Blackbird, Farewell

by Robert Greer

  Moving in the direction of the humming, he tried to pinpoint its source, but the competing crackle of the fire made it difficult. Convinced that for the moment at least the cabin was in little danger of going up in flames, and that Niki was armed and safe, he decided to try a ruse that he'd heard CJ and Billy DeLong laugh about for years. They'd used the trick to get a heavily armed band of whacked-out ecoterrorists who had cornered CJ and Billy near a ranch house outside Baggs, Wyoming, to expose their position.

  He smiled as he thought about the oft-told tale's punch line: If you can't get Moses to come to the mountaintop, then you best bring the mountaintop to him. With Billy's words ringing in his ears, Damion steadied his gun barrel on the porch decking and, with the Peacemaker aimed squarely at where he thought the humming was coming from, fired off a round. A split second later, half-a-dozen rounds from a semiautomatic rifle came zinging his way.

  Losing his grip on the fire extinguisher, Damion dropped to the ground, landing on his injured arm. Brushing a clump of moist dirt off his dressing, he heard someone call out, “See you're outside, fucker. Gutsy move, Madrid. But this time I'm gonna do more than cut you. Or maybe it's your woman doin’ the shootin’. No matter. I'll handle her too.”

  Damion eyed his arm and whispered, “Son of a bitch.” There could be no mistaking Leotis Hawkins's voice. Concerned that he'd out-thought himself in his rush to emulate Billy and CJ, he remained silent, thinking, What next?

  Even in the light of the fire, he couldn't determine exactly where Hawkins was hiding, but the best bet seemed to be a lone boulder twenty yards beyond the front steps of the cabin. Deciding to chance another shot in an effort to see if he was right, he fired at the boulder. That shot was met with another half-dozen rounds from Hawkins.

  “I know where you're hiding, rabbit,” Hawkins called out. “Hope you got more than one hole.”

  When Damion didn't respond, Hawkins bellowed, “You gonna answer me, cocksucker? Then again, maybe your arm's hurtin’ too much to talk.” His words were punctuated with an echo of laughter that was cut short by three shotgun blasts from the opposite corner of the porch. The shots peppered the boulder Hawkins had parked himself behind. Niki yelled, “He's behind the boulder, Damion,” and followed it up with three more blasts from the Remington 12-gauge over-and-under her uncle kept handy for what he liked to call coyote spankings. Damion suddenly found himself smiling.

  The second round of shots sent Hawkins ducking for cover as Niki broke into a self-satisfied grin. She had years of experience with firearms. Although her father and brother were lawyers, three of her uncles, including her father's youngest brother, the Nicaraguan-born engineering professor who owned the cabin, had fought shoulder to shoulder with guerrilla freedom fighters in Nicaragua during the Sandinista revolution. It had been that uncle who'd taught his sheltered Venezuelan-born niece during her childhood visits to Nicaragua that the world was filled with unsavory people whose ugly warts sometimes needed shaving. By the time she was twelve, Niki had learned to wield a handgun, a shotgun, and a rifle with equal facility.

  “Niki! Are you okay?” Damion called out.

  Watching the fire finally get a toehold on the porch's bottom step, Niki yelled, “Yes!” to which an agitated Leotis Hawkins responded with several rounds of fire.

  “Stay down,” Damion called out the instant the firing stopped. “If we can't see him, he can't see us.”

  “I've got all night,” Hawkins yelled. “And trust me, when that front porch finally catches fire, things out here are gonna light up like the Fourth of July. I'll see you then.”

  Aware that they'd reached an impasse, Damion pondered whether it would be better to circle around behind the cabin, link up with Niki, and increase their firepower or to stay where he was and keep Hawkins in a crossfire. He'd risen onto a knee when someone behind him whispered, “Tough spot, Blood. Sorta reminds me of bein’ in country during ’Nam.” Looking remarkably calm, Pinkie Niedemeyer brought a finger up to his lips and pushed aside Damion's gun barrel, now aimed at his gut.

  “Pinkie, where'd you come from?” Damion asked, shaking so badly he could barely get the words out.

  “Mario said I should stay glued to your ass, so I did. At least until you got to the cabin earlier tonight. I figured you and Niki wouldn't want me droppin’ in unexpected and rainin’ on your parade. So I drove down to Nederland and got myself somethin’ to eat before headin’ back up to camp out in my vehicle for the night. Looks like I came back to a mess.”

  “How'd you get back without Hawkins seeing you?”

  “That's for me to know and Mr. Hawkins to find out.” Pinkie's eyes narrowed as his face turned expressionless. “Vietnam teaches you a lot about killin’, Blood.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “What you're gonna do is circle around the back of this cabin, let Niki know I'm here, tell her to stay put, and then hustle right back here to your post.”

  “The two of us can take him, Pinkie. I know it.”

  Pinkie flashed Damion the cold, hard stare of a seasoned warrior. “Do what I say, Damion. You hear me?” His no-nonsense tone sent Damion scurrying. Moments later, out of breath, Damion was at Niki's side. Looking at her, dressed as she was in a lightweight jacket, a pair of her uncle's hunting fatigues, and a Colorado Rockies baseball cap, Damion had the sense that she could easily have fought alongside her uncles in Nicaragua. He hugged her tightly. “I've only got a few seconds, Niki. Pinkie's here, back on the other side of the cabin. He plans to take care of Hawkins on his own.”

  A look of fear spread across Niki's face. “He'll kill Hawkins, Damion.” She slipped out of her jacket and draped it over Damion's bare shoulders.

  “He might have to,” Damion said, sounding unfazed. “I've gotta get back.” Briefly eyeing the fire, he kissed Niki on the cheek and took off. “You stay put, no matter what!”

  Niki nodded and thought about her uncle as Damion disappeared back into the darkness. Once when her uncle had been teaching her brother and her how to handle a rifle, insisting that the unrest in Nicaragua had the potential to one day reach her father's doorstep, she'd asked him if he'd ever shot anyone. “Shot them and killed them,” he'd quickly answered, letting her know with words unspoken that in times of peril she might have to do the same. Eyeing the fire, which had now made its way up three porch steps, Niki whispered, “Pinkie, hurry.”

  Leotis Hawkins had it all figured out, or so he thought. He'd wait for the fire to do its job. It had been slow to take hold, and he'd never counted on the cabin's steps and porch being made of three-inch-thick, fire-retardant decking. But he could wait until there was a roaring inferno and a hint of daylight to flush out Madrid and his girlfriend. Wait until his superior firepower gave him the hands-down advantage. Wait in the middle of a forest thicket ten miles from nowhere until the cows came home.

  Stepping back from the boulder and leaning his weapon against it, he thought about the fact that he hadn't felt a single twinge of headache pain for hours. Deciding to place a fresh dip in his mouth, he reached for the half-empty pouch of chewing tobacco in his jacket pocket. He'd just pinched out a wad when he heard a swishing noise behind him. As he looked around to pinpoint where the sound had come from, he found himself staring down the muzzle of Pinkie Niedemeyer's 9-mm Beretta, a replacement for the Glock he'd been forced to leave behind at Asalon's. Before Hawkins could reach for his own handgun, Pinkie slammed the butt of the Beretta into Hawkins's temple. The last thing Hawkins thought as he slumped semiconscious to the ground was that his headache was back in spades.

  Pinkie called out, “Damion—it's Pinkie. Got things under control over here. How about you two lovebirds gettin’ a handle on that fire?”

  Within minutes Damion and Niki had emptied the fire extinguisher's contents onto a blaze that had consumed most of her uncle's front porch steps, and as they stood dousing the smoldering steps with separate streams of water from two garden hoses, Niki found herself wondering what she would tel
l her uncle about what had happened.

  She had the feeling, as Pinkie and Damion walked the still dazed Leotis Hawkins past her and up the porch steps for what she knew would be a serious grilling inside, that everything in her life had suddenly swirled out of control. When she asked to come inside to hear what Hawkins had to say, Pinkie and Damion waved her off, insisting that she stay outside and handle damage control. Fearful that Pinkie might still kill Hawkins, she looked at him and said, “Pinkie, please.”

  Pinkie nodded at an angry-looking Damion and said, “I don't think it's me you've gotta worry about.”

  Several minutes later, with his head still ringing and with both eyes tearing from a second concussion and the smoke, Hawkins stared across the cabin's great room, struggling to bring the wall nearest him into focus. His hands and feet were bound to the seat and legs of a kitchen chair with the baling wire Damion had found in the emergency cabinet, and a belt was looped around his chest, securing his torso to the chair back. “I can't breathe,” Hawkins gasped, looking down at the belt.

  “Should've thought about bein’ able to breathe before you started that fire,” Pinkie said.

  “Kiss my ass, you skinny-ass faggot.”

  Certain that Hawkins had no idea who Pinkie was or what he did for a living, Damion said, “If I were you, I'd choose my words more carefully, Leotis.”

  “Fuck you too, Madrid, and that goes double for your mama.”

  As Damion cocked his arm to deliver a blow that would have sent Hawkins flying off to dreamland once again, Pinkie grabbed him by the biceps. Lowering Damion's arm, he looked at Hawkins and said, “Now, Blood here's asked you a couple of times real nice what you know about Shandell Bird's murder, and all you've done so far is bombard us with obscenities and admit real grudgingly that you know Garrett Asalon. That's real impolite, Leotis. Maybe you and me need to talk to one another without Damion bein’ here.”

  “Then send the wetback Puerto Rican son of a bitch on his way.”

  Damion shook his head in protest. “No. I'm staying.”

  Hawkins laughed. “No need shakin’ your head for effect, Madrid. Fuck you both. I've played good cop, bad cop before—and with the best of ’em.”

  “Oh, have you?” Pinkie eyed Damion. “Why don't you go on and step outside, Blood?”

  Shaking his head in sudden fear for Hawkins's life, Damion stood his ground. “I'm staying.”

  “Okay. But if you stay and things don't go down to your likin’, remember I told you to leave.”

  “Screw you both,” Hawkins said dismissively. He was about to offer a new obscenity-laced protest when Pinkie reached into his pocket, pulled out his Beretta, and jammed the gun barrel into Hawkins's right ear. “We need to get somethin’ straight here, Leotis. I'm not who you think I am. I ain't a cop, a PI, a drug dealer, or a pimp. And just so you know it, I never take prisoners. If Blood and his girlfriend weren't here, I would've capped your ass out by that boulder. Now, since you don't seem one bit worried about who it is that's got the barrel of a 9-millimeter stuck in your ear, I'm gonna give you a chance to find out and maybe change your tune.”

  Pinkie slipped his cell phone off his belt, flipped it open, punched in a phone number with his thumb, and held the phone up for Hawkins to speak into. “Since the only thing you'll admit to is knowin’ Asalon, and for the life of me I can't figure out why you'd even admit that except to have us runnin’ off on a wild-goose chase after somebody you think might off us, I've dialed his number for you. If he's not there, ask for Craigy Theisman—could be you know him too—and tell whichever one of ’em you get on the line that Andrus Niedemeyer has you over a barrel and you wanta know what your chances are of walkin’ away from the situation.”

  “Fuck you, asshole.”

  Pinkie smiled. “Okay, have it your way. Why don't you just ask the question the way you see fit.”

  Hawkins smiled smugly. When Craigy Theisman answered, “Theisman,” Hawkins said, “Leotis here, Craigy. Got a question for you. Who the fuck is Andrus Niedemeyer? Got myself into a situation where I need to know.”

  Hawkins's face slumped as Theisman chuckled out his answer, with both Damion and Pinkie kneeling and listening in on the conversation. “He's a fuckin’ hit man, you dumbass nigger, and don't you ever call me Craigy. It's Mr. Theisman to you, shine. Hope you ain't told him nothin’ ’bout your dealin's with Mr. A. You keep your mouth shut, you hear me?”

  Hawkins swallowed hard, trying his best not to look at Pinkie.

  “Mr. A ain't available, but I'll pass on the message. One of us'll call you later. That is, if Niedemeyer ain't whacked your ass by then.” Theisman erupted in a final burst of laughter before slamming down the phone.

  Pinkie twisted the gun barrel around as suddenly, looking for an out, Hawkins said, “You won't pop me with Madrid and his girlfriend here.”

  “Wanta try me?”

  When Hawkins didn't respond, Damion said, “You can spare us all a lot of grief by telling us what you know about Shandell's murder.”

  It was the placid, uncaring look on Pinkie's face rather than Damion's request that caused Hawkins to shiver. “I told you. I don't know nothin’ about that killin’.” He paused and took a deep breath. “But I do know some things. Things I'm guessin’ you'd think are worth knowin’.”

  His expression not the least bit changed, Pinkie said, “Time you shared them then, brother.”

  “Or you'll kill me?”

  “Count on it.”

  Hawkins looked at Damion. The pleading look Damion gave Pinkie, a look that said, Please don't, told Hawkins that the time had come to tell the truth.

  “Okay, so I know some shit. But not about no murder. But before I tell you anything, you're gonna have to get that gun outta my ear and find me some damn aspirin. My head's splittin’.”

  Damion let out a relieved sigh as Pinkie extracted the gun barrel from Hawkins's ear and slipped the gun back into his jacket pocket just as a determined-looking Niki walked through the front door. “Fire's under control,” she said. Watching Pinkie's gun disappear, she exhaled slowly.

  “So are things in here,” Damion said as the vice-like pressure on his chest dissipated. Realizing that he'd never know for sure whether Pinkie would've killed Hawkins, he understood very well that Hawkins had made the right decision by deciding to talk. Thank God he'd made the right decision for all of them.

  Chapter 22

  “I hate dressing up like this, Garrett. I'm not a whore.” Connie East-land stared at Garrett Asalon, who sat across from her in an overstuffed chair, drinking in every inch of her nearly nude body.

  “Of course you're not, but then again, you're not a virgin.” Asalon smiled and waved for her to walk toward him across the teakwood-paneled library of his house in Boulder's historic Mapleton Hill district. “And this time, try and put a little wiggle in it.”

  Dressed in fishnet stockings, a purple garter belt, and three-inch-high spiked heels, Connie walked slowly across the room.

  “That's it, and show me a little pout. Good, good, good.” When she was within arm's reach of the tuxedo-clad, cigar-smoking mobster, Asalon set his cigar aside and pulled her down into his lap. “Now, wiggle that sweet little ass of yours for me until I get it off.”

  Connie rolled her body into his, letting Asalon fondle her breasts, nibble at her earlobes, and lick the small of her back until he quickly spent himself and his arms dropped to his sides. She'd never understood why he liked to play such games, especially since they'd had glorious sex an hour earlier. His explanation for what she viewed as half-baked kinkiness had always been that it was the equivalent of enjoying a sleep-inducing nightcap—icing on the cake, as it were. But to her, it had always seemed freaky. Getting some guy in a tuxedo off by rolling her ass on him was a long way from her sexual cup of tea. But since Garrett liked and even demanded it, she knew better than to turn him down.

  Looking relaxed, Asalon retrieved his cigar and took a long, slow pull off the $200 Cuban. �
�You're a sweetheart, a real cock-teasing sweetheart. I can never seem to get my fill of you.”

  Connie flashed him a coy smile as he ran a finger around her right nipple in a slow circle. “So are we on the same page with this Blackbird thing?” she finally asked.

  “Yes. And if Epps or the Madrid kid get too close, you're to call me and I'll have Craigy deal with them.”

  Connie flashed a relieved smile. “And if that Five Points drug peddler, Hawkins, gets a wild hair?”

  “No problem. Craigy will deal with him too. Don't worry your tight little body over it.”

  “I wish I didn't know as much about this as I do, Garrett.”

  “But you do, princess, and that's what makes us so symbiotic. And since I don't want that relationship to die on the vine, you need to forget about what you know and think more about keeping those wonderful vaginal muscles of yours tight and ready.” Asalon nudged Connie off his lap. “Why don't you run and get dressed. I'll have Craigy take you home.”

  Connie slipped the smock she'd been wearing earlier off the back of Asalon's chair, draped it over her shoulders, and walked toward the double-doored library exit. She swung the door open to find Craigy Theisman standing sentry. His mounting erection became all the more obvious with each step she took down the hall that led to Asalon's bedroom. Theisman took a final wistful look as she disappeared into the bedroom suite before poking his head into the library. Sounding dismissive, he called across the room, “Hey, boss. I think we might have a problem.”

  “How many times must I tell you, Craigy? I'm not your boss. I'm your employer. Boss is such an unrefined, primitive-sounding term. Now, what's the problem?”

  “Had a call a little bit ago from Leotis Hawkins. Fucker's gotten himself into some kinda scrape with Pinkie Niedemeyer. He wanted to know if Pinkie was the kind of person who'd kill him.”