The older guy came over and looked down at him as though deciding whether to step on a bug or go around it. Now that I could read it, his name tag said Allen Simmons.
“Went kinda easy on him, didn’ cha?” Simmons chuckled.
“I’m a bleeding heart liberal,” I shrugged. “I don’t pick on the less fortunate.”
“Huh,” Simmons replied. “I’m a democrat myself. Not quite a liberal, though.”
He turned and kicked the Sarge squarely in the ass. It looked like it had to hurt.
“You’ll…” Sarge gasped,” “You…guys all…saw that. Jarrett…Franklin! Ar…arrest him!”
“Saw…what, sir?” one of the guards said. They all wore big goofy grins.
“God…God…damnit,” Sarge gasped, “Simmons…you’re fired!”
“No,” Jack said, squatting down to look at him. “Actually, you’re fired. I don’t need some tin-plated bully like you out here dealing with the locals.”
“Nobody fires me but the guy who hired me!” Sarge said, recovering. He started to get up.
“Stay down there, kid,” I said quietly. ” You get up, I’ll drop you again.”
“You got lucky,” he spat, getting to his feet. “I wasn’t ready.”
“Okay,” I sighed. “You ready now?”
He did an elaborate series of kung fu moves and settled into his battle stance.
“Try it now, smart ass,” he growled.
“You sure you’re ready?” I asked.
“Whassa matter?” he sneered. “Can’t take a man straight on?”
I moved slightly toward him. He bit, committed, and came in with a slightly less pitiful jab.
I stepped inside the punch—the last thing he expected, I knew—and gave him the same shot as before, but a bit harder.
There was nothing left to puke, so he settled for just the fetal curl.
“Better,” Simmons nodded. “You punch like a swabbie, though. Too straight-on. You should come up at more of an angle.”
“Damn, shoulda been a marine, I guess,” I sighed, glancing down at the kid, still moaning on the gravel. “Now that the big Dick contest seems to be over with, Mr. Bartinelli here—who actually is one of the partners in this thing—would like to talk to the site manager.”
“No problem,” Simmons smiled. “I’m liaison between security and projects. Could I just see your driver’s license, Mr. Bartinelli?”
Jack popped out his wallet and passed it over. Simmons checked it carefully and handed it back. He looked at me and I shook my license out of its holder and passed it over.
“I’ll be dipped,” Simmons said softly. “You’re Tru North? Colonel Truman North?”
“Am Tru,” I nodded, “was Colonel.”
“Damn,” Simmons smiled. “You really took out Saropoulou?”
“So they tell me,” I shrugged. “I didn’t stick around to find out.”
“You busted Sam Wilkins out of Laos, too,” he smiled. “I owe you one for that. Sam was best man at my wedding.”
“Sam’s the best man in most crowds,” I chuckled.
“I’ll be damned,” Simmons grinned. “Look, buy ya a beer after shift, swabbie? You got any Sam stories? I’m lookin’ for blackmail material.”
“He tell you about Kuala Lampur?” I asked.
“No,” Simmons grinned evilly. “Not a word.”
“Uh-huh,” I laughed. “You’re buying.”
“I’m filthy rich,” Jack interjected. “I’ll buy if we can go see the site manager now?”
“Sorry, sir,” Simmons murmured. “Let’s saddle up.”
Simmons rode with us, after cramming Sarge—real name Aaron Weber—into our back seat, where he groaned and muttered until I offered to clean his clock for him again.
The site manager turned out to be a natty little Brit named Dennis Steptoe, whose wispy red moustache, khakis with epaulettes, and wire-rim glasses caused me a great deal of effort in struggling not to whistle the theme from “Bridge on the River Kwai.”
Steptoe managed to be thoroughly accommodating while providing no real help at all. He made numerous poorly-veiled references to the utter impropriety of Jack’s showing up without proper notice. He made a very brief phone call to New York and was evidently told to be courteous but not too courteous and became even less helpful than before, if a tad less disapproving.
Jack endured all this for maybe 30 minutes longer than I would have. I wondered if rich guys become more patient because they know that, sooner or later, they’ll win little set-to’s like that. Just as I was fumbling with the concept, Jack finally hit the wall.
“Mr. Steptoe,” he said mildly. “I’ve come to see you today as a courtesy. I felt that we were on the same team. Perhaps we actually are. But you seem to feel—to extend the analogy—that you are the coach of the team, while I am the water boy.”
“Actually, the reverse is true. If I were to become, uh, disillusioned with all this, and withdrew my $100 million, you’d be back in Watford within the week, probably asking folks if they’d like tartar sauce with their chips.”
“I see no need…” Steptoe began.
“You see no need to be helpful, is what I’m getting,” Jack continued. “More to the point, you don’t seem to know much of anything. I ask where the nearest motel is, you don’t know. I ask what crews are working where, you don’t know. I ask about production schedules, you don’t know.”
“Tell you what. I’ll make you a bet. I bet that, if I were to take my cell phone here and call Anthony Pembroke the Third, my $100 million trumps your job status. You have any firm ideas about that?”
“No,” Steptoe said icily, all traces of old world charm now completely absent. “As in all things, I take my instructions from London.”
“Y’know, Dennis,” Jack mused, “I don’t think it’s a very sound position to have a manager in place who can’t make any decisions for himself. I’ll be talking to Anthony later on. I think we’ll change this.”
Jack stood up. I followed suit. Steptoe looked as though he had shrunk into his clothing like a turtle.
“In the meantime, Mr. North and I are going to look around for a few days. Anyone who interferes with that is fired. Your head of security is now Allen Simmons. I fired that thing you had in place. Write him a check for three months’ pay and tell him he’ll be arrested for trespassing if he shows up here again.”
“I don’t know if that…” Steptoe interjected.
“I’m aware that you don’t know, Dennis,” Jack smiled. “You don’t need to know. It’s done and it’s final. If you think I don’t have that authority, I suggest you call P.P.V.’s attorneys.”
“I shall,” Steptoe growled.
“While you’re on the phone with them, have them explain your role here. And mine. If I see you tomorrow and your attitude hasn’t changed, I’ll put you on an airplane myself. Clear?”
“Very,” Steptoe muttered. “An if my behavior has seemed uncooperative, I…”
“Save it, you supercilious little snot,” I snapped. “You had a chance to be cooperative and you didn’t take it.”
They were the first words I’d uttered since “hello.” I’d vowed to keep quiet but my mouth, as always, seems to operate independent of me.
Steptoe looked at me in shock, as did Jack. He then looked at Jack with an expression clearly meant to convey his displeasure at being addressed in such terms by Jack’s subordinate.
“He doesn’t actually work for me,” Jack chuckled.
“I’ll be speaking with your superior, Mr. North,” Steptoe snapped. This was clearly his sort of management function. “I’ll have his name please.”
“Hmm,” I mused. “My superior, that would be Mahatma Ghandi, M.L.K. and God. You’re welcome to contact any of the three.”
“I’m not joking, Mr. North,” Steptoe snapped, tapping his toe impatiently.
“Neither am I,” I smiled, “You just put your foot in it, pal. Try being man enough to accept that yo
u fucked up.”
I followed Jack out and closed the door.
“Supercilious?” Jack laughed. “They never taught me that word at Maryland.”
“I’ve been saving it for just the right moment,” I sighed. “I believe that was it.”
“I’ll say,” Jack grinned, slapping me on the back.
“Sorry for mouthing off at your meeting,” I offered.
“Don’t apologize,” Jack said, shaking his head. “You just said what I was thinking.”
Nine
Simmons did a few shift-ending pieces of paperwork and then took us down the road about two miles opposite the way we’d come in, to an ancient log roadhouse called Cascade Jack’s.
It was my kind of place. Long, polished mahogany bar with precious few scars on it, neon beer signs that leaned heavily toward mass-produced domestic brews, two well-worn pool tables, booths along the back wall, and a real juke box that was blasting a George Strait tune as we came in.
People were unashamedly smoking cigarettes; something which would have gotten them first shunned and eventually killed in Seattle.
The booth farthest back contained Aaron Weber, doubtless burning a hole in his severance check, and two companions who appeared to have shared his shipments of steroids.
He looked up and saw me and elbowed his companion. The three rose as one and started our way.
“Trouble,” I said to Simmons.
“Hey, fuck face,” Weber shouted. “Who invited your faggot ass into my bar?”
“Aaron, Goddamnit!” The women behind the bar shouted. Weber gave her a curt, dismissive wave.
“Shut the fuck up, Doris,” Weber snapped.
The three came up to us and Weber’s two buddies swung out to flank us. It was obviously a maneuver they’d used before.
I looked at the three. Simmons stood with his hip against the side of the booth, arms folded, a small smile playing about his mouth.
“You want me to handle this, swabbie?” he chuckled.
“I got it,” I sighed. I looked at Weber, whose eyes swam glassily in his ruddy face, like two slimy peas in tomato soup.
“Not so fuckin’ smart now, are ya, fuck face?” he leered.
“Why’s that, son?” I replied mildly. “Because you got two other peckerheads to watch your back? What part of those two ass kickins’ I gave you earlier did you not understand?”
“You used that trick gook shit,” Weber sneered. “If you had to fight like a man, I’d smash your ass into the dirt.”
“ ’Trick gook shit’?” I replied. “Son, I hit you in your diaphragm with my fist, just like any boxer, in any gym, in any town, in America. If I had used the ‘gook shit’, as you call it, you’d be in the hospital in Spokane right now.”
“Shit,” one of his buddies spat, “You sucker punched him! Everybody ‘round here is smart enough to know you don’t mess with Aaron.”
“He told you I suckered him, huh?” I chuckled.
I sighed and then looked at each of them in turn.
“Boys,” I said quietly. “You’re about to make a big mistake now, all because junior here has some sort of problem with the truth. You have five seconds to walk away, or all three of you are going to the hospital tonight. So…what’s it gonna be?”
The one on the right laughed out loud.
“You really think you three old fuckers can take us?”
“No,” I sighed. I suddenly felt very tired and was seized with the curious feeling that I could actually feel my I.Q. dropping, “Not the three of us. I’m going to take all three of you by myself.”
A crowd had gathered and a low ripple passed through it.
“Bullshit,” Weber sneered. “We turn our backs and those two whack us with beer mugs.”
“We ain’t got a beer yet, kid,” Simmons said quietly, “We’re just gonna watch here.”
He sat in the booth and scooted all the way to the wall. He put his hands under his butt and leaned back.
“Happy?” he grinned.
Weber, to his credit, looked a bit uneasy.
“Now,” I said softly. “I’m going to count to five. If you’re not gone by that time, I’m going to hurt all of you quite badly. I’m going to do it in less than 10 seconds, and then I might have you arrested to boot…one.”
One of two things will happen when you count into a fight. The really dumb ones will wait for five and then take a completely predictable swing or lunge like a drunken cow. The meaner ones will go early, usually on three.
Weber lunged on three.
I shot out three fingers into his neck and chopped the bridge of his nose with the other hand. As he screamed and fell, I kicked to the right and felt four or five of the kid’s ribs go at once. I pivoted and swung the same foot into the jaw of the third kid. I heard his teeth slam together, a sound like somebody dropping ball bearings into a tile shower.
I stood and looked around.
Weber was flat on his back, blood gushing from his nose and breathing only with great effort.
The kid on the right was struggling to sit up and screaming every time he tried. The last kid was on his hands and knees, spitting pieces of teeth into a pool of blood beneath him.
“Could you call the police?” I called out to the woman behind the bar.
She walked over slowly, smiling faintly and looking at the three sort of indifferently.
“Nah,” she laughed softly. “I called the ambulance but I don’t’ imagine them boys’ll tell the cops anything, anyways.”
She was a small, wiry woman with coal-black hair worn in a braid that ended in a clutch of beads tapping gently at her belt. She had brilliant green eyes and cheekbones you could set wine glasses on.
“”This been coming’ for a long, long time,” she smiled. “Them boys run my insurance premiums through the roof. Trust me, it hadn’t been you, it’d been somebody they could beat up.”
“I’ll pay for cleaning the bloodstains,” I smiled.
“Shoot, honey,” she laughed. “That’s just atmosphere.”
The ambulance guys did, indeed, not call the cops. The crew chief, in fact, bought us a round. We didn’t pay for anything the whole time we were there.
After about an hour, two county cops wandered in, talked with Doris, our charming proprietress, and three or four other patrons before finally making their way over to us.
“All three at once?” the deputy asked, rolling a toothpick across his lips.
“I warned them,” I replied.
“So I heard,” he yawned. “Well, them boys never been too big on listening.”
He looked at his watch.
“Course, nobody ever put em in the hospital before. Could be they’ll listen now.”
They turned and walked out.
I gave Simmons all I knew about Sam, which was colorful and plentiful considering the relatively short time we were together.
Simmons reciprocated by telling us what he knew about the resort. It wasn’t much. If there was an on-site loop to be in, it was pretty small and didn’t include any of the support functionaries like security, day labor, or trades.
“Allen,” Jack interjected at one point, “the reason we’re up here at all is because something is off about this project and we don’t know what it is. The whole thing is being kept bottled up—presumably by P.P.V.—and that just makes no sense. The key to making this kind of resort work is publicity, sales, and marketing. I should have had my staff buying ads two months ago. But, I’m being held off.”
“It’s not some grand plan to stage a splashy coming-out party?” Allen offered.
“That’s what they might have done in the 60’s,” Jack allowed, “before the stakes went up so astronomically. Nowadays, you want to make it at all, you better hope you’re presold six months out. To open this thing and have it even 50% vacant… Hey, I’m a pretty rich guy, but it could easily break me, if I were the sole proprietor.”
“Problem I have, here,” Allen said quietly, “I can’
t take a man’s money or a company’s and be spyin’ on ‘em at the same time. I’ll help with whatever I can, but…”
“Allen,” Jack said patiently, “it’s half my money. What’s at the top of your paycheck? What name on the account?”
“Um, Mountain Empire Partners, Ltd.,” Allen said, consulting a check stub from his pocket.
“Which is me, Clay Wright, and Anthony Pembroke,” Jack smiled. “See?”
“Well,” Simmons grinned, stretching out some kinks, “since you put it like that…”
We walked out to the cars. Simmons shook out his keys and extended his hand.
“Truly good to meet ya, Loot,” I grinned.
“Same here,” Simmons replied. He then looked at me seriously.
“That thing with Weber,” he said quietly. “It ain’t over. He’s too mean and stupid to let it be. Too pitiful, too. That job and his rep were all he had.”
Simmons spat thoughtfully and looked off into the fading sun.
“His daddy ran off when he was about 10 and his mama moved to Spokane when he turned 16. She left him their trailer and $500.”
“He’s just about as smart as a bucket of hair and has no identity except local bully. Oh, don’t get me wrong. That kinda ass-whippin’ was long overdue and everybody’s thrilled you did it. But he won’t let it be. He can’t.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I sighed. “I’m not promising anything, though. I’m not one of these guys who believes in karmic balance. Sometimes, what happens, happens.”
“‘No other way to look at it,” Simmons nodded. “Just watch your back.”
Ten
The motel he suggested was two miles farther down the road. It turned out to be a tidy little compound of white clapboard cabins and a larger central house divided into an office and six rooms in a three-story layout that included some bathroom sharing - a situation I’ll usually go to great lengths to avoid.
While scrupulously neat, it was practically deserted. A family was piling into one of the cottages as we pulled in but their’s was the only car in the lot.
An emphatic “For Sale” sign was posted next to the office walk. It had a layer of dust and grimy rain streaks down the face; proof of how much luck the poor people were having trying to unload it.
Call Me Joe Page 7