Revenge of the Dog Team

by William W. Johnstone

  Rio turned to Tony. “Go ahead, continue the lesson.” Tony went back to work on Manuel, slapping him around. Manuel cried out in pain several times, but never for mercy. It was Paco who broke, begging Rio to stop the beating. Tears ran from his open slitted eye, his thin shoulders hunched with sobbing dry heaves.

  Tony stopped the beating. Rio looked at him, raising an interrogative eyebrow. Tony said, “He’s passed out, Boss.”

  Leandro said, “I’ll fix that.” Rising ponderously from his armchair, he stood over Manuel, puffing on his cigar until the tip glowed orange-red. Taking it from his mouth, holding it between thumb and forefinger, he regarded the tip reflectively, blowing on it to make it glow brighter and hotter.

  Paco stirred, rousing himself. Crawling forward, he raised a hand palm-out, crying, “No, don’t! Don’t—!”

  Hector stepped on him, pinning him in place with one size-fourteen shoe. Leandro pressed the lit end of the cigar against Manuel’s cheek. Manuel went rigid, returning to consciousness with a cry of pain that ended in a choking gurgle, followed by a prolonged, shuddering groan.

  Rio leaned forward across the desk so he could see Paco better. He said, “Think maybe you learned your lesson about keeping your mouth shut?” Between sobs, Paco choked out his promise to keep silence. When Rio had heard enough, he motioned to Hector, who stepped harder on Paco. Paco groaned, writhing under the boot.

  Rio said, “That’s enough for now. Get them out of here.”

  Hector went into the hall, returning with the gun punk. Tony untied Manuel’s ropes, holding him in place to keep him from falling out of the chair. Hector hauled Paco to his feet and held him upright. Hector said, “They can’t walk.”

  Rio said, “Hector, you stay here. Diego, get Roberto to help.”

  Diego was the gun punk. He went out, returning a few moments later with Roberto, another young gang member. The duo braced Paco, holding him so he stayed on his feet. Tony got under Manuel, hefting him across his back in a fireman’s carry. Motioning with his cigar, Leandro said, “Take them out the back way.”

  Rio said, “Leave them in the plaza by the fountain, so everyone will know what happens to those who can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  Tony, Diego, and Roberto trooped out with their human burdens. Now Rio, Leandro, and Hector were alone in the office with Kilroy.

  Rio said, “Somebody else would have just shot them, but not me.”

  Kilroy said, “That’s right friendly of you.”

  “Not really. Dead, they’re buried and forgotten. Alive, they’re a reminder to other wagging tongues to keep still.”

  “That’s all very instructive,” Kilroy said. “Mind if I have a drink?”

  Leandro smiled nastily, said, “Need a little something to steady yourself?”

  “I’m thirsty and I hate to see all that expensive booze going to waste.”

  Rio said, “I forget my duties as host. Help yourself.” Kilroy went behind the bar, eyeing the bottles. He picked out a bottle of premium white tequila and picked up a tumbler. When he turned around, he saw that Rio had his .38 in hand and was holding it pointed in Kilroy’s general direction.

  Coming around the bar, he crossed to the desk, sitting down in an armchair facing Rio. Uncorking the bottle, he poured a generous portion into his glass, setting the bottle down on the desktop.

  Rio said, “That’s a top brand.”

  Kilroy said, “I have expensive tastes.” He tossed back a solid belt, exulting in the line of liquid fire that plunged down his gullet to explode in his belly, sending heat rushing to his brain. Not waiting for an invitation, he poured himself a second, ignoring Leandro’s scowl.

  Rio sat across from him, holding Kilroy’s .38, resting his hand on the desktop and pointing the rod at Kilroy. He said, “I don’t like snitches. Cops, I hate.”

  Kilroy said, “Me, too.”

  “That’s funny, coming from you.”

  Kilroy said, “Is that what this is all about? You think I’m a cop?”

  “I don’t think, I know.”

  “That gun you’re holding burned down two hitmen to save your hide.”

  “You thought you could gain my confidence that way.”

  Kilroy said, “You know enough about the law to know what a defense attorney could do to an undercover cop who killed two men in cold blood as a ploy to get in tight with a gang. He’d tear him to shreds on the witness stand. His testimony wouldn’t be worth a good damn.”

  Rio considered that for a moment. “True enough. Okay, a crooked cop then. I don’t like them much either, and I’ve already got too many of them on my payroll as is.”

  Kilroy sipped some of that premium tequila. It was fine. “You’ve got cops on the brain. What put that idea into your head? A head which might not be sitting on those shoulders right now if not for me, I might add.”

  Rio said, “A little bird told me that you’re a special investigator for the governor.”

  “Wrong,” Kilroy said. “I’ve got the title, not the job. I’ve got some pull at the state capital that I used to get the title. And I guess you know how easily something like that can be done in this state. All it takes is dollars. The title makes it a whole lot easier for me to get my business done, without having dickheads like Sheriff Boyle interfering and gumming up the works.”

  Rio said, soft-voiced, “And what business might that be, amigo?”

  “Persuasion,” Kilroy said. “I’m a debt collector. I collect bad debts. I persuade people who owe large sums of money to pay up.”

  “Who in Adobe Flats owes you money? A large sum of money, you say.”

  Kilroy said, “Ah, there we come to the heart of the matter. I’m going to lay my cards on the table and tell you what I told the sheriff. Obviously, you’ve got an in somewhere in the department, so use your source to cross-check on what I’m going to tell you.

  “I’m looking for a man named Pete Peters, Jr. An Air Force captain. Not long ago, he went on a wild tear in Vegas. He’s a degenerate gambler and he dropped close to fifty thousand dollars at the tables. Naturally, he couldn’t get a line of credit like that on a captain’s salary, but there’s money in the family and he’s got an independent source of income—a trust-fund baby—so the casinos were willing to take his markers for fifty grand.

  “Then, he disappeared. Dropped out of sight. Well, he’s not the first to pull a vanishing act to weasel out of a gambling debt. Finding guys like that and making them pay up is my specialty. I bought up all his markers and I intend to make him pay in full.

  “You’ve got Vegas connections, check it out for yourself,” he added.

  “I’ll do just that,” Rio said. He flashed sharklike teeth in a half snarl, half smile. “In either case, though, you’re shit out of luck. Because there is no such person as this Peters in Adobe Flats. Believe me, I know. Gambling is one of my business interests.”

  “With Peters dropping out of sight to stiff the boys in Vegas for fifty big ones, he’s not likely to throw a spotlight on himself by taking a rider in a Nevada gaming club, yours or any other,” Kilroy said. “Your boy Hector already tossed me, so there won’t be any objection if I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out an envelope.”

  Rio nodded. Kilroy took a manila envelope from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and opened it, shaking out a few photos. He passed the portrait photo of Pete Peters, Jr., to Rio. “That’s my pigeon.”

  Rio eyed it intently, then shook his head. “Don’t know him. And I never forget a face.”

  “Pass it around. Maybe your brother or Hector has caught sight of him.”

  Leandro and Hector each examined the photo; neither recognized the subject. Rio said, “You’re out of luck, my friend.”

  “I’m just getting warmed up,” Kilroy said. From the envelope he extracted another photo, the one of Peters and Tammi at the craps table. “Here’s my hot lead. Peters is not only a gambler, he’s a chaser. This babe was his constant companion in Vegas. She goes by th
e name of Tammi. I don’t even have a last name. But I do know that while she was in Vegas with Peters, she made a number of phone calls to Adobe Flats. When I ran down the number, I found it was to a pay phone in the town’s commercial district.”

  Kilroy passed around the photo of Tammi, which got a lot more scrutiny than had the photo of Peters alone. Rio said, “I don’t know her, I regret to say. Pity. She looks worth knowing.”

  Leandro and Hector examined the photo and replied in the negative. Kilroy was insistent. “That doesn’t mean she’s not in town. She could’ve changed her hair color, makeup, her entire look. The same goes for Peters. They don’t have to be in town either. There’s lots of ranches outside of town, mobile homes, trailer parks, where a couple could hide out without anyone being the wiser.”

  He leaned forward. “But here’s the clincher, why I know I’m on the right track. You’re right about one thing: I didn’t stumble into Tex Barker and Lee Deetz by accident. Peters and Tammi know I’m after them. As soon as my search zeroed in on Adobe Flats, they got scared. Scared enough to hire Barker and Deetz to eliminate me. I’ve got connections and got word through the grapevine that they were gunning for me. That’s why I was ready for them and got the drop on them first.”

  Rio, no less intent, said, “Here we come to the flaw in your story. It was not you that Barker and Deetz were trying to kill today, it was me. How do you reconcile that with the facts?”

  Kilroy, triumphant, played his high card. “That’s not a flaw, it’s the key to the whole puzzle. Why would Barker and Deetz want you dead? Because Peters and Tammi hired them to do so. Why do Peters and Tammi want you dead? Because you’re a danger to them. And why is that?”

  Rio said, “You’re telling it.”

  “Barker was a sharpshooter who kills with a high-powered rifle. How was your brother Choey killed? By a marksman with a high-powered rifle.”

  Kilroy paused to let that sink in. Rio wasn’t looking at him anymore; he was staring somewhere off into space, his face utterly blank and emotionless. A pair of veins the size of pencils bulged on either side of his forehead. Leandro was breathing hard, like he’d just been running a race.

  Kilroy brought it home. “Don’t you get it? Somehow, your brother Choey crossed paths with Peters or Tammi or both. He knew something that made him a danger to them, made him someone that had to be eliminated. So they set Barker and Deetz on him and had him killed.

  “But that’s not enough, Rio. You’re still alive, you and Leandro. Your brother’s killers can’t rest as long as either of you is around. If you should ever get a lead on them, you’ll keep looking for them until you find them and then they’ll die hard.”

  Rio’s eyes came back into focus. “That is so.”

  Kilroy pressed. “Maybe Choey said something to you, some seemingly irrelevant remark until you start trying to fit the pieces together and realize it’s a clue. Maybe it’s something he left in writing, or a photograph, or who knows what. Maybe he didn’t leave behind any clue at all. But Peters and Tammi don’t know that. Instead of leaving it to chance, they take the initiative. Hire Barker and Deetz, two proven killers, to strike again, take out you and Leandro both at the same time. Hell, maybe they want to take over the town themselves, or they’re working with somebody who does. It’s your town; you can answer that part of it far better than I can.”

  Rio drew himself up behind the desk, as if through sheer willpower he could concentrate his essence into one supremely lethal and single-minded package. He said, “Kilroy, if you can find my brother’s killers and prove it, you can write your own ticket.”

  Kilroy said, “I just want to collect my fifty grand.”

  “I’ll pay ten times that, a hundred times that, to get the bastards who killed Choey.”

  “Let’s keep it within the realm of the possible. Fifty thousand is my price. As for Barker and Deetz, no extra charge. Call it a token of earnest. After all, they were after my hide, too.”

  Rio’s face clouded. “You can do this thing? I want proof—”

  “I’m running down a couple of hot leads,” Kilroy said. “Give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll deliver proof that Peters and Tammi arranged your brother’s murder and put the finger on where we can find them. If I don’t, you don’t pay. What have you got to lose?”

  Rio’s smile was twisted. “If you don’t, it’s all about what you’ve got to lose.”

  Kilroy smiled back. “That little demonstration you put on earlier was pretty convincing. For now, though, I’ve got work to do. My gun?”

  Rio, no fool, ejected the rounds from the .38 before handing it to Kilroy. Kilroy said, “Trusting soul, aren’t you?”

  Rio said, “Kilroy, whatever you do, don’t try to leave town.”

  “Leave this garden spot where the green dollars grow? Not until I collect my fifty thousand bucks,” Kilroy said.

  After Kilroy left, Leandro said, “I don’t like him. I don’t trust him either.”

  Rio said, “What he’ll collect is a bullet in the head. But not before he fingers Choey’s killers.”

  TWELVE

  Kilroy loaded his gun as soon as he could, ducking into an alley down the street from the Toro Loco club. Nobody had followed him out of the club. Were the Brothers Maldonado then so very confident that they had the town so tightly wired that nobody could skip out on them? Kilroy didn’t lack for confidence either. He’d never found himself in a situation, no matter how sticky, from which he couldn’t extricate himself. He figured he could enter or leave Adobe Flats as he pleased with no one the wiser. It just so happened that for now, it suited his purposes to stay in town.

  Rio and Leandro must be pretty sure that he’d stick around for his fifty-thousand-dollar payoff. From what he’d seen of those two, he couldn’t see them paying off on fifty cents if they didn’t have to. That was okay; he had a few tricks up his sleeve, too, and wasn’t exactly dealing on the level with them.

  He fitted a round into the last empty chamber, closed the .38, and slipped it into his hip holster. It felt good to have a loaded gun again. Nevada had some pretty tough towns: Palo Verde, San Gorgonio, and the notorious Lyncastle, but Adobe Flats was right up there with them. All things being equal, he’d no sooner go around in town with a gun than he would without a pair of pants.

  He checked his watch. It was about a quarter after eleven. He wasn’t due to meet Sheriff Boyle for another forty-five minutes yet. He followed the sidewalk to an intersection and turned, walking north.

  The area around the Toro Loco was jammed with bars, clubs, cantinas, and gin mills. He could have a drink or five to wash out the bad taste in his mouth left by the ugly scene of the double beating he’d witnessed in Rio’s office, but decided against it, postponing the pleasure until later. If he started drinking now, it’d be tough to stop with just one or two.

  At Fremont Street, he turned right and started walking east toward the town square. Along the way, he thought he recognized a familiar face in the gutter, or rather, a familiar figure. He couldn’t see the face at first because of the way the body lay, with its upper body stretched across the curb and its lower body on the wooden plank sidewalk.

  It looked like Hard Tack Brady. Passersby strolled past it without giving the man much more than a second glance, except to sneer down at him. Brady’s limbs thrashed feebly, so at least he wasn’t dead.

  Dead drunk was more like it. Kilroy hooked his hands under Brady’s arms and hauled him up on the sidewalk, holding his breath as best he could because the man smelled pretty ripe. Brady groaned, mumbling what Kilroy took to be an inarticulate protest at being disturbed. He dragged Brady to the storefront of a business that was closed for the night, and propped him up so that his back was against the wall.

  Brady wasn’t as plastered as Kilroy had initially assumed. He lifted his head, prying open gummy, rheumy eyes to peer blearily at Kilroy hunkered down beside him. Kilroy grabbed Brady’s shoulder and gave him a good shaking to bring him around. Brady sa
id, “Leave me alone, leave me alone…”

  “You okay, Hard Tack?”

  “Huh? Who’s that?”

  “Kilroy. Your buddy from the graveyard earlier today. Remember me?”

  “Sure. My pal. What do you think I am, drunk? I wish I was drunk. How’s about buying me a drink?”

  “Okay.”

  “You will?” Brady roused himself, exhibiting a surprising amount of force and vigor. “You really are a pal—”

  Kilroy pressed down on Brady’s shoulder, preventing him from rising up. “I want to ask you something first.”

  Brady’s squirmings subsided. “Figures. Nobody does nothing for nothing. You’re no pal.”

  Kilroy reached into his wallet, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and held it in the light in front of Brady’s face. “That’s Andy Jackson’s picture on it, in case you don’t know your presidents.”

  “Gimme,” Brady said, snatching at the bill. Kilroy pulled it out of his reach, said, “Talk first.”

  “My throat’s too dry for talking.”

  “Good, you’ll give short answers.”

  Brady, resigned, sighed deeply. “What do you want to know?”

  Kilroy said, “You’re a prospector.”

  After a pause, Brady said, “I used to be.”

  “You must know the Tres Hermanos and Black Sand Desert pretty good.”

  “Like I know the back of this here left hand of mine.”

  “That’s your right.”

  “Huh? Why, so it is. Quit quibbling. I’ll tell you this. I know the mountains and desert good enough to know that there ain’t a trace of silver left to be found in either of ’em.”

  “But you keep on going back there. Why?”

  Brady shrugged. “Gotta do something. Listen, if you want the story of my life, it’ll cost you more than ten dollars.”

  “I don’t,” Kilroy said. “All I want to know is if there’s a place back there that’s bad medicine. Dangerous. A place where people don’t go if they want to stay healthy.”

  Brady laughed, the laughter subsiding into a wheezy cough. “Mister, the whole damned area is dangerous, what with the drug dealers and gunrunners and people smugglers and whatnot. You could get shot dead just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or because somebody thinks you saw something you ain’t supposed to see.”