Robert, my friend, you are the best. You are the man.
Back at his hotel, Leon got in the back seat of the limo with his bag, then pulled out his phone and checked in, listening to the message. He texted a simple message in a simple code. His contact numbers rotated with the calendar and various countries’ holiday schedules. This month it was Scotland. June. Lanimer Day.
He smiled at the thought of his next night being in MM’s bed in the Celebrity Cabin, where she had been nailed by Kennedy, Sinatra, and Giancana.
The truth of it was, killings for Leon weren’t murders. They were purges, cleansings of the rot and corruptions of civilization. People were, by and large, scum. Stupid and petty. Most. There were exceptions, to be sure. Still, the world needed more than a bunch of Leons to clean it up. He was a firm believer in the real need for a major pandemic or global war. It would be fine with him to get rid of about half the world’s population.
18
Sydney woke at noon on Monday and couldn’t believe she’d slept so long. She was sore, it seemed, everywhere.
He’s gone, she thought with a start. Of course. Why would he stay? But would he tell them where she was? She looked for the gun that had been on the nightstand; it was gone.
She started to get up when she heard a noise. Somebody coming down the hall. Him or someone else? Again, she had no gun.
Suddenly, a figure appeared at the door. “You’re awake. How do you like your eggs?”
She smiled. Now that’s a better way to wake up, she thought. “Scrambled light is good. I can’t believe I slept that long.”
“How soon?”
“Give me ten minutes,” she said.
“How do you feel?”
“Like a truck ran over me.”
He smiled and left. She figured the longer they were together, the more likely she had him for what she had in mind.
After breakfast, they talked about Gatts and decided to go to Markleeville later that night and see if they couldn’t find the guy, then figure out how to get his cooperation. Marco told her not to worry about that.
“Give the place a call,” he said, “and make sure it’s still open. I’m gonna crash for awhile.” He pushed the Beretta across the table, plus the clips.
After he was gone, she called her police-reporter friend and asked him to run a serious background on Marco Cruz. “I need this pretty fast. And check on the Mountainview Restaurant. Make sure it’s open and that Gary Gatts runs the place. And if you can get me an address, I’d appreciate it.”
“And you won’t tell me anything about—”
“No. You’re a sweetheart.” She hung up and then went out to look around, make sure things were okay. She decided to sit out on the side deck so she had a good view of the water and of the feeder road that led to the gate.
Sydney felt better and better about her connection to Marco Cruz. They had something powerful in common—guilt. It’s something that comes with the territory for cops, soldiers, or anyone working tight with somebody who ends up dead. There’s always the sense you could have prevented it, or should have been the one to go down instead. It’s a big part of what drove her, and she figured he had that in his backpack as well. Life’s load is much heavier after something like that happens.
***
Marco stared at the band of light coming in from the side of the curtain on the wall and, tired as he was, didn’t know if he’d slept or not.
He didn’t like that they had delayed. He’d wanted to get to Gatts quick, before his uncle—whose suggestion it was—could use Gatts as a trap. He didn’t know, under the circumstances, how far he could trust his uncle. But in the end, he had no choice. Sydney had needed that sleep. He didn’t want her in a weak state and now he was the one exhausted, who needed a few hours himself.
Tahoe was a terrible place to be hunting somebody while you were being hunted. The basin is surrounded by mountains with only so many roads coming in and only one that circumvented the lake. The towns around the lake—like Tahoe City, Incline, even the casinos in South Lake—were all basically one-horse. If you traveled by car, you were always vulnerable, with no running room. It helped that they had use of the Range Rover, but he still worried about getting spotted.
The one big thing they would have had going for them, before his decision to talk to his uncle, was that the logical thing for them to have done was leave the area. He questioned his decision to meet Tony. And Sydney’s decision to hang around.
But there was a big additional problem. He could handle the terrain, the threat, the lack of resources and all that. But the woman was a whole different deal. Girls, even beautiful, smart ones, never were a serious threat to him. He had a good way with the ladies and never had a shortage of opportunity. They were something he worried about when they were around. He typically had a girlfriend for however long, then, when it was convenient for one or both, he’d move on. So much other stuff was always going on that he just never got into anything that might lock him down or send him in a direction he didn’t want to go.
This was different. This lady wanted to use him in her mission, her crusade, or whatever the hell it was. Under other circumstances, when some hot little something started trying to drag him down her dark path, he’d enjoy the quick fruits of his labor, then quickly shake free and get the hell on down his own road, avoiding without regret some nightmare he had no hand in making in the first place.
But right from the start, from her attitude, her whole deal, and the way she was somehow so different, he felt a little overwhelmed. Something about her was like a magnet to his inner deal. And now he saw really serious trouble ahead and the escape hatch getting smaller and smaller. He wanted the hell out of this before it grabbed him. And he didn’t want to get any too close to her precisely because the not-so-bright part of him wanted just that.
With that unpleasant threat looming, he did, in spite of himself, eventually slip off into a ragged sleep that, as was common, was filled with plenty of equally unpleasant activities related to combat, conflict, and incarceration.
19
Leon, suffering jet lag from flying in from New York, lay on the small, circular bed in the Celebrity Cabin Monday afternoon. The cabin sat below the pool and on the edge of the lake. As he waited for the client to come, he chatted with one of the loves of his life, Marilyn Monroe. He asked her who did the deed—who’d murdered her—and was thinking about what her answer might be when he heard the client coming through the tunnel.
First thing the client says—coming out of the closet, out of the secret tunnel that Sinatra had built so he could go to and from the kitchen of the Cal-Neva and Marilyn’s room in secret—was, “How are you?”
Leon was amused. Guy breaks all protocol just coming here. Acting like a big shot. Right away, Leon knew what he was dealing with. He nodded.
The guy strutted to the window, looked out, then came back acting like he was some kind of mafia boss. Like he was Brando. Thing is, he didn’t have the look, the voice, or the mannerisms.
“I’m glad you could get here on short notice,” the client said. “We have a big problem out there and we need it resolved fast.”
Leon sat back against the pillows on the circular bed beneath a picture of Marilyn Monroe and stared at his client. Unbelievable. The man was breaking all the rules.
What he knew about this guy from his Vegas connection was that this Thorp’s great-great-great-grandfather had cleared the Sierras of Indians, hung gold mine thieves, and brought in Chinese for the rail line to Silver City. So Leon was interested in the guy’s history. At least he was until he met the asshole. The guy didn’t live up to expectations.
Great generations aren’t followed by even greater generations, Leon thought. And this guy was proof of that. So, somehow, this guy manages to get the tunnel opened up and comes up through it like the old days, like he’s a chip off the JFK, Sinatra, and Giancana block. Yeah, right.
Leon never met clients, but this guy had insisted. W
hat, maybe they would be friends? Leon didn’t do small talk, so he just looked at the guy. Listened to his rant. All the people he wanted dead. The guy was tall, thin, tense, everything on his frame top of the line.
Listening to him jabber, Leon reclined on the bed propped up by pillows, his amusement turning a little sour. The cabins had porches and views of the lake. They were small. Not all that great, but this one had history, and Leon liked history. But then the guy started this whining song and dance about the big screwup he wanted cleaned up and how it had to be done and done fast and how he’d make sure Leon was very well compensated above and beyond his normal fees…and on and on the guy ranted.
Leon waited.
Finally, he got to specifics. Mentioned a guy named Cillo. The uncle of some lowlife who had the girl they wanted dead.
“He’s the key. You get him to talk to you, he probably knows where his nephew is holed up. You find the nephew, you find the girl. He’s got her somewhere. I got a feeling they’re not all that far away. Then get rid of Cillo.”
Leon said nothing, just listened. Multiple kills weren’t normal, but money for these guys was apparently no object.
The guy rambled on about the woman, and then about the guy she’d brought, some kind of ex-con. Then about his crazy cousin. Finally, the client sat down, one leg up over the other. In the silence, on the lake, Leon could hear the drone of a boat’s engine…still closer, the cry of some loud bird.
All the information the guy was giving him, Leon already had. The lawyer had provided the details, and now he had to listen to numbnuts repeat everything.
Then he started again. On and on this guy went about this woman, the blogs, how she was hurting his family’s reputation, single-handedly trying to stop Tahoe from becoming what it was meant to be. Then the maniac said he’s got this old lion. Bought it from a place in Texas where they take in retired circus animals. Said he wanted to get the bitch alive if that’s possible and put her in the cage with his lion that he said is named George. Then he wanted to know, by any chance, did Leon play golf?
Leon had been asked many things but never before had he been asked about golf. He shook his head. Never had he run into a stranger cat than this guy. He was nervous. That was it, Leon concluded. He’s nervous and excited at the same time. Like a kid on a first date.
But instead of that being the end of it, the guy went off on handicaps and how he met somebody on the Nullabar Links in Melbourne who may have been in Leon’s profession. Guy hit the ball like a pro.
“It’s the damnedest golf course on the planet. Takes, like, four days. You cross two time zones. All along this highway through the deserts and kangaroo country, you have to drive your car from tee to tee. It’s eight hundred forty-eight miles long. And nobody is sober after the first two holes, and that’s when the guy told me about some of his wet work.”
He waited as if this was where Leon should jump in and join the conversation. Leon wasn’t in the mood, so he just continued to stare at the guy.
“I want constant updates,” the client said, a little bit exasperated. Like Leon had disappointed him in some way. “You have my lawyer’s throwaways. You let him know what’s going on every step of the way. You need men, hookers, whatever, you name it. On the smartphone in the package he left for you are the pictures and addresses. Everything you need. Keys to the car. If you need men for casing or whatever, he’ll make sure you’re provided with what you want.”
Finally, thankfully, the client finished, got it all off his chest. He thought the guy’d be there till midnight yapping.
Leon hadn’t said a word until now. “You can leave now. Have them seal the tunnel. Anybody comes through there, I’ll kill them.”
“Yeah, yeah. I understand,” the client said, vigorously nodding his head. And then he left.
Leon bent his head back and looked up at Marilyn. “You believe what you just witnessed? Because I don’t.”
He considered for a moment refusing the job. The client was exactly the type he’d rather kill than work for. Still, all in all, Tahoe might be fun. He’d never been to Tahoe before, and he appreciated the beauty of the lake and how big it was. You couldn’t even see the south shore from the deck of the cabin, it was so far away.
He said to Marilyn, “The bastards murdered you. I’m sorry I wasn’t around then. I’d have taken care of all them. But at least you aren’t around to deal with this crew.” He laughed and imagined her chuckling. He loved the woman.
Leon had never actually had a woman since he was nine and his mother’s boyfriend made him and the girl next door try and fuck so the bastard could jack off watching. That guy turned out a few years later to be his first kill, his first suicide creation. He forced the guy at gunpoint to call the suicide hotline, confess his sins, and apologize.
Then he died in a fiery self-emulation. Died with lots and lots of pain and regret. The suicide, much like those monks in Vietnam, got lots of attention. Leon thoroughly enjoyed it and never regretted it for a moment. Killing, he’d discovered, wasn’t just easy, it had a certain joy. He became a philosopher of the hunt and the kill.
20
Sydney and Marco left after nine Monday night for Markleeville. He had on a jungle-type hat, she a baseball cap. Very minimal attempts at disguises in case somebody got a look in the car under a streetlight.
He told her she looked cute in her safari outfit. “Women can disguise up easy enough—change of hair, hats—but for men, it’s different.”
“Not many people have seen you in seven years. You probably don’t have to disguise up much.” He’d gotten a bag of safari-look items from Bernie Shaw’s closet—big jungle hat and wide sunglasses. “You look like a gold prospector from the old days.”
They laughed. She was doing much better after the sleep. It also helped that the entire Tahoe Valley was packed with tourists, and the drive down Highway 89 and up into the mountains avoided all the towns around the lake. Bikers, motor homes, and cars jammed the 89 and 50 intersections. It took them nearly an hour to get out of Tahoe and up into the mountains.
“Maybe we’ll be sleeping in the car,” he told her.
“Tell me about you and Gary Gatts,” she said.
“I remember he was always into some con or another. One of those guys who look at the world as something you’re always trying to hustle.”
“Sounds like him.”
In the scheme of things, Markleeville, in the mountains southeast of Tahoe, was nothing much, a half-horse town in the mountains south of Tahoe. Quaint. Old.
“I used to like this hotel,” he said, pointing out the window.
By the looks of it, the hotel, the Creekside Lodge, wasn’t a hotel anymore. One-block town, that was about the sum of it. The sign said the population was 165. It was on the Indian Creek Reservation, not far from a small airport, Alpine County Court, Monitor Creek, and the East Carson River. The road led over the pass, down to 395. Would be a great ride on a motorcycle.
“You have some good times up here?” she asked.
He smiled. “You won’t tell, neither will I.”
She figured March had seen plenty of good times all around the lake. This particular mountain town was an unpolished gem that lay at the merge of the Monitor and Wolf Creeks on 89. Popular with bikers and people coming over the pass, they had a courthouse, sheriff’s office, and a general store.
“The Cutthroat Bar,” Marco said, looking toward a shabby building. “I can’t believe myself sometimes. I never connected it to the fish. I always thought it was some pirate thing.”
“You didn’t—really?”
“Really.”
Sydney said, “When the shooter came in, that’s what I was holding in my hand. A Cutthroat fingerling.”
“Then this is appropriate.” He pointed again and said, “There’s a sign that says rooms. I’ll check it out.”
He went in through the back entrance to see if any rooms were actually available. He learned there were, located in the build
ing next to the bar in a motel-like building. He paid cash for a room back off the street.
He let her in, then went on a coffee run to the bar.
Back in the room, when he sipped his coffee, he winced and swore. “Damn!”
“It’s that hot?”
“Not really, but I have sensitive tissues in my mouth.”
“What from?”
He sat on one of the beds, a small table separating the two twins. She was lying with her arms slung across her stomach.
He said, “My mouth never fully recovered from la tehuacan.”
“Which is some kind of hot Mexican sauce?”
“Well, yes and no. You won’t find it in a restaurant. During my time in that Mexican prison, when they wanted better conversation, they introduced you to la tehuacan. Carbonated mineral water laced with the juice of chili peppers.”
“Sounds nasty.”
“Then, when your mouth was burned out, they stuck it up your nose while your mouth was gagged. That happens, you tend to become very cooperative.”
“Sounds really nasty. What did they want from you?”
“Whatever it was, they didn’t get it. I wouldn’t have made it, but I had some outside powers interested in me. I ended up in apando, a punishment cell, but under the protection of the most powerful man in the prison, the Tio Mafia, the prison godfather. Something was in the works. About a week after that, I’m walked out by this federale, thinking they might just drive me up in the hills and kill me.”
“Our boys?”
“I was met by the guy who put me there. They had work for me in a very deep task force.”
“An offer you couldn’t refuse?”
“Yeah. When I walked out, I’m standing there blinded by the sun, one of those hard glare days. I’d been in the hole for a long time. No light. I’m not believing anything he says. I’m thinking, That’s it for me. The air stinks like a welding shop, and this guy’s smiling at me and the federale who escorted me out says, ‘You go home, my friend.’ I remember his gold tooth flashed at me like a strobe. He said, ‘No more trouble for us, no more trouble for you. Tomelo facil, amigo.’”
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