The Dream Virgin

by Don Quine

  Noting how Leon was starting to look after listening to Rahim a while, George thought it was probably best to wrap the bitching up, so he said, “Not like we’re crying over unspilt milk or something, Leon, it just hurts when two on the team go renegade after Marshall Ray and us get the old couple to come clean, then Oliver and Jack do their darts and ravens routine, wind up getting TV attention like it’s some big joke.”

  Leon told George and Rahim that Oliver and Jack didn’t get any TV attention because nobody knew it was them; but he knew what they were saying, and said Oliver and Jack had been chewed out for what they did.

  “Well, okay. I just don’t want to . . .”

  Like Leon and George, Rahim suddenly turned to the TV screen that had a reporter, not Kal or Krys, but a man with a suit and tie inside a studio say, dismayed, “More Breaking News! A triple homicide has been reported on the outskirts of the small town of Athena just minutes ago! Stay tuned.”

  While the capture of the naked biker gang drew media attention that made for some laughs, this breaking news was no joking matter. You kill a doctor and nurse people sit up. You toss in a pink-eyed albino and folks stand to learn that the doctor had his privilege to practice removed four years ago and was known to have criminal patients.

  The media whip it up, people get fearful and concerned; crazed killer on the loose. No telling where Reimer went or how, so Leon told Rahim and George they were back to wait and see. He told them to keep in touch with Sheriff Todd and Marshall Ray; a plan was being worked up.

  Lay low until it was done.

  “He had to steal wheels, head south to Boise or up to Lewiston,” George said.

  “State police probably have road blocks already set up on the 3, 11, and 82 headed north into Washington, 84 at the Idaho border,” said Rahim going over to the radio from where police reports were starting to come in.

  The Breaking News TV station showed squad cars in front of the quack’s home on Lost Prairie Road. Sheriff Todd Haskins telling the reporter that along with the doc and nurse another man was shot in the eye and killed, an albino that fit the description of the biker who was involved in the shootout with the lumberjacks last night near Flora.

  The other biker with the albino was thought to be an escaped convict named Reimer Gore who recently broke out of the Oregon state mental pen.

  “News hounds will be showing up now, wanting to sniff.”

  “Dig up old bones,” Rahim said.

  Leon walked to the door. Snapped his suspenders.

  “When I said stay put I didn’t mean you had to stay here, play Scrabble and squabble, that you couldn’t get out, walk around town and act normal. Enjoy life.”

  Leon left.

  Rahim looked at George.

  “He was looking at you when he said it.”

  “Looking at me and said what?”

  “Walk around town and act normal.”

  George saw it coming and had a smile waiting for Rahim who said, “Not like a brain-dead zombie who trips on his toes, lands in a shit pile and grins.”

  George said, “You really do need to get some help, Rahim. All that bile’s a sure road to colon cancer. Something to keep your eye on.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Except for J. G. Forsyth who had a sore throat from a drawn out litigation in Seattle, the other six members of the Lake Meadows town council all were present. Molly, Leon, Nicole, Randall, Packy, and Ingrid sat at the breakfast table set up in the alley near the bar.

  Fresh OJ to blueberry pancakes, the young news reporter from Enterprise, Bonnie Whittle, was delighted at all the attention.

  After the call from Sheriff Haskins that the lumberjacks died from the tailpipe exhaust, then another call shortly after that informed them Reimer was likely involved in the murder of the shady doctor and nurse and the albino, the town council sent e-mail invitations from The Town of Lake Meadows to sixteen of the biggest radio and TV stations in Oregon which, except for Portland, weren’t all that big.

  The Lake Meadows e-mail said the town was very aware of the Reimer Gore matter being that the town was where the psychotic had been caught and arrested after abusing Chip Bickford and killing his dog.

  The town knew the chances of Gore returning were remote, but they increased security in Lake Meadows as well as at the Ventures Nest campus and wanted to extend an invitation to Oregon news departments to meet with the town council for a Monday morning breakfast, share how they were protecting its citizens as well as the thousands of fans attending the upcoming Crazy Ideas Bash.

  It was important to get the word out that there was no need for alarm. Lake Meadows was the most secure tourist town in America.

  www.LakeMeadowsOregon.org. Check it out.

  A few stations said they’d try to slip a word or two about it into their news feeds, most were fine with the release Nicole prepared, but none of the media, except for Bonnie Whittle, showed up for the invite.

  Maybe because of the distance being all the way up in the Alps.

  Maybe it was too early on Monday morning.

  Being it was only three days after the Reimer murders, it was more likely due to the latest Breaking News about the shootout in the parking lot of the wildlife refuge in the Malheur National Forest with the Feds and six members of the Operation Patriots Defense.

  After her third cup of coffee, Bonnie stood and said, “You folks are too gracious and I want to share my article for the paper with you before I submit it to the editor, see if you’d like me to add something I might have overlooked. As an independent journalist I can do that.”

  Walking her out of the bowling alley, Bonnie stopped the council to ask Leon, “How’s Chip Nelson doing since you adopted him, Mr. Bickford? Has he recovered from the trauma?”

  The reporter hadn’t brought up Chip during the entire breakfast, and Leon wasn’t ready for the question so Molly spoke up.

  “Thanks for asking, Bonnie dear, Chip’s doing just dandy. He’s quite an artist. Working on a comic book that’s a real dilly.”

  Randall opened the S2S door for Bonnie, slipping her his card as they stepped outside. “Appreciate your professionalism, Bonnie. Please stop by the Emporium for a free hand massage.”

  Ingrid said, “When you have time, we’d love to talk with you about getting our Gimmie Some Skin parade in the media, Bonnie.”

  Molly said, “After Gore is captured.”

  Bonnie seemed interested in Chip, and walking her to her Fiat, Molly affirmed how great Chip was doing. Before she got in her car Bonnie said, “That’s remarkable! I’d love to meet him and see his comic book.”

  Leon said, “Sounds like a plan. We’ll have you up, give you a tour of Wonder Way.”

  Nicole said, “Please let me know if you’re interested in covering the Crazy Ideas Bash so I can get a Press pass and a badge made up for you.”

  Bonnie had only moved to the area a few months ago from Reno and saw the signs and posters, heard the Startup festival was a trip and said she’d love to come.

  She hoped the murders wouldn’t make folks nervous about attending.

  The council waved goodbye as Bonnie drove away, turned and walked back into S2S, Randall saying, “We’ll know soon enough, won’t we?”

  Before they reached the alley door, Packy said, “Most folks find murder intriguing. They don’t want it too close and personal, but close enough to write home about. Dollars to donuts it won’t hurt business. Bet you just the opposite.”

  When they got inside, and sat down in the cafe to discuss odds, Leon got a call.

  He had to make a trip into Portland for business. The CEO of a company he was a board member of had a seizure and an emergency meeting had to be held.

  Before he left the cafe, Leon gave Nicole’s hand a squeeze to let her know that everything was going to be okay.

  For her not to worry.


  CHAPTER 58

  Leon left the pawnshop playing the bum.

  He crossed the street and gimped for a few blocks. Nearing the liquor store, he whipped out a silenced handgun, fired it three times into a short dead-end alley, slipped the 9mm Kimber back under his ragged jacket and continued gimping; like the gunshots never happened.

  Close to 10 p.m., nobody on the street.

  Leon stopped off for a pint, went to the bus stop and sat on the bench. Rubbed his fake beard and took a belt as the Asian hooker strutted out of the apartment building, crossed the street, sat down on the bench and winked.

  Thanks, but no thanks, the bum said, gave the hooker a belt of his Four Roses, hooker took a paper bag from her handbag and pulled out a pint of rum.

  On the third floor of the apartment building, the Asian with the facial scar moved away from the window with his rifle. It took him less than a minute to walk out of the building, cross the street, check the bullet holes in the heads of three propped up mannequins at the end of the short and dimly-lit dead-end alley, walk back to the apartment building and nod his head at the Asian hooker before he went inside.

  The hooker got up from the bench, nodded to the bum, and strutted back into the apartment building.

  Leon got up from the bench, put his pint in the paper bag that the rum was in and gimped back toward the pawnshop.

  On the fifth floor of the For Lease office building, across from the bus stop with a good view of the liquor store and the alley and the street, the pawnbroker stepped back from the broken window with his assault rifle and removed the scope.

  Back inside the hidden room of the pawnshop, without removing his beard or the bum clothes, Leon took out the instructions from the bottom of the hooker’s paper bag.

  It had the photos, precise locations, and timetable.

  Leon agreed to short-term notification, but this was pushing it. It only gave him twenty hours to get from Portland to Vancouver, and that’s after he got Brent the tailor out of bed, got the wig and the goatee and the nose shaped up, what he needed in place and ready to go.

  CHAPTER 59

  The Fresh Fish By Order store was located in a small industrial park near the Clark Drive area on the east side of downtown Vancouver.

  It was late evening and the park offices were all closed.

  Three black BMW sedans drove up, parked in front of an office strip and blocked the entrance to twelve offices, six on each side of the strip, walkways that ended at a concrete wall covered with ivy.

  In front of the wall, a big tree rose above the stucco office buildings, lent a touch of nature to the sterile landscape and stark lighting.

  The twelve Asians were dressed in black suits and shirts. Nine of them got out of the cars. Three remained in the driver seats. The nine made their way down the strip with stealth as they passed each office toward the Fresh Fish store at the end of the strip.

  The three Asians that got out of the center BMW had dark suitcases in one hand, the semi-automatics in the other hand were held low. These were pros. Knew what they were doing.

  But when the skyrocket from behind the concrete wall went up over their heads with bangs and flashes, all nine members of the Boonruang gang looked up in the sky and got caught off-guard, which gave the five gunmen dressed like wealthy businessmen time to open the five closed office doors near the fish store and shoot the Asians.

  The ambush was fast and executed with precision.

  Six of the gang dropped dead on the spot, the ones with the suitcases were shot in their left legs, wounded and disarmed before they had a chance to return gunfire.

  The Asian driver in the center BMW jumped out of the seat of his car with his gun drawn, yelled something vile in Thai, then charged and fired at the businessmen.

  But the Asian man with the facial scar in the rear BMW shot him in the back.

  Then the Asian woman playing the hooker got out of the front BMW driver’s seat and shot the facial-scarred Asian in his back.

  She then followed four of the suited hit men into the fish store where they dragged the three wounded gang members.

  She helped carry the suitcases.

  The six dead gangsters and the two dead BMW drivers were left lying on the walkway.

  The fifth well-suited hitman didn’t go in the fish store with the others. He stayed out in front, walked back across the strip to The Artists Foundry and listened for sirens.

  He thought the skyrocket was a stupid idea even though the Asian hooker said the Boonruangs paid the industrial park security guards a monthly bonus for turned heads; gave them Trailblazer tickets to pass out to the local cops.

  The fifth hit man had a hawk nose, horn-rimmed glasses, and a trim goatee that matched his wavy dark hair. He looked elegant in his color-coordinated custom look-a-like suit. Didn’t look like a hang-loose type.

  Leon looked very much like the suited businessman inside the Foundry who was stashed under a workbench with a bullet in his head and a sheet of canvas over his body.

  If you looked inside the dead businessman’s Brioni jacket pocket, you’d find a wallet and passport that showed him to be Clarence Weyers, an investment banker from Brussels.

  He was really Jean-Claude Nouveau, a professional killer from Nice.

  Leon glanced up at the tree by the wall, then walked back across the strip and entered the Fresh Fish store; happy he didn’t have to kill Nouveau.

  Just assume him.

  He didn’t mind shooting the three Asian gangsters in their legs as requested.

  CHAPTER 60

  The large refrigerated room was in back of the fish store.

  Inside the room, King Salmon and sturgeon hung on hooks alongside the three wounded Asians whose faces were battered, their right arms hacked off at the elbow; the hooks inserted under their armpits caused blood to drip down their suits and shoes onto the white plastic-covered floor.

  Three of the hitmen sat on stools near the fish rack, had on butcher aprons and rubber gloves to keep their classy suits from getting stained.

  Each hitman held a chopped-off Asian arm by its wrist.

  A fourth businessman killer stood back away from the rack, held a smartphone in his hand and said to his three business associates with a bit of a brogue, “Once more mates, need to move in for a nice close up.”

  The killers got off their stools with the Asian arms and moved into the picture frame. They listened to Vladimir Darcy tell them when to dish out the whacks, to stay out of the way, and don’t block the shots.

  The toughest-looking Asian hung down from the rack and watched the Asian hooker check out the cash and drugs in the suitcases. He spit at her, blood dribbled down his chin as he groaned, “Filthy slut traitor!” in Thai.

  “Got it,” Vladimir said and nodded to his associates who tossed the arms on the plastic sheet and removed their aprons and gloves.

  Vladimir held up his smartphone for a video.

  Vladimir was short and nonchalant and shot each of the three hanging Asians in their groins with his Browning 911-380 without blinking. He then turned the phone away from the bloody groins and pointed it at his grinning face for a Selfie.

  “There you go, boss. Your Boonruang top dogs just caught the clap!” Vladimir laughed. “Showing you that VD can take care of business and profitize your Vancouver operation in a timely manner that will more than delight you.

  I’ll send you an exterior shot of the other dead ducks on our way out.”

  Vladimir put away his phone, pointed his combat pistol at the Asian gangster with the dribble, and said to the Asian hooker, “What did this chink mumble to you, Marsha? Bet it wasn’t nice. Did he say something like you were a Judas bitch?”

  Marsha closed the suitcase. She could tell by Vladimir’s laugh what he planned to do and pushed a button under her arm that gave a signal Vladimir c
ouldn’t see or hear.

  “You sure you want to do this, Vladi?” she asked him. “After two successful takeovers? Millions in our offshore accounts. Romantic weekends in faraway places like Carmel and Versailles.”

  “No denying I’ve loved working with you, Marsha. You’re a great lay and lots of laughs and I couldn’t have moved up the takeover ladder without your help and cooperation.

  Unfortunately, the time has come to end the relationship.”

  Vladimir pointed his pistol at the suitcases.

  “That’s just way too much money for a bitch to waste on perfume and jewelry.”

  His three hitmen laughed, had their guns out, waiting for Vladimir to give them the signal to shoot Marsha, when Leon opened the refrigerator room door.

  Vladimir turned, yelled at Leon, “You’re suppose to stand guard outside, idiot!”

  The three thugs started to turn their guns toward Leon, but he shot each one in the forehead.

  Vladimir thought about using his gun, but looked at the one Leon pointed at him, dropped his and sat down on one of the empty stools, gave Leon a closer, rueful look

  “You’re not Jean-Claude,” he said.

  “No, he’s not, honey.”

  Marsha picked up the suitcases with the cash and the drugs, walked over to Vladimir, took his smartphone.

  “Never double-cross a triple-crosser, VD.”

  Marsha turned to Leon. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  She turned and walked out of the cold room. Closed the frig door that Leon had left open.

  Vladimir offered Leon money. He was worth seven million, home in the Caribbean. Cars and a yacht. Leon could have it all if he’d let him live.

  Leon thought about making Vladimir lift the big sturgeon off the rack, pistol whipping his face, and hanging him up on the rack with the Asians.

  Instead, Leon told Vladimir to stay on the stool, turn away from him and bend his head down between his knees.

  Vladimir kept offering things, but did as told.