The would-be mugger screamed in pain as his right arm dangled, useless.
Whirling, Barry kicked the first punk in the balls, doubling him over, puking, on the asphalt. Barry then calmly, and with much malice aforethought, deliberately kicked the punk in the face, just as hard as he could. Without turning around, smelling the other craphead close behind him, Barry drove his elbow into the guy’s stomach, just at the junction of the ribcage spread. The air whooshed out of the punk and Barry turned, bringing his balled fist down on the back of the man’s neck. The man dropped to the parking lot. His neck looked like it was broken.
The old Fats Domino song came to Barry’s mind: “Ain’t That A Shame?”
Barry straightened and looked around him. No witnesses. Good. The dimly lit parking area was void of human life, not counting the shitheads on the asphalt. And Barry didn’t count them as human.
He had no intention of calling the police. He knew that very little, or nothing, would come of that, except he’d be tied up in court, watching some asshole judge turn the men loose. And then Barry would probably be sued by the very crapheads who’d tried to mug him. For violating their constitutional rights, of course.
One of the punks moaned. Barry kicked him in the head, dropping him back into unconsciousness. As he did, a gun slipped from the man’s belt, clattering on the asphalt.
“Cute,” Barry muttered. He picked the gun up and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Looked like a nice .380 automatic.
He waited until a car passed by, then dragged the men to the alley behind his office and stuffed them into a dumpster, none too gently. He patted each of them on the head and walked away, toward his car. He had worked up an appetite.
Barry went to his apartment and fixed a salad and sandwich and a large glass of milk, taking the tray into the spacious den. He kicked off his shoes and sat down in a lounger. He tried the TV while he was eating, but there was nothing on the tube that seemed to hold his interest.
He finished his late meal, rinsed the dishes and stuck them in the dishwasher, along with the other dirty dishes. A typical bachelor, Barry detested washing dishes. When the dishwasher got full, he turned it on. A maid came in once a week to handle the other housekeeping chores.
He showered and hit the sack. He slept better than he had in months, due in no small part to the fact that he turned off the phone before he went to bed.
The police were waiting at his office when he arrived the next morning.
They weren’t totally unexpected. Barry had felt that when the would-be muggers were discovered—if they were discovered before they could wander off—the cops would run a check on who owned the building and who leased the offices.
The county cops knew who Barry was and what he did for a living. And this wasn’t the first time he had hammered on thieves.
The first time, when he had just moved to his present location, Barry had played it the straight and legal way—calling the police, making his statement, going to the police station, enduring all the annoying bullshit. Finally his case had come to court. The judge gave the crapheads three years’ probation. They turned around and sued Barry. They moaned and whined and sobbed and told the jury how the big bad ol’ man had beat them up, breaking some of their bones in the process. It just hadn’t been necessary to use all that force, man. All they’d been doing, they explained to the jury, was breaking into the guy’s office, trashing it, tearing up some old stuff, and stealin’ some other stuff.
Barry settled out of court for five thousand bucks apiece. It cost him weeks of lost work, thousands of dollars in legal fees, untold aggravation, plus the settlement.
“Gentlemen,” Barry greeted the cops. “Something I can do for you?”
“Perhaps,” the older of the cops said, his streetwise eyes inspecting Barry. “Two young men were found in the dumpster behind this office complex last night. They had been badly beaten. They’re both at the hospital.”
“At taxpayer’s expense, I’m sure,” Barry said dryly. The cop had not said “in” the hospital, but “at.”
The cop’s eyes narrowed at that crack.
But this time Barry had done his best to foil any legal work on behalf of the street-slime. He had carefully washed his shoes after going to his apartment. He had then spitshined them, in high-gloss military fashion. He had dumped his shirt, underwear, and socks into the washer, then into the dryer, and folded and put them away. He had dropped off his car at a service station, after vacuuming it out that morning, to have it washed and vacuumed again. He had field-stripped the .380 and dropped the parts off at various trash cans.
Now let the cops do their best with what they had to work with.
Barry had no beef with the cops—they had a job to do and had to do it—it was the legal system that annoyed him.
“Would you know anything about the young men, Mr. Rivers?” the cop asked.
“I know I didn’t give you my name.”
“We checked.”
“I’m sure you did. No. I don’t know a thing about the young men.”
“Did you work late here last night, sir?”
“I certainly did. I worked until about nine-thirty or ten, then locked up and went home.”
“And you didn’t hear any sounds of a struggle or a fight while you were here?”
“Not a peep.”
“See anyone hanging around when you left the building?”
“No one.”
“Of course you would have notified the police had you seen anyone suspicious?”
“Oh, of course, officer.”
The cop smiled at him. Turning to his younger partner, he said, “Make one more sweep of the alley, Jimmy. Take your time.” His partner gone, the cop looked at Barry. “Don’t bullshit me, Mr. Rivers. You were Seventh Special Forces, I was Tenth Special Forces. I did a little checking on you, early this morning. You got burned by some crapheads some years back. Now you know our legal system has some holes in it, but it’s still the system we have to live by and with. You’ve hammered on punks before, Mr. Rivers. Since that time you got burned. Outside that supper club not too far from here was one. The second was that time at the airport parking area. Probably more, but those come to mind. Oh, we can’t prove it, so relax. It’s just that you were in the area those nights, and you’re hoss enough, with the right temperament to do it. OK. Fine with me, Mr. Rivers. I share your opinion of thieves. Just don’t bullshit me, Colonel.”
Barry smiled at the man and the man returned the smile. “What do you want me to say?” Barry asked.
“Nothing. It’s over. The punk with the busted face won’t talk, and the one with the broken neck died about five hours ago.”
Barry did not change expression. Like the man had said, “at the hospital.”
The cop grunted. “You’re a cold one, Colonel. I’d sure hate to make you mad at me.”
“Have a nice day, officer.”
3
“What in the world was that all about, Barry?” Maggie asked.
Barry told her, while his other coworkers, and his partner in the firm, Jack Morris, gathered around and listened.
When Barry finished, Jack shook his head in disgust and said, “This damn place is getting worse, not better.”
Barry laughed and patted his chubby partner on the back. “Signs of the times, Jack.” He motioned his partner into his office and waved him to a seat.
“Anything serious?” Jack asked. Jack was a constant worrier; he just wasn’t happy unless he had something to fret about.
“Nothing at all, Jack. I’m going to take a vacation, that’s all.”
“Oh. Well … good! You had me worried. Hell, Barry. You’re certainly due a vacation. You haven’t had one in … what? Two-three years?”
“Something like that. I don’t know how long I’m going to be gone this time.”
That worried look again. Now Jack seemed more natural. “The specs we’re working on for the Pentagon?”
“I’m getting on them
today. If I can finish them, I’ll pull out on Saturday. If not, whenever I finish, I’ll leave. I’m going to take several weeks, Jack; maybe a month. But I’m not going to leave anything hanging. Maggie can run this part, and I’ll keep in touch.”
Jack rose with a grunt and a smile. “Then, I guess we’d all better get cracking.”
The remainder of the week passed by in a blur of work. Barry called his father, who assured him everything was just fine. Just a stupid accident.
But Barry knew his dad too well. His dad was worried about something, and it was something he wasn’t going to let his son in on.
Barry had one brother, one sister. His younger brother, Paul, was an attorney in Baton Rouge. His sister, Donna, the baby of the family, was married, and lived in Houston. Barry and Paul had never been close. Paul was studious and very reserved and had never approved of Barry’s lifestyle. And Barry had never approved of his brother’s chosen profession. Paul was forever running off to defend some damned punk; moaning and pissing about the poor unfortunate criminals. Barry hadn’t seen him or talked with him in five years.
Donna had finished school at LSU and then taught school for several years before marrying an attorney. Another damned lawyer in the family. But Barry did communicate with his sister. He didn’t like her husband, but he loved his baby sister.
There was no serious woman in Barry’s life. After Julie, he had become gun-shy when it came to getting close—emotionally—with any lady. He kept company with half a dozen career women in and around the D.C. area. Including one lady lawyer with the Justice Department.
He reached for the phone and called Linda. “How about a working lunch today?”
“Oh, my,” she said. “Anytime the elusive Colonel Rivers calls, I get used. What’s the deal, Barry?”
“Tell you over lunch.”
“Can you make it over here in thirty minutes?”
“I will do my best, Miss O’Day.”
“Ms.,” she corrected.
“Right.”
Neither one of them was a heavy drinker, so they each ordered a glass of white wine and talked while waiting for lunch.
“I know, Linda, from what you’ve told me in the past, that you’re working on mob influence in New Orleans.”
Her face remained impassive.
“I’m not asking for any confidential information. It’s just that I have a sneaking suspicion someone is putting the pressure on my father. If Dad’s in trouble, I’d like to know about it.”
She looked at him for a moment. “Barry, I’m sorry. But I just didn’t put the two together. Does your father own Rivers Trucking?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “Incredible. What a small world it really is. I mean, you just never talked much about your family.”
“I understand. Is the mob squeezing my father, Linda?”
“Well, you didn’t get this from me, Barry. OK?” She seemed a bit eager to Barry. That was odd.
“You know it is.”
“It looks like it. I’ll have to go back and review the file, but Rivers Trucking is certainly one that we’re investigating.”
“You don’t think my father …”
“Oh, God, no! It’s just that the local capo of New Orleans, a toad by the name of Fabrello, wants to sew up New Orleans. And of course, we’ve known for a long time that the mob is heavily into certain aspects of the trucking industry.”
“I’m going to take a leave of absence from the firm, Linda. I’ll be going to New Orleans.” He watched her face light up. “Something on your mind, Ms. O’Day?”
“Quite possibly, Colonel Rivers.”
“Uh-huh. Now comes the payback, right?”
“Could be, buddy. You owe me several favors, remember?”
“Oh, yes.”
“It’s nothing great. You just report back to me anything you find suspicious. And don’t be a hero, Barry. The war’s over, even if you warrior types don’t like the outcome.”
“The war will never be over as long as there is the rumor of just one American being held P.O.W. in that goddamned hellhole.”
She smiled at him. “It’s coming back to me now, Barry. During our …” She blushed. Honest to God blushed. “… quiet times.”
After the screwing, Barry thought. Being a tactful person he didn’t say it aloud.
“And I know what you’re thinking, you heathen, and you’d better not say it.”
“ ’Nary a crude word will pass my lips, dear.”
“Right. How about it, Barry—a deal?”
“With a condition, yes.”
“What condition?”
“A federal permit to carry a gun.”
“Barry, I just told you, no heroics.”
“That’s the condition.”
“I have a friend with Treasury. I might get you sworn in as some type of special agent. I don’t know if there is such a thing as a federal permit to carry a gun.”
“Well, find out. See if your friend can get me sworn in as an agent.”
She called him that evening.
“Barry? It’s iffy. And it doesn’t look good.”
“I go armed, Linda. Either way. If I’m sticking my hand in a snake pit for Uncle Sammy, the least Uncle could do is arm me.”
“Well … let me work on it.”
“OK. Call me at the office tomorrow.”
Barry was determined to make it by Friday evening. He had put in twelve- and fifteen-hour days to do it, but he was going to get clear of the city Saturday afternoon, at the latest. He began packing. Early spring in New Orleans can be tricky, weatherwise. Might be eighty-five degrees one day and fifty-five the next, so he packed for spring and summer.
And Linda still had not called. He had tried calling her at work, but she was always busy. He got the feeling he was getting the runaround, which wasn’t like her at all.
She finally called him Friday morning at work.
“I tell you what, buddy. I had to pull every string I knew of and then some. But you’ll get your federal permit. Can you meet me at Treasury at noon?”
“Sure. I’m caught up.”
“Might take two or three hours, Barry.”
“To sign my name a couple of times?”
She laughed. Not too pleasantly, Barry felt. “It might entail a bit more than that, Colonel. See you,” she said cheerfully, then hung up.
“This form,” the man said, “absolves us of any responsibility should you get hurt, Colonel Rivers. This form states that you waived any medical coverage or life insurance.”
The man droned on and on. Barry signed his name at least fifty times, or so it seemed to him. He was fingerprinted and mugged and sworn in. Then he was given an ID card, sealed in plastic, with his picture and thumbprint. Very impressive-looking card. UNITED STATES TREASURY DEPARTMENT—BUREAU OF ALCOHOL, TOBACCO, AND FIREARMS.
Barry had dealt with the government for many, many years. He had worked for and with the CIA, DIA, and a dozen other spook agencies.
And he didn’t trust a goddamned one of them. He’d had too many mercenary friends who’d been left high and dry and tortured to death in foreign countries after the agency they were working for disowned them and let them die.
Barry had tape-recorded the day’s entire procedure, using a tape recorder no bigger than a matchbox. He’d been certain to repeat each person’s name—and what he was to do next and what to sign—at least twice. His attorney was waiting for him outside the building.
“Who the hell is this?” Linda demanded, eyeballing the man suspiciously.
“My attorney, Linda. Ralph Martin.” He handed the attorney the tiny recorder, tape still inside. “Mr. Martin specializes in kicking the shit out of punks in court; after the courts have kicked the shit out of his clients.”
“Doesn’t he have a marvelous way with words, Ms. O’Day?” Ralph said, grinning. He handed the recorder to another man. “So nice to meet you, Ms. O’Day.”
“Who is that other man!
” Linda said.
“That, Linda,” Barry said, “is a fellow from a group called IOLDG. Intelligence Officers’ Legal Defense Group. I think you’ve heard of them.”
“Barry,” Linda said, her voice very nervous. “This is bullshit. This wasn’t part of the deal.”
“I’ll just run along,” the IOLDG man said. “I’ll have copies of this tape made and transcribed to paper. Sign them before you leave, Barry.”
Barry nodded. “See you, Walt.”
“Barry …” Linda said, a definite warning in her voice.
“It’s the old Army game, Linda,” he said. “CYA. Cover Your Ass.”
Linda flushed. “I’ve a mind to go back in there and have them pull that card, Barry.”
“Oh, that wouldn’t look very good, Ms. O’Day,” Ralph said. “The press would just love to get something like this to squawk about, don’t you agree?”
Linda whirled on Barry. “You … prick!” she shouted.
An elderly lady, a tourist by the looks of her, stopped and stared at Linda. “See,” she said to her equally elderly companion. “I told you that’s where the ERA would lead.”
They marched on.
“Let me see your ID card, Barry,” Ralph said, holding out his hand.
Barry gave it to him.
“Good. No expiration date. Treasury’s got you for as long as you want them to.”
Linda was turning about seven different shades. And both Barry and Ralph knew that Treasury would be pissing on themselves when they found out what had gone down. And they would find out, just as soon as Linda could get to them.
“Care to have dinner at my place this evening?” Barry asked Linda.
She started to tell him to take his dinner invitation and shove it, but the humor of the situation finally hit home. She began smiling. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll take you up on that, Colonel. And it better be a good dinner, ’cause you damn sure owe me one. I’m going to get in all sorts of trouble over this little deal.”
“They’ll get over it. ’Bout seven all right?”
“I’ll be there. With a brief case full of information … Agent Rivers.”
Rig Warrior Page 2
