by Myles Knapp
“I’ll let you know when I find him.”
“Good. And tell rest of the team to be careful.”
CHAPTER 23
Morano spent Sunday night watching the video footage from his honey traps. The idea was simple. Morano had bought it, sort of, from a cell mate at Pelican Bay.
His cellie had been a pro wrestler wanna-be. But got started on ‘roids and then gone down hard behind drugs, gambling, a weak work ethic, and a violent temper.
Paul Scully, aka Monster Paul, had been stripping an original old master off the library wall in a rich asshole’s Nob Hill mansion when the homeowner came back early. Monster shot him and got caught. A violent three-time loser convicted of felony burglary with a discharged weapon, who stabbed a guard his first week on the yard—he wasn’t going to get out until he stopped breathing. By the time Morano met him, Monster had ten years to figure out the perfect crime.
“Video blackmail.” Monster cracked his knuckles.
“Blackmail’s mostly penny ante crap. Too much risk getting paid.” Morano wasn’t buying.
Monster switched to gnawing on the knuckle of his left index finger. Morano watched as blood dripped down his chin and landed on the blue prison shirt stretched over his distended belly. Guy definitely was not well.
“Not my way. My way, a guy could take down a million, two million a hit. A year or so, you could take in thirty, maybe forty million. Over and out. You only hit middle-aged rich pussy guys. There’s no risk.”
“I’m listening.” Morano thought Monster was full of shit. But, what the hell, he had the time.
Monster glanced down, surprised at the blood on his belly. Then began furiously rubbing the swastika intertwined with the ‘666’ tattooed on his right hand. “You get out, you do this. Then I need you to do something for me.” Monster stuttered it out. Even the worst cons in Pelican Bay were scared of Morano.
“What?”
“You gotta promise me you’ll send me the max cash they allow, every week, for smokes and stuff. And the max of those mail order packages from the prison supply place. I want underwear, deodorant, toothpaste, books, and stuff I can trade.”
“That it?” Guy was flippin’ crazy.
Monster was back to stuttering again. Probably because his index finger was jammed halfway up his nose.
“And you promise to send ten percent of everything you get to my momma. Sort of like a commission. Momma’s sick and ain’t got no insurance.”
Morano thought ‘jeez, yeah, like that’ll ever happen.’ “OK.” Knowing as he said it he could always stiff Monster in the end. Wasn’t like the guy was going to sneak out of level four security one night and come looking for him.
“Keys are video and the right victim.”
Morano nodded encouragement.
“You only hit real rich dudes; guys who think of a million bucks the same way you and I think of a couple of G’s.”
Morano nodded again. He didn’t want Monster to get off track. He didn’t know if Monster had taken too many head shots or just done too damn many drugs, but the guy had trouble concentrating. “Rich. Sounds good.”
“Hell, that’s not it.” Monster’s eyes drifted sideways and he snorted a stream of wet, yellow snot out his nose. “You want rich guys who just went through a messy, expensive divorce. A divorce that cost them millions.”
“Rich, divorced, millions.” Morano was worried. Monster’s eyes were starting to dart rapidly—randomly back and forth, up and down, three flicks every second or two. Left, right, up, left. Jerk to the right, then down. Worse, they were glazing over. When Monster got agitated sometimes you couldn’t get him to refocus for weeks.
“After the divorce, guy marries a new, younger wife.”
“Trophy wife. Got it.”
Monster’s eyes stopped flitting and he looked dead-on into Morano’s gaze; which was something no smart con ever did. His smile got so big Morano could see the scars where the prison docs had hacked out his tonsils. “This is the absolute key. New wife has to have a family member that’s a hot shit divorce attorney.”
Monster snorted. “Video the target with a bimbo. It’s a setup. High-def with audio. Once you’ve got the goods, send the guy a copy and offer to sell him everything for about twenty percent of what a divorce is gonna cost.”
“Why’s the new wife gotta have a family attorney?”
“More chance of an expensive, ugly divorce and less chance of a pre-nup.”
Morano was amazed. Here, he’d mostly been entertaining himself. And it turned out Monster actually had a real plan. A plan that could work.
For the first time in Morano’s experience, Monster was totally focused. “The attorney can raise hell with a mega-millions divorce and it won’t cost her nothin’. Your victim will practically kiss your ass you’ll be so cheap compared to the divorce. Not that he’ll ever see your ass, if you’re smart.”
“Why only take him for twenty percent?” asked Morano.
“Get greedy and the guy might hire somebody to knock you off instead. A million is big money to you and me, but chump change for the right guy. Christ, I ripped off a house in Pacific Heights. When I hocked a painting from the job, the fence told me it was a Jackson Pollock. Thing was worth two and a half mil. Dude I ripped off had it hangin in the crapper.”
CHAPTER 24
Pay picked at the worn red Naugahyde in the diner booth and waved at the waitress for another Red Bull. He hated it, but the coffee was lousy. Stale, burnt, cold and weak. Pay thought there might be an excuse for stale coffee—even cold coffee. But weak coffee just meant someone at the restaurant was a cheap bastard.
Rubbing at his stubble, Pay breathed deep, struggling to generate some energy. Exhausted, he chugged the drink and waited for Sam, wishing he’d gotten more sleep.
Up most of Friday night with the cops. Up most of Saturday with Sam, and now he’d be up again all night. With the weekly meeting, and the beginnings of the Richard Johnson case, he hadn’t gotten more than a nap in days.
Sam walked in, as Pay knuckled back a yawn. “What’s so special tonight that we have to meet? I’d like to get moving.” Sam twitched impatiently.
“Talked it over with my team. You go some sketchy places. So I got you some protection.”
“One of you guys follows me all night. That seems like it should be enough.”
“Hope it is.” Pay handed Sam the umbrella and played a self-defense demo video from the manufacturer’s website on his phone. “If that isn’t enough I got you these,” he said, handing over wallet and ankle holsters. “Both derringers are loaded with buckshot. Just point, shoot and run. If nobody chases you, after a few blocks you can stop and call us.”
After asking Pay where to get help with his long dormant shooting skills, Sam shoved the wallet in his jacket pocket, strapped on the ankle holster, gave the booth a good whack with the umbrella and hustled out the door, with Pay jogging along behind.
At four in the morning, Pay was still yawning and chasing Sam. Uncharacteristically, Sam had headed straight for the financial district where he began walking a search grid looking for his former boss.
Finally, Sam stopped at the mouth of an alley where the financial district, Chinatown and North Beach, all sort of merged together. “Looks like I’m not going to find him tonight.”
“Guess not.”
“Any ideas where else to look?”
“You gave him a couple grand. Probably got off the streets for a while.”
“I’m going to look again tonight.”
“OK. You done for now?”
“As soon as I find a cab.”
With Sam safely away, Pay gave Blade the hand-sign for “relax, we’re off duty” and turned up the alley towards home. Blade followed, never more than fifty-behind, stopping occasionally to sniff. Eyes barely open, practically out on his feet, P
ay fantasized about sleep.
Yawning, he glanced over his shoulder, checking on Blade as he turned the corner. A minor, thoughtless movement…that saved his life.
The lead pipe that would have crushed his skull instead glanced off his shoulder.
Pay whirled right, his elbow snapping up to shoulder level. Fueled 285 pounds of pissed off, scared, confused anger, Pay knew anything he hit, even accidentally, would go down. The pipe wielder’s nose shattered and he screamed, crashing to the ground. Continuing his spin, Pay glared at two assholes with guns. The closest one held a chrome plated pistol just inches from Pay’s chest.
Pay grinned at him the way a lioness smiles at a baby antelope separated from the herd. Slapping the gun across the smaller man’s body, he pulled him into his chest using the goon to shield him from the second shooter.
Blade, trained to disarm, then kill, soared at the remaining gunman; 170 pounds of twisting, writhing dog-shredding muscle and crushing bones met his gun hand. Dropping his weapon, the thug turned to run. Blade leapt and rode the punk to the ground, clawing at his eyes and ripping chunks of flesh from his face.
Snapping his right hand toward the ground and ramming his left up, Pay dislocated his goon’s elbow, ripped the gun from his hand and ran him face-first into the wall.
The guy on the ground whipped the pipe at Pay’s legs. Pay jumped, but the pipe clipped his calf toppling him backwards. As he slammed his head on the wall behind him, the last thing he saw was Blade lunging for the creep’s neck.
CHAPTER 25
Morano was trying to sleep when his phone pinged with an urgent text from the guys following Pay. Dave had been with him since almost the beginning, a low level twenty-something, no brains and no potential—only slightly smarter than the rest of his team who were dumber than drunken cattle.
“Tried to take Pay out. Went bad. Heading to the warehouse.”
Morano debated texting back but decided this was one of those things better handled by phone. “What the fuck happened?”
“Alberto’s dead. Bled out. Pay’s damn dog ripped out his throat.”
“Ah, shit.”
“Ravon’s got a broken arm and a bunch of big ass chunks missing from his face. Damn dog nearly bit off his nose. I got a dislocated elbow, a fucked up face and a shredded gun hand.”
“Where’s Pay?”
“Left him out cold on the sidewalk near Chinatown.”
“What?”
“Dog’s the fucking devil. I barely got away alive.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. What a goddamn mess. Give Ravon whatever painkillers we’ve got. Give him lots of them.”
On his way, Morano stopped at Café Me on Washington for food. Not because they made great breakfast sandwiches. In his mind breakfast sandwiches were bullshit. Breakfast, if you were stupid enough to be up at that time of day, should be biscuits and gravy, or corned beef hash, or some kind of truck driver mega meal full of carbs, protein and fat. He stopped at Café Me because it was, unbelievably, one of the few places in SF not named Jack in the Box or Denny’s where you could get food at 5:30 in the fucking morning. And because he needed coffee and time to think.
Morano bought the warehouse on the cheap—surrounded by decrepit sheds, a couple of tired wheelbarrows and other castoff supplies a bankrupt contractor had left behind. The metal walls were pockmarked with rust and riddled with holes. Located in the worst part of the Richmond industrial waterfront, it had been foreclosed and empty for years. The bank was more than happy to take his low-ball cash offer.
At first it was a place where he used cash and occasionally his fists to convince call girls, dancers and bouncers, they needed to work with him. Less than a month after the sale was complete, he’d realized that having a single location to meet with the supporting cast was stupid. It made him too easy to find.
Now he used the warehouse as a place to park his deep sea fishing boat and to lift weights. And he used a series of flunkies to run errands, make pickups and keep the girls in line, making sure to never let any one guy hang on too long or learn too much. He met them in bars, restaurants, and parks, contacting them via pre-paid cell phones and changing locations randomly. There was no way any of the new ones could trace anything back to him.
But Dave was his first hire. And he’d been to the warehouse.
Dave met Morano as he pulled up in his truck. “What we gonna do?”
“Load Alberto’s body in the boat. Set it up to look like we’re fishing. When we get out around the Farallones, we’ll toss him overboard. Lots of great whites out there. They’ll like him.”
“What about Ravon?”
“Bring him along. Keep him doped up. After we get rid of Alberto we can get him some help.”
CHAPTER 26
One glance and Brooke knew Pay’d had a rough night. Because he seldom slept in the big green chair, and because Blade lay beside it, sniffing Pay and looking worried. Normally he’d have greeted her at the front door.
Pay’s calf sat on a blue rubber ice bag. His head rested on a second bag and a bottle of Wild Turkey was on the end table next to his hand. She fingered the ice bags. Room temperature. He’d been there a while.
Brooke refilled the bags and gently slid them back in place. Pay moaned but didn’t waken.
She’d been with the team long enough to know Pay was tough. And also to know that if he believed he had suffered a serious injury he wouldn’t have opted for ice therapy. The team had several medical professionals, all past clients, who would provide painkillers, first aid, and even outpatient surgery without dragging the police into things that were better left in the shadows.
Settling into the chair next to Pay she dialed his favorite MD. “At the moment he’s asleep. There are fresh scabs on his jaw, along with bruises and scratches on his hands.”
She could hear his frown through the phone. It wasn’t Doc’s first Revenge Team phone call. “How’s his pulse?”
Brooke reached over and felt Pay’s wrist. “Ninety-one and steady.”
“If you can keep the big guy off the bourbon that would be good.”
“Yeah right. If I could do that, the President would be calling me for advice. You know Wild Turkey is his ‘go to’ pain killer of choice. That, and beer, and whatever OTC pain relievers are handy.”
“Jesus! How many times have I got to tell him those things don’t go at all well with possible concussions or internal bleeding?”
“What’s that saying about teaching a pig to sing? Doc, what’s done is done. Is there anything I can do right now?”
“If he starts vomiting or his pulse kicks up, text 911 to my cell and I’ll be there stat. If I don’t hear from you before, I’ll be there by lunch.”
“I’ll order in. You still hooked on Wimpy’s black-and-blue burger, extra blue?”
“Medium rare with onion rings. Couple of those and I might forget to send you a bill.” They both laughed at the ridiculous thought that his visit would result in paperwork of any kind.
CHAPTER 27
Halfway to the Farallones, Morano decided he was going to toss both Alberto and Ravon to the sharks. Alberto cause he was dead, and Ravon because he was a whiny piece of shit who was going to need real medical help from a real doctor. That left him wondering what to do with Dave who could connect him to the warehouse and a dead body.
A six-foot swell appeared out of the fog, and Morano adjusted his line to take the wave head-on. Beside him, huddled shivering in the passenger seat, nostrils and lips twitching, eyes blood shot, skin greenish where it wasn’t covered with purple bruises from Pay slamming him into a wall, Dave looked worse than Alberto.
“Feel like shit.”
“Almost there. Rides smoother on the way back. How’s Ravon?”
“Curled in a ball down there in the cabin, crying and moaning.”
“You should take s
ome Oxy, it’ll help with the pain. Give the rest to Ravon. Don’t want him hurting. I’ll get more when we get back.”
With fog making line of sight navigation impossible, Morano watched the GPS. He wanted to stay far enough from the islands that there was no chance the bodies would wash up on shore. Although he wasn’t really too concerned. There were more great white sharks around the Farallones than any area outside South Africa. And the breakers in the area had been described as ‘trying to swim in a turbo-powered washing machine full of boulders.’
Twenty minutes later, fog coating everything, Morano throttled back and yelled for Dave to bring Ravon on deck. Then checked to make sure the forty-five pound Olympic barbell plate Dave had hung from Alberto’s ankles was secure—wired, roped and duct taped as he’d directed.
Dave bent and grabbed Alberto’s collar with his good hand. “Stupid fucker took 8 Oxy 80s. He’s barely breathing. I left him down there.”
Morano grabbed the rope around Alberto’s ankles in one hand, the weight in the other, and hurled both over the side, hoping the momentum would yank Dave overboard and save him a decision. Dave yelped, as Alberto’s corpse leapt from his grasp, sailed over the gunwale, splashed into the whitecaps and disappeared.
“Let’s get Ravon up here. Fresh air might be good for him.”
Morano squeezed his bulk down the narrow ladder into the cabin. Bending over, he did a quick feel for a pulse. Eight greenies could stop a rhino. Feeling a thready pulse, Morano slapped him hard on the forehead—right-left-right. No response. Not even a whimper.
He yelled up to Dave. “Shit. He’s dead. Oxy must have got him.” Morano figured it would be better if Dave thought they were tossing a dead guy overboard. Morano pulled Ravon over his shoulder, turned, took two quick, jerky steps, and pinned his body against the ladder. Shoving Ravon’s arms overhead, Morano yelled, “Pull hard on three.”