by L. J. Martin
“Bullshit. You want one in the other foot?”
“No, no. Okay, I knew some bad shit was coming down. Roth called in a guy from back east to build the...the package. Pemberton knew something as he had a cell phone and was supposed to call a number when the bus reached a certain location—”
“What location?”
“After the judge was aboard, and after Baddovic got behind and close to the judge. The bomb was activated by a cell phone.”
“So you and Pemberton knew the shit was going to hit the fan. Did you kill Pemberton?”
“He was a drunk and a fuck-up. He had to go or he’d tie it back to me and, and—”
“And you’d tie it back to Roth.”
“Yeah, and I’d tie it back to Roth.”
“How fucking long do you think you’ll live?” I laugh. “Roth's not the kind of guy to leave loose ends.”
“I got shit on Roth. I got insurance. If I die some shit will go to the D.A., and Roth don’t want that. I got pictures of the guy from Detroit building the bomb in Roth's place, and lots of other shit.”
“What kind of other 'shit' do you have on Roth?”
“Fuck you.”
“The other foot?” I ask, and level the Glock on the still un-shot one. “Or maybe the knee?” I raise the Glock and place it up against his knee. “I got lots of time, Flannigan. You've seen my act. You want to ever walk again? I'll take you apart a piece at a time. What do you have on Roth and where is it?”
“Don't shoot me again. If you don't stop the bleeding in my foot nothing else will matter.”
My battlefield experience surfaces. “You don't have enough blood supply in your foot to worry about for a friggin' hour. The faster you spit it up, the faster you'll get some help. Now, Roth?”
“I don't give a fuck what happens to Roth, but I'll need a big head start. Okay?”
I nod, but press my Glock tighter against his knee.
He quickly continues. “My apartment has a little storage closet in the carport. It's got a false back behind the shelves that are full of paint cans and claptrap. There's lots of pictures and paperwork there. He's been skimming for years and has a few million hid out—”
“Where?” and I shove the muzzle even harder against the knee.
“His house out at Lake Las Vegas.”
“Where?” I crack the knee with the barrel and he winces before continuing.
“There's two filter tanks on the pool equipment. One is real, one is fake and has almost ten cubic feet of hundreds stored there. Who'd a thunk it?”
I don’t know where Sol got the revolver, but there are a half-dozen hidden in the van.
To my surprise he’s edged out of the van and sidles up beside me. “You got all you need from this asshole?” he asks.
I shrug. “I guess, why?”
The revolver comes up from the side away from me, and bucks in his hand. Flannigan is hit in a shoulder and rolls away, screaming like a monkey whose tail is caught in the lawnmower, then continues to roll. Sol pursues him but I trip him and he hits hard on his face.
43
I’m holding Sol down with one hand, and gather the revolver with the other. Like a father talking to a young son, I speak in a low tone, “Sol, that’s not quite how we do things.”
“And the things he did to me, and made me do, are not how things are done,” Sol says, his voice low and determined. “I meant to hit him in the heart.”
“I’m glad you missed.”
“I’m not.”
“Nor am I,” Pax says. He’s left the driver’s seat and now has joined us.
“I’m with Sol,” Skip says.
It seems I'm outnumbered. Flannigan is still trying to wiggle away, hands and ankles bound, breathing hard, leaving a trail of blood in the dirt.
“What are we going to do?” Pax asks.
“Fuck if I know,” I say, shrugging.
Pax shrugs and points with some conviction at Flannigan. “He did kill a bunch of innocent folks in that bus.”
“And was going to kill us if he could,” Skip says.
“And did some terrible stuff to me,” Sol says. “I'll never be able to look in a mirror again....” His voice catches in a hitch, a deep sob, I think. And he spits the next statement out, “And made me do some terrible stuff.” He spits, and starts to continue, but Pax interrupts.
“We should vote,” Pax says.
Sol snorts. “About twenty-five folks in that bus should be able to vote. No matter how we vote, that’s more than twenty with thumbs down.” Sol has a point. Then he adds, “The nuns probably would have forgiven him…but that still leaves twenty or more.”
It’s always been my belief that the single victim or victims of a premeditated crime should have thirteen votes, each, against a jury of twelve. I'm not going to try and second-guess God, but if I were God, I'd give every victim of a crime a short new life and a half hour with the perp, them with a machete, the perp with his hands bound behind his back, so they could even things up—thus giving the victim some say in the perp's fate. He was, after all, responsible for theirs. But that's just me.
I look up at the sun, now well past mid-day, then glance from one of them to the other. Walking over, I take a deep breath and set the revolver down on the floor of the van, then round it to take up the driver’s seat. I shout back over my shoulder, “In two minutes, by the watch, I’m heading back to Vegas.”
Skip joins me in the passenger seat and I hear Pax scramble into the back.
“Eyes forward. Wait for Sol,” he says. What we don't see we can't testify to.
A single gunshot rings out, and in moments another passenger clamors into the back of the van.
“Let’s go,” Pax yells. “Sol’s settled in.”
“Do we head for the lake?” I ask.
“No hurry,” Pax replies, “the .38 is in Flannigan’s hand. Right Sol?”
“Yep,” Sol answers.
And Pax continues, “I guess the dumb fuck shot himself in the foot, in the shoulder, and grazed himself on the side, before he shot himself in the head. Guilty conscience I guess, and what a lousy friggin’ shot.”
“Obviously not a Marine,” I offer, with a chuckle. Then add, “But we’ve got to go by the ministorage before the office. We can do the lake dump later.”
“That's a throwaway...the .38?” Skip asks.
“Took it off a cartel guy years ago,” I say. And turn to Sol in the back. “Did you wipe it down.”
I get as much of a smile, a crooked one, but a smile, out of Sol as I have since we recovered him. And he says, “I'm a quick study, Mike. And I noticed he was right-handed so that's the hand he holds the revolver in.” Then I think he’s going to tear up, and says with a choke, “I wish I could have done some crap to him like he did to me....”
Skip laughs. “Damn, if ol' Sol dosen't hold a grudge,” he says, slapping Sol on the shoulder.
“The asshole committed suicide,” Sol says, with a low chuckle. “And he should have, what he did.”
“I guess,” I add, and don't ask what exactly Flannigan did, but whatever it was Sol turns red in the face every time it's mentioned. But I'm never going to ask, or ask if Sol shot big Flannigan in the head, because I don't want to know, even if I do know. And I guess what you don’t know, for an absolute, won’t hurt you, and I didn’t see anyone shoot big Flannigan in the head. Could have been self-inflicted, I guess. Right.
We drive the speed limit returning to Vegas, then across town to the ministorage. Having time to think things over, I suggest, “Skip, I think you and Sol need to go fishing. The M4s and Glocks have to go swimming, and we’ve got to visit Mr. Pointer before we get tied up with the fibbies.”
“Can do.”
“Then I want you to take Sol up to Reno with you for a short vacation. You can drive the Vette, but don't so much as put a scratch on my baby. Drive it the speed limit and be careful, I don’t want you guys stopped.”
“Can do.”
; “And Mr. Roth?” Pax asks.
“The head of the snake,” I suggest. “I think we should bring Mr. Pointer up to speed and see what he wants to do with, and to, Mr. Roth. We’ve done our thing and he owes us a little dough. Let’s collect before Vegas ends up in a war and no one’s left to pay up.”
“Once in a great while,” Pax says, smiling, “your Machiavelli comes out.”
With Skip driving the Vette full of now disposable yet very expensive weapons, and with keys to Pax’s houseboat, we climb back in the van and head for The Majestic.
It’s nearly four PM by the time we find a place in self parking—too much incriminating evidence in the van to trust it to a valet—and wander in to Pointer’s nearly private elevator. The young squid with the biceps the size of gallon coffee cans is again stationed at the elevator doors.
I inquire about Pointer and the squid gets on his phone, then turns to me, “He says come on up.”
He pokes a number in a wall-mounted keypad and steps in with us.
The beautiful Cindy meets us in the foyer, a diamond encrusted eye patch adding some style. She shakes my hand, and to my great chagrin gives Pax a hug and peck on the cheek. I curl a lip at him and he laughs as Cindy shows us into Pointer's inner sanctum.
To my surprise, Pointer stands and walks around his big desk to greet us with a warm handshake. We've been hot and cold with this guy on an alternating basis for days.
“Let's walk out on the patio to talk,” I suggest.
“I got no recording devices on,” he says.
“If you don't mind?” I ask again.
The three of us, leaving Cindy behind, walk out and across the patio and lean against a rail to look out over downtown Vegas.
“So, what's up?” he asks.
“We're done,” I say. Then add, “Do you believe your head security guy?”
“Flannigan? I did, but he disappeared a day or so ago. What's up with Flannigan?”
“He's part of the bombing.”
Pointer's mouth actually drops open. “Fuck no...Flannigan?”
“I admit, he's under a little duress here, but in his own words.” I pull the little recorder from my pocket and hit play.
He listens, and gets more and more red in the face as he does. I turn it off before it gets to the part of Roth skimming and where the money is hidden. We stand in silence for a few moments, and finally, he speaks through gritted teeth. “That motherfucker Roth. I was sure after last night’s bombing it was the DSA, no matter what my son-in-law thinks.”
“Last night’s bombing was them, but they're taken care of and—”
He interrupts me. “The house that blew up. The cops are still working that scene. That was them? And you guys—”
“Don't worry about who did what. Do you believe Flannigan?”
“I do, but this is far from over.”
“Roth?” I ask.
“Of course. There's been lots of water under the proverbial bridge between Roth and I, but this cooks it. You don't fuck with a guy's family.”
“Roth is no longer our problem. You do what needs doing with Roth. It's pay up time. You owe us a million.”
For the first time since we walked in, we hear from Pax. “Cash, please.”
44
Pointer’s eyes narrow and seem to darken. “Who else besides Flannigan? I'm sure he didn't act alone.” He ignores Pax and directs the question at me.
“Rossi and Rudowski were acting with him, and all of them were on Roth's payroll as well as yours.”
“Those faithless pricks. I want all of them,” Pointer says, his teeth still clamped.
“You want their bodies?”
He looks a little surprised. “All of them dead?”
“Stone cold.”
“Good. Yeah, I owe you a mil, when and if the FBI proves it was Flannigan and Roth—”
“So you don't trust words from your own guy's mouth?” I ask, and my tone is not friendly.
He's silent for a moment, searching, I fear, for a way not to pay, then says, “Roth. What are you willing to do about Roth?”
“Like I said, not our problem, not part of our deal. It was find out who—”
“And deliver him, or them, to me. You're only half-way home.”
He's got me there, as that pretty much was the deal. So I sigh deeply, and have to concede. “You know lots more about Roth than we do. We'll deliver him, but we've got to get to him to do so. Snatching him off the top of Maximillian’s would take a battalion. So, how do we do it?”
He rubs his chin, thinking, “He has a handful of bodyguards, and they are very, very good.”
“I think,” I say, “there may be two less. Flannigan, Rossi and Rudowski had a couple of guys with them the last time we saw them.”
“And?”
“And all five of them are forgetting to breathe that nice fresh desert air.”
“He'll replace them in a heartbeat.”
“Don't worry about how many. How do we get next to him?”
He thinks for a moment, then asks, “What's today?”
“Monday, why?”
“The Italian American Club. Roth's a member, although you don't have to be to eat there.”
“I know the place,” Pax says. “Used to be a Rat Pack hangout, years ago. Still one of the classic old joints in Vegas...over on East Sahara. It's like stepping back into the nineteen forties.”
“That's the joint. If he's a regular anywhere outside of Maxmillian's, it's the IAC. There's a torch singer, an old gal who's a hoot, who sings the old stuff there on Tuesdays and they've got a sausage and pepper pasta that's worth the drive. Let's get his ass then.”
“Let's?” I ask.
“I want to be there, with a couple of my guys—”
“You got any guys left?” I ask, a little sarcastically.
“I got guys who are happy to step into the open slots in Majestic security. And I want to be there.”
“Look, Mr. Pointer. You be in the parking lot, after we clear the way. You have your trunk ready to open. You have a mil in cash in a bag. Roth goes in the trunk, the mil goes in our pocket. We go away and we're even up. Agreed?”
He merely nods.
“What time does Roth usually show up?” I ask.
“He has a standing nine-fifteen reservation on Tuesday night and a standing order. They stop serving at nine-thirty.”
“Be in the parking lot at ten. Somewhere in the back, out of the lights if possible.”
“We'll be there.”
“With the mil,” Pax snaps, and Pointer nods his agreement.
Getting ready for an op that will take place in a public arena is totally different than the normal downrange operation. You can't go in looking like you're storming a haji compound in Fallujah. And we'd like to go in under the radar. Roth has seen me and some of his security people may have likely seen us both, so it's disguise time.
The time gives us a reprieve and some rest. But with the bolo out we’ve got to be careful. I get us a bungalow out at Lake Las Vegas, using one of my phony driver’s liceneses. And we lay on the patio in the hot sun, drink cold beer, and enjoy room service. Until it’s time to suit up.
We take a chance and head for my mini-storage.
Pax, who already has lots more hair than do I, looks stylin' in a shoulder-length blond wig, cheek inserts that do a pretty good goodfella or Godfather imitation, and the rest of his outfit will come out of his own closet. Unlike myself, he's stocked up on colored silk shirts and ties and loafers. I, unlike him, own one good sport coat and one pair of beat-up loafers. Luckily, a sport coat, silk shirt and silk tie are still stylish over designer jeans and loafers, sans socks.
I carefully fit an Elvis pompadour wig over my Marine buzz cut, a pair of goofy thick glasses but with no correction, and both cheek inserts and ear flares. I use an eyelid plastic to make it appear I have a droopy eye, and redden my nose slightly applying lots of tiny black spots so I look like I'm a drunk who hasn't scrubbed the
blackheads from eyes and cheeks for years. I will not be attempting to pick up any young lovelies.
The good news is this fortyish nightclub is full of folks dressed about as far from my normal attire as folks could be. Lot's of hair—not a military cut in the joint—tailored suits or flashy sports coats, pink and blue silk shirts and ties, loafers and wingtips. For me to wear that costume is a disguise in itself. So we head for the ministorage and my wardrobe closet.
The last thing we do is apply magnetic blue strips and signs to the van and we are Paulo's Pool Service. I have an ulterior motive to use those particular signs.
We head from the ministorage to Pax's condo, and in an hour look like a couple of Miami pimps, or at least gay blades. If Bruce and Lance don't try and pick us up I'll be surprised.
I'm a little sorry I've sent Skip back to Reno to take care of Sol, potentially out of the radar of LVPD and the fibbies. No telling what we'll get into at the Italian American Club, and I'd have been way more comfortable with the big Viking to back us up.
As we drive away in the van, three big black Ford Explorers or Expeditions round the corner behind us and slide to a stop in front of Pax's condo. A dozen guys in dark suits pour out and those not carrying M5s draw sidearms. They charge the front door.
45
I’m watching fibbies, firearms in hand in the rearview mirrors as they storm my buddy’s condo, and glance over to see Pax texting.
I hand him my phone. “If I were you I'd dump the batteries out of your phone and this one. Dig a couple of throwaways out of the center console. There are four iPhones in there. Program the new numbers into each and let Gilbert and Vanessa know.”
“I just got a text from Vanessa saying there's a BOLO out on both of us. But I've got a better idea with the phones.”
“We're likely going to need some good ideas. Had you been paying attention, you might have noticed a battalion of fibbies pouring out of ominous looking vehicles and heading for your front door.”