The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  After making sure he wasn’t being followed, he drove into an alley. Slipping between two clapped-out buildings, he stopped before a third.

  There he waited, knowing he was being observed. After a few moments a metal door rolled up, and he drove inside the building. He shut off the ignition and got out of the car. As he did, the metal door rolled shut behind him.

  A man was standing there. He had close-set eyes and a stubbled jaw and greasy black hair. He was short and muscular and his arms were long and covered with tattoos. More tattoos decorated his neck in a crisscross pattern, and there was a star on his forehead.

  “Ay, compadre,” he said.

  Mongo grinned. “Ay, Culebra. You get uglier every time I see you.”

  Culebra returned the grin, revealing a mouthful of gold teeth. The two men slapped hands.

  Mongo looked around. There were no windows in here; light came from overhead fluorescent bars. As always, he was fascinated by the objects in this place.

  Parked just ahead of him was a ’54 Chevy coupe. The car had been chopped and channeled and had been given a coat of primer. Under the hood was a 700-horsepower supercharged marine engine that Culebra had converted and fitted to the drivetrain. He claimed that when he finished, the car would have a top speed close to two hundred miles per hour. Mongo would not doubt it.

  Next to the Chevy was the chassis of another old car, that one a sedan. The heads were off its V-8 power plant, and parts and pieces were scattered about on the floor beside it.

  Against a wall was a workbench bearing a variety of tools, along with containers of nuts and bolts and other materials. A number of machines were there too, including power saws and shapers and a drill press. Another wall held shelves packed with more equipment, as well as cans of substances ranging from oil and paint to different types of chemicals.

  There were also guns, Mongo knew. They were hidden in a cabinet behind the shelves. Among them were rifles and pistols and several automatic weapons such as Uzis and AK-47s.

  Beside the gun cabinet was a door that led into a cubbyhole where Culebra sometimes slept on a cot when he’d been working late. There was a sink and a toilet and a hot plate and a refrigerator in there—everything a man could ask for. A man like Culebra, anyway.

  “So how you doing?” Mongo asked him. “Keeping busy?”

  “I always got work,” Culebra said. “If I want it.”

  “You ever see anybody?” He meant any of the guys from the old days who were still alive.

  “No. Chico was around for a while after he came down from Centilena. He was in for armed robbery and did six years in that shithouse.”

  “He here now?”

  “No, man. He got mixed up with another guy’s woman. She belonged to a Norteño, but it didn’t make no difference to Chico.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The guy caught him in bed with her. Chico was almost out the door and the guy shot him in the back four times. Even with all that lead in him, he still made it halfway down the street before he died. He was a tough motherfucker.”

  “One of the best,” Mongo said. “But not as good as you.”

  Culebra cocked his head. “Don’t shit me, okay? What are you looking for?”

  “I got a problem. There is a certain party that needs to go. Trouble is, I have to take him out in a way that nobody could ever tie me to it.”

  “What way are you talking about?”

  “That’s the problem. I don’t have a way. So I thought, the man to see about it is Culebra. If anybody would have a good idea, you would.”

  “This party. He in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “He gonna be carrying?”

  “For sure.”

  “If he sees you, would he know what you had in mind?”

  “Maybe. Depends.”

  “How close can you get?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Mmm. Poison might work.”

  “Sure. I tell him bend over, and then I stick cyanide up his ass.”

  Culebra scowled. “Don’t get mordaz, okay? You want me to help you or not?”

  “Sorry. Any other ideas?”

  “How about a bomb you could put under his car?”

  “Too much exposure. For me, that is. I’d have to go crawling around underneath the car to attach it.”

  “No you wouldn’t. I got Primacord you could use.” He swung a shelf aside and opened the gun cabinet. “See? I got a roll of it right here.”

  “What’s Primacord?”

  “Fastest-burning fuse there is. Burns around three thousand feet a second. You could connect it to a blasting cap and connect that to the bomb. Then you just roll the bomb under the car and pay out the Primacord. When you got far enough away, you touch a match to it. Pow! No more car, no more problem.”

  “Too complicated. What else?”

  “That tape recorder I built for you. It was a fucking work of art. Why not use that?”

  “It’s out of commission.”

  “Too bad.”

  “It worked great, though.”

  “Uh-huh. And you screwed me on the price.”

  “Come on, Culebra. If you weren’t happy, I would’ve paid you more.”

  “Yeah? You didn’t offer to do that at the time. What I recall, you were crying poor-mouth.”

  “Look. You give me what I need, and you set the price. I’ll pay it, no argument.”

  Culebra gestured toward the gun rack. “I got a Barrett .50 caliber over there.”

  “A rifle?”

  “Sniper rifle, with a scope. Very accurate. You could put one in his eye from a thousand yards. Pop his head like a grape.”

  Mongo thought about it. “That’s a possibility.”

  “Sure, let me show you.” Culebra reached into the cabinet and took out the weapon. It was long and bulky, finished in matte black and equipped with a telescopic sight. “This is the best in the world.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “There’s a guy from here, he went in the Army. He gets me all kinds of shit. That’s how I got the Primacord.” He handed the rifle to Mongo.

  “Heavy mother.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And noisy, right?”

  “Sure. A fifty is a real cannon. You talk about power? With this you could put a slug through a brick wall.”

  Mongo passed it back. “Could you fit it with a silencer?”

  “You don’t want much, do you?”

  “I told you it was a problem, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did. But I guess I could rig one up.” He put the rifle back into the cabinet. “How soon you need to do this?”

  “I’d do it now, if I could.”

  “What am I, a fucking magician?”

  “In my opinion, yes. That’s why I came to you.”

  One corner of Culebra’s mouth twisted upward in a knowing smirk. “You always were some bullshitter, Mongo. I never saw nobody could shovel it like you. Even when you were a kid, you had that.”

  “So when could you have it ready?”

  “Couple days.”

  “Okay. Just remember, I need it soon as possible.”

  “I’ll do what I can. But don’t try to fuck with my head when I say what it costs.”

  “I told you, set the price, and I’ll pay it.”

  “Fine. Fifteen grand.”

  “What? Jesus, Culebra.”

  “Just like I figured. More bullshit, huh? See you around.”

  “No, no. I’ll pay it. Couple days, you said?”

  “Right.”

  “You’re my man.”

  30.

  In his room at the Sunset Inn, Barker looked at the faxes from Joe Spinelli that Lia had held for him at the desk. One was the photo of the f
léchette, the other was the new composite.

  The face bore only a faint resemblance to the one in the first drawing. Without the hair and the mustache, the guy had a much harder appearance, and his expression was intimidating. Looked like a different man.

  Next Barker leafed through a stack of phone messages. One was from Dana, and that one couldn’t wait; he really wanted to see her. He called her number and got an answering machine. He said, “I miss you,” and added that he’d try again later.

  Another call had come from his partner. When Barker returned it, Spinelli said, “You get the faxes?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “What’d you think of the new composite?”

  “It’s great. In fact, the guy looks a little like you, Joe.”

  “Very funny. But you should see what happened after it was distributed. Now Hogan’s up to his ass in leads, and from what I can tell, they’re all bullshit. Mostly guys trying to make trouble for somebody they got a beef with. And also women pissed off at their husbands or their boyfriends, calling in to say they’re the one we’re looking for. But we have to run all of them down, which could keep us busy till Christmas.”

  “What about the wig?”

  “The lab says it’s real hair that was dyed blond, and that it most likely was made in China. Seems that most of them come from there nowadays, there and India. Impossible to say where the guy might have bought it. There’s retailers in every city in the country.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, how about we swap assignments? I’ll come to California and work on my tan, you come here and chase wigs and red-hot leads.”

  Barker laughed. “Keep me posted, Joe.”

  Still another call had come from Sergeant Sam Benziger. He returned it, and she answered. “I’ve got something that’ll interest you,” Sam said. “We’ve had an arrest warrant out for a hooker named Marcia Slade. At least that’s the name she uses most of the time. She was rolling johns in various hotels here in LA, and then she disappeared. We just got a call from the police in Vegas saying they picked her up on the same charges.”

  “Why would that interest me?”

  “She claims she did business with the perp in the Delure case. She wants to make a deal. If charges on both ends are dropped, she’ll give him up.”

  “You wouldn’t agree to that, would you?”

  “No, we wouldn’t. But we could offer to negotiate. And that might flush out whatever she’s got.”

  “Are you going there?”

  “Yes. I thought you might want to come along. No guarantee, of course, that she’s telling the truth about your case.”

  “What time is your flight?”

  “Southwest has one every hour. You don’t need a reservation. I’m leaving for LAX in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you in the waiting area.”

  Barker left the hotel and jumped into his rented Ford. He hurried down 405 as fast as the traffic would permit, which was not very fast. That was the trouble with LA: more cars than people, and not enough roads to handle them. New York was bad enough. This was worse.

  Nevertheless, he reached the airport before Benziger. At Southwest he had to go through the rigmarole of presenting his ID and filling out the form that would enable him to take his pistol aboard. It would’ve been simpler not to carry it, but NYPD regs required him to have it with him at all times.

  When Sam showed up, they took the 6 p.m. flight. Barker asked her whether she had more details on the hooker.

  “Native of San Diego, twenty-seven years old,” Benziger said. “Her sheet shows six arrests in LA, charged with loitering for purposes of prostitution. Which is no big deal. Under California law, prostitution is defined as disorderly conduct. It’s the other charges we want her for.”

  “As I recall, prostitution is legal in Nevada, right?”

  “Yeah, but not in Vegas. Although that’s a joke. The cops there try to keep the city clean, but they’re pissing into the wind.”

  “So how come you’re on this, Sam, instead of Vice handling it?”

  “Because of the robberies. Also, we may be able to tie her to a homicide. A year ago a guy was found dead in the Beverly Hilton. He had a plastic bag over his head. So either it was part of some erotic stunt, or she killed him before robbing him. Security tape showed him entering the room with a female. We think she resembled Slade’s mug shot.”

  “She roll him too?”

  “Probably, but we can’t say for sure. Her MO is to take a john’s cash, but not his credit cards. She’s smart enough to know using them would leave a trail. The Vegas authorities should let us have her, because our warrant predates their arrest. And also because what we want her for is more serious.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Thanks. She’ll probably try to fight extradition, but Nevada’s very cooperative with California. Still, it might take some doing.”

  “I hope she’s right about the guy in the Delure case. That’d be a nice break. Incidentally, here’s something you might be able to help me with.”

  He took the fax showing the fléchette from his blazer pocket and handed it to her. “Here’s what the killer used to take out Delure and her manager.”

  She looked at the fax. “This is the fléchette you told me about?”

  “Right. He shot each of them with one of these. Hit them right in the heart. Naturally we haven’t released that information to the public. I wonder if any of your people might have some idea where it came from.”

  “Okay if I keep this to show them?”

  “Sure.”

  31.

  Fifty-five minutes after takeoff they landed at McCarran Airport. It was still daylight, but the city was ablaze with neon, reminding Barker of a gigantic jukebox. A cab took them to police headquarters, which was on East Lake Mead Boulevard in North Las Vegas.

  The department was a fairly large operation. Both the male and female cops wore crisp tan uniforms with Metropolitan Police patches on the left shoulder. The place was busy, and from what Barker could see, most of the people who’d been arrested were drunk. What’s more, many of them had cuts and bruises and were disheveled. No surprise, since Vegas was America’s greatest party town.

  Benziger’s contact was Chief Milford Ingram, who oversaw all functions of the department, including the Investigative Command. A big, gruff cop who’d obviously spent years climbing the ranks, Ingram was relaxed and cordial. He poured them all mugs of coffee from an urn that sat on a bookcase near his desk.

  Benziger said, “So how’s your girlfriend, Chief?”

  “She’s a real sweetheart. Never did anything wrong in her life. Or so she says.”

  “She ask for a lawyer?”

  “Not so far. Probably thinks she can talk her way out of the charges.”

  “From what you told me, she was doing guys here the same way as in LA.”

  “That she was. First she rocked ’em, then she rolled ’em.”

  Barker smiled. It was probably one of Ingram’s favorite lines.

  “How many?” Sam asked.

  “Hard to say,” the chief said. “Could be dozens for all we know. But we only got two complaints, and one of them refused to press. Most guys don’t want anybody to find out what happened.”

  “How’d you get her?”

  “The john who complained said he could identify her. He claimed he’d seen her before in a couple of casinos. So we had him make the rounds with a female detective, and sure enough, they spotted her at the bar in the Mirage. When the officer told her she was under arrest she tried to run, but Lori coldcocked her.”

  “Lori’s the female detective?”

  “Yeah, Lori Schmitt. She’s one of the best. Lot of times when we run a street sting, she plays the bait.”

  “Can we have a chat with the susp
ect?”

  “Sure. I’ll have Lori get her.”

  Ingram picked up a phone and asked that Marcia Slade be brought from a holding cell to one of the interview rooms. Then he led Benziger and Barker to the room.

  When the two women entered, Ingram introduced them to his visitors and had them sit on the other side of the table.

  To Barker, Lori Schmitt didn’t seem much like a cop. She was slender and blonde and wore a pink sweater and a gray skirt. But then he caught a steely glint in her eye that said she was nobody to mess with.

  Marcia Slade wasn’t what he’d expected either. He wouldn’t call her refined, exactly, but she was a long way from what most working girls looked like. Dark haired and with large hazel eyes, she had on a close-fitting azure dress that revealed a well-sculpted body. When Ingram asked her if she’d like some coffee, she politely declined.

  She looked at Barker. “So you’re from New York?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then you know what I have is valuable.”

  “It might be.”

  Sam Benziger said, “And it might not be.”

  “If you don’t think so,” Slade said, “why’d you come out here?”

  “You know why. There are charges against you in LA as well as here.”

  “And like I told the chief, I’m willing to make a trade. In both places the charges amount to nothing but misdemeanors. Drop them and I’ll give you what I know about the guy who did Delure and the other one.”

  “They’re more than misdemeanors,” Ingram said. “Stealing is against the law. And you stole from a client.”

  The courtesy act came to an abrupt halt. In a flat tone, Slade said, “What the fuck is this? I admit I turned a trick, but I never touched a cent of that fool’s money except what he paid me. I just left the room, and that was that.”

  Ingram said, “Sure, Marcia. But the gentleman told us he paid you a thousand dollars, and afterward he fell asleep. When he woke up, he was out three thousand more. Three thousand one hundred and twenty, to be exact.”

  “So maybe he walks in his sleep, and he flushed it down the john. Or maybe he’s just a liar. Where’s the proof he’s telling you the truth?” She shot an acidulous glance at Lori Schmitt. “And what gave this bitch the right to muscle me?”