by L. J. Martin
I chuckle a little sardonically. "Mrs. Wedgeworth, I don't know you well enough to form an opinion." Then comes the lie. "On the surface you certainly seem nice enough."
"Liar. If you got to know me better…lots better, you'd see how lovable I could be." I didn't think it possible, but she pouts even more.
And she stresses lovable. I smile, drink down half my wine, and rise. "Got to go. Hope we can do this again some time." It's all I can do not to run for the door.
"Fucking A," she says, under her breath.
And I head for the door into the restaurant. The girl is working behind the nearby bar, and I walk over. "What do I owe you for the wine?" I ask.
"One twenty," she says, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't mean a buck twenty. I peel out a Franklin and two Jacksons and hand them over. "Keep the change," and head for the door and am gone.
"Thanks," I hear her call out behind me.
Now to find out who might want to hurt CalGeoCyber and Prather K. Wedgeworth fifty mil worth, then kill enough time to check out Lucky's and, hopefully, the Polish side of life.
Mrs. Wedgeworth is one thing to be avoided like the proverbial plague, but Tatya is another…and who knows what a guy might learn from a girl who probably knows most of her employer's secrets?
7
Norval Blumenthal has an office on the ground floor of the three-storey building that's CalGeoCyber. His office has a window wall opening onto a private garden full of orchids, which grow too easily on California's Central Coast. The only smile I get out of him is when I compliment him on the garden. He's got a high forehead and an oversized skull, at least it appears to be, and by the ego wall behind his desk, it's packed full of a well-exercised brain. He's very quick; he finishes about half my sentences for me, as if he's in a hurry to get back to work.
He carefully does not go into specifics about the company's business, or any lawsuits wherein they are the defendant, but the gist of it is that CalGeoCyber worked for a half dozen South American countries setting up a variety of systems, both software and hardware, some of which were so secret that they had to train people from those countries to do the work, and they could not be privy to the information. Much of that didn't work out too well, as they continue to battle several lawsuits—which he admits to after I remind him that lawsuits are public filings—from countries who want a couple of hundred million refunded. The primary problems, he finally relates, are with Ecuador and Paraguay. So my investigation will start there Or, I should say, my buddy Pax's investigation will start there when I forward the info to him.
As soon as I leave, I check my phone and see I have a text message from Pax, with instructions to find a place where I can print off some files from email and do so.
Paxton Weatherwax and I served together in Desert Storm, both ending up as warrant officers, and I went into a hot firefight to drag him out of harm’s way when he’d taken one from an AK47 through the thigh, a leg that is now an inch shorter than the other. He repaid the favor, dragging a leg with his thigh splinted with fence boards and wearing a field dressing, when I was so rummy from a nearby RPG that I was on my feet and wandering around, a duck in a shooting gallery, like I’d just put down a fifth of Jack Daniels. After that, we put down many together, until I was relieved of duty and mustered out with a general court-martial, thanks to poking double ought buck holes in a half dozen Hajis who were stoning a couple of young ladies—young ladies who were members of their own families. It was partially my fault, as they were caught in what was considered by the Iraqis to be an intimate situation and I would consider a public conversation—which in fact, is what it was.
The world is full of injustice and, unfortunately, much of it stems from religious belief.
Anyway, Pax and I are about as close as two guys can get without being swishy. And yes, both of us would go the route for the other, no matter the odds.
I’m fortunate to have a buddy who left the corps and became an Internet Provider. He can route messages to me through a hundred small black boxes in as many cities around the world. Thus, I remain under the radar. He can also move what small sums of money I earn in ways that defy explanation.
I print off a half a ream of information gathered by my cyber-savvy buddy Pax, and find a bench near the beach where I'm only distracted by a half dozen college girls playing volleyball in their bikinis. And a distraction it is! After reading the afternoon away, my attention is centered on General Hector Maldonado, who is very high up in the Paraguayan Air Force as a result of an article, which I can't read as it's in Spanish, in the Asuncion, Paraguay newspaper, La Nacion. It seems he is in possession of a beautiful new business aircraft, variety unnamed, but one that will seat sixteen, and the paper has taken umbrage, as it's not one manufactured in neighboring Brazil. The G5 is the only other business aircraft that would fill that bill—seating that many, and non-Brazilian manufactured.
It seems I'm taking a trip to Paraguay. My last act before heading for Lucky's, hopefully to get lucky, is to text Pax and ask him to find me someone in Paraguay we can trust who'll act as guide and interpreter.
Just in case I might have a fortunate turn of events, I rent one of the small rooms at the Montecito Inn next door to Lucky's, and clean up. I've got to have a place to sleep and I need one more morning on the coast as I haven't done any investigation into Charles Bottle-Dick, as Scoot referred to him. Someone must know more about Glascock than I've learned so far.
I'm perched on a bar stool promptly at eight p.m. properly attired in black jeans, a maroon button down shirt, stylish Montecito-playboy loafers, and a black silk and wool blazer. And by the time I have a Jack Daniels neat in front of me, beautiful blond Tatya enters. She's even taller on black stiletto heels that look impossible, but she makes them look easy. A brilliant electric blue silk blouse follows and clings to every curve. Lycra, or some expandable material for the black pants, leaves little to be discovered—not that they don't encourage me to try. She turns every head in the bar—men with hungry hound dog I-wanna-lick-you-all-over looks and women with tight-lipped cobra glares—and I'm not surprised when the bartender greets her by name, and she him. The dozen seats at the bar are full of Montecito's other pretty people, but a nook in the back has one table unoccupied. I pick up my drink as soon as she walks over and lead her back there.
"So, you made it," she says, flashing a smile showing either God-given perfect teeth or about a ten grand investment.
"I did…you don't think I'd miss an opportunity to get to know the most beautiful woman in Montecito."
"That's quite a statement as there are dozens, maybe hundreds, of beautiful women near here."
"I have a very discerning eye, and seldom exaggerate."
"You're too kind, sir."
"So, Polish?" I ask, as a conversation starter as we park ourselves across a small table.
"Yes, and I've heard all the Polish jokes," she says, with a knowing smile.
"I haven't. Do you know some?"
"A thousand or so, and I've filed them all in my circular file next to my desk."
I laugh. "And rightfully so. So, what does Tatya do, other than serve Master Wedgeworth?"
"I paint a little, I play some violin, and I walk and sometimes run on the beach."
"You are obviously fit, so you must do a lot of beach walking or running."
"We have a gym at the estate, and I occasionally…well, daily to tell the truth…work out there. I had a visitor this afternoon, full of questions about the handsome Mr. Reardon."
"The visitor's words, or yours?" I ask.
"Oh, the visitor's…I never judge so quickly being a believer that beauty is truly only skin deep." The barmaid sidles up beside her and she orders a Manhattan, up, then turns back to me. "So, do your good looks only go skin deep, or are you more than a pretty face?"
That makes me laugh. "Pretty is something I've never been accused of being. I've got enough scars on my mug you'd think I was a professional hockey player, and if you could
see the rest of me you'd think I've been through a meat grinder—"
"All honorably earned, I hope," she says, and reaches over and traces one over my eyebrow, a fairly fresh one from having a half dozen assholes go after me with bats and pipes during my last gig in Williston, North Dakota.
"I hope," I say. "Honor is high on my list."
"Military, I'll bet?"
"Marine Corps, Recon if you know what that is…Desert Storm…and a few other interesting places, most of which I can't talk about."
"Scars on a man give him character, and character is almost always way more than skin deep."
My curiosity finally niggles at me, and since she hasn't offered, I ask, "So, who was curious about Mr. Reardon?"
"Mrs. Wedgeworth, but she probably won't remember as she came in at five…and I shouldn't say this…but soused as usual."
We talk through two drinks, supper, and two after-dinner drinks, then have another at the tiny bar next door in the Montecito Inn. There never seems to be a question that she's going to the room with me, so I don't ask. When we leave, we cross the driveway, and I usher her into the hotel, the elevator, the small but expensive room, and, I hope, into a state of total sexual satiation.
And yes, she's very fit, and I'm glad I am, too, as I had to spend half the night making sure satiation was the order of the evening.
I'm not used to having a lady slip out while I'm asleep, but she managed to do so.
And I hate that fact, as I wanted to finish a couple more things with the long legged blonde. One was to ply her for info on the Wedgeworth cousin and pilot, and two was to enjoy prying, or should I say pumping, a little information out of her just one more time before she slipped away. Even after a night like I had, I awake with my pry-bar at attention and ready for a rematch.
Who'd a thunk it?
8
My message light is blinking—I'd asked the desk to hold my calls—and I find a nice missive recorded thereon from Tatya, who tells me she had to get home to feed her cats then get a few hours sleep before getting up for work. I have to smile when she tells me that she's left instructions in the Montecito Café in the hotel, which is a place I enjoy, and is buying my breakfast even though she can't be there. She also is kind enough to leave her cell phone number and email address.
A good sign of a job well done.
As soon as I step out of the shower, my cell chimes and it's Ring of Fire, which means it's my buddy Pax.
He never bothers with hello, so it's, "You'll never guess?"
"Test me," I reply.
"I've found you an interpreter, and way better."
"How so?"
"Name, Carmen Fabriana Diaz; former employer, Rubén Marcos Valasquez, and you'll never guess who Ruben is."
"Never in a million years."
"The Consulate General of Paraguay in Los Angeles. Carmen is a Paraguayan citizen who speaks perfect English…not that you understand most English…and is looking for employment."
"And is fat and smartass, I'm sure, which I know is what you'd hire for me, given the chance?"
"I'll let you be the judge."
"So, how did you find Miss Carmen Fabulous?"
"Fabriana…Diaz. And I found her on the net, of course. She was on Linkedin looking for a position."
"How do I get together with Miss Fabulous?"
"I gave her your cell and she's calling you mid-morning and wants to meet with you somewhere on your way back to Vegas…if you're coming back to Vegas? I'll also text you her number."
"I am heading your way, to plot and plan with you and see if I can get Skip to stand by in case…as soon as I do just a little more groundwork here. By the way, see what you can dig up on Mrs. Portia Wedgeworth, who seems to be a lush, and on Tatya Bolinsky, who's Prather's personal secretary and works out of his home office."
"Will do."
"By the way, what was Carmen's job at the Consulate?"
"Cultural Attaché, and you know what that probably means."
"Yeah. If it means the same thing it does in our embassies, she's a spy."
"She didn't fess to it during our talk, but didn't deny it either."
After a nice light breakfast, going easy on Tatya's pocketbook, I drive out to Goleta to check out the nice three bedroom tract house belonging to G5 pilot, and cousin, Charles Glascock. On the way, I stop at a florist and send Tatya a dozen red roses, card unsigned with merely a note, 'thanks for breakfast'.
There are a half-dozen newspapers in the Glascock driveway, even though there's a Dodge pickup parked there. I park in front, make my way to the door, and use the bell a few times, then rap loud enough to wake the neighbors.
No answer, no sign of life, so I peer in the window—hard to do as the drapes and blinds are shut—and see a pile of mail in the entry under the mail slot in the door. I decide there's a slight chance there's a lead there, so I return to the Vette and dig a set of picks out of the trunk. Eyeballing the neighboring houses for lookieloos, and not seeing anyone, I find a side-yard gate and then a Hollywood kitchen door. It would be much easier to just break the glass and turn the handle as there's no dead bolt, but being a good citizen I go ahead and invest five minutes with picks and then swing the door aside.
I stop short with my foot still in the air on stepping in, as I hear some scraping sound in the distance. I listen for a moment, then think it must have been my imagination, or that it could have come from outside and been a dog or cat or something.
Heading for the front door, across a kitchen then though a darkened front-facing dining room with its drapes pulled tight, I kneel by the pile of mail in the entry and begin sorting through it. Then things spin like hell and I find myself tumbling back into the dining room, landing flat on my back, my head swimming.
I'm a dumb shit. Obviously the sound was someone not something.
A shape is charging me, and I roll to my stomach and launch myself under the dining room table. Knocking chairs out of the way on the other side, I come up as a very big guy dives over the top of the table and clips me one on the chin—thank God I see it coming and slip the punch enough that it only knocks me off balance and up against the wall, but he, too, is trying to get his feet under him.
I bounce off the wall and back into him with an overhand right followed by a hard uppercut left to his midsection, but's he's no pansy and pounds me with a couple of roundhouses as he's coming upright.
I slip the third roundhouse. Missing, he spins halfway around and, quartering behind him, I catch him with a straight right on the jaw joint. He goes to one knee, but he's still not through and plunges forward, trying a double leg takedown, but I post off his head with my left hand, shoving him down while bringing three hard rights to the side of his head. High school and college wrestling comes in handy again.
He sags, and I back away, trying to figure out who the hell this is in the dim light, and catch a heel on one of the chairs I've knocked over coming out from under the table. I spin as I go down so I'll have my hands in front, land in a push up position and spring to my feet, but he's on my back, and gets a death grip on my neck with his right arm while trying to get to the Glock in its holster in the center of my back with his left, all while trying to sink his right forearm deep so he can choke me out.
While I fight with one hand to keep him away from my pistol, I grapple with the other for my only recourse which is to pry away and try and break a finger. I get hold of his index finger and break his grip on my neck.
He lunges forward, following the finger that I'm twisting like hell, and makes the mistake of leaning his chin on my shoulder. I throw my midsection forward, keeping him away from the pistol at the same time I reach back, secure a hand behind his neck, and kick my legs out from under myself. throwing my full weight and dragging him down, then spin as I go. I can actually hear his neck wrench and pop as I go to my belly, then regain my feet. He's on his face on the floor, moaning.
"You broke my fucking neck," I can hear from his face planted in
the carpet.
"I tried like hell," I say, as I go over and fling the drapes open. "Well, Henry Hausman, as I live and breath," I say, enjoying the fact he's face down and I'm still breathing.
He manages to roll to his back, both hands on his neck, trying to determine if he's going to be a paraplegic, and mumbles, "Fuck, that was a good move."
"Thanks, Henry." He's still on his back. "Are you carrying?" I ask.
"What do you think?" he says, still rubbing his neck with both hands.
"Roll to your belly so I can retrieve your weapon, as I know from experience that's where you carry. And no bullshit or I'll stomp the back of your sore neck and if it's not broken, it will be."
"I'm through. Take the frickin' gun."
He does as instructed, and I take the frickin' gun.
"Can you get up?" I ask.
"Yeah, I'm getting some feeling back."
"Then take a seat and let's have a talk."
"There's a couple of beers in the refrigerator."
"Too early for me. Sit."
He moves slowly, getting to his feet, and settles into a chair at the far end of the table.
"So, what the hell are you doing here?" I ask.
9
He takes a deep breath, and winces as he continues to rub his neck, then talks.
"I knew the locals would be hunting me after that debacle at Birnam Wood, and I knew this asshole pilot wasn't using this place, as I'd checked it out when I was still on Wedgeworthless's payroll. It was a good place to lay low, and the price was right…particularly after that prick cousin of Glascock's didn't honor his agreement and pay me the bonus I had coming."
"Why'd he can you?"
"Because his fucking cousin flew away in his airplane, that's why. Like I could have anticipated that move…that and he thinks I diddled his old lady, which I didn't do. He owes me the dough, nonetheless, and owed it to me two months before his plane departed."