportunity to say more than "hi" to either of them all evening. Certainly we would have brought B.U. up to speed once we got out on the lake this morning—that is, if he hadn't unpredictably decided to invite along the very subject in question.
On the bright side, I told myself, holding back an ironic smile as the Let 'Er Buck moved away from the shoreline, what better way to keep an eye on someone than to have them right under your nose as a palsy-walsy fishing buddy? Hadn't no less an authority than Sun Tzu, the ancient military strategist, taught to keep your friends close and your enemies closer? I looked over at Thunderbringer to try and gauge what might be passing through his inscrutable quarter-blood Cherokee mind. Whatever it was, nothing showed on the outside. His expression was as impassive as a slab of stone. Maybe he didn't agree with the teachings of Sun Tzu. Or maybe he simply lacked an appreciation for irony.
* * *
B.U. took us about three hundred yards out toward the middle of the lake and then held that distance from the irregularities of the shoreline as he turned and aimed in a westerly direction. He was, I knew, headed for the Otter Creek inlet where we would drop anchor and make our first casts of the day. Unless someone had recently stopped by the bar with a hot tip on some other spot where the fish were hitting particularly good, Otter Creek was always B.U.'s favorite place to start.
Looking around, I could see the lights of only a handful of other boats out this early. Two or three down by Kingsley Dam and Spillway Bay, one over by the south shore, and a tiny glimmer of one way off toward the west end of the lake. Good, I thought, we'd have things mostly to ourselves at least for a couple of hours.
As we skimmed along, Thunderbringer broke out the jumbo thermos of coffee Abby had prepared for us and poured steaming cups for himself, Garma, and me. B.U. furnished his own coffee—a vile concoction brewed so thick and strong that unwary souls have been known to experience a three-days-without-sleep caffeine high simply from catching one whiff of it. "Cowboy coffee" B.U. called it and claimed the true test for whether or not it's made right is confirmation that a horseshoe will float on top without sinking.
It didn't take long for Garma to reveal himself a surprisingly gregarious sort, full of quips, jokes, and wry observations. I say 'surprisingly' because it was behavior that seemed—to me, at least—out of character for a guy in his line of work. Without that knowledge, I likely would have found him as easy to talk to as B.U. predicted, probably even likable. As it was, I conversed with him only to the point of being sociable but otherwise kept things guarded. Thunderbringer did the same. After all, if the guy was here to do a hit on somebody, and although we'd avoided mentioning it in front of Abby last night so as not to alarm her, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that Thunderbringer or I might even be his target. If that was the case, it didn't seem likely Garma would have been careless enough to expose himself right there at the Walleye like he'd done. Nevertheless, there was no getting around the fact that the big Indian and I each had enemies from the past who weren't above trying to retaliate by putting out a contract on our lives. As far as I knew, neither of us had ever gotten crossways of the Dixie Mafia, but Thunderbringer had also mentioned Garma was know to do freelance work from time to time. So if he was here on business but it wasn't one of us, that could still mean he was looking to snuff somebody, virtually in my back yard. Hardly grounds for feeling at ease, any way you cut it.
Hence, like I said, we were on our guard. If B.U. thought we weren't being cordial enough to his last-minute invitee, he made no comment. And Garma himself continued babbling enthusiastically, like a guy without a care in the world.
That was, until the other boat appeared in our wake—coming up fast, no running lights on.
Garma was the first to spot it. "What's up with this?" he muttered. And in the time it took to say those four words, his whole demeanor changed. Eyes went narrow, mouth pressed into a razor-thin line, his posture tensed and took on a wariness, poised like a predatory animal sensing danger, or prey.
While this transformation was taking place, the rest of us swung our attention to the oncoming craft. In that pale gray, half-light time just before the first actual rays of sunlight reached into the sky, objects were still somewhat blurred and shadowy. But there was enough light to make out that the other vessel was a speedboat, sleek and aerodynamic, with a sharply pointed bow aimed straight for us. Attuned now, I could hear the pop of its prow slapping down on the waves and the low grumble of its powerful engine. The latter wasn't being revved to anywhere near full capacity yet the boat was closing steadily on u
s all the same.
B.U. swore. "Any fool ought to know better than to run without lights while it's still this dark."
A handful of seconds later, the other boat swung abruptly out of our wake and, its engine now gunning louder and stronger, began to rapidly move up on our port side.
"Cut our lights!" Garma ordered B.U.
B.U. heard him but seemed either confused or angered by the harsh command. "What'd you say?"
"I said cut our fucking lights! And then get down! Everybody—fast!"
Garma tossed aside his coffee cup and dropped into a half crouch behind the deck rail and its flimsy side panels. In the same instant he reached with his right hand to the small of his back and, from under the rear hem of his jacket, he drew a nickel-plated .357 Magnum revolver.
The next sequence of events played out like somebody hit the fast-forward button. It was almost as if the acceleration of the speedboat caused everything else to kick into high gear right along with it.
As B.U. was dousing the Let 'Er Buck's lights, Thunderbringer and I dropped into crouches on either side of Garma and drew our own guns. Thunderbringer never goes unarmed, his weapon of choice—and the one he brought into play now—being a .40 caliber Glock 23 with a custom 17-shot clip. I seldom go unarmed either, most days usually relying on a little hideaway 9mm carried either strapped to my ankle or in a pocket holster. This morning, however, in consideration of Garma being on the scene, even before he turned out to be part of our fishing party, I'd upgraded to my old reliable heavy duty piece—a Colt .45 semiauto.
This flashing of hardware hardly went unnoticed by Garma, but neither did it seem to rattle him unduly. "Who the fuck're you guys supposed to be—the Lone Ranger and Tonto?"
"More to the point," I replied, "who are the guys in the boat and what about them turns this to a shooting situation?"
Before he could respond, the guys in the boat gave me at least part of my answer.
As the speedster started to draw abreast of us, I could see it had three occupants. All were clad in black, making it difficult at first to distinguish one from the other. But then I was able to discern a driver, hunkered low over the wheel, with the other two positioned behind him, crowding the starboard side, facing directly toward us. The latter were wielding long objects. Some kind of poles, I thought for a moment. No, rifles, I decided. And then full recognition hit me—shotguns!
I can't say who fired the first shot. It all erupted at once. Shotguns boomed, spouting long tongues of flame and hurling ripping bursts of heavy gauge shot. Handguns roared and bucked in our fists, returning rounds in a frantic broadside exchange.
It was over in a matter of seconds, scarcely a quarter minute. The speedboat shot on past, picking up more speed, giving no indication of turning back for another pass. The shotguns fell silent. Thunder-bringer stood and emptied the rest of his clip after the craft as it angled toward the middle of the lake and faded once more into the gloom.
And then everything went quiet. The only sounds were the soft licking of the waves, the heavy breathing of Garma, Thunderbringer, and me, and the faint metallic snicks as our hands instantly and automatically went to work reloading our guns.
We'd been lucky. The deck railing had provided no substantial cover yet the shotgun blasts—fired at an upward angle from a bobbing, speeding boat—had gone mostly high, only grazing the rail and top edges of the thin paneling.
Unfortunately, there'd been no indication that our return fire had scored much better.
B.U. rose slowly from where he'd jammed himself within the contours of the wheel housing. His cowboy hat was still atop his head, although knocked seriously askew.
"Jesus Jumpin' Christ on a pogo stick!" he wailed. "What the hell just happened?"
I locked my gaze on Garma. "How about it? I figure you can provide the skinny on that better than anybody else."
Garma eyed me, and then Thunderbringer. All three of us still had our guns drawn, aimed nowhere in particular but poised to do so in a hurry, if need be. "All right," Garma said after a beat. "Maybe I do, maybe I don't, But before I say too much, I got a couple questions of my own. For starters, what's the story on you two? You pistoleros are a helluva lot more than just a couple of cow country worm drowners. You guys were ready—maybe not for exactly what happened, but ready for something. Why?"
"Because we recognized you last night at B.U.'s place," Thunderbringer answered. "When a big league mob hitter suddenly shows up in your back yard, it's only smart to be prepared, be on the alert."
"Mob hitter? Who?" B.U. wanted to know.
I ignored him for the time being. To Garma I said, "That was one question. What's your second?"
"Luckily, none of us got hurt in the shooting that just took place. And nobody else was around to see it. What I need to know is are you the kind of upright citizens who feel obligated to run to the cops and report all of this?"
I exchanged glances with Thunderbringer and B.U., who was still looking confused. I cut my eyes back to Garma. "Not something we'd necessarily be in a hurry to do."
The hint of a smile played across Garma's mouth. "Good answer."
"Now wait a goddamn minute," B.U. said. "Before I agree to anything, I want some answers. What's this about a mob hit man? What the hell's going on here?"
"B.U., meet Dale Garma," I said, gesturing. "His regular stomping grounds are down around New Orleans. He works for a mob boss there by the name of Po'boy Meecham. Mr. Garma is what you might call a specialist at, ah, removing things that Meecham finds annoying."
Garma shrugged. "Okay, so you've proven you know a few things about me and that you and the big Indian can handle guns and don't flinch when the triggers make them go bang. That still doesn't give me much of a back story on either of you."
Thunderbringer said, "Hannibal's a PI. He hasn't always lived and worked out here in Nebraska. He's been around some. Me, I've been around, too. These days I'm a fugitive recovery specialist operating out of Denver. Happens I was the one who recognized you. That enough back story?"
"And me," B.U. spoke up, "I'm just a broke-down old rodeo rider who runs a saloon in what used to be a quiet little lakeside community."
Garma was studying Thunderbringer. "Fugitive recovery specialist. Bounty hunter, you mean?"
"Some call it that. I prefer the other."
"You saying there's some kind of bounty out on me?"
Thunderbringer shook his head. "Not that I know of. Judging by this little episode with the speedboat and shotguns, I'd say more like there's a contract out on you."
"Hard point to argue," Garma admitted. His shoulders seemed to sag for a moment. Then, abruptly, he squared himself and a kind of hard, determined glint shone in his eyes. "Look, I figure it's a safe bet we're all out of the mood for fishing now, right? And even though our little firefight don't seem to have drawn any undue attention, it's probably best if we got out of here. So if you're ready to turn back, B.U., on the way I'll level with you guys as much as I can about what just went down."
"The short version is that I took on a freelance job about a month back that turned out to be a set-up. Stupid, stupid play on my part. And that's a fact. Things were going pretty slow with Po'boy and I started getting itchy. So I gave the nod to a couple guys in the know and had 'em spread word that I might be available for a little something on the side."
As he talked, Garma sat totally still, elbows resting on thighs, staring straight ahead. The hard glint stayed in his eyes and the only times his expression changed was when a wave spray would whip up over the deck rail and cause him to blink against the mist.
"That's how I got hooked up with this broad wanted her husband whacked," he continued. "Simple story: Hubbie was cheating on her with some chick half her age. Looked like it was starting to get serious with the young chickie so the wife decided she'd better dump him first, permanent-like, before he tried to get shed of her. Guy was loaded and they had one of those pre-nup deals where the wife would've got peanuts if th
ere was a divorce. I make it look like an accident, she gets everything. Catch was: She wanted to be there to see it." Garma's mouth twisted briefly with a kind of sour smile. "That shoulda been a warning, I suppose, but I agreed—for extra dough, naturally—because I sort of admired the dame's cold-bloodedness, know what I mean? Plus I liked the idea of planning it like an accident. It's good to do a job once in awhile that ain't just gun work.
"So the way I rigged it was to be waiting in a stolen car, engine running, when the cheatin' bastard—his wife's words—came out of his girlfriend's apartment building late one night. The wife was parked at the curb in another car, watching. Hubbie steps out, I stomp the gas and nail him. I take time to check and make sure he's dead, give his neck an extra snap for guarantee, then I'm gone in the stolen heap which I dump in a canal twenty blocks away and hotfoot it clear."
We waited for the rest of it. Thunderbringer and I kept our expressions flat. B.U., listening as he steered the boat, was clearly ill-at-ease with what he was hearing.
"I had my money up front, the deed was done. According to the papers the cops were buying it as one more unfortunate hit-and-run, just the way I'd planned. Everything seemed sweet.
"The first hitch came when I saw news clips of the mourning widow and it wasn't the dame who'd hired me. And then the video showed up. Taken off one of those cell phone recorders, showing me clear as shit getting out of the stolen heap and doing the neck-snap thing after I'd mowed the guy down."
"This video showed up where?" Thunderbringer asked.
"Got delivered to Po'boy."
"Not the cops?" I said.
Garma shook his head. "Getting the cops involved wasn't the idea."
"The woman who hired you—the one who turned out not to be the victim's wife—obviously shot the video from where she sat in her parked car," said Thunderbringer. "But if not to hand you over to the cops, then what? Blackmail?"
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled Page 12
