by L. J. Martin
I flatten against the right wall and grapple for my nine mil at the center of my back. Working the safety I hit the door, shove it open, and drop to one knee.
The agent is to my left, between me and a large green garbage dumpster.
On the far side of the alley Frick is whacking Det with the butt of his pistol and is shoving him into the trunk of an old Ford. Blood covers the back of Det's pants, maybe a bullet wound in his back. Frick slams the lid and runs to the passenger side, and barely makes his seat as Frack guns it, spitting gravel out behind. I have a bead on the driver through the back window, but it's already forty yards and I don't want to accidently put one through the trunk lid and kill my meal ticket, if he's not already dead…after all, Det could be worth fifty grand to me.
Frack's heading west out of the alley, and spins right onto the side street and is out of sight.
And pulling away from the curb behind him is another vehicle.
I'm not overly surprised to see the black Lincoln following is driven by a guy with a head the size of a football helmet. If it's not Butch Flannigan, Pointer's head of security, I'll kiss your butt on Las Vegas Boulevard in front of the Paris Casino.
Dropping to a knee beside the young agent I can see his eyes are closed and blood's spurting through his fingers as he clasps his side. “Hang on, buddy,” I tell him. Thank God he opens his eyes. I grab my phone and dial 911. “Officer down in the alley behind Sandy's.” The operator is asking for details, but I'm merely yelling “Officer down. Ambulance. Now!”
The door opens and it's Texas Slim.
“Stay with this kid. Get a compress on his side. Call 911 with a good address and get some help. He's an FBI agent. Tell them officer down.”
“What the fuck? Did you shoot him?” Tex asks.
“You see an automatic weapon in my hands?” I want to add, 'you dumb fuck,' but don't. “Compress on his side!”
Pax slides the van up and I scramble around and climb into the suicide seat. “Hit it, right on the cross street. They're in an older Ford four door, with Det in the trunk. I swear, Flannigan is behind them, driving a black Lincoln.”
“I'm a little confused—” Pax begins as he's spinning onto the side street. They've already got a full block head start on us, but the Hemi in my Dodge should eat them alive.
I interrupt, “Who the fuck knows what's going on. All I know is they kidnapped a guy and shot an FBI agent. And they got our fifty-grand meal ticket in the trunk and I don't imagine they have good plans for Mr. Zebrowski.”
I'm stoked. There's nothing like a good ol' car chase to get the adrenalin pumping.
We're gaining on them when the Ford in the lead spins a right into an alley, and the Lincoln is right on his tail. It's a long block and we're doing seventy before we're halfway through, then only a hundred feet in front of us the Lincoln's brake lights come on and he's sliding on the gravel, and spinning to the side, totally blocking any passage as he's nose and tail to garage doors.
It's all Pax can do to keep from smashing into the Lincoln, but he doesn't, barely bumping the driver's side door as we come to a halt, dust is a cloud in front and behind us as both of us pile out…and realize the guy, I presume to be Flannigan, has slid across and exited his passenger side and we hear a door of the Ford slam and see it disappearing down the alley.
We're back in the van and backing up, way to fast for comfort, when Pax hits the brakes and slides to a stop.
“What the…” I say, then realize some old lady, a sack of garbage in each hand, has stepped into the alley. She's yelling as she dumps one sack of her garbage into a can.
“Hoodlums,” she yells. She's shaking her fist at us. As Pax carefully swings out and around her, she throws her second sack of garbage at him and his open window.
“Thank you, ma'am,” he yells, smiling tightly and shaking his head as he again floors it in reverse. We exit the alley and he spins and hits it in forward, going to the next street and hanging a right…and in the middle of the block is a baseball game. A half-dozen black and brown kids fill the roadway.
Pax leans on the horn, and even at that has to ease through them, while they all do an excellent job of giving us the finger. Arrogant little bastards are taking umbrage at our slowing down their game.
“Call it,” I say, as they've had time to be blocks in front of us. “Let's head back to Sandy's.”
“Fuck that,” Pax manages, as he carefully maintains the speed limit.
“I called 911 on my own cell phone. And the young fibbi knows who I am. Let's go be the good guys and see if we can get away with the subterfuge.”
“Why the fuck do we have a dozen throw away phones?” he shakes his head.
“Beats the fuck out of me. Let's hope the shot kid is okay.”
Pax is poking a number into his cell.
“You gonna be late for a date or what? Who are you calling?”
“Jerry. Likely we're gonna need him.”
Jerry Goldberg is our attorney, and his fees are almost as fat as he is. But Pax is right, we may need him.
22
Thank god the kid is already gone on a EMT ride when we we get back to Sandy's and the place is crawling with whom I presume are FBI—suits, ties, military haircuts—and LVPD, both in and out of uniform. His call for backup probably had the fibbies rolling before the shots were fired. Yellow crime scene tape is going up and thirty or more customers are split up all around the parking lot, being interviewed or held by uniforms for detectives.
Pax drops me off as a traffic cop, standing next to his motorcycle, is trying to wave him on. We don't want to chance the van getting impounded and searched. I jack the shell out of my nine, pop the magazine, hang my Bail Enforcement Agent badge wallet in my shirt pocket—flashing the brass, for what it's worth, not wanting to get shot by an overeager cop who sees I'm armed—and dismount from the van with my nine hanging by one index finger. We're in the front parking lot just as Lieutenant Andre Bollinger pulls up and climbs out of his oatmeal-colored undercover car.
Pax pulls away. He'll have the van cleaned out long before they can catch up with him, long before they have any idea the van was a player even if only in the parking lot. I wave and walk over.
“Why am I not surprised?” he says. He points to my Glock, hanging from one finger, “You can put that away, you're with me now.”
“How's the kid?” I ask, returning the magazine then the piece to the holster at the center of my back.
“No word yet. He was breathing and cognizant when they got him out of the bus at Emergency.”
“Great.”
“And put the ten-dollar badge away as it'll only piss people off.”
“Thirty-nine ninety-five if you don't mind...but good idea,” I say. “Carrying it as I was I thought was making it clear I'm one of the good guys, and might keep me from being shot by one of your six-month wonders.”
“Eight months. And one of the good guys?” He guffaws before continuing. “So, lay it out for me, before Merrick gets here and strings you two up.”
“Two?”
“Yeah, the guy who called it in said there were two of you. I presume your asshole buddy, Weatherwax, who I noticed just pulled away, is up to his ass in this with you.”
I merely smile. “He's got chores, besides he was never in the alley until well after shots were fired. I'm sure you know that already.”
“Why, again, am I not surprised?”
“He'll be available when he's done.”
“Done cleaning out that war wagon of yours?” He furrows his brows. “So, what's the scoop?”
“Having a quiet drink with a friend when I see some guy stick a gun in the belly of this ugly cat sitting next to me at the bar—”
“Make it good, hotshot. As much of a junk heap as Sandy's is, they got good video coverage.”
“Like I said, this big ugly blond guy sticks a gun in this equally ugly guy's belly, and whispers to get his ass out to the alley. I happen to have directional ea
rs—”
“Like a jackass?”
“Ha ha. They head for the back door, followed by another no-neck goomba, then by the young FBI guy—”
I don't mention the interesting 'which boss' comment.
“How'd you know he was on the job?”
“Saw him before. He was the guy who walked me out of Merrick's office the first time I had a command performance.”
“Okay, then what?”
“You know me. I can't keep my nose out of a fight. I followed—”
“You mean we followed.”
“Okay, Pax and I followed the young agent, and just after he went through the door it got ventilated by automatic fire. I was happy to soon discover he'd…the young agent…had only taken one, not a magazine full. I'd sent Pax back for the van, so it was just me who went to a knee and through the door to see if the kid needed help. He was down, and the two guys were loading the guy from the seat next to me at the bar into the trunk.”
“And?”
“And they split. Pax had the van coming down the alley and being the good citizens we are, we pursued.”
“You were carrying and if I know you you're not bashful about firing?”
“Not on a city street, even an alley, if I can help it. Killing some young mother pushing a stroller wouldn't look good on my resume. Besides, how could I know who the hell they were and what was coming down.” Only a small lie, as I do know who they are, or at least where they work.
“And?”
“And by the time we got out of the alley in pursuit there were two vehicles. The old Ford and a newer black Lincoln, speeding away. Obviously they were a team, on the same side. We followed a couple of blocks and they turned into an alley. The Lincoln put on the binders in a narrow alley, slid sideways, and blocked our pursuit. The guy in it jumped out, into the Ford, and away they flew.”
“You get a tag number?”
“No.”
“And?”
“And by the time we backed out of that alley, having to slow for some sweet old lady who threw her garbage all over us, and then were stopped in the street by some aspiring L. A. Dodgers who signaled us the game score or their I.Q. with a one finger salute, the bad guys were long gone. We hustled back here to see if we could be of service.”
“I'll put you up for the community service award. Where's the Lincoln?”
“Probably still blocking the alley, three and a half blocks that way,” I point.
He yells at a couple of uniforms. “There's a black Lincoln blocking the alley three and a half blocks that way. Get down there and secure it for forensics.”
They don't bother with a yes sir, but jump in a black and white Metro Police car with a half dozen multicolored lights on top, and peel out.
Bollinger turns back to me with a crooked smile. “Good tale, now let's see if Merrick buys it.” He nods and I turn to see Merrick climbing out of a big black SUV, and just beyond him, a new Jaguar is disgorging our very rotund attorney, Jerry Goldberg.
Jerry waddles faster than Merrick walks and they arrive at the same time, and before Merrick can speak, Jerry does.
“I'm Gerald Worthington Goldberg, Mr. Reardon's attorney,” he announces, then turns to me. “Don't say another damn word.”
“I don't have anything to hide. I'm the good citizen here.”
“Okay, good citizen,” he says, “don't say another damn word.”
I look at Merrick and shrug.
He shakes his head and asks Bollinger, “Why isn't he in cuffs?”
“Not necessary. He's probably telling the truth. The video will tell the tale. How's your guy?”
“In surgery, but he'll be fine. He's a tough kid.”
“How bad?”
“Shattered a rib, clipped a bowel...but he's being fixed up.”
“Let's go inside,” Jerry says, mopping his brow. “It's hotter than my last twenty- eight passes on the crap table. And that made me sixteen thousand.”
We do, and Bollinger joins us at a small round table in the corner. He turns to my attorney, “So, still chasing ambulances, Jerry?”
“Oy vey. Fuck you, Bollinger,” Jerry says. “I'm buying, what are you two losers drinking?”
23
Goldberg has a scotch and soda, on the house as it seems he he knows Texas Slim, and Bollinger and I have a lemonade. I shouldn't be surprised as Jerry knows most the lowlifes in Vegas. In fact we have two, while Merrick and a couple of his guys review the tapes on the playback in Slim's office.
Finally Merrick exits the office and walks over. “You've got to come to the office and give a statement.” Then he turns to Goldberg. “Okay with you?”
“What's on the tape?”
“Your guy is clean. In fact, it looks like my boy might have been a lot worse had Reardon not been sticking his nose into my investigation. One of those assholes was coming to finish our guy off, leading with an Uzi or some auto-pistol when the door opened again, and he split to drive their ride.” He turns to me, “So, what were you doing here?”
“Just having a friendly drink, agent, when the fun started,” I say. “I've never been smart enough to keep my head down.” I give Merrick as pleasant a smile as I can muster.
“Mike,” Jerry jumps me. “Shut the fuck up unless I give you the nod to answer.”
Merrick shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
“Fine with the interview,” Goldberg says, “with me at his side, and no recordings.”
“We don't record interviews. You should know that.”
“I know you say you don't,” Jerry gives him a crooked grin. Then turns to me, “You ride with me. We'll talk on the way.” Then to Bollinger. “Get the tip, Lieutenant. You dicks are all overpaid.”
As we ride across town, with Merrick close on our bumper, I confess to Goldberg that I'm pretty sure I know who the guys are—not that I'm dead sure, which I am.
“It's against the law to lie to a federal officer. And 'I'm not sure,' or 'I don't know,' is not a lie, at least not one they can prove. Don't volunteer a damn thing. I know they're looking for Weatherwax as a witness, so call him and tell him it would be wise if he showed up at the FBI building…would look a lot better than him being picked up and bent over a hood with wrists hooked up, as a material witness.”
I call Pax and he says he'll have the van emptied in a half hour, and will drive his jeep over to the FBI building.
“We're cool,” I say.
“Cool? You two are hotter than a three-dollar pistol, that's how frigging cool you are.” He shakes his head.
When we enter the building, Merrick is standing with two other young agents, waiting.
He steps over. “You still carrying?”
“I am,” I answer.
“Put your hands on top your head. You're under arrest for carrying in a public building.”
“What!” Jerry exclaims. “Chicken shit. You know this won't stand. He's here by invitation.”
Merrick smiles. “Maybe, maybe not, but while you're doing your thing we'll have his weapon and can do our thing.”
One of the young agents spins me around, carefully with two fingers removes the Glock, folds my hands behind me, and cuffs me, then runs his hands under my arms, up and down the legs, and across my back checking for another weapon.
I have to laugh. I see Pax coming toward the glass doors, and snap at Jerry. “Warn Pax that these assholes don't appreciate us saving their agent's ass.” Jerry pushes back through the doors and stops Pax, who returns to his Jeep and locks his weapon in the glove compartment.
Merrick is smiling when Jerry returns, and shakes his head and cautions, “You know I can bust him for being armed on the grounds. And if he has one in the chamber he's still breaking Nevada law.”
Jerry is not amused. “Yeah, and you have probable cause to search? My ass. Besides, Mr. Weatherwax has a concealed carry as well so one in the chamber is moot.”
“But a weapon in a federal facility is not.” Merrick is having too much
fun with this. He moves off and waves us to follow. One of the young agents has me by the arm, guiding me down the hallway. Obviously he doesn’t care about Pax’s weapon or he’d have someone confiscate it.
I overhear Jerry caution Pax, who's jogged back to the doors and entered, “Keep your mouth shut. Don't answer a thing until I give you the nod.”
They work us over for nearly three hours, running our five hun an hour bill up with Jerry. They've kept Pax in a separate interview room, and Jerry's been running back and forth like a ping pong ball. Finally, on the fourth time he's been with me, Merrick turns to the young agent beside him, and to a stenographer at the end of the table. “That's it,” he says. Then he addresses Jerry. “How about you and I going to my office for a minute, then y'all can leave.”
Jerry shrugs and rises. I'm not comfortable, still with the cuffs on, so I suggest, “How about getting these motherfucking cuffs off. You've made your point.” Then I turn to the steno, “Pardon my language, ma'am.”
“Believe it or not,” the graying middle-aged woman says, “but I've heard it before.”
“Not my habit in front of ladies.”
Merrick nods at the young agent who removes the cuffs as he, Jerry, and the steno leave. The young agent advises me, “Sit tight. Another agent will come keep you company. So I do, rubbing my wrists until a very attractive young woman enters and takes a seat across the table.
“Agent Maeberry,” she says. Blond, dark eyes, nice tan suit over a yellow blouse, buttoned demurely to the neck.
“You my babysitter?” I ask, with a smile.
“Can't leave you alone. Company protocol.”
“Wouldn't want you to,” I say, trying another smile but getting only a nod.
But then she loosens up. “I just came from the hospital. Alan is doing okay. He's out of surgery.”
“The kid?”
“He's a very good friend of mine, and the word is you may have kept that scene from getting a lot worse.”
“Always willing to help the FBI,” I say.
She smiles. “I hear that's kind of a mixed bag with you and law officers of any kind.”