Angels in Heaven (Vic Daniel Series)

by David Pierce

  I threw a "Cinco minutos" to the guard over one shoulder and followed Billy and Joaquín, closing the door behind me. Which action, necessary to our plans, I did not think the lieutenant would object to as he was about, he dreamed, to be handed 11 million pesos in used cash, an activity he surely wouldn't want his sergeant to oversee.

  When we were all seated—the lieutenant directly facing me, Billy on his right, and Benny over at his desk putting his papers away in a folder—I got out a folder of my own from the top desk drawer, then hit the intercom and asked Doris to please hold all calls except Washington, which was our signal for her to start making some noise. Billy raised his eyes enough for one brief glance at me, then lowered them again.

  "You got it, Chief," Doris said and began rattling away on her typewriter as well as commencing to loudly hum one of the Sex Pistol's more tender ditties. I also hoped she was keeping the sergeant's optics well occupied.

  I took a breath. I needed one.

  "Oh, drat," I said, reaching into the top drawer again as if I was hunting for something. "Keith, you got those two-oh-two forms over there?"

  "Right here, sir," he said.

  He arose promptly and headed my way with the folder. I picked up the cannon from the drawer, leaned across the desk, and not too gently pressed the working end of the muzzle against Joaquín's bronzed forehead, then half-cocked it with one thumb, all so quickly the startled lieutenant had no time to move anything but his eyebrows, which went up. Billy made a move to help, I told him to get out of the way. I looked into Joaquín's eyes, held one finger of my free hand to my mouth, and went "Sh-sh-sh," which I hoped meant the same thing in español as it did in English.

  Benny was behind the lieutenant by them. He dropped the folder and slapped across Joaquín's mouth, to say nothing of his mustache, two large pieces of adhesive tape he'd been hiding. Then he taped two more, longer lengths over his eyes. Then he took out lengths of precut, single strand, copper-cored electric cable from one pocket and quickly tied the lieutenant's hands behind his back. It was when he was starting on his legs that the trouble erupted.

  Being no fool, the lieutenant had decided that we didn't want to kill him, at least not right then, or why go to all the trouble of trussing him up, so he heaved himself backward and toppled both himself and Benny onto the floor, making a hell of a commotion. Then I heard a scream from the other room and it sure wasn't the sergeant, unless he screamed coloratura soprano. Billy launched himself into the melee on the floor, and he and Benny fought to bring Joaquín, who was lashing out wildly with both booted feet, under control. I briskly moved me and the cannon to the door and was just about to open it when the sergeant came through it from the other side without bothering to open it. I went flying. My glasses went flying. The cannon went flying over behind Benny's desk. I started scrabbling after it, then changed my mind and began scrabbling toward the sergeant, who was desperately trying to claw his cannon out of its holster.

  "Look out!" I think I shouted. I know I shouted something clever because Billy looked up, took in the scene, jumped up and threw himself onto the guard's gun hand, which couldn't have done his own bandaged hand much good. By then I was close enough to hook one of my feet behind one of the guard's legs; with my other foot I kicked him on the knee as hard as I could. He screamed and went down. Oh, fine, I thought. One more scream and we'll have the whole street in here. I rolled myself heavily onto the guard, leading with a stiffened forearm to the adam's apple, which took most of the fight out of him, and stayed on him till my brave allies finally got him trussed, bound, gagged, blindfolded, incapacitated, and generally hors de combat. We then secured Joaquín's remaining free limbs, after which I stood up and panted for a moment, then found my mercifully undamaged specs and put them back on.

  "Those shits," said Billy. He gave them both a hefty kick with his new footware; I can't say I blamed him. Then I thought, Oh, Christ, Doris. I ran the few steps to her office. She was stretched out on the floor beside the desk. A small pool of blood was forming on the carpet under her head.

  "Sara!" I knelt down beside her. She was still breathing, but she was out cold. I turned her head gently, took off her wig, and discovered that the blood was seeping from an inch-long gash on the back of her head; it didn't look too bad, Thank God for the stupid wig, which gave her some protection.

  I grabbed a handful of tissues from the dainty dispenser on her desk and pressed it tightly to the wound. Her color looked all right and her skin wasn't clammy. I took her pulse and that seemed OK too. There was quite a lot of blood about, but even minor head wounds tend to bleed a lot, I reminded myself.

  Benny appeared beside me.

  "How is she?"

  "I think she's just knocked out," I said. "We'll have to wait and see if there's anything else like a concussion. God knows how it happened. I'll stay with her for a bit, you guys better start packing it up."

  I remained there on the floor with her head on my lap. Benny retrieved my suitcase from out back, and he and Billy began cleaning house. After a minute I pillowed Doris's head on my suitcoat and went in to help. We packed up every FBI connection or suggestion thereof—all the photos and mementos and then every bit of paper with writing on it from all three desks, both filing cabinets, and the wastepaper baskets. At one point the sergeant, who was lying in a corner, face to the wall, started stealthily shifting his position; Billy went over and gave him another solid kick. The shifting ceased. The lieutenant, lying in the opposite corner, wisely made no move at all. Perhaps he was twitching his mustache under the tape.

  Billy had an idea; he took off their boots to lessen the amount of noise they could make drumming their heels on the floor trying to attract attention. I cut both phone lines to stop the boys using them to call for help if they did get free and to stop them knocking one over and making strange noises into it if they didn't.

  With the three of us working at it, we had the whole place clean and tidy in something like five minutes. I took one last look around, made a final check of our prisoners' bonds, then said, "Benny, tell the sarge quietly in one cauliflower ear that one of us is waiting in the front office for a phone call that could take half an hour and that if he moves during that time, the next kick he gets will be in the coconuts, or whatever the expression is down here."

  Benny told him.

  Then I said, "Benny. Tell the lieutenant quietly in one ear that one of us has to wait in this office for half an hour for a phone call, so no getting clever or else. Tell him too that if we do make it safely to the airstrip, he'll get his money anyhow."

  Benny told him. Then me and Benny lugged the lieutenant into Doris's office.

  "Fat chance," Billy whispered to me when we came back.

  I grinned and gave him a big hug. He held on tight for a moment.

  "Thanks, Vic," he said, his voice muffled.

  "Ah, hell," I said. "You can do the same for me sometime." I gave him a couple of friendly pats. I figured it wasn't exactly the appropriate time to bring up the delicate subject of, quote, money no object, unquote, so I went back and checked up on Doris instead. She was still out but breathing normally, and her skin tone was still good.

  "I'm going to have to carry her," I told Benny, "so you better bring the car as close to the back door as you can. We'll give you a couple of minutes head start."

  "I go, amigo," he said.

  "Good luck," I said.

  He went, taking the suitcase with him.

  Billy said, "Vic, whatever happens, I won't forget about all this. I'll make it up to you somehow." He winced and grabbed the wrist of his injured hand. "Jesus, that hurts. But now I can do that old joke for real. You know, the one where a guy in a bar holds up two fingers and a thumb and says, 'What's that?'"

  "It's a guy who works in a sawmill ordering five beers," I said. "You lost two fingers?"

  "Yeah, working in the jute plant," he said. "On a bandsaw, making wooden crates to pack their bloody rope in."

  "That's a drasti
c way of giving someone the finger," I said. "Apart from the hand, how're you feeling, Billy? Can you make it? We got a lot of traveling to do, starting now."

  "I can make it," he said grimly. "I may be feeling shitty but I'm feeling terrific too. So let's go, Injun Joe."

  "You go on tiptoe," I said. "They might actually believe one of us stayed behind." I locked the front door, just to make it as difficult as possible for any rescuers, gave the keys to Billy, then picked up Sara as gently as I could. Billy retrieved my jacket and Sara's wig, which we had overlooked. He locked the door that connected the offices so the boys couldn't try rolling together and untying each other, then the back door behind us. Halfway down the stairs Sara gave a little moan. I turned my head to look at her; her face was cradled against my shoulder and she looked about six. Her eyes fluttered, then opened, then peered into mine from a distance of maybe a couple of inches.

  "Prof?"

  "Right here, darlin'," I whispered. "It's all OK and we're on our way."

  "Phew," she said groggily. "Did I go out like a light."

  "Did you ever," I said, starting down the last flight, hoping it wasn't Fred's day to take down the garbage or Ethel's day to smuggle up her mestizo lover. "Just hang on tight, ol' Uncle Vic's got you."

  "It hurts, Vic," she whimpered. She started to close her eyes again. I blinked once or twice; that stairwell hadn't been dusted for an era.

  Just before she dozed off again, I thought I heard her murmur, "Who turned on the waterworks, Prof?"

  Waterworks? From me? I was going to tell her that the last time V. Daniel shed a tear was at his circumcision, when a guy really has a reason for tears, not just because some skinny twerp gets a little bump on the noggin, but she was gone again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When we got to the bottom of the stairs, Billy opened the back door and we cautiously peered out. The Chevy was parked at the curb directly in front of us. Its motor was running. There was no lurking guard awaiting us. The street was almost deserted. Everything was ready. Only thing was, there was no Benny.

  Fine time to take a leak, Benny, I thought. Fine start, I thought, to our carefully orchestrated getaway in which every moment was precious.

  Billy sauntered out casually and opened the rear door for us; I was pleasantly surprised Benny had remembered to unlock it. No one seemed to be paying us any attention, so I crossed the few feet of sidewalk, deposited Sara in the backseat, and hopped in after her. Billy got in the front.

  "Now what?" he inquired. "I don't want to be an alarmist, but we are in a sort of hurry."

  "If I knew what to do I'd be doing it already," I said. "You got any bright ideas?"

  Luckily, Benny ambled around the corner just then and headed our way. He jumped in beside Billy and we took off.

  "And may one ask what you were doing?" I said. "Aside from giving us heart failure? Maybe you just couldn't tear yourself away without a farewell kiss from Ethel."

  "Sorry," he said cheerfully, taking a brisk left turn onto 56th. "Thought it might be a good idea to tell the driver that the lieutenant and party would be another half-hour at least, so why didn't he get himself a quick bite somewhere. That way he won't get antsy and come looking for us for a while."

  "Oh," I said, somewhat mollified.

  "Also wanted to go by a mailbox," he said.

  "You could have mailed your postcards earlier, Benny, like we did."

  "It was a letter to Fred," he said, taking another left onto 55th.

  "I didn't even know you were pen pals."

  "I asked him to call the furniture rental people to take back their goods and told him to keep all the office supplies and other stuff for his trouble."

  "Oh," I said. "Are we going fast enough?"

  "I'd say so," said Billy. "We don't want to attract too much attention. Where're we going, anyway?"

  "South to Cancún," said our chauffeur, "after a change of vehicles."

  "Then what?"

  "Then Puerto Morelos, down the coast, I hope," I said. "Then the good ship Lollipop, unless something comes up. Then Belize Island, if we're still afloat. Then a ferry 'cross the Mersey to the mainland. Then some shenanigans with the U.S. consul. Then a checker cab to the airport. Then home, sweet home. How does all that grab you, you old Panther, you?"

  He gave a tired smile and shook his head.

  "Fuckin' incredible," he said. "I still can't believe we've got this far. I never really thought I'd get out of that place. After nine months, if you've had a good record, you can earn a few cents a day in the jute plant. It took me another nine months to save enough to pay a guard to get that letter out, and then I was never sure it'd get to you."

  "Try writing direct the next time," I said. "I'm in the L.A. phone book."

  "How's Sara?" Benny asked.

  "Seems to be holding her own," I said. "She'll need a couple of stitches in there sometime, but I'd sure hate to stop and hunt up a doctor now."

  Billy cleared his throat.

  "Eh, Vic," he said, turning around to face me. "You're not going to like this, but I have to make a quick stop before we leave town."

  "What do you mean, I won't like it? I love it," I said. "I think it's a great idea. Let's all stop for a couple of hours and have a fucking picnic on the grass in front of that Memorial de la Patria. Are you nuts, Billy?"

  "Over a quarter of a million bucks," he said, "is how nuts I am."

  I whistled.

  "So?" he said.

  "So I'm thinking," I said. I had Sara's head on my shoulder, and I said to her, "Sara, help me think."

  "Vic, I need five minutes, that's all. You're going south anyway, I'll just hop out at like Eightieth and Eighty-fifth and be right back. Hell, that can't hurt. And I want to get something out of all this except jaundice and new dentures."

  "Who doesn't?" I said. "Listen, Billy, what were you in prison for anyway?"

  "You could call it contraband."

  "Contraband," I repeated. "Rolls smoothly off the tongue. What kind of contraband, Billy? You can trust me. I'm only the guy who saved your ass."

  "You could say, illegal contraband," he said.

  "That clears that up," Benny said, taking another left onto the street behind Jorge's shop.

  "I'll give you this much, Billy," I said. "Let's make it to the truck first, then we'll see how it goes."

  "Sure, Vic," he said. "Anything you say."

  A minute later Benny pulled up in front of the old wooden gate that barred the entrance to the alleyway that led to the rear of his friend's hammock emporium. Billy opened it, then closed it behind us after we'd passed through. The Jorge family transportation was parked right in front of us. A ragged tarpaulin had been stretched over arched metal supports and then lashed down over a load of hammocks. Benny beeped his horn twice. Jorge and one of his boys, Carlos, I think, immediately emerged from the small warehouse behind the store and beckoned us out. We got out, me carrying Sara. All available manpower then unloaded our luggage. The son backed the Chevy down the alley in preparation to dumping it somewhere a long way away. Jorge gestured us toward the truck.

  The truck's interior was piled high with close-weaves and a few hundred not so close, but a tunnel of sorts had been left on one side. Jorge, Benny, and Billy pushed the luggage in first, and then I followed it, with Sara awkwardly on my knees. Jorge & Co. had prepared a hollowed-out section up front, walled by strong cardboard boxes; it was surprisingly roomy, and enough light was filtering through so I could make out the floor was covered with blankets, and also spy a long rubber-covered flashlight and, in one corner, a box of provisions. I couldn't make out where the portable TV was; it dawned on me that perhaps this wasn't the first time Jorge & Co. had done this sort of thing.

  I made Sara as comfortable as I could; although it was far from chilly in there, I wrapped a blanket around her to try to reduce the chance of shock. I could hear Benny, Billy, and Jorge arguing about something outside; then in came Benny up the tunnel. Jorge plugged
the tunnel entrance from the outside with a leftover plastic bag full of hammocks, then the cab doors slammed and we were off, and it was Cancún or bust.

  "Where's Billy, and why?" I asked Benny, as if I didn't know.

  "He's up front where he can jump out easier," he said.

  "Oh, God, that's all we need," I said.

  "Cheer up, amigo," Benny said. "So far so terrific."

  "Yeah," I had to admit, and we slapped palms a couple of times and grinned at each other in the gloom.

  After a moment I said reflectively, "That was a fun time, when the guard came through the door bringing the door with him."

  "Sure was," he said, switching the flash on and off a few times to see if it worked, which it did. He shined it on Sara.

  "Sleeping like a babe," I said. "Dreaming of Gorgeous George, hanging on behind him as they cruise off into the sunset at a hundred and twenty miles an hour." I rummaged around in the smaller of my suitcases until I found the fake leather bag in which I kept my toiletries, and rummaged in that until I came up with a vial of aspirin and some-Band-Aids for Sara when she woke up, which I hoped she'd do soon, because when people who've bumped their heads don't wake up soon, then you worry.

  A few minutes later the truck swerved to one side then stopped. A door opened and slammed shut.

  "Billy," I said bitterly. "Gone to see how his contraband that is illegal is making out. He'll probably come back with half of Chichén Itzá, including the well."

  We waited.

  "He was a fascinating character," Benny said after a while, keeping his voice low in case of passersby who might be justifiably startled at the spectacle of talking close-weaves.

  "Who was?" I said, doing likewise.

  "Georgeous George," he said. "The original one."

  "Wasn't he a wrestler?"

  "Was he ever. He more or less invented the wrestler you love to hate. He was a practicing psychiatrist who'd wrestled in college, and he figured out that back in those days the guy you'd most love to hate would be some long-haired, dyed-blond, highly effeminate sissy type all in gold kitsch who went into an absolute snit if anyone dared to muss his golden tresses."