"Nikolaou."
One of the twins, he'd never bothered to learn their names, was squatting on the bidet, far too close to the bathroom door for comfort, so the conversation that ensued was entirely in Nicky's native language. She glanced his way, saw his features darken with rage and shot her sister a concerned look. When the tub was ready, the twins padded back into the bedroom with forced smiles, each to one side of the oversized bed. They reached for his arms, but paused. Little Nicky had fallen asleep. His mouth opened in a snore, thick lips bubbled with saliva.
The two women locked eyes. The one on the left side of the bed trembled with fear and shook her head. She raised her hands, palms up, and mouthed the word "no." The female on the right ignored her plea and tiptoed over to her purse. This one had a feral glint in her eyes, and clearly a different kind of soul than her sister, who had already slipped back into her evening gown and was heading for the door.
They shared another long look. The first girl wept, crossed herself, and left. The door closed silently behind her.
The second twin knelt on the carpet, opened a secret pocket in her purse and produced a syringe already loaded with a clear fluid. She was not about to pass up one million dollars. She studied Nicky, whose snores were deep and evenly paced, knowing his was the last cock she was ever going to have to suck. She eased closer, the needle hidden in her palm and partly behind her back. She paused at the side of the bed, legs slightly parted.
Another long wait. There could be no mistakes.
Finally, she went down to one knee, leaned in close and located the carotid artery. The girl had been on and off heroin for two years. She knew how to work with needles. She brought the syringe up and did a practice run, stopping just short of injection. She'd been told the contents of the syringe were obscure poisons mixed with insulin. They would induce an immediate heart attack and leave no trace evidence.
In less than a minute, this would all be over. She mentally rehearsed the act and then the aftermath. She would smash and scatter the syringe. She was to leave immediately. Her sister was already in a car, headed for Reno. The second the death was verified, a call would be made. Her sister would go to a bank, open a safe deposit box, and leave with a bearer bond for one million dollars. The plan was to meet in San Francisco the next day for an overnight flight to Berlin. And then they would disappear forever.
The girl took a deep breath, released it, then a shallow one. Nicky continued to snore. She brought the needle down, and stabbed for his neck.
The world went white and she found herself on her back, legs splayed. She could not get a breath. Her hands clutched at her throat. Nicky was now pacing the room like a Bengal tiger; his hairy, heavily muscled body rigid with rage. The girl heard wheezing sounds. His right hand. . . . It had come up in a flash, flat as a board, and caught her flush across the neck. Her throat had been crushed. She writhed in agony, whimpered and struggled as she slowly strangled to death.
Nicky went down on his knees. "Having fun?" He slapped her face, held up the syringe. "You could take an hour to die, bitch. Or I could help you out with a dose of your own medicine."
"P-p-please," she managed to gasp, "h-h-help."
"Oh. You wish me to call the physician who is downstairs at the party, to see if there is something he can do?"
Her eyes begged. Nicky fondled her nipple absently. "You have given me great pleasure tonight, so I shall consider your request."
The girl gagged, wheezed, whispered promises of things he'd never dreamed about, things she'd never done for anyone, all the while slowly gasping for breath. Her world was going dark and cold and she did not want to die. Not here, not this way, naked on a carpet and still a whore. . . .
"But, of course, I have a condition," Nicky said, leaning closer. He stroked her forehead in an obscene parody of affection. "First, you will tell me who sent you, yes?"
Moments later, Nicky did two more lines on the edge of the spa tub. He went into the water and ran the jets. After a short bath, he freshened up and returned to the bedroom to get dressed. The second twin was barely moving by now. Her face had blackened. Her eyes were wide with terror. She had wet herself. Nicky slipped into his Armani suit and stood over her. He held up the syringe.
"Ready?"
By this time the woman could no longer bear the pain. She nodded vigorously, gratefully . . . please get it over with, please. . . .
Nicky dropped the syringe on the carpet. The girl tried to scream but could only manage a vague hissing noise. "Do it yourself, if you want death so badly. I'll see you in hell."
He walked out without looking back.
Out in the hallway, Nicky checked his 9mm and a second gun, a small Firestar, he kept strapped to his ankle. He made a mental note to be sure to get that DVD. The sex had been outrageous—replaying it, followed by the death of the hooker, would provide many intense climaxes in the years to come. He glanced at his Rolex. It was only ten o'clock, but the party had been going on since the late afternoon.
Nicky rode the private elevator up to the top level. He returned to the celebration as if nothing happened. The glass room was dimly lit, classic rock music blaring from hidden speakers. The night outside was bright with a summer moon and speckled with crystal stars. People were dozing with joints in their fingers, burning holes in the expensive leather couches. The catering bar was officially closed, but open bottles were everywhere, enough to keep the event running until morning. Nicky surveyed the room. A State senator was getting lap-danced. Some local businessman had begun playing strip poker with some of the call girls. Nicky left and locked the doors behind him.
Meanwhile, Big Paul Pesci was in the Presidential Suite, sprawled on the bed in his boxer shorts with a drink balanced on his fat belly. Paul was watching his favorite hooker dance around the room in high heels. Finally, Michelle went to the closet, bent over to give him a great view. She brought out a hat box, opened it up and produced sex toys. Pesci laughed drunkenly as she strapped on a huge, black dildo and walked around in a circle, jiggling.
"Sorry to interrupt."
"The fuck?" Pesci sat up suddenly, spilling his drink. Michelle screamed, lost her balance and fell backwards, crushing the hat box. Paul shaded his eyes. A huge man stood in the doorway.
"We need to talk, Paul." Little Nicky moved into the room, waved for Michelle to get out. She ran for the bathroom without bothering to remove the dildo. "Someone just tried to off me."
"Off you? What happened?"
"The twins, Paul," Nicky said. "They were great in bed, as you promised, but it did not end there." He sat on the edge of the bed. Paul saw that he was smiling. That only made things worse. "One of them tried to inject me with something, which got me thinking. Why inject? There is only one reason. A gunshot wound would attract attention, but an injection of something that could not be traced. . . . But who, then? Who gave this order?"
Pesci swallowed. "Ask the girls. Make them talk."
"One got away while I was sleeping, unfortunately. The other is dead."
"That's too bad," Pesci said. "Now we'll never know who hired them." He leaned back against the wall.
"Wait." Nicky showed his teeth and produced a small handgun, the Firestar. "Let me see your left hand, Paul."
Pesci blinked. "My hand?"
Nicky grabbed it, wrapped it in a pillow, pressed the gun against the fabric and fired. Big Paul shrieked and gibbered and clutched his bleeding hand. Nicky gave him the edge of the bedspread. "Quiet. Bite down on this. If Michelle walks back in here, I'll kill her on the spot. It's your call."
"What are you doing? Why did you do that? I don't know anything about this! Please, listen to me!"
Nicky studied him. "This is beneath you, Paul. You fucked up. Take the consequences like a man."
"I didn't do anything, Goddamn it! Nicky, it wasn't me!" His other hand crept to the side of the bed. Pesci felt around for the small panic button, pushed hard; again, and then again.
Nicky grabbed Pesci by
the leg and covered his right foot with another pillow. "Bite down." Pesci began to babble. Nicky fired a second time, POP, and the room stank of burning cotton and cordite. Pesci passed out for a time. Nicky sighed, got up, looked around for some liquor, poured himself a whiskey. Went back over to the bed and poured some ice water on Big Paul.
"No," Pesci whimpered, "please don't. It wasn't me."
"Don't bullshit me, Paul, I know it was you."
"Who said that? Who lied about me?"
"You embarrass yourself," Nicky said quietly. "This is how a man drowns, by panicking."
"I demand to know who fed you this crap!"
"It's simple, Paul. The girl told me."
"She lied."
Nicky shook his head. "First she told me because she thought I would call for help if she was honest. She said Big Paul. The second time I let her think I would end it for her with less pain. She swore she'd told me the truth. I believe her. It is a difficult thing to hold back on the way to the grave, Paul. Few do."
The door opened behind the two men. Pesci gasped with joy. He raised his good arm and pointed at Little Nicky. "Kill him! Kill him now!"
Cowboy Eric and Clyde entered the room, weapons raised. Nicky stiffened a bit and lowered the Firestar to the floor. He sat back in his chair, now calm. Pesci scrambled back into a squatting position on the bed, one hand and one foot dripping blood. "Get the doctor in here, Eric, but first, shoot this piece of shit."
Nicky sat quietly. "Should I explain?"
"Not interested," Eric said.
Pesci struggled to wrap his wounds in the bed sheet. "Take him in the bathroom and shoot his ass in the shower, Eric. Clyde, you cut him up. I don't want a trace of this bastard left behind. We'll say he ran off with the twins."
"I was just in their room," Eric said quietly. "One's gone, the other's dead."
"Okay, one of them. Whatever. Just kill him. Look what the fucker did to me! Michelle? Michelle?"
Little Nicky coughed. Everyone else in the room jumped. "Tell me how it all worked. Give me that much. You hired Faber and Toole from the start, yes? They were to get the money and the disc and set up Mr. Stone to take the fall. When this Callahan fellow came into the picture, you just took advantage of his presence to muddy the waters. You planned to keep all the money and the drugs, and then use Faber and Toole to sell the disc back to my superiors, when it was you who stole it in the first place. Have I put this together properly, Paul?"
Pesci was pale and sliding into shock.
"Clyde?" Eric said. "Maybe you'd better go get Doctor Edison."
Clyde left the suite.
"Well, Paul?" Nicky seemed genuinely curious and not at all afraid of his imminent death.
Paul Pesci shivered. His teeth were chattering. "I wasn't going to sell it back to your people, asshole. You're thinking too small. I was going to sell it back to the corrupt US government for a freaking fortune."
"I'm just wondering why you had Faber and Toole killed," Nicky said. "That part just doesn't make sense. Unless, of course, it was just that they were the only witnesses who knew you had anything to do with stealing the disc. By the way, where is it?"
Pesci fell back on the pillow. "Go to hell. Eric, shoot him."
Eric the Cowboy exchanged glances with Nicky. He lowered his weapon. "No can do, Paul. Sorry."
"What?"
"Me and Clyde, we sold out for a better price, too. I'm sure you can appreciate that. Just capitalism at work."
Pesci moaned. Nicky laughed, reached down to the carpet and retrieved the little pistol. He grabbed another pillow. "I want it all, Paul, especially the disc and the money. The drugs I've promised to Eric and Clyde, here. Tell me where everything is." Nicky placed the small pillow over Pesci's crotch. He raised the gun.
"ET hid the stuff," Pesci babbled. His eyes stayed on the gun as he shielded his shriveled penis with his one good hand. "He doesn't even know about the disc, just the drugs and the money."
Nicky sat back. He snapped his fingers. Eric opened the door and Clyde came back into the room. "Clyde," Eric said calmly, "haul your ass down to the party. Find ET and bring him here. Do it now."
"Please," Pesci said, hating himself for whining. "I'm sorry."
Nicky laughed again. "I'll bet you are. He is sorry, yes, Eric? We can all bet he is sorry now."
Eric stayed in place by the door. Pesci tried to crawl off the edge of the bed. Nicky grabbed his arm, pulled him back, shifted the pillow and covered his face. Pesci screamed. Nicky fired one last time, POP, and there was silence. Pesci twitched and died.
Eric stayed at attention.
"I want ET to see this," Nicky said, "before he gives us directions to where the goods are. I want him to know what awaits him should he ever think to betray me."
"Okay." Cowboy looked pale.
"Afterwards, get someone to clean this room top to bottom." He waved at Pesci's corpse. "Go make travel arrangements for our friend here. He is running with the money and the drugs, yes? Find some witnesses who will swear he took a plane to Mexico City at midnight tonight."
Eric said, "Consider it done."
Nicky stood up. He towered over Eric, who was not a small man. He poured himself another drink. "There is already a warrant out for Mr. Stone, yes? This Mick Callahan fellow could attract too much attention. I want him to stay out of Nevada, or at least be in the same predicament as his friend. How can we do that, and quickly?"
Eric shrugged. "We got two detectives downstairs. I'll get one of them to name Callahan a material witness in some murder case, doesn't matter which one. We'll make sure he finds out through his friend, the LA cop. That ought to either keep him from taking the risk or get him hauled in if he does."
"Do it."
Eric opened the door. Nicky motioned for him to wait. "I do not often share my thoughts, but you have assisted me greatly in this, and I shall make an exception. I think Paul actually had a good idea for once in his life."
Eric the Cowboy said, "Well, I don't know shit about any disc, but if it was worth a fortune then it seems that way to me."
Nicky waved a finger. "However, one should not try to bargain with the US government these days. It is quite corrupt. Besides, we would never survive embarrassing the organization that sent me to Nevada. However, quietly selling the disc back to my bosses through someone else? That may be the stroke of genius."
Twenty-four
Salt Lick, Nevada, was a pile of stones and decaying buildings that squatted several miles off the highway, less than an hour from the outskirts of Vegas. A survival freak named Jack Flanders had built a small ranch there in the early sixties, and put in a bomb shelter the size of an Olympic swimming pool. Several decades went by without a nuclear holocaust, but Flanders died insisting one was right freaking around the corner, sure as shit. His frustrated family sold the place before the ink dried on his death certificate.
The new owner tried to sell tickets to a genuine paranoid's bomb shelter, but nobody gave a damn. He sold it to a bunch of ex-hippies who had dreams of starting a commune, but the land was too dry to farm and the upkeep too high. So they sold the worthless place to someone who sold it to the mob.
Over the years, the concrete bomb shelter had been used to house drugs, sell dope, torture prisoners, and even film a few porn movies. Now the place was pretty much deserted unless the bent nose crowd had something going on that needed privacy and really thick walls.
A bit later that night, Bud Stone crawled quietly through the sage wearing NV goggles and black clothing, a hunting knife gripped firmly between his teeth. The ranch house was dark, but one of the guards lit a cigarette in cupped palms and the reddish glow gave his position away. Bone slid down into a gully, wincing at the light rain of pebbles and sand. He waited a full five minutes before continuing on. He took the glasses off, now that he was on top of them. The moon was full and bright, the desert like the surface of Mars after a meteor shower.
Bud had been watching two men go in and out
during the day, trading shifts. They had no idea what they were guarding. He'd already taken stock of their weaponry and was unimpressed. They were wise guys, not soldiers. Neither man seemed terribly proficient or worrisome as an adversary. Bone waited patiently. The night was hot, and both of the men smoked. Sooner or later they would give in to temptation and stand in the same place to talk. They'd already done that twice. The second time he'd managed to get inside and poke around, then sneak out again.
Idiots.
Callahan's description of the murder of Faber and Toole had taken the gloves off, as far as Bud Stone was concerned. There was no longer any need to pussyfoot around. If these people were going to play hardball, he would, too.
Tires whined on the highway then thumped over pocked, dry earth. Headlights cut through the velvet darkness. A car left the highway and started towards the isolated ranch. The guard stiffened and called for his friend. The wind was still and his voice carried clearly.
"Lucky? We got company."
Bone swore under his breath. They'd both be in the same place again but who the hell was in that car? Bud couldn't move until he knew more. He'd surveyed the house well before sundown. In fact, this was his second trip out. The bomb shelter was below, and had one hell of a tough door on it. That's why Bone was packing some good, old-fashioned plastic explosives and two small mines. It had all been ridiculously easy so far. The two goons hadn't bothered to lock up the shelter. It was cooler than the cabin, and they'd wanted to take advantage of the large air-conditioning unit.
The two guards put out their cigarettes and stood together on the porch, watching the strange vehicle approach. Bud took advantage of the opportunity and closed the gap. He was behind them in seconds, right at the doorway and into the cabin. He flattened against the drapes and looked at the entrance to the bomb shelter. It yawned open like a dragon's maw, big concrete steps leading down into the cool darkness. Bud peered out the window, into the night.
One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel Page 20