by L. J. Martin
Things are getting downright serious.
8
Rico stops short, almost falling on his face, with extended palms and manages a "hold it." There’s not a lick of fear in his eyes, only caution. I’m pretty sure this is not his first rodeo.
I use my most calm voice. "I’m not here to ice you two. Where’s your son?"
"Fuck, I wish I knew," Rico sputters.
"Who killed your daughter-in-law, and where’s your granddaughter?"
This stops him short and he gives me a cold look and I think for a second he’s going to come on, Glock or no. Then he growls, "If you fuck with my granddaughter, I’ll rip you apart and feed you to the hogs. That little piss ant gun won’t help you."
"Your daughter-in-law Carol hired me to find her daughter, and I’m going to do so. Who killed Carol?"
"Not Raoul, if that’s what you’re thinking."
"Then who?" The door behind me is rattling, about to come off its hinges. I presume the limo driver is trying to get inside to do his other job—guarding fat bodies.
"Is that shit poison?" Rico asks, as his brother continues to choke and his eyes run like the Bellagio Hotel fountains. His nose is flowing like a calf slobbering for its mother.
"Just mace, he’ll be fine. Pour some milk in his eyes. Give him a hanky, he's a revolting sight."
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Dick Strong, I’m private. And I’m going to find your granddaughter, and who killed your daughter-in-law, and it’s you who’ll be hog feed if it was you."
"Oh, yeah? Well, if you find my granddaughter and bring her to me, it’s worth a hundred grand." To my surprise, he fishes in his shirt pocket and hands me a card. "My personal cell is on there. I’d also like to know where the fuck my son is hiding."
"Why’s he hiding?" I’m pressing my luck here as the broom handle is about to give way, and I hear one of the muscle-fucks outside yell to the other to run around to the front door.
"Not because he killed his wife."
"I’ll give you a call," I say, the push them both out of the way and head for the rear door, which I know opens onto a walkway that leads to the street. And it’s a good thing I’m leaving as the parking structure door gives way with a loud twang and the cop who’d been sitting in on the interview upstairs exits the elevator at about the same time. In time to meet the bodyguard who'd run to the front door, and was now charging down the hall.
But they are way too late as the back door closes behind me. In moments I’m at my Harley, have fired it up, and am hauling ass down Highway 93.
So, did I accomplish anything other than pissing off a couple of very bad dudes? I’m not sure. I do think Rico Zamudio was sincere in not knowing where his son was, and even more sincere in wanting his granddaughter back. Of course that does not mean that he didn’t send some filthy animals to kill his daughter-in-law. I have his card, and will be giving him a call, but right now, I think it’s Raoul’s rumored mistress who’s in the crosshairs. I got the feeling I find Raoul, I find the granddaughter, and I also find out a lot more about who dragged a butcher knife through that beautiful neck.
I use the door combination, slip in the back door of Pax's office, and take the stairs two at a time. He's head down behind his huge monitor so I slip up on him.
"IRS, you're under arrest," I snap, and he jumps as if he's been tased.
"Damn you. You're too quiet for a big man."
"Light of foot, but not light in the loafers."
He laughs. "Speaking of that, I got a call from last night's ladies, little miss blonde Jennifer and my new best friend Babs, and it seems they want a rematch, so I guess your masculinity is assured…at least for today."
"I have no interest in starting on the men until I finish all the women, and by my calculation I have a few over three billion to go." He nods; he's heard it before. "I'm up for the lovely Piero's ladies…or could be," it's my turn to laugh at my own weak pun. "However, I want to get next to Wally Rosenlieb and I need you to do a favor."
"What a surprise."
"See if you can get a line on the Zamudio's personal computers and on Miss Wally World's. Put a Trojan horse in them. I need to know what's going on in their lives."
Pax shakes his head, somewhat dismayed. "You're gonna get me hung out to dry. These guys will have great IT types on their team."
"Not as good as you, however. Tie it to Singh in Mumbai and link it back to Taj in Malta—"
"Are you telling me my business, dingus. I taught you my tricks, remember."
"You're right. I am humbly sorry, my wizard."
"Fuck you."
"No thanks. I believe I'll leave that up to Jennifer if you're serious about a rematch with the ladies. I remember Jennifer very well, blow by proverbial blow, to coin a phrase. Of course she promised I would, and she was right. What's the other one's name?"
"Barbara; prefers Babs, of course."
"Of course. You got that file on Wally?"
He digs in a drawer and comes up with a thumb drive and flips it to me. "Get in the twenty first century, Neanderthal. That little baby could hold the entire Clark County Library."
"My computer's in the van." He points to an Apple Air on a credenza against the wall.
I curl up in a Charles Eames chair in the corner with the Apple on my lap and read while Pax goes back to work.
After I've absorbed the info, nothing astounding and certainly nothing incriminating—I return the little computer. "Call me when you know where we're gonna meet the ladies. I'm gonna dog Miss Wally and see where she leads me."
He waves, without looking up.
Just for the hell of it I head back to the Tropicana Self Storage and unlimber my seldom-used favorite ride. The 1957 Corvette I keep stored there is, of course, a classic. Red with white inserts, it's absolutely original…except for the blown, tricked out engine—requiring a scoop breather in the hood—the racing transmission and rear end, and a roll bar I added knowing my propensity to overdo things. With racing slicks it's good for a hundred forty or more in the quarter mile, and top end is beyond my reckoning. There's not much room in the trunk of a Vette, so I've left the chrome luggage rack in place over the trunk lid.
I could have more easily driven the van and been a hell of a lot less conspicuous, but I need cheering up and the Vette is a surefire way to do so. I've been in a black mood ever since discovering my client sans her head…but then who wouldn't be?
O'Reilly and Rosenlieb are located in the Howard Hughes Business Center on Howard Hughes Parkway, a classy upscale business park just north of McCarran International Airport and east of the strip. I find a visitor parking space behind the building, a handsome four-story edifice with lots of glass, gray stone, and three-dozen professional offices spread throughout. The Irish-Jewish accounting firm is on the top floor, of course. It's got a door that would shame many European castles, not exactly befitting an ultra modern building, but then I'm no architectural critic. I doff my NRA bill cap and charge in just like I could afford to be a client.
The girl behind the desk was not hired for her looks, but possibly for her professional demeanor. She raises her eyes as I enter, studies me a second, then raises badly-in-need-of-plucking bushy black eyebrows as well.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asks. My Molon Labe stenciled tee shirt has obviously not impressed her.
"I'm here to see Marisa Frigginbottom." I told you I had a warped sense of humor.
9
"We don't have a Marisa here, sir."
"Isn't this Rosencranz and O'Smiley?" I'm eyeballing the place as we chat. At least I'm chatting, she's challenging.
"No, it certainly is not. This is O'Reilly and Rosenlieb and I don't think there's any such person as a Frigginbottom or such firm as…Rosen…whatever…and Smiley."
"I must be in the wrong building."
She gives me a serious glower. "You think?"
"Upon occasion, probably not often enough."
"You think?"
She looks over her shoulder then lowers her voice and, I'd guess, her resistance to manly charm. "Filling a tee shirt like that, don't be sorry."
"Aren't you sweet?" I say, and give her a wink as I head for the door, wave over my shoulder, and exit, hoping she doesn't leap on my back, either out of anger or lust.
"Hey," she yells after me, so I stop and glance back, "What's molon rabe mean?"
"King Leonidas, when he was leading the Spartans against several thousand Persians…."
"Yeah, so?"
"So the Persians sent him a message, 'lay down your arms and we might not kill you all."
"And?"
"And the good king said 'molon rabe'. Latin I presume for 'come and get them.'"
"Ah."
"It's appropriate for this day and age," I add.
She laughs, and nods. To my surprise, she reaches in a side drawer and flashes a little Police Special .38. "Molon rabe, big boy."
It's my turn to laugh, and do so as I exit the big thick castle doors.
I've gotten a glance into the hallway. The doors to the minor offices are all glass. One of them has Miss Wallace A. Rosenlieb stenciled thereon, and I've caught a glance of a long legged beauty bending low over a filing cabinet. The glance from the rear is enough to convince me that she might attract a strikingly handsome South American, okay—Mexican—polo star. So I'm on the trail. I retreat to the Vette and move it to a space four rows in the rear of the visitor parking, find a spot in the somewhat limited shade of a queen palm, and wait.
It's beginning to warm up in Vegas, and before long, even in May, I'm wishing I had the top on the Vette. Wally works hard, and late, I conclude as I glance at my watch after a two hour wait, and see it's six o'clock. But when I glance up, she's exiting the rear doors, and is at least as beautiful from the front as from the very shapely rear. I watch carefully as she heads for one of the dozen covered parking spaces—shade's good in Vegas—and gracefully slips into a gold Mercedes, which, if I'm not mistaken, is this year's model.
Following someone in a vehicle is a real art, particularly in a vehicle as obvious as a classic red and white Corvette. I stay well behind her and wonder where she's going. I have her home address on the west side of town, and she's heading east.
Sam's Town, no relation to Sam's Club, is out on the Boulder Highway just south of Tropicana, and she drives straight there and takes advantage of attendant parking. I park in the self-park, and hustle to enter the club well behind her. Sam's Town is a local's joint, although it's large enough to be on the strip, with it's own Cinemark, TGI Fridays, Shepler's Western Wear, and a dozen other retail outlets and restaurants as well as a casino as large as many on Las Vegas Boulevard. At six fifteen the place is already humming. The whirl and clank of the club is typical as folks feed the machines and most of the Las Vegas populace thereby…as many if not most work in the gaming industry.
It's not, however, a place I'd expect this very classy—at least classy appearing—lady to frequent.
I find her at a twenty-five dollar minimum blackjack table, and watch her buy in for at least five hundred, then begin playing fifty bucks a hand. And as I watch a half dozen hands, she's winning. I quickly make up my mind that she's in for the duration. Like kismet, my phone rattles.
"The ladies want to meet us at Gabi's in the Paris."
"Their wish is my command. I'm way out at Sam's Town—"
"Slumming?"
"Watching Wally play half a Franklin a hand…and I don't think she's going anywhere soon, so it's the Paris. Where's Gabi?'
"Street side, you can't miss it."
"On my way."
I had yet to make it back to the Vette when my phone rang again with a Ring of Fire tone that I'd assigned to Pax. "What's up?" I answer.
"I just got an interesting call."
"From?"
"Rico Zamudio."
"How the hell…?"
"I have no idea. I guess our reputation proceeds us. It didn't take him long to tie you to me. He wants us to come up for cocktails."
"Or to rip our cocks off," I mutter.
"I told him eight o'clock, no sense in dodging the old boy. That'll give us time to buy the ladies a dirty martini."
"Shit happens," I say. I decided to pass on the dirty martini, as it seems I'll need my wits about me. A couple of big Zamudio brothers and a very angry Germanic gentleman have requested my presence.
We only make one stop after we leave, and that’s at my mini-storage for a couple of Kevlar vests. Caution is the byword when there’s a good chance a dozen bodyguards will be trying to ventilate our hard bodies.
10
Jennifer is looking especially attractive tonight. She's eyeing me like I’m an ice cream cone, and I’m liking it. Maybe I’m feeling like this might be my last roll in the hay, as I’m off to meet some gentlemen of dubious reputation who have reason to put my lights out. I can’t tell you how much I hate leaving after they’ve dusted off a couple of martinis and I’ve sipped my way through a soda with a squeeze. I promise to call her after, and if, I survive our upcoming meeting, and she promises to—maybe—be around to take the call.
As we head for the parking attendant, I ask Pax a particularly poignant question. "You are carrying, I hope?"
"Very small, and very well hidden," he says with a wink.
"Okay, as I’m carrying very large and very obvious."
"Forty five?"
"Glock, forty cal, small of the back, but they’ll nail it immediately."
"And are you giving it up?"
"Not without a hell of a fight."
"That’s a no?"
"What part of ‘hell of a fight’ don’t you understand?"
The attendant arrives with my Vette, and we head out to Lake Las Vegas and the Zamudio compound. Why do I feel like I’m leaping into a den of vipers?
There’s an attendant at the gate who looks like a defensive tackle on the Chargers. He waves us through with the instruction to keep right and stop in front of the garage with four double-wide garage doors. As soon as I switch the Vette off, two more gorillas exit and squeeze through a three-foot wide door in the center of the garage doors.
One of them is the boy who was driving the limo at the fire marshal’s office—I recognize him, as he’s neck-less, his shoulders sloping down from just under his ears. Just looking at me makes him angry, and he speaks through clinched jaw. "You assholes carrying?"
I eye him like he’s something stuck to the bottom of my shoe. "What fucking business is it of yours, butt-fuck? We’re invited guests."
He hocks a big one and spits on the driveway. "Follow Pedro there inside."
I drop the keys on the floorboard and slide them under the seat with my heel, without either gorilla seeing, so Pax will know where they are. It’s SOP for us when going into a situation where one of us may have to leave in a hurry.
Pedro leads; Pax and I follow. Pedro turns an immediate right and pauses in front of a monitor. I note the doorjamb is a foot thick, then the buzzer goes off and it’s apparent why. It’s a metal detector.
No-neck is close behind me, and Pedro speaks over us. "The mouthy one is carrying at the small of his back, the gimp looks okay."
I have to wince when he refers to Pax as a gimp. Thanks to an AK47 his left leg is an inch and a half shorter than his right, and he wears a prosthetic shoe with an extra thick sole...into which is carved a compartment that he uses to conceal a little five shot .22 magnum. He is gimpy, but he’s also touchy as a whore’s tush after a long weekend with five-dozen customers. I’m surprised when he doesn’t plant a knuckle sandwich in Pedro’s wide brown face.
"Cough it up," No-neck says.
"Fuck off," I reply. "I didn’t call this meeting. I’m an invited guest going into your territory with at least a dozen guys carrying. If the Zamudios want me to give up my tiny bit of protection, tell them to see me in church, where I seldom carry."
&
nbsp; Pedro pulls a two-way off a clip on his belt and speaks into it. "One of them is carrying and won’t store the weapon. You want we should take it?"
I laugh out loud. "Ask him if he wants to call 911, ‘cause you’re gonna need an ambulance you reach for my weapon."
Before I stop laughing, Pax has stepped forward and hits Pedro in the radio, which he almost swallows, which drives him to his butt, blood spurting from a cut on both sides of his mouth, his eyes rolling like a Ferris wheel. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t start spitting teeth.
I spin, drop to one hand on the pavement, and side-kick No-neck in a knee as he’s standing in utter surprise seeing his big, supposedly tough, buddy withering on the deck.
No-neck’s leg folds and he goes down hard.
He immediately grapples for his weapon in a side holster as I recover my feet, so I plant the next one under his chin, snapping his head back and bouncing it off the concrete, and dropping him to his back, unmoving, blood running from both sides of his fat lips. I jerk his weapon, pop the clip and kick it under the nearest parked vehicle...a beautiful shiny new silver Jag. Throwing the semi-auto the other direction, it bounces off the top of the Caddy Limo that No-neck had been driving the last time I saw him...and disappears beyond.
Pax stops rubbing his knuckles, stoops, gathers up the radio, and transmits. "Mr. Zamudio, I presume."
11
"Yes. Who the fuck is this?" the voice on the other end asks.
"Mr. Zamudio, your boys are both napping on the job. You want we should leave, or are you gonna show us something a little better in the hospitality department?"
"Sit tight. I’ll come down myself."
In a few moments we hear the heavy thudding of more than one big man coming down the stairs and another door into the garage opens. The first guy filling the door resembles a rhinoceros sans horn—gray suit, shirt, and tie to match bristle poked-up gray hair, and rhino wide shoulders—is carrying a Mac 10, also gray, and looking very serious. He’s ten inches between the ears with a bulbous nose that would shame Karl Malden. Both Pax and I move behind the cover of a big Caddy, and Pax yells at him displaying admirable decisiveness.