Callie's Last Dance (a Donovan Creed Novel)

by John Locke

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Roy’s dead.”

  “Roy?”

  “That motherfucker finally got what’s coming to him.”

  “And that makes you happy?”

  “Ecstatic! But here’s the twist. I didn’t have nuthin’ to do with it!”

  “What are the police saying?”

  “They’re saying he got shot while trying to attack someone with a baseball bat. But he obviously picked the wrong guy, ’cause whoever it was put two bullets in him.”

  “Are you going after the guy?”

  He says, “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Better than anyone you ever met.”

  “I’ll put the word out whoever did it needs to suffer. But secretly? I hope they don’t find him. Because the guy who whacked Roy deserves a medal!”

  “You think they’ll find the shooter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why, were there witnesses?”

  “Not yet. But he apparently crashed into the guy’s car, because there’s paint transfer. They’re looking for a burgundy car with the front smashed in. They’ll eventually find it.”

  “You think they’ll check the airport parking lot?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why?”

  “Because that’s where I ditched the car.”

  He stares at her face a minute, then starts to laugh.

  “You got me!” he says, grinning.

  35.

  Four Hours Earlier.

  “ROY WILL BE at the club all alone this morning from at least nine to eleven,” Willow says. “Then he’ll head home to eat lunch and take a nap.”

  “Why would he be there so early?” Maybe asks.

  Maybe is Donovan Creed’s twenty-year-old daughter. She’s also a paid assassin with a double-digit body count.

  “He thinks he’s meeting two new dancers, an hour apart. Nine-thirty and ten-thirty.”

  “You set him up?”

  Willow smiles. “He’ll be pissed when the first one stands him up, furious when the second fails to show.”

  “Fifty grand,” Maybe says.

  Willow looks at Gwen.

  Gwen shrugs.

  Hoping for a discount, Willow says, “I’d like you to consider this a long-term association instead of a one-and-done.”

  “There’ll be more killing?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  Gwen raises her eyebrows.

  Maybe says, “The best way to insure a long-term relationship is to pay me what I ask each time.”

  “Yes, but fifty thousand’s a lot of money.”

  Maybe shrugs and says, “According to Gwen, Roy’s not just a mobster, he’s a made man.”

  “He’s not very dangerous. His right hand’s in a cast!”

  “That’s why I’m only asking for fifty.”

  “Would you consider a counter offer?”

  “I’m open to charging more.”

  Maybe’s real name is Kimberly Creed, but why make herself a target for those seeking revenge against her father? A year ago she chose the name Maybe Taylor on a whim and has grown fond of it.

  Willow says, “I’m only eighteen. Where am I going to get that kind of money?”

  “You could charge people fifty grand for killing other people,” she says. “That’s how I do it.”

  Willow sighs. “Okay.”

  Maybe smiles. “Good. I’ll need all cash, up front.”

  “You don’t understand,” Willow says. “I’m not going to hire you.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Nothing personal, but fifty’s too much to pay for such an easy job. I should kill him myself. That’ll impress Carmine more than hiring it out.”

  “Have you ever killed anyone? Because it might be harder than you think.”

  Willow pauses before answering, and not because Maybe or Gwen might be wearing a wire. The three women are nude, in a sauna, at the Venetian Spa.

  Despite that, she sees no benefit in confessing murder to total strangers.

  “Have I ever killed anyone? No. Can you give me some advice?”

  “Kill him in his home, not the club.”

  “Because?”

  “It’s bad for business.”

  “Good point.”

  Maybe stands up, extends her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Willow stands, shakes hands.

  “Thanks,” she says. “Can I call you for the next one?”

  “I don’t see the point. The price would still be fifty. Twice that, if it’s a big target like Carmine.”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t afford you. Just that I can handle Roy by myself.”

  Maybe eyes her carefully. “Just out of curiosity, how much were you prepared to pay?”

  “Ten grand.”

  Maybe laughs. “That’s all you brought today?”

  Willow nods.

  To Gwen, Maybe says, “This one’s thrifty. I think she’ll make Carmine a hell of a good bookkeeper, if she can earn his trust.”

  Willow says, “Can you sell me a gun?”

  “I suppose.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten grand.”

  “Seriously, Ms. Taylor?”

  “You could always pay some gangbanger five hundred for one that’ll blow up in your hand. If he allows you to leave unmolested. If you trust him not to tell the cops he sold a gun to Roy’s employee when he needs a get-out-of jail card. If you’re not worried he might blackmail you for years to come.”

  Making a mental note to never again reveal how much cash she brought to a transaction, Willow says, “I’ll buy your gun.”

  When Maybe leaves, Willow looks at Gwen and says, “Will you help me?”

  “Kill Roy? No way!”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be miles away when it happens. I just need some tactical support.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “We’ve both got long, blonde hair.”

  “Mine’s lighter.”

  “In a ponytail, ball cap, sunglasses, same lipstick and eye shadow, and matching shorts…we’ll look enough alike to pull it off.”

  “Pull what off?”

  36.

  A COUPLE MONTHS ago, a rough character named Bobby Mitchell died while being treated for an accidental self-inflicted gunshot wound. Before that, he and Willow lived together in her apartment on Dillingham Drive, in Cincinnati.

  Bobby used to boost cars by day, drive them to his uncle’s chop shop on Carey Street, then snort the profits away while Willow lap-danced all night at the Firefly Lounge. Since Bobby was drunk half the time and high the rest, Willow refused to let him touch her car keys. Despite her best intentions, Bobby’s proficiency at hotwiring cars left Willow without transportation on more occasions than she could count. Deciding this was a skill that could come in handy someday, Willow made him demonstrate his technique on her Toyota Corolla.

  “Any idiot can hotwire a car,” Bobby had said, “but if you don’t know how to disconnect the fuel shut-off and steering wheel lock, you’re not going to get far.”

  The skill didn’t come easy to Willow, but she persevered, and eventually became an expert at hotwiring Toyota Corollas. She sold hers before moving to Vegas, but it’s her car of choice. Since Willow hasn’t had time to finagle a new car out of Carmine yet, she’s still driving the Toyota she leased from Lyndon Car Rentals at McCarran International Airport.

  Her plan for killing Roy is complex and relies heavily on Gwen’s participation. It also requires her to hotwire her rental car in advance, so she can “steal” it from the valet parking lot at the Fashion Show Mall. In preparation, Willow disconnects the fuel shutoff and steering wheel lock, and creates a field between the terminals that allows her to crank the engine by simply passing a screwdriver through the field.

  She drives to the Fashion Show Mall at ten o’clock, turns her keys over to the valet parking guy, and pretends to go shopping. In reality, she enters the notoriously slow Ruggles Department Store elev
ator, presses the express button for the Raintree Café, and performs a quick change, knowing two things. One, the Raintree Café isn’t open till eleven, and two, the Ruggles elevator has no camera, a fact Gwen discovered three weeks ago when trying to report a speckle-dicked flasher.

  When the elevator door opens on the third floor, Willow gets off wearing a black wig and hands Gwen the top she just removed, and the ball cap, and giant sunglasses. Gwen gets on the elevator, removes her black wig and puts on Willow’s top, ball cap, and sunglasses while descending.

  Meanwhile, Willow makes her way to the down escalator, heads to the valet parking area, finds her car, uses the screwdriver to crank the engine, and heads to the Top Six.

  For the benefit of mall witnesses and security cameras, Gwen, dressed as Willow, will use Willow’s credit card to do some light shopping.

  Twenty minutes later, gun in purse, Willow drives to the Top Six, jumps out, and jams a large potato into the exhaust pipe of Roy’s car. Then she drives two blocks, turns into an abandoned strip club parking lot, and backs her car against a telephone pole next to a junked bus. She puts the car in park, and waits. The good thing about Carmine’s strip club, it’s miles from the nearest residential area, which means it won’t be hard to spot Roy’s car when it passes by.

  Moments later—much sooner than expected—she sees him coming. She ducks down to wait for him to pass, the idea being to follow him from a distance. When his car shuts down in a block or two, she’ll be able to pull over, roll the passenger window down, and initiate a drive-by shooting.

  But what she hears—and feels—is Roy’s car crashing head first into hers. He’s yelling her name. Something about seeing her sabotaging his car. She looks up and sees him pulling a baseball bat out of the back seat. Luckily for her, he’s angrier than he is coordinated, thanks to the giant cast on his right hand. She grabs the gun, jumps out of the car, and carefully places two bullets into the center of his chest. Then she checks his tailpipe, but finds no potato. She puts Roy’s car in neutral, then climbs back into her Toyota, puts it in gear, and pushes Roy’s car out of her way. Then she goes back to Roy’s car and puts it in park.

  She notices the potato on the passenger side, grabs it, puts it in her purse, and drives to long-term parking at McCarran International airport. Once there, she waits in the car until she sees a family pulling their luggage across the parking lot. She files in close behind them and follows them to the drop off zone, where Gwen has been making circles waiting for her.

  When she climbs into Gwen’s car she says, “You’ve been at the mall the whole time?”

  “Until twenty minutes ago.”

  “What did we buy?”

  “You had a grande hot chocolate with skim milk at Starbucks, then walked around, spent some time in Vicky Secrets, where they’re holding some cute undies for you. You also bought some soaps and bath salts at a store called Sea’s Harvest. They’re holding a green and blue bag for you, with a whale emblem on it.”

  “And the clothes, ball cap, and sunglasses you wore while shopping?”

  “In the white bag in the back.”

  “You kept the sunglasses on at all times?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even while signing the credit card receipt?”

  “Especially then.”

  “Where did you change clothes?”

  “Same place. Ruggles elevator.”

  “And you wore the black wig when you left?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thanks. Maybe we’ll pull this off after all.”

  “You actually did it? You killed Roy?”

  Willow doesn’t think Gwen would tape her conversation, but you never know. To be on the safe side, she simply winks. Then she reaches into the back seat for the bag, and changes clothes before getting dropped off a half-block from the mall. She walks back to the mall, retrieves the shopping bags from Victoria Secret and Sea’s Harvest, then goes to valet parking and spends the next thirty minutes learning her car might have been stolen.

  After the valet parking attendants have exhausted their search, Willow gets directory assistance on the phone, and has them dial Lyndon Rental Cars. When the Lyndon rep answers, the parking attendants hear her say, “Yes. I hope you can help me. It appears someone may have stolen my car…Willow Breeland…No, I don’t have the paperwork. I left it in the glove box…I’m staying at the Fairway Inn, here in town, but that’s not where the car was stolen. Assuming it’s been stolen…This morning at ten I drove it to the Fashion Show Mall…No, I used their valet service…No, I’m still here…Yes, of course they’ve been searching. You want to talk to the parking guy?”

  She hands him the phone.

  He talks a few minutes, then hands it back.

  “Yes, I’d very much like another rental car…What? No, I’ll just take a cab…Okay, thanks.”

  She hails a cab, catches a ride to the airport, repeats her story at the car counter, then gets her new rental, swings by her room at the Fairway Inn, takes a shower, and changes clothes.

  Then she drives to the Venetian, to meet Carmine.

  37.

  Willow & Carmine.

  Present Time.

  “YOU KILLED ROY? Are you crazy?”

  “I killed him for you.”

  “You’re definitely crazy!” Carmine says.

  “Crazy about you. I wanted to do something nice for you.”

  “Roy’s a made man. If anyone finds out—”

  “They won’t.”

  “Your fuckin’ name’s on the car!”

  “My rental car was stolen, far as the police know.”

  Carmine’s taking it worse than she expected. She says, “Roy told some of the girls he was going to take you down. I couldn’t sit by and let that happen. Plus, he threatened me.”

  “I told you to watch your step. He ain’t right in the head.”

  “I know.”

  “You shot him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’d you get the gun?”

  “It was Bobby’s.”

  “The boyfriend? Wait. You didn’t kill him too, did you?”

  “Of course not! Jesus, Carmine!”

  “Hey, I had to ask.”

  “I guess.”

  “And Gwennie helped you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But how? You only blew into town how many days ago?”

  “Four.”

  “And you met me three days ago.”

  “So?”

  “Now you’re hotwiring cars, killing made men, turning Gwennie into an accomplice. Next thing you know—”

  “I hired Gwen.”

  “You what?”

  “Hired her. To run the girls. For the Top Six.”

  “How the fuck?”

  “I told you I’ve got a wonderful business sense.”

  “Gwen’s going to run my girls?”

  “Gwen and I are going to triple your business. If you’ll give us the chance.”

  “How?”

  “We’ve got plans.”

  “You’re making me very nervous, young lady.”

  “Can I be frank? You’re acting like an atheist at a Pentecostal convention. But think about it. Roy was your biggest threat. I got rid of him. Gwen coming back was your greatest wish. I got her for you. I was your greatest desire, and now I’m yours. Anything you want, anything you need…you get. No matter what it takes. Just let me in, sweetheart. Let me into your business.”

  “You can hotwire a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you teach me?”

  “If you’re a good boy.”

  He leans over, kisses her breast.

  Then says, “That took balls, killing Roy.”

  “You see any balls down there?”

  “Not really.”

  “Maybe you should take a closer look…”

  38.

  Donovan Creed.

  Cincinnati.

  THE PILOT TURNS and points a grim finger at t
he fighter jets on the runway.

  “We should wait till they move, sir.”

  “Yeah, but I’m in a hurry.”

  “They’re blocking the runway.”

  I’m running late because of some work I had the geeks perform this morning, and Callie just called to say she’s on her way to the private airfield in Cincinnati to pick me up. Due to a faulty igniter, the jet I flew in on has been grounded. It’s forty-five minutes to the nearest airport, and they don’t have any private jets currently available for charter anyway. So I found an old Cessna 1SP in the hangar that can be legally flown by a single pilot. Since one of the private pilots has to stay with the broken plane, I hired the other one to fly me to Cincy in the Cessna. We wasted thirty minutes fueling and checking the systems, and now the fighter pilots are back on duty, sitting in their cockpits, twiddling their thumbs. They’re not in my chain of command, which means they don’t move unless the defense department tells them to.

  Unfortunately, it’s lunch hour at the Pentagon.

  So here at Sensory, the fighter jets continue to sit at the far end of the runway, blocking our takeoff.

  “You’ve got plenty of room, don’t you?” I say.

  “Technically, yes. But it’s never a good idea to take off on a runway that’s in use. I could lose my license.”

  “Those fighter pilots think they’re hot shit,” I say.

  “They do indeed, sir.”

  “You know they’re sitting there laughing at us.”

  “I expect you’re right, sir.”

  I move from the cabin to the cockpit and strap myself into the co-pilot’s chair and say, “What’s your name, son?”

  “James Rogers.”

  “What do your friends call you, Jimmy?”

  “Buck, sir.”

  “Buck Rogers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I like that.”

  “Are you planning to fly us, sir?”

  “No. But maybe it’s time I asked you a question.”

  “Sir?”

  “Who’s the real pilot here, son? You? Or those guys?”

  “Me, sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then let’s show ’em what we’re made of.”

  “For real?”