Jeez, Nemo thought, that doesn’t leave much of a window. If these idiots were stupid enough to let him out, he didn’t plan on giving them a chance to take it back.
One of the deputies had told him about Alex last night. How the cops had shot him down in cold blood, the stupid twit. That was the thing about Alex. Always letting his ego get the better of him, especially after Sara took her nosedive. Alex had been out of control.
Nemo, on the other hand, was only interested in two things: cash and pussy. And he’d be damned if he’d wind up facedown in a rat-infested train yard all because some rich bitch got her brain fried.
Instead, he’d do what he should have done two months ago and hop a bus to Ensenada. Plenty of pussy there. All those tight little Mexican chochos.
Caliente, baby, caliente.
Now all he needed was cash.
“Well, Mr. Nemo?”
Escalante was unfolding a sheet of paper with official-looking writing all over it. Nemo stared at it, thinking, the guy’s serious. This is the real thing.
“You tell these crank-yankers to get me a pen,” he said, “and I’ll sign whatever you want.”
YOU THINK HE swallowed it?” Donovan asked.
“Like a twenty-dollar whore,” Waxman said, his voice distorted over the cell line. “He’s being processed as we speak.”
“And you’re sure he didn’t recognize Franky?”
“Even I barely recognized him. Put on a fake beard, glasses, did a whole number on the moron. Cited some bullshit criminal code and even made him sign a waiver—you believe that?” Waxman laughed. “This thing pans out, we’ll have to give Franky another trophy.”
“Or a ticket to Hollywood,” Donovan said.
Despite what Waxman thought, Bobby Nemo was no moron. If they had simply let him go, he was bound to be suspicious, and sending the Chameleon in with an appropriately long-winded cover story was designed to allay those suspicions.
They had discussed coming down hard on Nemo, the way they had before, but if it backfired, if Nemo clammed up this time, then where would they be? Better to make him think he was in control rather than take it from him.
And the next step was key.
Donovan just hoped it would work.
He sat behind the wheel of his sedan, parked across the street from the U.S. Marshals’ office, which occupied the lower floor of the federal building. It was just past 7:30 p.m., and the streetlight above his car was burnt out, offering him an extra layer of darkness as protection.
“You sure you don’t want me along?” Waxman asked.
“I can manage.” It would be hours before the brass figured out what they were up to, but Donovan had decided it was best to err on the side of caution and handle the surveillance duties solo while Waxman played lead agent.
“What about the woman? You talk to her?”
“She’s on board,” Donovan said. “Not that she’s happy about it, but she’ll come through.”
“She’d better or we’re screwed.”
“We’re screwed no matter how you look at it,” Donovan said, then clicked off.
Once word got upstairs that Nemo had been released, about two tons of shit would hit the fan, but neither Donovan nor Waxman had bothered to think that far ahead. They’d weather that storm when it blew in.
Donovan tapped his fingers on the wheel, feeling the jumpiness in his legs, as if an alien life force had crawled into his body and was struggling to take control. His head had started to throb again and he wished he had a couple of Advil and a nice cold Coke to wash them down.
Ten long minutes later, the lobby doors of the federal building swung open and Bobby Nemo and a little guy with a goatee emerged. The Chameleon. Franky Garcia. And Waxman was right, he was barely recognizable.
Garcia handed Nemo a business card along with a few bucks in cash, then shook his hand and headed off toward the parking lot. Nemo kept his eyes on him a moment, then glanced around as if he suspected someone might be watching. Then, turning his attention to the street, he waved a hand at an approaching cab.
The cab sliced across a couple lanes of traffic and pulled to the curb. Nemo jumped in the back, made a gesture, and the cab took off again, tooting its horn as it merged back into traffic.
Here we go, Donovan thought, then started his engine and pulled out.
42
NEMO TOLD THE driver to drop him off near the alley behind the Pussy Palace, a narrow strip of urine-streaked asphalt that led to the backstage door. He’d been tempted to have the guy take him straight to the Greyhound station, but there were a couple of snags in that plan.
First, he was horny as all hell. As much as he’d like to save it up for the Mexican hotties, he’d never had a lot of willpower when it came to women. His five-year drought at Danville had been pure torture (he’d never fancied himself a butt pilot), and he’d been making up for it ever since. As far as Nemo was concerned, a day without tang was like a day without sunshine.
Second, the only cash he had on him was the twenty bucks Escalante had given him, and half of that went for the cab. With what was left, he could probably afford a decent sub sandwich and a soda. If he counted pennies.
That was where Carla came in.
Not only was she a Grade A piece of ass, the twenty or so grand he’d managed to pocket during the Northland First & Trust heist was stashed in her apartment.
She didn’t know this, of course. Nobody did. Nemo figured if the Feds had found it, either Donovan or the lawyer would’ve mentioned it, but neither had.
After Tina had crashed the news van, he’d always felt a little sick about leaving all that bank loot behind. But when you’re running from the cops, dragging a couple of fifty-pound duffel bags behind you is usually a bad idea. Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to fill his pockets in the vault.
Luther had seen him, shaking his head in disgust. “When Alex finds out, he won’t like it.”
“He’s not gonna find out, is he?”
“Not from me,” Luther said. “But Alex has the power. Knows all, sees all. And I think maybe Sara’s got it, too.”
Nemo looked at him, continuing to stuff his pockets. Luther was definitely a dim bulb in a dark room. “What Alex has is a smooth line that only suckers like you fall for,” Nemo said. “As for Sara, don’t get me started. She’s got rich relatives and a nice ass. That’s about it.”
Luther scowled at him then. Nemo knew the dimwit had tapped Sara’s ass a couple times himself, knew that he and Alex and Sara had a freaky little threesome thing going on, but that had been more about control than anything else. Alex playing puppet master, Sara the willing apprentice. Luther was either too stupid or too horny to realize he was being managed.
Nemo was his own man, thank you, and Alex or no Alex, he figured it never hurt to carry some insurance. Unfortunately, his pockets could only fit so much.
Two days after he’d moved in with Carla, he had removed her toilet tank, punched a hole in the wall behind it, stuffed the cash inside, and replaced the tank. Nice and neat. His own personal bank vault.
Now all he had to do was make a withdrawal.
Escalante had told him that no charges had been brought against Carla, that the Feds had released her shortly after he was taken into custody. He supposed he could just head over to her apartment and grab his stash, but why not take a few minutes for a proper goodbye? After a couple days in stir, he figured he deserved it.
He stepped over a fresh stream of urine and crossed the alley to the backstage door. Faded letters across it read TALENT ONLY. He pounded on the door and waited. A moment later, it creaked open and music spilled out, a guy in leather pants frowning at him. “What the fuck you want?”
“I’m looking for Carla.”
Leather Boy nodded toward the door and started to pull it shut. “Read the sign, asshole.”
Nemo caught the door with his right hand. “I forgot my glasses.”
“Look, you wanna see the show, go around front
like everybody el—”
Nemo swung his left hand up between the guy’s legs and grabbed his balls, applying just enough pressure to send a clear message.
“Carla,” he said. “She here or not?”
Leather Boy’s eyes bulged, his whole body going stiff. You could almost see his brain working, trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this delicate situation without getting his nads crushed. “Uhhh,” he said involuntarily.
Nemo applied more pressure. “What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“S-she won’t be in tonight,” Leather Boy croaked. “Called and said something came up.”
“She say what that something was?”
Leather Boy’s face had lost all color. He looked and sounded like a guy passing a gallstone. “That’s all I know, man. I swear.”
Nemo released him and Leather Boy stumbled back, gasping, grabbing his package to make sure everything was still in one piece. “Asshole,” he muttered.
“Strike two,” Nemo said, then stepped inside, grabbing him by the shirt. An imitation-silk number.
He spun the guy around and slammed him against a wall, pinning him there. “Now give me twenty bucks. I need cab fare.”
WHEN THE KNOCK came on the door, Carla Devito sucked in a breath and let it out again. She hadn’t been this nervous since she’d turned her first trick.
Not that Bobby made her nervous. He had a temper, sure, but he could be tamed the way most men could, a lesson Carla had learned when she was thirteen years old.
It was the situation that was getting to her. The Fed showing up at her doorstep, telling her what a badass Bobby was—like that was news—saying she’d better cooperate or she’d be facing charges of obstruction and harboring a fugitive and God knows what else.
The Fed had looked sick, all pale and stuff, with dark, crazy-looking eyes. He was one of the ones who’d come busting in the day before, the one in charge, and Carla didn’t doubt he meant business.
He’d told her that Bobby was getting released from jail and would probably come knocking before the night was over. And, sure enough, here Bobby was, standing at her door, looking kind of small and distorted through the peephole, but still sexy as hell.
Carla sucked in another breath, then flipped the latch and yanked the door open, hoping she could pull this off, knowing she had to, because jail was not an option.
“Ohhh, my God,” she said, putting it on extra thick.
Bobby smiled, looking her over. She wore a tight black T-shirt and a tiny lavender thong, and he seemed to like what he saw. “Hey, baby.”
“Oh my God,” she repeated, then threw her arms around him and pushed her face into his. She found his mouth and sucked his tongue between her lips, pressing up against him, feeling his hands crawl over her, feeling him grow hard against her thigh.
Pulling him inside, she shut the door. “They told me I’d never see you again.”
“I ain’t no ghost,” Bobby said.
And then she had his pants undone and his zipper down and Bobby’s beast in her mouth, Bobby moaning, “Oh, yeah, baby,” and before she knew it, they were on the floor, Bobby yanking the thong aside, using the Beast like a weapon, impaling her, radiating heat like she’d never felt it before, radiating it right up into her brain. The pressure built and built and boom, there it was, firecracker number one, and then boom, firecracker number two, followed by a whole series of firecrackers popping off inside her head.
But deep down, all she could think about was how nervous she was and how sad she felt, because she was about to betray the best damn thing she’d ever had.
I GOTTA PISS,” Bobby said.
They were in bed now, round three and counting, the sheets all torn up and soaked with sweat. Feeling both whipped and wired, Carla realized that this was her cue.
“Do it in the shower,” she said, the nerves coming back, a knuckle of tension in her stomach.
Bobby frowned at her. “What the hell for?”
“Toilet’s broke.”
He got up on his elbows. “What do you mean, it’s broke? Broke how?”
Carla hesitated, wondering again if she could pull this off. “There’s something I gotta tell you, Bobby. Something bad.”
And then he was sitting upright, the frown deeper, his eyes starting to cloud. All of a sudden she wanted to dump this whole scam and tell him the truth. But that would mean jail time, and despite her past, Carla had never done a day of jail in her life. Not one.
Sensing her hesitation, Bobby was out of bed before she could say anything more, crossing toward the bathroom, his beautiful bare ass flexing as he walked.
The moment he stepped through the doorway, he made a sound, something guttural and unpleasant, and she knew he was staring at the hole in the wall—the hole that had been hidden by the toilet tank that now sat off to the side—the hole she hadn’t known about until she’d come home last night and found it just like the Feds had left it: empty.
When she’d gone to pee, she’d had to squat over the shower drain like some third world orphan. Her landlord was missing in action and she sure as hell didn’t know how to put a toilet back together. Then the Fed showed up and told her what was what. Now all she wanted to do was crawl under the bedsheets and stay there.
When Bobby came out of the bathroom, he had a look on his face she’d never seen before. A heat in his eyes that had nothing to do with sex or desire. “Where the fuck is my money, bitch?”
Bobby may not have made her nervous, but now he was scaring her, so much so that all the details of the story she’d been rehearsing suddenly vacated her brain.
His skin was two shades darker, a deep crimson stain spreading all the way down to the Beast, which seemed to be twitching with an anger all its own.
He moved toward the bed, hands grabbing for her, and Carla tried desperately to remember the name the Fed had told her to use, knowing that if she blew this, jail would be the least of her worries.
For some reason an image of Superboy popped into her head, the one from TV—Superboy and his cute bald friend—just as Bobby hooked her forearm and yanked her toward him.
“Luther!” she shouted, suddenly remembering.
The name must’ve meant something to him, because he stopped just short of hitting her, the heat in his eyes replaced by bewilderment. “What?”
“He was here … a little while ago. Pushed his way in, threatened to hurt me.” She hoped she was getting this right. “I wanted to tell you right away, but I was scared.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bobby shook his head as if he were trying to clear some cobwebs from his brain. “A big guy? Scar on his arm?”
“That’s the one,” Carla told him. “He took it. He took your money. Said you wouldn’t need it where you’re going.”
“Motherfucker,” Bobby muttered, releasing his grip on her arm. “Muuu-ther-fuuucker.”
In that moment, Carla began to believe in the devil, because he was surely lurking behind Bobby’s eyes. She was sitting upright, as naked as a newborn, and despite spending a large portion of her life in this state, she suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable. The urge to blurt out the truth washed over her again.
You stupid jerk, she wanted to tell him, the first place they look is behind the toilet. They found your stash ten minutes after they hauled us out of here.
But she resisted. Hard.
Keep going, she told herself. Finish what you started.
“There’s more,” she said. “I-I think the cops are after him. He said something about getting out of the city. That’s why he wanted your money.”
“Sonofabitch,” Bobby said. He searched the floor, then grabbed his pants and jerked them on. “That fucker is toast.”
“He’s leaving town, Bobby. How you gonna find him?”
“I don’t know if you noticed, cupcake, but Luther ain’t exactly a wattage hog when it comes to brainpower.” He slipped his shirt on, started buttoning it. “He’s the kind of guy alway
s needs somebody to tie his shoes for him. And if the cops are after him, I’ve got a pretty good idea where he’ll go.”
“Where?”
Bobby glared at her. “Why do you care? You fuck him or something? Looking for a repeat performance?”
“Jesus, Bobby, what do you think I am?” They both knew the answer to that, but that was beside the point. “I’m just curious, is all.”
Bobby snorted, shoving his feet into his shoes. “Curiosity’s overrated,” he said, then snatched her car keys off the dresser and headed for the bedroom door.
“You’re taking my car?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get it back.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
Bobby paused in the doorway and looked at her, his gaze sliding over her body. “You just keep shaking those tits, baby. That’s what you’re good at.”
43
WHEN HE HEARD the front door slam, Donovan pulled his earpiece out and shut off the receiver. It had been a while since he’d done his own wire work. He usually let the techs handle the job. Yet, despite his lack of practice, the signal had come in crisp and clear. Especially the transmitter in Carla’s bedroom.
He had hoped Carla would be able to draw Nemo out a bit more, get him talking about Luther’s whereabouts, but at least the bastard was pissed off and on the move. That’s all that really mattered.
Parked across from Carla’s apartment house, a newly renovated, twenty-story pile of glass and stucco, Donovan kept his gaze on the underground parking ramp, waiting for Nemo to ride the elevator to the garage. His concentration, however, was wavering. The headache that had started earlier had blossomed into a full-fledged brain-banger, and his recently recharged batteries were steadily draining.
Craving a cigarette, he reached into his coat pocket and brought out a pack of Marlboros. The wrapper was halfway off before he realized what he was doing.
A faint whisper of voices skittered through his brain like rustling leaves.
Kiss Her Goodbye (A Thriller) Page 19