by Shirl Henke
“Yes, Salazar has a bug ugly goon named Gus Kline. I did a piece on the Cuban drug trade and he’s definitely a key player,” Matt said. “What’s Patowski’s next move now that our two canaries have twittered?”
“He wants to haul in Reicht and sweat him, but can’t. The DEA and the IRS want the whole enchilada—not just Reicht, but Winchester and all their friends. Baldo and Miller’s arrest is being kept under wraps. They’re holding them for twenty-four hours off the record. No one should know they’ve gone missing.”
“Given the track record of those two prizes, I doubt even Reicht would be surprised if they didn’t report in,” Matt said. “They hoping to locate Gus and his big black car? Work Reicht’s mob connection to Salazar from there?”
She pointed her empty beer bottle at him. “Bingo. If the cops arrest two upstanding citizens like Winchester and Reicht, they’ll just lawyer up. Apparently, although he didn’t know much, Pat thinks your pal Kleb at the IRS has just about nailed down the way Roman Numeral’s offshore setup works.”
“Scruggs must’ve put together what he got out of Farley with what he copied from Winchester’s computer—probably with IRS help,” Matt speculated.
“Probably, but they’re going to interrogate the kid some more. And Scruggs didn’t share that with us.”
“You okay with that?” Matt asked dubiously, thinking of the compassionate way Ida Kleb would question a fragile kid like Farley.
“Hell, no. If Scruggs and Kleb go near the boy, so do I.”
“And how do you figure to reach him if the feds and local cops are all watching?” he asked.
Sam grinned at him. Tweety Bird feathers, he always said when she did that. “Oh, didn’t I mention that you’re going to get your boyhood wish? We have invitations to Montoya’s Spacefleet party. We’ll need good disguises so nobody recognizes us. I was thinking of a Pandorian for me. Or maybe a Klingoff warrior woman?”
“Miller and Baldo ain’t showed, boss. I think they fucked up again,” the leg breaker who worked for local drug king pin Rico Salazar said. “They was supposed to get rid of the woman and the reporter, then call me. That was over six hours ago.”
Gus Kline listened as his boss outlined what he was to do, then hung up. He had to drive an old rust bucket sedan with faded paint, not the nifty black Town Car. Mr. Sal said it was too easy to spot when tailing the broad and the reporter. Grumbling curses, Gus shambled out to the parking lot to pick up the junker.
He was six-three with shoulders like a musk ox, an ex prize fighter. Now he had a good job working for Mr. Sal and his friends. Those screw-ups, Miller and Baldo, had blown the assignment. He’d do better.
“If only I didn’t have to drive this piece of shit,” he muttered, climbing inside the old gray sedan. He switched on the air as soon as he backed it out of the parking space, then pounded the steering wheel. The system was broken. It was going to be a long, hot afternoon.
Somebody would pay for his sweat equity in this deal. If he never saw Baldo and Miller again, he knew where Samantha Ballanger lived….
Hours later, Sam cocked her head so the long bluish-white antennae swayed like sea anemones. “Well, whaddya think?” She looked across the crowded costume shop to where Matt stood in front of a three-sided mirror, smoothing down the waistband of his Spacefleet uniform. A commander’s gold and black skintight suit. She let out a low whistle, admiring his buns. The costume left little to the imagination, but hers was already racing in overtime.
He turned and grinned at her. “Somehow, blue and furry just isn’t you, Sammie,” he said with a chuckle. “Hides all your curves, not to mention that cute little nose.” He walked over and pressed a kiss on the costume’s snout, nearly poking one of her antennae in his eye. “Ouch! Watch out you don’t blind me before the night’s over.”
“Ha! Watch out for yourself. I’m gonna melt before the night’s over.”
“This Vulcant head mask won’t exactly be cool and comfy, either,” he said, holding the pointy-eared latex torture device in one hand. “If only Scruggs and half the local cops didn’t know us on sight, it would make getting in to see Farley a lot easier.”
“A good thing we have Montoya’s handwritten invitation for Mr. and Mrs. Ivan Robertson. El and your pal Ida would never let us set foot in the door if they knew who we were.”
“Okay, let’s party,” he said, tugging on the face mask.
When they drove away from the costume shop, neither saw the nondescript junker that followed at a discreet distance.
“You m-mean Leila’s really dead?” Farley asked Matt again. “All those new people who came to question me this morning, claiming to be government agents, they didn’t say a thing about her, even when I asked. El told me she was dead, but after finding out about him, I guess I didn’t believe him.”
After handing their invitations to the cop guarding the door, Sam and Matt had sneaked upstairs to the small, comfortable bedroom that Farley shared with Steve, the Montoya’s younger son. The pale blue walls were papered with Space Quest designs, and various Spacefleet, Klingoff and other alien ship models hung suspended from the ceiling by invisible wires. Action figures filled a large case on one wall.
Avoiding the DEA agents and cops had not been easy, but Rose, Montoya’s mother-in-law, had agreed to help them. She’d quietly shown them the way to Farley’s room, then sent him up there to talk with them. They had removed their headgear to make communication easier, then explained why they were here in disguise.
“We know Reicht killed Leila, Farley,” Sam said gently. The boy was clear-eyed and breathing normally. No panic attacks. Being with the Montoya family had been good for him. Getting clean from all the dangerous mind-altering drugs hadn’t hurt, either. “Now we want to prove it so he’ll go to jail.”
“Is my f-father part of it?” Farley asked hesitantly.
Sam knew lying wasn’t an option. “Yes, he and Dr. Reicht were in it together.” She had no intention of telling the poor kid his old man may have been responsible for his mother’s death and hoped to God Scruggs wouldn’t, either. There was just so much any teenage boy could take.
“El admitted he isn’t really Spacefleet, but I guess I already figured that out…once the stuff Dr. Reicht gave me started to wear off. He and the others asked a lot of questions about my father. I have this…this thing with my memory…it always made me feel like I was some kind of freak or something, you know?”
“Your memory’s a great gift, Farley. Nothing to be ashamed of,” Matt assured him.
“Yes, but sometimes I wonder if it was the only reason El pretended to be my friend,” the boy said, miserably.
“He didn’t have any choice but to deceive you, Farley. I know that doesn’t mean much now, but maybe when this is all over, he’ll really be your friend,” Sam said. Elvis P. Scruggs will make up for what he’s done if I have to drag him here in a straitjacket!
“Besides your father’s accounting records, what else did El and the others want to know?” Matt asked.
“All about what Dr. Reicht and I talked about when I was in therapy. I—I couldn’t remember much. He gave me shots…sometimes I’d b-black out after.”
“Did they ask you about Leila?” Sam held her breath. Leila Satterwaite was the key to this whole thing.
“Yes, but I didn’t say much. I told them she was my friend, too. Guess I’m pretty dumb. If she was involved with my father and Dr. Reicht, she was pretending. I just said we were in Spacefleet together, that I met her at a couple of chapter meetings, stuff like that.”
Sam leaned forward and placed her furry hand over Farley’s thin, small fist. Scruggs’s deception had hurt the kid and disposed him not to talk about the murdered woman. “But you know more about her, don’t you? She must have confided in you if you believed she was your friend—I think she really was, Farley. We know she was spying on Dr. Reicht. That’s why he killed her.” Supposition, but probably true. “Did she ever tell you she had a brother?”
Sam and Matt exchanged quick glances. This could be a big payoff. “Kenny Brio,” she said. “Did she ever say he worked for your father? That he was a gardener back when you were still in junior high?”
“No.” Farley looked confused. “She only talked about how he would’ve been a star model now if he hadn’t d-died. She talked a lot about when they were kids and hid out from their dad who was a mean drunk. Kenny protected her. I wish I had a big brother like that,” he said wistfully.
“Like Billy?” Matt asked. When he’d talked to Bill Montoya earlier, the captain had indicated he would be interested in legal guardianship.
“He’s way cool. So are the captain and Mrs. M. I specially like her mother. She asked me to call her Grandma.” His eyes lit up as he talked about the Montoya family.
“Leila and her brother hid from their father. Did she ever mention a special hiding place she had here in Miami?” Matt asked.
Farley hesitated a moment, then said, “I never even told El about it…she made me promise, but if she’s really dead…”
Chapter 24
Downstairs the Space Quest celebration was in full swing. Fleet officers of all ranks and aliens of every hue and shape entered after the police inspected their invitations. Revelers filled the rambling house and spilled into the large wooded backyard while a band played on a small stage in the center of the garden.
No one noticed the beat up old sedan parked down the crowded street or the beefy occupant talking on a cell phone as celebrants walked by.
“This is even better than the con in St. Louis,” Farley said excitedly to Sam and Matt. “I’m not all woozy from those pills. I can have fun and not worry about Klingoff and Pandorian plots.” He was dressed in a spiffy Spacefleet uniform with the junior grade insignia of Ensign Eastly Masher on it. He’d actually gained a few pounds and his coloring looked greatly improved from the bluish pallor of the preceding week when he’d suffered drug-induced anxiety attacks. “Hey, look at the stage. Billy told me the chapter had hired an actor to impersonate a big celeb in a retro hollow deck show. He didn’t know who.”
“Who would you like to see?” Sam asked as she and Matt exchanged smiles beneath their masks. Farley was getting his life together in spite of the horrific things that had happened in his family.
“I dunno. Maybe Nick Alaska, you know, the gray-haired singer who runs the night club on Dark Space Ten?”
Matt nodded, but Sam didn’t have a clue. Just then a murmur went through the crowd as melodramatic theme music vibrated with a clash of cymbals, coming from the band beside the stage. “That I recognize,” she said with a big grin. “Also Sprach Zarathustra.”
“Huh?” Farley did a double take.
“It’s by Richard Strauss, and the intro for a very famous “retro celeb” from the mid-twentieth century.”
Before she could say more, the lights onstage came up. A tall lithe figure in a sparkling white jumpsuit and jewel-laden belt leaped from the side curtain. At once the music shifted to a fast, slamming rhythm and the singer began to belt out the opening riff of “Jailhouse Rock.”
“Elvis may have left the building but he’s still on the premises,” Matt said with a chuckle. “He isn’t bad.”
“Hasn’t got the hip swivel right,” Sam said critically, watching Scruggs do his impersonation.
Holding the mike in one hand, he slid to his knees at the front of the raised platform where several girls in skimpy Lieutenant O’Hara costumes squealed. One Pandorian, obviously female, ran her antennae up and down his thigh until he pulled away. By this time the crowd was really gyrating and clapping along.
Cries of “Long live the King!” echoed around the yard.
“El told me about his mama naming him for some famous old-time singer, but I thought that guy was fat,” Farley said, baffled, as he watched his erstwhile best friend perform.
“Not in his buff days,” Sam said with a lascivious gleam in her eye. “Ah, to have lived during the sixties,” she sighed.
“Then you’d be the old, fat one now,” Matt teased.
In spite of their banter, both of them kept a sharp eye on the crowd since the place was swarming with local cops and DEA agents who would take a very dim view of their being within ten miles of Farley. His revelations about Leila Satterwaite appeared to have been cathartic for the boy. This was Farley’s night to have fun.
Billy Montoya was the spitting image of his father—tall, lean, with curly black hair and a ready smile. Although his costume was Klingoff, he’d pulled off the elaborate latex head covering as a concession to the sultry night heat. “Wish I’d come as a Spacefleet Earthman instead of an alien,” he said to Farley, who introduced the adults to his new friend.
“How do you like the show?” he asked the three of them. “I was sorta hoping for Nick Alaska but my dad’s a big Elvis Presley fan.”
“No kidding? I barely heard of him. My family never cared for rock music. Just classical,” Farley replied.
“Boring,” Billy said and both boys laughed. “You wanna get something cold to drink? They’re serving Klingoff blood milk.” Seeing Farley’s hesitant look, he quickly added, “and regular soft drinks, too. Any kind you want—only they call Coke Pandorian Zinger and Mountain Dew Reemulan Drachma.”
Matt and Sam watched the two boys walk away. “Looks like Farley’s found a big brother after all. He’s going to be okay once the feds nail his father and Reicht,” Matt said.
Sam’s eyes returned to the stage where El was now crooning “Love Me Tender” and the women in the crowd around the stage were going wild. “Now that he’s settled okay, we can check out that storage unit of Leila’s.”
“If she told Reicht, it’ll be empty.”
“We have the key Farley gave us. The security in storage places is usually pretty tight and 24-7. I doubt Reicht would send some dumb thug like Miller or Baldo to try bashing in the door with a fire ax. Might get the security guard to call the cops,” she argued.
“This is evidence in a crime. The place is full of DEA and IRS agents. We can turn it over to them. Speak of the devil…” His eyes traveled across the crowd to Ida Kleb, the only one in the place not in costume. She was the only one who didn’t need one. Ida was wending her way toward them as if she recognized Matt in spite of his Vulcant headgear. She wore an ill-fitting brown suit, sensible shoes and a determined expression on her bulldog face.
“Where does she get her hair cut? A hardware store?” Sam asked.
“Nobody’d let her. It’d take the edge off any ax in the place,” he replied before Kleb drew close enough to hear them over the din of the crowd. “Dammit, she’s made me.”
“Mr. Granger, what are you doing here?” she asked without preliminary.
“What’re you doing not in costume?” he countered.
“I am in costume. As a human being. A twenty-first-century public servant, who happens to be conducting an investigation in which you’re interfering,” she replied sharply.
I get the twenty-first-century part, but the human being… Sam let her catty thoughts fade, knowing the old harridan could make their lives pure hell if she turned her attention to Sam’s recent tax extension and long ugly history with the IRS. “We just wanted to make sure Farley was happy in the home we found for him,” she said ingeniously.
“How did you recognize me with the mask?” Matt asked.
Ida Kleb looked up at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re half a head taller than any man in a five-mile vicinity, not to mention you have a great ass,” she added with a lusty smirk.
Sam, who had been taking a sip from a glass of Diet Coke, nearly snorkeled it up her nose. “Well, Ms. K, that ass happens to belong to me,” she said when she caught her breath. Who’d ever have thought the ancient hag was a letch!
Matt coughed in consternation, desperately trying to suppress a laugh. Then he said, “Er, this is my wife, Sam Ballanger, the woman Winchester hired to
find Farley. We were just leaving.”
“What’s the matter? You can’t stand Agent Scruggs’s gyrating, either?” she asked, looking at the stage where Elvis was now singing “Blue Suede Shoes.” And dancing in them. “I remember the King. This is a disgusting parody.”
It was apparent that the feeling of shuddering dislike the DEA agent had expressed toward Ida Kleb was mutual. “I imagine working with a guy like Scruggs can be trying,” Matt said, grateful the mask hid his expression. “You won’t tell him we were here, will you?” he asked in a conspiratorial voice.
“Only if you get out of here right now. I’m sure once this is over, the Internal Revenue Service will have some questions for both of you,” she added ominously.
“I tell you, Matt, she was looking at me when she said it,” Sam said as he drove his convertible west on 836 toward the Rent-A-Space just west of the airport.
“You’re being paranoid, Sam. Just like you always are when it comes to the IRS. Of course we’ll be called in when they arrest Reicht and Winchester.”
“She likes your buns. You’re safe. Say, how’s your Elvis imitation?” she said with a snort.
“You’ve heard me sing in the shower. What do you think?”
“You only sing when I’m lathering you up,” she shot back, then glanced at the clock on the dash. “Pat’s probably waiting. He’s a lot closer to the joint than we are.”
“I’m surprised you were able to talk him into letting us tag along when he opens that storage space,” he said.
“Cops hate the alphabets and besides, this is his murder investigation—and I have the key.”
“If Reicht hired someone to pick the lock, you’ll both be in for a big disappointment,” he cautioned.
“Considering the level of talent Reicht’s hired so far, I doubt it. But knowing that Leila gave Farley the key to her ‘secret hiding place,’ I am glad Montoya’s house is crawling with cops, even if some of them are feds.”