Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers))

by Lowe, Tom

39

  Dozens of brown-skinned men, many already with their shirts off, bare backs glistening, were rolling up huge canvass tents, dismantling rides as massive as the double Ferris wheel. Semi-trucks and large flat-beds were being loaded as the Bandini Amusement Company prepared to move to another town, delivering its brand of entertainment to another county fairground.

  I pulled my Jeep to a stop near a closed Daugs ‘n Franks stand, turned off the engine, and got out. I tried to stay inconspicuous, staying out of the open, blending in with the workers, county fair employees, and the dozens of truck drivers. The air was filled with dust and the sky a hard blue. I heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie and looked in that direction. The man speaking into the radio was tall. He wore wrap-around dark glasses, had wide shoulders, a narrow waist, dirty blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. He stood under the shade of a tree and barked orders to others, when he wasn’t speaking into the walkie-talkie.

  Was this the man who hung Nick out to dry? I watched him for a minute. He walked over to a black worker and said something. No limp. I moved on.

  I walked around dozens of trailers and motors homes, carnival workers packing, the smell of diesel fumes and fried bacon in the breeze, rock music blaring from a set of outdoor speakers. I saw the dwarf, Isaac Solminski, stepping down from a Winnebago, holding a phone to his ear, talking with someone. He walked to a white bulldog chained under a shade tree. The little man put fresh water in the dog’s bowl as he continued talking. He turned back around towards the Winnebago and saw me. He abruptly ended his conversation, setting the phone down on a card table next to a sweating can of Mountain Dew, a paper plate with crackers, purple grapes and cheese. Two black flies crawled across the white cheese.

  He said, “You’re back. And we move on.”

  “Before you go, maybe you can tell me where Carlos Bandini would be about now.”

  “Probably getting ready to attend the funeral of his brother.”

  “Where’s the funeral?”

  “I hear it’s supposed to be held in Zephyrhills, small town outside of Tampa.”

  “Have you heard from Courtney?”

  “No. Don’t expect I will either.”

  I said nothing, watching the bulldog eyeing a squirrel.

  Solminski raised his shoulders in a shrug. “This thing really has you, doesn’t it?”

  “What thing?”

  “That birthmark on your shoulder. You’re going plain crazy trying to figure out how Courtney knew, I can tell. I guess more than age and weight.”

  “Sure, I’d like to find out how she knew about it. But more importantly, I’d like to find her before Carlos Bandini does. And you don’t have to guess why. I think you care about Courtney, the question is this: how much do you care?”

  “He won’t be able to find her.”

  “You hire the right people, throw enough money at it, and you can find anybody anywhere.” I watched the bulldog jump up and charge the squirrel, snapping the chain.

  “Winston!” shouted Solminski. He darted after the runaway bulldog. I reached down and lifted his phone off the table and looked at his recent call history. Could Courtney’s number be at the top of the list? I memorized the number I saw most frequently called in the last two days. Then I set the phone back exactly as I’d found it.

  Within thirty seconds the little man had caught the big bulldog, both breathing heavily as Solminski held what was left of the chain, now shorter than a leash. “Winston’s been acting weird. He usually doesn’t open an eye at a squirrel. Now, he’s trying to kill them. Look, no offense, but could you just leave? It’s not healthy to be seen with you.”

  “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  “Who?”

  “Where’s Bandini? I didn’t see the bus.”

  “That’s because it’s parked near the county office by the livestock area. I don’t know if he’s there or en route to the funeral. But the bus is there. Now get outta here, okay?”

  “One last thing. You guessed the age of my Greek friend Nick Cronus. Made his day. One of Bandini’s goons almost killed Nick. Whoever did it rides a Harley with a skull and crossbones symbol painted on the side of the gas tank. Where can I find this guy?”

  “That question implies that I know the answer. Maybe you should ask Bandini?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Don’t know his name. He’s one of a dozen motorcycle gang members Bandini uses from time to time. I saw the dude yesterday. Big fella. He rides a motorcycle. Lots of chrome. One of the carnies said the guy spends time at a biker bar outside of Daytona called the Lone Wolf Saloon. Every town or county we play, there’s always a work-for-hire person the Bandini family has on call. The Daytona area seems to have more than its fair share of talent.”

  “Thanks. If you have contact with Courtney, please tell her to call me.”

  Isaac Solminski sat in a metal fold-out chair next to the card table, the panting fat bulldog drooling saliva beneath his feet. He popped a purple grape in his mouth and said, “Good luck to you, Mr. O’Brien. Your face is all over the news, by the way.”

  “So I hear.”

  I headed in the direction of the livestock arena, a large white compound that smelled of cow manure and sawdust. Red, white, and blue banners hung from the main entrance near signs that welcomed the FFA and 4-H students. Bandini’s customized bus was parked in front of a sign that read: Volusia County Fair Office. I watched as smiling kids and their parents left with prize-winning cows, pigs, goats, chickens and rabbits, all packed into pickup trucks or animal trailers hitched to pickup trucks.

  I put on dark glasses, pulled a baseball cap down to my eyebrows, and walked past the office window. Even from the rear, I recognized Carlos Bandini from his image I’d seen when the news media interviewed him about the death of his brother. He looked like a younger version of Al Pacino, short, maybe five-seven. He stood with two of his employees, the guys who’d stopped Nick and me in the parking lot when they popped out of the bus.

  And now I was going to do the same, but from a different vantage point.

  40

  I stood under a cottonwood tree and watched the customized luxury motor coach for a moment. The door opened and a driver stepped outside. He had the build of a gym rat, defined forearms, beefy wide shoulders, black T-shirt stretched over his muscular chest. He lit a cigarette and stood in the shade of the livestock building. He glanced down at the gold watch on his thick wrist and inhaled a lungful of smoke, exhaling out of his nostrils. Ten seconds later, he dropped the cigarette, crushed it beneath the heel of his boot, and ducked into the restroom.

  I adjusted the Glock under my belt in the small of my back, shirt hanging around my waist. I walked quickly to the bus, looking up into its wide side-view mirrors to see behind me, to see if Bandini and company were leaving the office. Clear. Was anyone else on the bus? I didn’t know. I took a deep breath and stepped up and into the cool, dimly lit exterior.

  The sound system was tuned to a classic rock satellite channel, Bob Seger’s Night Moves pulsating through the Bose speakers. The interior could have been a luxury mansion on wheels, polished woods, designer furnishings, sixty-inch flat-screen TV, liquor in hand-cut crystal decanters.

  I walked down the hallway, the slight hiss of the cool air blowing through the vents onto the back of my neck, wine-colored carpet thick beneath my shoes. The door to an office was partially opened. I instinctively touched the Glock and pushed the door open. No one. I did a fast walk-through of the entire bus. No one. I went back into Bandini’s office and looked out the tinted window. Bandini was leaving the fairground office with his two associates. They were joined by the driver. I watched them point toward an approaching taxi that pulled up behind the bus.

  A blonde woman wearing a miniskirt, stiletto heels, dark glasses, and a low-cut blouse revealing ample cleavage, stepped from the taxi. Bandini walked over to the cab, smiled, tossed money through the open window to the driver, and then placed his hand on the center of
the woman’s back, escorting her to the bus. I could see they were entering a side door, his men boarding from the front entrance.

  I quickly relocated to the large master bedroom in the rear of the bus. Elvis Presley’s designer could have created this haunt, round bed with a purple and gold bedspread, mirrored ceiling and walls, mini-bar, with inlaid white holiday lights. A lime green alligator was propped next to the purple pillows.

  I heard the side door open. As much as I hated the idea of popping out from a closet, I had no choice. I stepped in and closed the door behind me, the odor of leather, shoes, and starched shirts encircled me. Within seconds, Bandini and the woman were in the bedroom.

  She said, “Pretty fancy place you got here. This is like a mansion on wheels.”

  “You got that right, Susan.”

  “It’s Suzy.”

  “Whatever. Look, I got to ride across the state to attend a funeral, and I need you to take my mind off stuff. Depression isn’t for me. God rest my baby brother.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. What do you want me to do?”

  “We’re gonna do it all, and then some.”

  I heard Bandini walk around the room, to the far side of the bed and press a button, a white noise filled the room. Then someone said, “Yes sir.”

  “Let’s roll.”

  “Headin’ out, boss.”

  I could feel the transmission being put into gear, the bus move a few feet, and then start off slowly, building speed as it moved around the parking circle in front of the livestock arena.

  Bandini said, “All right, Suzy. You can ditch the clothes.”

  “You mind if I freshen up a bit? I just got off my shift at the club. Been dancin’ most of the night. Where’s the bathroom?”

  “This bus has three Johns. The master is the door to the left. By the way, when I’m done with you, I want you to take care of the troops. But not in here. You can fuck ‘em in the middle bedroom down the hall to the left.”

  “Hold on. I didn’t agree to some kind of multiple sex thing. I screw one person. That’s it. That’s what I agreed to.”

  “Take it up with your boss when we ship your used ass back. I paid a grand for you, bitch. I plan to get my money’s worth, which includes watching the boys do you, too.”

  “No! I’m getting off this bus.”

  Bandini laughed. “Take your fuckin’ clothes off or I’ll rip ‘em off.”

  “Go to hell. Stop this bus!”

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I heard him slap her hard, then the sound of clothes tearing. I pushed open the door just as Bandini had his pants down to his knees. The girl was recoiling on the floor, blood running from her mouth. I raised the pistol and said, “Back off.”

  He looked at me as if a ghost had entered his bedroom. “You’re a dead man!”

  “And you’re wearing your britches a little low to be a bad ass.” He fumbled under one of the purple pillow cases for a pistol. I kicked him in the center of his bare butt, the gun falling to the floor. He picked up a glass ashtray and threw it at my head. I ducked and drove my right fist into his jaw. The sound was like a dog biting into a drumstick. He tried to stand, his eyes rolling, blood seeping out of his lips. I grabbed his collar and pulled him to within a foot of me and said, “Listen very closely because I’m telling this to your face one time only. I hear you left a message for me. Bad idea not to deliver it in person. Makes me agitated. You sent your gorilla to ambush a friend of mine. You had him beaten up. Ice pick through the hand. Another bad idea.” I brought my knee up into his groin. The blow lifted him off the carpet.

  He coughed blood and muttered, “Fuck you.”

  I backhanded him hard across the bed, the stuffed lime-green alligator falling to the floor near the girl. I grabbed his bare feet and pulled him across the purple and gold bedspread, slamming his head against a dresser. “Bandini, you’re not listening. Here’s the deal. You touch Nick Cronus again and the crabs will be eating what’s left of you. If you send your knee-breakers out to hurt Courtney Burke, I’m coming back for you. Guess what … I’ll find you. I got on this bus. I can get to you anywhere. Is that clear?”

  He stared at me through half closed, cold eyes, blood pouring from his loose teeth. “Is that clear?”

  He nodded and spit blood. I said, “Now press the intercom and tell your driver to return to the main parking lot at the fairground.” I stepped back and picked up the Glock, pointing it between his eyes. “Now!”

  He leaned over to pull his pants up, and walked to the speaker, looking back at me once more. “Don’t make me spray your brains across this lovely bed.”

  He pressed the speaker button and said, “Eddie, head back to the fairground, main parking lot. I forgot something.”

  “No problem, boss.”

  I turned to the woman still on the floor, holding her ripped shirt over her breasts. I reached down and helped her up. “Come on, this is where you’re getting off the bus, too.”

  “Thank you,” she said, standing.

  The bus rolled to a stop. I kept the Glock in my hand, looked one final time into the burning eyes of Carlos Bandini, then I led the woman though the back of the bus to the exit door. I pushed it open and we got off. “Come on,” I said. We have to get out of here.”

  We jogged through the parking lot, the sound of a helicopter in the distance. I heard the bus pull away. I turned to the girl and said, “You’re lucky. You might not have lived through what they’d planned to do to you.”

  “Thank you. I’ve never had a man stand up and defend me.”

  “You’re welcome. I have a couple of safety pins in my Jeep. It’ll help you keep your shirt closed. Looks like Bandini ripped most of the buttons off of it.”

  I glanced over to where three carny workers stood in the shade, taking a break, smoking, drinking sodas and staring at us. “Let me give you a ride. Where’s home?”

  “I can’t let you take me there. My husband’s home. Just drop me off at Big Lots down the street. I’ll buy a blouse and take a cab.”

  I walked her to my Jeep. We drove for a minute in silence and then she said, “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been there. What’s your name?”

  “Sean O’Brien … and yours?”

  “My real name’s Angie Houston.”

  “Nice to meet you Angie.”

  “I heard you tell Carlos Bandini to stay away from Courtney Burke. That’s the girl who’s been all over the news, right?”

  I said nothing.

  “She’s the one accused of killing Tony Bandini, the brother. If Tony was anything like that man back there in the bus, I’d say that girl did the world a favor. Is she like related to you or something?”

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Detective Dan Grant. “Sean, wanted to let you know I got the okay to submit the DNA samples for testing. I was thinking … the day we picked Courtney Burke up at your boat. Did she eat or drink anything? Maybe smoke a cigarette and leave the butt somewhere?”

  “No, she didn’t smoke, and she didn’t eat or drink on the boat.”

  “All right. Another thing, we ran the plates on that bike. It’s owned by a guy named Samuel Nichols, AKA the Pirate, hence the skull and crossbones. He’s got a long rap sheet. Did a dime stretch in Raiford Prison for manslaughter. Former member of the Outlaws. He’s a gun for hire, no doubt. If Nick will press charges, we’ll find this guy and pick him up.”

  “Nick can’t positively ID his face. And I don’t think Nick wants to go through the legal system.”

  “Okay, then anything he might think of doing outside of it is illegal. And that goes for you, too, Sean.”

  “Thanks, Dan.” I disconnected. After I dropped Angie off at Big Lots, I’d head to a bar.

  A place called the Lone Wolf Saloon.

  41

  I manually set my GPS for the Lone Wolf Saloon. I didn’t think any GPS voice recognition programs would recognize it as a trendy bar featuring its own craf
t beers. The bar was located about twenty minutes east of Daytona Beach. I drove on Highway 92 through scrub woodlands, and under canopies of live oaks, the branches stretching over the blacktop and casting the road in deep shade, the limbs interlocked like fingers laced in prayer.

  I called Dave and asked about Nick. He said, “We just got back. Nick’s in his boat, knocked out on Vicodin. The puncture wounds in his hand didn’t require stitches. He actually didn’t need a tetanus shot. He had one after he was cut diving inside that sunken German U-boat with you. So, he’s on some meds, and was ordered to stay off his feet for a day or two.”

  “Good.” I told Dave about my encounter with Carlos Bandini and what Dan Grant had let me know about the biker who goes by the name of Pirate. I added, “Bandini’s a poster child for the criminal sociopath. He hires freaks of nature like Pirate to bully anyone who is in his way. I think his revenge for the death of his brother isn’t so much motivated because he feels loss as it is that he feels anger, and he wants to send a message. Courtney Burke is in his crosshairs because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “As was Nick when he overheard Bandini’s employees in the Tiki Bar. You think you put the fear of God in him? Think he’ll return?”

  “You have to believe in God to fear a divine consequence. Narcissists like Bandini only fear a tangible foe more deadly than themselves. I hate having to go there—to become that adversary, and I may have to go even further to deal with Pirate.”

  “Sean, just dial it down, okay? You walk in a biker bar and start pulling this guy’s chain and you could wind up being attacked by a pack. Maybe Bandini didn’t go ballistic after you left him with his pants down, bloodied and bruised, because you managed to represent that rival—that image even more dangerous than what he can muster.”

  “Maybe. But I have a feeling that Bandini will keep swinging because his brain is wired that way.”

  “How far are you away from the Lone Wolf Saloon?”

  “Seventeen miles.”

  “If I don’t hear from you within an hour, I’m calling the national guard. You’re going to war, and you’re one man. Call me, damnit.”