The Big Hit

by James Neal Harvey

  Or did it go beyond that? Had Culebra ratted? That couldn’t be. Or could it?

  Mongo went on down the street, and when he was close to the intersection he swung the Toyota into a U-turn. He drove back to a point where he could park among the clapped-out junkers and slipped into the space. Settling down low in the seat, he kept an eye on the alley.

  For a few seconds Barker thought perhaps he’d gotten the address wrong. Or maybe Edwards had. The alley appeared to be blind, leading to nothing but a metal wall that was brown with rust.

  But then he caught sight of a flicker off to one side of the wall and realized he was being watched through a peephole. Okay, he’d decided earlier how he’d play this one. He took out his shield and held it up to the windshield.

  He’d guessed right; the wall began lifting. When it was all the way up, a man was revealed standing in the space. The man gestured, and Barker pulled forward. At another gesture he stopped, and the wall rolled down behind the Ford.

  Light in here was dim. But when the wall was once again in place, overhead fluorescent bars went on and the space became brightly illuminated. The air smelled of grease, with a top note of marijuana smoke.

  This was obviously a repair shop. There were two older cars that were being rebuilt and highly modified. A long workbench ran across the rear wall, and there were power tools and hand tools of all kinds on the bench and hanging from hooks.

  More tools were lying on the floor near the cars, along with auto parts. Shelves held cans and boxes and glass containers.

  Barker got out of his car and approached the man. He was short and husky, with long arms covered in tattoos. His hair was a greasy tangle, and more tattoos decorated his face and neck. There was a crudely drawn star in the center of his forehead.

  “You Culebra?” Barker asked him.

  “That’s me. What do you want?”

  “Need to ask you some questions.”

  “Yeah? I got no answers. I told you guys, I got a clean business. So why are you fucking with me now?”

  “I’m here because we got a tip.”

  The man grinned, showing gold teeth. “A tip? On what, a horse race?”

  “No, a tip that says you’re a pretty good gunsmith.”

  The grin disappeared. “What gunsmith? What is this about?”

  “It’s about what you do for a living.”

  Culebra pointed to the pair of vehicles and then to the tools and parts lying on the floor. “You see this? What I do is fix cars.”

  “That’s not all you fix.”

  “That’s true. I also fix machines that don’t work.” He waved an arm toward the bench. “Sanders, drills, shit like that.”

  “And guns,” Barker said.

  “I don’t know nothing about no guns.”

  “That’s not what I hear. In fact, I hear you’re an expert. Anybody needs a conversion to fully automatic, or wants to make serial numbers disappear, you’re the man to see.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “What’s more, you deal in guns, too. Most of them smuggled.”

  “I deal in cars,” Culebra said. “I buy them, fix them up, and sell them. You want me to buy that piece of shit you got there?”

  “No, I want you to tell me how you made the fléchettes that killed two women in New York.”

  Culebra’s close-set eyes showed a glimmer of fear. An instant later the reaction was gone, but Barker had caught it.

  “You’re demente,” Culebra said.

  “Am I? The women were Catherine Delure, the movie star, and Penny Ellis, her manager.”

  “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  “No? How did you make the fléchettes? Probably turned them on your metal lathe and spot-welded the fins, right? Then you buffed them till they were nice and smooth.”

  “I never made no fléchettes.”

  “Yes, you did. You made two of them, right over there on that bench. Who’d you make them for?”

  “Nobody.”

  “What kind of gun was used to fire them?”

  “Listen, I told you I got a clean business. I don’t deal in no fléchettes, and no guns, either. Now why don’t you get the fuck out of my shop?”

  “Okay, I’ll go. But one other thing. You did time, right?” It was a shot in the dark, just to see what it might evoke.

  “That was years ago,” Culebra said. “I’m not even on parole no more.”

  “No, but you’re an ex-con. You realize what would happen to you now if you were convicted on a charge of aiding in a felony? Especially when the felony was murder?”

  This time Culebra did not respond. Instead he stared straight ahead.

  “On the other hand,” Barker said, “if you give up the killer, the DA will make you a very good deal. You might even walk. Better than going back in for life, huh?”

  “Get out.”

  “Sure. But think it over. And have a nice day.”

  Barker climbed into the Ford, and when the door rattled upward, he backed out onto the street.

  As he began retracing his route, he felt a surge of excitement. He didn’t have so much as a scrap of evidence, had nothing to go on but a lot of guesses, yet he felt sure he’d faked his way into a very good lead.

  Mongo sat in the Toyota and thought about what his next move should be. He didn’t want to confront Culebra too soon, wanted to space this out enough so that Culebra wouldn’t guess that he’d seen the detective go into the shop. Mongo wanted him to relax.

  The big question was, how much did the cops know? Plenty, probably. Otherwise they wouldn’t have sent the dick here. The fact that he’d shown up was proof they already had at least some of the answers.

  The worst possibility was that Culebra had admitted he made the fléchettes and converted the tape recorder to fire them.

  If so, what was the cops’ plan? Were they setting a trap, using Culebra as bait?

  Or maybe they had some other scheme. Maybe they’d wired the shop, so that any conversation he’d have with Culebra would become evidence.

  No, if they’d already wired the place they wouldn’t come back here until they thought they had something.

  Then what were they up to?

  He continued to spin out different scenarios, checking his watch every few minutes and growing more antsy each time he did.

  A full hour passed, and then he started the Toyota and drove slowly back up the street.

  When he turned into the alley he had to wait again, until the metal door rolled up at last.

  Once he was inside and the door was shut behind him, he picked up his attaché case and got out of the car. He waved a casual greeting. “Ay, Culebra. How you doing?”

  “Doing fine.”

  “I came to get the rifle,” Mongo said. “And I’ll pay your price, even though you’re a ladrón to charge me that much.” He laid the attaché case on the workbench and opened it, revealing the packets of hundred-dollar bills.

  Culebra looked at the money. “The rifle’s worth it.”

  “I agree with you. That’s why I brought you the cash, okay? So let’s have it.”

  “It ain’t ready.”

  “Not ready?”

  “No, man. I’m still working on the silencer.”

  “Yeah? Let me see it.”

  Culebra hesitated, but then he opened the hidden gun cabinet and lifted out the Barrett M107. A foot-long cylindrical device was now attached to the end of the barrel.

  Mongo took the rifle from him and studied the newly added part. He saw that Culebra had cut threads into the barrel so the silencer could be screwed on.

  “Hey, looks okay to me,” Mongo said. “You did a nice job, like you always do. So why do you say it’s not ready?”

  “The way it is, I don’t think it’ll stop the sound. I need to test
it.”

  “That so? Then what are you waiting for? Give me some bullets.”

  “Not now, man. Like I said, I’ll need to do some more work on the gun.”

  “Sure. But give me some anyway. I want to see how to load them.”

  Reluctantly, Culebra again reached into the cabinet. He got out the magazine and handed it over.

  Mongo saw that it was packed with ten rounds. He shoved it into the opening on the underside of the breech. There was a sharp click as it went home, and another click as the weapon’s action automatically inserted a cartridge into the chamber.

  “Hey, be careful with that,” Culebra said.

  Mongo hefted the heavy weapon. “There any way the cops could trace this? I see it’s still got the serial number.”

  “All they could find out is it came from the Army, like I told you.”

  “Yeah, but you know cops. They might figure out how it got from the Army to you. And then how it got from you to me. See what I mean?”

  “That would never happen.”

  “Why not? The cops ever come sniffing around here?”

  “Sometimes. But I never tell them nothing. I never would.”

  Mongo raised the rifle and swung it toward him. “You don’t think you would. But they got ways to make you.”

  “Bullshit. And don’t point that at me.”

  “When was the last time a cop was here?”

  Culebra’s mouth dropped open. “Listen, I can explain—”

  “You don’t have to,” Mongo said. He pulled the trigger.

  The rifle fired with a horrendously loud noise, and the .50-caliber projectile blew Culebra’s head apart. The impact slammed his body against the workbench and he fell to the floor, his shattered skull gushing blood.

  “You were right,” Mongo said. “Silencer’s not worth a shit.” He unscrewed the device and tossed it back into the cabinet. “So you can keep it.”

  Returning to his car, he put the rifle inside on the passenger side. Even without the silencer it was so long he had to rest the stock on the floor and lean the barrel against the seat back. He retrieved his attaché case and put that in the car as well.

  The door of the shop was controlled by a remote that was lying on the workbench. He went over there and grabbed it.

  Now what? Was there something here that could help the cops? Something that would prove there was a tie between him and Culebra? The place was such a mess it would take him hours to root around in it. Better if he could just make sure there was nothing for them to find.

  Stepping to the cabinet, he slipped the remote into his pocket and picked up the roll of Primacord. Apparently, the roll contained many yards of the stuff. It looked like thin nylon rope and seemed harmless enough. But if it did what Culebra claimed, it could be just what he needed.

  A can of gasoline stood on the floor, near the vehicles Culebra had been working on. He opened it, pulled out a length of the Primacord, and stuck the end into the can. Walking backward, he made his way to the Toyota, paying out the Primacord as he went.

  He got into the car, started it, and used the remote to raise the door. Slowly he backed out of the shop, holding the roll out the window and continuing to pay out the ropelike material.

  When he reached the mouth of the alley, he again fingered the remote. The door came down, and he hoped it wouldn’t sever the Primacord as it did.

  From there, he eased the car down the street, stopping a short distance from the alley. He got out his pocketknife and cut the Primacord. He held on to the severed end and put the roll on the floor of the car. Then he pressed the cigarette lighter.

  “Hey, man. Whatcha doin’?”

  He looked up and saw that two kids were watching him. They were teenagers, both wearing grubby shirts and pants many sizes too big. Their feet, however, were shod in sneakers that appeared to be brand new.

  “Beat it,” Mongo said.

  One of them seemed a little bolder than the other. He stepped closer to the car. “Hey, mothafucka, who you tellin’ beat it? I axed you whatcha doin’? What’s that rope for?”

  “It’s magic,” Mongo said. He dropped the end of the Primacord onto the street.

  The kid looked at the Primacord and said, “Magic? You fulla shit.”

  “Yeah? Watch this.”

  Mongo took out the lighter, opened the car door, and leaned down. He touched the lighter to the end of the Primacord, and the result was a shock, even to him.

  The Primacord exploded into a sizzling, white-hot snake that shot its way back to Culebra’s shop, moving so fast it seemed instantaneous. There was a violent boom, and seconds later, flames and black smoke rose above the dilapidated buildings.

  The two kids looked at the fiery scene and then at Mongo, their eyes bugging out. The bold one said, “Holy Jesus.”

  “Told you,” Mongo said. He pulled away as fast as the crummy little car would take him.

  38.

  Rodeo Drive was the most famous street in Beverly Hills, and as usual it was bustling. People, mostly women, were going in and out of boutiques with illustrious designers’ names, such as Gucci, Christian Dior, and Chanel, showcased above the doors. Tiffany had a store there, and so did Cartier and Bulgari, and all of them were thronged with shoppers.

  Dana arrived at Mario’s at 1 p.m. on the dot. The restaurant was also busy, with customers waiting for tables both inside and on the tree-shaded rear patio. She asked the maître d’ for Alex Haynes’s table, and he led her out back to where Haynes was waiting for her.

  The lawyer rose as she took her seat. He was carefully groomed, his dark hair complementing his tan, his beige linen jacket fashionably casual. He smiled and said, “Dana, I’m glad to see you. You’re looking lovely, as always.”

  “Thanks, Alex. You seem fit too. Been out in the sunshine, I see.”

  “Oh, I try to get in a round of golf as often as I can. Which isn’t easy, with so much going on. I’ve belonged to the Riviera for years and never seem to spend as much time there as I’d like.”

  She got the message. He was letting her know that he was a member of one of the area’s most exclusive country clubs. How subtle.

  A waiter appeared and asked if they’d like something to drink.

  “I think some wine would go well,” Haynes said. “For you too, Dana?”

  “Yes, a glass of white, please.”

  “White it is.” He told the waiter they’d have a bottle of Montrachet. The man bowed and hurried off.

  Turning back to Dana, Haynes asked, “Did you bring the material I asked for?”

  “Yes, I have it right here.” She opened her bag and took out a manila envelope that contained only the most innocuous items she could find among Dana’s notes. She handed it to him.

  “Thank you.” He picked up a briefcase from the floor beside his chair and slipped the envelope into it. “I appreciate your help. This is a rather complicated situation, and sorting it out is proving difficult.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “On top of everything else, Penny Ellis’s records are gone. The woman she lived with threw them out after Penny’s funeral. That was really unfortunate.”

  Maybe it was, Dana thought. But I almost wish I’d done the same thing.

  The waiter was back, with a bottle and a bucket of ice on a stand. He opened the bottle and poured some of the wine for Haynes to taste.

  The lawyer made a production of it, sniffing the cork and inhaling the wine’s bouquet before swallowing a little. He nodded approval, and the waiter filled their glasses. The waiter then plunged the bottle into the ice and left them.

  “To your good health,” Haynes said, raising his glass.

  Dana raised hers as well. “And to yours.”

  They both drank, and Haynes said, “I must confess that as much as I enjoy our Calif
ornia wines, they can’t touch the ones from France. The Montrachets are the finest white wines in the world. Don’t you agree?”

  “I haven’t tried them all,” Dana said. Christ, he was a wine snob too?

  Undeterred, he went off on a riff about how California whites were perfectly good wines, but even the best of them didn’t have the quality of those from the Côte d’Or. The whites produced here, he said, were more like the lesser French wines, such as those produced in the Loire. They were all made from Chardonnay grapes, but the end results were quite different.

  This is going to be a drag, Dana thought. Next he’ll be telling me about English antiques. But she had to admit the wine was splendid. She sipped it, savoring the depth and the robust flavor, until at last the waiter returned to take their lunch order.

  They glanced through menus, and Dana said, “I think I’ll just have a salad. Mixed greens, please.”

  “I’d like a salad as well,” Haynes said. “But I want the one made with crabmeat.”

  The waiter poured more wine for them and moved away.

  “I love crab,” Haynes said. “Whenever I’m in Washington, I can’t get enough. There is nothing like the crabs from Chesapeake Bay.”

  Dana drank some of her wine and looked at him. He was a pompous jerk, she decided, and he was boring the hell out of her.

  “Have you been following the box office results of Hot Cargo?” he asked. “It’s become a really big hit.”

  “Apparently it has.”

  “Over two hundred million in domestic grosses so far. Simply amazing. Especially when you consider how negative the reviews were.” He smiled. “But in the movie business, the only review that counts is the one that shows the bottom line. And when you look at it that way, the picture’s a winner.”

  That was right out of the Zarkov lexicon, she thought. Expressed so often it had become a cliché.

  “Speaking of Hot Cargo,” Haynes went on, “I was talking with Tyler Sturgis the other day. You know him, don’t you? He’s Len Zarkov’s lawyer.”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “Tyler was remarking that it would be a shame if anything were to come out now that soiled Catherine’s reputation.”