The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  “Not really, I'm always willing to do my part, but my belief in what's my part and the law's opinion is not always the same.”

  She nods, and looks at me with some interest. “I heard that, you being judge, jury, and executioner.” She eyes me waiting for a response, then not getting one, continues. “So, where do you go from here?”

  “To the hospital to call on…Alan…you said Alan.”

  “Alan Richardson, only on the job for a couple of years. A really good guy.”

  “Boyfriend?” I ask.

  She laughs. “A friend, and a boy…or young man, I should say.”

  “So, you're here with the task force? Where's home.”

  “Miami.”

  “I'm Mike…Mike Reardon.” I reach across the table and extend a hand.

  She hesitates, but finally gives me a tight smile. “Agent Maeberry.”

  “I've never known a woman who's first name was Agent.”

  She laughs, pleasantly this time. “Marla.”

  “Nice.”

  I'm thinking of asking if she's allowed to date while working a task force, but Goldberg sticks his head in, “Let's go.”

  “Nice to meet you Agent Maeberry. See you around.”

  I step into the hall and turn to the young agent escorting us. “My firearm?”

  “You can park in the waiting room and, likely spend the night there waiting until we process it, or drop by tomorrow and pick it up...presuming the boss releases it after processing.”

  Only then do I realize they are likely trying to pull DNA off the Glock.

  I'm fucked.

  24

  I’ve refused coffee and a soft drink, laughing at them as I'm I'm sure they were looking for DNA, but am screwed nonetheless…not that I don't think Jerry can beat the blood-on-the-fence thing. But it will still mean getting raked over the coals again.

  As the young agent leads us out, I ask Jerry, “Merrick gonna press charges for carrying in a public building?”

  “No, it's all bullshit. Actually he would probably thank you and Pax, if he wasn't such an uptight asshole.”

  I smile. “Actually I think he's a pretty decent guy…just doing his thing. FYI, he grabbed the weapon to pull my DNA because they got blood from a fence near the Air Park killings.”

  “Fuck 'em,” he says. “We'll talk about that later,” loud enough that the kid who's now holding the door for us can hear. The kid let’s the door go a little too soon and it catches fat Jerry halfway out.

  “Sorry,” the kid says, giving him a less than sincere smile.

  I have to laugh, and look up to see Pax leaning on his jeep, patiently waiting.

  It's late afternoon, and he says as I walk up, “You wanna try the Purple Parrot, or not.”

  “Not,” I say. “Call Sol, Gil and Vanessa and tell them good ol' Mike is buying all a fat thick steak at The Golden Steer.”

  “Sounds like an occasion.”

  “The kids said they have info for us. And besides, it may be my last supper other than jail food, for a while, when the Feds pull DNA off my Glock, and they will.”

  “Jerry will beat that easy…unless they found your blood at the actual crime scene.”

  The Golden Steer is the oldest steakhouse in Vegas, at one time one of the hangouts of the rat pack. The booths are each named after some celebrity, pictured above each booth, who ate there. We are at the Charles Bronson, a six-seater, which makes me smile as his good old vengeance movies are among my favorites. And I've eaten in this booth many times, under Bronson’s cold stare.

  Sol, Gilbert, and Vanessa are right on time, not that I'm surprised as they're all chowhounds. Gilbert is a big guy, two thirty at least and about five ten, Vanessa is a bean pole of equal height, but eats like a tackle on the Chargers, and Sol can eat his weight in about three days. They're all smiling.

  As soon as we get them a drink, Sol announces, “Do we have some good stuff for you.”

  I smile. “I'm glad it's good stuff. I've had enough bad stuff for one day.”

  “Who goes first?” Sol asks his two compadres.

  “Me,” Vanessa raises her hand, like she's in the third grade.

  “Fine with us,” Pax says.

  Vanessa takes a long draw on the umbrella-topped drink she has, probably one that caused the old-school bartender in this joint to get apoplexy. Then she begins, “Cindy McAllister, the beautiful blond bomber who's Pointer's personal assistant, is—”

  “Don't tell me she's a lesbian,” I say. “You'll break my heart.”

  “And mine,” Pax adds.

  Vanessa laughs. “If she is, I'll make a pass at her.”

  It's my turn to laugh, as Vanessa is a horn dog worse than Sol, and doesn't seem to favor women as she's eyeballed me up and down, and most other men who've crossed her gaze.

  “So,” I ask, “what's special about Cindy, other than her class, face, body, and personality?”

  “She's Pointer's bastard daughter, from Roth's ex-wife, who was formerly Pointer's wife.”

  I'm just a little astounded. “So, she's Roth's ex-step-daughter, if that makes sense, and Pointer's daughter.”

  Now Vanessa laughs again. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Pax asks, looking a little more than merely confused.

  “Maybe,” she repeats.

  “Why maybe?” I ask.

  “Maybe she's actually Roth's daughter, as Trixi was wandering a little when Cindy was conceived…and she took up with Roth pretty quickly.”

  “Okay, okay,” I say. “So, you’re saying that a long time ago, maybe thirty years, Pointer and Roth were sharing the same lady, who at the time was married to Pointer, and later married to Roth, and now divorced from both.”

  What a cluster fuck.

  “Damn, you're good,” Vanessa says. “It was Trixi O'Hanlon, then Pointer, then Roth, now Trixi Tovar, currently residing in Palm Desert. Now I'm turning this over to Gilbert.”

  The waitress brings their salads, and a dozen raw oysters for me, then Gilbert wades in, mouth half-full, half-the-time.

  “Thirty-five years ago,” Gilbert begins, “Roth and Pointer were partners in The Four Aces, a small club they started after coming here from Birmingham, Alabama, where they ran numbers and prostitution. They beat the rap there, thanks to, as reported, some crooked city officials who were happy to take a few hundred grand. They saved enough to build a motel, restaurant, and club with a five thousand square foot casino. They remodeled an old Ford dealership and bought a lot next door. The club later burned down...suspected to be Jewish lightening.”

  “And?” I ask, sucking down a fat oyster with just a touch of horseradish and Tabasco.

  “And, they had a serious falling out. Not only did Pointer accuse Roth of diddling his beautiful wife, who was formerly a dancer at the Hacienda, but they had a running gun battle in the casino.”

  “And?” I ask again.

  “And Pointer did two years in the pen, as his bullet wounded a customer. Roth got off.”

  “So,” Pax asks, “how did he get a gambling license being an ex-con?”

  “The license of the Majestic is not his, it's Roth's.”

  “So,” I say, “he's under Roth's thumb.”

  “Kinda,” Gilbert says, “except Roth doesn't want to screw up the Majestic as it makes twice as much dough as Maxmillian's. Pointer's proven a much better club operator than Roth. They seem to want to rub each other out but, then again, need each other. It's a love-hate relationship.”

  “That it?” I ask.

  Now it Sol's turn. “Not quite. It looks to us like there's a war between Roth and Pointer and the last thing they want is for the law to find out it's happening. They could both lose if Roth loses the licenses. It's got to be a battle under the radar, which seems to be a hell of a thing to pull off.”

  “So,” I ask, “how does this all fit into the bombing of the bus?”

  “Hell if we know,” Sol says, shrugging, as the waiter arrives with a cart full of fat st
eaks.

  I turn to Pax as the waiter's laying them out. “Pax man?”

  “Hell if I know. But we need to find out.”

  25

  “I think I need to get next to Cindy,” Pax says, and can't help help but smile, like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

  “One of us does,” I reply. “I'll flip you for this tough assignment.”

  He starts to dig into a pocket for a coin, while the kids at the table laugh. But I stop him and turn to Vanessa. “How about you flipping. Mr. Weatherwax is renowned for his two-headed coins.”

  She giggles and digs into her purse for a quarter, flips and covers the coin on the back of her wrist.

  “Your call,” I suggest to Pax.

  “No, no, I don't want you crying in your beer. After you….”

  “Tails,” I say.

  Vanessa looks, then offers me a peek. “Sorry, Mike.”

  “Damn.”

  Pax gives Sol instructions. “Find out everything you can, including where she hangs out—”

  “I already am into her email along with most the others at both Maxmillian's and The Majestic. What is this…Thursday?”

  “Thursday,” Pax says.

  “Tomorrow night she's attending a political event at Sammy Withers’ house out south of town.”

  “Withers, the comedian?” I ask.

  “One and the same. Raising money for some lady city councilman's, or I should say city councilwoman's race.”

  “Invitation only?” Pax asks.

  “Yeah, but I pulled a copy of the invitation out of her email, and can duplicate it. There are three hundred guests invited so you should have no trouble. You'll owe me another steak as it's a five hun minimum donation to attend.”

  “Ha!” Pax says, and gives Sol a feigned hard look, then changes the subject. “Have you turned up anything on Mr. Zebrowski's recent kidnapping?”

  “I'm digging. I got into Flannigan's phone and am working to track his calls, seeing if we can put him somewhere he might be easily found.”

  “Keep digging,” I stress. “He's got some in-the-know about the bombing.”

  “And the guys Mike calls Frick and Frack?” Pax asks.

  “Paul Rudowski and Vinny Rossi, both employed by Pointer, of course, as you know. Two lieutenants who work for Flannigan…kinda.”

  “Kinda?” I ask.

  “Yeah, they've been with Pointer way longer than Flannigan has and they talk directly to Pointer far more than to Flannigan. I get the impression they are underlings in name only.”

  “Interesting,” Pax says. Then yawns and stretches as our dessert arrives. “I've got to hit the hay. I may be up all night after the function at Withers’ place, if things go as planned.”

  “Eat a weenie,” I say, growling.

  “Sore loser,” he replies, and can't help but guffaw. Then he asks, “How about loaning me your Vette for the big affair? I want to go in style.”

  “How about taking Uber. My Vette will be busy. Besides, hotshot, what the hell's the matter with that candy apple Mercedes you keep hidden.”

  “Sore loser,” he repeats, and laughs again.

  My jaw’s clamping, so it's time to change the subject. I turn back to Sol. “How about a full rundown on Flannigan, Rudski and Rossi?”

  “Rudowski. I'm already working on it.”

  “And get Taj in Malta, or his cousin Pauly in Mumbai to plant a Trojan worm in both Pointer's and Roth's computers.” I turn to Pax, “Okay with you?”

  “Sure.”

  “I can do it,” Sol says, his feelings a little hurt.

  “And if caught go directly to jail without passing go,” Vanessa offers. “Taj and Pauly are beyond reach…you're not, and we can't live without you,” she says, with a smile.

  A Trojan worm will report every keystroke on a computer back to the address inserted. It's risky, so better done by someone out of the country. Taj, or Pauly, in turn will email the information back to us using Burn Note, a program that self-destructs the message five minutes after being sent.

  In a small ramshackle house on the Moapa reservation, fifty miles northeast of Las Vegas, just off Highway 15, a Paiute Indian and member of the Moapa Band, John Thunder-Growing reclines in a ribbon and feather decorated lawn chair. The light on his front porch is surrounded by moths, but he's not bothered. This is not the first time he’s given up his barn for a while to his good friends from The Majestic, and stood watch from his front porch while they entertain a guest…this one was dragged from the trunk of an older four-door Ford. The man was bleeding badly from a wound in his back. John does not try and surmise what had happened. They’ve used not only his barn, but the cabin his son used to occupy, before he became a guest of the state. The little cabin had a double bed and a fold down Murphy, so it could sleep four if they didn't mind close quarters. Now it only accommodated three, but three very large men.

  John is content to sip from a pint bottle of tequila, roll his own smokes, and listen to the tunes flooding his front porch. I can’t get no satisfaction, I can’t get no… roars out over his dirt yard, from the iPad connected to his boom box. And it outshouts the loud cries of the man in the barn. He loves the Rolling Stones.

  It has in the past, and should this time, be the easiest five hundred dollars he’ll earn this month.

  He watches as one of the Majestic guys opens the barn door, flooding his yard with light, and strides his way. He takes one long drag from the pint, coughs, hacks up, and spits over the porch rail as the swarthy white-eye tops his porch stairs.

  “You still got that back hoe?” he asks.

  “She runs good,” John says.

  “Another five hundred you bury this asshole…deep.”

  “Seven feet as deep as I can dig.”

  “That'll do. And, John, you know what will happen this guy ever gets sun on his ugly mug again.”

  John shrugs. “You pay, I bury, he never seen again. We have a treaty.” John extends a heavy calloused hand and shakes, one pump.

  “Whatever,” Rossi says, and turns to return to the barn.

  “This treaty shall not be broken,” John calls after him, smiling, then taking another draw on the tequila.

  Rossi has an afterthought and turns back. “How about burying that damn ugly Ford too?”

  “Can do...for another thousand. That'll take a lot of hole.”

  “Whatever,” Rossi says.

  26

  Sol and Gilbert are finishing their second dessert, while Vanessa, Pax and I sip coffee. I turn to Pax, “You think it's time for Mr. Finfisher?”

  He shrugs. “You know it can be tracked?”

  “I know, it's a risk, but we don't seem to be getting far otherwise.”

  “I doubt if it can be tracked back to us. If you remember Taj sent it from Malta.”

  “Then,” I say, “let’s put it to work on either Roth or Pointer.”

  “Hell with that. Roth, Pointer, Flannigan, Rossi and Rudowski. The worst that can happen,” Pax says, with a curl of his lip, “is we lose the forty-five hundred we paid if they find the hardware.”

  “And maybe gain a mil.”

  Sol sports a wide grin, then says, “I've already got the fifteen on Roth, Pointer, Flannigan, Rossi and Rudowski.”

  Pax scowls at him. “Don't get ahead of yourself, junior.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sol says, a little sheepishly.

  I know enough of how Weatherwax, and the tech side operates to know the 'fifteen' they're talking about are the International Mobile Subscriber Identity numbers assigned to each cell phone—every cellphone on earth has its own IMSI. Fifteen numbers are enough to identify over a trillion different devices, so there’s enough to go around for a while. A Finfisher is a device that will allow you to tap into an individual phone and obtain its IMSI. And with a Finfisher you can place software, FinSpy it's called, in the phone and be able to turn on the microphone and camera in that device, as well as track its location, every call made, and listen in on every call an
d see what the camera sees. And better yet, the owner of the device will never know what's happening to him or her.

  Not so 'better yet' is the fact the hardware device used to implant the software, FinSpy, built by Finfisher, a German company, can be located remotely. More and more, nowadays, every police department in Europe and America, and many other places, has such a device.

  We were able to obtain one surreptitiously through our buddy Taj in Malta, and God only knows how he got his hands on one, not that they're difficult to obtain, only that they're difficult to obtain without the device itself and its ownership being tracked.

  So if we use it, it's likely the FBI will be onto us in a rush, and we'll have to deep-six it or get caught…and there are laws against invading someone's privacy.

  Not that we're bashful about breaking a few laws, for the general good.

  The check comes and I pay up, only choking a little at the amount, then as the kids beat a trail, turn to Pax, “Okay, buddy, what's next?”

  “We haven't visited the fibbi in the hospital, but it's too late tonight for that. We haven't gotten next to Roth or any of his people—”

  And I remember the crack Det made about 'which boss.'

  “Strangely enough,” I interrupt, “we may have already been next to Roth's people, as when Frick…Rudowski…told Det that the boss was waiting outside to see him, he asked, 'which boss', Roth or Pointer. You don't suppose Flannigan, Rossi and Rudowski are working for Roth and Pointer doesn't know it? Double-dipping so to speak.”

  “An interesting thought. Of course they could be doublecrossing Roth and actually be on Pointer's side. When Sol gets the FinSpy planted in all their phones, things will come together quickly.”

  I nod, then snarl, “And you, you lucky som'bitch, have to get next to Cindy—”

  “And you, you unlucky som'bitch, have to get cougar et' by the formerly beautiful but I'm now sure slightly sagging, Trixi.”

  “I'll worry about that after Sol or one of the kids gets a line on how to get next to her, however, for your info, it'll be as a respectful younger gentleman, not cougar bait.”