“Okay,” she replied, the caution giving way to complicity.
“And since you can’t go out,” Crockett said, “maybe it could all come to you.”
“Sure. That wouldn’t be a problem. Everyone feels safe and protected at Casa de Corazon.”
“Where?”
“Casa de Corazon.”
“Heart House?”
“Home of the Heart,” Marilee said. “Isn’t that awful?”
“Terrible.”
“It took Ricky over two years to build the place. The longer I know him, the more I realize how insecure he really is. He overcompensates.”
“So it would seem,” Crockett said. “In that case, why don’t we have someone drop by day after tomorrow at two?”
“Fine. I’ll let everyone know somebody is coming to give me a massage.”
“Great. Then we can set up a way to get you out of there.”
Marilee gave a short laugh. “Have you always been this sneaky?” she said.
“Actually, Ruby is the devious one.”
“Thank her on my behalf.”
“I shall.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you would do this for me,” she said.
“I’m doing it for grandma, too.”
“Thank you, Mister Beckett.”
“Call me Crockett,” he said, and hung up.
Cletus and Ruby watched as Crockett placed the phone on the table. The pain he’d been pushing back rushed through his head and settled behind his eyes. Groaning, Crockett rubbed his forehead and lit another Sherman.
“Yeah,” said Clete. “That’ll help.”
Crockett took a short sip of terrible coffee and stared at him from under his eyebrows, impaling Clete with his most threatening glare.
Cletus grinned. “Pissholes in the snow,” he said.
Ruby crossed her arms. “If you two gorillas can stop all the macho crap for a minute,” she said, “perhaps you can tell me what’s going on?”
“Marilee is a virtual prisoner,” Crockett said. “We need to talk directly with her about how to get her out of Little Ricky’s clutches. As it stands right now, there is no way she can get to us without at least four of her keepers being on hand. I’d rather not have to shoot a small army of Columbians in the process of spiriting her away. So, if Marilee can’t come to the mountain–”
“And how do you propose to get the mountain to Marilee?”
“Actually, that’s very simple. Today, she tells the boys that she has scheduled a massage for Thursday afternoon. At two, Thursday afternoon, someone arrives for a wonderful session of aroma therapy and muscular manipulation. Hopefully, this will take place in a secluded section of the castle where, against a background of new age music, an uninterrupted and secretive discussion can occur.”
“And just who,” Ruby said, “is going to deliver this massage?”
Crockett grinned. “Inga,” he said. “How are things in the old country?”
“Aw, shit,” LaCost muttered.
At a Bob Evans, Cletus wolfed down biscuits and gravy, home fries, and two over easy with ham, while Ruby enjoyed a Belgian waffle and fresh melon. Crockett was halfway through his oatmeal when Ruby spoke up.
“So, I’m a masseuse?”
“One of us has to be,” Crockett said. “You seem to be the most likely candidate. Unless I miss my guess, Ricky wouldn’t want Marilee to have any sort of intimate contact with another man. Insecure kinda guy.”
“Not well endowed,” Clete said.
“But they’ve seen me,” Ruby said.
“Ah, but we all know how you can alter your appearance. And, being only a woman, you were not their primary concern. A short blond wig, some pale makeup, glasses, one of those white nylon nurse’s aid pantsuits, a pair of squishy-soled sexy white shoes, and Inga lives.”
“Aw, hell.”
“I’d suggest you spend the day outfitting yourself,” Clete said. “Rent a white van, buy a massage table, small boom box, and a CD of some of that touchy-feely flute music.”
“Don’t forget a small case with some body oils and stuff, a couple of sheets, and a towel or two,” Crockett said. “These gals come equipped.”
“How do you know?” Ruby asked.
“Stories in the locker room.”
Ruby leaned back and stared at the two of them. “What is this?” she said. “Some kinda male fantasy thing going on here? The two of you seem to have this all worked out. You repressed idiots bucking for a massage?”
Clete grinned. “I’ll volunteer,” he said. “I’m a little concerned about my prostate. They say it’s one of the first things to go.”
“Marshal,” Ruby said, “if I am ever in a position that calls for me to get my hands on your prostate, the first thing to go will be your vision. Second will be your libido. Third will be your will to live.”
“So an hour of bliss is out of the question?”
“Your bliss or mine?”
“Just trying to help you get in character, Miss Ruby,” Clete said.
“What am I supposed to tell this girl?”
“I dunno,” Crockett said. “Clete and I still have to work all that out.”
“And what will you two be doing all day while I pass myself off as Inga the Magnificent?”
“Crockett and me are going for a drive and then a helicopter ride,” Clete said.
“What?” Crockett said.
Clete grinned. “Whatzamatter?”
“A helicopter? You expect me to ride in a helicopter?”
“Crockett doesn’t like to fly,” Ruby said.
Clete turned to Crockett. “Sacrifices must be made,” he said. “You and I need to case the joint from the ground and the air. We gotta figure out just what it’s gonna take to get her outa there. The more we know, the better our chances of pulling this off.”
Clete rose and tossed two twenties on the table. “Let’s rock n’ roll troops. Got a lot to get done before the big massage.”
Crockett gave Ruby custody of Marcel for the day and Clete and he took Clete’s rental Lexus out to Ramirez Canyon.
The Castaneda place was immense and sprawling. A pointy iron fence ran all the way along the two or three hundred-yard frontage, punctuated by a large gate and a guard shack. An immense lawn, bisected by a curving asphalt drive, rolled away to the distant house constructed of stone and brick, designed to appear to be old and weathered.
“TV cameras along the front,” Clete said, “probably without night vision. There may be some motion sensors and shit around too, I don’t know. Maybe some infrared. Hard to say. Guys like these, once they’re off their home turf, either go whole hog or are kinda minimalist about the whole thing. Depends on whether vanity or paranoia rules their lives. Our boy figures to be pretty vain. There’s only so much sophistication we can deal with anyhow, unless we wanna call in Delta Force.”
They drove through the canyon and approached the place from several angles, including stopping on a low hill about a half-mile away and looking it over with binoculars.
“Can’t see too much,” Crockett said.
Clete pounced. “Gotcha!” he said. “That’s why we need a helo.”
Crockett hated light planes. He hated helicopters even more. The one he and Clete rode in was a Bell, driven by a grizzled Vietnam vet named Stitch who wore a faded boonie suit, had long thinning hair, aviator-style sunglasses, a headband, and a serene expression. A couple of minutes into their conversation, Crockett noticed the pilot was missing a thumb. Stitch saw him looking as they stood outside the hanger of his seedy rental business at a small airstrip on the edge of nowhere, not far from Malibu.
Stitch grinned. “Got it shot off,” he said. “Commin’ in on a hot ellzee back in ’71. Charlie was all over the fuckin’ place. Little fuckers only about half as tall as the fuckin’ elephant grass. Went in to pickup a PBR crew that’d had their boat shot out from under ‘em and, like, beat feet off into the weeds to hide. Only three of ‘em left.�
��
Stitch lifted a Winston out from behind his right ear and lit up.
“They popped smoke and we settled in about fifty yards away hoverin’ just above the ground cover when the gooks opened up on us. Man, shit was flyin’ every fuckin’ where, ya know? Rounds ringin’ off the Huey. AK 47’s an’ shit. Couple of ‘em came through the windshield and I raised my hand up to protect my face from plexi-shrapnel, and bam! There went my thumb. Right off. Slick as snot on a fuckin’ doorknob. It hit my door gunner in the fuckin’ eye! Stuck right in the fuckin’ socket! Freaky, man!”
The pilot grinned and shook his head with the memory.
“He lost his left eye. I lost my left thumb. The PBR crew lost their boat. And two of the three we got out died on the way back. Fuckin’ FUBAR, man. Situation normal. Fucked up beyond all recognition. Life in the fuckin’ Nam, y’know? I got a purple heart and sixty off. My gunner got a purple heart and a trip home to Smallville. Charlie got to shoot up another fine piece of superior American technology while we attempted to win their little hearts and minds. What we up to today, boys?”
“Recon,” Clete said.
An angelic smile crossed Stitch’s face.
“Far out,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Commitment
The old Bell Ranger had definitely seen better days. The upholstery was ripped, the rear doors gone, the interior surfaces tacky or greasy or both. Clete got in the back on a bench seat that looked like it had been transplanted from a pickup truck. Crockett squeezed his way into the co-pilot’s seat. Stitch pulled and pushed this and that, and gradually the rotor began to wind up. He pointed to a set of headphones hanging on the bulkhead. Crockett put them on and adjusted the microphone in front of his lips. Looking into the rear of the trembling helicopter, he noticed Clete had done the same.
Clete’s metallic voice came through the headset. “Hey, Crockett,” he said, “the switch is on the armrest beside you. Push to talk.”
It would have been nearly impossible to be heard without the headset. The volume in the cockpit was huge, even with the earphone insulation. The helicopter vibrated massively for a moment, then seemed to become unstuck from the asphalt and lurched into the air.
The tiny airstrip had no tower. When they were only about twenty feet off the ground, Stitch dropped the nose and headed off across the runway toward the distant hills. Crockett’s stomach floated somewhere in the vicinity of his right ear.
“So where we headed, guys?” Stitch said.
“Ramirez Canyon,” Clete said.
“No shit? Lotsa fuckin’ updrafts out there. Real roller coaster sometimes. I get out that way now and then, just to fly over some a them big fuckin’ houses and piss off the rich assholes. Most of ‘em figure they don’t only own the dirt, they, like, own the sky, too. I got an extra piece of trash or somethin’ layin’ around in here, I toss it overboard,” he grinned. “Add a little litter to a ten acre lawn. Give those cocksuckers somethin’ to bitch about. Fuck ‘em.”
He banked left at a hard angle, then started to climb. Crockett closed his eyes and hoped his oatmeal would stay put.
After about twenty minutes of relatively smooth flying he was able to actually look around. Crockett kept his teeth clamped together to help alleviate the buzzing vibration in his fillings and peered out the window.
“Target acquired,” Stitch said. “Ramirez Canyon. We lookin’ for anyplace in particular?”
“Yeah,” Clete said. “Hold this altitude and stay over Canyon Road. I think I’ll be able to spot it.”
“You’re the boss, man,” Stitch said.
He nosed the helicopter a little left. Canyon Road looked about a quarter inch wide.
After a few moments, Clete spoke up. “There it is,” he said. “Big place on the left. Red Humvee in the front drive. Just orbit while we look it over.”
The front lawn looked like green carpet from where they were. Behind the house, the land became rough and jagged. Several trails crossed it at varying angles. A four-wheel-drive playground extended a quarter of a mile behind the house all the way to the rear fence. Unlike the front, the fencing at the rear appeared to be of farm-style woven wire. Near one corner was a gate closed across a trail from the main property. Past the property line, the land was undeveloped scrub. On the outside of the gate, the trail continued off to the south, connecting with a dirt road that intersected a ribbon of blacktop, which led out toward Canyon Drive.
“Look at that,” Clete said. “They got that big-assed Humvee so they could drive it around the backyard. They can come and go from the place front or rear. Sportscars in the main gate, four-wheelers out the back. Pretty slick.”
“These guys dopers?” Stitch said.
“Big-time cocaine,” Clete replied.
“Columbians?”
“Yep.”
Stitch let a little altitude bleed off. “Fuck ‘em,” he said. “I do some smoke now and then, ya know? Drink a little wine, too. But I grow my own dope and I make my own vino. I don’t buy and I don’t sell. These fuckers that bring that kinda shit in should be fuckin’ fragged.”
They circled the place a couple of more times before he spoke again.
“Doan notice nobody moving around the camp, man,” Stitch said. “Want me to drop down a little lower and see if I can get anybody’s attention? If we can get these gomers excited and draw some fire, we can call in a couple of fast movers and toast a few of them rice-propelled motherfuckers.”
Clete and Crockett looked at each other.
Stitch nosed the Bell over and began to drop rapidly toward the house, two thousand feet below.
“C’mon, Charlie!” he shouted. “Come out, come out, wherever you are! How ‘bout a little Willie Pete with your kimchi?”
“Stitch?” Clete said, urgency rattling in his voice.
Lost in it, the pilot laughed with glee.
“I can’t get no satisfaction, Zipperhead! Me so hawny! T’ree dollah! Me fuck you rong time! Ha!”
“Stitch!” Clete bellowed. “As you were, goddammit! Stitch!”
“Yeah, Man?” Stitch yelled, grinning at the spinning earth as he spiraled downward.
“No Willie Pete, Stitch! No white phosphorous, no A-6’s, no gooks! We’re in the world, Stitch. This is Los Angeles. As you fucking were!”
Stitch blinked a few times and looked around, then leveled off and began flying away from the house.
He grinned. “Oh, wow! Shit. Ha! Sometimes I get a little intense, y’know? Forget where I am for a minute. Sorry.”
“Not a problem,” Clete said. “No cherries in this helo.”
“Where to now?”
“Home. I want to discuss some things with you.”
“Got a mission, Man?”
“Maybe.”
“Great. Let’s go back to the hootch.”
Thirty minutes later they stood in the hanger. Stitch reached inside an ancient refrigerator and removed a green bottle with no label. He opened it with a corkscrew on his pocketknife and passed it to Crockett.
“Prickly pear,” he said.
“What?”
“Prickly pear. Like the cactus, y’know? I make it myself. Test ride it, Man.”
Crockett took a sip. Light, delicate, fruity, and about 15% alcohol.
Crockett took another sip and passed the bottle back to Stitch.
“Damn,” he said. “Not bad!”
Stitch passed the bottle to Clete. “It only took me about ten years to get it right,” he said. “Now what’s going on with you fuckers?”
The bottle was over half gone when Clete finished his explanation.
“Let me get this straight,” Stitch said. “This Columbian asshole’s got this chick in that big fuckin’ house and she’s some kinda prisoner, and you crazy motherfuckers are gonna get her out and steal his bitch, right?”
“That’s about it,” Crockett said.
“I fuckin’ love it. Ya’ll looking for some air cover or what?�
�
“An extraction,” Clete said.
“Just lemme know when to be at the ellzee, Motherfucker, and I will snatch your ass up!”
“Can you find that back gate in the dark?”
“I got eyewear, Man. I can find Cody’s black ass in a coalmine at fuckin’ midnight. When do we go?”
“Probably Friday night. Early Saturday morning, actually. We’ve still gotta work a couple of things out. I can let you know for sure tomorrow, late afternoon.”
“You got me,” Stitch said.
“I’ll need all of you, Stitch. One hundred percent. There ain’t no rice paddies where we’re goin’.”
“I got some pills from the VA. I just don’t take ‘em half the time.”
“Take ‘em, and lay off the fucking wine.”
“Hey, Man,” Stitch said. “I never get fucked up until after the mission. Ask anybody.”
“Alright,” Clete said. “You’re in.”
When Clete and Crockett got back to the hotel they found Ruby in the living area of the suite setting up a portable massage table.
“This thing is worse than a lawn chair,” she said.
Clete grinned. “Need some help?” he said.
Ruby righted the contraption onto its legs. “Nope,” she said. “I’ve got it figured out. I’m just practicing so I’ll look like I’m used to doing it. Damn thing cost six hundred dollars! For six hundred bucks, it oughta give me a massage.”
Clete grinned at Crockett. “You want to take this one?” he said.
“Naw. Too easy, Drill Sergeant.”
Ruby sneered. “Don’t get all excited, Boys,” she said. “Nobody in this room is giving or receiving a massage unless the two of you wanna be alone for a while.”
“Crockett, have you noticed,” Clete said, “that Ms. LaCost seems to have a bit of a chip on her lovely shoulder lately?”
“You could build a two-hole outhouse outa that sumbitch,” Crockett said, “but I’d rather not discuss it. I have to be locked in the room with her all night, and I can’t sleep with one eye open.”
Grave Promise Page 24