A boot comes out of nowhere as Can Man kicks him in the teeth. He loses a couple of pearly whites from that blow.
Oz spits blood, then pants out, "Come on guys. Let me give you the money, and you can be on your way, no questions asked."
He reaches out again, this time with his unbroken right arm, hoping they'll let him go to the safe in the opposite corner. Under a dish towel on top of the safe is a .454 Casull Taurus Raging Bull with over eight inches of barrel that'll throw their hair back — put those little plinkers, even the 9mm Makarov, to shame.
His hand still extended, he lies to them, "It's been a great day. I'll bet I have better than ten thousand in there." Probably more like $350.
Can Man strikes his outstretched arm with the sack.
Damn! He should have known better. Now he has two bad arms.
Doesn't matter, he realizes, these guys are going to kill me even if I do give them what they want.
Then the door opens and the third guy pushes through, his gun up to See-Saw's chin.
The old blind man's voice is tiny and hoarse. "Don't hurt him. Please don't hurt him, anymore."
"Look here, Karl," the third guy says. "The old manikin is alive. Blind, but alive."
"Stupid bastard," Karl the Russian talker says. "No names."
"What does it matter?" the guy with a gun to See-Saw asks. Sounds Italian like the first wop.
Oz pleads with them, "Come on, guys. Don't lean on ol' See-Saw. He can't hurt you. Hell, he can't even see to ID you. Do what you must to me, but let See-Saw go."
"Huh-huh," the one holding the old man says, "See-Saw — huh-huh!" He sounds a bit like that Bevis from the cartoon on TV — or is that Butt-head?
Karl the Russian says, "Put bullet in old man's brain if next words come out dip-shit Greek not telling vhere Knight is." He turns to Oz. "Vell?"
Oz is fighting unconsciousness. He needs more time. But these assholes aren't going to give it to him. They're very likely to follow through on this threat and go looking for someone else to get the information from — beat up and murder. His mind is foggy. How can he keep See-Saw and himself alive and still screw these guys up? He remembers that E Z is out of town, and won't be back until at least tomorrow.
Finally, he gives in. "E Z's got a boat. He sleeps on it. It's docked at Slip 12, the Atlantis pier, Slip 12."
"'Atta boy!" Karl the Russian talker says, then nods to Butt-head. Karl the Russian and Can Man leave the room.
Butt-head shoves See-Saw into a mattress standing against the side wall, and he levels his gun. The old blind man tumbles to the floor, and the mattress falls across him as the gun spits out three deadened reports.
"You, son-of-a-bitch!" Oz says, trying to stand, but his arms are worthless, and he falls back against the shelves of canned goods. The gun barrel now points at him.
One soft pop.
Wet, everything is wet — his face, his head.
"Ooh-hoo!" Oz hears Butt-head say, this time the voice coming from way down deep at the end of that tunnel and it fades fast. "His freakin' head blew up. Man, ain't that sumpin', his head exploded — his brains splattered everywhere!"
Before he passes out, Oz takes a final breath...and he has an undeniable urge to order a pizza.
Tomato paste?
CHAPTER 1
Bombshell with a Photo
Atlantis Pier, Smokey's Marina
Five minutes before her boat blew up, Esmeralda McCourkle gave me the finger. "Ol' Corky" had been inspecting the rigging on the Nauti-Gal, her beloved 36-foot Hunter sailboat. I’d smiled and waved from the cockpit of my boat — and got the bird in return, as usual.
The old woman didn’t approve of me, I knew that and understood. Her best friend, decades her junior, and I were in what you might loosely call a relationship. But the old gal loved my golden retriever, Jazzy Brass. She even got along well with Nostradamus, the crazed ferret that sometimes shared my 27-foot Catalina, the Reckless Abandon.
"And a lovely Saturday morning, to you!" I called out to her from my boat at Slip 21. Then under my breath, “Kiss my ass.”
Evidently, even from thirty-five yards away at Slip 12, the septuagenarian was a lip reader. She gave me one of those French up-to-the-elbow, bras-d'honneur gestures and stepped down into the boat cockpit and out of sight.
The hell with her, I thought. She always seems to have her Depends in a bunch. But I wouldn't let Ol' Corky spoil my attitude today. The SoCal morning was beautiful; sun shining, a light, warm seaward breeze; slightly warmer than usual for a late February day. It was probably lower seventies, already. And I was about to take advantage of it.
I hadn't had my boat out for nearly six weeks, dealing with less leisurely matters, and I needed the break. I thought I'd sail out about a half mile and follow the coastline south, just inside the shipping lane.
If the wind's right, might even find myself down in San Diego and not come back for a few days.
I smiled at that thought. Maybe I'd stop in a cove I liked to visit, anchor my boat and play a couple of Jimmy Buffet tunes on the ol' guitar.
I turned in the cockpit to cast off my stern lines and found long, tan legs next to the dock cleat.
My friend Oz Papadopoulos has a unique view of this world, and I enjoy his shallow and somewhat irreverent witticisms. He once told me, "E Z, you can tell whether or not a woman is good in bed by her eyes." I’d answered, “Oh, yeah?” And he’d said, “That’s right. It just takes a while to look up that high.”
On this occasion, it was taking me a while to look up that high.
I finally made it past her shoulders. She obviously wasn't from around here — like me, she didn't wear even a light jacket. SoCal locals think it's chilly until the temperature gets over 80.
“You the E Z?” Her voice was deeper than I expected from such a small, young frame, and with a heavy Russian accent.
Probably mid-twenties, she had an olive complexion, and her hair was the color of Arkansas walnut. When she pushed her sunglasses up to her forehead, I finally got to her lovely brown eyes — uh, huh!
At that moment, I would have loved Oz's input. And then there was that bright red skirt she wore — it was short enough — just short enough, that if I leaned forward two more inches, I'd be able to see where those long, toned yams of hers were attached. In my mind, I bet she wasn't wearing a stitch underneath. I actually thought about dropping my dock line, so I could bend down and find out for sure.
Can she possibly know what she's doing? My eyes took another around-the-world trip of her body, following the curves of her legs and petite frame all the way up to the plump red lips that were turned into a big smile — Yeah, she knows.
With some impatience, she asked, "You the E Z?" Her tone lifted with a barely perceptible chuckle.
Not usually a man who plays hard to get, still I was a bit wary of this little lady. After swallowing the lump in my throat, I gave her the old, “That depends. Who wants to know?”
"Da," she said and nodded. "You E Z." From her oversized purse, she pulled out a large envelope and handed it to me.
Reluctantly, while weighing my choices, I took it from her.
Still smiling, she said, "You in serious trouble, E Z. Very bad danga for you — deep shit. Must hide — be safe quick." She pointed at some numbers on the envelope. "My cell numba." She winked and turned away. But, before she left, she glanced over her shoulder and blew me a kiss. "Have nice day!"
"Wait a minute," I said and stepped onto the pier.
She waved a hand high, but didn't turn or even slow down.
"Call me!" she replied, her three-inch heels clicking on the wood planks.
I scrutinized the envelope, and then looked to Jazzy Brass who'd been sunning herself on the foredeck.
My one-year-old golden retriever stepped onto the boat cabin roof and watched the swinging hips in the red dress as they passed Ol' Corky's boat. Then, she glanced at me, yawned and lay back down.
"I'm in danger, and ever
yone thinks it's no big deal? Humph!"
I tore open one end of the large envelope and pulled out an 8X10 photo. Obviously taken with a digital camera in poor lighting, it was grainy and somewhat out of focus. But even after only two seconds of examination, I knew the young Russian woman was correct. I was in very deep shit.
That's when Ol' Corky's boat erupted in an ear-splitting conflagration.
* * *
The explosion throws me back into my boat and tosses Jazzy Brass off the roof of the cabin. Pieces of fiberglass, sailcloth and wood fragments rain over me.
Ears ringing and stunned, I shake it off and stagger to my feet. Jazzy is swimming toward the dock's accommodation ladder, so I'm not so much worried about her safety. She takes dips regularly and is a pro at climbing back onto the pier. But I am definitely concerned about Ol' Corky's welfare.
Where the Nauti-Gal had been tied, all that is left is the boat's transom, and what used to be an inboard diesel engine, now outboard, and it all sinks quickly. The bow and mast with the remains of the tattered jib sail are disappearing fast about fifty feet out. Within a couple more seconds, they sink into the smoking water, leaving about four feet of the mast sticking out.
When I run to the now empty slip, several other boat owners join me.
"What the Hell...?" "Where's Ol' Corky?" "How did this...?" are their questions.
One young sail enthusiast takes out his cell phone and calls 911. I stay quiet, in awe of the explosion, the loss of the cantankerous old woman, and the renewed feeling of danger.
I then realize I've lost the photograph.
* * *
Robert "Rabbit" Smith was on the bow deck of my boat brushing out Jazzy's beautiful but wet golden fur, while I searched for the missing photo among the debris on the pier, in the water and in the boats adjacent to mine.
"Mom's going to be home tonight," Rabbit said. "She was really upset about Ol' Corky." The kid had run up after the explosion and called his mother as soon as he'd found out about the old woman.
Rabbit's a great kid. He's tall — going to be a basketball star in high school, for sure. He's got a ruddy complexion and quite a few pimples like a typical fourteen year old. His mother is the widowed owner of Smokey's Marina and Slips, as well as Smokey's Galley and Grog Restaurant. She's also my current love interest — however platonic to this point.
I told him, "Yeah, I thought she would be. She and Ol' Corky seemed to have really bonded."
Smokey had been out on the East Coast for a three-day seminar for marina owners. She was hoping to come up with ideas on how to economically improve her slumping business. She'd asked me to come along since I wasn't "doing anything." I declined, a bit put off with the implication that I was some kind of a free-loader.
I kept telling her that just because I wasn't yet forty, it didn't mean I couldn't be retired, but still busy with my own interests. However, if there had been any prospect of taking our platonic relationship to the next level on this little trip, I would have forgotten about the rub and gone along.
I knew better. I was her support wall to help her recover from losing her husband to an accident eighteen months earlier. I'd decided to play hard to get for a while to see if the support wall that I had become might not turn into her support pole.
"I'll sure miss Ol' Corky," Rabbit said. "Heck, I'll even miss Friendly." He glanced at his left arm where the scabbed-over wounds of his last encounter with Ol' Corky's cat were still raised in welted, angry red lines. "Ol' Corky's been staying at our place at night to watch Dolly and then walk her over to her babysitter. I just talked to her about an hour ago — said 'goodbye'. Didn't know it would be the last goodbye."
Tears were rolling down his cheeks. He wiped them off and said, "She asked about you — Mom did — if you were okay."
But Smokey hadn't called me. Of course, I hadn't called her either. I said, "That's nice."
Rabbit looked at me, seeming a bit puzzled. He sighed. "I guess I'll never understand grown-ups. I don't think I'll do very well at being one."
I chuckled. "Rabbit, that's something none of us do very well. But I'm bettin' you'll do as good or better than anybody."
I was still thinking how nice the day was — feeling a little guilty about it with Ol' Corky blown up and the near overwhelming concern that the photo had brought on.
I glanced out at the opening of the bay. The ocean was smooth and the wind light to medium. Perfect.
A lone power yacht sat in open water about an eighth-mile out from the mouth of the inlet. It was a nice boat — well over a hundred feet — probably some movie star or rich businessman's play toy.
Rabbit saw me gazing at the big yacht. "He's been out there for about four days. I wonder what he's doing?"
"Probably just enjoying the weather," I told him, actually wondering if there might be more to it than that.
"I checked out his IMO number with binoculars yesterday," he said, then rattled them off. Coincidentally, the number was within one of my Social Security Number, so it would have been easy to remember, had I needed to.
I gave up on finding the photo. Stepping back into the cockpit of my boat, I called out the courteous, "Coming aboard," while pulling out my cell phone. As I punched the number for Jason Ryder, more cops were pulling up at the Marina, red light and siren, to join the two who'd arrived about five minutes earlier. They got out of three patrol cars and an unmarked sedan and ran toward the pier.
The phone to my ear and my eyes on the cops, the call went through. I said, "Jason, it's me."
CHAPTER 2
Tight Friends
"E Z! Thank God — I don't have your phone number and information says it's unlisted!"
"What the hell kind of trouble you in, Jason?"
"I don't know — a kidnapping for ransom is my guess. They probably want money — and lots of it. I'm hoping they'll call soon to give their demands."
I recalled the sign his little girl was holding in the photo, now lost after the explosion: No police. No questions — Give me E Z Knight or birthday girl dies! Will contact soon.
I asked, "Why do they want me? How do they even know about me? Whoever it is must know you pretty good."
Jason and I went back a long way. We were officers in Marine Force Recon together. I'd been a mustang, coming up through the enlisted ranks and then to Officer's Candidate School. He was straight from Annapolis. He showed considerable promise for a newbie in the snoop and poop reconnaissance business, becoming just as "swift, silent and deadly" as about any of us. But he hadn't stayed in long. He left our unit after about a year and went back to civilian life.
Spending a couple of years as a struggling actor off Broadway, with the help of a little talent, his good looks and a fair pile of daddy's money, he'd found the big-time. Soon after getting a recurring role on a soap and couple of small parts in minor movies, he was discovered by a noted movie producer. Before long, he landed a leading actor role in a major motion picture that got him an Oscar nomination. That was five years ago, and, as they say: the rest is history.
"I suppose the bastards have done their research," Jason said. "Probably want you to deliver the ransom. I hope it's just a couple of stupid thugs who don't mean any serious harm — just want to win the lottery. You know how celebrities get threats from these kinds of jerkoffs all the time. Maybe just a couple of doped-up punks with dollar signs in their eyes. They just crossed the line before realizing how much shit they were in."
I knew better; these were no "jerkoffs," "stupid thugs" or "doped-up punks". These were professionals, and I was sure Jason knew that as well.
The cops were getting closer, about halfway to the empty slip where the crowd still mingled. I recognized the pretty little plain-clothed detective in the lead, and I knew it wouldn't be long before she'd be asking me questions.
"Jason, that photo of Sophie, the explosive vest she wore and the sign — how long ago do you think it was taken?"
"Stella said Sophie wasn't in her room
when she checked yesterday morning at around eight. There was a note on the bed that said the same thing the one in the photo did; No police. No questions — Give me E Z Knight or birthday girl dies! Will contact soon." He swallowed hard, and his voice quavered. "She found the photo later that morning stuck in the weather stripping on the driver side window of her Bentley. She says she didn't know what to do. She had no idea where you were, and she feared that they might somehow know if she contacted me, so she waited.
"I received the photo electronically through my manager's email when I got off the plane, yesterday afternoon. I used it to print the copy I sent you. I called Stella as soon as I saw it, and she told me what had happened. She's really broken up over this, E Z — coming on top of our divorce and all."
"Yeah, I'm sure," I said. But I hadn't heard about the divorce, this time. I stayed away from celebrity news. Besides, they'd been divorced before and gotten remarried. To me, they were like Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, Natalie Wood and Robert Wagoner, Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson — always in love, not happy apart, but not happy together, either.
I asked him, "What about the maid and other personal assistants; did they see anything? And the security system at the mansion — the cameras?"
"Stella doesn't have any money, so she lost the help. I gave her the house, but she's going to lose it when her bankruptcy goes through. I still pay for the security system. But the kidnappers somehow knew how to disable it. Stella said the entire system was shut down when she checked after finding the note."
"You think they might work for the security company? Where'd you get it?"
"Geez, I never thought of that. But it's Home Secure Security. They're the biggest in the country."
"Doesn't mean they don't have crooks working for them."
By now, the cops had moved the crowd away from Ol' Corky's slip and cordoned off the area with yellow crime scene tape. A couple of officers were interviewing some of the bystanders. The plain-clothed detective glanced over at me, and I knew she'd come my way very soon.
KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set Page 30