The Night Cafe

by Taylor Smith

  If Gladding had been killed at the attack on his villa and she had simply not found his body, then he wouldn’t miss his painting. If he was on the run from his attackers, then he had bigger problems than August Koon’s lost scribbles.

  And if somehow the attack had something to do with the painting?

  Well, she doubted it, but on the other hand, it might be just too much of a coincidence that Gladding had been hit the same day she was meant to arrive with it. Given the professionalism of the three hit men whose shoe prints she’d seen in the dirt, she sure as hell didn’t want to face them down over a splotched canvas.

  No, the painting could stay where it was. All she could do was hope this crummy hotel didn’t burn down before she could figure out what was going on and find out what to do with it.

  Not for the first time, she kicked herself for taking a job that her gut had said was not a good idea. Moises Gladding? Please. Who knew what he was up to these days?

  Who knew? Hannah sank back onto on the bed. “Oh, my God!”

  Travis Spielman! When he hadn’t called her, she’d presumed it meant there was no recent chatter about the arms dealer. Except there had been a phone message—that bizarre call from somebody named Monica, calling from a number she hadn’t recognized.

  That was Ruben, goddammit! Telling her in code not to leave town before getting in touch. Why the hell were those guys playing stupid games?

  Unless Travis did have something to tell her—something serious enough that he was worried about tapped phones?

  “Oh, man, I’m an idiot.”

  She pulled her unruly hair up into a ponytail, grabbed her backpack and the knife she’d liberated from the cantina, and made her way down the stairs, careful not to wake the dozing night clerk as she slipped out a side door onto an alleyway.

  She passed the gardener’s rusted pickup still parked where she left it. She didn’t dare drive it. The cops would have found the gardener along with the others at the villa, and by now, might have an APB out for the truck. She fingered its keys in her pocket. She’d have to wipe them and ditch them.

  She made her way to the Malecón, blending in with the drunks and college kids on spring break who were milling on the boardwalk. A couple of bars were still going strong, but most of the cafés and restaurants were closed or winding down for the night. When she got to The Blue Gecko, the patio was deserted except for a lone waiter sweeping beneath the tables and upturned chairs, a towel tucked into the waistband of his pants. A man and woman walked out of the place arm in arm, waving drunkenly to the waiter before they staggered off down the boardwalk. Inside, she spotted just one customer, the hapless Kevvie of the black eye and fat lip, head down on his arm, probably passed out.

  She waited in the shadows for signs that the place was definitely closing up for the night. Several passing guys eyed her with interest but the expression on her face must have been sufficiently fierce that all but a couple of those walked on. The others she chased on with a hissed, “Get lost, creep.”

  A pair of lovers were on the beach, necking outrageously. Get a room, will you? A few other people, couples or small knots of friends, laughed and chatted as they headed to wherever they were going. She felt the kind of hollow, aching emptiness that comes at two in the morning to those who are utterly alone. What was she doing? She was thirty years old, running around Mexico in the middle of the night, no one needing her, no one missing her. Pathetic.

  The waiter at The Blue Gecko made his way back inside, his outside sweeping done and the last umbrella folded. He propped the broom in a corner, pulled off his apron, then walked over to rouse the drunken Kevvie. The waiter pointed to the clock. Its hands still pointed shyly to half past six, but Kevvie got the message anyway. He staggered to the door, then bumbled off into the night.

  She couldn’t see Ackerman, and it worried her. She hadn’t allowed for the possibility that the ex-spook might not be there. If he wasn’t locking his own place up for the night, then she’d have to find out from the waiter where he lived. She’d ask nicely. Or not.

  Just then, the waiter turned toward the back of the bar. He spread his hands, gesturing to someone out of sight. Ackerman. It had to be. The waiter nodded and locked the front doors. A moment later, the lights went out, leaving only the glow of the Dos Equis neon sign on the wall and a thread of light leaking from the kitchen and office area at the back.

  She hurried down an alley and came up near the back door, where she clearly heard two voices, the waiter’s and Ackerman’s. A shadow fell across the screen as the waiter appeared.

  “Lock it behind you,” she heard Ackerman call.

  “Hasta mañana,” the waiter called back, pulling the door shut. He jangled a set of keys, apparently looking for the right one.

  Hannah yanked the ponytail elastic out of her hair, mussed her curls around her face and hurried over, shifting into her best rendition of a drunken woman on the prowl. The waiter looked up, surprised.

  She pressed a finger to her lips, giggled softly, and slurred, “Shh! It’s a surprise. I’m surprising Donny. Don’t tell.”

  The waiter flashed a lascivious grin but didn’t move. She swayed a little for effect and peered over his shoulder. Surely she wasn’t the first woman to pay the man’s boss an after-hours visit?

  On the other hand, if Ackerman batted for the other team, this ploy was a really dumb idea.

  But then, the waiter shrugged, opened the door for her and stepped aside. He leered as she cut him a sideways glance, and then he pulled the door shut once more. She heard the key turn in the lock. She waited until she heard his footsteps retreating down the alleyway.

  Laying her pack down quietly, she drew her gun and headed for the lighted office at the back.

  Fourteen

  Donald Ackerman was at his desk in the back office, a wad of cash in each hand. He froze as she came through the door, gun drawn, and shock flickered over his face. Surprised to see her at that late hour? Or surprised to see her alive? Whichever it was, his features settled right back into the usual world-weary boredom. What a pro.

  “Be right with you,” he said, going back to his counting.

  Keeping the gun steady, Hannah pulled the spare chair over with the toe of her boot. She settled where she could watch both him and the door.

  Finishing his count of the day’s take, Ackerman folded a half-inch pile of dollars and pesos and tucked them into a pocket, then slipped the rest into a cash box. He closed the lid, locked it and put in a desk drawer.

  “That’s your security system?” Hannah asked.

  “All I need. People know better than to mess with me.”

  “Tough guy.”

  “Nah, I’m a pussycat.” He nodded at her gun. “Nice Beretta. You know how to use it? ’Cause if you do, that’s okay, but if you don’t, I’d just as soon you didn’t point it at me.”

  “I can use it just fine, and I will if you don’t hand over your piece right now.”

  He held up his hands, palms out. “Nothing up my sleeve.”

  “Hand it over, Ackerman. There’s one at the small of your back. I spotted it when I was in earlier.”

  “Jeez, and she calls me the tough guy.” Ackerman reached behind his back.

  “Take it out easy, two fingers only, put it on the desk and slide it toward me.” He did as he was told and she tucked his Glock in the waistband of her pants.

  “Now, open the desk drawers, one by one, all the way out.”

  “There’s no gun in there.”

  “Just the same…”

  There were only two drawers, one per side. He pulled them wide, then pushed his chair back against the wall. It creaked as he leaned back and interlaced his fingers over his stomach. Hannah shuffled the contents of one of the drawers. Nothing but paperwork. The other held office supplies, including a ten-yard roll of Velcro tape. She pulled it out of the drawer and set it aside along with a pair of scissors. Very useful stuff, Velcro. Then, she ducked her head to glance at t
he underside of the desk. Sure enough…

  She backed away. “Now, give me the other piece you’ve stuck under there. With your right hand,” she added. She’d already noticed that he was a southpaw. She just hoped to hell he wasn’t ambidextrous.

  Ackerman rolled his eyes and slid back to the desk. She heard the crackle of the hook-and-loop tape ripping as he pulled another semiautomatic off the underside, his right forefinger hooked in the trigger guard. He slid that one across the desk, too, then leaned back once more, hands up. “Okay. No mas, boss, I swear.”

  “Terrific. Now we can talk in peace.”

  “Oh, goody, a social call.”

  “Not hardly. You want to tell me what went down at your buddy Moises’s place today?”

  “I don’t know. You talk to him?”

  “Nope. Did you set me up?”

  “Why would I do that? I didn’t even know you were coming, remember?”

  “And yet you jumped on the phone the second I walked out the door.”

  “Just checking you out.”

  “Did you set up Gladding?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He’d clean up in Vegas, Hannah decided. He had the perfect poker face.

  “You seem to be real plugged in here, Don, so I’m finding it hard to believe this is all coming as a complete surprise.”

  “I told you before, I’m just a barkeep. I—”

  “Don’t!” she snapped. “Don’t give me that patronizing, good ol’ boy crap. I’m tired and I’m pissed off. I nearly walked into a trap out there, and I really, really don’t like traps. Tell me what’s going on or I swear to God, I’m going to take out your kneecaps.”

  Startled by the outburst, he reached a finger into his breast pocket, but it came away empty—the habitual stall of the smoker. His momentary puzzlement told her he’d recently quit. He’d chosen a bad time to change his evil ways. “Jeez, lady, take a Valium, or something, would you? Remember me? I’m the guy the feds told you to turn to for help.”

  “Listen, one thing I’ve learned about the feds is that they do a lousy job of keeping tabs on the cowboys they run in the field. I wonder if they have any idea the half of what you’re into down here.”

  “So, I take it your business with Moises didn’t go well.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The hour. The gun. That peevish look on your face.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened today?”

  He shrugged. “How the hell should I know? You’re the one who was there.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. They were getting nowhere. She told him briefly what she’d found at Gladding’s villa. “So you can see I’ve got good reason to look a little peevish. Walking into a bloodbath is not my idea of a fun day in paradise.”

  “A bloodbath? That bad, huh? Did they get Gladding?”

  “So he’s not ‘Moises’ anymore?”

  He sighed. “Look, I’m sorry you ran into trouble, but I really didn’t have a clue. Whoever pulled off this op, I don’t think it was our guys.”

  “Our guys? So much for being retired.”

  “Well, semiretired. You know what it’s like. You keep your hand in.”

  “Maybe it was our side,” she said. “They seemed pretty antsy about Gladding’s activities. Maybe you’re just out of the loop.”

  “I don’t think so. That guy has so many irons in the fire, could’ve been any one of a dozen bad actors looking for payback for some past deal gone sour. Or maybe unhappy with the terms of payment on a current contract.”

  “What’s he dealing in these days?”

  “Last deal I heard about was with some rebel faction in Sierra Leone. Gladding was moving grenades, rifles, rocket launchers.”

  “In exchange for blood diamonds, I suppose, the usual currency in West Africa.”

  Ackerman nodded. “You said you were making a delivery to him. What were you delivering?”

  “A painting.”

  “Aha, the plot thickens. Smart lady like you, you’ve gotta know that stolen art and jewels finance arms trades.”

  “The term art is a stretch where this piece is concerned. It’s just a piece of modernist crap that even the dealer thought was overpriced.”

  “What’s it worth?”

  “Gladding paid a quarter mil, plus commissions and my fees.”

  Ackerman frowned. “A quarter mil doesn’t buy much these days. Gladding’s deals usually run into the tens of millions. You sure what you had there?”

  “Yup. I was with the dealer when she picked it up. I even met the artist.”

  “And yet they hit Moises’s place the same day you’re supposed to show up with this piece of dreck. A little coincidental, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yeah, it occurred to me, too. That’s why I’d like to get out of Dodge. I’m scheduled to fly back to L.A. at noon tomorrow, but he made the flight arrangements. I’m worried that if it did have something to do with the painting, somebody might be watching for me.”

  “You taking it back with you?”

  “Nope.”

  “You left it at the villa?”

  “Nope.”

  “So where is it?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  “Pretty risky. If I know Moises, he’s not going to be happy that property he’s paid for isn’t delivered. And on the off chance this painting isn’t just a piece of junk but something he needed to do a deal, the man will be livid. Take my word for it, Hannah, if the guy’s still alive, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”

  “Not the first bad apple I’ve run into.”

  Ackerman shook his head. “Not like Gladding. And he’s got a guy working for him these days who’s a complete sociopath. Torture is too pleasant a word for what he’s capable of. You should tell me where the painting is. If Moises isn’t dead, I’ll see that it gets to him.”

  “Aw, Donny, you’re worried about me. That’s so sweet.”

  “I’m really not kidding.”

  “We’ll see. Meantime, you got an Internet hookup there?” She cocked a thumb toward the computer on his desk.

  He nodded. Hannah picked up the roll of Velcro, got to her feet and pushed the plastic chair up against the filing cabinet. When she pulled on the drawers, they were locked. Perfect. She attached one of the chair arms to the drawer handle with a couple of pieces of the Velcro.

  “Now, my friend, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to sit here.”

  “Come on, don’t do this. I’m one of the good guys, remember?”

  “That remains to be seen. Meantime, I need my hands and eyes to see about changing my flight, and that means I can’t be watching you.” She got to her feet and pointed to the plastic chair.

  With a long, aggrieved sigh, Ackerman switched chairs. She tossed him a couple of strips of Velcro and had him tape his feet to the legs, and then one wrist to an arm of the chair. Only then did she feel safe enough to approach him to fasten the other hand. If he tried to make a move now, he’d be hampered enough to ensure she kept the upper hand.

  Once he was tied down, she logged on to the Alaska Air Web site. There was a 7:00 a.m. flight to Los Angeles and first class was wide open. She switched her reservation and prayed Gladding didn’t have a source at the airline. She had no such confidence about the Mexican authorities at the airport, but she had the international air marshal’s pass from Towle allowing her to bypass airport security. With no bags to check, if she timed a tight arrival at the airport, she might be able to whip in, board the flight and be gone before anyone was the wiser.

  Maybe.

  There was a cot on the far side of the office. Ignoring Ackerman’s complaints, she went over, wedged the pillow into the corner and settled in to wait for morning.

  Gladding spent the night at the apartment he kept in town for visitors he wouldn’t have at his villa and preferred not be seen at hotels. Kyle Liggett had been staying there while they awaited t
he delivery of the painting. Gladding now wished that he had sent Liggett to meet the courier, but Liggett had been delayed getting down here. There had been no reason to think Sergio Chavez couldn’t handle picking up a female courier sent by that second-rate gallery in Malibu. Gladding had felt confident about that—until Sergio had failed to return. Fool. A fatal mistake, as it turned out, not only for Sergio, but also for his wife and child.