by L. J. Martin
“I wondered if you were ever gonna take the prick down,” he says.
“You took care of the guy outside?”
“He’s napping, hooked up to a fat bush with enough cable tie to secure a bucking bull.”
I use Fitor’s own pistol and crack him a good one behind the ear, and he slowly slides off the table and flops to the carpet. I grab a cable tie and bind his wrists behind his back, strip his belt away and am happy to see it’s one of those web ones that will take any size, and gag him with the belt pulled so tight in his open mouth he can only barely get his breath. Then I bind his ankles and tie that cable tie to a foot of the pool table. He’ll be no bother for a while.
Pax points to a hallway and we only take three steps into it before he opens a door that’s glass and has an oversized bunch of grapes etched into its surface. Inside there’s a small landing then a stairway going down, into what I presume is the wine cellar. The stairs are carpeted so it’s quiet moving, and the door hinges are well oiled and, luckily, make no sound.
I lead the way and am pleased to see the cellar has a large open area the size of a single-car garage with a large well-lacquered slab of redwood as a table and benches on the two long sides, chairs at the end. The walls surrounding the table are floor-to-ceiling racks of wine bottles, and two wine barrels on edge are on stands at one end of the room. Bungs with spouts allow the filling of glasses.
In one of the chairs is a fat bald guy, but his head is down on his folded arms on the table and he seems to be asleep, and he’s wheezing like a hippo sucking air. His baldhead is lined with veins and what I can see of his face is a mass of fine red veins. His left ear, the one I can see, is split and V-shaped through the lobe. The guy is medium height and way over medium weight…I’ll bet he goes over three hun.
With his back to a post, Skip is on the floor, legs extended and spread, his head hanging, blood dripping slowly down his check and from his nose onto his bare chest. In a small separate room with its own glass door—and its walls lined with racks of bottles—stands country singer Tammy Houston, her eyes wide, blonde hair askew, her face pressed against the glass. And she’s still in a yellow bikini and barefoot. And I recall they snatched her away from the pool.
I do the creep over to the sleeping fat guy, and he gets the semi-auto to the temple as did his buddy upstairs. Fat boy rolls to the side and hits the floor flat on his back, hard enough that I feel the wind from his flop.
Two pairs of cuffs hooked together bind Skip’s big wrists. He’s out cold, both his eyes protruding like half-eggs, and black, blue and damn near closed. I have the cuffs open in a heartbeat as I always carry a cuff key on my key chain, before he starts to stir. The first words out of his mouth are, mumbled, “Fuck you assholes. I ain’t telling you shit.”
I have to laugh, and reply, “I didn’t ask you shit. Can you walk?”
He mumbles through busted lips. “I can run, if it means getting the hell out of here.”
While I’m working on Skip, Pax is picking the keyed lock on the smaller wine room door. It opens and I guess Tammy presumes Pax is one of the good guys as he’s with me; she throws her arms around him and squeezes so tight I can hear his breath expel.
Now, to get the hell out of Dodge
18
I’m a little worried as so far this has been way too easy.
The good news is, as we exit the sliding glass doors, that the Dobermans are still stumbling around retching every five steps. The bad, some fat guy is standing beside them trying to figure out what the hell’s wrong. Another sliding glass door, probably to the master bedroom stands open. He’s not too impressive in a terry cloth robe, bare calves the size of telephone poles, fuzzy house shoes, and a prodigious belly.
He turns as we exit the sliding glass door, and yells to us, “What the hell’s the matter with my boys?”
He hasn’t really looked at us, and doesn’t until I speak up. “Your boys are gonna be fine, and you’re gonna stay alive so long as you don’t make any quick moves.”
Then he realizes we aren’t his employees. “Who the fuck…?”
“Frick, Frack, Fred and our girl Fanny. Check the red dot in the center of your gray chest hair, old man. Sit down on your blubber butt on the grass and don’t move until we’re way out of sight, and you’ll stay alive.”
“I’m Ed Gashi, and you fuckers are dead meat.”
“I know who you are, Edvin. Wrong time to act tough. That red dot on your chest could be a half dozen holes in your heart, presuming you have one.”
All the time we’re talking, we’re moving toward the fence. Skip is stumbling along behind.
“Down,” I yell at Gashi, and he complies, sitting on his butt in the grass.
But there’s not a humble bone in his Albanian body, and he yells. “Dead meat, dead fucking meat.”
We reach the fence, and realize it will be tough getting Tammy over it without scratching her up on the jagged fence top, so I trot back to the fat man. “Get up. Give me the robe.”
“Fuck you.”
“You give it or I take it off your body and I don’t give a shit which.”
He rolls to his side and struggles to his feet, and drops the robe off into the grass. He really is a fat fuck with rolls big enough to hide more than one weapon. I should have been more careful as there’s no telling what might be hidden in the folds.
“Step back,” I command, and he does.
Skip has followed me and I guess has a bone to pick with the fat Albanian. Without saying a word he snakes a hand out and grabs the man by the throat and Gashi goes up on his toes. Skip guides him, Gashi tip toeing backwards to the edge of the pool, Albanian fat quivering with every step, and shoves.
A substantial wave moves away from the hole in the water where the fat man has, in his not-so-splendid nakedness, disappeared into the water.
He bobs up and sputters, “Dead…dead…dead fucking meat. I got your ass on the security cameras, and you ain’t gonna get away with this.”
The dumb fuck is pointing at a camera mounted on the wall above one of the sliders, and just for the hell of it, knowing it won’t destroy the tape, I raise the M4 and put a quick three round blast into the camera, blowing it all to hell. Gashi spits and treads water as both Skip and Pax yell at me.
“What the hell?”
“No problem,” I yell back.
Gashi is dead silent for the moment. I grab the robe and hustle back to the fence. Pax is already on the other side. I throw the robe over, covering the jagged wires, and hoist Tammy up and he takes her down. I boost Skip up and he crashes to the soft plowed soil on the other side. I vault the fence, catch the sling on my M4, hang like a marionette, and Pax laughs. He has to help me get untangled.
“You are one clumsy fuck,” he says, still laughing. “Good thing I took you to raise.”
“Let’s clumsy the hell out of here,” I manage. Tammy’s with me as the bike’s lots closer. “Meet you two at the iHop in town. Don’t be followed.” I hand Skip the Sig-Sauer, “Thirteen in the clip and one in the chamber, a gift from the boys who roughed you up.”
“10-4,” he says, and they disappear into the darkness.
As I’m dragging Tammy to the bike, we can hear Gashi yelling behind us, “You’re fucked. Dead meat, dead fucking meat.”
I give Tammy my helmet as any gentleman would, then dig out some lightweight leathers from my saddle bags and hand them to her.
“Just the coat,” she says, and pulls it on. It’s way big for her but even at that only hits her to the bottom of her shapely butt.
“You’ll freeze,” I say.
“Not that far to town,” she says, and I shrug and she climbs on and hugs me like I was the world’s biggest record buyer, and we’re off. I’m halfway back to town when a set of headlights roar up behind me and I’m about to see what the Harley Iron will top out at, when the red and blue lights fill my mirror.
We stop in the soft dirt of the roadside and dismount and I’m
studying the white sheriff’s car, my hand on the Glock at the middle of my back, but happy it’s actually a sheriff’s car and not Gashi and his crew. Unhappy, as I have little interest in waiting for the Albanians to regroup and give chase as I’m sure the presence of one sheriff’s deputy won’t stop them from trying to blow us all to hell.
He’s on the radio, I hope merely reporting the stop, then dismounts and walks into his headlights, and I can see it’s the same cop who jumped me in the boondocks behind Castiano Winery. Officer Brownley if memory serves, and I can see it does as he gets close and I read his nameplate.
“Where’s your helmet?” he asks.
“Only had one. Gave it to the lady, like any gentleman would,” I say.
He studies me a moment, trying to place me. Then looks her up and down. She’s unzipped the leather jacket and shows plenty of cleavage and a well-earned gym six-pack.
Not taking his eyes off Tammy’s California tan, he asks me, “Driver’s license?”
I dig it out but he still doesn’t tie me to the guy in the van.
He finally meets my eyes then offers, “I’ve got an Iron, only mine’s a couple of years older and red.”
“Red’s good,” I say, then add. “I was just giving a stranded lady a ride to town. How about you taking her in and I’ll wear the helmet?”
He eyes Tammy up and down and it’s plain to me he’ll be happy to spend a little time with the shapely blonde, even as disheveled as she is at the moment. “Aren’t you a little chilly?” he asks her, as the coat’s open and her nipples are well defined.
“Freezing, can you give me that ride?”
He nods. “Jump in,” he instructs her. Then turns to me. “I’d write you but I’m already off duty and am heading in to catch some breakfast…my supper…but you promise me no more riding without the helmet and I’ll let it pass.”
“Cross my heart. We’re headed for the iHop and I’m buying.”
“I can buy my own, but we’ll see you there.”
So far, the day is mine.
As I’m remounting the bike, my van approaches, slows but drives on past, then speeds up again. And no one is on their tail.
Brownley is a good guy, and finally relents and lets me buy breakfast. He heads out of the parking lot, happy that we’re loading the Harley in the back and is gone before we pull out a new set of signs, “Coastal Beef and Poultry” and line the van with red magnetic stripes to match the red lettering on the red and blue signs. He never did make Tammy as the famous country singer she’s become, but of course she’s a little out of uniform.
Skip crashes in the narrow bunk in back the van and Tammy shares the passenger seat with Pax, which seems to suit him just fine. We listen to Whalen and Willy all the way back to Santa Barbara, where Pax takes over the driving duty and Tammy and I share the seat, which is just fine with me.
It’s noon by the time we roll into Tammy’s Malibu digs. We’ve called ahead, informing both Detective Howard Adamson of the LA Sheriff’s Department and FBI Special Agent Robbie Quintana of the fact we’ve got the lady with us. Quintana questions me at some length on the cell, then does the same with Tammy, who rings off and informs us, “The FBI is getting warrants and heading to the winery. All those assholes will be in jail before the day is out.”
I laugh. “Don’t count on it, darling. This is not their first rodeo. They’ll be long gone before the FBI can get their act together.”
I have Pax call Sol, his number one guy at his ISP office in Vegas, and get him trying to get a line on Edvin Gashi and his bunch of bad boy Albanians, and he grumbles as he was in the sack, but promises to get right on it.
Adamson’s plain oatmeal colored car is in Tammy’s driveway and a black SUV is parked in front. Looks like we have a reception committee, which does not surprise me.
Skip is asleep and we don’t wake him, but Pax, Tammy and I wander in to find Adamson, Quintana, Coogan and Tammy’s friend—and now mine—beautiful long-legged Tyler at the kitchen table drinking coffee.
Tammy’s head of security, Butch Horrigan, has obviously been released from UCLA Medical Center as he’s flopped on her living room sofa watching the tube.
Tammy is hugged until she has to shove away from Coogan and Tyler and catch her breath. Then she runs for her bedroom.
While she’s gone, I don’t bother with hello, and direct my remarks to the FBI.
“I figured you’d be headed for Paso Robles and the Castiano Winery. Or isn’t kidnapping still a federal crime?”
“We have two dozen agents heading there from all over the west. I’ve got my hands full here.”
It’s all I can do not to say ‘full of coffee cup.’ But I don’t. Instead, I beg off what I’m sure will be a long Q and A session, and say, “I’ve got to head over to Sammy Castiano’s place and settle up.”
“Don’t bother. It’s a crime scene and full of our CSI and bomb people, and folks from the California State Attorney General’s Office. It’s crawling with investigators.”
“Crime scene?” I ask; maybe I’ve misunderstood her staying here.
“You didn’t have the radio on while driving back here?”
“Country western, at Tammy’s request.”
“Somebody blew Sammy’s house into the Pacific, or at least parts of it. So far we’ve got six bodies.”
I’m a little astounded, and stand looking perplexed for a moment. Then finally ask, “Sammy and Margo?”
“Yet to be identified, but it appears the Castianos walked in earlier this morning and weren’t there fifteen minutes before the place went up like the Fourth of July. Or maybe more like Hiroshima.”
I hate to be callous, but there goes one of my paydays.
Tammy returns in six inch black heels, white slacks, and a black and white polka dot silk blouse.
I’m still perplexed when Tammy’s house-phone rings and Tyler answers. She turns a little white then hands the phone to Tammy.
Tammy sighs deeply, but takes it and all she says is hello, then her eyes grow wide as she turns white as well. She carefully returns the phone to the receiver.
“They said I’m next, hamburger they said, if I don’t pay what Emory and what Sammy owes them…they want sixteen million.”
Quintana grouses, “And I just sent the phone people home and just removed the trace.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Pax says. “They’d be on a throwaway.”
I start edging back to the door. “Let’s get everyone out of here. They obviously wired Sammy’s place up last night and may have done the same here. Quintana, I’d get your bomb people over here…”
“Let’s get out of here,” Quintana snaps, and begins to usher us all out.
“Butch!” I yell.
He doesn’t answer. So I turn to Coogan, “He’s your man. Get him.”
“Fuck him,” he says, and brushes by me.
I charge into the living room and pull the fat so-called security man to his feet, over his complaints.
“Hey, my head is still screwed—“
“Shut up, and get your ass out of here.”
He doesn’t argue, and allows me to lead him to the door and outside.
We make it to the curb without getting blown across the street.
19
After Quintana’s people arrive, she instructs us to follow her back to her office, which is a long ride to the Federal Building on Wilshire near the 405, not far from Tammy’s apartment and the scene of the original sniper act.
Tammy, still chilled to the bone, rides with Tyler and Coogan, I drive my Vette with its top down, and Pax and Skip drive the van. Which is fine as it gives us time to confer using the cell phones. Our story is Pax was not on the recovery scene at all. No reason for him to be tied up in an FBI interrogation for two days. I went in alone and snatched Skip and Tammy back. I speak to Tammy on the phone before she has a chance to relate the events to her ride chums and she agrees that Pax was nowhere to be seen at the winery. He was at the motel wher
e I’d stashed Margo making sure no one but Sammy came to snatch her.
As we’re not in custody, Pax merely drops Skip off, then he hauls ass in my van. The last thing I want is the FBI taking a hard look at my van with its hide out recesses full of weapons, most illegal, and various signs and license plates.
When we walk into the FBI western headquarters, 11000 Wilshire Boulevard, 17th Floor, Quintana immediately asks about Pax, and I inform her. “Mr. Weatherwax merely gave us some assistance by watching the location I’d stowed Mrs. Castiano. He’s on his way back to work. All he knows is what the Hampton Inn looks like from the parking lot.”
“Work where?” she demands.
“Las Vegas. He’s got a company to run.”
“Do I need to send some people to his company and place him under arrest?”
“Give his office a call. He’ll drop by your Las Vegas office anytime.”
“Humph,” she grumbles.
We are six hours in separate interrogation rooms. Coogan finally calls one of Tammy’s many attorneys, who shows up and insists he take Tammy to a physician to be checked out. I insist that Skip accompanies them as he may need a stitch or ten, and Quintana relents. And since Quintana has tickets to a Dodger’s game, she kicks me out in another hour with instructions I’m to return in the morning.
However, I’m not under arrest and I am tired of answering the same questions a dozen times...so returning is not on the agenda.
We do learn that no explosives were found at Tammy’s Malibu digs, that the team of agents in Paso Robles found no one other than menial employees at Castiano Winery when they raided it like Sherman storming Atlanta, and that a Cessna Citation business jet with a half dozen passengers—no flight plan filed—left the Paso airport not long after we pulled Skip and Tammy out of the wine cellar.
I call Sol and give him what I know.
All that’s the good news. The bad is Tammy has a death threat.
As I’m climbing into the Vette in the Fed’s parking lot, I get a call, and it’s Coogan. “Tammy wants you to come to the Four Seasons to eat and figure out our next move.”