Hail Storme

by W L Ripley

  Crisp looked perplexed. He stopped trembling, leaned away from us, and turned his head sideways to look at us. “Marijuana?” He looked offended, as if we’d just offered a light beer to a wine connoisseur. “I look like the department of agriculture? That’s husbandry work, man. Fucking farmers grow that shit.” He chuckled. “Man, I may do a number now and then, socially. I even sell a lid or two, now and then, for a favored customer. But no volume work. Grass planter? Me? That’s a hoot.”

  Chick played it off. Calm. Implacable. “So where do you get your other stuff?”

  “What other stuff?” The cocky look was back. He drew on his cigarette, letting the smoke roll from his mouth, slowly.

  “You know. Crack, blow…” Chick hesitated before he hit him with, “dreamsicle.”

  The cigarette was halfway back to Crisp’s mouth when it just stopped, suspended in midmotion. His facial muscles went slack before he could recover. “What’s that?”

  “Too late, Frankie. Too late to pretend you don’t know, too late to say you do. Too late to save your ass. Too late for everything.” Chick gave me a bored look, as if he were tired of arresting low-echelon criminals. “Get the warrant, Harry, and let’s get this over with.” Without hesitation I started for the Bronco, playing the part, though if he didn’t buy it I had no idea what our next move would be.

  “No! Wait. Please,” said Frankie. I kept walking. “I’ll tell you some stuff.” I stopped and turned around. “But not here. They got this big guy, he’ll tear me to pieces. They’re not anybody to be fuckin’ with. They’re hooked up with some connected guys.”

  “Right here,” Chick said. “Right now. I’m out of patience. One more try and then we check the car and you go directly to jail, do not pass go, and do not collect two hundred dollars. Capisce? I’ll give you some names, and you nod your head if they’re involved. You won’t have to say anything. You’ll just be confirming, not pointing the finger at anybody. We’ll leave you out of it, get you some protection. High-level stuff. New identity. Guarantee you’ll never have to testify, but you have to promise never to deal drugs in Paradise County again. You’ll have to move. Deal?”

  Frankie nodded. Chick smiled, then said, “Sheriff Baxter?” Frankie shook his head. Negative. I thought it odd that Chick started with Baxter.

  “A little guy named Luke?”

  Nod.

  “Alan Winston?”

  Frankie shrugged. Screwed up his face.

  “You’re not sure?”

  Nod.

  “But he may be involved?”

  Nod.

  “Sultan Cugat?”

  Crisp swallowed, looked around, then nodded, slightly.

  “Willie Boy Roberts?”

  He paled and his mouth worked like a beached fish’s. A pink tongue licked his upper lip. Shook his head no.

  “Don’t lie to me, Crisp,” said Chick. “Cugat keeps the troops in line, right?” Crisp nodded. “Cugat works for Roberts, right?” We already knew the answer, but Frankie hesitated. He was genuinely frightened. “I’m not asking if he is your boss, I’m asking if Cugat works for him. Does Cugat work for Roberts?”

  He nodded.

  Chick patted him on the shoulder. He had him back on track. Chick was working him, setting him up, asking questions with known answers to see if he would lie, then calling him on it so he could ask the questions we didn’t know the answers to. “You’re all right, Crispy. Almost there.”

  “You said—”

  “Don’t interrupt. We’re gonna let you slide. But if you know anything else, you better spill now, because if you don’t, I’ll be right back and you’ll go down with the rest. Not to mention the fact I’ll let it be known you copped on Roberts.” Chick smiled.

  “Fuckin’ shitass fed,” Frankie said. “Shoulda known I couldn’t—” Chick reached out with his hand and put it over Frankie’s mouth.

  “Shhhh. Shhhh,” he hissed, shaking his head. “Watch your mouth. See, you’re stupid. You confirmed Roberts just now. Thanks. It’s a pleasure doing business with a bright guy like you. Something else. I don’t like drug dealers much. But I’ll keep my word. You’re gonna walk. You just better not be holding out on me. We’re going to drop the net, and I want to be able to report to my superiors that you were cooperative and that we’ll be justified in letting you fly. Blink if you understand.” Frankie blinked, and Chick removed his hand.

  “Okay, okay,” Frankie said, breathing as if he’d just remembered how. “I got something.”

  “Well?”

  “They found out about your undercover agent. The one inside Starr Industries.”

  I remembered Morrison mentioning an inside man.

  “When did they find out?” asked Chick.

  “This morning. Caught her trying to call out on—”

  “Wait,” I said, interrupting. “You said her.”

  “Yeah. Good-lookin’ piece, too. Pretty smart of you guys using a gash and sticking her under Willie Boy’s nose like that. Funny name, though. Tempest something…”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Chick told Frankie Crisp to drive to Springfield and check into a motel and stay there for one week until Chick contacted him. Then Chick relieved him of the cigar box. Frankie protested, but Chick was persuasive. Inside the box, instead of the imported long filler handmades, there was $2,700, cash, in various denominations. Chick let Crisp keep five bills for expenses. He even gave Crisp a receipt.

  “Nice touch, huh?” Chick asked me, when we were back in the Bronco. I was anxious to find a phone.

  “Where’d you get FBI credentials?”

  “Little place outside Boulder. Guy runs a gas station–convenience store. Liquor store in the rear. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Guy makes stuff so good it’ll break your heart. An artiste.”

  I drove to the nearest pay phone and dialed Starr Industries. I asked for Tempestt.

  “I’m sorry,” said the female voice that answered. “Miss Finestra did not come to work this morning.” I broke the connection and called the number Agent Morrison had given me. He answered on the seventh ring.

  “Morrison,” he said.

  “This is Storme. Tempestt’s cover is blown. Get her out of there.”

  “Who? Tempestt who?”

  “Don’t play games, Morrison.” I squeezed the phone. “I know Tempestt is the agent at Starr Industries and so does Roberts.”

  “How do I know this is Storme?”

  “Okay. I’ll play your silly secret agent games. Candless doesn’t like coffee with caffeine, and he especially doesn’t like it tossed in his face.”

  “When did you find out?” Morrison asked, satisfied.

  “Ten minutes ago. Dealer named Frankie Crisp just told us. Told us a lot of things. He’s involved with Roberts and maybe Winston.”

  “Alan Winston? The attorney?”

  “That’s him.”

  “That is difficult to believe.”

  “I don’t have time to convince you. You’ve got to move and get Tempestt out of there. Now.”

  “That’s not possible. The investigation is at a sensitive point and we can’t extricate her.”

  “What if they kill her?” I said. He was frightening me. I felt ineffectual, helpless. They probably made her when she helped me. She had come along at just the right moment when Sultan was tattooing me on the bricks. No coincidence. She had been evasive about how she had happened along at that time. She had compromised her assignment and safety to help me. Something Morrison and Candless wouldn’t have done. But something I would now do for her. If I wasn’t too late.

  “Agent Taylor was apprised of the risks going in,” Morrison said.

  “You ass. We’re talking about her life. You do something or I will personally saw your head off.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Storme. I am also concerned for her. But we can’t let them off the hook now by tipping our hand.”

  I rapped the receiver against the side of the booth in frustration, then
I placed it back against my ear. “Are you listening to me? There’s more. But unless you get her out of there you get nothing.”

  “Dammit, Storme,” he said, exploding, which was a departure from his usual calm demeanor. “You have got to quit messing around in this affair. You’re complicating things. Can’t you see that?”

  “I don’t care about your investigation. I don’t care about your procedure. I don’t care about protocol. I don’t care about you. The only thing that matters is Tempestt, or Agent Taylor, or whatever her name is.”

  “You could end up in front of a federal judge.”

  “Make me laugh, Morrison,” I said. “That’s crap and you know it. I spend fifteen seconds in court or jail and I start talking about the witness protection scam with Beauchamps and how he got away from you guys. I talk about dreamsicle. About how you guys have mucked around with this and let an agent be compromised. How you managed to allow the sheriff to get murdered on your watch.”

  “That was not our fault—”

  “Shut up. How you allowed a Mafia hit man to operate with a free rein and take over an entire community. How you sat back while the locals railroaded a homicide investigation. How you kept the highway patrol in the dark while you—”

  “All right!” Morrison said, interrupting. “All right. What else have you got?”

  “Get her out of there.”

  I could hear him breathing, heavily. “I can’t do that.”

  “Then I’m on my own. I’ll get her out.”

  “Storme. Let me caution you. Do not attempt anything heroic. Agent Taylor will not appreciate your sabotaging this investigation. Then her sacrifice, if it comes to that, will be for naught.”

  I wasn’t listening to him. How can you take someone seriously who says things like “for naught.” I had another thought. “Don’t say anything about this to Candless.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t trust him. I’ve got a feeling, nothing more, that he’s leaking information. Everybody is one step ahead of me. Roberts knew who I was. Somebody tipped them about Tempestt. Crisp indicated that Winston may be indirectly involved, and Candless seems to be afraid somebody is going to disturb Winston. And how did he know Chick was checking on Winston? Why would he even care? Ask yourself that.”

  “We are cooperating with the DEA in this investigation and they are privy to any—”

  “Doggonit, Morrison. Get your head out of the dark, smelly place and think. Anything happens to her and I’m going to look you up.”

  “You’ll accomplish nothing threatening me.”

  “All I’m asking for is forty-eight hours. Just hold back telling him anything for that period of time. Please.” I was pleading with him now. If begging would save Tempestt’s life, then that’s what I would do. “That’s all. He won’t know that I know. Not yet, anyway. What have you got to lose?”

  There was a pause. “All right,” he said. “Forty-eight hours. That’s all you get. But you’ll have to promise to stay out of it.”

  “No good. My neck’s already stretched out. So’s hers. I can’t sit still when I know that. If you want to tell Candless, go ahead. But do it knowing you may be killing her. I’m not a sideline guy, I’m a player. No matter what happens, even if I go to jail, I’m still going to try to get her out.”

  “You can’t have it all, Storme.”

  “I’ll turn the chemist. To you and you alone. If Candless is involved the deal is off.”

  “You’re a hardheaded son of a bitch.”

  “Scots-Irish. Goes with the heritage.”

  “I give up,” he said. “I’ll say nothing to Candless for the agreed upon time. But this conversation never occurred. And, I caution you. You are placing yourself in a highly charged situation. If something goes awry, I may be unable to guarantee immunity if you are prosecuted. I give you my word I will not personally initiate prosecution. You are a damned nuisance. Get me the chemist and I’ll see what I can do. You are dealing with people who are ruthless and without conscience. Some of them are powerful and dangerous beyond your imagination.”

  “It’s okay. I’m wearing my lucky socks.”

  “This is not a game, Storme.”

  “And I’m not playing around,” I said. He hung up.

  I hung the phone on the hook and Chick said, “So what’s the drill?”

  “He says we’re sticking our noses in where they’ll get cut off. Along with some other things.”

  “Whew. For a minute there, I thought we might be in trouble. Well, this looks like a job for Super Chick and his rusty-trusty sidekick, Wyatt, the Boy Wonder. Do we get to wear the white hats this time?”

  I called the offices of Alan Winston, attorney-at-law. A female voice, very efficient, very proper, answered on the fourth ring. No hurry. “Mr. Winston is unavailable at the moment. May he return the call?”

  “Tell him it’s Wyatt Storme. He’ll want to talk to me.”

  “He’s unavailable.”

  “I heard you say that. Tell him anyway.”

  She started to protest, gave up. Elevator music swelled electronically from the phone. Two minutes passed. The voice returned. “Mr. Winston seems to be unfamiliar with you. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to make an appointment.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Make it for four this afternoon.”

  “That’s only fifteen minutes from now.”

  “Sorry. I can’t make it any sooner.”

  “He’s busy all afternoon.”

  “Tell him to shake loose.”

  “But, I—”

  “I know the secret password.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Dreamsicle. Tell him that.” I hung up.

  “Well,” said Chick, “that was easy enough.”

  “I have a nice telephone manner.”

  “Courtesy is everything.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The law offices of Winston & Bedford, est. 1947, were situated in a brown brick colonial-style building in a trendy business park on the east side of town. Very upscale. There were late-blooming flowers and evergreens growing in a garden that sat in the middle of the common.

  “Very soothing,” Chick said. We entered the building. The office was hushed, with golden-brown carpet and a tasteful wallpaper pattern. Walls were hung with expensive prints—Neiman, Picasso, some impressionists. At a desk was a nice-looking brunette wearing a red blazer, dark sweater underneath, and large glasses, which set off her large hazel eyes. Walnut furniture adorned the office. Decorating the door to Winston’s office were two gorillas of the species Thickus moronus. It was Breck and Vance, my favorite muscleheads. Click, again. One more connection between Winston and Roberts. The secretary, Ellen Fontaine, by the nameplate on her desk, was uncomfortable.

  Chick spoke to the goons guarding the door. “Look, it’s Heckle and Jeckle.”

  “May…may I help you gentlemen?” asked Miss Fontaine. We didn’t look like we required help with a speeding ticket.

  “We have an appointment with Mr. Winston,” I said. “I’m the guy who called, Wyatt Storme. This is my associate, Mr. Easton.”

  Chick smiled. “Darn,” he said, looking at Breck and Vance. “Forgot to bring our appointment card.”

  Ellen Fontaine said, “I’m sorry, but…but there seems to be a…a mistake.”

  “Are we early?” I asked, politely. “Clock says four o’clock.”

  “Mr. Winston is busy,” said Vance, the darker of the musclemen. He had a black mustache and wiry black hair on thick forearms, which were crossed in front of his chest. He was wearing short sleeves in the middle of autumn so we could see the muscles he’d grown. Probably considered himself menacing. He wasn’t far wrong. “Come back some other time.”

  “Shouldn’t you guys be out front?” Chick said. “With a headdress and a handful of cigars?”

  “If you’re looking for trouble,” Vance said, “then you’re in the right place.” He measured each syllable in the
best B movie tough-guy tradition.

  “Clichés,” said Chick. “Real men don’t use ’em.”

  “We need to speak with Mr. Winston,” I said. “Just talk, that’s all. We’re not going to rough him up, and we’re not going to kidnap him.”

  “Besides, we need legal advice,” said Chick. “We’ve been charged with assault and battery.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Vance said, with a sneer, ever the straight man. “Who’d you two lightweights assault? Coupla junior high kids?”

  Chick’s smile spread broadly across his face. The apostrophe eyebrow raised. He said, “Couple of guys who mumbled in monosyllables and wouldn’t let us go where we wanted to.”

  The blond guy stepped forward. “You can’t see him. He doesn’t want to see you. He gave us a call, told us to keep everyone out, and you two specifically. So that’s what we have to do. Nothing personal. That’s the job.” Formal and courteous. Service with a smile. Vance, on the other hand, looked as if he wanted to bite us. Breck was the guy to watch. He was calm, the kind of calm that came with experience. He wasn’t looking for trouble. Trouble would come.

  “I appreciate your position,” I said. “But we’re going in. That’s the way it is. Sorry.” Breck’s eyes had a tired look, as if he had to discipline a precocious child. His partner moved to bar our way.

  “No way, all-star,” he said. “It ends right here. You and Mr. Mouth can turn around and blow.”

  “ ‘Turn around and blow?’ ” Chick said, his smile wider than before.

  “Hard to believe he says things like that, isn’t it?”

  “I like it,” Chick said. “You go on in, while I hang around here and see if he comes up with another gem.”

  “That right? I think you’re leaving. Soon.” Vance reached into his back pocket, and with a flip of his wrist he produced a leather sap, one of those with the flat piece of lead in the end like the police carry. He began flopping it in his hand. Without warning, Chick snaked out a hand and rapped Vance sharply on the wrist. Vance yelped in surprise, then Chick swept the blackjack from the dark man’s hand, flipped it into the air, and caught it, teasing Vance. The whole action had transpired in seconds. It had been quick, dreamlike. It was as if the sap had materialized in Chick’s hand.