Hail Storme

by W L Ripley

  “Will you look at this,” Chick said, brandishing the blackjack. “A horrible weapon of destruction. Good thing I was able to get it before you hurt yourself. Maybe you oughta try one with training wheels first. Course it’s not as exotic as a Japanese throwing star, but it has a certain atavistic appeal.”

  The blond guy, Breck, made a funny little move; he loosened his shoulders and shuffled right. Chick relaxed his arms and bent his knees slightly, facing Breck. “Whoa there, blondie. You don’t want none of this.”

  “It’s what they pay me for,” Breck said.

  “They don’t pay you enough for this. Nothing personal.”

  The door to Winston’s office opened suddenly and Alan Winston appeared. He wore a dark blue suit with a faint chalk stripe running through it. Hand-painted tie like the uptown guys in New York wore. Florsheim wing-tipped tasseled loafers in oxblood. Very GQ. His face was drawn tight.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “We’re playing who’s got the blackjack,” said Chick. “And, as so often happens, I’m winning.”

  “Call the police, Ellen,” said Winston.

  “Sure you want to do that?” I said. “Nothing to me. I’ll be glad to talk to them. Got nothing else to do. You call them, I call the paper. They’ll hear the call on the scanner, anyway. They’ll get a reporter over here quicker than you can say ‘dreamsicle.’ I’ll tell them about a wounded man with a new wonder drug in a plastic container.” Ellen Fontaine was punching numbers on the phone. “I’ll also tell them about a local lawyer trying to extort information from the sheriff’s office to help himself in court.”

  “Hang up, Ellen,” Winston said, his eyes hot on me. Miss Fontaine kept the phone to her ear. “I said hang up, dammit!” She jumped, as if stung, and put the phone on the hook.

  “Sorry, Mr. Winston,” said Breck. His eyes were still on Chick. “You’re pretty good,” he said to Chick. “Vance is usually pretty hard to take.”

  “Too eager,” said Chick. “Too slow, too.”

  “Quick enough for most.”

  “Not enough once you’ve seen the best.”

  “This ain’t over, motherfucker,” said Vance.

  “Do you eat with that mouth?” said Chick “There’s a lady present. You have no background at all, do you?”

  “I’m gonna kick your—”

  “Shut up, Vance,” Winston said. His courtroom voice was a whipcrack. “Breck, get him out of my sight.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Breck. “You want these guys to stay out?”

  “We’re going in,” I said.

  “Mr. Winston?” Breck said.

  Winston looked angry but said, “Let them in.” He turned and walked back into the office, ignoring us but leaving the door open.

  “Your lucky day,” Breck said.

  “Yours, too,” said Chick, as we went in. Two men stood as we entered. The office was thickly carpeted and large, furnished with chrome and glass. The downfall of twentieth-century man. Chrome and glass. Cold and antiseptic. The two men who stood at our entrance were doing so near a low table, papers and folders strewn on top of that. The older of the two men immediately closed one of the folders, which made me want to look at it even more. The other man, late twenties, early thirties, was dressed similarly to Winston, though he was taller and looked athletic. He also looked angry at our barging in. He had a fist on a hip, pushing back his expensive jacket.

  Winston introduced us, then sat down behind his desk. He didn’t offer us a chair and nobody shook hands, which was okay since we weren’t there to sell Amway or life insurance. The younger, athletic-looking man’s name was Gary Bedford. He was the junior partner.

  “What are these men doing here, Alan?” asked Bedford, as if we weren’t in the room.

  “We’re here to spread love and goodwill to people everywhere,” said Chick, looking at the older man, a Mr. Campbell. He was dressed differently from Bedford and Winston. He had on a suit, but it looked rumpled, and his tie was askew. His hair was unruly, as if he’d slept on it.

  “This is a private meeting,” said Bedford. “You two will have to leave.”

  “We’re not leaving,” I said.

  “Maybe you’ll have to,” Bedford said, putting both hands on his hips.

  “Maybe that’s already been tried.”

  “The noise outside,” Winston said, “was Breck and Vance attempting to deny them entrance. They took a blackjack from Vance. It wasn’t an accident.”

  Bedford considered this momentarily. He was a good-sized man. Probably a quarterback or tight end in high school. Maybe even college. His posture was the best in high school locker-room intimidation. Unfortunately, there was never a high school kid around when you needed one.

  “I can hold my own with this pair of morons,” he said, glaring at me. Chick continued watching the older man at the table. Alan Winston looked amused.

  “Now, Gary,” Winston said, soothingly. “I already know of one man who has suffered a broken nose this week.” He took his index finger and pushed his aquiline nose to one side for emphasis. “And I like your nose the way it is.”

  As if on cue a door opened at the rear of the office and a huge form stepped into the room. Sultan Cugat. He wore an aluminum-and-foam-rubber splint splayed across his face like a shiny octopus, making him appear gladiatorial and malevolent. As if he needed that. Willie Boy Roberts stepped from behind him. Winston had probably called him when he heard we were coming. No doubt about the connection now.

  “Hello, boys,” said Roberts, with his affected drawl. “Good to see you again, Storme.” Cugat stood behind Roberts, outlining his boss with his huge body, thick forearms folded across his rain-barrel chest. His slick bald head reflected the overhead light.

  “Come in,” said Winston, looking at me and smiling confidently. “Sit down, I’ll fix you a drink. We’ll find out what these gentlemen want, and then we will get back to the business at hand. I’m sure they won’t stay long.” He raised a questioning brow at me. “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Storme?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Easton?”

  “Wild Turkey, straight up,” Chick said, without removing his eyes from the man in the rumpled suit. Roberts took a seat at Winston’s desk. At home. Winston poured bourbon into a square rocks glass from a chiseled crystal decanter that had a chrome spigot on top. The man in the rumpled suit who had been introduced as Mr. Campbell was becoming agitated by Chick’s gaze.

  “What are you looking at?” Campbell asked.

  “You look familiar,” said Chick. “Ever been to Colorado?”

  “What?…No, of course not,” he said, but his quick eyes darted nervously about the room.

  “California?”

  “You don’t know me and I don’t know you,” he spat, his upper lip curling back to expose his gums. Chick pinned him with his eyes.

  “Sure look familiar,” said Chick as he accepted the drink from Winston. “I’m usually pretty good with faces.”

  “Well, you’ve made a mistake this time.”

  Chick shrugged, took a swallow of his drink. “Possible,” he said. His free hand reached into his jacket. “But I don’t think so.”

  Chick’s hand reappeared from beneath his jacket. There was a flash of metal, then a hard click as a handcuff locked on Campbell’s wrist.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The handcuffs snapped shut before anyone could react. Too late, Campbell pulled back like a frightened animal.

  “Hey!” he cried. “Let go!” He tried to jerk his arm away, but Chick pulled the chain and the struggling man to him, all the while balancing his drink with the other hand. Then he forced the manacled man toward a chrome-and-leather chair and locked the second loop to the chair arm.

  Campbell looked at the arm chained to the chair and cursed. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Maybe,” said Chick. “But a son of a bitch with a pair of handcuffs. Good whiskey, Alan, but not Wild Turkey.”


  “Maker’s Mark, actually,” said the attorney. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No. I don’t mind.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” said Bedford. Campbell was obviously Prescott, the renegade chemist who had jumped bail in Colorado. Had to be. “These two clowns come waltzing in here, cuff one of our clients, and you apologize for the brand of bourbon you’re serving.”

  “Clowns?” said Chick, to me.

  “It’s your boorish manner,” I said. “Gives you away every time.”

  “Release him,” said Bedford, his face taut. “Now!”

  Chick made a show of patting his pockets. “Darn. How do you like that?” He smiled at Bedford. “Forgot the key. Besides, you forgot to say, ‘Mother may I?’ ”

  “Who are these guys?” asked Bedford.

  “A couple of low-rent pests with an attitude problem,” answered Winston.

  “Pests? Maybe,” Chick said. “But low-rent? Never. Mr. Campbell, as you call him, is a bail jumper. Real name is Prescott. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” He directed the question at Roberts, who shrugged and put a cigar between his teeth. Unperturbed. Something was wrong here, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “You’re crazy,” said Campbell. “You’ve confused me with somebody else.”

  Chick sipped his whiskey but watched Sultan Cugat over the rim of the glass. “I’ll let the state of Colorado decide that.”

  “Do you have a warrant or extradition papers in your possession?” asked Winston, remembering he was a lawyer.

  “No. Only a resolute heart and pure thoughts. Also, Vance’s blackjack.”

  “And yet, you are only one man,” said Winston.

  “Two,” I said, correcting him.

  “Which, in this case,” Chick said, as he scanned the room, “I think, will be sufficient.” Cugat’s face clouded and his mustache worked.

  “Long way back to Colorado,” said Roberts.

  “But we know the way by heart,” I said. “Like you know the way to New Orleans.” Roberts’s face twitched like the blink of an eye, then quickly composed itself. He was a cool one, no doubt about that. Roberts made a show of lighting his cigar, rolling it between his fingers and touching the flame of a silver-cased lighter to its tip. He looked at Cugat.

  “Cugie, have Easton release our friend Mr. Campbell.”

  The huge man stepped from behind his boss and moved toward Chick. “Okay, partner,” he said, in a rich baritone. “Let him go or I’ll have to bend you a little.”

  “No,” said Chick. “I found him fair and square, and I think I’ll have to ask you to back up.” Cugat continued to advance, and Chick whipped the .380 Colt from his jacket and pointed it at the big man’s forehead. “Unless you want me to drill for brains.”

  Cugat stopped. “You won’t shoot.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Roberts. “He will, you betcha. In fact, after he shoots you, he’ll shoot every one of us. Without a moment’s hesitation, I’d say. Without batting an eye. Isn’t that right, Easton?”

  Chick nodded. “Everybody but Storme,” he said, his eyes and gun rock-solid on Sultan Cugat. “Without batting an eye. I’ll even enjoy it a little.” His voice, devoid of humor or emotion, sent a chill down my neck. He meant every word.

  “Why would he do that?” asked Bedford, the smugness gone from his voice.

  Roberts answered. “Because that’s what he’s good at. Ain’t that right, you?”

  Chick didn’t speak.

  Roberts kept talking. “Heard you was the best. Had the gooks scared shitless. They say you killed over twenty VC. Some of ’em big shots past the DMZ. Deep in Ho Chi Minh’s pasture.”

  Chick ignored Roberts. “Back up, baldy,” Chick said to Cugat. “You’ve got three seconds before we find out if you’re made of snails and puppy dog tails.”

  Cugat’s eyebrows knitted. Slowly, he stepped back and said, “Maybe we’ll have us a rematch someday. Without the gun.”

  “Don’t wish for things that’re bad for you, ugly. These things aren’t choreographed in real life. I won’t take a fall, and you won’t be able to tag out.”

  “I’ll break you.”

  “Now, don’t take Easton too lightly,” said Willie Boy. “He used to be something special. That is, before he lost his nerve.” Chick’s face didn’t change expression. “Started thinking about it too much, maybe. Got himself a conscience. Or maybe he just turned coward? Bad thing in a professional.”

  “Where’s Tempestt?” I asked.

  Willie Boy drew on his cigar before answering. “Miss Finestra? Believe she quit this morning. All of a sudden. Can’t understand it. Treated her well, yes I did. No loyalty anymore. Have no idea where she got off to. That what this shit’s all about?”

  “Some of it, Max,” I said, using his real name. His mouth twitched when I used it. “And while we’re talking about past lives, have you told your buddies here about the disposal service you used to run in New Orleans?”

  His face lost its amused look. “You’re starting to bore me, Storme. Not good to do that.”

  “You’ve made too many mistakes, Max. Not good for a pro like you. Too many bush leaguers, like Winston here, involved, and you keep leaving bodies around. The sheriff’s killing was stupid. Called attention to you. And you on the verge of a big score.”

  “This is a litigious monologue,” Winston said. “You cannot slander a community leader like Mr. Roberts in front of witnesses.”

  “See what I mean, Beauchamps? Winston doesn’t know what it is when he sees it happening. How about it? You going to sue? Stand up in court and defend yourself and the honor of your good name, or at least your present one? There might even be some publicity. Good for business.” Roberts said nothing. I said to Winston, “No, counselor, I don’t think Willie Boy, or Max, or whatever he wants to be called, is interested in a civil suit. I’m sure he avoids the courtroom whenever possible. Bad memories.”

  “What’s your point, Storme?” Roberts said, his eyes were slitted in his big face. He jammed the cigar out in a large crystal ashtray.

  “Where’s Tempestt? I want to see her, and I want to know she is safe.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  He didn’t like that. For the first time he was showing emotion. And it was anger. Malevolent anger. “You’re starting to piss me off, Storme,” he said. “Bad things happen to people that do that.”

  “Such as?”

  “You could end up dead.”

  “Maybe I won’t die.” Our eyes locked.

  “How does he know these things?” asked Gary Bedford, reacting as if he’d just stuck his finger in an electric socket. “This was supposed to be kept quiet.”

  “Shut up, Gary,” said Winston. “Quit whining. They can’t do anything. They have no official capacity. Storme is blowing smoke. Well, Storme. What is your next brilliant move? You taking us to jail on the basis of your wet-dream fantasies?”

  “Which one of you did the sheriff?”

  “My God!” said Bedford, jamming his fingers into his styled hair.

  “We are all shocked and grieved at the loss of our fine county sheriff,” said Winston.

  “He hated your guts and threatened to whip you,” I said. Winston’s face colored. “So save it for court. One of you or all of you are directly or indirectly involved in his death. Somebody’s going to pay for that. I don’t care who. But somebody will.”

  “Storme’s sense of justice is offended,” said Roberts. “Having such high morals is an expensive luxury. And you’re right, killing the sheriff was stupid. And I’m not stupid. Gar-on-tee. What do you think, you, that one of us killed him because he found a marijuana field? You are simpleminded. If I wanted the sheriff dead, you would never have been able to trace it to me.”

  “Why was your dog at the field?”

  “I sold him to that fool, Killian. A nobody drug dealer. I owe you no explanation.” Then why give me one? I wondered. Some
thing was out of sync. Something just beyond my awareness. Suddenly, Roberts began to laugh, his shoulders jumping up and down. “Quite an imagination you have, you,” he said, slipping back into the phony Cajun accent. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand while he held on to his side with his right hand. Instantly, Chick swiveled the gun to point at Roberts’s chest.

  “Put your hands on the desk,” commanded Chick. “Where I can see them. Right now. Do it.” Roberts complied. “That’s the boy. Now, back away until your weight is on your hands.” Cugat tried to take advantage of the moment and stepped forward. Without moving the gun from Roberts, Chick said to Cugat, “Tell you what, fatso. I’ll bet I can kneecap your boss and then you with only two shots and do it before you can take another step. To make things sporting, I’ll even shoot Roberts first. That’ll give you a chance to get at me before I do it. Tough to pick up the ladies when you can’t dance. And, it’ll hurt like a bitch.”

  “Get back, Cugie,” Roberts said. The giant did so.

  “Check Roberts, Wyatt. Back of his belt, under his jacket.” I moved behind Roberts, felt along the heat of his back and found it. A .25 Beretta.

  “Now why would an honest businessman like yourself need a nasty old gun?” I asked. I hefted the gun.

  “Y’all shittin’ in your nest,” said Roberts, ice in his voice.

  “Where’s Tempestt?” I said. He didn’t say anything, so I clubbed him in the kidneys with the butt of the Beretta. His knees sagged and he coughed. Cugat started to move, but Chick shook his head at him.

  “Kill you for that,” hissed Roberts.

  I moved around in front of him. “One more time,” I said. “Where is she?”

  He stood up. “Maybe I’ll trade her for Campbell over there,” he said, as if we were discussing baseball cards. “Besides, she was Sultan’s girl last I knew. How was she, Cugie?”