by L. J. Martin
She walks up and down the car, teetering a little on the five inch heels. This gal has got to be in her seventies, but she's pretty amazing to still be in the bikini. The skin on her hands, arms, and lower legs gives away her age a little, but all and all she's amazing.
She turns, and the slightly faded blue eyes narrow a little. "You tired of her yet? Wanna sell her?"
"No, she's part of the family now. But I'm complimented you asked."
"Come on in. It's not quite noon but I'll make an exception for a guy who has a beautiful cherry fifty-seven. Tony, pop a bottle of the good stuff."
"Yes, ma'am," Tony says from behind me as I have to stride out to keep up with Margo. Champagne, which I imagine is the good stuff, is a lot better than crawling through the underbrush to creep the place. I should try this technique more often.
She throws off her net wrap and steps into the Jacuzzi. "Peel down, Angelo. We're not bashful around here."
"Uh…I'm not Angelo, Mrs. Castiano."
Her eyes widen a little. "You're not the decorator?"
"No, ma'am. I actually came to have a chat with Mr. Castiano."
"Well, bless your black little heart. You wandered right in here like you were somebody. I thought you looked way too straight to be Angelo."
I have to laugh, then add, "I'm Dick Strong, over from Vegas, working on the abduction of one of your neighbors."
"You a cop or something?" She seems to relax a little and sinks on down into the hot water.
"Something. I do recovery work, including missing folks upon occasion."
"A private dick?"
"No, ma'am—"
"Will you quit with the fuckin' ma'am. I'm Mrs. Castiano or Margo."
"Yes, ma'am…I mean, thanks, Margo. And no, not a private dick. I do carry a bail enforcement badge and sometimes do a little of that work."
"Bounty hunter?"
"Yep, upon occasion, but mostly recovery work."
"Sounds like muscle work to me…you're built for it."
"Thanks. But I try to use the brain when possible."
"You might as well peel down and jump in. At least I'll know if you've got any weapons on you," then she laughs, and adds, "or a decent weapon."
She's still giggling when Tony shows up with a tray in professional waiter fashion carrying with one hand a bottle of fancy champagne, two flutes, and a small bowl of chocolates.
"You coming in?"
"No, thanks. No time to display my weapons, but I'll have a glass with you before I have to run."
She feigns a pout, then laughs, "So, you gonna haul my old man to the slammer?"
"Nope, no contract on Mr. Castiano."
"You and a dozen others like you couldn't do it anyway. So, what's up?"
Tony has poured and handed me a flute. Before I answer, I take a sip. "Wow, that's good stuff."
"Ought to be at two hundred a bottle."
"True. What's up is I'm looking for info on the abduction of Tammy Houston."
"What's that got to do with us?"
"Came to me on the grapevine that Mr. Çastiano loaned Tammy's manager a large chunk of dough."
She shrugs. "Hell, Sammy loans lots of folks money."
I smile tightly. "Folks who disappear when they don't pay back."
Her smile fades, and her eyes shoot daggers, then with a tight jaw, she yells, "Tony. The gentleman is leaving."
"Thanks for the sip, and the presumption," I say, and place the flute back on the tray.
"Presumption?"
"Yeah, that I'm a gentleman."
Tony appears in the doorway, and suddenly behind him are two no-necks, nicely dressed, but still goomba boys. And they are not smiling.
Tony takes a few steps forward and notes the scowl on Margo's remodeled face, then asks, "You want him tossed, or just shown out?"
8
I answer for him. "Only three of you, or you got another half-dozen hid out somewhere?"
"You don't think three of us are up to tossing you?"
"Nope."
"Margo?" he asks.
Again, she's smiling. "I think Sergio can take him without any help."
"He's the curly haired one, I'll bet," I say.
"You got it," she says, then giggles a little crazily.
The two others are filling the six-foot width of the open side of a sliding glass door leading out to the patio. The taller but thinner of the two steps aside and gives a head bow to Sergio, who grins broadly.
I'm glad I didn't get all dressed up this morning. Hiking boots, jeans, and a pullover. I customarily wear a heavy belt buckle, and have a wide belt and eight ounces of buckle on, but even though it's a good weapon I won't need it with only one guy to deal with.
Sergio is two inches shorter, at an even six feet, but weighs about the same. He's been a muscle fuck at some earlier time in his life, but has gone to a nice suet overlay. His six-pack is hidden under a hundred six packs of Lucky Lager. His nose has been broken more than once, he's got crisscrossed scars in both eyebrows, and one ear is cauliflowered. Wrestler, I'll bet. And no virgin to street fighting after his wrestling career was over. If so, I'll fool him as I wrestled in college and know most the moves and have invented a couple of new ones.
Obviously I didn't make much of an impression on Margo if she thinks this guy is gonna toss me.
"Hold on," I say, and Margo and the rest of them begin to laugh. "I don't mean hold up on the contest, I just thought y'all would like to cover this." I snatch my wallet from my back pocket and pop a Franklin out and lay it nicely on a glass top table. "Odds?"
Margo gets a curious look. "You want to bet a hundred Sergio won't take you, and you want odds?"
"Y'all are pretty confident that the Italian Stallion here will put me away, so yeah, I want odds. This pretty boy is probably the heavyweight champ of Italy."
Margo laughs. "How about five to one."
I smile tightly. "That'll make it worth my while."
"Tony, my purse," she says, and Tony hustles inside.
Sergio stretches his eighteen-inch biceps wide, and yawns. He doesn't seem worried in the least. Tony is back in a heartbeat and hands Margo her wallet. She peels out five fresh Franklins and literally covers mine with hers.
"Sergio, I'm tiring of this," she says, and gives him a bit of a disgusted look.
I move a couple of steps away from the Jacuzzi, and Sergio charges. He fakes his hands upward, then dives in low for a double leg takedown…as I suspected, a wrestler. I post off his head with my left hand, kick my legs back putting all my weight on the head, and drive his face into the flagstone, then pivot around to his back while he's trying to clear the cobwebs. Like any good wrestler he tries to get his knees under him so he can sit out and spin into me, but I have a hand on the wrist of the hand he's using to rise up, and, drive my head into his armpit and wrench the wrist back and up into a hammer lock. He continues his sit out and I wrench the elbow back and feel his shoulder go. So I let go, knowing he's finished even if he doesn't. He spins away and gets to his feet, but his left hand is on his shoulder and his eyes are tearing—sweet Sergio may just yell for his mama. Nothing hurts much more than a separated shoulder.
Then the fool charges me, and I'm sure can barely see as his eyes are watering so badly, and I sidestep—and he joins Margo in the Jacuzzi, graceful as a hippo, splashing her coif with a wave that inundates the large blonde doo, and it goes straight in an instant and I'm surprised to see, cants to the side. A wig.
"Damn you, Sergio. You've ruined my hair!"
No neck number two is having none of it and charges throwing a roundhouse as he does, as I spin to the side sloughing off the punch and stomp down on his knee as he passes. It crumples and he rides it to the flagstone, screaming in an embarrassing falsetto—one leg out in front, one strangely bent to the side.
I turn back to the Jacuzzi and the cursing woman.
"Mrs. Castiano, you're in about ten grand in medical bills so far. Wanna go for twenty?"
"You fucker," Margo manages. "Tony, where are you Tony?"
With a side-glance I'd caught Tony disappearing through the sliding glass door, and that concerned me. And I was right as he's roaring back through the doorway, a large semi-auto pistol in hand.
I drag the little .380 from the small of my back where it was stowed under my pull over, drop to one knee where Margo is directly behind me, and have the weapon centered on the center of Tony's chest.
"Margo," I snap, without turning back to her. "You're about to add the cost of a funeral to your already high medical bills."
"Tony!" she screams, "You're the best houseboy we ever had. Put that down before dipshit here lays you out or you hit me."
Tony skids to a stop. It's a green Ruger SR9 he's carrying and I can see by the pop-up on the top that it's not cocked.
"Tony," I say with a little condemnation in my voice, "you better leave the grunt work to the goomba boys here. Even though I'm sure they're not good at it either. Your weapon is not cocked, and if you cock it I'm going to blow your cock off."
He's turning red in the face and doing a little dance like a nervous hen about to lay an egg.
"Tony," Margo yells again. "Put the piece down."
And he does, but I can see the whole thing frustrates him a lot. I walk to the little glass top table and pick up the six hundred. Maybe the total of what I'll make for this whole gig, then head for the door. As I come even with Tony, I pause to use the Ruger for a hockey puck and put it in the nearby deep end of the swimming pool with a nice side-kick, then keep walking.
I slip into the Vette, fire her up and am pulling away when I see two other Castiano employees are in the main garage, one vacuuming and one polishing a van…a white van, as was described at the scene of Tammy's abduction.
9
I love it when I tangle and don't bust a knuckle, and I didn't. Not even a bruise.
One of the great things about the 21st Century is satellite radio, and I'm in a good mood and feeling a little like an outlaw, so I tune in Outlaw Country and get in the middle of I'm The Only Hell My Mama Ever Raised and Johnny Paycheck is doing a great job as always. I'm trying to remember the words and sing along as I pull out onto Pacific Coast Highway, and don't get through one verse before red and blue lights fill my rear view mirrors. Luckily we're in one of the few spots in Malibu where one can easily pull over, and I do. I slip the .380 out of its holster shoved in my belt at the small of my back, pop the clip, and leave the little Smith and Wesson on the passenger seat. I also work the slide and eject the one in the chamber.
I'm only a little surprised when the CHP opens his white door with the huge badge emblazoned thereon, and crouches behind it, weapon drawn. He looks like a surfer dude in uniform, blonde hair shining in the sun.
"Keep the hands where I can see them. Climb out, hands on your head, and back this way."
I do, and to his credit, he tells me to lean over the back of the Vette. "Just hold there for a minute."
I hear another car slide to a stop behind him, and footsteps trotting our way.
"My back up has you covered, hot shot." He pats me down, a good job including crotch and ankles. "I'm gonna hook you up so leave your left hand on your head and place your right hand behind your back." He does. "Now your left." He keeps a hand between my shoulder blades, with pressure forward, keeping me off balance over the trunk of the Vette.
Good police procedure on their part. I'm impressed.
"Anything in your pockets I should worry about? Needle maybe?"
"No, sir. Live it up."
He digs my wallet out and flips it open. "Michael Reardon. The name phone-in was Dick Strong."
"That's a condition, not a name."
"Very funny."
"So, you got the wrong guy. How about cutting me loose?"
"FFC," he says.
"Fat fucking chance."
"California Highway Patrol officers don't swear...at least not on the job."
"Admirable," I offer.
"You want him?" the highway patrolman asks the other officer, who I now see is an L.A. County Sheriff.
"Yes, I got a call from one of our detectives, right after I saw the APB, and he definitely wants him."
"My pleasure," the CHP says.
"And we were getting on so well," I say to the blonde surfer cop, and flash him a grin, his nameplate says Brown. "The surf's up and you having to work. A real pity. So, did uncle Moonbeam get you the job?" I'd ruin my well-established rep if I wasn't a little bit of a smart ass. Brown ignores me.
"I've got to wait for another unit and a tow truck," the sheriff says, and I see by his nameplate, he's De La Hoya. He's light for a Hispanic.
"De La Hoya, there's a weapon on the passenger seat. Please note it's unloaded and in plain sight. And make it a trailer, not a tow truck. You're on notice that the car is a classic antique and worth about fifty grand."
"Oh, yeah," he says. "You got a permit to carry?"
"I do. A Wyoming permit."
He laughs. We both know California doesn't recognize permits from any other state, and consequently many other states don't recognize California's.
"What's the charge?" I ask, maybe a little too adamantly. "I wasn't speeding."
"Ha, that's hardly the charge. Home invasion."
I have to chuckle at that one. "So, I invaded a home by myself, a home with five or six armed goomba guards right out of the Godfather and one Mafia mama who thinks she's a blonde Sophia Loren...and is about the same age?"
"That's the call we got."
I laugh again, then add, "And you believe and double down on any call coming from the Castiano compound?"
"Not your concern. Move back to my unit on the passenger side. You're going in the back seat to wait."
He's got a hand on my elbow and again with good cop procedure keeps pressure on it, throwing me off balance just enough to rob confidence.
"You related to Oscar?" I ask.
"Not that I know of. You a fan?"
"Damn right. Hard not to be."
"If he shows up at a family reunion, I'll give him your regards." He opens the back door and with a hand on my head and one on my elbow, ushers me in.
"Careful with the Vette," I admonish as he slams the door.
So, I'm off to the lockup, about my twentieth time.
I wish I was as zoned out as my buddy Pax, so I could use up the waiting time with a nap. Not to be. Instead, I pass the time listening to the cop calls until another unit arrives and they toss the car, bag the weapon, and the tow truck arrives. De La Hoya has paid little attention to my admonitions as it's a Tommy's Towing Truck, the conventional variety.
Why am I not surprised when we arrive at the L. A. County Sheriff's station, in Agoura, over the Santa Monica Mountains near the Ventura freeway, and I'm ushered into a conference room to be greeted by my favorite dick. Frumpy as always, potbelly straining at his shirt buttons, however there are no stains on his tie...yet. He's sipping coffee white with cream, so hope reigns eternal.
De La Hoya hooks me to an iron loop on the table top, so at least my arms are in front and I can lean on my elbow.
"How you doin', Howard?" I say, and De La Hoya gives me a curious look, then slips out.
"You screwed up my lunch hour."
"Sorry about that. How about you going back to lunch and I'll head for the impound to pick up my Vette?"
"I doubt if you'll see your little ride for a couple of years. If not a lot more if they can make the home invasion stick."
I have to chuckle.
"You think that’s amusing?" he asks.
&n
bsp; "I do, and so do you. If this guy wasn't a major Moonbeam supporter, you'd be giving me a pat on the head for bringing his help down to size."
"A little more than that. You busted one's leg."
"Yeah, and mussed Margo's wig and embarrassed her main man, Sergio. Big fucking deal."
"What the hell were you doing there?" he asks.
"Enjoying the seaside. You told me to stay away from your case."
"What the hell were you doing there?"
"I guess you didn't notice a white van was one of the vehicles in the garage."
"There are lots of white vans in California. A couple of hundred thousand, or more, I'd guess."
"Right on, however not owned by someone who's owed a mil or more by Tammy Houston's manager."
"Man, that's a stretch."
I hear the door open behind me, and Howard jumps to his feet.
"Leave us, Howard. Bring me a coffee." It's a deep raspy voice. Harold heads around one side of the table, and a guy in a three thousand dollar gray sharkskin suit that had to be tailored by Omar the tent maker, circles the other side and plops down in the seat Harold formerly occupied. He's a very fat man, with a small inner tube for a neck and another set of bulges under his ears. The white shirt has to be tailored as well, but the collar button is open and the blue and gray striped tie pulled down three inches. A puff of gray chest hair shows above the knot. He's not bald, but there's a cul-de-sac on the top of his head all the way back and encompassing his pate. The hair he has is gray and trimmed to a quarter inch. And he has a Hollywood stylish four or five days of whisker growth, gray matching his hair.
He puts both fat elbows on the table and steeples his corncob size fingers alongside his wide nose, dividing watery gray eyes. He gives me a knowing look, then shakes his head.
"You gonna owe me a few grand, tough guy."
We're both silent as Harold returns with a cup of coffee. He forgot mine.
"Where's your manners, Harold?" I snap, and he waves a center finger at me as he leaves.
So I turn back to the fat man. "I presume you're Castiano?" No reply, like everyone should know, so I continue. "A few grand? For taking advantage of your hospitality, or what?"