Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  “No. He called a little while ago. Said he’d come when it was time. Should I call him back?”

  “Yes. Tell him everything’s ready.”

  “All right, I’ll make the call.”

  “Good. Then everything’s just like we planned. I’ll diversify the triangles, extrapolate the banana seeds and then be over.”

  “You sound strange.”

  “That’s because I’m speaking French.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m putting my life in your hands.”

  “I know. I miss you.”

  Cinnamon paused, this was really freaky. Sammy had seemed a little weird the last few days, but now he wasn’t even making sense. What’s wrong with him?

  Could he have realized she was setting him up? She knew he didn’t think like other people, that he had some kind of super brain. Could he have figured it all out? No. That wasn’t possible. Even Enrico didn’t know her true plan. She was just getting spooked now that it was so close. She had to stick to the plan and not let her fears take control. These were just men, extraordinary men, but men just the same. And she’d handled men her whole life.

  “I miss you too. I love you.”

  A stretch of silence. “You made love to him.”

  “No,” said Cinnamon. “I had sex with him. I never made love to him. You’re the only man I’ve ever made love to.”

  She heard him sob, clear his throat. “This will work,” he said.

  “I know it will, Sammy. Then we can be together.”

  Another sob; the call ended. Why would he fall apart like this? Was he scared? He didn’t seem like the kind to get scared. What then? Did he suspect her?

  The place buzzed with activity. The doors hadn’t opened yet, but there were people setting up the stages, fixing lights, checking the soundboards. There were thirty strippers putting on their makeup, fixing their costumes, practicing their routines, laughing and joking and flirting with the bouncers, bartenders and each other.

  Cinnamon was the opening act and she was ready. It would be her last performance, her last dance. She’d always wanted to save the biggest and best for last and tonight that wish and so many others would come true. She had center stage and there would be over three hundred men in attendance. Not just the usual men either; rich men, important men, politicians, actors, big money gamblers. The cream. She was being paid fifteen thousand dollars for her performance and fifty percent of the tips she received and with this crowd it wouldn’t be ones or fives they slipped her — no — it would be fifties and hundreds.

  After the dance, with her man-trouble ended, she would be free and rich.

  She made the call to Enrico.

  “Is he where he’s supposed to be?” asked the assassin.

  Cinnamon didn’t answer for a minute. This was it, the final decision. She could still call the whole thing off. But who was she kidding? Too late for that — too dangerous for her. She hadn’t asked for either Sammy or Enrico to fall in love with her. That had been their choice. Neither would let her go free, that much she knew for certain.

  “He’s on his way,” she said. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. He doesn’t know that you know.”

  “Good,” said Enrico. “He’ll be dead a few minutes after that.”

  Cinnamon didn’t say anything.

  “You know,” said Enrico, “I’m doing something I’ve never done before. I’m putting my life in your hands. I’ve never trusted anyone like this.”

  “I know. I love you. After this, we’ll be together, and we’ll be rich.”

  “Yes,” said Enrico. “Yes we will. I’m coming now.”

  She hung up the phone, picked up her purse and looked down at the gun inside. If her plan worked she wouldn’t need the gun, but if it didn’t she would have to be brave — strong. She’d have to finish this once and for all.

  64

  Sammy Rothstein

  * * *

  Where No Man Has Gone Before

  * * *

  Sammy stared at the cell phone in his hand. As a kid he’d played Star Trek, watching the old reruns over and over. He always played Captain Kirk and used one of his mother’s flip open makeup compacts as his communicator. “Beam me up Scotty.” Life seemed so much simpler then. Kids made fun of him and he had a hard time speaking and the limp was annoying, but his heart wasn’t broken and the prospect of living the rest of his life feeling hollow and dead had never entered his thoughts.

  He’d watched a special on Star Trek once where the inventor of the cell phone said he’d gotten the idea from the show, one of a dozen or more modern inventions inspired by the voyagers who had boldly gone where no man had gone before. In the series the communicator was sometimes outfitted with a phaser as well. That way if talking to the enemy didn’t work you could always disintegrate them. He wondered if cell phones would ever incorporate a death ray — he could use one right now.

  Cinnamon thought he was at his office, she was wrong. He stood outside Gatling Gams.

  The world was different for him now; he no longer saw things as others did. Musical notes filled the air in visual form, smelling so loud and bitter and sweet that he could barely taste them. Hexagons and polynomials bulged and contracted as if breathing. Colors blazed in exploding conflagrations that erupted spontaneously, showering him with gold and purple flecks and stars. Streetlights, so vibrant and alive they hurt the retina, vibrated dancing numerals that sang in a beautiful chorus with angel’s wings and lion’s faces.

  Sammy walked through the crowding visions, feeling them bounce off his shoulders and chest and merge with his flesh and his soul, trying to steal his attention and pull him away from his task while at the same time urging him ever forward.

  He saw the tall buildings not far away and knew they would be the perfect spot for a sniper. If Enrico were up there he could end him here and now, but when he looked closer all he saw was the myriad display of window glass reflecting back the night and the surrounding lights and sounds.

  She didn’t love him. It had all been a lie. She’d betrayed him in the end — maybe sooner — maybe from the very beginning. The pieces had all fit together completing the picture. He’d been a fool.

  Sammy had put a tap on her cell phone this morning. He did it with a forged court order, an illegal act that would never stand up in court, but then this would never make it to court. No this could end in only one way — death — his, hers and the assassins. They would all die together.

  Walking past Larry Sipes doing guard duty in the parking lot, Sammy acknowledged his greeting with a lopsided grin and a nod of his head. He made it to the front doors, so elaborate and ornate — all for a strip joint. He showed his badge to the bouncers and walked inside.

  The place looked magnificent. The most high-class den of iniquity he’d ever seen. The bar alone, with its twelve-foot high mirror, redwood frame and marble face cost over five hundred thousand dollars; he knew this because he’d scanned over the permits and bills of sale earlier this morning.

  John Doe’s face floated past him, rotating inside a pentagram. He saw the exact spot the severed hand had rested on the plaster-coated floor so many months before. He wondered what effect this opening might have on Sarah, but there was nothing he could do with that. He could barely control the final outcome of his own love’s final tragedy, let alone anyone else’s.

  He’d staged the rookie Elkins outside with an AR-15, little sister to the M-16, older brother to the M4, Dominic’s weapon of choice in the Marines. The weapon specially fitted with a night scope. Dominic’s job was to stop Enrico if he showed up while Sammy waited inside.

  The original plan had been aborted as soon as Sammy realized Cinnamon might be playing him. He’d continued with the ruse only to see if Cinnamon would go through with it or if her love for Sammy would make her change her mind.

  He’d known Enrico would never willingly step inside the club. To do so would require him to literally place his life in Cinnamon’s hand
s. If she betrayed him he would be finished, just as Sammy would have been if he hadn’t planned ahead.

  Sammy felt fairly certain that Enrico wouldn’t make his move until both Sammy and Cinnamon came out because he’d want a clear shot, but when things didn’t go the way Enrico planned he would have to come inside and that would be the end of him. Dominic would try and stop Enrico. The only way to stop the assassin would be to kill him. A man of Enrico’s talents and pride would not be captured alive. He’d enlightened Dominic to this fact and the boy stood ready to do his duty. Dominic, being very apt, might actually succeed. If he didn’t, Sammy would be forewarned and finish the job himself. That was Dominic’s true purpose — to be an alarm; without him, Sammy might be killed before he had time to react. He’d given Dominic the only known picture of Enrico Da Vinci, the one he’d taken himself.

  The fact that he would never know what actually happened in Khost was another disappointment, but compared to the loss he’d suffered at Cinnamon’s betrayal it paled to near insignificance. It would also be sad that Dominic had to die as little more than an early warning for Sammy, but since the boy was probably a murderer anyway he could accept the loss.

  Thoughts hurled through Sammy’s mind, materializing before him as though solid objects, whipping by at tremendous speeds — here and gone — mixed with equations and calculations and theoretical hypothesize. The list of names that Chuck Creed had given him of possible owners of the sap used by the Vigilante Clubber appeared as a rectangle of flame burning in a vacuum of water. The names sparked out at him one at a time. He’d dismissed all of them; three were dead, two were in old folk’s homes, two were still working desk jobs but were too feeble to be capable of the Vigilante’s antics, and the last lived in Florida with his wife. Another failed case that might never be solved now that he was about to die.

  He moved around the bar, past the stage to the hall that led to the dressing rooms. Another hallway branched to the right leading to the back door where Chuck Creed would be stationed. Halfway down stood the closet he was supposed to be hiding in, waiting to surprise Enrico; only the surprise would have been on Sammy.

  Three strippers and a cocktail waitress passed him, all giving him a wide berth and making eyes at each other. He didn’t blame them. He must be a sight. He came to a dressing room at the end of the hall, Cinnamon’s, her name emblazoned across the center of a silver star. Classy.

  Pausing outside the door he considered all he would be giving up; the cases he could solve, the people he could help, the crimes he could stop. He saw Sarah’s face the day they strapped her in the gurney to take her to the asylum, the shriveled hand depleted of blood, the chainsaw, the fingerprint, the footprints, diagrams, measurements, distances, cut angles. They pounded at him with incredible force, morphing into hybrid shapes and colors and sounds and textures. Correlating and spinning and equating and calculating and accusing and begging and demanding. He struck his forehead with his fists, greasy sweat coating his skin. The severed hand pulsed and rotated before him, changing colors as measurements typed out across its surface forming geometric patterns, flashing red and reading ‘error-error-error’. Something wrong, drastically wrong — no — no — not wrong — missing! Some vital clue that would solve it perfectly, that would complete the picture. He was close, so very close. If only he had more time, but no.

  Now there was only Cinnamon and Enrico and awaiting death. He didn’t think he could kill Cinnamon, he loved her too much for that, but it wouldn’t be necessary. Enrico would kill them both. The trick would be in taking the killer with them and Sammy would do just that.

  His hand slid to the doorknob, turned and there she was, sitting before a custom sized mirror, daubing on makeup. She turned to him, surprise creasing those perfectly waxed brows.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  65

  Enrico Da Vinci

  * * *

  The Brush

  * * *

  Enrico watched through a telescopic sight as Detective Rothstein entered Gatling Gams. No breeze caressed his face. The air blazed at ninety-eight degrees with four percent humidity. Perfect shooting weather. He could have put a bullet through the detective’s heart or brain with no trouble. But that would just be killing, an assassination, murder. It would not be art. And Cinnamon deserved art.

  So far everything was going according to plan. The detective had arrived; he would hide in a closet off the hallway that led to the guarded money. When Enrico walked past, Rothstein would emerge and kill Enrico. Only Enrico would not walk past the closet, he would instead empty a silenced clip of ammunition through the door, utilizing heat sensitive goggles much like firefighters used to detect flames in between walls. Once that was accomplished, he would continue on to the back where the money was being guarded and relieve them of that burden.

  That was the plan. However, if Cinnamon were betraying him things would go much differently — hence the rifle — the rifle and the C4.

  The laptop sat next to him on a table near the window, the ear-bud affixed to his ear. He heard Rothstein’s voice, “I’ve missed you.” The voice sounded a bit tinny and a garble of static rode the background, but the audio was legible. He turned to see both their images in a four-block pattern, from four different angles. He’d bugged the entire facility the day he set the explosives.

  “What — what are you doing here — I mean, in here?” asked Cinnamon as she rose from the makeup mirror.

  “I wanted to see you a last time before I got in position.” Said the detective. “If anything should go wrong, I want you to know that I love you. I love you so much.”

  Her expression softened and she went to him. He picked her up, hugging her tight. They kissed. Enrico’s jaw flexed.

  “Nothing will go wrong,” she said. “You’ve thought of everything.”

  “Have I?” He squeezed her close again and sat her down. He nodded. “Yes, I suppose I have.”

  The two of them left her room and walked past workers and bartenders and waitresses to the isolated hallway. The detective stooped down and kissed her on the lips a final time before turning and going to the assigned closet.

  Cinnamon remained motionless for a few seconds, staring after him. Then she turned and walked out of camera range toward her room.

  A block away Enrico let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He wiped away a fine sheen of sweat that had filmed his forehead. Cinnamon had not betrayed him. She loved him. She would be his forever.

  He set down his rifle, started to close the laptop, stopped. He keyed up her dressing room. She wasn’t there. He started flipping through cameras — the bar — the stages — the restrooms — hallways — the main dressing room — but she wasn’t in any of them. Hastily he toggled back to the hallway where the detective hid in the closet — and there she was — slipping behind the door of a storage room down a ways and on the other side of the hallway across from the detective. As Enrico watched she closed the door behind her.

  His phone vibrated on the table beside him; Cinnamon. He answered it. “Yes?”

  “He’s in the closet. It’s time.”

  “I’m almost there,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in my dressing room.”

  Enrico’s jaw clenched again. He fought to control his voice. “Good. Stay there. I don’t want you anywhere near the shooting.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  Enrico closed his eyes. “I will always love you,” he said. “Tonight, you will see art.” He ended the call.

  There could be only one reason for her hiding in that storage room — one reason for her to lie to him.

  She would wait until he approached the closet, then she would call the detective and tell him something had gone wrong, that Enrico knew about him and was almost there. The detective would emerge and the two of them would fight. Perhaps they would kill each other — perhaps not. If not, she would come out to finish off the living.

  He shook
his head. Maybe the blame belonged to him. Cinnamon was what she was. Maybe he should have told her he knew of the money she’d stolen from Barney Marko. The money meant nothing to him, just as the million dollars from the club meant nothing. Enrico had riches to last several lifetimes. Perhaps it would have made a difference to her, but he thought not. He thought the true problem was that she needed to be her own woman. That others had treated her so badly that she felt the only way to grasp true freedom — true happiness, was to have no one over her. He had feared this from the beginning and now it proved to be the case.

  Looking to the detonation device on the table he felt strongly tempted to pick it up and start the destruction, but no, not yet. He would wait until the club filled, until Cinnamon and the detective left their hiding places, knowing their plan had failed, until Cinnamon danced her last dance. And then — THEN!

  Enrico would show them art. He would show them all.

  66

  Chuck Creed

  Sammy Rothstein

  Enrico Da Vinci

  Cinnamon Twist

  * * *

  Chuck’s watch showed the time to be seven thirty-seven when the armored truck pulled up in the back alley. The money was a few minutes late, no big deal, his plan wasn’t really that time sensitive. Chuck had cleared the hallways, telling the staff that no one would be allowed through until he gave the thumbs up. Once they were empty he nodded his head to the biggest of the bouncers indicating he could open the back door. Officer Ted Pearson, stationed outside, kept the area clear. When the door opened he gave the “all clear” sign to the armored car driver, who in turn told the transport guard he could go inside. The guard carrying the briefcase checked their credentials, had both him and one of the bouncers sign a receipt and then handed the case to the bouncer. Chuck followed the bouncer to the back room where the man would wait until the winning name was announced. The second bouncer took up position outside the door.