by L. J. Martin
“Where’s your helmet?” he asks.
“Only had one. Gave it to the lady, like any gentleman would,” I say.
He studies me a moment, trying to place me. Then looks her up and down. She’s unzipped the leather jacket and shows plenty of cleavage and a well-earned gym six-pack.
Not taking his eyes off Tammy’s California tan, he asks me, “Driver’s license?”
I dig it out but he still doesn’t tie me to the guy in the van.
He finally meets my eyes then offers, “I’ve got an Iron, only mine’s a couple of years older and red.”
“Red’s good,” I say, then add. “I was just giving a stranded lady a ride to town. How about you taking her in and I’ll wear the helmet?”
He eyes Tammy up and down and it’s plain to me he’ll be happy to spend a little time with the shapely blonde, even as disheveled as she is at the moment. “Aren’t you a little chilly?” he asks her, as the coat’s open and her nipples are well defined.
“Freezing, can you give me that ride?”
He nods. “Jump in,” he instructs her. Then turns to me. “I’d write you but I’m already off duty and am heading in to catch some breakfast…my supper…but you promise me no more riding without the helmet and I’ll let it pass.”
“Cross my heart. We’re headed for the iHop and I’m buying.”
“I can buy my own, but we’ll see you there.”
So far, the day is mine.
As I’m remounting the bike, my van approaches, slows but drives on past, then speeds up again. And no one is on their tail.
Brownley is a good guy, and finally relents and lets me buy breakfast. He heads out of the parking lot, happy that we’re loading the Harley in the back and is gone before we pull out a new set of signs, “Coastal Beef and Poultry” and line the van with red magnetic stripes to match the red lettering on the red and blue signs. He never did make Tammy as the famous country singer she’s become, but of course she’s a little out of uniform.
Skip crashes in the narrow bunk in back the van and Tammy shares the passenger seat with Pax, which seems to suit him just fine. We listen to Whalen and Willy all the way back to Santa Barbara, where Pax takes over the driving duty and Tammy and I share the seat, which is just fine with me.
It’s noon by the time we roll into Tammy’s Malibu digs. We’ve called ahead, informing both Detective Howard Adamson of the LA Sheriff’s Department and FBI Special Agent Robbie Quintana of the fact we’ve got the lady with us. Quintana questions me at some length on the cell, then does the same with Tammy, who rings off and informs us, “The FBI is getting warrants and heading to the winery. All those assholes will be in jail before the day is out.”
I laugh. “Don’t count on it, darling. This is not their first rodeo. They’ll be long gone before the FBI can get their act together.”
I have Pax call Sol, his number one guy at his ISP office in Vegas, and get him trying to get a line on Edvin Gashi and his bunch of bad boy Albanians, and he grumbles as he was in the sack, but promises to get right on it.
Adamson’s plain oatmeal colored car is in Tammy’s driveway and a black SUV is parked in front. Looks like we have a reception committee, which does not surprise me.
Skip is asleep and we don’t wake him, but Pax, Tammy and I wander in to find Adamson, Quintana, Coogan and Tammy’s friend—and now mine—beautiful long-legged Tyler at the kitchen table drinking coffee.
Tammy’s head of security, Butch Horrigan, has obviously been released from UCLA Medical Center as he’s flopped on her living room sofa watching the tube.
Tammy is hugged until she has to shove away from Coogan and Tyler and catch her breath. Then she runs for her bedroom.
While she’s gone, I don’t bother with hello, and direct my remarks to the FBI.
“I figured you’d be headed for Paso Robles and the Castiano Winery. Or isn’t kidnapping still a federal crime?”
“We have two dozen agents heading there from all over the west. I’ve got my hands full here.”
It’s all I can do not to say ‘full of coffee cup.’ But I don’t. Instead, I beg off what I’m sure will be a long Q and A session, and say, “I’ve got to head over to Sammy Castiano’s place and settle up.”
“Don’t bother. It’s a crime scene and full of our CSI and bomb people, and folks from the California State Attorney General’s Office. It’s crawling with investigators.”
“Crime scene?” I ask; maybe I’ve misunderstood her staying here.
“You didn’t have the radio on while driving back here?”
“Country western, at Tammy’s request.”
“Somebody blew Sammy’s house into the Pacific, or at least parts of it. So far we’ve got six bodies.”
I’m a little astounded, and stand looking perplexed for a moment. Then finally ask, “Sammy and Margo?”
“Yet to be identified, but it appears the Castianos walked in earlier this morning and weren’t there fifteen minutes before the place went up like the Fourth of July. Or maybe more like Hiroshima.”
I hate to be callous, but there goes one of my paydays.
Tammy returns in six inch black heels, white slacks, and a black and white polka dot silk blouse.
I’m still perplexed when Tammy’s house-phone rings and Tyler answers. She turns a little white then hands the phone to Tammy.
Tammy sighs deeply, but takes it and all she says is hello, then her eyes grow wide as she turns white as well. She carefully returns the phone to the receiver.
“They said I’m next, hamburger they said, if I don’t pay what Emory and what Sammy owes them…they want sixteen million.”
Quintana grouses, “And I just sent the phone people home and just removed the trace.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Pax says. “They’d be on a throwaway.”
I start edging back to the door. “Let’s get everyone out of here. They obviously wired Sammy’s place up last night and may have done the same here. Quintana, I’d get your bomb people over here…”
“Let’s get out of here,” Quintana snaps, and begins to usher us all out.
“Butch!” I yell.
He doesn’t answer. So I turn to Coogan, “He’s your man. Get him.”
“Fuck him,” he says, and brushes by me.
I charge into the living room and pull the fat so-called security man to his feet, over his complaints.
“Hey, my head is still screwed—“
“Shut up, and get your ass out of here.”
He doesn’t argue, and allows me to lead him to the door and outside.
We make it to the curb without getting blown across the street.
Chapter Nineteen
After Quintana’s people arrive, she instructs us to follow her back to her office, which is a long ride to the Federal Building on Wilshire near the 405, not far from Tammy’s apartment and the scene of the original sniper act.
Tammy, still chilled to the bone, rides with Tyler and Coogan, I drive my Vette with its top down, and Pax and Skip drive the van. Which is fine as it gives us time to confer using the cell phones. Our story is Pax was not on the recovery scene at all. No reason for him to be tied up in an FBI interrogation for two days. I went in alone and snatched Skip and Tammy back. I speak to Tammy on the phone before she has a chance to relate the events to her ride chums and she agrees that Pax was nowhere to be seen at the winery. He was at the motel where I’d stashed Margo making sure no one but Sammy came to snatch her.
As we’re not in custody, Pax merely drops Skip off, then he hauls ass in my van. The last thing I want is the FBI taking a hard look at my van with its hide out recesses full of weapons, most illegal, and various signs and license plates.
When we walk into the FBI western headquarters, 11000 Wilshire Boulevard, 17th Floor, Quintana immediately asks about Pax, and I inform her. “Mr. Weatherwax merely gave us some assistance by watching the location I’d stowed Mrs. Castiano. He’s on his way back to work. All he knows is what
the Hampton Inn looks like from the parking lot.”
“Work where?” she demands.
“Las Vegas. He’s got a company to run.”
“Do I need to send some people to his company and place him under arrest?”
“Give his office a call. He’ll drop by your Las Vegas office anytime.”
“Humph,” she grumbles.
We are six hours in separate interrogation rooms. Coogan finally calls one of Tammy’s many attorneys, who shows up and insists he take Tammy to a physician to be checked out. I insist that Skip accompanies them as he may need a stitch or ten, and Quintana relents. And since Quintana has tickets to a Dodger’s game, she kicks me out in another hour with instructions I’m to return in the morning.
However, I’m not under arrest and I am tired of answering the same questions a dozen times...so returning is not on the agenda.
We do learn that no explosives were found at Tammy’s Malibu digs, that the team of agents in Paso Robles found no one other than menial employees at Castiano Winery when they raided it like Sherman storming Atlanta, and that a Cessna Citation business jet with a half dozen passengers—no flight plan filed—left the Paso airport not long after we pulled Skip and Tammy out of the wine cellar.
I call Sol and give him what I know.
All that’s the good news. The bad is Tammy has a death threat.
As I’m climbing into the Vette in the Fed’s parking lot, I get a call, and it’s Coogan. “Tammy wants you to come to the Four Seasons to eat and figure out our next move.”
“Is she okay?”
“The doc said she was fine. Your guy got a few stitches but he’s fine. Maybe a slight concussion.”
“You got my forty five grand.”
“Yeah, asshole. I have the check in my briefcase.”
“Coogan, I don’t like you worth a shit, and the next time you call me anything other than Mr. Reardon, or maybe even Mike, I’m going to drag your dumb ass into the alley and teach you some manners…understand?”
He’s quiet for a long count, then replies, “Tammy wants you around, so I’ll put up with your dumb ass.”
“Dumb ass? Is that Mr. Reardon, or Mike?”
He’s silent for a moment, then mumbles. “Mike. We’ll be in the dining room at the Four Seasons. She’s got a room in the hotel for you and this Skip guy.”
“I’m just leaving the Feds. Fifteen minutes.”
The Four Seasons is on corner of South Doheny and Burton on the north edge of the commercial area of Beverly Hills, its restaurant and bar being one of the older CNBC, see-and-be-seen, classy joints in a very classy if very plastic city. More flakes than a box of Kellogg’s.
Tammy, who I guess stopped at some five-grand-an-outfit Rodeo Drive shop is looking more like a million bucks in a simple black sheath, and is at a pair of tables pulled together in the bar, manager Emory Coogan on one side of her and so-called chief of security Butch Horrigan on the other. She looks like a luscious slice of sweet melon which should be flanked by prosciutto but instead is sandwiched between two suet-laden pork chops.
I really dislike both these guys. Across the table is the svelte Tyler, in a blue silk blouse and those tighter-than-skin black stretch pants clinging to her perfect curves.
I start to take a seat by Tyler, but Tammy shoos Butch away and makes room for me on her right. Coogan gives me a look like a cobra at a rat...but he moves.
Tammy pats the seat. Instead, with a bit of a Cheshire cat grin thinking he’s one-upped me, Skip sits by Tyler.
As soon as I'm down, Tammy takes my cheeks in both hands and plants a wet smack right on my lips, then continues to hold my cheeks and says, "I owe you big time, Mike."
I smile. "My pleasure," then, a little on the callous side, turn to Butch on her other side. "You got a check for me?"
His jaw noticeably clinches, but he reaches down and scoops up a five hundred dollar alligator briefcase and digs around until he comes up with a check. I look him in the eye and say, "Thank you..." pause, then turn to my new boss and add, "Tammy." He goes from clinched jaw to clinched jaw with a red face.
"So," I continue, eye-to-eye with Tammy, now perfectly coiffed and made-up with slight brown eyeliner over her beautiful blue, gold speckled, eyes, "...am I officially employed as your chief of security?"
"Well," she says, with a little hesitation, "Butch here is my chief...you’re on as a consultant."
I slip the check in my pocket. "I think I earned the retainer," and I rise and motion Skip to stand as well. I extend my hand to Tammy and she takes it. "Thanks, Miss Houston, but I've seen Horrigan's work and don't think I'm gonna work with him and certainly not for him. Best of luck," and I drop the hand and spin on my heel, and Skip follows me to the lobby.
"Mike," I hear Tammy yell after me, then as I make a left toward the front door, hear her high heels clicking on the marble floor. "Mike, don't go."
I hesitate and she catches up. Horrigan is close behind her and he’s steaming out the ears.
"I need you," she says, pleading.
"Tammy, now that I quit I can call you Tammy, I don't suffer fools and I don't let their mistakes flow over onto me. I work with my own people, not with stumble bums like Butch here." And I nod at him, then smile as he takes a couple of quick steps my way and telegraphs a looping left. I sidestep the punch and as he stumbles by me, bury a hard right in his side, just under his rib cage, and hear him expel every ounce of breath. Then he starts to sag to his knees, but he catches himself.
So I help him with a slight sidekick just behind his left knee, and he goes down to both knees. Then, him clasping both hands to his side, I give him a small push with my boot to his back between his shoulder blades and the big boy goes to his face.
Before he can bounce, two hotel security guys are headed my way. I hold up both hands, palm out, and probably because Skip is beside me, man-mountain himself, they stop six feet from us. "What's going on here?" the larger of the two asks.
"All over, sir." I say, giving him a smile, then add, "Butch here took offense at something I said, but he's decided not to object further."
"Take it outside, fellas, and down the block away from the hotel."
"No problem," I say, then turn to Tammy. "See what I mean. Get yourself some help who'll keep you alive," and again head for the door.
"Mike," she calls after me, "you're head of security."
Chapter Twenty
I stop and turn back slowly. The two security guys are helping Butch to his feet. I cross back to where Tammy stands and suggest in my most sincere tone, "Don't say it unless you mean it, Tammy."
"I mean it," she reiterates.
"Then it's Miss Houston, since I'm working for you again."
She shrugs.
I move over to where the two security guys are brushing Butch off like he might sue the joint if he's not treated with deference. "Butch," I say, getting his undivided attention as well as that of the two guys flanking him. "You're fired."
"What the fuck," he says, but does not even consider trying another cheap shot. Instead he turns to Tammy and repeats, "What the fuck?"
Tammy merely shrugs, “Mike’s the head of security,” then she heads back to the bar. Coogan has come as far as the door between bar and lobby, and doesn't look happy as his jaw is still clamped and his face red. He spins on his heel and leads Tammy back to the table.
Skip and I follow, but when she sits I move to her side and say in a low tone. "Skip and I are two tables away and will stay separate from you. It's best."
"Okay," she says.
"Advise me when you're ready to leave so one of us can lead, and one follow. Okay?"
"10-4," she says, and I have to smile.
As I move to a nearby table, the hotel manager—or so his nameplate says—strides into the bar and to her table. He's a distinguished looking guy wearing a dark gray suit with light gray pinstripes, a gray cufflink shirt, and a gray and yellow power tie. He looks great except for the bed-head doo. Wh
y a guy would have a perfect shine on Gucci loafers on one end, and a mess on the other is a little beyond my ken.
"Miss Houston, is there a problem?" he asks, with an English accent that sounds a little contrived.
"Not now."
"We can't have—"
She stops him short. "We haven't occupied my suite or the other rooms yet. If you prefer, we'll head over to the London or St. James?"
His manner changes immediately. "No, no, so long as the drama is over."
She smiles demurely, and he spins on his heel. "Drinks are on the hotel," he says.
"Thank you," Tammy calls after him. I guess the four or five grand a night yields some influence, even at the Four Seasons.
We grab a great supper in the dining room, Tammy miffed because we refuse to sit with her and Coogan, taking a nearby table where we can watch the door and her six.
Coogan leaves after downing his dessert, a mound of chocolate syrup covered something, and doesn’t bother to say goodnight. My info on him tells me he has a house in Brentwood and I presume he’s headed there. Tammy signs the ticket, walks over and sits with Skip and me, and I shake my head.
“Tammy, you don’t get it. We don’t want to broadcast that we’re part of your entourage. It puts you in extra danger and puts us in extra danger. You’ve got to remember, at all times, you’re a target…as sweet and sexy as you are and as incongruous as it seems, you’re a target.”
She pouts, but nods. “Okay, okay, it’s time to go up.”
I give a high sign to Skip and he takes the lead. Only after he’s had a chance to check out the entry, lobby and elevators, I escort Tammy out.
She has a rooftop suite large enough for her and her band, and has gotten us rooms on the floor below as the other suite on the floor is taken.
The elevator stops a floor below hers, and I have to object. “Won’t do, Miss Houston. We need to be nearby, not an elevator ride away.”
She giggles, showing the effects of the several champagne cocktails she’s had with her fillet. “Then I guess you’ll just have to share the suite with me.”