The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  "It must be our strong beer," Yegor said, and for the first time, Betty Jean didn't like his smile. She, too, started to rise. Then she, too, sat back down, the room swimming.

  "You fucker," Better Jean managed, "you fucking ruffied us."

  She tried to rise again, but his strong hand was on her shoulder and shoving her back in her seat.

  "No," he said, "I just ruffied you. The fucking will come later." She passed out with his laughter ringing in her ears, and the strangest comment coming from Adrian, "You got my money?"

  B.J. awoke with Coleen shaking her.

  It was slow coming around, slow realizing that Coleen was shaking her with a foot, not a hand as normal, slow realizing her hands were bound behind her and she was bouncing along inside the rear of a vehicle, probably a van.

  She screamed at the top of her lungs.

  And the next foot was not gentle, the hard sole of a loafer, and painful as it drove into her ribs.

  "Shut up, you stupid American bitch."

  And she focused her eyes on the man who she had thought handsome.

  "Yeggie," she mumbled.

  "Only my friends call me Yeggie. You may call me Yegor."

  "Okay," B.J. said, her wits returning. "How about Mister…but mister what?"

  He laughed, if a little sardonically. "Yegor will do."

  "Where are you taking us?" She glanced around to see both Phyllis and Coleen already awake and sitting up, their backs against the wall of the van, and two men she had seen at a table across the club, now driving and riding shotgun.

  Again, Yegor laughed. "To hell if you do not do exactly vat I say."

  B.J. collected her wits about her, realized their situation, smiled at him, as sweet a smile as she could muster, and lied. "Yeggie, this is exciting. You don't have to tie us up. We all love men."

  She wished she were untied, wished he would turn just a little so she could soccer kick his nuts into next week. But she would wait. She'd been raised by a warrior, and given just half the chance, she'd prove she'd been well raised.

  "Shut up. You will get your chance to show how much you love men when we reach our camp."

  "Cool, how about cutting us loose so we can enjoy the ride."

  "Ha, even if you were cut loose you could do nothing—"

  "Then, please, Yeggie, cut us loose."

  "Shut up. In a few hours. We have already sent word to your old man. We will release you, when he releases all we need."

  1

  I'm almost to my buddy's parking lot in Vegas when my phone chimes with Ring of Fire and I know who's calling, but am a little surprised by his greeting.

  "Sweetheart, I'll be a little late getting home. I've got some government guys here."

  My buddy Pax Weatherwax is not accustomed to calling me sweetheart...in fact knows we'd likely go to fist city should he make it a habit.

  "What the fuck, over?" I ask.

  "Yeah, babe, we'll be awhile as they want to interview me."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yes, you know how wild and crazy that Reardon is."

  I can hear voices in the background. "Get off the phone, Weatherwax."

  "Yes, sweetheart, please call Bob and tell him dinner will be at least an hour later."

  "Bob, as in the B.O.B. I keep just-in-case?" I ask.

  "Yes, honey. Bob. Right away please."

  And I know the Bob he's talking about. Bug-Out-Bag is the Bob he's talking about, and it's time I trade cars—my red and white 57 Vette is a little too noticeable—and beat a trail out of town with my bug-out-bag and Harley in the back of my van.

  I'll call him later and find out which of the acronyms is at his office and why they want to rattle my cage, or worse. He wouldn't be calling unless they had a warrant on me, which means likely a BOLO is already out, which means they may well know not only about my Vette but also about my van, my Ford truck with it's comfortable camper, and my Harley.

  But even if they have a description of my van, they'll play hell recognizing it as I have a half dozen magnetic signs for its side panels and colored stripes to match. I can be a plumber, a meat company, a heating and ventilating company, a landscaper, and more. So if I'm going underground as Pax is suggesting, it's the van. Besides, I keep the Harley Iron loaded in the back, so I'm a double threat.

  Pax did not warn me away from my storage units and I hope he would have if need be, so I head for Tropicana and my survival gear.

  I keep mini-storage units in more than one western city, from Sheridan, Wyoming to Ventura, California. Most single guys have an apartment; I've never felt the need. If you hook up with a lady, you can learn a lot more about her by going to her crib than yours; and if you have a 'yours' it means you have a place that has a hold on you. So far, I've kept myself free of such constraints, which leaves me free to step into my van or onto a plane and not look back. I don't have to worry about who'll water the tulips and feed the dog or the goldfish.

  As it's late summer and school has yet to start, Vegas is still full of families with kids in addition to the usual crop of blue-hairs in busses and Asians and Arabs in limos and the plethora of groups and singles all trying to break the bank.

  So the traffic is a little bad and it takes me a half hour to get to the mini-storage where I avoid the keypad and front gate. I park on the street and work my way around the half-block of storage units until I'm satisfied there are no federal types staking the place out, then boldly open the gate and drive the Vette in. Opening the car storage unit, I spend a few minutes making sure the van is fully equipped, then drive the van out and the Vette in. The Harley is loaded in the rear of the van. Just for the hell of it, I go ahead and apply a couple of Toby's Landscaping signs to the sides of the van, and green stripes down the side to match the Toby's lettering. And I don a bill cap with Toby's green embroidery to match.

  Then I'm off.

  Where the hell to, I don't know, but I'm off.

  I'll know how far this trip has to take me after I get a clean line and talk to Pax. I may be headed for Torrance, Toronto, or Transylvania...God only knows.

  And it's a good thing I've taken the time to sign-up the sides of the rig, as when I leave via the sliding gate and pass the office, there are two black Ford explorers parked there with heavily tinted windows, funny little antennas, and a guy in a suit is walking inside—in fact striding, a guy who's ex- or currently military, I'd guess. At least five more guys occupy the two black monsters.

  If they have warrants for me, they have struck out. If they have search warrants for my mini-storage units, I'm in deep ka ka as they contain enough armaments and explosives to defeat a small country.

  I continue east and head for Lake Mead, then turn off and head into red rock country and soon into the Valley of Fire State Park northwest of the lake.

  Pulling into a parking area at a trailhead, I check my watch and see it's been an hour and a half since my call from the Paxman, so I dial him up.

  "You on the same throwaway I called earlier?" he asks, without bothering with hello.

  "Yeah."

  "Get rid of it. They took my cell phone."

  "Okay, but who's they?"

  "Army Intelligence, and they've got a federal warrant for you, Skip, and the other guys who took that little jaunt into Afghanistan. Go deep. I've got a call into Furenstein. Call me back tomorrow. Get rid of the phone, now!"

  "Call the others and wise them up. I've only got a couple of grand in my wallet so how about meeting me at Wally World with some back up dough?"

  "Soon as I can get there. Wally two, right?"

  "Roger that."

  "This is a pisser. Hell, that's what I get for saving the country from a nuclear attack. No good deed goes unpunished. Hasta mañana, amigo," I say.

  Freddy Furenstein is a criminal lawyer whose reputation is even bigger than his abundant belly; if not bigger than his ego. He's our go-to guy in Vegas and has exited the Superior and even the Federal Court laughing more than once on our account..
.and I mean on our behalf and literally on our account, bank account that is. He ain't cheap, but the good ones never are.

  There's a pickup parked nearby with a couple of kayaks in the back. So I jump out of the van and wander over as if to admire the boats, and drop the throwaway into the bow of one. Just as I get back in my van I see a couple of guys coming up the trail. As I idle the van out of the lot passing the hikers, the two young guys wave, then mount up, start up, and head back toward Vegas.

  I'm not two hundred yards down the two-lane headed north when a military chopper, probably from Nellis AFB, just over the mountain, makes a low pass over me. The thump thump of the rotors actually rocks the van. Jesus, these guys are serious. He's a few hundred yards in front of me when he does a tight pirouette, drops his lizard-like nose, shoves the pedal to the metal and roars back. I expect to hear a megaphone telling me to stop the vehicle, get out, and spread eagle myself on the ground, but he roars right on by.

  In my rear view I see him, now a mile behind me, begin circling the pickup that's speeding out of the park the other way. I hope the two young guys with the Kayaks have stout hearts and strong dispositions as the next few minutes might put a strain on both.

  "Sorry, guys," I say aloud, then shove a Willie CD into the slot and turn up the volume on Mama Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys. Pax and I have an emergency meet up spot, but it's a few hours of driving time, so I settle in.

  It sounds like a good time to drink some beer cooled in a mountain stream, do some fly fishing, and contemplate the wondrous creations of the Good Lord...so I head out the north entrance of the park, pick up I 15, and head north. Maybe Utah, Colorado, Wyoming, or even back to Montana...but that will be after I have another long talk with my buddy Pax.

  What the hell, I'm overdue for a vacation.

  2

  I take all the back roads I can, even though it's making the trip longer and causing the Harley to bounce around in the back of the van from time to time.

  Driving is good thinking time, particularly when I'm off the freeways on two lane country roads facing spacious fields of native grasses and brush, with some of Utah's snow covered mountains in the distance and no traffic to worry about. So, I contemplate, why are Army Intel guys giving my buddy Paxton Weatherwax a bad time, bad enough that he suggests I grab a bug out bag and beat a trail?

  Let me see, let me count the ways: my last job took me into Afghanistan where we made a pile of rocks out of a palace in the shade of one of Islam's most holy shrines, and did so without the blessing of the State Department or DOD. Yeah, I'm sure it's against the law to kill a few guys in a foreign country, even if it involves rescuing a couple of Americans and destroying a suit-case nuke. My bad.

  Of course it could have been that trip to Paraguay to steal back a corporate jet from a general in their air force. And more than one guy met his maker on that trip.

  Those are the only two recent jobs that took me out of the country.

  Then there's another half dozen reasons they might want to have a long talk with me under hot lights, circulation cutting cuffs and ankle chains, and them with warrants in hand.

  No matter good old "posse comitatus" and the fact the Army is outlawed from action on American soil. It seems the current administration, particularly POTUS, continues to make their own law, ignore the constitution, and attempt to ignore Congress and SCOTUS—the supreme court.

  No matter who or why, best I lay low until I find out just what's up.

  Why hasn't Pax called, texted, emailed, or sent a carrier pigeon? It's been almost three hours since he gave me a heads up to beat feet, or in this case, haul ass in my van with my Harley in the back.

  I head up Highway 15 until I reach Cedar City. It's nearing supper time and I've got a favorite place, Milt's Stage Stop, five miles or so east of town in Dixie National Forest on Coal Creek. And I'm hungry for a medium rare steak and a baked. I park the van in the Walmart parking lot where overnighters are usually welcome and unload the Harley Iron. I make sure my M5 is in the saddle bags along with a couple of clips—not that I'm going to get in a gunfight with the feds. I also take my fly rod and vest, after I've wandered into a sporting goods store in the center of town and bought a three day fishing license using one of a half dozen false drivers' licenses I have, then I head up the creek.

  Pax and I have pretty simple tastes, in both restaurants and meeting places, and the parking lot of the Cedar City Walmart is second on our out of town list—St. George Walmart being the first. From Cedar City it's one in Salt Lake, one in Idaho Falls, one in Butte, one in Great Falls, then on to Canadian Tire stores which are much like Walmart for our neighbors to the north. All that's if I'm on a Northerly route.

  We also have a code, related to longitude and latitude, should we be in the boondocks or somewhere other than a Walmart and need to meet up.

  I pass Milt's and make sure it's still open and continue until I see a series of pools in the creek below, and can see from the road that the fish are rising as the occasional concentric ring of a fish breaking the surface marks the quiet water.

  Finding a turn off I park the Harley, check the saddle bags to make sure they're locked—wouldn't do to have some nosey thief discover my M5—and rig up my four piece flyrod. It's late summer, and I've noticed the grasshoppers are everywhere, so I dig out a hopper fly with a yellow body and pick my way fifty feet down to the water. The stream is only a half dozen paces wide, and not deep in spots, so I move slowly and hope the fish are not too spooky.

  No matter how raucous my life, how many life-threatening situations I involve myself in, about the only thing that can disturb my fly fishing into a tumbling creek with intermittent quiet pools…is if I'm being hunted with at least as much fervor as my hunting a rainbow, cutbow, or brown. And as much as I try to relax, something continues to niggle at me as if I am being watched. I haven't seen a half dozen vehicles since I passed Milt's, and none were in sight when I stopped, so I shrug off the feeling and lay it on the fact I am being hunted but have no reason to think they're anywhere near.

  I roll a couple of twelve inchers but they're soft mouthed, catch one about eight and release him so quickly he's hardly hated the experience, and after paying more attention to what's behind me and who might be eyeballing me than reading the water, say to hell with it and climb the riprap, disassemble, and mount up.

  Light is beginning to fade, so I park the bike as far out of sight off the road as I can get. In moments I'm having an ice cold beer that's forming water rings on Milt's bar, thanks to a grizzled old guy with a peach-pitted and pouched face and eyes so deep set and dark ringed you'd think he was staring up out of a box—one is surprised he's mobile.

  Two old cowhands are at the far end of the bar and pay no attention to me. They're both grizzled, Wrangler and Carhartt clad, and sunburnt. No lizard boots here and if it's Stetsons they're wearing they've seen at least twenty years as proven by the sweat bands.

  I guess it's time for the barmaid to go to work, as a fine long legged thoroughbred of a redhead comes in via a door behind the bar, strapping on one of those half aprons with pockets in the front for change, etc. As redheads should, she has emerald eyes and as is exceptional for normally ruddy faced brindle tops, she has a perfect complexion.

  Now I wish I'd sat at a table, then I'm pleased to note that the bartender removes his apron, pulls the tray out of the till, and exits with little more than a nod to his replacement. She unlocks a compartment next to the register and brings out her own tray and inserts it into the cash drawer.

  She moves to the two old cowhands and calls them by name. She reaches into a cold box below the bar and pops a couple of long necks and gives them a wink and an "on me," and turns to focus the emeralds down my way. Then wipes the bar on her way down.

  "You doin' okay?" she asks.

  "Better now that you're here," I say.

  "We'll aren't you sweet. That your bike out back?" She leans on the bar and gives me a shot of generous clea
vage.

  "How'd you guess? I'm sure I don't have bugs in my teeth."

  "Wind blown hair."

  "Couldn't be, I wear my helmet."

  "Okay, how about the Harley attitude."

  I laugh, and the door behind me bangs open like a bull was charging through, and somebody stomps in. I'd guess without even turning that it's someone unwelcome as her face falls and she steps back from leaning over the bar.

  I don't have to turn as the bar mirror, even with bottles occluding, shows me it's an old boy in a backward bill cap and work clothes. He's followed in by another pair who don't seem nearly as intent and intense as he appears. Wearing a bill cap reversed has always seemed an affectation to me from Hollywood or the barrio or someplace equally stupid.

  "So, you think you're funny?" He challenges, his voice way to loud for a quiet bar.

  I can see her jaw tighten and the emeralds shoot green fire, but she doesn't bother to reply. She does lean against the back bar and fold her arms, as far as she can get from the interloper without running for the door.

  Discretion is the better part of valor and I'm not interested in being blindsided, so I spin on the bar stool to face the mouth.

  "I've asked you," she says in a calming tone, "not to come where I work. You're gonna get me fired."

  "Fuck you and that asshole you work for. You dumb bitch, you think throwing my clothes out on the front porch is funny?"

  I have to sigh deeply. I do note that he has no ring on his left hand, nor did she as I'd checked it out as she came down the bar. Domestic spats between marrieds is one thing, unmarried another.

  The other two, one a six foot five sallow-faced scarecrow, probably a meth-head, with an Adam's apple the size of a golf ball; and the other, short and stocky with the wide face, small mouth and ears of a backwoods Irish redneck, take a seat at a table and have stupid grins as if they're enjoying the show.

  The old boy doing the shouting, my height about 6' 2", has the long lean muscles of a guy who's worked the woods all his life. He won't go down easy, but he probably has no skills.