Pardners

by Roy F. Chandler

  Bravo could see it. "If his top was down we could vault right into the seats. You like to do the talking, so you can sit beside him. I'll get in back with a sap, and if he even blinks I'll head-knock him quiet and cooperative."

  Byrne liked the feel of it. "If we get in with him without him seeing us coming, we'll have a jump on him that we can use.

  "With his car parked way out there away from everybody else, we won't be likely to be interrupted by people coming too close. We should be able to discuss whatever we want to for as long as he has anything intelligent to say."

  "Then I'll sap him a few licks just for the hell of it." Bravo really wanted that part to happen.

  Byrne asked, "Do you see any security cameras?"

  Bravo looked. "Yeah, there is one right over the gate."

  "Any others?"

  "None that I can see from here."

  Byrne thought about the situation long enough for Bravo to become restless. Finally, Alpha spoke.

  "OK, this is what we will do. We will look closer to make sure there aren't more cameras. Assuming that there aren't any, we will come in before dawn where the gate camera can't see us and be waiting behind those hanging branches."

  Bravo asked, "What about the light over the gate?"

  Alpha said, "We'll check it tonight, but it looks to me as if there would be deep shadows over by the hinge end of the gate."

  Bravo groaned, "There will be swarms of mosquitoes under those branches and probably black gnats." Byrne ignored the ritual complaining, but Bravo added, "We'll probably get Lyme Disease."

  "When Charlie arrives, we will do it just as you described. I'll hit the passenger seat beside him, and you will sit directly behind him. If he resists, you tap him. For god's sake don't brain him, Shepard. Just cool him down a little."

  "Then what?"

  "Well, that will depend on what he tells us. If he gives us names to go after, we will probably be done with him."

  "Then I'll head knock him."

  "Look Bravo. If you keep quiet and don't get lined up with his rearview mirror, he won't even know who is back there. You are supposed to be dead, remember. We might be able to use that somehow."

  "God, Byrne. I wish you would learn how to make more thorough plans. You always go in just hoping things will go our way."

  Bravo thought about how it would be." I'll wear a cap and my darkest sunglasses. Hell, Charlie hasn't seen me in twenty years, and I haven't shaved in almost two weeks. He won't suspect it's me—the dead guy."

  They both thought some more before Bravo said, "What I should do is drop a rope garrote around his neck and hold it tight enough to make him an instant believer."

  Byrne liked it. "That's better than lumping him, Tommy. He will be quicker to tell us everything, and a rope around his neck will keep him from looking around."

  Shepard said, "So, what do we do with him after he tells us all he can think of? You are avoiding that part, Alpha."

  Byrne twitched a little. "Let's just keep avoiding that, Shepard. Dewey Lavender isn't very high on either of our scales of justice, so we'll do what we have to, and we don't need to speculate too much about it right now.

  "Hey, if we discover we aren't satisfied, we can drop by for seconds."

  Chapter 18

  Lavender drove automatically with his mind on other things. He suspected he had driven his work route so many times that if he let go of the wheel his car would steer itself through D.C. and into its usual parking spot. A clichéd thought, but his mind enjoyed it.

  He had gone to bed with a knot in his guts, and a night of flailing and calculating had left him tired and more depressed than usual.

  The call from Chicago had nearly floored him. That Jocko, an insignificant middleman he had hired only once, knew his phone number was stunning enough, but Jocko's report of overly curious visitors virtually destroyed the little self-confidence Lavender had retained.

  Of course, Jocko had wanted money, and Charlie had sent it. Eventually, Jocko had called back.

  Jocko described two men. If either was Don Byrne, Lavender could not tell. Both were Caucasian about six feet, middle-aged but in good shape. They had brown hair. Milo's was thinning on top and in front. That narrowed the field to about fifty million men.

  Dewey Lavender did not recognize a Milo, but his attention was focused by the customers' requests. They had an ID for the mercenary Lavender had recommended to his patron, and they had claimed the man was dead. Jesus, how could that be? The man was a professional with a terrific military record.

  The story's topper was that the customers had produced Lavender's telephone number and suggested that whoever answered the phone would pay to know that he was being asked about. God, what could that mean—beyond that they wanted Lavender to know that someone knew about and was looking into his activities. Byrne? It had to be—didn't it?

  Lavender had kept his telephone voice calm. He thanked Jocko for the information and asked that he be kept informed of any other appearances or requests. Then he hung up and tried to still the trembling in his fingers. Something bad was happening. Byrne? Hell, the man was a small town doctor and had been nothing more for twenty years or so.

  Byrne already knew where he lived. Why would he mess around with Jocko? The answer? He wouldn't have. Byrne would have picked up the phone or appeared at his office asking what in hell was going on?

  Charlie found himself sweating—nervous panicky sweat. Embarrassing. He doubted he had openly perspired in all of his office years. If he could discover what was happening or who was involved, he believed he might do something to protect himself, but, so far, he had nothing to grab hold of.

  Was it simply a guilty conscience eating his liver? No, it was more. Maybe some of the people hired to handle Byrne and Shepard were planning to put him on a hook—probably for money—for the rest of his life? Such blackmail was often attempted, but, so far, never on him.

  The blackmail possibility seemed more probable than an over-the-hill, rural doctor killing the tough men that had gone for him. He, Dewey Lavender, was overweight and slowed way down. Almost everyone over forty was. It followed that Byrne would be no different.

  It had to be the mercenary and his people. Well, Lavender felt untouchable on that end. He had provided a name to another party. Nothing unusual there, and he was guilty of no crimes. As best he could see, nothing could be proven against him, anyway.

  Now that he thought about it, the mercenary himself could have provided a copy of his own ID, and he and his whole team could be snickering over the scam they would pull off. Unfortunately, none of his made-up scenario explained how the mercenary had gotten his telephone number. Nobody involved had that number—he had believed.

  When Jocko had first provided names, Charlie had examined the mercenary's military file—and he had been impressed. Until he had gone bad, the soldier had been a class act. Now? Now he was just hired muscle.

  If the ex-soldier came around even hinting at blackmail, Lavender would stand with the weight of government behind him. Once the mercenary realized whom he was dealing with, he would make fast tracks out of the district and perhaps out of the country.

  Charlie tried to relax. He could handle it—but he slept poorly and his mind wrestled with how he would maneuver to remain legally clear and clean in the eyes of the agency.

  With the weather right for convertibles, Lavender drove with his top down but his windows rolled up. The tinted windows gave a sleek look to the Mercedes, and they blurred his image so that the great unwashed that he was passing would wonder who the wealthy and important man with the fine car might be.

  When driving in DC, the capital of the modern world, Lavender thought often about his image, but today he wondered if that damned mercenary, or that equally unpredictable Byrne, might be laying out there with a sniper rifle—or even a roadside bomb?

  As he neared his destination, Lavender's head began swiveling with his eyeballs slapping back and forth at a dangerous rate. God, tha
t was stupid. Even if someone were coming at him, they would not be loitering along the roads hoping for a lucky meeting.

  Hell, Jocko's call had barely arrived. A plotter in Chicago would not have jumped on a plane, with a bundle of weaponry and/or explosives, and already be in position in DC.

  With relief, Charlie saw his parking area just ahead. He swung into the barred entrance with his back crawling, and he took forever fumbling his card into the gate raiser.

  As usual, the far end of the parking deck was empty, and his favored spot would be uncrowded. Safely inside the fenced parking, Charlie eased his silver beauty into position with the car centered between two parking spaces and straddling a white line. That gave him more than enough room to avoid having his doors or quarter panels dinged by junk-car drivers. Just being safely parked lessened the ache in his back and shoulders. He was too tense; he needed to relax more.

  To spare his battery, Dewey always raised the top with the motor running. Lavender shifted into park and reached for the switch that would raise his convertible top.

  He was still reaching when the car inexplicably rocked, and his shocked mind recognized a human figure dropping into the bucket seat beside him.

  Stunned, Lavender thought of hijack. His beautiful car was being carjacked. What? Something flashed before his eyes, and a cord tightened around his throat. Instinctively, his fingers sought the strangling rope, and the figure beside him leaned across and flipped the top-raising switch. The convertible began to seal itself, and in the next instant a pistol in his seat-companion's fist smashed his rearview mirror and moved almost instantly to jam hard under his chin.

  Blinding fear engulfed Lavender's senses. They were going to kill him and take his car. As if washed away, physical strength departed. Trapped in his bucket seat with his seatbelt and shoulder harness in place, he had no chance. His eyes teared, and his lungs heaved—whether from the strangling cord or pure terror, Charlie could not know. His ears caught the always-familiar click of a semi-automatic pistol being cocked, and Dewey Lavender knew with certainty that his race was over. Inexplicably, his terrorized mind wondered if the pistol was a 1911 Colt .45? He knew about those guns and the horrendous wounds they inflicted.

  The figure beside him spoke, and Lavender almost vomited with the familiarity of it. Instant sweat drenched him, and his body shivered—with relief that he knew his killer? How was that better?

  Alpha said, "Hey Charlie, you're looking a little panicky."

  With the choke cord holding him in place as if he were welded, Lavender could only move his eyes to take in his betrayed companion.

  Alpha said, "Now Charlie, if you so much as wiggle, Milo back there will shut off your air and maybe crush your throat, so be very still and very cooperative. Do you understand?"

  At the edge of strangulation, Lavender's voice could not respond, but he managed a slight head nod.

  The muzzle of Alpha's pistol left Charlie's throat, and it felt as if the choking eased an appreciated hair. His voice had failed completely, but some of his panic receded—a little.

  Lavender realized that Byrne's voice sounded dangerously impersonal—as if he did not care what went on from here, as if he were merely carrying out a planned route to some already chosen conclusion.

  Lavender felt his trembling resume. Knowing what he had done and the probability that Alpha also knew, Charlie desperately feared what that conclusion would be.

  Lavender waited for agonizing moments as Byrne hummed softly to himself. Lavender judged that Byrne had returned his pistol to its holster. What else Alpha was doing quickly became apparent.

  Alpha, the doctor, placed a small leather case on the dash within Lavender's view. He methodically released latches and opened the case to reveal a syringe with a long and slender needle. A full syringe, Lavender noted. Oh God!

  Byrne raised the syringe and squirted a small amount of whatever it held. Doctors always did that, Charlie remembered.

  Apparently ready, with the loaded syringe poised where both could study it, Alpha turned his eyes on Lavender. Dewey felt the garrote around his throat tighten a hint, and he feared to remove his hands from their grip along the rope.

  Doctor Byrne said, "Now Charlie, this hypodermic is not filled with truth serum or something like that. This is a very deadly poison. If it enters your bloodstream at any point, you will not have long to live. Your death will be agonizing, and it will take longer than you will like."

  Byrne said, "Now here's how it is, Charlie. You ratted us out. You lied about us. You claimed that we were part of that Mexican firefight, and you know that we were not. Now people have killed Bravo, and they are trying for me."

  The garrote tightened, and Lavender feared he was strangling.

  Byrne continued, "If you wish to live, you will answer what I ask one hundred and ten percent, honestly and thoroughly. There will be no second chance, Charlie." Byrne thrust the thin needle through Lavender's shirt, his undershirt, and into flesh along his ribs.

  The stench of urine filled the closed car. Lavender felt the moist heat in his crotch and realized that his bladder had released. The unmanly disgrace added insult, but neither Milo nor Byrne appeared to notice.

  Byrne's eyes did not leave Lavender's face, and they remained as expressionless as icebergs. Dewey Lavender knew he would answer anything Byrne or Milo asked. The great question in his mind was, would Byrne let him live after he told?"

  As if sensing his fear, Byrne said, "The questions are simple and straight, Lavender. Answer truthfully, and we will depart, and you will live. Lie, even a little, and you will die very painfully here in this parking lot." Byrne's syringe hand moved a little. The flesh stung around it, and Lavender's soul cringed.

  Byrne said, "First question, and the garrote eased significantly. "Who did you sell us out to?"

  Although it was only a croak, Lavender found his voice worked. "Donna Maria Santos."

  His eyes wept, but Dewey Lavender was beyond embarrassment. He wished only to survive, and the poison-loaded syringe was sunk deep within his body.

  Byrne asked, "Where does she live?"

  Charlie's answer was quick and his voice was intensely sincere. "In Palm Springs. Palm Springs, California." Panic touched Dewey's voice before he had thought to add the California part.

  Before Byrne could react, Lavender's hoarse voice said, "I do not remember her address, but she is in the book. Just look in the telephone book."

  There was silence, and Lavender waited. His mind begged for another question—anything to keep Byrne from squeezing the hypodermic's deadly potion into him.

  When he again spoke, Alpha's voice was low and softer. He asked, "Why did you do it, Charlie?"

  Lavender did not ask "What?" He knew. He wished to moan, but he had to answer and instantly. Dewey's voice took on a new quaver as he sought to explain. "I had to have money, Alpha, I was desperate, and I couldn't think of anything else."

  Byrne's words were again as hard as railroad spikes. "How much do you have left, Lavender?"

  The syringe moved and burned in Charlie's side. He said, "Only about ten thousand dollars. I spent the rest of it. This car cost over seventy thousand, and . . ." Byrne interrupted him.

  "Stop. Just sit quiet for a minute because right now, I'm hungry to empty this hypo into your guts."

  They sat, and heat and stench rose in the car. Lavender wondered if only he noticed as he sweat rivers and his body vibrated like a harp.

  Byrne said, "Here is what you are going to do, Lavender, and you are going to do this within forty-eight hours. If you fail, we will call again, and a lethal poison will seem like a beach vacation compared to how you will leave this earth."

  Hope leaping, Lavender waited. Byrne took his time, and Milo's garrote was again crushing Charlie's throat.

  "Within forty-eight hours, you will personally deliver twenty-thousand dollars to your ex-wife with no strings attached. I hope that you fail to do this because I really do wish to kill you, Charlie.
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  "If I cannot completely end the Santos attack on me and be able to return to my home to live as I did before you betrayed us, I will want to kill you even more. If you value life, do not fail in this Lavender."

  The garrote had tightened even more, and Charlie fought the bite of the rope, sucking air with all of his strength to keep breathing as long as possible.

  Byrne went on. "When you pay your former wife, and when we are convinced that you will never again be a menace to me, you can live your life without fear, Charlie, but until then—be afraid. Be very afraid. We will be watching, and if anything happens to me, Milo will strike without warning, and Milo is not as compassionate as I am.

  "Do you understand all of that?"

  There was no letup in the garrote, and Dewey could only nod.

  Then Byrne asked, "How many men can the Santos send after me, Charlie?"

  Milo eased the strangling cord.

  Lavender sucked air before croaking, "They have no men. The Santos are no longer a family. I had a hell of a time finding anyone left that was interested. Only Donna Maria even cares."

  Alpha and Bravo were stunned, and leaning away where Lavender could not see, Byrne grinned widely at his partner. If Lavender spoke truly, there might, after all, be a survivable end to it.

  Byrne said, "No one cares? How could that be?"

  Charlie was quick to fill in. "Only small men survived the guerillas, Alpha, and they went to prison. Most are still there. The Santos family is gone from the drug business. They were taken over and have been out for almost eighteen years. The few males left are in legal, or relatively legal, small time employment. They struggle to live. All that was left went to Donna Santos, and she has not shared with many of them.

  "Donna Santos paid for my information. What she did with it, I haven't heard."

  Byrne's voice was brutally hard, and the noose around Lavender's neck tightened. "You heard that Bravo was murdered and given a Columbian necktie, Lavender. You heard that from me, you bastard. Maybe it would be better to just kill you here and now." Byrne appeared to ponder, and Lavender believed he would strangle before Alpha could decide.