by L. J. Martin
"It's mister to you. A few grand for fucking up my second cousin, Sergio and his dipshit buddy who I should never have hired. And for scaring my houseboy half to death. Tony's a nice boy. And you really pissed Margo off. She's five grand apiece into those wigs."
"So, consider it a test run on your security and the quality of Margo's hair piece. Where do I send the bill?"
10
"You're a real wise ass," Castiano says.
"Just doing my job."
"Which is?"
"Finding Tammy Houston."
He shrugs. "Ain't my problem."
"Oh, I think it is."
"Why's that?"
"Coogan owes you a cool mil—"
"Mil two, with the vig."
"Whatever. Tammy's guy, who depends upon Tammy for every dime he makes, owes you dough."
"Dumb fuck shouldn't like the tables so much."
"And Tammy was hit by some guys in a white van...and guess what the Castiano garage holds?"
"What?"
"A white van."
He laughs, kind of a low rumble that comes up from somewhere in his voluminous body. "And you think I'd be so stupid to use my own vehicle? What with CSI like it is these days. Don't you watch T.V., Reardon?"
"What's to gain by snatching Tammy? Isn't that kind of like killing the goose that laid the golden egg?"
"I like the girl and I think she likes me just fine. She's been to a couple of functions at my place and even went with Margo shopping. She's like family."
"Yeah, and you'd sell your grandma for a quarter."
He gets red in the face. "Look, you smartass punk, I take care of family and you don't even think about mentioning my people. Everybody thinks that because I live on the water and do okay, that I don't have anyone to answer to. We all got people to answer to. I got an eight figure payback coming up, and I got to have that dough back from that Irish piece of shit."
I shrug. The grandma remark was probably uncalled for.
His tone levels out a little. "You haven't ask me if I'm gonna press charges."
"The home invasion is a hoot. Who'd buy that? You might get me on simple assault, but even a first year law student could probably get me off on that one. Three guys and poor little me. And I bet Sergio and the dipshit have sheets as long as my arm—"
"Yours ain't exactly a piece of note paper."
"—and no, you’re not gonna press charges. It's not your style. Blindside me in an alley, maybe. You really are not interested in being embarrassed...a tough guy like you...with having one guy wander in and fuck up your muscle. Hell, everyone will be doing it if they think it's that easy."
He's silent for a moment, then eyes me with his pig eyes. "Tell you what, smart guy. You beat a trail back to Wyoming, or wherever friggin' hillbilly place you hail from, and I'll forget the whole thing." He looks up at the video camera on a ceiling-high mount and holds a fat hand up so his lips can't be seen. His whisper is more like a rasp. "Otherwise, next time it's both knees, and the third time if you're dumb enough to come back in a year or so when you heal up. That will be the charm. Chum for my shark fishing."
I shrug. No sense in intimidating him more than I already have. After all. Governor Moonbeam does come to his house for fundraisers.
He gets up and strides around the table, amazingly light on his feet for a fat guy who must be in his seventies, and the door closes behind me then almost as quickly opens again.
Harold rounds the table and takes his seat again.
I give him my best boy scout smile. "You cutting me loose?"
"Nope."
"How about my phone call?"
"As soon as you’re processed."
"You know that guy in Peanuts...the one with the flies always circling his head."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm pretty sure he was your namesake." His tie is now spotted, coffee with cream, I imagine.
"Fuck you, Reardon."
"Uncuff me and I'll take bets about who’s the fuckee."
He rises and goes back to the door, and yells out. "Parkenson, back me up here."
A big burly black sergeant fills the doorway as Harold uncuffs me from the table tie-down, then re-cuffs me behind my back.
"Process him in," Harold says.
"What charge?" the sergeant asks.
"Stupidity. How about a seventy-two hour psychiatric hold." He guffaws as if he's enjoyed his own joke, then adds, "No, felony assault will do for the time being."
"My phone call?" I ask, but Harold is walking away, so I turn to the sergeant who's now guiding me down the hall with a ham-like hand on my upper arm. "My phone call?"
"Soon as you’re processed," he says.
"Thanks."
And he's a man of his word. I have to call Pax collect.
"Wondered where you've been?" he asks.
"Lounging, at the expense of the County of Los Angeles."
"Enjoying yourself and the accommodations? How much bail money?"
"I don't know, call Mort downtown and get him on it, and," I hesitate as I'm sure I'm being recorded, then figure, what the hell, "and get someone on properties owned by Sammy...Samuel probably...Castiano, et. al., et. ex., partnerships, corporations...the whole bit. As soon as I'm out of here I'll want to meet someone at Barstow and trade vehicles. I'll need my..." again I hesitate, "...my work rig."
"You need some backup?"
"I may, but I'll let you know."
"What's up with the girl?"
"Not much more, but I'm getting pissed so I'll be hitting it lots harder."
"What's the charge?"
"Felony assault, but it's totally hokey."
"What?"
"I beat up a couple of guys and screwed up the hairdo of an old broad."
"Old guys?" He laughs.
"Just give Mort a call, please."
"Will do."
They throw me in the drunk tank. I look good in jail orange and flip-flops. The good news, it isn't Saturday night so the place is not so puke covered as it might be. The better news, it isn't downtown so of the six drunks in the twenty-foot square cell, four of them are in business suits. I find a bench and plop down, and am soon sawing logs. I guess I've missed lunch so the next time I open my eyes, we're being led out to supper. Jail food ain't what it used to be. Now you actually get some healthy stuff with your white bread, pasta, beans, or potatoes. I'm not returned to the drunk tank, but rather to a cell with three black-ink tat-covered Hispanic guys who are about my age and look fresh from the cartel and the border. I'm motioned to a top bunk and take it without arguing.
The boys eye me up and down but say nothing until I light in the upper bunk. Then one who looks a little like El Gordo the Mexican professional wrestler, leans on my bunk and asks, "Hey, pendejo, you suck cocks?"
"Why, you a pussy maricon?" I ask if he's queer.
He growls and I sit up enough so I have a leg cocked and can drive one of my flip-flops down his throat if he reaches for me.
I'm surprised to see he has the globe and anchor tat on his neck, so I add. "Semper Fi."
He gets a half-assed grin, gives me a thumbs up, then backs away and sits in a blackjack game with his two buddies.
I'd like to say I slept well, but one eye open is not very restful.
I get two more meals on the county before a jailer comes for me in the middle of the afternoon. "Roll it up, Reardon. You're bailed."
The officer on the desk hands me a card, which shouldn't be a surprise as Tammy's abduction will be considered a kidnapping, and a high profile one. The card is FBI Special Agent Robbie Quintana. And I'm instructed to call her. I pick up my stuff and change clothes, happy to return the jail orange, and when I exit a side door into the parking lot, am very surprised to see a tall brunette leaning on a new Mercedes.
"Hi, Reardon. You don't write, you don't call. This is a hell of a way to have to meet up."
"Tyler Thompson, as I live and breathe...."
11
> "And I'm glad you still do," she says, then adds, "Live and breathe, I mean. I'm a little surprised as I hear you stormed the ramparts at the Castiano place." She sighs deeply, then asks, "Is it too early for a cocktail?"
"Only if the joint has a shower. I smell like a feed yard and feel like I need to be run through a truck wash. You haven't seen anyone else here to bail me?"
"Nope. Somebody called while I was doing the paperwork." She flashes a smile and look that would melt a weaker man, then adds, "Well, big boy, there's a Hampton Inn just down the road and about a half mile from it is the Thousand Oaks version of The Grill On The Alley. Probably not as good as jail food. I'll loan you enough dough to buy dinner."
"Unless they stole my credit cards, I can handle it. Any idea where they might have impounded my wheels?"
"It's in your release docs, I'll bet. Odds are it's back in Malibu. How about that shower...I'll even climb in with you and scrub your back. Then we go to the Grill; then we worry about your precious Vette."
"What do I owe you for bail?"
"Ten grand."
"What?"
"Ten grand. I paid all cash. No bondsman."
"Good, then you'll get it all back, and I'll pay a handsome rate of interest in the meantime."
"You bet you will, starting right after that shower."
I give her a closer look. "Is that makeup over a black eye?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me. That fucking Coogan?"
"It was an accident. He was a little pissed when he called my sister's and found out I hadn't been there and was just swinging his arms. He's clumsy as hell."
"Yeah, so clumsy he's going to fall down and bust all his front teeth out."
"Let's go shower up."
"Swing into the Thousand Oaks Mall and Macy's. I need some clean clothes."
"How about Nordstrom's?"
"You hit Nordstrom’s while I hit Macy's."
"No, you need an overseer. Besides, my closet is full of Nordstrom’s."
"Nothing new about Tammy?" I ask as I settle into the passenger side of her ride.
"No, but I think Emory got a phone call from her."
"Christ, that's something new. When?"
"This morning. He took the phone into the other room. The FBI picked it all up."
"Where is he now?"
"He's gone. He packed a bag and drove off. Said he was going to the airport. All I could get was the caller was asking for her to pay lots of money. More than ten million."
I have no idea what to make of that—the old boy may be heading for the South of France or Brazil—so I call Pax and fill him in. He can electronically track a snowflake through a snowstorm and I put him on it. He adds, "Mort said someone else had already bailed you when he called?"
"A beautiful brunette. And I know you're not surprised."
"Shocked, actually. I'll call when I have something on the Castiano properties and Coogan."
We find the Hampton Inn. I’m carrying a new pair of black Dockers that would pass for three-hundred-buck slacks, a pair of black Wranglers, two new pullovers that are dark enough to disappear if I have to do the creep, a three pack of black boxers, a six pack of socks, and a pair of black Reeboks with thick soles—shoes will nicely bury in the crotch of one of Castiano's boys but will move quiet.
The Hampton Inn has a shower over tub with room enough for both of us and a king size bed that turns out not to be quite big enough as we end up on the carpet. However, with this lady, a basketball court might not be big enough. She’s a new woman and I’m glad I had a rematch or I would have misjudged her. I think my comment about removing Coogan's overbite has stimulated her desire which in turn tuned up her performance.
I wish I'd gotten a better night's sleep in the hoosegow.
I'm happy to say my phone doesn't echo Ring of Fire across the room until I'm lying in a heap trying to catch my breath.
"Yeah," I answer, knowing it's Pax.
"We've emailed you a list of every Castiano related business and property we can find, and it's extensive. Your boy Coogan will be landing in Nashville in a couple of hours. He's booked on a return flight day after tomorrow."
"Have I told you lately that I love you," I say with a coo that gets a sour look from Tyler.
"Have I told you lately to go fuck yourself, and that has nothing to do with love," Pax replies.
"How about the van?"
"When do you want it there?"
"Tomorrow, noon. And bring me fifteen large in cash. I need some walking around dough and need to pay my brunette buddy back for bailing me."
"I'll have Sol drive it over. He's got family in Vacaville and wants to show off the Vette to his cousin." That makes Pax laugh.
"Tell the little chicken shit I'll make a capon out of him if he puts a scratch on it."
"You want to tell him?"
"No, he gets it. It's rumored the boys in Vegas have their claws deep in Coogan. Can you find out who and how much?"
"Will do. Is that why he borrowed from this Castiano?"
"Makes sense. It seems Tammy was smart enough not to loan it to him."
"I'll get back to you. You're having all the fun on this one."
"I'll yell if I need help."
He rings off.
Tyler is dressed, has touched up her makeup, and is doing the hair pat in front of the bathroom mirror, so I wander over and lean on the doorjamb. "You can pat for an hour and you can't get better than perfect."
"Well, well, aren't you the suave one."
"You look great, the only thing that looks better on you is nothing."
She leans over and gives me a smack on the lips, and goes back to patting.
"Why would Coogan go to Nashville?" I ask.
She shrugs. "We do lots of biz in Nashville. Tammy's bank and her accountant are in Nashville."
"Would Coogan forge a check on Tammy's account?"
She's silent for a moment, then turns to me. "I guess it depends upon how desperate he is. Nothing would surprise me. And if he's trying to get the money for Tammy's release, she'd want him to."
My phone goes off with Ring of Fire. "That didn't take long," I answer.
"Rocco's out in Henderson."
"What?"
"That's who had the markers from Coogan...and he couldn't pick worse guys to stiff. They're old school and have rumored to put a few in the sand. Emails on the server at Rocco's confirm Coogan paid up, after borrowing the dough from Castiano, who in turn borrowed from the Albanians, who are rumored to control Rocco's. Coogan probably jumped from the frying pan into the fire. It's a weird circle, but it's also well known the Albanians are trying to get a foothold into some Indian gaming in California and will do anything to influence the politicians there. They bought a road building company in Arizona and Castiano is huge in road building in California. Who knows what they're thinking."
"Interesting. A true cluster fuck. All I got to worry about is getting Tammy back. But, thanks."
Tyler is out of the bathroom. "I've got to go back to the house. I'm supposed to stay close to the phone in case the guys who've got Tammy call again. Did you see the L.A. Times?"
"Nope."
"Front page on Tammy's abduction. Below the fold, but front page."
"So, no one's on the phone at the house?"
"The FBI has some stuff set up. When I told them I had to go they got call referral to me and said they'd be monitoring. But I got to get back."
"No Grill on the Alley supper?"
"Nope, I'm usually a dinner and drinks kind of girl, but you already came through with the goodies, so if you don't mind...."
"Hell, saves me a couple of hun. I'll owe you dinner, drinks, and a rematch."
"You're on, big boy. Let's go."
"And I was hoping you'd ride over to beautiful downtown Barstow with me."
"I can get you as far as the car impound in Malibu."
"I'll have your dough for you when I get back. Speaking of the
FBI, I've got to give them a call."
She drives so I'm able to call Agent Quintana. She answers so it must be a cell.
"Quintana."
I'm surprised it's a female voice. I guess I should have known as it would have been Robert otherwise.
"Agent, Mike Reardon, you asked me to call."
"I'd like to chat a while, Reardon. Where are you?"
"Heading into the Santa Monica Mountains, on my way to Malibu."
"How about dropping by the Houston house?"
"I can be there in an hour or so. I've got to spring my wheels from the impound."
"How about coming here first. Is Tyler Thompson with you?"
"She's giving me a ride."
"Come here first, got it."
"Is there a please in there somewhere?"
"Yeah, please. But there won't be the next time I ask. There's also an APB out there for you if you don't show. Does that please you?"
"Yeah, I got it. It'll be my pleasure."
"Time marches on with this abduction. I'd like to find her alive."
12
Agent Quintana is a big lady who looks as if she can take care of herself. In fact she could play a pulling guard on the Chargers or Rams. I'd be surprised if she doesn't bench press more than I do. And she's no nonsense.
"You want coffee?" she asks when we pass the muster of an agent at the door.
"Sure," I say, as I'm hungry and the coffee will quell the appetite.
"Tea for me," Tyler says, then offers, "I'll make it. I know my way around."
We sit at a kitchen table made of the same granite as the countertops.
"So, Reardon, fill me in on how you fit into this scenario."
"No big mystery, agent. Tammy hired me over the phone…I used to work for her—"
"And she canned you, as I understand."
"Yes, but apparently she wised up and wanted my help when someone took a pot shot at her."
"We think the shot…both shots…were a scam to get her here to her beach house so they could snatch her."
"Makes sense. Particularly after they missed the second shot as well. Any decent rifleman could have taken her out if the shot came from where I think it did."