by L. J. Martin
I walk right up to Big Al, and he eyes me, checks the time on his phone and says, "You're two fucking minutes late."
"I was here, man. You was busy."
"Yeah, pendejo, fucking Indian uprising." Then he and his buddies all laugh. I glance over my shoulder and see the three skanks I met in the trailer. It seems they beat a trail when whatever has happening began.
"Let's talk," Big Al says and pushes one of his Russian buddies out of the way. One of the V's, I'd guess, as he has a gym rat's body and is about four inches shorter than I am. He turns back to the huge Russian who was across the table, The Bear and snaps, "stay behind, but close behind."
"Da," the big guy mumbles and forces his way
"Come on, pendejo" he says and waves me after him as he heads for the door.
I follow and note that one of the V's and The Bear are trailing forty feet behind.
He leads me straight to the Expedition, waves me around to the passenger seat, climbs in on top of a quarter pound of C4 and checks me out before speaking. "You carrying?" he asks.
"Fuck yes."
He shrugs. "How much you think you can deal?"
"I haven't tested the market, but I got some ins with a couple of the big companies doing biz in the patch."
"Who?" he asks.
"Dawson Personnel, the big placement guys, and Owens-McKittrick."
He laughs. "That Okie fuck, Speck, has Owens-McKittrick all tied up, or thinks he does, but if you can work it, be my guest. We don't need any help with Dawson."
"Then Owens-McKittrick it is. I got buddies in all the camps."
"Who?"
"Me to know. If you had buddies in all the camps, you wouldn't need me."
He laughs again. "How many o's?"
I'm testing him to see if he really is a major dealer. "Fuck ounces. About five kilos."
He eyes me carefully. "Five bricks. How long to get it laid off?"
I shrug. "A week, maybe less."
"You got five grand?"
"You checked me out. How about I pay when I pick up the next five?"
"Fuck that," he says. "That's half the street value. You can pick up an easy ten. You got no dough?"
"I got some. How about some crank or brown?"
"Get rid of the five bricks. I'll let you owe me twenty-five hun, but you'll go in a hole in the ice you don't pay up in a week."
"I got two grand." I lie, but it sounds good to this crumb bum.
"Then you get four bricks and will owe me two more."
"Done," I say and bump fists with him.
"When will you have the dough?"
"I got it in my rig now."
He climbs out of the Expedition and waves the small Russian over. "Go check on the girls, then head out and pick up four bricks. Slick here will lay two g's on you. Then hand them over."
The Russian eyes me carefully, and with a croaking voice, points across the highway. "That parking lot over there at the tan building. I'll be there in one and a half hours. Be there, with cash."
I nod. The Russian gets in the Caddy, and the three of us head back to the front door. Before we hit it, he turns to me. "You go in the back way. We don't meet up no more. Got it?"
"I got it. Fine by me." As I'm moving around the building, I text Pax. 'Track the Expedition carefully for a stop. Heading 4 their warehouse.'
As I'm now persona non grata, I head for the bar and run into Rosie's big boss, Paul Feldman. He's leaning on the wall near his office door, which seems to be a place he favors. I would speak to him, but he doesn't know me as a scraggly blonde with a goatee. Neither does Maggie, the bartender on this end of the busy bar, so I get a beer without her spitting in it.
I'm halfway through the beer, when I turn to survey the crowd and am surprised to see Detective DiAngelo and the beautiful copper-blonde Amber amble in, move near the dance floor, and find a table. I watch them a moment, then realize they're not happy with each other.
As I'm studying them, kind of catch as catch can as four couples on the dance floor are between us, I'm surprised by someone laying a hand on my shoulder. I glance up to see the big Indian with the black bangs glaring at me. His grip on my shoulder is not friendly.
"Do I know you?" he asks, and I remember exactly where I've seen him. He was the asshole with the wasp spray.
"You're gonna know me way better than you want to, you don't get that fucking paw off my shoulder."
"Tough guy, uh," he says with a grin that covers his foot-wide face, showing yellow teeth. But he removes the hand.
"How about Attica," I ask. "You do some time in Attica. You a Pequot? Or a Mohawk?"
"What the fuck's a Pequot?" he asks, looking puzzled.
"It's a fucking Indian, Indian," I say, "from north of New York."
"Them eastern Indians is all pussies," he snarls, and I shrug.
"I guess we don't know each other then," I say, give him my back and go back to my beer. He moves on along with three others from Speck's group—Speck, Big John Broken Toes, and Albert Many Horses—and they head out the back door.
Even over the music, I hear the slap that Amber lays on her tablemate. To DiAngelo’s credit he doesn't slap her back, but catches the other wrist as she tries for a double. Then she jumps up and heads for the front door. He's red in the face, maybe from the slap, but for sure from pure anger.
I intercept her. I can see DiAngelo on his feet by the table, and raise my voice a little. "I'll walk her out."
He calms a little and then nods. He knows, as I know, that no beautiful woman should be in Rosie's parking lot alone at night. But he's too pissed at her to be her guardian, and she doesn't want him to be.
She's spitting mad as we go through the front doors. [Why does she go outside with him? He’s in his disguise so she wouldn’t recognize that it’s Mike.]
"You okay?" I ask.
"Fine. Good thing I brought my own car." She slips a little on the icy pavement, and I caution her, with a hand on her upper arm to steady her.
"Where is it?" I ask, but she doesn't answer, just charges on, and I follow her across the lot. Then I catch up, grab her arm again and stop her as the creep Speck and his three soldiers move out from between cars and stand waiting for us. Every one of them is holding a hand out of sight behind a thigh. My adrenaline is starting to surge. I grab my phone and eyeball it, hitting the voice record app, then return it to my coat pocket and turn to the lady.
Speck laughs. "911 ain't gonna help you."
"Go back inside," I say over my shoulder to Amber.
"No way," she says, the anger still palpable in her tone.
She starts down between a car and truck, but Broken Toes starts to fade the same way three cars in front of us. I can see that she sees his movement, and her eyes flare a little.
"Hold up, Amber," I caution; she stops and glances back. This time a twitch of fear registers near her eyes.
"What's your problem, Charmin?" I say to Speck, a little growl in my voice.
"Charming? You a queer or something?"
"I didn't say charming, I said Charmin—as in butt wipe."
"Fuck you," he snaps, then asks, "You working with Two Cents?" His voice is low and a little ominous.
"Who the fuck is Two Cents, and who's asking?" I know, but don't want him to know I know.
He cuts his eyes to Amber. "That a new bitch?" he says, smiling as if he knows how far off base he is.
I turn to the side a little like I'm saying something to her, ease a hand to my back to the Glock, then glance back at him. "Let's let the lady get in her car and get out of here, and we'll talk all you want."
"She's fine gash," he says with an evil grin, "maybe I can trade your bitch for three Russian bitches."
"Run back to Tony," I say in a low voice to Amber, but instead she starts slipping back my way between the cars, now with fear in her eyes.
Speck moves a little closer, and Amber comes closer until she's half behind me.
"Harold here…" Speck motion
s to the guy with the black bangs, "…says you're the same guy who was here a couple of weeks ago, but you changed your looks. You some undercover fuck or what?"
I turn enough, so I'm sure Amber hears me. This time I'm adamant. "Get back in the restaurant." But she seems frozen in place.
So, I answer Speck. "He's crazy. I'm from Nevada."
"How about we kick the shit out of you and send you back to Nevada, maybe in a body bag," he says and takes a couple of steps forward as do his buddies. Now they show what they have in their hands; three of them have eighteen-inch lengths of pipe, and Speck has a large pistol.
That's bad news. The good news is I have a large pistol—not quite as large as his, but large enough and probably with twice as many cartridges. And I'm not taking a chance on them getting lucky. I might not wake up in the hospital this time, or ever again.
Speck's pistol has a hammer on the semiauto, probably a 1911 .45, and I hear him ratchet it back as he says, "Fuck him up," to his buddies. They charge.
I'm squeezing the trigger as I whip the Glock out and bring the muzzle up at Speck, with the pistol being the number one threat. The first shot takes him through the groin and a hipbone, I presume, as it spins him like a whirling dervish. All three of the others drop back in shock. I'm not surprised in the least when the pipes hit the ground and they're digging into coat pockets and holsters on hips.
I catch black bangs dead center between his tits, and he reels back, eyes rolled up, wind-milling his arms. But it's a pity I went for him and didn't double tap Speck. From flat on his back, his .45 is spitting flame and roaring like the cannon it is.
The other two Indians are ducking between cars and trucks as I am, firing wildly as they run, and bullets are cutting the air all around us like hornets on the hunt while I'm trying to get some cover from a CJ4 that's to my right.
I put two more into Speck, and he jerks like he was hit with 220 volts.
Then I turn my attention to the other two. Black bangs is flat on his back and not moving. I need to make sure the others are not just seeking cover behind vehicles.
Light flares in the parking lot and I look over my shoulder to see DiAngelo running from the front door of Rosie's. He slides up beside me and almost loses his balance. Then I think he does as he goes down, but he's merely kneeling.
"Who?" he says and looks up at me with pure fury in his eyes. Only then do I realize that Amber has taken one in the chest, maybe the same one that singed my arm badly as it roared by. My stomach sinks and bile rises in my throat; then it goes so dry I can barely speak.
"Four of them," I croak. "I got two down, two to go."
"Where?" he says between clinched teeth, and I point the way they went. He leaves as quickly as a man can move on an icy parking lot. "Call 911," he yells over his shoulder as he moves away.
But I don't bother to make the call. Nothing will help Amber, and I see bystanders nearby on their phones. As the parking lot starts to fill with people filtering out of the saloon, I pop the clip on the Glock and ratchet the shell in the chamber out, locking the slide open so the cops arriving can see it's no threat. I can hear the sirens coming. I sit on my butt on the icy parking lot, put Amber's head in my lap and whisper, "I'm so, so sorry." I wait. It's been a long time since my eyes have filled with tears.
Revenge does a slow creep up my backbone, and I know it won't go away until I spill the blood of those who were part of the cause.
The hell of it is, I was also part.
All of these assholes—all of these fucking dope dealers and pimps—are not worth this one beautiful lady. And I'm not either.
But the fact is, we got some snakes out of their hole; now we’ll smash them like they were run over by eighteen wheelers.
20
I don't see DiAngelo again until he walks into the interview room where I've been answering questions for three hours. Two detectives and the Chief of Police are across the table from me when he sticks his head in.
"You do any good?" I ask.
"No. You didn't do worth a shit either."
"That's a pure fact," I say. It's all I can do not to hang my head in shame.
"I'll be at my desk when these guys finish with you. I'm buying breakfast."
He starts to leave, and I call after him, "Hey, man, you have no idea how sorry I am."
"Ain't we all," he says over his shoulder as he moves away.
They bring in mug books and I look for the two guys who left the scene at a run, then suggest they call the Rez police and get pics of Broken Toes and Many Horses. I have better pics of them than the cops do, then realize that Pax has probably e-mailed them to DiAngelo by now. I inform them of that, and one of the detectives leaves, returns in a few minutes and advises the chief that they're being printed now. They're interested in how and why I have pics, and why I know these guys. I explain that I'm working for an undisclosed client as a private security guy. That takes an hour to work through with lots of threats on their part. But I, of course, hold firm on my non-disclosure.
Finally, the chief eyes me carefully, then asks, "Who the fuck are you, really?"
"Just a guy who does a little security work, chief."
"You knocked off half the cartel in Vegas, or so the word is. You dusted off two really bad boys tonight—both of whom were carrying—and ran off two more. It's not often we get a voice recording of a crime in process." I've e-mailed the audio file off my phone to them, which is one of the reasons they're being easy on me. He continues, "That's not the work of some security guy."
I shrug and smile a little wanly. "Sometimes I get a little pissed. When do I get my Glock back?"
He shakes his head. "If that's ‘a little pissed,' I'd hate to see you get really mad. Your Glock is part of an ongoing investigation, as you well know. Besides, if you're who you seem to be, and have done half of what's coming in on you over the wire, you’ve got plenty of weapons laying around."
"Not me. I'll have to find a store and buy another pistol for self-protection."
"Right." He's on his feet and speaks to the two dicks at the table. "Get him another cup of coffee. Go over his story one more time, then let DiAngelo buy his breakfast." He shakes his head a little disgustedly, then adds, "The prick's never bought my breakfast, and I sign his checks."
"Thanks, chief," I say as he heads for the door. "Take good care of my Glock."
He waves over his shoulder and is gone.
We start though the story again.
It's bar closing time by the time they cut me loose, but DiAngelo, as promised, is still at his desk. He stands, as I approach. "We have an APB out on Broken Toes and Many Horses but no sign of them yet. Let's go eat." He leads the way to the department parking.
It’s fine with me as I rode in with a detective. He motions me to a plainclothes vehicle, and as we climb in says, "We've got to go to the truck stop. It's the best of what's open now. Your wheels are still at Rosie's?"
"Far as I know, if some prick hasn't stolen them."
He sits quietly for a moment before he turns the key over, sighs deeply as the oatmeal-colored Chevy fires up in the cold then offers, "I'll drop you off there. I listened to the tape about ten times. You really tried to get her out of it, didn't you?"
"Several times. But it wouldn't have happened had I not had trouble with those assholes. She got caught up in something she sure as hell didn't deserve."
He starts the car and pulls out of the lot before he continues, and his voice catches as he speaks, "Fate's…fate's a friggin' hunter."
I can't help but ask, "What were you fighting about?"
"Makes me sick to think of it. I met her as she came out of work and asked her to supper at Pop's place, ordered a bottle of his best Champagne, and she thought I was going to propose. I wish I had—even under the circumstances." He lets that lie, and I don't ask. He continues, "I laughed when she said so as we left, and she got pissed—really pissed. Nothing like a woman scorned. Anyway, I took her to her office where I'd picked h
er up after work so she could get her car. Then since Rosie's wasn’t too far, talked her into having a drink with me."
"Sounds like she was cooling off," I offer.
"She was. Right after we sat down, I leveled with her and confessed that I never finalized my divorce from my first marriage and couldn't get legally married if I wanted to. She flipped out, cracked me a good one across the chops and hauled ass."
We're both quiet for a while as he drives, seemingly far away in thought, then he asks as we pull into the Flying J truck stop, "You got any idea where those assholes might be holing up?"
"Truthfully, I didn't have my buddy e-mail you quite all the stuff I had."
"You were holding out?"
"Yeah, a couple of things. One of which is a place that might just be a good hideout for a couple big-as-a-bull fuckheads who deserve to die."
He stops short. "Why hold out?"
"Because the way I do biz might not sit well with Williston PD. I don't like to see assholes like those two get accessory to murder at twenty-five to life and out in eight while Amber is…" I start to say rotting in a grave, but think twice, and instead say, "…is cold and gone."
"I get that," he says. "You think you hate it? Try being a cop with today's judges and today's packed prisons." We find a booth in a far corner, away from any possible prying ears.
He smiles tightly at me. "When are we going after them?"
"We being you and a swat team?"
He shakes his head no. Then says, in a low voice, "Nope, we being you and me, and I don't much give a shit how it comes down. Let's just go with the flow and take them as they come, and I mean take them…."
"How about after we chow down?"
He nods. "I hate to kill a couple of fucking lowlife scumbags on an empty stomach."
I'm starting to like Detective Tony DiAngelo like he was a brother. He even buys breakfast as promised.
As we leave, I insist, "You got to take me to my van before we head out to the country."
"They won't recognize this Chevy."
"Yeah, but you don't know what I carry in the van."