“Welcome home, boss.”
Murtagh nodded to the man. Lowering his head, he entered the vehicle, joining the smaller man, who extended a small right hand in welcome. He gave his employer a flute of champagne with his left hand in a practiced, fluid motion. Murtagh ignored the handshake but took the bubbly. Barely suppressing his anger, he said, “Cruz, ’splain why you yahoos is late. I’ve been waitin’ in that sun for more ’n twenty minutes. I don’t wait for nobody, ’specially no disbarred lawyer. And don’t tell me traffic delays was the reason. Ain’t no cars on the road for twenty minutes, and I was fryin’ in the sun. Tell that bozo in front to get this tin can movin’. I don’t wanna be here a second more than I have to. Go. Now!”
“Sorry, Mr. Murtagh, but it wasn’t my fault. Those two picked me up at the hotel thirty minutes late. We rushed to get here but couldn’t make up the lost time. I’m sorry you had to wait.” Catching his breath, Ernest Cruz continued. “I have information for you,” he said, extending a manila file folder.
Murtagh took the folder but didn’t open it. “Does this have somethin’ to do with what I told ya to get?”
“Yes, sir. You’ll find our most recent information in there. Lacey Kinkaid is on her honeymoon in Austria. She married a man named Garth Wainwright, a novelist. Their hotel registration info is in the file, along with photos our tracker took. As far as the other guy, Ariel Amiti, we don’t know where he is. We can’t find him anywhere, and believe me, boss, we’ve looked long and hard.”
Murtagh said nothing while he thumbed through the file. He looked out the window at the leafless trees bordering the highway. Spring was late this far north. Suddenly he yelled to the driver, “Hey, stop this rig. Pull over,” as he pointed out the window to the highway’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong, boss?” Cruz wanted to know as the limo slowed to a stop.
“Nuthin’s wrong. Ya got a piece on ya?”
Cruz handed him a .38 caliber revolver from his shoulder holster.
“What’s this piece o’ crap? Any o’ you guys got a real gun?”
The goon in the front passenger seat passed his revolver back to the boss.
“Now that’s more like what I had in mind.” Murtagh examined the Colt Python .357 Magnum revolver. “Nice piece, pal. Mind if I use it for target practice.”
The limo had come to a stop near a small herd of Holsteins. Murtagh lowered the window, aimed, and fired. In the field, the explosive noise set the herd into a panicked run—all but two: a mother cow with a calf at her side. Murtagh shot the mother behind her left front leg. The shot was near her heart, and she dropped to her front knees. She maintained balance long enough to bawl to her young calf. The calf bleated and balked, moving away as her mother demanded. The mother collapsed at her baby’s side in death spasms, kicking her legs in a vain attempt to run from the pain. The baby nudged her mother. The bloody discharge frothing from the mother’s mouth and nose marked the baby as the mother flailed in a grand mal seizure. The calf stayed by her side, confused and frightened.
Murtagh’s associates looked on in revulsion at the senseless cruelty their boss had produced and was clearly enjoying. The ex-con laughed—that unique laugh he did without ever smiling. He passed the Python back to the man in the front and leaned back in his seat, satisfied that some primitive urge had been fed. The revolver’s owner turned to speak to Murtagh. “Boss, she ain’t done yet. How about I finish her off?”
“Why?”
Murtagh wasn’t sensitive to what his men—all killers and brawlers—were feeling. “Get this car back on the damn road, and don’t give me no tree-huggin’ animal rights crap. That felt good. If you don’t like me havin’ some fun, keep thinkin’ ’bout that cow. Any of you confused by that?”
They drove in silence to Williamson County Regional Airport in Marion.
Murtagh finally broke the strained quiet in the car. “Did any o’ you bozos think to bring clothes? This stuff I got on smells like prison.”
Cruz reached for the leather tote on the seat next to him. “Yes, sir. Here in the duffel bag.”
Murtagh grabbed the bag from his attorney and pawed through the contents. Inside, he found a dress shirt, tie, socks, and underwear. Under the suit pants was a pair of black Gucci loafers with leather tassels.
“What fairies picked out these shoes?”
“Why? What’s not to like, boss?” Cruz asked.
“Did ya take ’em off a fag or what?
“Boss, you’ve been away for a while. These are very stylish, and they cost three hundred and thirty dollars. I can’t afford them myself, but we wanted you to have the best.”
Murtagh didn’t acknowledge the nose Cruz had up his boss’s butt. “How long to the plane?”
“Just a few minutes, but you have time to change. Your jet is waiting for us there. Then it’s back to St. Louis.”
“I ain’t goin’ to St. Louis. I got work to do, and it’ll get done better in Mexico. Arrange for a direct flight to Monterrey. I need to yank two ol’ thorns outta my hide. I want Kinkaid and Amiti real bad.”
Marcos Murtagh always got what he wanted. Always.
WHILE MURTAGH WAS MURDERING a mother cow, half a world away from him, Garth Wainwright sat at a table on a small covered patio at Café Amadeus in Salzburg. An April day in Austria was living up to legend with warm, bright sunshine. The sky was lapis lazuli blue, with a few thin clouds drifting by on the breeze. At the hotel, this morning, he had dressed in khakis and a polo, which were just right for the weather.
He had stacked several yellow legal pads on the tabletop next to a box of colored pens. His other fiction-writing paraphernalia included a long-lens 35-millimeter camera, mounted on a small tripod, that offered a splendid view of the Giselakai bike path and its constant flow of human traffic. Wainwright drank in the warm spring breezes that bounced off the river; the air was fragrant with the scents of new blooms. He stopped writing to marvel at the majestic snow-crowned Alps standing guard beyond the Salzach Valley.
Wainwright loved this café and had come here several times this week to write. Café Amadeus sat fifty meters from the riverbank, and the Giselakai bisected it. Salzach, a snow-fed river, poured out of the Alps, flowing southwesterly through Salzburg toward Italy. Wainwright kicked off his loafers, thinking once again that this was an ideal spot to work on his novel.
Sighting over the camera’s long lens as if it were a rifle, he watched throngs of people move up the path toward him. Wainwright used a cable release for his Nikon, taking a shot when the subject was unusual or interesting enough to deserve a photo. He looked for an unusual face, distinctive clothing, strange behavior, or a particular action. He’d jot down his reason on his legal pad, careful to include the photo’s frame number in the note. Wainwright had taken many photos of Salzburg’s more bizarre inhabitants. Yesterday he missed getting a shot of an old guy in Lederhosen wearing long colorful socks. Some of these people would become models for characters in his novel.
The waiter appeared at Wainwright’s table. “Mehr kaffee, mein herr?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be setting off fairly soon, so you can turn this table over to your lunch guests. I appreciate your service. Thank you again.”
He was finally on his honeymoon. His publishing deadlines and Lacey’s responsibilities at the law firm had delayed their wedding, until now. The café clock showed it was half past eleven. He needed to get back to the hotel; Lacey would be awake by now.
Wainwright knew his new bride was content to shop or visit museums while he did his morning writing. But he also knew she wanted him with her the rest of the day. Last night they’d gone to a casino across the river and returned to the hotel in the wee small hours’ big winners. Actually, Lacey was the big winner. Wainwright’s contribution was to cheer her on at the baccarat table. It was all so romantic and a very successful evening, money-wise. Lacey told him she intended to sleep in this morning. She wanted to sleep; he wanted to write. Compromise is good.
This ancient Austrian city was proud of her famous son, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. It seemed everything in Salzburg had something to do with Mozart, Wainwright thought, including W.A. Mozart Airport. Yes, Wainwright liked Salzburg. He packed up his gear, left what he hoped was enough schillings for the waiter, and rushed back to the bedside of his blushing bride.
HE ARRIVED AT THE HOTEL’S riverside entrance and stopped in the lobby’s one-hour photo shop to process his film into slides. He and Lacey had booked the Hotel Sacher Salzburg for two weeks. Located in the heart of the city’s music and theater district, the hotel was known for its romantic fifteenth-century charm and twentieth-century comforts. Eager to show Lacey his morning’s work, Wainwright rushed from the store, bumping into an old business acquaintance who invited him and Lacey to lunch. Wainwright accepted, said good-bye, and hurried to the elevator. As their suite was on the fourth floor, the burden of carrying his equipment ruled out taking the stairs. Wainwright knew he was wearing a silly grin; it happened every time he thought of Lacey. He couldn’t help it and wouldn’t if he could. After all, they were on their honeymoon.
SISTER BEATRICE LIFTED the hem of her habit up from the bike-path dirt. Next to her, Vincent pushed his bicycle up the gentle slope of the Giselakai. They had just passed Café Amadeus when she leaned in close to his ear.
“Vincent, did you see that?”
“I’m sorry, Sister. Did I see what?”
“At the Amadeus, the man with the camera. I think he took our photo.”
Vincent thought for a moment, replaying the last few moments in his head.
“He saw us,” Sister Beatrice said. “I’m sure he did. He took our picture, and I recognized him. That was Garth Wainwright. He knows we’re here.”
Vincent, the humble parish handyman, paused and looked at Sister Beatrice. “What makes you think that?”
“I was looking at him when he picked up the cable thing. It was Garth Wainwright, all right. There’s a chance he didn’t recognize us, though. He was writing on a yellow tablet. Maybe he was distracted.”
“I saw the camera pointed at us, but I didn’t pay any attention to the man. So, your old lover has found you half a world from Bellevue.”
Sister Beatrice gave him a sidelong glance but said nothing. They continued their trek up the path. Her silence invited more comments from Vincent.
“You must have screwed his socks off for him to be searching for you here.”
“That isn’t proper language to use when speaking to a nun,” Sister Beatrice reprimanded him. “I should wash your mouth out with strong soap.”
“Hey, BJ, how ’bout you stuff the nun routine, okay? I’m tired of this playacting.” Amiti paused, wiping his face with his hands as if to cleanse the words away. “Sorry. Forgive my outburst. Okay, so Wainwright might know we’re here. We’ll need a plan to take care of that.” He pushed his bicycle a little faster up the gradual slope of the Giselakai.
MURTAGH FELT THE PLANE make a gentle descending port turn. He glanced at his wristwatch: right on time. That was good. This was a new flight crew; he liked these pilots, the one named Patrick in particular. He considered them the best crew he’d ever had. The last two had run off like frightened children the first time the cops came around. No sense of adventure, he guessed.
“Excuse me, Mr. Murtagh. We’re cleared for final approach. You should buckle up now, sir,” the copilot said.
“Okay, Patrick. Make sure the Suburban is pickin’ us up.”
“Yes, sir. Already taken care of, Mr. Murtagh. We called on base leg, and it should be on the taxiway apron now. Sir, has there been an approval to build the landing strip on your ranch?”
“Not gonna happen. Them bureaucratic bastards on the city council told me no for the third time. To hell with ’em! Next time one of them SOBs wants money for reelection, I’ll give them the same damned story. No problem, though. Monterrey airport is close enough to the ranch. Now I don’t hafta tear up pasture for the airstrip. Gettin’ rid of a bunch of Corrientes wasn’t ever a good idea. I like them cows. Anyway, buildin’ a landin’ strip was an idea from the last crew. You’d wanna land here at Monterrey, ain’t that right?”
“Yes, sir. Safety first, I always say.”
Murtagh was still reading the report Cruz had prepared. He was a slow reader, a result of a poor education. Cruz’s report sucked, Murtagh thought. The jerk spent time on spelling and punctuation, but it didn’t tell Murtagh what he wanted to know. Where could he find Amiti and Kinkaid? That was what he’d told Cruz to find—the one thing he needed to know, Cruz hadn’t delivered.
At the airport in Marion, he had told Cruz to dump the local muscle and drive the limo back to St. Louis. Murtagh could tell Cruz didn’t like the orders. “Cruz, I’m gonna do my best to get along without yer shadow walkin’ on mine for a coupla days,” he’d told him. “Just get everything set for the move, like we talked about. After that, head south. I’ll be okay till you get there.”
Why do I need a guy who can’t do what he’s told? Murtagh wondered for the hundredth time.
That night, at his home in Monterrey, the knock on the door was so soft Murtagh almost didn’t hear it. “Come in, Maria.”
“Señor Murtagh, do you require anything before I go to sleep?”
“Yeah. How ’bout a Remy? And get yourself one too, Maria. I need to talk with ya ’bout a problem.”
Maria returned from the bar with the cognac. “Señor, is Maria the problem that is troubling you?”
“Na, no way, girl! You’re the best o’ the bunch—here, back in St. Louis, or anywhere. No, the problem is Cruz. I’ll tell ya what’s on my mind.”
Murtagh wasn’t sure how long he wanted this poor excuse for an attorney to stay in his employ. He explained to Maria that Cruz had failed to deliver on his recent request to locate Amiti.
“Señor, how is it that you are sure of the identity of your son’s killer?’
“Every made guy in the exercise yard knew about Fabio. Most showed respect and gave condolences to me. But ya know what, Maria? When I asked these same brilliant bozos for the name of the guy who put out the contract, they all got amnesia. None of them had any idea who that might be. Bullshit!” Murtagh rested his elbows on his knees. With his drink in his right hand, he wiped his face with his left. He sighed. “Doesn’t matter. Amiti is who I want.”
He told Maria that Cruz was more valuable when he had worked at the law firm with Kinkaid and Starr. He had generated good intel at the offices of Jamison, Langley, & Starr, PC, in Los Angeles. But Cruz had screwed up and gotten belly bumped out of the firm. Now there was no place for the kid except in the family. “It’s not like he’s the consigliere. This kid couldn’t give good advice to an ice cream salesman in a heat wave. So whatcha think, Maria?”
Maria, wiser than her thirty-five years, said, “If his work displeases you, he doesn’t belong with our family. I believe you’ve already found the solution to the problem.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, Cruz, but your cruise just reached the end o’ the line.” As Murtagh pulled a finger across his neck, he fantasized that he’d put a contract out to Amiti for a hit on Cruz. Wouldn’t that be good? Hire that hitter to hit the lawyer, and then hit the hitter. He liked it. But there was no chance. His guys couldn’t even find the sonuvabitch. But someone did. Someone had hired Amiti to hit Fabio six years ago.
Fabio had tried to run the operations while Murtagh was locked up in Marion. Poor, dumb Fabio. He wanted so much to impress his old man. Although he had tried to expand the mob’s activities for his pop, all he did was attract the attention of their competitors. Enough so that one of them had taken Fabio out. That someone understood how to reach Amiti. Everyone called him “the
Assassin” for good reason.
Amiti was rumored to have all the contract work he wanted and was picky about the clients he took on. Murtagh reasoned finding the guy who’d fingered Fabio would be the next best thing to seeing Amiti’s Jewish head roll in the gutter. Another mob boss had put the contract on Fabio. But who?
Poor little Fabio. He had stepped on so many toes while his dad was in prison. He should’ve stayed away from gun trafficking and let those African dudes throw rocks for their war of liberation instead of supplying them with weapons. Before Marion, Murtagh knew of three outfits in the gun trade, all of whom Fabio had bumped from their business. Why didn’t the kid ask me about it first? Ego, that’s why. He inherited my ego, my pride. If he’d just run the business the way I’d left it, he’d still be alive. And I wouldn’t be runnin’ around, tryin’ to find his killer.
The Contra War in Nicaragua, the African liberation—the gun trade had been a challenge for young Fabio Murtagh. Getting into guns had forced him to expand his drug business in order to finance gunrunning, which had sparked the attention of several mobs that seriously resented his intrusion. Fabio had ordered his men to take over territories from them. His standing order to his guys was to recruit the competition’s street crews or kill them if they didn’t give allegiance to the Murtagh mob. Sure, the other gangs resented Fabio, Murtagh thought. Any of them could have been behind the hit on his son and heir apparent. Murtagh was less interested in who had ordered the hit, however, and more focused on the one who had executed it—Amiti, the Assassin.
Murtagh intended to get justice for Fabio and for himself. Lacey Kinkaid, Boston’s former assistant district attorney, had sent him to Marion for twenty-five. Ariel Amiti, king of the assassination business, had taken Fabio’s life.
Murtagh’s reptilian brain hadn’t developed a plan for retribution. Although he had focused on those two with laser-like precision, he hadn’t thought beyond his haze of hatred for them. All his crew knew was that Kinkaid and Amiti were targets of passion. Although they suspected Murtagh’s angst had more to do with revenge than his time in prison, they were wrong.
Inside Moves Page 3