by Tony Bulmer
Martino felt his blood run cold in the heat of the night. He felt the snub-nosed Smith and Wesson pressing hard and angry in his waistband. He knew that the time was soon.
‘So what we got in the goody-bag anyways JC? You were going to share the booty around, right? Not thinking of keeping it all to your self, were you partner?’
‘Why don’t you reach it out and take a look?’ said Martino quietly.
Diego snickered nastily, his face ghostly in the dashboard light. He reached down into the foot-well, his thin fingers closing greedily around the rucksack, uttering an exclamation of excitement and surprise when he felt the weight. He lifted the bag onto his lap and rifled through it, with a hoot of excitement. ‘No wonder you were keeping this close JC, these are some of the choicest pieces I ever seen, real top draw tools.’ He stopped, turned to Martino, ‘You were going to tell me about these, weren’t you?’
‘Sure. We just got caught up is all,’ drawled Martino smoothly.
Diego looked at him suspicious, his wet lizard tongue darting quickly.
‘Caught up—you fucking kidding me? You were holding out on me weren’t you partner?’
Martino shot Diego an ugly look. Saw the deformed weasel face staring back at him defiant. Martino felt a red hatred, geysering up inside. He never noticed as the car drifted into the bend, the wrong side of sixty. The tires screamed out in protest. He hit the breaks, pumped them for all he was worth, but it was too late—way too late for that.
Headlights coming towards them around the mountain turn.
The oncoming vehicle veered in front of them, horn blaring wildly.
The rear wing clipped the Honda on the near side, a fractional impact, with micro second timing. Dazzled and overcome, Martino failed to correct.
The Honda hit the rail, a glancing blow that flipped the car over in a cartwheel spin. Tree branches glass and a furious torrent of night air rushed into the car. The air bags triggered.
A violent, jarring impact, then another.
The sound of the whirring motor winding into it’s death throes, a hiss of steam and the clatter of falling debris, then nothing.
THE SEX NET 43
‘Where’s the girl?’
‘How should I know Costello? What am I, her mother loving keeper now? She must have split out of here, disappeared into the crowd.’
I stood on the running board of the Dodge and stared into the thronging crowd on Santa Monica Boulevard. No sign of Louanne Varga. The girl had disappeared into the night. I prayed she was safe, prayed she would come good and make something of her dreams. But the approaching sirens told me otherwise, told me that good things never happened to girls like Louanne, especially when they were hooked in hard, to a world of fast living and easy money kick backs.
I slid into the drivers seat, and headed out. Moving through the crowd with building speed. I played for safety, turning the Dodge South, towards the Marina. No one would hurt my children, I would make sure of that. I had plans—plans that would keep the children safe until this whole ugly business was done.
I told the kids they should ring their mom, tell her they were OK. Dakota couldn’t find her phone, so I let her use mine. Kimberly wasn’t pleased. In fact she was very far from pleased, and when Paris finally told me I had to speak to her mom. I was ready for the brutal onslaught.
‘Daniel Costello, you have some kind of nerve, forcing those girls to ring me up like this, and unless you get both of them over here right now, you are going to have a whole shit-storm of trouble, that will make your problems with the Los Angeles Police Department look like a day at the beach, and you can fucking trust me on that bucko.’
Bucko.
Owch. No one has called me that since grade school, apart from my Pops. My Pops is a rampaging know-it-all too.
Kimberly was pissed. So pissed she was seeking refuge at her parents palatial Bel–Air spread, with her snide-faced lawyer mouthpiece Weinman in tow. Judging from her slurred tone, Kimberly had been inhaling extra dry-Martinis for some time. Without the parasol and cocktail olive presumably, but I am only guessing there.
‘I thought you would be pleased.’ I said simply.
‘Pleased? You have got to be kidding. Your jailbird cohorts kidnap our children at gun-point, and you expect me to be pleased?’
It didn’t matter what I said, earnest denials had no place in Kimberly’s world of conspiracy theories. Weinman and her crazy mom would be no doubt fuelling this latest flight of fancy, with their own blend of poisonous rhetoric, so my chances of talking her down from her state of over-amped hysteria were virtually non existent. Naturally, I let her speak to the children at length, but this failed to allay her fears. In fact, if anything, it made the situation worse. Kimberly had an annoying tendency towards the dramatic, an attribute that was exacerbated in times of stress, or stigmata dripping martyrdom.
‘The children are fine,’ I said.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ snapped Kimberly.
‘Well you heard what they had to say honey, they don’t want to go back to the house tonight and I cannot say I blame them.’ I cringed. The thought that I had called the ex honey both surprised and appalled me.
‘This contravenes our court ordered agreement Daniel, you realize that don’t you?’ hissed Kimberly.
‘I am sure that you will agree, the wishes of the children take precedence over the half-baked crapola you and your screwball lawyer dreamed up, over cocktails at the country club?’
I could hear a jangling chorus in the background. The shrill, deathly call of Kimberly’s mother—Why had I ignored the pre-nuptial portents?—followed by the grating tenor, of her merciless brief Albert Weinman. The guy was a real piece of work, a hatchet grinding Bel-Air attorney with a reputation for ruthless, head-severing advocacy. The words contempt and injunction, wafted down the telephone line, with a thinly veiled, wait until the Judge and Child Services hear about this sub-context. I stood resolute. Asked Dakota if she would like to speak to mom again. She gave me a do I have to eye roll and held out her hand for the phone, her lips twisting sideways with disapproval.
Dakota examined her nails restlessly, listening to the full gamut of threats, coercion and tearful, what will gran-mammy think, bullshit.
‘I love you Mom, but we are staying with daddy tonight,’ concluded Dakota, the finality in her voice was firm, but gentle. She handed the phone to Paris who confirmed the verdict, before signing off with a love you farewell.
In the dark seconds after Paris closed the phone, the silence was ominous. Joe flipped me a glance.
‘If you have one of your so called witticisms to add, you better can it,’ I snapped.’
‘I ain’t saying nothing that hasn’t been said,’ sniffed Joe,‘ besides I wouldn’t want the old witch sticking my effigy with another nail, that shit is starting to hurt Costello.
‘That is our mom you are talking about uncle Joe.’ Interrupted Paris archly.
‘Since when did I become uncle Joe? I ain’t your real uncle, you know that don’t you?’ asked Joe.
As we cruised Admiralty Way, towards Marina Del Rey, Joe called Semo. Told him to start the engines on The Naja.
‘They are going to be watching the Marina, you know that don’t you?’ I asked, ‘The cops, Rothstein’s people, probably Kimberly’s legal goons too…’
‘Affirmative,’ snapped Joe ‘We rendezvous at the beach.’
He gave me a look.
I cracked a smile. The girls would be safe on the boat. When it came to the oceans, Joe Russell was a maritime legend. Like Ernest Hemingway, but with more guns and explosives.
By the time we got to the ocean, a flat-bottomed Marine Corps lander was waiting surf side. A spotlight flashed out through the darkness. The launches high-powered engine growling out above the sounds of the ocean as we approached. I switched off my beams and pulled the Dodge onto the beach, driving down towards the soft breaking surf.
‘What’s with all the weird Dad? Asked
Dakota.
‘We are working a mission kid, you understand?’ I flipped her a wink and my patent Bogart smile.
Dakota rolled her eyes, made tut-tutting sounds. I don’t believe the child has even heard of Bogart—Kids.
As we approached the boat a dark figure bounded out of the night towards us. Max! The big guy had obviously missed me—his giant sand covered paws impacting my shoulders, as he leaped up for a wet slobbering kiss. I ruffled his head and he bounded around in circles with madcap delight.
I peered into the gloom to see the figure in the boat
A voice carrying through the darkness, ‘You goofballs going to stand around on the beach all night?’
Inez—in black commando gear, at the stern of the Lander, fighting the tide like a pro.
Paris said, ‘I am not getting in that tiny boat, I get my new shoes wet I will just die!’
I picked her up, carried her through the boiling surf, sliding her into the landing craft. She squealed and kicked her legs, like she was three years old. Dakota didn’t even take her shoes off—she waded in behind me and climbed in the boat like she was heading out on a Six Flags fun ride.
Inez had blankets waiting. She wrapped them around the children’s shoulders gently, tenderly, as I steadied the boat in the surf. The kids looked cold, vulnerable. ‘You coming Daddy? Please come with us,’ pleaded Paris, the sound of her voice disappearing into the roar of the surf.
‘I am going to have to take a rain check on that for now sweetheart, I got business to attend to,’ I smiled grimly. ‘But we will do breakfast, fried fish on the BBQ just the way you like.’
The kids looked at me wild eyed and uncertain. Dakota said, ‘You will take care Dad won’t you?’
‘Sure I will honey, I got Teflon pants on and everything, now you play nice with your sister or there will be questions asked at the highest level.’
The kids looked glum. Inez said ‘Don’t sweat it Costello, we are going fishing, what is the worst that could happen?’
‘These two give you crap, throw ’em over board, you hear me?’
‘Aye, Aye, Captain, where are you headed?’
‘Over to Encino, to see a certain diamond merchant.’
‘I figured you might. I mailed you nav’ connections, home address, business addresses, the whole nine.’
THE SEX NET 44
Heavy. Everything white, the feeling of suffocation, claustrophobia pressing in around him. Alive? Dead? Or something in between? Martino struggled to turn his turn his head, but couldn’t. Panic rose within him, he fought out against it, struggling now, against the marshmallow whiteness. Something more, the soft smell of fresh cut pine enveloping him. Perhaps he was dreaming? As he floated through the world of dreams, he couldn’t remember having gone to sleep. He blinked, the broken feeling of a hangover building in his head. He scrunched his eyes, figuring he hadn’t been drinking, so he shouldn’t feel like this—no way. As he pondered the injustice, a new feeling overtook him, an overwhelming sensation of gravity, like he was being sucked downwards by forces too powerful to resist. He tried to make sense of the feelings—but couldn’t, his brain, reverberating to a hellish beat. His head hurt bad, real bad. Trying to raise his hand to investigate the damage, he found himself powerless, his limbs hanging lose, like they were floating away from him on the night breeze. He struggled against the paralysis, but the mysterious weight gripped him tight.
A groaning metallic sound.
The hiss of escaping steam.
Then plummeting downwards with a sickening jolt. The branch came in through the window, then another, in an explosion of broken wood and pine needles.
A tree. The car was in a tree. Martino felt a surge of adrenaline. He fought out against the whiteness—an air bag, of course, an air bag. Reality flipped back fast. He remembered harsh words with the Saint, remembered skidding out of the oncoming headlights, then nothing… He pressed down on the airbag, didn’t like what he saw, tree branches—a lot of them, disappearing down, into an endless blackness. They were in the canyon for Christ’s sake, hanging in a tree like a goddamn Christmas ornament. Martino felt the adrenaline build. They could be a hundred feet in the air, or higher, some of those old trees in the canyon, they were monsters—a thousand years old or something—he had seen it on the Discovery Channel.
Martino felt the pressure of the seat belt cutting him in two. He had to get out, but how? He popped the belt now and he would fall downwards through the tree into the endless blackness below. He knew one thing for damned sure, he was not going to free fall into the blackness, no way! He turned to the Saint. You see what you gotten us into dumb ass?
The Saint said nothing.
Martino cursed. He pounded the steering wheel with his fist, then cursed again. Then he allowed himself a soft rueful chuckle. Cheated. Cheated for the last time. Martino turned back and soaked in the scene. The Saint didn’t look good. He hadn’t been wearing his seat belt, so what did the punk expect? Martino stared in wonder, at the damage the impact had inflicted on his partner‘s face, the damage was brutal, horrific. A blood crazed spider-web over the remaining part of the windshield told the story. The Saint had hit the glass hard and in return it had smashed his face good. The kid had been no oil painting to start with, but now… Martino couldn’t tear his eyes away. The punk! The goddamn no good punk! Martino reached into his waistband and pulled out the snub nosed .45. He leveled it side-on with difficulty and started shooting. He emptied every last slug into Diego’s lifeless body, didn’t stop until the chamber clicked on empty. Then he started pounding, hitting the corpse over and over again with the empty revolver, until he could raise his arm no more. The gun hung down, dangling from his fingers by the trigger guard. The temptation to let it drop into the darkness was overwhelming. He resisted, allowing his fingers to close around the grip once again.
He pulled himself back, realizing with shock, that his face was wet with tears. He checked himself, made sure he was ready—then popped the clasp on the seat belt.
THE SEX NET 45
‘They are going to have the make on the Dodge for sure,’ said Joe. ‘The cops ain’t stupid, and neither are the Rothstein crew.’
‘What you suggesting?’ I asked.
‘We pull a switcheroo. I say we take the ’Vette and ride the Freeway to the Valley, that way we can move anonymous, blend with traffic.’
I pulled the Dodge on to the parking lot next to the beach and let my thoughts coalesce momentarily. ‘We ain’t got time to blend,’ I said, but I knew he was right, at least half right. ‘Picking up the ’Vette is too much of a risk, the cops will have the quay staked out for sure.’
Joe gave me the look, ‘What you think this is, amateur hour? I got my wheels corralled in Fat Tony’s back lot.’
‘You think the cops ain’t looking for the ’Vette?’
Let them look, I know one thing for damn sure, we ride in the ’Vette they ain’t going to get the make on us as quick as if we ride in this hot-rod fire engine of yours.’
I said, ‘The Dodge is a custom classic.’
‘Sure it is.’
I let him have it, but we both knew it was true. ‘We ride the Canyon, it is quicker.’ I said
‘If I drive it is,’ said Joe. Again the look.
I didn’t need to take the rise, I just burned out onto PCH, with a burst of acceleration so furious that Joe’s skull snapped backwards into his head rest.
‘Hey, point taken fast and furious, but you might want to throttle back on the gas for this mission.’
‘Deep Cover is my middle name,’ I said.
‘Hilarious,’ deadpanned Joe.
I moved out into the night traffic, heading South through Ocean Park to Venice. The traffic was running heavy. I rode the inside lane the whole way, tucking in anonymous, behind the car in front and keeping my speed down under the limit. Traffic burned past on the outside. I let them go and before long we were riding into the Marina. Fat Tony’s lot was still busy with the
night crowd, it was that kind of place. I cruised slow. Joe directed me to the dark end of the lot. I drove the perimeter, round back of the dumpsters, to the staff parking area and there it was, tucked in behind a delivery truck and an SUV. Joe’s prized Corvette. I cruised down under the security lights and reverse parked close to the kitchen, figuring I would drop Louie the night manager a fifty, to keep an eye on my baby. I walked into the kitchen and said hi to the crew. Louie didn’t want my money. He wanted to make me supper, sandwiches at least, he said. I told him he was cool, and dropped him a couple of bills anyway.
By the time I had got outside, Joe had pulled the ’Vette out front of the kitchen, revving the engine impatiently. Pulling open the passenger door I stopped short. ‘You kidding me?’ I asked.
Joe pulled a pained expression. ‘Quit it with the yackety-yak and get in would you Costello?’
I shot him a taught smile, indicated the gun case propped in the passenger seat, ‘You think I am riding with your damn machine gun on my knee?’
‘I have attachment issues, besides, I might need it’
‘No doubt, but I am not riding around town with a loaded M16 on my lap.’
‘What makes you think it is loaded?’
I shot him another look.
‘OK, so it’s loaded, you think it would be any use if it wasn’t. You sound like one of those local ordinance whiners at City Hall Costello.’
‘Some one has to be the voice of social responsibility in this company.’
‘Social responsibility, that’s good Costello, real good I will remember that one when those jail house punks Rothstein has running round for him blow you a new asshole.’
The rifle goes in the trunk.
He sulked of course. Told me if I wanted to put it in the trunk, I was going to have to put it there myself, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to. I raised my eyes to the heavens and got out of the car.
