by J. M. Hayes
Doc opened Colors’ front door and held it for her.
“You say he was little? This ring, it’s big. Would fit a guy with big hands, maybe as big as yours.”
“Not quite that big.” Doc flashed the gold tooth and showed her the way to his office. “But you’re right. Would have almost made a bracelet for Elvis. I figured maybe Elvis has a boyfriend.” Doc thumbed through a file cabinet. “Elvis Presley, here he is.” He handed her the order.
The ring had been expensive and a rush job. Just a month ago. The phone number looked like a cell.
Doc headed for the front door. “I hear some choppers coming. I wanna catch them if they’re speeding. Call him from here if you want. Leave the paperwork on my desk when you’re done. Then come join us for turkey.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Heather said.
The door closed behind him and she pulled out her own cell and punched in the number. She expected it to go unanswered. Or to learn the number was no longer in service. Instead, a man’s voice, high and nasal said, “Blue.” The word was clear enough, and though Blue was not exactly a standard greeting, it certainly brought a response to mind.
“Suede Shoes,” Heather said, prompted by the Elvis reference.
“Check. That you, Angel?” the voice asked. “You find that Dog guy again?”
Heather only knew one Dog guy—her uncle. Angel, she didn’t know, but she doubted she could pass herself off as Angel very long. What answer did he want? What answer might get her more information? She took a guess. “Yes,” she said, keeping her voice soft.
“I got it. You’re whispering, don’t want him to hear. You back at your place?”
“No,” Heather said, and took a chance. “Where you want him?”
“Your place. Like we planned. Keep him occupied till Smith wants him.”
“He won’t go there,” Heather tried, hoping.
“Well, shit. Then take him to the armory.”
Armory? Who the hell had an armory, Heather wondered. “No. Not there either.”
“Well, ain’t that fine and dandy. Where, then?”
“You want him,” Heather said, “you take him.”
The voice went quiet for a minute, then turned smarmy. “You’ll owe me.”
“Sure,” Heather agreed.
“Big time. Know what I mean?”
“Sure,” Heather said again.
“Then bring him. Remember how to get here?”
Are you kidding? Heather thought. She didn’t let the jubilation reach her voice, though, when she said, “No.”
“First right south of the swap meet. Right again. First lot past the one with the boats. You can start thanking me when you get here.”
Heather scribbled in her notebook like crazy. “Whatever you want.” She whispered to Elvis, who giggled a little hysterically before hanging up.
Half way back to her truck, Doc offered her a platter heaped with holiday fare.
“Can’t,” she said. “Got a date with Elvis in the jungle room.”
***
“End your call, Mr. Dog.”
Mad Dog had thought he was alone in the alley. When he turned, he found a young man wearing camouflage a few steps behind him. And the young man pointed a weapon at him. Or was it a weapon? It looked like a toy shotgun complete with a bright yellow butt and grip.
“What?” Mad Dog said, totally confused by how the man seemed to have come out of nowhere and how he knew Mad Dog’s name and, for that matter, who he’d accidentally called on his phone.
“I said who is this?” the someone on his phone answered. “Your voice sounds like a Cheyenne shaman I got to know in Kansas. Is that you, Mad Dog?”
“The phone,” the young man reminded him, looking simultaneously serious and silly in his starched uniform with a beret cocked jauntily over his eyes.
“How’d you know my name?” Mad Dog said.
“Oh come on,” the phone said. “You called me. Is this some kind of practical joke or did you hit my number by mistake?”
Mad Dog recognized the voice on his phone. Considering how his afternoon was going, Sergeant Parker of the Tucson Police Department was probably exactly who he’d most like to talk to just now. Only there was this kid with his uniform and toy gun.
“Your name was included in my field briefing,” the kid said. “Now end that call and drop the phone. You are my prisoner and I require your immediate compliance.”
“Mad Dog,” Parker said. “What’s going on there? Did I hear someone call you their prisoner? Where are you?”
Mad Dog thought he might be able to stall the kid and maybe get some help from Parker if he worked this right. “Did you follow me from Anjelica Grijalva’s apartment to this alley…” Mad Dog glanced at the mountains and added, “…maybe six blocks West of the railroad tracks?”
“Of course,” the toy soldier said. “But the phone…you’ve really got to obey me about that. If you don’t….” His eyes dipped toward his gun for a moment.
“Oh, come on,” Mad Dog said. “That’s not a real gun. That’s some kind of toy.”
“Can you see a street sign, Mad Dog?” Parker whispered. “Are you near some unusual building that might help me find you?”
“Toy?” The boy’s cheeks suddenly sported two bright red spots. “I assure you, Soldiers of the Free State Militia are not issued toys. I could kill you a hundred times over with my regular weapon, but I’ve been ordered to take you alive. That’s why I’m carrying this, instead.”
“So it isn’t a real gun,” Mad Dog said. “I didn’t think so, not with those yellow bits that are an even brighter shade than that two-story Victorian house behind you. The one with the Santa mannequin on the balcony.”
“I know that place,” Parker said. “I’ll be right there, but be careful. There are some strange weapons on the street these days.”
“You’re trying to tell the person on that phone where you are,” the kid said, his voice suddenly outraged at Mad Dog’s failure to respect his authority. “You, sir, are about to discover exactly what kind of gun my Mossberg X12 LLS is.”
“The Mossberg, that’s a Taser shotgun,” Parker said. “It’s for real. A non-lethal stun gun, unless you’re too close. Then the projectile it fires can kill you as dead as any bullet.”
Mad Dog had been tasered before. He had no desire to repeat the experience. And the kid was less than ten feet from him.
“Ok,” Mad Dog said. “Here’s the phone.”
He tossed it, and as he’d hoped, the kid let go of the gun with one hand to pick the phone out of the air. Mad Dog broke for the closest fence. He jumped, caught the top rail, pulled himself up. And then something popped and his brain shut down.
***
Palmer and the professional pulled off Stone and into a parking space behind a radio and television repair facility that looked like it had been deserted since the CD era began. A weathered FOR SALE sign out front reinforced that interpretation, its contact information hidden beneath several layers of graffiti. A couple of other cars occupied the lot—a middle-aged Ford pickup and a nondescript Chevrolet sedan at least half-a-dozen years old. The lot was screened from the street by a six-foot concrete-block wall and an abundance of oleanders that had been getting more attention than the building’s exterior. The businesses on either side appeared abandoned.
The professional let himself out of the Chrysler and offered Palmer a compliment. “Not what I expected.”
“Pays to keep a low profile. Let’s go in. Best not to stay in one place too long, even a place like this.”
That was true. The professional didn’t expect to be here long. Just long enough to finish his business with Mouse.
Palmer pushed a button beside the back door and waited. He waved at the roof. “It’ll be a minute
. They’ll check us out with the cameras first.”
The professional couldn’t see the cameras and wondered if they were really there. Probably.
The door opened and a man who looked a lot like Palmer stepped out and checked the two of them and the parking lot, then stood aside so they could enter. The man was carrying in a shoulder rig under his right arm—left-handed. The three of them stepped into a small room and waited while the second goon secured the door behind them.
“You want to pat me down?” the professional asked.
“If it was up to me,” the guy said. “But Mouse says no.”
“Sign of trust,” Palmer said, though the professional had noticed the metal detectors built into the back door’s frame. His weapons weren’t metal.
Another door opened. A third man, this one dressed in blue jeans and boots and a leather jacket waited within. The next room took up most of the building. At the far end, stacks of boxes and bales of product were neatly lined against a wall. Much nearer, across from the door they entered, was an old desk. It held a computer monitor, a keyboard, a printer, a phone, and the buttocks of a small man with a rat-like face and mousey brown hair. The little guy wore an impeccably cut suit, expensive shoes, and a red power tie held in place by a Mickey Mouse tie tack. He stood, all five feet of him, including the platform heels, and advanced with his hand outstretched.
“Mr. Smith. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.” He took the professional’s hand and shook it—didn’t hold on too long, or squeeze too tight. Firm, manly, but not welcoming. Mouse needed the professional. That didn’t mean Mouse liked it.
“What’s the situation?” the professional asked. “Do you have what I asked for? And are the principals where they’re supposed to be?”
“Straight to business, no chatter,” Mouse said. “I like that in a hired killer.”
“I prefer the term professional assassin.”
Mouse backed up and hoisted himself onto the desk again, his feet well off the floor. “Yes,” he said, though it was clear he didn’t see the distinction. He waved at the man in the jeans and leather jacket. “This is Bill. He’s part of the package you asked for. The rest is in that truck out back.
“Bill, you won’t mind stepping outside and waiting for Mr. Smith, will you? It’s to your advantage not to hear what we’re about to discuss.”
Bill didn’t say a word. He left the room, escorted by the left-handed gun. Mouse leaned back and looked at the computer monitor and the professional decided there must really be cameras covering the parking lot.
After a moment, Lefty returned and Mouse faced the professional again. He recited an address. “That’s where our competitor, Mr. Rabioso, is holed up. Can you remember that?”
The professional nodded. He already knew. Besides, he had perfect recall. He remembered everything, including the pleasure he’d taken from watching the life go out of Nardo’s eyes in that Nogales parking lot. Almost as satisfying as watching the same thing happen to the first man he killed when he was twelve.
First boy he killed, really. Seventeen, eighteen maybe. And big. A bully. The professional had a name then, though he’d had so many since it no longer meant more than the others. He’d been clumsy and slow the first time. But his piano-wire garrote bit into the victim’s neck, cut through skin and flesh and the boy couldn’t get hold of the wire while the professional slowly tightened it. The bully took a long time to die. Using the garrote and tightening the wire had been agonizing because of the burns on the professional’s hands—where his mother had decided to put out her cigarettes the night before. The professional liked remembering the look on the bully’s face. Liked reliving every moment of every kill.
“Hey,” Mouse said. “You still with us?”
The professional was surprised. He’d let his attention slip. That was not acceptable.
“Yes,” the professional said. “Go ahead.”
“It’s a safe house. Rabioso thinks we won’t find him there. He has four men with him. Some others come and go. I don’t know exactly how many are in the house at the moment. You wanted him to feel safe so I’ve kept a loose watch on him.” Mouse shook his head. “This part seems foolish to me. I have enough men to go in and take him out. Especially if Cowboy and his people help. It would be messy but certain. How will you do it alone?”
“I won’t be messy,” the professional said. “Besides, you and Cowboy are turning on Rabioso to steal his territory. Do you trust Cowboy not to do the same to you? Do you want Cowboy to know when the real Rabioso goes down?”
Mouse rubbed his chin. “I hope you’re right,” the little man said, “and that you’re as good as you claim.”
“Watch and see,” the professional said. “Now, what about the others?”
“We set up our false Rabioso. The Grijalva girl lost him. I understand they killed her for that. But they’ve reacquired him. No problem there. And Cowboy’s people took the bait. They’re maintaining loose surveillance on that Rabioso the way we are on the real one. Using this false Rabioso brought that girl you wanted off the reservation. She’s trying to find him like you said she would. And I’ve got a man following her for you. She went to a biker place on Speedway a few minutes ago. You mind telling me how she fits in?”
“She’s not directly related,” the professional said. “She’s part of what you’re paying me.” In fact, she was the reason the professional had taken this job. She lived here, and he had unfinished business with her. He’d faced her before and she’d beaten him. No one else had ever done that, except his mother, who’d inconveniently stepped in front of a speeding truck before the professional got around to repaying her for nurturing him through childhood. Heather English excited him. She was worthy. Or nearly so. He would face her again. He would fight her. He would finish her this time. And if he made millions on the rest of this, that was just icing on the corpse.
“And I’m paying you a hell of a lot of money,” Mouse said. “I don’t care about the girl. Just curious. The way I’m curious to know how you managed to get all of Southern Arizona’s law enforcement tied up on that reservation. The new governor, that’s the rumor I’m hearing. Is that possible?”
“Where I’m concerned,” the professional said, “anything is possible.”
Mouse shook his head. “Then I am impressed. If you can take Rabioso fast enough, the extra million I’m paying you to betray Cowboy will be worth it. My people will control Rabioso’s operation and cripple Cowboy’s before nightfall. Talk about a Christmas present.”
The professional didn’t say anything. He watched Mouse.
“Do you need anything else?” Mouse asked, growing uncomfortable under a stare that never seemed to blink.
“No,” the professional said. “I think I have everything I need to insure satisfaction.”
Mouse got off the desk and offered his hand again. “I like that too—satisfaction guaranteed, and before final payment.”
“Yes,” the professional agreed. “But sometimes satisfaction is more important than payment.”
“What?” Mouse looked confused as the professional slammed his palm into Mouse’s face, driving the little man’s nasal cartilage into his brain and killing him instantly. The professional pivoted and kicked the left-handed thug in the crotch before the man began to react to what had happened to his boss. The professional planted a palm strike into Palmer’s sternum almost simultaneously, interrupting his attempt to pull his gun. Both men collapsed, temporarily unable to defend themselves. The professional would have enjoyed taking time to finish them in some creative fashion, but he had another use for them. He pulled a small plastic syringe from its hiding place in his sports coat and injected each with a drug that would keep them unconscious for hours.
Bill was waiting out back in the old Ford’s cab. The professional handed him a map and an address.
“Go there,” the professional told him. “Knock on the door. You’re expected. Then wait for me. Don’t speed, but don’t waste time. Mouse hasn’t got all day.”
In fact, the professional thought, Mouse didn’t have more of this day, let alone any future ones.
***
Sheriff English hadn’t driven by the Porter place in ages. He was surprised at how dramatically it had changed. Fresh earth had been graded up to the edge of the ditch so that none of the yard could be seen from the road. Just the second story of the house showed, and all the windows up there were shuttered closed. There was no hint of the allegedly damaged decoration—lights in the colors and shape of an American Flag. The only flag stood atop a pole and flew, the sheriff was shocked to see, upside down.
Political protesters had been known to fly American Flags upside down. Dave and Marian Porter weren’t the type. In fact, the sheriff had heard they were pretty conservative. That left the sheriff considering whether they might be flying an upside-down flag for its original purpose—a distress signal.
The sheriff turned into the drive, which now curved through the new berm on the other side of the ditch. It brought him to a steel gate that could be pulled aside, though not without effort, on wheels mounted along its base. The sign, KEEP OUT – THIS MEANS YOU, further confused him. This was Benteen County. Friends and neighbors and even occasional lost strangers in search of directions were always welcome. But apparently not by the Porters.
The sheriff shut off the Taurus and climbed out. He still couldn’t see most of the yard or any part of the lower floor of the house from the gate. He pushed his hat back and considered what to do. With his bum leg, he’d play hell climbing that embankment.
“State your name and business.” The voice was tinny and hard to understand and it took the sheriff a moment to discover it came from a speaker on a post beside the gate. There appeared to be a microphone beside it. The sheriff bent and spoke into it.
