by Rich Foster
“I didn't think you ever got nervous, Dirk?”
“Yeah well there is such a thing as caution. I need your help.”
This took Harry by surprise. “Anytime, anyplace. I have your back.”
“I need you to come to Las Vegas. Somebody very important asked me to ask you to come. The fact he was only asking says a lot about what he feels he owes me.”
Harry knew Barton implicitly referred to Rico Marcelli, a major boss who was more accustomed to ordering than asking. A few years past Dirk rescued his daughter from kidnappers. Marcelli felt more indebted than if it were his own life Dirk saved.
Evidently, even gratitude has limits. “
“I'll fly out tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
And without saying more Barton hung up.
*
On his way out of the terminal at McCarran Airport. Harry fed a slot machine. He lost.
Outside it was a warm dry eighty-eight degrees. Barton picked him up at the curb.
“You drive over from Santa Barbara?” Harry asked surprised that Dirk had a car.
“No I flew myself over. This is a rental.”
Barton owned a Piper PA-30 twin Comanche. It made the transport of personal armaments easier.
The heat and the surrounding desert reminded Harry of Afghanistan and things he preferred to forget. Rock strewn landscapes left a hollow feeling within him, the whock of helicopters lifting off for sight seeing tours of the Grand Canyon gave him the urge to dive for cover, not even the buzz and activity on the strip made him shake the mood.
Las Vegas was not his sort of town, to him the city's glitz and glamour was face paint on an aging harlot. The whole town was a harvester machine that gleaned and then shucked the players before spewing them out as chaff.
Barton pulled into the portico of one of the high rises that had sprouted up as quickly as mushrooms in spring before the last financial crash.
“If you're packing leave it in the glove box. Guns in other people's hands makes these folks nervous.”
“Left it at home. I thought this was a friendly chat?”
“Suppose to be.”
They stepped out into the heat. Even before the doorman opened the lobby doors a valet had whisked their ride away.
At the security desk, that limited access to the elevators, the guard asked who they were there to see.
“Continental Consolidated Import and Export.”
“And your names please?”
“I'm Mr. Dirk and this is Mr. Grim.
The guard bared a gummy smile as if it were a joke, until something in Barton's eyes took his smile away. He quickly checked his roster.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Dirk. Please take the last elevator. It is an express to the thirtieth floor.”
They rode up in silence. There was little to say and both suspected the elevator was wired for sight and sound. When the doors slid open Las Vegas stretched before them. The distant horizon shimmered in the heat.
A woman of efficiency and little beauty met them.
“This way please."
They followed her down a carpeted hallway. Watching her wide hips, Harry said to Dirk, "You remember those mules we rode into the hills?"
"Yeah, long ride."
Harry nodded his head at the secretary's backside. Barton, snickered.
All office doors were closed. Their guide swung open a door to a vacant conference room.”
“Please be seated, someone will be with you shortly.”
“No coffee and rolls?” Harry whispered to Barton.
A dozen smoking lounge chairs circled the room. A mahogany conference table spanned one end of the room and at the opposite, there was a portal that looked remarkably like an elevator door.
Harry walked over to the windows that ran floor to ceiling and looked down. A damn long fall.
Barton's eyes prowled for the hidden cameras and microphones, but they could be secreted in a hole smaller than a thumbtack. He gave up and took a seat.
The doors slid open. Rico Marcelli was tall, gray haired and lacked anything that might distinguish him from a dozen other successful CEO’s. His suit was carefully tailored and pearl cufflinks held his French cuffs together.
Behind him were two other men. One was obviously a body guard, unless he was a pro football linebacker off duty. The other was management, a better suit and his eyes did not race around the room. He had the luxury to relax..
“Good morning, Mr. Dirk,” Marcelli said with a polite nod but he did not extend his hand. “I appreciate you bringing your friend over to talk.”
He makes it sound like I only came across town, Harry thought.
Marcelli took a seat. The guard moved into the corner from which vantage point he had a clear line of sight of both doors and all occupants. Man number two stood respectfully to the right of his superior. Marcelli's eyes moved over to Harry.
“Mr. Grim, thank you for your cooperation.” His finger tips came together and formed a temple. “I am curious why you are asking questions about Vito Donatello?”
Harry began to speak but Marcelli held up one finger to stop him. “One moment please, in case you are tempted to be less than candid.”
Though not in his best interests to irritate the man, Harry still spread out his open hands, as if to say, The floor is yours.
“Last year, you wanted to talk to Vinnie Tagliero and now I learn you want to know about his uncle, Mr. Donatello. One might draw the conclusion you have an unhealthy interests in business matters that should not concern you. Were it not for the fact I have immense respect for your friend, Mr. Dirk, you might find our inquires less pleasant.”
He paused to let the veiled threat settle in, but if he expected to see a reaction on Harry's face, he was to be disappointed.
“Sir,” Harry' began, his years in the military permitting the word to come easily, whether he believed it or not, “I assure you my interest is not related to either gentleman's professional life. In fact, I am surprised to learn they are related.”
Marcelli's eyebrows arched.
“Las Vegas is not a small city and yet the two people that peak your interest are not only related but have business dealings with me. It stretches one's credulity, Mr. Grim.”
“You will find the connection is through Red Lake where I live and not through Las Vegas,” Harry instinctively added, “sir.”
“Convince me.” Marcelli's tone let the facade of civility dip a small bit.
“Vinnie Tagliero attended Red Lake High School, he was involved in a party twenty years ago at the same time a girl disappeared. It has been determined to the satisfaction of the authorities that no persons at that party were implicated in her death. In short, any interest I may have had in your friend no longer exists.
Harry noticed a miniscule flaring of Marcelli's nostril when he implied Marcelli consorted with someone as lowly as Tagliero.
“As for Mr. Donatello, I know nothing of his work other than what is rumored in the press. However, his sister-in-law lives in Red Lake. Recently her husband disappeared and is presumed dead, Mr. Donatello was at the memorial service. I am checking up on people who attended.”
“To what end?”
Harry chose his words carefully. “Harvey Stockman was worried about his wife. He felt she was adversely affected by her sister's death last year. Her sister being Mr. Donatello's wife. While I was following Julia Stockman I noticed she was being followed by someone who did not appear to be local. I reported this to Mr. Stockman but he seemed indifferent, so the matter dropped. However, after he disappeared it suddenly seemed to be of possible importance.”
“Are you accusing Mr. Donatello of something?”
“No, but he struck me as someone who might have an interest in Julia Stockman's welfare.”
Marcelli studied his well manicured fingernails. Barton and the body guard studied each other. Harry kept his eyes on Marcelli.
“I took the trouble to make inquiries as a show of my dee
p respect for your friend. And I can tell you that indeed Mr. Donatello was worried about his sister-in-laws safety, he did have a man keeping an eye on her. I trust that answers your questions, it would be best if it did.”
Harry managed a smile. “Thank you, sir.”
Marcelli was not fooled by his false gratitude.
“Someone will see you out.” Marcelli rose, the body guard pressed the elevator button before his boss was on his feet. The three men stepped into the elevator. As the doors slid closed, Marcelli gave an almost imperceptible nod toward Dirk.
In the privacy of the elevator, Marcelli turned and spoke to the business suit beside him. “Vincent, I want to know what our Mr. Donatello has been up to, he works our clubs, right?”
“No, that's his nephew, Vinnie, who runs the Club Seven-Seven. Vito is involved in our import business in Juarez..”
“Something is not right here. I dislike finding out about events related to our interests in this manner. Look into this, discover the details on Donatello's wife’s death, ask him why he is so interested in his sister-in-law that he is using our resources to follow her. Also talk to the nephew and see if he confirms what Mr. Grim told us. Get back to me ASAP.”
Barton's car was at the curb when Harry and he came out of the lobby. Neither spoke as they drove through town to the airport. There was ample time for Marcelli's men to plant a bug in the car. They would talk after they dropped it off at the rental lot.
Barton's eyes kept flicking from the road to the rear view mirror. He tapped Harry's leg and tipped his head toward the rear two times.
Harry did not turn around, but watched the side mirror. A dark sedan hung back a few cars.
“Lets get something to eat,” he said.
Barton turned into a fast food restaurant that offered drive through service. They circled the building and placed their order in a microphone that made voices sound as if they were speaking Serbian. When they pulled forward to pick up their food the sedan was in a lot across the street. The tinted windows prevented them from seeing who was in the car. As they pulled out, the sedan dropped in behind them three cars back.
There was no point in trying to shake the tail, it would only let the tail know they were spotted which would only serve to make them more cautious if there was a next time.
“What do you think?” Harry asked as they walked through the terminal.
“Probably, our guest making sure we leave town.”
“Not a man I would want to disappoint.”
“No, best we did not.”
They shook hands and Barton hurried off toward the executive terminal where his plane was parked. Harry strolled over to a magazine kiosk but then circled back to where he could see the security gates. Two men came up to the guard where staff entered the controlled area. They flashed their wallets which sufficed to let them past. Hmmm....government or police, not even the mob can walk past TSA.
Harry idled beside the kiosk. The two men looked actively around, then the one with closely cropped hair pointed his partner one way and he moved rapidly the other. Harry picked up a copy of the Las Vegas Sun, dropped a dollar on the counter and followed.
Ensconced behind the newspaper he followed his own tail. The man moved with purpose, no longer lingering to look at the people he passed. As Harry expected the man's pace slowed as he reached the departure gate for Harry's flight.
Number two is probably tailing Barton.
Harry moved over to the wall and waited. The man scanned the rows of waiting passengers.
“Ladies and Gentlemen we are now boarding Flight 632 to Denver, please have your boarding pass ready.”
People rose and gathered their belongings, a line to board rapidly formed. The man craned his neck to watch, working his way to where he had a vantage point of those boarding. The line grew short and still Harry waited. The crew cut man impatiently checked his watch. A few stray passengers arrived huffing and puffing, running late for their connection. The waiting area was empty except for a lone person. Harry thought he looked familiar but he was at a distance and could not place him.
“Final call for flight 632, to Denver. All passengers should be embarked at this time.”
The gate agent put down the microphone and went to secure the departure door.
Crew Cut looked at his watch one more time with disgust and hurried toward the main concourse. Harry crossed to the boarding area, passing the heavy set passenger that remained. The gangway door was almost closed as Harry arrived.
“You just made it, sir,” the gate attendant said as if she were pleased by his good fortune.
Harry gave her his boarding pass. The door immediately closed behind him. On his way down the portable causeway he placed the face, of the heavy set man, it was the thug who followed Julia Stockman!
That night Harry told Paula about his day while they had postprandial cocktails
“My God Harry, those people are killers!” Paula said as if Harry did not already know it.
There were times she had trouble accepting what he did for a living.
“Can't you take a nice divorce case?”
“Maybe I should look for runaway pets, instead?”
Paula burst into tears.
Harry grew irritated, he felt the tears gave her an unfair advantage in the argument.
I am what I am, he thought.
Can't he tell I'm afraid? she thought.
Yet neither thought to take the other in their arms and say, “Its about you! I don't want to lose you!”
Harry fetched a beer from the fridge, Paula left the room. This fight occasionally arose in what was mostly a tranquil relationship, but the issue was never satisfactorily resolved.
For Paula it was a mixture of what might happen to Harry, what he did for a living and at times a niggling fear of who Harry might be under his veneer of civilization.
As for Harry, it was easy to mistake Paula's concern for control. Mixed with Harry's own reluctance to be vulnerable it led to failed communication. Harry knew he would kill for Paula, what he had trouble putting into words was that he would also die for her.
Both knew the argument would pass, they would reconcile over wine and sex, but the issue would not be settled.
Paula's ex-husband was a cop. She knew the anxiety of wondering if there would be a knock at the door, if Brad might leave one morning and not be back, struck down in the line of duty.
He was a good man who idolized her too much and slowly Paula came to feel smothered by his worship. When she found herself fantasizing about that knock at the door, she knew it was time to leave.
She drove away and did not stop until she came to Red Lake. A lunch break, turned into a day, that into a week, and now it was over four years since she arrived. Harry was the reason she stayed.
Paula wiped the tears away, frustrated with herself for letting it out. Harry came up behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and bent over and kissed her cheek.
“I'm sorry, honey. What I do, is who I am.”
Paula reached up and squeezed his hand.
Chapter Five
The float barges were out and the crane operators were busy booming portions of cribbed docks into place. Floating docks were dragged off the shore and connected to their moorings. Boats were fork lifted out of the storage racks, their shrink wrap stripped away like gift wrap from a late Christmas present. And absentee owners began to arrive on the weekends to open their cabins for summer.
April showers bring May flowers, so what do Mayflowers bring? The idiotic riddle bounced in Harry's head. Finally, he mentally answered the question, to make it go away, Pilgrims! But it was true, the rains were gone and the gardens of Red Lake were bursting into bloom. Such were Harry's thoughts as he strolled back from the bank where he deposited the check Julia Stockman sent him for the Florida trip.
I almost feel guilty taking her money. What did I really do? On the other hand it might have been otherwise, so just be glad sometimes money comes easy, h
e advised himself.
When he got to the office Paula was waiting in the hallway. She put one finger to her lips. And pointed away from the office. By the elevator Harry asked, “What's with the cloak and dagger stuff?”
“Someone searched the office.”
Harry's brow wrinkled in concern, wondering who might take an interest in him.
“Stuff was moved around on my desk. And I always push the file folders toward the back because it makes it easier when I am filing. This morning there were random spaces between some of the files.”
“There was little she missed and Harry was not fool enough to discount her observations. If she said someone had entered the office, then they did.
"Carry on as usual. I'll look around. Make a bit of noise in case they planted a listening device.”
Paula returned to the office. Harry went into the insurance office across the hall.
“Can you call my office Carol and pretend you want to hire me to follow your husband.”
“I don't have a husband,” she purred.
“Then he's a fool!”
It was not the first time they exchanged banter, nor the first time Carol played stooge for a phone call.
“Your office getting bugged again, Harry?”
“Maybe.”
When he came in a moment later Paula was having an animated conversation with Carol who evidently was indignant about how much money the Grim Agency would charge to catch a philandering spouse.
Harry studied the office door lock. Small fresh scratches showed but they might well be from his own key. However, Paula was right about the files, they were not as usual. Minor annoyance passed over his face as he sat down at his desk and turned on the computer. It was more than a year since he used it but hidden behind the heat duct was a motion activated camera. When it ran out of digital memory it simply began writing new data on the old, much as video tapes once did.
He rapidly ran the images back. until he found a stranger in his office. The lights were on, but the windows dark, and the wall clock read 2:23.