by L. J. Martin
She glances at a watch on her wrist. “Meet you in the coffee shop in exactly twenty-seven minutes. Hey, I don't remember meeting you. How did you know my name?”
“I don't know your name.”
“You called me by name.”
“Silly....Silly's your name?”
“My nickname.”
I laugh again, and lie. “I called you silly because you were giggling.”
She giggles again. “I'd rather have a milkshake than coffee.”
“Strawberry I bet. I'll order and we'll both be waiting for you.”
“Both?”
“Yeah, me and the milkshake.”
“Make it a chocolate.”
“You got it.”
Her butt looks like two kids having a pillow fight in a tent as she waddles away. I am a charmer.
What she doesn’t know is I slipped her cell phone out of a small pocket on the apron she wears. While she’s gone, I remove the chip and with the small reader I carry, transfer its contents to a thumbdrive.
Then I wander around, find her, and she’s so very appreciative that I saw her drop her cell and have returned it.
What a guy.
32
Pax is laughed at a dozen times, catcalled, and flipped a bird bird twice, as he drives across town to the party. Las Vegans should have a better respect for Captain America, he thinks, but doesn't flip a bird in return...he, at least, has some respect for what Captain America represents.
Maybe Americans, working Americans, dislike seeing Captain America driving a hot, candy-apple-red German-made Mercedes 550? He knows the kid who is parking cars at the party enjoys taking the keys way too much, and he knows he hates to give them to him.
Sammy Withers' place is on forty acres about as far south from Vegas as you can get before you hit the hills, and east of Highway 15. A long curving driveway winds between pastures of Arabian horses on sixty or more acres planted with what must be five hundred tall coconut palms, a thousand small queen palms, and expensive mugos half the size of Volkswagens.
There's a small gatehouse and guard, who merely glances at the phony invitation—Sol did a good job—and waves Pax thru.
The house itself looks as if it grew out of the rocks and desert—rock walls, slate roof—with lots of glass and a pool that must be a half acre, with a swim-up bar in the center. Unfortunately, this is not a swim party so the flock of dancers and barmaids and, odds are, hookers, are dressed to the hilt...many of them sexily dressed, but dressed in every variety of costume.
Pax flashes his invite again at a door guard, who waves him through. After all, would a party crasher be dressed as Captain America? He heads straight to one of the four bars he can see, two in a massive living area, two outside on the slate patio.
Then he does the wander, looking for Wonder Woman. He laughs as the first Wonder Woman among the three or four hundred guests would make two of Cindy. Unless her costume is half bed pillows, it isn't her. So he moves on, rattling the cubes in the Jack rocks he picked up at the bar. Three ladies, one of them Goldilocks, I'd guess, one a vampire, and one Wonder Woman, are seated near the pool, and this Wonder Woman is a wonder. He moves to her side.
“Hi, ladies. Having a good time?” he asks.
Vampira sweeps long black hair back over a shoulder. “We girls are having a great time. Can you leap tall buildings in a single bound?”
Pax laughs. “That's Superman. I've seen about three of him since I walked in, but the ones I've seen don't look like they could leap a beach ball, much less a building.”
Wonder Woman leans forward, her voice a low sexy whisper, so her comment takes Pax by surprise. “If we were into men, you'd be right up there on top the list, big boy.” Her voice is closer to a Minnie Mouse whisper than the beautiful Cindy’s low enticing growl, and her narrow mask wouldn’t cover Cindy’s black eye. Pax laughs again, gives them a salute, and moves on. He doesn't have time to offer to change their mind, not that they look like they'd consider trying. It seems a waste to him, but then there’s someone for everyone, or so he once believed. They go back to their rather intimate conversation.
There's a bandstand to one side of the pool, with a half dozen musicians and a Sinatra impressionist, but he's pushed aside by a very large—in fact obese—Sammy Withers, who launches into a glowing description of a pugnacious lady who's followed him to the microphone. She's a candidate for the Vegas city council.
Pax takes the opportunity to survey the crowd, who've lined up around the pool to listen to what proves to be a typical twenty-minute politician’s speech...typical claptrap about how bad her opponent would be for the city, and how she'll solve all its ills, real or perceived.
Finally, on the far side of the pool, he spots a shapely Wonder Woman with black hair that's obviously a wig. Too perfectly coiffed, sprayed rigid, barely moving as she does. She’s wearing a full face mask that would cover if both eyes were blacked.
The good news is it appears to be Cindy, the bad, she's flanked by two bruisers who are Pax's equal, size wise.
Now, how to get between her and them.
He moves around the pool, pushing his way between partygoers who are politely appearing to be enraptured by the lady politician, who actually looks a little like one of Pax’s favorites...Winston Churchill.
He laughs when he hears the two men talking around Cindy, who’s politely nodding. Both of them with lisps...either born to it or trying to make sure they fit in with their gay friends.
“Cindy, right?” Pax says, as soon as Withers finishes hitting up the crowd for donations to the cause.
She turns and eyes him up and down, and this time the voice is the beautiful Cindy's.
“I hate this woman,” she says. “I'm not giving her a dime, how about you.”
Pax laughs, as he considers the fact a costume party may be the worst place to try and embarrass folks into donating. How would you know if someone did or didn't?
“If you're not, I'm not,” Pax says, “and I had five bucks ready to go into the pot.”
She laughs, but the guy Pax has elbowed out of the way, doesn't. He looks down his nose at Pax.
“That's my aunt, and if you're not donating, what are you doing at this soriee?”
“Soriee?” Pax says, with a low guffaw. “I'm here looking for a Wonder Woman, or at least a wonderful woman...like this lady.”
“Humph,” he says, and moves around in front of Cindy and snaps at his partner-- both are dressed as a team, Batman and Robin. “Let's go get a drink, Bruce. Butch here is about to go broke coughing up five bucks.”
Pax and Cindy both laugh. Pax adds, “Bruce? I guess a guy named Bruce is compelled to come as Bruce Wayne.”
She laughs, then takes a step back and looks Pax up and down.
“I know that voice,” she says, “and that build.” She reaches out and pats him on his right pectoral, and smiles. “No padding there.”
“No, ma'am. What you see is what you get.”
“That voice. You're one of the lobster lunch boys. Pax, wasn't it?”
“Damn, am I that easy?”
She giggles. “I wasn't asking about your morals, Mr. Weatherwax.”
“I'm no lay down, but, of course, Wonder Woman could probably force herself on a poor old country boy.”
She gets serious, ignoring what was obviously an invitation, and a little too obvious a one. “Seriously, are you here on business? Is this place about to be bombed?”
Pax laughs. “God, I hope not. I'm here to have a good time. Beautiful women in fabulous costumes, like yourself…free booze, and from the look of what's going around incredible hors d'oeuvres. What more could Captain America ask for, except for maybe getting Wonder Woman to go have a drink where we could talk and get to know each other a little better.” He can't help but eye her up and down for about the fifth time.
“Your eyes keep telling me it's a ‘lot better’ you're thinking about?”
“Que sera, sera.”
“No
t going to happen, big boy. You should have stayed as Captain America and fulfilled one of my fantasies.”
“Then forget I confessed.”
“Too late. I don't mess my own nest.”
“Pardon?” Pax asks, a little confounded.
“We work for the same gentleman. I don't mess with the help.”
Pax laughs, then asks, “Daddy's orders?”
Her smile fades. “What the hell do you know about who my daddy is?”
33
Pax laughs, but she’s dead serious. So he offers, tongue in cheek, “You think Mr. Pointer hired us for our good looks—”
“Not hardly.’
“Now you’ve hurt my feelings,” Pax feigns a pout.
“That doesn’t explain how you know who my father is.”
“Pointer, I presume, is your father. We do our homework. But if that’s something you don’t want folks to know, then your secret is safe with us.”
“Good, keep it that way. I don’t want others to think I got my job through nepotism.”
“Doesn't your last name give you away?” He knows the answer but asks anyway.
“I was married…for a short time…and don't go by Pointer.”
“No one can question your competence. You’ve worked for two other ‘non-related’ bosses as an executive assistant and left on good terms with great recommendations. I don’t think you have much to worry—”
“So you know way too much about me, including my maiden name. Just keep it to yourselves, please.”
“Scout’s honor,” Pax says.
“Okay. Now, where were we?” she asks, and smiles as if she’d never gotten red in the face.
“We were out of here to get a cocktail and the supper of your choice before the next campaign speech and before the money grubbers get their hands on our hard earned.”
“I don’t think that’s where we were,” she hesitates a moment, “but it’s not a bad idea. I had the company limo bring me so I’m sans wheels. And I want to go home and change.”
Pax laughs. “So, you’re to change and I’m to look like an advertisement for the next superhero flick?”
“If only we had sandwich boards for you.”
“Closest place first. I’m in a condo on the other side of Flamingo.”
“Then your place first, after I finish my drink.”
“Dirty martini?” Pax asks.
“Dirty vodka martini, double splash of vermouth.”
“I’ll get us one more for the road.”
“Make it a paper cup,” she says.
“My thought exactly.”
They settle in nicely at Pax’s condo, but the evening is quickly interrupted with a foreplay interrupting, shocking phone call.
The casino is filling up with players. I play a little more blackjack, losing more than I want to, then hit the slots. I’m about to head out to take a look at John Thunder-Growing’s place when I note a particularly wide set of shoulders at a slot a couple of rows away. A guy with familiar black greasy hair two inches too long.
Working my way around I get to where I can see a profile of old ‘wide shoulders’ and sure enough it’s Frack, of Frick and Frack fame. Vinny Rossi if memory serves and if Sol is right, and Sol’s seldom wrong.
Why am I not surprised?
And where there’s smoke, there’s generally fire. So, where’s Frick…Paul Rudowski? And as I recall they left the scene of the latest crime—the shooting of an FBI agent—with one Butch Flannigan as company.
I may be badly outnumbered. My little .380 is in the small of my back, one in the chamber and six in the magazine. My breakdown M4 is in my locked saddlebags on the rear of the bike. And I have a pen that’s a little specialty item I’ve had come in handy more than once. A half turn of the cap and it’ll give a shot of mace that’ll knock a donkey down.
I really had thought that these guys, at least Rudowski and Rossi, would be halfway across the country by now. They know they got made by the bar video cameras and any future in Vegas is doubtful. Flannigan, on the other hand, was never spotted on camera.
Spinning on a heel I head for the men’s room, wondering what my next course of action should be. My objective, if I want to make a buck, is to nail whoever bombed the bus, and taking these guys down will probably not advance my cause…if I could take down three of them. If three of them in fact are here...
It’s becoming obvious to me that they brought Zebron ‘Det’ Zebrowski here, as he’s close by if his cell phone location means anything…and I’m sure it does. So, if I don’t take them down, where will they lead me? I might get something on Flannigan…but then Flannigan seems to work for Pointer and Pointer is the guy who hired us. Of course Flannigan has been seen at Maxmillian’s, likely on his way to see Pointer’s archenemy, Tobias Roth, so it's likely he's working for both of them, only Pointer doesn't know it. But of course Pointer’s archenemy is also his partner in The Majestic.
Jesus, what a cluster fuck this has turned out to be. A conundrum wrapped in an enigma...or some damn thing.
And I’m on a reservation—a nation inside a nation—and who knows who the rez cops answer to, and who knows if I call the Clark County Sheriff’s Office for a little help if they'll respond or not? I sure as hell can’t transport three on my Harley even if I can take them down—if the county mounties are even allowed on the rez.
My quandary is soon resolved; while I’m shaking the dew off my lily my cell vibrates, and I see it’s Pax. Hopefully he’s been jilted by the beautiful Cindy and she’s pining for me.
“What’s up, Lothario?” I ask.
“They bombed the fucking place!” He’s obviously very excited.
“What fucking place?”
“The party. Sammy Withers’ party.”
“You hurt?” I ask, suddenly very concerned.
“No. I left with…with the lady. But initial reports say there could be a hundred dead and another hundred hurt. Those assholes…DSA…have claimed credit.”
“Jesus. I’m eyes on Frack…Rossi…here in the casino, and presume Frick and maybe Flannigan are somewhere close.”
“Get back here. Let’s get these fucking ragheads before they bomb someplace else.”
“I’ll be there—”
“Come to the office.”
“I will, but see if you can get someone here to tail these guys. I have a sneaking hunch Roth is our bus bomber—”
“Bullshit,” Pax snaps. “DSA claimed both bombings and what would Roth have to gain?”
“Getting rid of the judge who’s after his ass, that’s what.”
“Hell, I’m sure he had people at the party. Withers plays The Majestic in the off season. Roth wouldn’t kill a bunch of his own people. It’s DSA.”
“See you at the office.”
I head out for the parking area, but quickly decide I should have been more careful. I’m not fifty strides from the doors when I glance back to see both Frick and Frack exiting and looking out into the much darker parking area, I presume trying to spot me. Ducking low between cars I head for the parking area light pole which my Sport is next to.
Firing her up, I gun it out of the parking lot without looking over to where they’re still eyeballing the area.
I plug my phone into my helmet sound system and voice dial Sol, who immediately picks up. “Pax said you’re heading in.”
“I am. Are you onto Flannigan’s phone, or Rossi or Rudowski?”
“I was into Flannigan’s but I think he chucked it as it hasn't moved in many hours. I have yet to track the others.”
“Get to the others if possible. I need to know if they said anything about seeing me at the Indian casino, and if they're planning to beat feet.”
“I’ll stay on top of it if you want.”
“I want. See you in less than an hour.”
34
When I walk into the offices of Weatherwax Internet Services Services all but the receptionist, who wasn’t called in by Pax, are in his office.
And Sol.
“Where’s Sol?” I ask.
Pax, behind his broad desk, shrugs. “You ask for someone to get to Moapa and trail Frack…Rossi…and Sol jumped at the chance.”
That stops me short. “I should have been more clear. I meant someone who’s used to field operations. I hope you cautioned him about how bad these guys are.”
“He knows,” Pax snaps, a little defensively.
It seems we have plenty to worry about, so I get to the point. “So, bring me up to speed on the Withers’ bombing.”
“May I?” Vanessa asks.
“Shoot,” Pax replies.
“The victim count is getting more realistic. So far thirty-seven confirmed dead, and over a hundred injured. A dozen or more of them critical. Most the others are flying glass and superficial shrapnel wounds, a couple thought to likely lose limbs.”
“Anyone close to us…Cindy?” I turn to Pax.
“Home safe. We left before the bombing.”
“Thank God,” I say.
“However, some very prominent folks are among the dead and injured. A couple of city council folks, the mayor is being treated, a handful of entertainers, and a handful of folks from the university. A dean of one of the schools is among the dead. Serving people got it worst as the bomb was apparently in a pushcart, a stainless steel serving cabinet on wheels that was supposed to contain a keg of beer. That’s all we’ve gleaned from LVPD radio traffic. Withers has a good video system, and they've been reviewing the recordings.”
“So,” I ask, my jaw beginning to ache from clamping my teeth, “what do we have on DSA?”
I hate bombers; cowards who don’t mind taking the innocent out with those they perceive to be guilty of whatever crime offends them. In this case if it was DSA, then the only motive could be they thought the party was a gathering of Vegas elite, the leaders and shakers and doers of Sin City, an affront to a bunch who cut off heads and rape and pillage in the name of religion.
This time it’s Gilbert who steps forward. “I got into the cell phone of the Iman at Abu Hanifa, the mosque Pointer’s son-in-law attends. Nothing there. However, the Iman’s been spending a lot of time counseling a young guy, Mohammad Al-Hafiz, a Syrian who arrived here from Paris only a few months ago…and has already overstayed his visa.”