Inside Moves

by Walter Danley

  “Did Carson Starr give you money? Was it him? You must tell me the truth. If he gave you money, I’ll make sure he’s never allowed to visit you again. You have to tell me who did this.”

  Lacey never had known the names of Uncle Timothy’s playmates. Not until that afternoon in his car. But now she knew one of them: Carson Starr!

  WAINWRIGHT RAN HEADLONG toward the thug’s pointed pistol. He felt the air move fast, past his right ear. Before the thought of what is that? entered his brain, he saw the guard’s smile fade, just a small change, but a change. The gold-capped tooth was no longer visible.

  The plan, assuming he got that far, was to rush the guard, head butt him unconscious, and grab his weapon. Wainwright was still running at top speed when he reached the guard. He extended his left arm to stop his forward momentum. That’s when he realized that he couldn’t head butt his adversary. A crossbow bolt protruded from the guard’s forehead; he was nailed to the wall behind him, his chair still tilted back. Silently and almost bloodlessly, the man had died in an instant. The bolt’s steel blade had halved his brain before impaling his skull, securing him to the wall.

  This all happened in split parts of a second. With his left arm extended to the wall, his face merely inches away from the guard’s, Wainwright’s right hand hung loose at his side. As he looked into the guard’s dead eyes, the pistol in the man’s outstretched hand dropped into Wainwright’s waiting palm.

  Aware that Wilson had just saved his life by killing the guard, Wainwright turned, grateful, expecting to see his amigo. What he saw, however, compelled him to raise his newly acquired pistol to aim it at the head of the person casually approaching him in a most nonthreatening manner. . .

  The Assassin.

  Ariel Amiti held a crossbow at his side. Almost in a laugh, he said, “Fancy meeting you here!”

  Wainwright could see that the modern incarnation of the medieval weapon wasn’t armed. The string was parallel to the bow limbs, and no bolt occupied the retention spring. Familiar with the Assassin’s past exploits, however, Wainwright had no doubt he had other weapons on his person.

  Wainwright kept the pistol pointed at Amiti’s head and whispered, “Thank you. There are three more guards...” He motioned with the pistol to where the grounds were being patrolled.

  Amiti spoke in a normal tone of voice. “You’re most welcome, Mr. Wainwright. I’m pleased my presence is appreciated.”

  Wainwright continued the pistol’s focus between Amiti’s eyes. “Oh, please! You and I have such a special relationship, Amiti. You know, you murder my partners; you save my life; like that. Why don’t you just call me Garth?”

  “Your wry sense of humor is refreshing, in a grisly sort of way. But thank you, Garth. Of course, if I hadn’t been here to intercede with your foe’s fearsome firearm, no thank-yous would be forthcoming. In that case, you would be dead. When you’re dead, you don’t know you’re dead. You just are. It’s the same as when you’re stupid.” He paused for just a second. “But it would be best for you to leave now.”

  “No, I came for—”

  Amiti put up a hand to interrupt him. “Yes, I know. But she’s not here and neither is Murtagh. I’ve looked for both. They’re gone.”

  Wainwright took a step closer, lowering the pistol to his side. “Where’s my wife?”

  The Assassin didn’t respond. He fussed with the crossbow instead, ignoring the question.

  “I’m also wondering what you, of all the people in the wide world of sports, are doing here,” Wainwright said.

  “Do you mean besides saving your life from this goon?” He gestured to the guard’s impaled head. “There’s little question he was about to take it.”

  As the adrenaline in Wainwright’s bloodstream ebbed, he looked behind him, then to his right and left. “Did you see a man, medium height, black hair, clean-shaven, wearing hiking boots?” he asked quietly. “He came here with me, but I seem to have lost him.” He raised his arms to the side, scarecrow like, then slapped them against his pant legs, as if the statement required animation to be understood.

  Amiti had momentarily forgotten about Wilson. “Yes. Please forgive my rudeness. Unintended, I assure you. Your friend is at the rear of this building. Now that I know he’s part of your posse, you and I should release him from bondage.”

  “You captured and hogtied him?” Wainwright whispered to Amiti. “He’s an experienced operative. How’d you do that?”

  “I didn’t know who he was or what threat he might pose. Although time was short, I restrained him as opposed to dispatching him. Come this way and we’ll find your friend.”

  Wainwright followed Amiti to the back of the casita. There, on the ground—tied and gagged—was Renato Wilson. Wainwright knelt next to him and cut the restraints with his pocketknife. Wilson glared at Amiti as Wainwright helped him to a sitting position. He pulled off the duct tape and removed the cloth stuffed into his friend’s mouth. Wilson was still casting an angry glare at Amiti when Wainwright asked if he was all right.

  “Yeah, no thanks to him,” Wilson said.

  “I’m growing tired of this conversation,” Amiti said, “but Mr. Wilson, I restrained you due to a lack of information regarding your current affiliation. Sorry, old chap. But I’m pleased you’re no worse for wear.” He turned to Wainwright. “Garth, I’m sad your rescue effort for your wife has been in vain.”

  Wainwright stood and faced Amiti. “Where is my wife?”

  “First, some other things need attention.” Amiti hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the casita. “The current occupant of this structure isn’t known to me. I’d like you to make an identification, if possible. Shall we adjourn to the casita, gentlemen?”

  Wainwright said sotto voce, “I hate to be negative here, but three large men are patrolling the grounds. We need to be quiet and on guard because—”

  Amiti interrupted him again. “It’s of no consequence, dear man. They received the same fate as the one at the door. I couldn’t allow them to interfere with our meeting again. Additionally, for your information, a cook and two housekeepers are asleep in the hacienda. We’re very much alone here, for all intents and purposes.”

  Wainwright lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean, meeting again?”

  “Do you not recall meeting in Aspen a person from Bavaria?”

  There was no response from Wainwright.

  “In the airport restroom.” Amiti saw the light of recognition in Wainwright’s eyes. “Yes, and we meet again, but without the beard and German accent. Heir Gambol Schwartz, at your service.” Amiti extended his hand in greeting.

  Wainwright took it and gave a firm handshake to the killer of Thomas Burke, the first of his former business partners to die at the hand of the Assassin.

  “Oh, God! I had no idea you were Schwartz.”

  “Yes, well, that’s the idea of a disguise, is it not? Shall we?”

  Amiti extended his arm like a crossing guard’s baton, pointing the way to the front of the casita.

  They retraced their steps to the casita door, still guarded by a thoroughly dead dude pinned to the wall. Wilson opened the door and found a light switch. Both nightstand lamps brightened.

  There, hands tied behind his back, secured to a chair and gagged, sat a very dead Ernest Cruz. The back of his head was missing. Significant quantities of brain matter, cerebrospinal fluid, and blood were splattered on the wall behind him like a bad piece of modern art.

  Wilson turned away from the cadaver, shook his head slowly and said, “I guess he shoulda stayed in Oakland.”

  Wainwright, in his imagination, heard a tenor sax riff being played from a Bogart movie. But that wasn’t reality. “It appears Marcos Murtagh has fired his lawyer. Pun intended,” he said.

  The shattered hope of finding Lacey was reality. It was tempered somewhat, though, by the fact that his archenemy had just saved him from certain death. All in all, the Bogart sax riff would be better.

  Wainwright asked Amiti ag
ain, “Where’s my wife?”

  “Your wife is the unwilling guest of Murtagh and company, for reasons I don’t understand.”

  “So why are you here?”

  Amiti picked up a paper grocery bag from the floor, tore off a piece, and smoothed its wrinkles on the table.

  “I’m still here because I knew you’d arrive soon.”

  He pushed the Chinese take-out cartons aside. With a ballpoint pen, he drew a crude map of the Texas-Mexico border area. His sketch included a large area representing the Gulf of Mexico. When Amiti finished, he turned the paper scrap toward his two companions.

  “Forgive my lack of cartographic talent, but in general, this is where your wife is located.”

  He pointed to a spot he said was fifty miles off Port Isabel in the Gulf of Mexico, 250 miles from where they now stood in Monterrey.

  “As best as I can determine, Murtagh’s yacht is about here.”

  “And you identified this location how?” Wilson asked.

  “Through their radio signals,” Amiti said. “Those chaps are really very chatty. Twice this past week they talked to someone here about something. We can track the radio waves but not the conversations.”

  “And just who is included in that ‘royal we’?” Wilson wanted to know.

  “My colleagues here in Mexico,” Amiti said. “I’d be happy to introduce you to them. They’ve been monitoring Murtagh’s phone and radio transmissions at my request for several days. Murtagh left the hacienda suddenly, only hours before I arrived. You fellows arrived shortly after. He flew to Port Isabel, where his yacht was docked. It left port right after Murtagh’s jet touched down. It’s a fair assumption that Murtagh is aboard. No one would have Murtagh’s yacht out of port except him. He’s quite possessive of that boat—he must be keeping Mrs. Wainwright there.”

  Wainwright glanced at Cruz’s cadaver. “Looks fairly fresh to me. With what you described, Murtagh put a bullet in Cruz’s head just as he walked out the door to board his plane.”

  Amiti motioned for the two to follow him. He led them down a path that paralleled the creek, which ran full and fast. They walked to a place where a fallen log crossed the creek and allowed them to enter the woods with dry feet. Wainwright didn’t see a trail, but Amiti guided them through the underbrush and trees.

  Amiti’s Ford Bronco had been hidden from view. The three men entered the vehicle. Wainwright rode shotgun, with Wilson in the rear, where he would keep an eye on Amiti, who drove.

  Amiti glanced at Wainwright. “We need each other if you want to recover your new bride.”

  Wainwright let out a sigh. “Look, I’m grateful for your presence here and for saving my life. I owe you one, for sure. But the fact remains that you’re a wanted fugitive, the murderer who took the lives of four of my partners. They were good men—well, two of them were—but the point is that the FBI is after you. They have warrants for your arrest for capital murder. I hope you don’t think I’m ungrateful, but honestly, I don’t want to be in the same zip code with you.”

  “I second what Garth said and will send you to Boston to stand trial for the murder of Thomas Burke,” Wilson said. “After that, we’ll extradite you to Chicago for the murders of Clyburn and Stempelgrout.”

  Wainwright turned to his companion in the backseat. “Who’s Stempelgrout?”

  “The hooker. Classy Cassie’s real name was Cassandra Stempelgrout.”

  “An unfortunate circumstance,” Amiti said. “While she wasn’t an innocent, I’m very sorry that her death was a necessary part of the contract. She was talented.”

  After that, no one spoke. Amiti had driven the Bronco from the place in the woods where he had parked and onto a dirt road that would take them to the highway into Monterrey.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Wilson said. “We need to pick up our rental.”

  Amiti applied the brakes and stopped the vehicle. “Yes, of course. I’ll return you to Mr. Avis’s jeep. I know where it is—I saw where you parked it. Have you men availed yourselves of lodging accommodations?”

  Wainwright and Wilson shook their heads.

  “Then, with your permission, after we retrieve your jeep, I suggest you follow me to my motel. Not a Michelin three-star establishment, I fear, but adequate for two nights. You’ll be close at hand for meetings that will occur regarding your oft-posed question as to Mrs. Wainwright’s whereabouts.”

  The three unlikely comrades drove in silence until Wilson broke the tension.

  “So, Amiti, what’s your story? We know you get paid a ton by your clients to kill people. We know Fabio was one you did in Boston in ’76. Surprising as it may be, background on you is as hard to come by as a good cheap hotel in London.”

  “Well, Investigator, I’m not sure our relationship has advanced to sharing personal experiences, but I did know you attached Fabio Murtagh’s assassination to me.”

  He then confessed to them—something Amiti never, ever did. He needed their trust for his plan to work and knew being transparent would help with that goal.

  “My current client had put out the contract to assassinate Fabio Murtagh.” He wouldn’t tell them the name of this client. “That’s ancient history, though. That hit took place more than six years ago.”

  Wilson shook his head at the man’s gall. “Speaking of ancient history,” he said rather snidely, “where did you grow up?”

  “A place with a name you’ve probably never heard. Kfar Hess is in central Israel. I was seven when the Fedayeen attacked our small commune and killed my parents. The Israeli government, however, has learned to take good care of orphans, of which they seem to have a never-ending supply. I grew up in a Jerusalem orphanage then joined the IDF—the Israeli army—at age seventeen.”

  “I could tell you’ve had military training from your exploits. Why did you enlist?” Wainwright asked.

  “Something history more or less ignores. Syria declared that the solution to the Palestinian problem was to eliminate Israel. I didn’t consider that a viable solution.”

  “How long did you serve in the army?” Wilson asked.

  They arrived at the parked jeep, and Amiti put the Bronco in park.

  “If you count my tour with Mossad when Golda was elected prime minister, ten years. But I’m sure all this is in your government’s files.” He sighed. “Talking about this stuff is more boring than watching grass grow. Now, how about following me to the motel? We can do this catch-up thing later.”

  THEY RETRIEVED THE jeep, and Wainwright drove. He followed Amiti’s Bronco to the Las Palmas Motel, with Wilson remaining in the backseat. Amiti saw in his rearview mirror that Wilson was rubbing the back of his head.

  “Sorry, chap, but you see, in the dark I thought you were one of them. Please accept my apologies for the tap on the old bean there.”

  Wilson continued to rub his head. “We’ll even this up, somehow, before all this is over.”

  “Please don’t do anything foolish. I’ve apologized to you and explained the situation I found myself in. Why don’t we let it be, all right?”

  Wilson closed his eyes as Amiti drove toward the motel. Amiti’s declaration that the Las Palmas Motel wasn’t a Michelin three-star establishment couldn’t have been more accurate; the place had successfully evaded Michelin evaluators for a long time. The motel was located on the edge of a commercial district and the beginning of a safe residential neighborhood. It was clean, which was its primary appeal.

  Amiti unlocked the door of his motel room and turned on the lights. Wainwright left the jeep and followed Wilson into Amiti’s room. They both took chairs, while Amiti sat on the edge of the queen bed.

  “Would either of you gentlemen like a drink?” he asked. “Please join me if you care to. I’m afraid all I have to offer is some rather old, musty single-malt Scotch”

  Wilson and Wainwright accepted his offer.

  He headed to the small bar in the far corner. After putting ice in three plastic cups, he poured the Scotch. Amiti ha
nded his guests theirs then took his cup and sat back on the bed, his head resting against the headboard.

  “Where to start?” he said. “Allow me to begin with why I’m here with you.”

  Wainwright sipped his drink. Amiti was right—it was old and musty, as a good single-malt should be—and he welcomed the liquor’s warmth.

  “How about starting with why you and BJ were in Salzburg?” he said. “By the way, where is the lady in question?”

  “The lady in question is with my client at his home approximately thirty kilometers from the spot where we now sit—in one direction or another. Oh, I almost forgot. She sends you her best wishes and hopes the interruption to your honeymoon ends soon.”

  Wainwright shook his head. “Yeah, if I see BJ again, I’ll thank her for the kind sentiment.”

  “It was a fluke we were in Salzburg at the same time as you and Mrs. Wainwright,” Amiti explained. “We recognized you in the café. We had to assume you saw us as well. I’ll omit the details of how we managed to get to Salzburg from the Bahamas and who might have lent a hand in that effort, if you don’t mind. I’ll start with my being here in Mexico.”

  “An old friend and client lives here, as does our current adversary, Marcos Murtagh, as you know.” he continued. “They had been in the same business. My client no longer is. While they know each other, they don’t socialize, as these two are cut from different bolts of cloth. My client has moved almost all of his commercial endeavors to the legal side of the ledger, while your adversary has continued to expand on the other. Most of my client’s past employees joined Murtagh’s mob, which isn’t a happy occurrence, from my client’s point of view. He wants Murtagh stopped and has hired me, once again, to make that a reality.”

  “Your client must have the muscle to do it himself,” Wilson said, before taking a sip of his Scotch. “Think of the money he’d save if he did, rather than retain your services.”

  Amiti nodded. “You’re correct. He does have those resources, but using them would be bloody and would point back to my client. I, on the other hand, am anonymous to the culture Murtagh and his ilk inhabit. I’ll perform my contract quickly and with precision. You might recall my work as it related to your former business partners. I’m sorry those fine gentlemen were the subject of my services. Well, not counting Rubens and Clyburn, of course. The others were poor selections by my client. But I won’t take valuable time to discuss my professional ethics further.”