The Majestic Model mobile home, he thought. It’s anything but that.
There was a small cement porch with stairs affixed to the doorway and the damn trailer itself was mounted on some kind of foundation. He doubted whether it ever had wheels.
The air was already hot even though it wasn’t yet mid-morning. He saw Smith doing push-ups on the small section of cement that separated this trailer from the one next to it. The beat-up Malibu was parked about twenty feet away and in front of it was a portable grill. The man’s upper torso was shirtless and the sweat glistened over taut, rippling muscles. Smith canted his body to one side and began doing one-armed push-ups, effortlessly knocking off ten with his right arm before switching to his left. With his set finished, Smith jumped to his feet and gestured to Cummins.
“Hold them focus pads for me,” Smith said brushing the dust off his hands. “So’s I can finish up my workout.”
Cummins went to the aluminum lawn chair next to door and picked up the two big mitts. He’d held them for Smith before and it was a jarring task he didn’t particularly relish. The other man went through a series of punches and then kicks, and then a combination of both, lasting about twenty minutes and leaving Cummins sweating and winded just from trying to keep his arms elevated.
Finally, Smith signaled that he was finished and went for a dirty, once-white towel on the back of the chair. He wiped at his face, chest, and then under each arm. The man’s body odor was so pungent that it was noticeable from three feet away. Cummins knew from experience that neither Smith nor Cherrie were super-conscientious about their personal hygiene but of course, he had been slipping in that department a little as well, given the small shower space in the trailer. Cummins was sweating, too, and Smith flipped him the same towel he’d been using.
Not wanting to offend his benefactor, Cummins took the towel and daintily dabbed at his face.
“I like you, Jack,” Smith said, watching him. “The way you threw yourself against that nigger that was trying to jump me back in the lock-up. You got salt.”
Although that hadn’t actually been the case, Cummins shook his head.
“Nothing compared to yours,” he said.
One side of Smith’s twitched into a half smile.
“We gotta look out for each other,” he said. He regarded Cummins for several seconds more, then asked, “You ever think about making a new start?”
“All the time,” Cummins said.
And he did. He definitely needed to figure out a game plan to get out of this current situation. It was one thing to lie low until he figured out his next move but this was extending into something more than he’d intended. But of course, Smith did have the right connections and had helped Cummins obtain a new set of IDs as well as a fake passport. The framework of an escape plan was germinating in Cummins’s mind. Perhaps it was time to call Fallotti again. The first call he’d made, soon after the debacle at McNamara’s ranch that night, had gone directly to voice mail. Cummins was certain that Fallotti and company were ignoring him. They still hadn’t called him back and the anonymous credit and debit cards that had been in the safe at the hotel room all went as dead as his cell phone. Luckily, he still had the burner phones he and Zerbe had been using. And he had a substantial amount of cold, hard cash, too.
After bonding himself and Smith out, Cherrie had driven them to the hotel where Cummins had luckily been able to retrieve as much as he could. Both of them had stayed in the car making out, which gave Cummins a free rein to clean out both his and Zerbe’s rooms. That included a substantial amount of money in the safe that Zerbe had been holding to pay off his South African mercs and other expenses. And since they were no longer a concern, Cummins found himself with enough operational capital to fly under the radar, at least for the time being. While it wasn’t enough for a permanent retirement, it gave him enough to be comfortable and concealed for the moment and also to stay in the good graces of his new hosts by paying their monthly rental fee for their Majestic Model and buying them enough food, liquor, cigarettes, and groceries for a month. He’d also been successful at keeping the two hillbillies from finding out exactly how much money there was thanks to the money belt that had also been stuffed in the safe in the room. Although it didn’t exactly fit around Cummins’s expansive waist, he’d managed to secret it inside his doubled-over neoprene back-brace, which he now wore constantly, even to bed.
For once, he thought, being a fat man has its benefits.
Smith seemed about to say something more as they approached the trailer, but the door flew open and Cherrie stood there completely nude this time and holding a towel around herself and not too well. Cummins caught another glimpse of her dark pubic hair.
“You gonna empty the fucking black water soon?” she said pausing to bring a cigarette to her lips. “The toilet don’t flush good.”
Smith sighed and said, “I’ll take a look,” as he ascended the steps. “Now go get yourself dressed, dammit.”
She frowned at him and turned, giving both of them a clear view of the bottom of her ass.
Smith rolled his eyes.
Cummins laid back a few steps, continuing to use the towel to wipe his hands, not bothering with the sweat that had collected on his forehead and cheeks. Then he tossed the towel onto the chair and felt for the burner phone in his pocket.
“I’ll stay out here for a little bit,” he said. “Give her a chance to get dressed.”
Smith said nothing as he entered the trailer.
Cummins took a deep breath. He now had a few private minutes alone but he’d have to hurry. Smith had told him that they had some important business to attend to this morning, whatever that was. He turned on the phone and watched it boot-up. As the screen came into focus he saw he had one call, a Manhattan exchange.
Fallotti’s number.
He checked his voice messages but there was none.
The prick had called but not left any message.
Typical.
I’m just another one of those loose ends they’re always so worried about, he thought. But this time, I’m going to turn the tables on them.
He licked his lips and stepped to the front of the RV so as to eliminate the possibility of being overheard and then hit the redial button.
The Von Dien Winter Estate South
Belize
Richard Soraces stood on the finely tiled outdoor patio that overlooked the spacious side yard next to the reddish brick mansion and took a sip from the iced glass that the pretty brown girl in the white maid’s uniform had given him. She appeared to be about nineteen or twenty with an alluring look that seemed to say that, should the opportunity arise, she could give him all that he could handle.
He’d said something to her in Spanish and she’d giggled as she slipped back through the French doors leading back inside. Her dark eyes had flashed a message of availability, should he require another drink.
Or something along those lines.
Soraces smiled at her as she left.
But business before pleasure, he thought, although the layout seemed specifically designed for the latter.
Large, scrupulously maintained gardens filled with all sorts of flowers and vines gave the air a fragrance reminiscent of an African capitol. But here the bougainvillea, wildflowers, and other plants seemed tranquil instead of anticipating the sudden spray of automatic gunfire. It exuded safety and security. The efflorescence spread out from beyond the stone wall and into a subdued forest. Through the thick canopy of trees, Soraces could discern a few trimmed pathways leading to a high, fifteen-foot fence topped with triple strands of barbed wire. He wondered if the fence was electrically charged.
Most likely, he figured. He’d remembered seeing some signs posted on the gate when he’d arrived featuring a skull and the words: DETENER. PELIGRO. NO TOQUES LA CERCA. NO ENTRADA.
The gate guard had thrown a series of switches from inside the brick gate shack before the large metal gate opened to allow them entry.
A man’s home is his castle, Soraces remembered thinking. Or in this case, his fortress.
He knew virtually nothing about the lawyer, Fallotti, who’d contacted him and even less about this Von Dien character. Soraces only knew that he was rich. Very rich, and since Soraces was now a free agent in the espionage business, having temporarily “retired” from government service with the Agency, being rich was all the qualification the man needed.
So why turn down a free trip down here to Belize? He was between assignments for the Agency, being officially a non-entity and he might as well hear what this rich son of a bitch had to say.
“Señor Soraces,” a voice said.
This one was distinctly male.
Soraces turned and saw a large Hispanic man dressed in a butler’s uniform. His face was clean-shaven but his beard was so dark it looked like he had a five o’clock shadow at eight in the morning. Plus, the bulge under the left armpit of the butler’s jacket was unmistakable. Soraces guessed it to be a small caliber semi-auto.
Good for close-up housecleaning, he thought.
He took one last sip from the frosty glass and set it on a table, still not certain of what exactly the drink was. Perhaps later, if things worked out, he’d have the little brown girl make him another and tell him exactly what the components were.
Or perhaps not.
The butler was holding the French doors open and Soraces could feel the chill of the air-conditioning wafting out into the moistly humid air. He was wearing one of those yellow short-sleeve polo shirts and tan slacks. As he strode to the door, he removed his Oakley sunglasses and casually hooked one of the side pieces just above the highest button of his shirt, leaving the rest dangle like a tinted, plastic necktie or adornment giving the effect of casual insouciance.
Perfect to project the confidence and lack of trepidation when dealing with a rich man who had a bunch of local brown folks cow-towing to his every whim.
A slight ping sounded as Soraces stepped through the doorway and the butler held up his hand.
“Excuse me, señor, but I must ask you to stop for a moment.”
Soraces did so and held up his hands.
“You have any metal in your pockets, señor?” the butler asked.
Soraces reached into his right pants pocket and removed the special pen that he’d brought with him. He handed it to the butler who did a cursory examination and set it down on a near-by table. A second man, this one wearing a more formal tan uniform with a patch on the shoulder identifying him as Seguridad, stepped next to them and moved a metal detecting wand over Soraces’s body. The wand pinged as it passed over his left pants pocket.
“Coins that I might throw to the children,” Soraces said still keeping his arms elevated. The other man murmured an apology, stuck his finger into Soraces’s pants pocket, and withdrew several Belizean coins. He deposited them next to the pen and continued his sweep with the wand and after finding nothing, bowed slightly and said, “My apologies once again.”
“No problema,” Soraces said and picked up his items.
It pleased him to no end that they didn’t discover that the pen was, in fact, a disguised knife with a razor-sharp blade that could be used for slicing or throwing. Soraces was an expert at both and after all his years with the Agency, never went anywhere without it. He considered it his good luck charm.
“If you will come this way, señor,” the butler said as the wand-master faded into the background.
Soraces smiled as benignly as he could and followed.
It was time for this rich prick to meet the master fixer and show that displays of a bunch of money and pseudo-power over some servants were not intimidating factors when dealing with the man who’d played king-maker in foreign lands, toppled governments, protected corrupt politicians, and changed the course of human events in countless countries around the globe.
No, Soraces thought. Intimidating me is not in the cards.
The inside of the house was as sumptuously furnished as the outside grounds were green. Soraces felt his feet sink into a thick layer of carpet as he walked. The walls were lined with exquisite oil paintings, bronze and marble statues of varying sizes and a glass display of what appeared to be stone figures of some kind. None of it impressed Soraces that much. He’d seen similar displays in the mansions of presidents and dictators all around the world. Men who spent their lives procuring crafted objects of beauty that they felt would elevate them above the masses. One painting in particular on the wall, a Van Gough, caught his eye and Soraces gave it more than a cursory glance. He was certain he’d seen it in an art museum somewhere.
Chicago’s Art Institute perhaps?
It was no doubt an original or an excellent forgery and knowing the reputation of this Von Dien, he doubted it was the latter.
The butler opened another door, this one solid looking and gleaming under a heavy sheen of polish. They went inside and the saw the room was a library of sorts. The high windows were stained glass and the sunlight filtered through the ones on the east side affixing a radiant collage of colors in a prismatic display on the opposite wall. There were three men at the far end of the long wooden table, two seated and one standing. Frosty glasses sat on the table in front of the two seated men, the condensation collecting on two curved, wooden coasters.
The standing man was huge, wearing a tight black T-shirt that displayed a set of massive arms laced with a brocade of prominent veins. Seated next to him, in an ornately carved high-backed chair, was a grotesquely fat man. His head was huge even in comparison with the rest of his body, which looked as soft as an inflatable life-raft. There appeared to be a waxy quality to his skin and each breath seemed to be an effort. He had a terry cloth robe draped around his sloping shoulders and from what Soraces could see of his chest, he hadn’t been out in the sun for ages. The man’s scalp was hairless and looked something like an enormous egg.
The big blonde guy, obviously the bodyguard, shifted his body slightly, lowering his right hand down toward a weapon on his hip. He appeared formidable, very formidable. As he drew closer Soraces assessed the gun. Judging from the front and rear serrations on the stainless-steel slide and the extended beavertail grip, he judged it to be a Walther Q4 Steel Frame semi-auto in a pancake holster. The pistol had red dot sight attached and an extended, suppressor adapter on the front end of the barrel.
The fat man must have an aversion to loud noises, Soraces thought.
A large tanto knife, canted for easy withdrawal, resided on the left side of the bodyguard’s belt.
I wouldn’t want to go up against that dude in a dark alley, Soraces thought. Or a lighted one, either.
Across from them was a swarthy guy, who to be looked around fifty, with jet black hair and a well-trimmed mustache, rose to his feet.
That one, Soraces figured, was Anthony M. Fallotti. He looked Italian in his light blue short-sleeve shirt and tan shorts.
Ready for the tennis court, Soraces thought.
Almost, he added mentally as he saw a dribble of ebony hair dye forming an incipient droplet alongside the lawyer’s left ear.
Even in the air-conditioning, the truth ekes its way out, Soraces thought, but he said nothing about it to this prospective employer.
After nodding as nonchalantly as he could to the three of them, he redirected his gaze toward the lawyer. He figured that was who would be doing most of the talking.
“Mr. Soraces,” the man said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Anthony Marco Fallotti. I believe we spoke on the phone two days ago.”
Soraces nodded and kept the smile on his face.
“Would you care for something to drink?” Fallotti asked.
“Sure,” Soraces said. “An iced tea would be great.”
Without another word, the man in the butler’s uniform turned and left the room.
Fallotti held his hand out toward the chair on the opposite side of the table. Soraces pulled it out and sat.
“This is Mr. Dexter Von Die
n,” the lawyer said holding his palm outward toward the fat man. “I’m Mr. Von Dien’s personal attorney.”
Soraces nodded again, recalling what he’d heard about this Von Dien character. When he’d been at the Agency, they’d kept a file on a lot of people of potential interest and Von Dien had been one of them. This rich billionaire had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and owned copious amounts of property and businesses all over the country and the world. Obviously, this place in Belize was one of them and Soraces also recalled hearing something about an island estate somewhere in the Caribbean. Old money and as eccentric as hell. Sort of like a rich Buddha.
And then the Buddha spoke: “You don’t say much, do you?”
Soraces waited for several beats before answering. “I try to listen more than speak.”
One of the dangling bags of fat under the Buddha’s eyes twitched a bit. Whether he was put off by the reply or not, Soraces wasn’t sure, but he was glad he had his trusty pen knife in his pocket in case the bodyguard was ordered to administer some discipline to a capricious prospective employee.
But instead, the Buddha smirked and fluttered his fingers at the lawyer.
“You come highly recommended,” Fallotti said. “Your resume with the government’s quite impressive.”
Soraces said nothing. If these two had enough clout to gain access to his highly classified personnel file from Langley, then they obviously knew everything about him.
“I understand you’ve recently retired,” Fallotti continued.
This time Soraces shrugged. “Let’s say semi-retired. I like to keep my options open, and, as you know if you’ve seen my file, I’m good at what it do.”
The Buddha spoke again: “And what is it you would say you do best?”
This time Soraces was ready with his set answer. These two wanted something done. Something delicate and illegal, otherwise they wouldn’t be approaching him like this. He waited a few more beats to gain their full attention and smiled broadly.
“I’m sure you know the answer to that already,” he said. “I do whatever it takes. What have you got in mind?”
Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3) Page 2