by L. J. Martin
“Is she okay?”
“The doc said she was fine. Your guy got a few stitches but he’s fine. Maybe a slight concussion.”
“You got my forty five grand.”
“Yeah, asshole. I have the check in my briefcase.”
“Coogan, I don’t like you worth a shit, and the next time you call me anything other than Mr. Reardon, or maybe even Mike, I’m going to drag your dumb ass into the alley and teach you some manners…understand?”
He’s quiet for a long count, then replies, “Tammy wants you around, so I’ll put up with your dumb ass.”
“Dumb ass? Is that Mr. Reardon, or Mike?”
He’s silent for a moment, then mumbles. “Mike. We’ll be in the dining room at the Four Seasons. She’s got a room in the hotel for you and this Skip guy.”
“I’m just leaving the Feds. Fifteen minutes.”
The Four Seasons is on corner of South Doheny and Burton on the north edge of the commercial area of Beverly Hills, its restaurant and bar being one of the older CNBC, see-and-be-seen, classy joints in a very classy if very plastic city. More flakes than a box of Kellogg’s.
Tammy, who I guess stopped at some five-grand-an-outfit Rodeo Drive shop is looking more like a million bucks in a simple black sheath, and is at a pair of tables pulled together in the bar, manager Emory Coogan on one side of her and so-called chief of security Butch Horrigan on the other. She looks like a luscious slice of sweet melon which should be flanked by prosciutto but instead is sandwiched between two suet-laden pork chops.
I really dislike both these guys. Across the table is the svelte Tyler, in a blue silk blouse and those tighter-than-skin black stretch pants clinging to her perfect curves.
I start to take a seat by Tyler, but Tammy shoos Butch away and makes room for me on her right. Coogan gives me a look like a cobra at a rat...but he moves.
Tammy pats the seat. Instead, with a bit of a Cheshire cat grin thinking he’s one-upped me, Skip sits by Tyler.
As soon as I'm down, Tammy takes my cheeks in both hands and plants a wet smack right on my lips, then continues to hold my cheeks and says, "I owe you big time, Mike."
I smile. "My pleasure," then, a little on the callous side, turn to Butch on her other side. "You got a check for me?"
His jaw noticeably clinches, but he reaches down and scoops up a five hundred dollar alligator briefcase and digs around until he comes up with a check. I look him in the eye and say, "Thank you..." pause, then turn to my new boss and add, "Tammy." He goes from clinched jaw to clinched jaw with a red face.
"So," I continue, eye-to-eye with Tammy, now perfectly coiffed and made-up with slight brown eyeliner over her beautiful blue, gold speckled, eyes, "...am I officially employed as your chief of security?"
"Well," she says, with a little hesitation, "Butch here is my chief...you’re on as a consultant."
I slip the check in my pocket. "I think I earned the retainer," and I rise and motion Skip to stand as well. I extend my hand to Tammy and she takes it. "Thanks, Miss Houston, but I've seen Horrigan's work and don't think I'm gonna work with him and certainly not for him. Best of luck," and I drop the hand and spin on my heel, and Skip follows me to the lobby.
"Mike," I hear Tammy yell after me, then as I make a left toward the front door, hear her high heels clicking on the marble floor. "Mike, don't go."
I hesitate and she catches up. Horrigan is close behind her and he’s steaming out the ears.
"I need you," she says, pleading.
"Tammy, now that I quit I can call you Tammy, I don't suffer fools and I don't let their mistakes flow over onto me. I work with my own people, not with stumble bums like Butch here." And I nod at him, then smile as he takes a couple of quick steps my way and telegraphs a looping left. I sidestep the punch and as he stumbles by me, bury a hard right in his side, just under his rib cage, and hear him expel every ounce of breath. Then he starts to sag to his knees, but he catches himself.
So I help him with a slight sidekick just behind his left knee, and he goes down to both knees. Then, him clasping both hands to his side, I give him a small push with my boot to his back between his shoulder blades and the big boy goes to his face.
Before he can bounce, two hotel security guys are headed my way. I hold up both hands, palm out, and probably because Skip is beside me, man-mountain himself, they stop six feet from us. "What's going on here?" the larger of the two asks.
"All over, sir." I say, giving him a smile, then add, "Butch here took offense at something I said, but he's decided not to object further."
"Take it outside, fellas, and down the block away from the hotel."
"No problem," I say, then turn to Tammy. "See what I mean. Get yourself some help who'll keep you alive," and again head for the door.
"Mike," she calls after me, "you're head of security."
20
I stop and turn back slowly. The two security guys are helping Butch to his feet. I cross back to where Tammy stands and suggest in my most sincere tone, "Don't say it unless you mean it, Tammy."
"I mean it," she reiterates.
"Then it's Miss Houston, since I'm working for you again."
She shrugs.
I move over to where the two security guys are brushing Butch off like he might sue the joint if he's not treated with deference. "Butch," I say, getting his undivided attention as well as that of the two guys flanking him. "You're fired."
"What the fuck," he says, but does not even consider trying another cheap shot. Instead he turns to Tammy and repeats, "What the fuck?"
Tammy merely shrugs, “Mike’s the head of security,” then she heads back to the bar. Coogan has come as far as the door between bar and lobby, and doesn't look happy as his jaw is still clamped and his face red. He spins on his heel and leads Tammy back to the table.
Skip and I follow, but when she sits I move to her side and say in a low tone. "Skip and I are two tables away and will stay separate from you. It's best."
"Okay," she says.
"Advise me when you're ready to leave so one of us can lead, and one follow. Okay?"
"10-4," she says, and I have to smile.
As I move to a nearby table, the hotel manager—or so his nameplate says—strides into the bar and to her table. He's a distinguished looking guy wearing a dark gray suit with light gray pinstripes, a gray cufflink shirt, and a gray and yellow power tie. He looks great except for the bed-head doo. Why a guy would have a perfect shine on Gucci loafers on one end, and a mess on the other is a little beyond my ken.
"Miss Houston, is there a problem?" he asks, with an English accent that sounds a little contrived.
"Not now."
"We can't have—"
She stops him short. "We haven't occupied my suite or the other rooms yet. If you prefer, we'll head over to the London or St. James?"
His manner changes immediately. "No, no, so long as the drama is over."
She smiles demurely, and he spins on his heel. "Drinks are on the hotel," he says.
"Thank you," Tammy calls after him. I guess the four or five grand a night yields some influence, even at the Four Seasons.
We grab a great supper in the dining room, Tammy miffed because we refuse to sit with her and Coogan, taking a nearby table where we can watch the door and her six.
Coogan leaves after downing his dessert, a mound of chocolate syrup covered something, and doesn’t bother to say goodnight. My info on him tells me he has a house in Brentwood and I presume he’s headed there. Tammy signs the ticket, walks over and sits with Skip and me, and I shake my head.
“Tammy, you don’t get it. We don’t want to broadcast that we’re part of your entourage. It puts you in extra danger and puts us in extra danger. You’ve got to remember, at all times, you’re a target…as sweet and sexy as you are and as incongruous as it seems, you’re a target.”
She pouts, but nods. “Okay, okay, it’s time to go up.”
I give a high sign to Skip and he takes t
he lead. Only after he’s had a chance to check out the entry, lobby and elevators, I escort Tammy out.
She has a rooftop suite large enough for her and her band, and has gotten us rooms on the floor below as the other suite on the floor is taken.
The elevator stops a floor below hers, and I have to object. “Won’t do, Miss Houston. We need to be nearby, not an elevator ride away.”
She giggles, showing the effects of the several champagne cocktails she’s had with her fillet. “Then I guess you’ll just have to share the suite with me.”
“There are two doubles in the second bedroom?”
“There are.”
“Then both Skip and I will share the suite with you…and would even if we had to sleep on the floor.”
“Reardon,” she asks, with a coquettish look, pressing the close door button, “are you afraid of me?”
“I only fear God and the IRS,” I say, with a laugh. “Skip and I will take the second bedroom. Why don’t you call the desk and try to get your money back for the unused rooms.”
“Whatever,” she says, sounding a little disgusted. We enter the suite and Skip steps in front of her. He goes to the master bedroom and clears it, the deck outside it, and the bathroom, then returns and gives me a nod.
“Goodnight, Miss Houston,” I say, and she gives me a wave over her shoulder and disappears into her half of the suite.
Skip always has trouble sleeping so he tunes in the living room TV to an old movie and I hit the sack. I have trouble sleeping late so at four thirty, I get up and shower, luxuriating for a long time, then shave—the suite has every amenity—and go out and wake Skip, who’s asleep on the sofa.
“Go get some decent rest. I’ll catch the news and wake you when I hear the lady stirring.”
Luckily the suite has the makings for coffee in its small kitchen, and I’m on my fourth cup and fifth news channel when my phone rings with an unknown caller.
“Reardon,” I answer.
“Mike, it’s Crystal Janson.” Crystal is the twin sister of a client of mine, Carol, who was killed by the cartel, and is raising Carol's daughter, her niece, Sherry. I haven’t heard from her in months and smile at the sound of her voice. Her salon, Beauty by Crystal, is only a few blocks from Pax’s building in Vegas.
“How are you? How’s Sherry?”
“She’s fine. Have you heard?”
I can see this is not a pleasure call. “Heard what?”
“Your buddy, Pax what’s his name…his office had an explosion.”
That knocks the wind out of me. “When?”
“Not more than a half hour ago. I guess there were a half-dozen workers there.”
“Bad?”
“Very bad, blew the whole front of the building off.”
“I gotta go. I’ll come see you soon. Thanks for the call.”
I immediately dial Pax and get call forwarding to an answering device. Then I try Sol and get the same. I don’t bother trying the office phone. Instead I dial a friend at LVDP, and he picks up.
“Bollinger,” he answers.
“Andre, Mike Reardon here. I just heard there was an explosion at Weatherwax Internet.”
“Yeah, your buddy as I recall.”
“What’s the story?”
“I’m there now. They’ve got the fire out and have recovered two bodies and hauled four out and have bussed them to emergency at University Medical Center…UMC.”
“And Pax?”
“Don’t know what’s up with individual names yet.”
“Can you call me on this cell number when you do?”
“Sure. You’ll owe me.”
“I already owe you.”
I hustle in and wake Skip. “The ka ka’s hit the fan in Vegas. Explosion at Pax’s office, he doesn’t answer, and I can’t find out shit. I’m driving over in the van. Don’t let Tammy do anything stupid, stay close to her.”
“Got it,” he says, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
“Follow me down to the van and I’ll leave you with a duffle bag full of goodies.”
He jumps up and drags on his clothes. “Call me as soon as you know what’s up. After driving over half of Iraq in a lousy Humvee, it would be the worst if Pax bought it from an explosion in Vegas.”
“Get ready to get a phone call telling you to shag to Vegas. I think this has to be our Albanian friends, and I’m going to rock their world as soon as I know what’s what. If we finish them, we’ll finish the threat to Tammy.”
“And Tammy in the meantime?” he asks as we head for the door.
“I’ve got a couple of buddies here in LA and will get you some help.”
“I’ll take care of this end until I hear from you…you take care of Vegas.”
And we are soon at valet parking and then in my van. I drive to a side parking space and Skip and I fill a duffle full of whatever he might need to watch out for our client, and I’m gone.
I’m happy when I reach Killer Carlos Juarez on the first try, and he agrees to head for the Four Seasons and tie up with Skip. And he’s got a buddy, Tobin “To Bad” Michaels, who’ll work the job. I’ve heard tales of Michaels, a real bad ass. Both of these guys are ex-Green Berets, now bail enforcement agents, a little older than me but not too long in the tooth for this kind of work.
Before I make the turn north out of San Berdo thru Cajon Pass, my phone rings and I use the hands-free.
“Reardon.”
It’s Andre. “Weatherwax is alive…in the operating room. He was in his office on top in the back of the building. He’s hurt pretty bad as the floor collapsed and some crap landed on him. The receptionist is dead as some asshole backed a pickup through the glass wall in front, right in front of her desk, and ran for it. If our guy’s guess is right, the pickup was loaded with nitrogen fertilizer soaked in diesel fuel and blew the whole building to hell and took out half the adjoining buildings.”
“The receptionist. Rosie Newmyer?”
“That’s the lady.”
“And the kid, Sol Goldman?”
“Not one of the dead. Three confirmed dead now. Two walked away with scratches and bruises, unable to hear, but they walked away. The receptionist and another lady and a young guy are at the morgue.”
“Those dirty motherfuckers.” I have a ball of snakes in my belly, a throat dry as the Gobi, and my jaw’s clamped so tight it’ll be sore for a week. Rosie was a great girl, chubby, happy, always with a grin and a giggle. I’m developing a knot of reptiles in my stomach so tight that it feels a little like a bowling ball, and I know it won’t dissolve until I put whoever did this toes up. Hopefully after them hurting for a good long spell before their lights go out.
“You know who did this?” Andre snaps, now all cop.
“I have an idea. I’m heading over Cajon pass. I’ll see you in three hours or so.”
“I’ll still be at the scene. We’ve got a team from the FBI bomb squad coming in. We’re stretching it but I appealed to them as I said I had reason to believe it was a terrorist act. But if you think you know who did it, I can get a jump on taking them down.”
“You may not be too far wrong. I’ll bring you up to speed when I get there.”
“Reardon…no cowboy crap.”
“Yippee-ki-yay.” I say.
I hear him sigh deeply, then he says. “See you at…a little before noon?”
“I’ll head for the hospital first. Call me again if you get any more news.”
“Reardon, don’t fuck up my town again.”
“Nothing but self-defense, detective. You know that.”
21
Just as I reach Barstow, I get another unidentified caller, and use the hands-free.
“Reardon.”
“Mike, did you hear?” And I recognize Sol’s voice, Pax’s number one man and my little buddy who I’ve been worrying about.
“I did. Good to hear your voice. You okay?”
“I was across town working on a client’s server. This is terrible, just
terrible.”
“And you are just the guy to help me kick some ass.”
“I don’t do guns, Mike.”
“It’s not guns I need. What have you found out about these Albanian assholes?”
“Five of them flew into McCarran last night, along with two big dogs. I tapped the video cameras at the fixed base operator they use. Then, figuring where they were probably headed, the security system at the casino. They all went directly to Rocco’s Casino out in Laughlin. Word is Rocco’s is really owned by this Edvin Gashi and Armand Ahmeti, and Rodolfo ‘Rocco’ Barbini is merely a front so they could get by the gaming commission.”
“Get a take on how many Albanians are hanging out there, and who lives at the club. Going in from Henderson Rocco’s is the second one on the river side, right?”
“Yes. I’ll have to work out of my apartment. I hate to leave the hospital until I know what’s up with Pax and a couple of my buddies, Fletcher and Bohannan, who are hurt bad too.”
“Let’s get these assholes. That’s the best thing we can do for Pax and your pals.”
“Got it. I’m headed home.”
The phone doesn’t rattle again and I drive straight to the University Medical Center. I’m happy to find out that Pax is in a room and not Intensive Care. Visitor’s hours are not until mid-afternoon, unless you’re family…but if I’m not family no one is.
It’s a private room and when I peek in the door, I see he’s flat on his back and staring out the window, his good leg tilted up in traction, his right arm in a cast, and a couple of IVs in the back of his left hand. I wander on in.
“Wanna race?” I ask.
"Speak up. My ears are still ringing from the explosion. Yeah, I wanna race...to find out who tried to wipe us all out.”
“I’ve got a good idea. It didn’t take Gashi long to nail you from his security video and to put his scumbag boys to work.”
“You sure it was him?”
“Sure enough. Sol…thank God Sol was gone…tracked them back to McCarran early this morning and we know they’re out at Rocco’s in Laughlin. I’ve got him doing some recon so we can play get even.”