Blake raised his hands again, palms out this time in a gesture of conciliation. “Whoa, boss, hang on. Yeah, I heard she got herself killed, but like I told you before, I stopped seeing her before that.” Tony watched as The Stupid Horny Bastard rearranged his face into a rough approximation of sincerity. “It’s too bad, but shit happens, ya know?”
Tony snorted. He had to give Standiford credit; the guy had balls. Dumb as a stump, but he had balls. He stared into the man’s eyes and said nothing, drawing the silence out. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and measured and filled with menace. “Shit most definitely does happen; yes it does. And more shit than you can imagine in that little brain of yours is going to rain down on you if I find out you had something to do with murdering Shotgun Sammy’s wife.”
By now Blake was shaking his head firmly from side to side. Tony watched with satisfaction as The Stupid Horny Bastard’s carefully constructed veneer of insouciance began to crack. “Nah, boss, don’t worry about it. I’m tellin’ ya, I was nowhere near her when she bit it. I don’t know who did her, but it wasn’t me. You ask me, she went looking for love in all the wrong places.”
“Yeah, I think we can both agree she did that,” Tony said quietly.
Blake stood nervously, fiddling with the end of his tie and still trying to master the look of sincerity.
After a few ominous seconds Tony said, “Okay, fine, whatever. Get outta here. Go see Janousz at the front desk. He’s got some shit for you to do today.”
The clearly relieved Stupid Horny Bastard exited as quickly as he could without breaking into a sprint, hurrying to the door and almost but not quite slamming it behind him.
As he was walking out of the office, Rudy Palermo entered through a side door. Tony asked, “Did you get all that?”
Rudy nodded. “I got it. He’s lying his ass off. He whacked her and now he’s trying to figure out how the hell he’s gonna save his sorry butt. It’s really too bad we can’t do him ourselves. There’s nothing I would enjoy more.”
Tony shook his head. “No,” he said with finality. “This way’s better. We let the hired help take care of it and stay as far away as we can from the fallout.”
After a short silence, Rudy nodded, not that it mattered. They both knew whose decision it was to make. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “But are you sure putting the fear of God in him was the right move? What if he runs before the hired help can finish the job?”
Tony chuckled. “He ain’t going anywhere, at least not yet. He thinks he’s smarter than everybody else. Right now he’s congratulating himself on his brilliant acting job. He figures the fact that he’s walking outta here alive today and not being dumped in pieces into a dozen shallow graves means we bought his little song and dance. And there’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“I had to lean on him a little. The Saldana broad’s murder is gonna be all over the news today. If word of her death got out and I didn’t sweat him, even a dumbass like Blake would wonder why. And that would spook him, maybe even make him nervous enough to run.”
Rudy thought about it for a moment and then nodded again, obviously impressed. “Makes sense,” he said. “But I’d still like a crack at the arrogant prick.”
Tony laughed, the sound a rumble deep inside his massive chest. “Don’t worry about him. We stick with the plan. Standiford will be nothing more than a bad memory soon and keeping our hands clean might be the only thing that saves our sorry butts.”
17
Impulse control had never been Joel Stark’s best personality trait. In fact, just the opposite was true. Failure to think through and consider the consequences of his actions had led to endless problems in school—in those days before he had been kicked out of school—and had haunted him on a regular basis ever since.
It was these impulse control issues that led to his problems with Victoria Welling back in New York in 2008. He regretted them deeply, and why wouldn’t he? They had led to a lengthy incarceration while awaiting trial—even with his father’s connections, bail had been denied—and then the humiliation of not just one but two criminal prosecutions, during which his character was trashed and his life dissected. He had been portrayed as a common lowlife perv.
So he sure as hell did have a few regrets. The home invasion and rape of his little princess wasn’t one of them, though. The events of that night had brought him endless pleasure in their second-by-second reliving, and Joel knew without a shadow of a doubt he would do it all over again if he could.
He had made up his mind that long-ago night in her apartment to make the redheaded beauty his—permanently—and once he made up his mind about something, there was no changing it.
What he would change, however, given the opportunity, was his modus operandi. He should have been more cautious, should have developed a plan that allowed him to satisfy his desires while at the same time providing the best chance for him to escape the consequences of his actions. Once he was confident he had a workable plan, then he should have acted.
It was a hard lesson to learn. Endless hours of reflection in jail drove the message home, but then when he got out and finally tracked his princess down in Florida, so many months later, all of the enlightenment he had thought he gained went immediately out the window. He acted impulsively, going straight to her place of employment, and even worse, allowed her to catch sight of him.
And before he knew it, she was gone, forcing him to skulk back to New York with his tail between his legs and resume his search, starting over from scratch.
The same thing had happened several times since, too, each occurrence reinforcing Joel’s desire to make the little bitch his own—and teach her a much-needed lesson, he thought to himself bitterly—each failure reminding him how much improvement he still needed to make on that pesky impulse-control thing.
But this time would be different. He had promised himself he would move slowly out here in Nevada and do things right for once, and he was determined to keep that promise. To the best of his knowledge, Victoria had no idea he was here, so there was no reason to hurry. No sense of urgency, beyond his own intense desire to possess her.
Joel was proud of himself thus far. He had known the address of her apartment—assuming she hadn’t taken off again already, of course—since before leaving Brooklyn and had thus far managed to avoid breaking into it and dragging his girl out by her hair. He knew where she worked and had likewise managed not to barge into the piece of shit little honky-tonk piano bar and frighten her away again.
And it seemed to Joel that her job was the key to everything. The lounge, which catered to redneck Nevada locals, closed at two a.m., and based on his admittedly incomplete surveillance, it seemed as though she pounded the piano keys right up to closing time when she was working.
This meant she would have to drive home in the middle of the night and then make her way across a poorly lit parking lot during a time when virtually everyone else in her apartment complex would be asleep. That fact would greatly influence how he chose to proceed, something he had decided it was nearly time to do.
But there would be no jumping Victoria in the parking lot, no dragging her into his car and taking off. The old Joel would have done exactly that or something similar without a second thought, but not anymore. Regardless of the lateness of the hour or how tired she was, if he slipped up for even half a second and allowed her a scream, the whole thing would come crashing down on him.
Again.
And that was not going to happen.
He was proud of himself for what he had accomplished in just a few days here in the desert, but it was now time to move. Tonight he would put his plan into motion. Tonight he would finally achieve his long-awaited reunion with his princess. They would share a few days together in her apartment, alone and intimate, allowing them to become properly reacquainted, and then he would determine the appropriate next step.
They would either set off together for some as-yet unknown destinatio
n, Victoria by his side where she belonged, or, if she insisted on continuing to resist him, she would find herself buried in the Nevada desert, alone and never to be found.
After all, Joel loved his princess, but even love had its limits.
And he was nothing if not flexible.
18
Jack had discovered early in his career that the doing the prep work was, for him at least, the most tiring part of a job. That it was also critical to achieving success went without saying, and the professional in him would not consider skimping.
After checking out Blake Arthur Standiford III’s home, he had taken some time to renew acquaintances with an Organization contractor located in the Southwest, a man who had worked with Mr. Stanton for years and who, it was rumored, possessed the contacts and capabilities necessary to acquire anything an Organization member might need, up to and including an M-1 Abrams tank.
Jack didn’t need a tank, though. In fact, he didn’t need anything as remotely exotic as a tank. Based on his current plans, which were always subject to revision right up to the moment of their execution, he thought it was quite likely he would need nothing more than a single handgun with a fully loaded magazine.
The Organization contractor was located south of Las Vegas, in Boulder City, and Jack spent his time on the road reviewing what he had learned about Blake Standiford and in particular the layout of the mobster’s home. As he did so, he found his mind wandering again and again to the beautiful—and terrified—young piano player at Tequila Mockingbird.
The way she had been acting reminded Jack exactly of the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder he had seen so much of during his time in the military. The jumpiness, the nervousness, the inability to relax, it all fit. Jack guessed that were he able to get to know Victoria better, he would discover she suffered from bouts of depression and had problems sleeping.
PTSD.
The young woman had clearly suffered some kind of serious trauma, and his guess was that it was boyfriend related. The way she was acting last night, scanning the crowd, keeping an eagle eye on the club’s front door, told him she was terrified that the boyfriend would come bursting through the door at any moment, and that when he did, she would be the target of his wrath.
And unless he was way off the mark, it wouldn’t be the first time. Not even close to the first time. He pondered the mystery as he drove, and before he knew it, he had arrived in Boulder City. He parked at the agreed-upon meeting place—a fast-food joint—and waited for his Organization contact.
It was a short wait. Ninety seconds after his arrival, a nondescript-looking older man in a nondescript-looking older sedan entered the lot and parked next to Jack’s rental. It was the same man Jack had worked with in the past in this area.
The man looked exactly the same as he had half a decade ago, and he was just as cautious as he had been back then, too. He had obviously been parked somewhere nearby watching the lot, wanting to be certain Jack had come alone before revealing himself.
Jack didn’t blame him. Caution was critical in this line of work. But he wanted to get today’s transaction over with, so he wasted no time stepping out of his car and reintroducing himself to the contact. Twenty minutes later he was driving out of the lot, the proud owner of a brand-new Sig Sauer P229. He hoped it would be all the firepower he would need.
19
Today had been one of the longest days of Victoria Welling’s life. She had spent most of it immobile at her kitchen table, staring out the tiny window at the sunbaked parking lot and hoping and praying to come up with some kind of plan for dealing with her awful reality that didn’t include running once more like a scared rabbit.
Her prayers had not been answered. She found her thoughts drawn to the mysterious stranger last night at Tequila Mockingbird, the slightly older man who projected such an air of strength and dependability she had abandoned her ironclad policy of not mingling with the customers.
Harry, he had said his name was. Victoria had spent no more than fifteen minutes in the man’s company, but it occurred to her now that she hadn’t felt as safe as she did in that fifteen minutes since before the night in Manhattan when Joel Stark had stolen her innocence.
Harry had told her he would be back tonight, that he would buy her another juice—this time even with alcohol in it; what the heck was she thinking?—and that they could talk some more. She wondered whether he would keep to his word and show up. And whether, even if he did, she would succumb to those feelings of strength he radiated and spill her guts.
She wanted to, more than anything in the world, but what would be the point? There was nothing he could do for her. It didn’t matter how strong he seemed or safe he made her feel, Joel Stark was a genuine sociopath who had stalked her for years. He would be more than prepared to deal with any interference dished out by a traveling businessman.
And what right did she have to put her problems onto some well-meaning stranger, anyway? He would run like hell when he found out about Stark—at least, he would if he had half a brain—or he would try to interfere and in so doing he would make things immeasurably worse.
Eventually she forced herself to stop thinking about the stranger. It was pointless. She pushed herself out of her chair and tried to keep busy dusting, vacuuming and sweeping. There was no need, the apartment was spotless, but it gave her something to do in an attempt to take her restless mind off Stark.
When she realized she was completing the same set of tasks for the second time—or maybe the third; she couldn’t exactly remember—while crying her eyes out, Victoria angrily wiped the tears away with the back of her hand and stalked into her bedroom. Maybe she could manage an hour or two of sleep before getting ready for work. She was certainly tired enough after mostly tossing and turning last night.
An hour later she gave up on the idea. She couldn’t sleep, and besides, she knew what was waiting for her if she was lucky enough to drift off. Him. Joel Stark, star of her nightmares.
It just wasn’t worth it. Victoria decided she would rather be tired than suffer that fate. After giving up the possibility of sleeping, maybe forever, she arose and padded to the bathroom. Showered and dried off with her threadbare Elton John towel. Dressed in her tux for what would almost certainly be her last night of work at Tequila Mockingbird.
She circled her apartment exactly as she had done yesterday, switching on lights, making sure every bulb was burning. The two-thirty a.m. darkness was all-encompassing even to people not being stalked by a madman. For Victoria, the idea of entering her apartment at that time of night without the lights keeping vigil was inconceivable.
When she had completed her routine she stepped through her door and then closed and locked it behind her. Moved to the building’s foyer and stopped, breathing heavily. Her heart felt as though it might explode in her chest. The thought of stepping out of her apartment, even now, in the late-afternoon Nevada sun, was terrifying.
She took a deep breath. Blew it out shakily. Examined the parking lot through the window next to the apartment building’s entrance. It was still. Silent. Apparently empty.
She looked out the window again and realized she was stalling, postponing the inevitable. Finally she forced herself into the stifling desert air and sprinted to her car.
20
Jack realized with some surprise that he had been doing no more than passing the time over the last few hours. He told himself he was holed up in his room at the Tumbling Dice finalizing his plan of attack tonight against the doomed Blake Standiford, but the reality was that he had been watching the clock and mostly daydreaming, passing the time until he could head out to Tequila Mockingbird.
The contract Standiford’s mob “friends” had taken out on him specified nothing more than that the man’s death deflect attention away from his ties to Vegas’s Mercadante family. This left Jack with plenty of latitude on how to proceed, and while he had initially considered options like manufacturing a car accident or arranging an unfortunate gas leak and blow
ing up Standiford’s house with him in it, he had come to reject all of them.
Simpler was better. When in doubt, it was almost always more beneficial to choose the less complicated of two options.
That was Rule Number One in the world of the professional assassin. It had been drilled into Jack’s head from his earliest days in training with the elite super-secret, technically nonexistent unit in which he served for eight years in the United States military, and it was the pillar around which he had built his civilian business as well.
The implications of the “simpler is better” rule here in Nevada were obvious: manufacturing car accidents and blowing up houses were about as far from simple as an assassin could get, and while those methods had their benefits under the right circumstances, making them happen required time that he didn’t have as well as scrupulous attention to detail, and inevitably left the potential for plenty of loose ends.
Loose ends were bad.
So in the end Jack had elected to avoid unnecessary complications. And while simpler was better, it also, by definition, required less planning, which explained Jack’s current situation: watching the clock while waiting for the time to get late enough to begin the evening’s activities, which may or may not include eliminating one very dangerous Las Vegas mobster.
***
Tequila Mockingbird was crowded again. Apparently many of the people who actually lived and worked in Las Vegas had long since eliminated the strip as a reasonable destination for entertainment and a great many of them had chosen this particular club instead. Having witnessed the ability of their dazzlingly beautiful piano player firsthand, Jack wasn’t surprised.
He could hear the upbeat jazz piano way out in the parking lot, the music drifting out of the club before he even made it to the door. Once inside, he looked immediately at the raised platform and locked eyes with Victoria.
The Organization Page 10
