by Bob McElwain
When she finished her coffee, she got up and hunted up her frying pan, some bacon and eggs. This morning, there was no clanging or dashing about. The late breakfast was a quiet affair; not a word was spoken.
He watched her as she cleaned up and tucked things away. In the late morning light, the dark red of her hair nearly overpowered the black. Turning away from the refrigerator, she caught his look. He did not look away. His voice carried clearly. “What I said last night, it’s true.”
She was motionless, one hand on the refrigerator door. He watched her quickened breathing in the rise and fall of her breasts against the satiny folds of her blouse.
“You have lousy timing,” she responded softly. “You should be thinking of other things right now.”
“Expect so.”
“Besides,” she continued, even more softly, “I can’t see myself in that house in the hills. Can you?”
“Maybe it’s not a house I’m looking for. Maybe just the right to have one, to come and go like everybody else.” He watched the tension of her, the tautness of her arm extended. “My name’s Brad Ashton. I’m fed up with Tom Fairchild.”
God, how he wanted her. He’d never felt such compelling demand; his entire being contributed to the desire. He wanted desperately to wrap his arms around her, to hold her close, to feel her hands on him and more, much more. She turned slowly back to the sink, as if closing a great door against further words. He moved to the couch and sat down, listening to her finish in the kitchen.
Any dolt could see it now. It wasn’t going to be easy, nothing close to what Josie had described in Vegas. Funny how long ago it seemed. Monday and Judge Tofler were coming up at good speed.
There had been nothing wrong with the plan. Having Hank Walters at hand had been an unexpected bonus, like an extra division of well-armed rangers. He knew Josie’d done well. And Amanda couldn’t have been more supportive.
But it had gone wrong; he thought he knew why. Someone was out there. The shots fired at him were proof he didn’t need; he could feel it. It was time for a change. It wasn’t possible now to wait for what might come. He had to take it to them, whoever they were. Disrupt their timetable, their communications. Arrange a neat ambush here and there. If he could find the targets, he’d manage. But that was the catch. Who? Where?
He looked up slowly, surprised he hadn’t noticed Josie sit down in the chair.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“You.”
“Not just then,” she said shaking her head. “It was something else, and I’m not sure I like it.”
He shrugged. “Guess you’d have said if you had anything new on Tuckman.”
“I saw his attorney and Lydia’s. Both agree he didn’t benefit from Gerald or Lydia’s death. Lydia’s attorney didn’t give much, but from what he said, I suspect Lydia was difficult to work with. There wasn’t enough time to check out Tuckman or his cars. Which brings up a point. We ought to spend some of your money on help. Amanda agrees. What do you think?”
“Whatever you say.” A couple more guys might help, but he doubted it.
“I’ll do it then. And I’d like to put some people on you.”
“Bodyguards?”
“Call it protection. You’d have good legal firepower on all sides and a built-in alibi for anything that comes up.”
“Nope. I’ll be moving. I wouldn’t want to be stumbling over people.”
“You mean you’re planning some things you don’t want anyone to know about, don’t you?” Her voice was hushed.
“That’s not it.”
“What else can it mean?”
“I move better alone.” It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was all he was going to give. He rose, grabbed the phone and dialed.
“Ashton here.”
“If ya ain’t ready to deal, hang up,” Tuckman responded.
“Those CIA types I told you about?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re DEA.”
There was silence at the other end of the line, broken finally by a soft grunt. “Those fuckers again. I’ve had that feeling lately, mostly since that driver of mine was busted.”
“You been bad?”
“Up yours. I’ve had my days. But the only junk I haul now is in cartons, legal as hell. They grow a hundred million bucks of pot every year in Mendocino county alone.” He laughed hugely. “Right alongside those fancy California grapes.”
“They must have a reason.”
“I cut a corner, now and then. Make a little deal here and there. But the loads are legal as hell.”
“Do you know Mike Rinolli?” Brad asked.
“He passes out the H in LA. Nobody messes with him. Why?”
“I thought maybe the narcs had tied you to him.”
“Never met the guy. Listen, are ya gonna make a deal or do I get rough?”
“Get rough.” Brad hung up abruptly and turned to Josie. “He’s tough and probably should be in jail for some things he’s done. But I can’t see him as our killer.”
He paced the room for several minutes, then turned to face her. “In a poker game, hours can go by without any decisive play. Sometimes you can force it. You play weak cards and back them with more. With luck, you can steal a few pots and put yourself in a position to win.”
“You can also lose faster,” Josie commented. “What did you have in mind?”
“Rinolli.” He paused. “If it’s heroin being smuggled, he’s the buyer. Or he knows who is. Let’s go see him.”
“That’s as good a way as any to end it quickly. He’d as soon kill you as talk to you. Two of his men already came close. And remember you hurt one badly.”
“Maybe I should be more patient. Wait it out. Let you and Hank deal with it. I’ve gotten into trouble before, not waiting. But right now, I want to see Rinolli.”
“You don’t even know where to find him,” she said, exasperated.
“You can find out.”
She held his hard look, then slowly rose and walked to the small table by the door for her purse. Brad followed her.
* * *
It was in an army surplus store Brad found what he wanted, a combat knife, thin-bladed with a long thin handle. He bought two of them, one off the shelf and the one on display, well honed and polished. He paid a premium for the one displayed; he didn’t want to take the time to put a good edge on a blade. He bought a sheath, one of soft thin leather made for a different knife.
Later he asked Josie to stop on a quiet vacant street beside an empty lot. He got out of the car and drove the unhoned blade deep into a telephone pole. He could feel the strain on his arm as he pulled sideways on the handle. The blade held. He’d guessed right. It was good steel. The flatness of the blade made it easy to loosen and withdraw the knife. He took five steps away from the pole, turned and let the knife fly. He’d judged it right; the knife was buried three inches into the pole. Again he loosened the blade, knelt, drove it to the concrete, then examined the slender point. Only an eighth of an inch had snapped off.
Back in the car, he dropped the damaged knife on the floor of the back seat. He pulled up his right pant leg, lashed the sheath with the sharpened knife to his leg, then pulled his pant leg back down. The knife would be invisible to most. Driving now, Josie said, “You seem to know how to handle that thing.” Her voice was flat and hard, filled with distaste.
“I’ve used one now and then.”
“If you’re going to kill someone, why not use a pistol?”
He made no reply.
“A knife’s no defense against a pistol.”
“Expect you’re right.”
“What is going on? I don’t like this one bit. There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“I’m moving out, is all. I need more than my bare hands.”
“This is utterly ridiculous. You can’t just start killing people.”
“Josie, I’m not planning to kill anybody. But someone out there is playing rou
gh. I can’t carry a handgun. Any cop in town would throw me in jail.”
“That knife’s not exactly legal.”
“People won’t be expecting it. And if I’m caught with it, there’ll be less hassle than with a handgun.”
“Why not do as I asked? Go to Palm Springs. Or take a place in Malibu. I know people a SWAT team couldn’t handle. You’d be as safe as a baby in a cradle.”
“I believe you.”
“Then forget Rinolli and let me set it up.”
“Maybe later.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Ever see a bullfight?”
She shook her head, puzzled.
“The bull really never has a chance. It’s only a carefully staged show. But if they let that bull loose in the streets, it’s something else. I feel like I’ve been trapped in an arena. Everybody’s watching to see how long I’ll last. I’m just taking to the streets is all. Maybe it’s hopeless. But I’m going to make it tougher to get at me.”
“I don’t think I know you at all,” she said. “And I don’t like what I’m seeing. It’s something you should have left in Vietnam.”
He made no reply; he reached down and adjusted the knife and sheath strapped to his leg.
* * *
As Josie drove slowly around The Pink Lady, they examined all sides of the building. The cars in the parking lot were expensive or new or both. As they watched, a Lincoln Continental pulled up. One of the four attendants moved swiftly, opening the door for a well-dressed woman. Another was quickly behind the wheel, driving sedately toward a parking spot. At this early hour, there weren’t many cars.
Josie stopped on the street, a half block short of the restaurant. She nodded toward the west side of the building, to their front. “That’s the only side without an exit.”
She dug into her purse and fished out a small set of binoculars. “I’ll park where I can see all the exits. If you’re not out in an hour, I’ll call Sgt. Walters. I’ll tell him I’m witnessing your murder. And I’ll probably be right.”
He tried to reassure her with a look, wishing he could find something special to say. But the words weren’t there. They never were when he needed them. He got out of the car. As he turned toward the entrance, she drove toward the tree-lined street to the east.
Inside, The Pink Lady was distinctly pink. Everything was pink, the carpet, furnishings and lighting. Even the expensively tailored waiters were dressed in pink coats, their black slacks contrasting in pleasing fashion. Instead of being absurd, it was elegant. Brad cringed at the thought of paying a dinner tab here.
As he moved farther into the entry, he was intercepted by an older man, elegantly clothed in a pink silk suit. “Can I be of service, sir?”
There was a classic blend of manners and arrogance, both in his voice and pose. Brad smiled. He wasn’t going to be allowed to become a guest, not the way he was dressed. “Maybe.”
Only the eyebrows were raised. A touch of anxiety entered the eyes, as if fearful a guest might enter before he was able to deal properly with Brad.
“I’m here to see Rinolli.” His voice was flat and even. The smile was gone.
“Mr. Rinolli, sir, does not work here; he owns the establishment.”
“I still want to see him.”
“He’s not available, sir,” he said, closing further conversation by turning away.
“I’ll wait.” Brad turned to the plush pink leather couch behind him.
“Perhaps, sir,” the older man said in a rush, “you’d be more comfortable in here.” Brad allowed himself to be ushered into a small reception area facing a short hall with narrow offices on either side of it. He took the offered chair. It was not pink and soft; it was wood and hard.
Moments later, a tall, powerfully built man dressed in a conservative gray suit strode purposely down the hall toward him. Brad stood; it was Georgio Lampino, the man in the alley he’d hit hard with his booted feet. His nose and mouth were heavily bandaged, his face mottled with hues of black and blue.
Brad watched recognition flicker briefly in the man’s eyes, instantly replaced with rage. He waited, unmoving, his glance never leaving the man’s face. Slowly, as if in pain, Georgio turned and strode back the way he’d come.
Minutes later, Lampino returned and led him back down the hall and up the flight of stairs. When he knocked on the door, it opened, and Brad was ushered into a luxurious office. The man behind the large desk was writing rapidly. He was much younger than Brad had pictured, less than fifty. He wore the vest of a tailored, light brown three-piece suit; the coat was hanging on a set of moose antlers anchored to the wall. His rolled shirt sleeves revealed brawny, hairy arms.
He laid down the pen and looked up, smiling. There was no expression in his dark eyes. His full mustache added a sinister look to his dark features.
He rose gracefully and stepped around the desk. “You’ve been in the news, Mr. Ashton. Have a seat, please.” His voice was mellow, but the warmth was forced, his expansive gestures were studied.
As Brad sat in the offered chair, the knot in his stomach tightened. Lampino stationed himself beside the desk, standing, watching him with hate-filled eyes.
Seated once again, Rinolli reinforced the smile on his face. “I’m into electrical gadgets. This console here,” he said, pointing to his right, “tells me you’ve a nasty bit of metal with you. Probably a knife. Strapped to your leg?” His smile was unchanged.
Brad reached slowly, pulled his pant leg up, then the knife from its sheath. He laid it well out on the desk.
Rinolli glanced at it, then back to Brad. “A fine weapon. Very professional.” There was no enthusiasm. “Do you know Georgio would be delighted to return your favors? It was his partner you sent to the hospital.”
“Mr. Rinolli, would you like me to leave?”
“I frighten you then?” he asked, amused.
“Yes.” He didn’t have to fake the emotion in his voice.
“Splendid. It’s refreshing to find a man of good sense. And the reason for your visit?”
“You wanted to see me.”
“So you rushed right over?”
“It seemed best, considering the talent you have available.”
There was a long silence. Apparently Rinolli’s smile was fixed in place; it never varied. The dark eyes were colder now. “Georgio, please leave us.”
“Hold up a sec,” Brad said, laying Lampino’s wallet out on the desk.
The man hesitated, finally picked up the wallet, then slowly walked from the room closing the door softly behind him. When Rinolli pressed a button under the top of the desk, the bolt slammed home.
“Coincidence bothers me.”
“I’m not following.”
“You’ve been away about three years?”
Brad nodded.
“When you return, Lydia Allison dies suddenly. Is it coincidence? Or did you kill her?”
“I had no reason.” He could feel the dryness in his throat.
“Some men don’t need one, Mr. Ashton. It’s in their blood. You’ve killed before. In Vietnam at least. Did you get a kick out of it? A special kind of high?”
“No.” Despite himself, he said it harshly, demanding rebuttal or retraction. He leaned forward in the chair.
Rinolli watched with alert eyes, but gave no sign of response. “If you didn’t kill her, we have a coincidence, do we not? You return; she dies. It worries me.”
“Why? What’s your interest in my ex-wife?”
“Then,” Rinolli continued, as if he hadn’t heard, “you went to work at Overnite Air on Tuesday using the name Tom Fairchild. And suddenly others begin dying. A coincidence certainly, but a bothersome one.” He paused, stroking his mustache. “Did you know Gates, Talbert or Sanchez?”
“I met Talbert and Sanchez; I never saw Gates.”
“You only met them?”
Brad nodded.
“Can you see my problem, Mr. Ashton? These people can easily
be replaced, but it wouldn’t do to let others believe there is no concern over their untimely departure. I must be absolutely certain you’re not involved. Can you help me out?”
“I had this notion you might have arranged those kills.”
Rinolli smiled, but his eyes called Brad a fool. “Those people were useful,” he said patiently. “Not fundamental, you understand. Still, they were useful. One does not discard useful items.” He paused. “You, on the other hand, are of no use to me at all.”
Brad clasped his hands tighter.
“Why use the name Tom Fairchild?” Rinolli asked sharply.
“Fairchild has papers; Ashton doesn’t.”
“But why Overnite Air, an airline owned by your ex-wife? It’s another coincidence that bothers me.”
Brad was silent a moment. What could he say to interest the man? “Do you know Willard Tuckman? Lydia’s uncle?”
“Runs a trucking outfit?”
Brad nodded. “Seems he wants Overnite Air. My ex-wife owned it. I’m trying to find who killed both Lydia and her brother, Gerald. Overnite Air seemed a good starting point.”
“I can understand about Gerald Allison. You stand accused of his murder. But why the interest in Lydia Allison?”
“There are those who think I killed her.”
“Mr. Ashton, let me be frank. It’s not that I disbelieve you. It’s that I’ve too many unanswered questions. For example, you were in Vietnam. Did you do any intelligence work?” He held up his hand, stifling Brad’s reply. “Were you involved with drugs? Have you been drafted by a federal agency since coming back? Narcotics?”
“Nothing like that.”
“I want to believe you. I truly do. But the questions keep coming. Is there anything you can tell me that might ease my mind?”
Brad shook his head. “I’d like to.”
“My methods are somewhat simplified. Rather than spend great effort in investigation, it’s often easier to remove a possible source of difficulty. You understand my position, don’t you?”
“All I could tell you is that some federal types have been following me since I got back. They claim to be CIA, but they’re with the DEA.” He paused, mentally taking a deep breath. It was a weak card, but he’d have to play it; he had nothing better. “They seem to think they’re close to a case against you.”
For an instant, Rinolli’s smile faltered. It was as if he’d shoved a large bet only to find he’d misread his hole card. “Interesting,” he said, then was silent. He stood. “I appreciate your stopping by.” Rinolli reached for the knife and handed it butt-first to Brad who returned it to its sheath. “May I offer a suggestion?”