by Tony Bulmer
Martino tried all the handles, but the bathrooms were locked. He cursed softly. Why the hell would the State government pay some dude to come out here in the middle of nowhere canyon and lock the bathroom at night, so folks who were caught short had to use the bushes? Hell, it was down right uncivilized, and a waste of taxpayer funds too. No wonder the damn State was going broke, they had their priorities all wrong. He waded into the long grass heading for the bushes thinking momentarily about snakes, wondering if they came out at night or no? He tried to remember what the Discovery Channel had to say on the subject. Rattlesnakes liked to burrow down at night, catch some Z’s until sun up—he couldn’t swear to it of course, but he was almost certain. Squatting in the bushes, his thoughts swirled, as the sound of the crickets closed in around him. That is when he heard it: The low throb of an engine, motoring up the road. The engine amped down into low-gear. The crunch of gravel, as big tires ate up the pavement. He peered through the grass—saw a big truck pulling into the lot without lights. At last—this was Rothstein, it had to be. But something was wrong. Why no lights? Martino stayed in the shadows, watched as the big truck eased along side the Silverado. A pause as the driver killed the engine. A long pause—Martino peered through the long grass, as the crickets hummed. Then, as he watched, the big trucks doors cracked open briefly, the interior lights casting ghostly shadows on the occupants, neither of who were Rothstein. Martino recognized them immediately. He didn’t know their names, but he had seen them at the Rothstein place. Big Frank had sent the help, and that could only mean one thing. Trouble.
Martino watched as the two men peered inside the Silverado. A dry chill of fear amped through him, as he remembered he had left the keys in the ignition. The two guys consulted then peered into the darkness straining for clues as to who might own the Silverado. One of the guys on his cell phone now, calling in their find, the other walking round the vehicle, with a swaggering gait, that reminded Martino of the Saint. The guy paused, peering into the driver’s side, then trying the door. Martino narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening around the snub-nosed .45. A cry of triumph told Martino that the guy had located the ignition keys. The men had their guns out now, ready and alert as they headed towards the public restroom.
Martino had their moves figured out ahead of time. They would think they had him cut short on the crapper—thinking they had the drop. He had to move fast, knowing it was seconds now before they figured that the toilets were locked down, once they did, they would head after him. Maybe they would find him in the darkness, maybe they wouldn’t, but Martino was in no mood to wait around and find out. He was hungry and tired. It had been a long night and he was damned if he was going to crawl around in the bushes while a pair of Rothstein’s Yo-yo’s hunted after him.
Martino moved fast, emerging from the long grass with the snub nosed .45 held high and ready. As the distance closed, one of the guys sensed something—must have—because he made a half turn, like he knew what was next. Martino fired, then fired again, the guy spun around in surprise, then sank to his knees. The other dude raised his gun, even managed to get a shot off, but he was firing blind into the darkness, with no time to aim. Martino closed the distance fast. Pumped three torso shots in quick succession. The guy went down like he had been poleaxed and stayed there. Martino tuned his attention back to the first guy. He pointed the snub-nosed .45 at the guy’s head. ‘You got my car keys.’ Martino said matter of fact. The guy stared up at him, his lips working silently, as though some kind of question was going to bubble out. It never did. He half raised his hand, offering up the stolen car keys for inspection and Martino shot him point blank in the head.
THE SEX NET 48
Pugnose recognized me at once. He had a sticking plaster bandage across his nose and dark circles under his eyes to remind him of our last meeting. He gave me a ugly look, sliding his hand inside his jacket. I didn’t wait to find out if he was reaching for his autograph book. I hit him hard and fast, then I hit him again. He made a punctured noise and his legs buckled out from under him. He fell hard on ass, gasping so hard I thought he was going to puke. ‘We really have got to stop meeting like this,’ I said. He shot me a look of pure hatred. ‘Mr. Rothstein home?’ I asked. Pugnose furrowed his brow, oozing bad vibes as he struggled to regain his breath.
‘You’re going to be real sorry about this Costello,’ wheezed Pugnose.
Joe pointed the M16 and the thug grimaced nastily. ‘You ain’t going to shoot me. You ain’t got the guts.’
I gave Pugnose a pleasant smile. ‘Clean socks today?’ I enquired.
‘What you talking about? Clean socks?’ cursed Pugnose unpleasantly.
I looked skywards. ‘I will take that as a no.’ I stepped forward smartly leaning my full weight onto the thug’s fingers. He howled in protest, making a feeble attempt clutch my leg. I cracked him smartly in the head with a downward right and he fell backwards onto the lawn.
Joe said, ‘Looks like you are on sock duty.’
‘I always get sock duty, maybe it is your turn for a change?’
‘I don’t want to be on sock duty—I am holding the weapon,’ said Joe.
Again I looked skywards. ‘You always say that.’
‘Hey someone’s got to do the dirty work.’
That is the problem when I work a B&E gig with Joe. He always gets to hold the gun while I have to tackle the socks. I gave him a hard look and strapped on a surgical glove. You never know what you are going to catch these days do you—especially on sock duty. Pugnose was wearing loafers, the fancy looking kind, that look English but really aren’t. I guessed he had bought them wholesale from Chinese Shoe World or Payless Persian Closeouts on Reseda Boulevard, the kind of place that specializes in toe mangling footwear, for budget conscious shoppers everywhere.
‘You admiring his ankles or something?’ Asked Joe
I gave him an unpleasant look and removed Pugnose’s socks. The thug stirred, offering a recalcitrant growl, so I cracked him smartly between the eyes with the heel of his shoe, then tossed it into the swimming pool. The loafer made a satisfying splash as it hit the blue water then sank slowly beneath the surface.
‘Hope those shoes are waterproof?’ queried Joe.
I stuffed Pugnose’s socks inside the thug’s mouth then duct taped them in place, to avoid him raising the alarm. He resisted feebly. Next, I tied off his ankles and hands. No way the creep was going anywhere.
‘Bushes?’ Asked Joe
‘Bushes.’ I confirmed. So that’s what we did, dragged the tape bound goon through the shadows and into the deep shrubbery, where he wouldn’t be found, at least for now. ‘Hope he doesn’t mind spidey-widers.’ I wondered out loud.
‘I’m guessing he will like being socked even less,’ observed Joe.
‘Well that’s too bad, how about we go say hi to his boss, maybe you can sock him up, while I get to hold the gun this time.’
‘It isn’t a gun Costello it’s a weapon, and you damn well know it. What’s more, it is my weapon and you ain’t going nowhere near it.’
‘Just make sure you point the damn thing away from me will you, the last thing I need tonight is you and your weapon going all gulf-war-syndromeish in Mr. Rothstein’s garden, there might be complaints from the neighbors. I should have known better of course. Contrary to popular belief, gunfire in Los Angeles County is frowned upon by the Police Department, the County Sheriff and a wide selection of health and public safety legislators too numerous to mention. Letting guns off in residential areas is a major no-no that is liable to have fans of the second amendment filling forms and paying fines for literally weeks on end. Still you try telling that to my partner. Thing about Joe is he is a rebel and if he is going to do something, he never does it half measures. Seeing him finger the trigger of his beloved M16 in the ready position, I knew there was going to be trouble, I just didn’t realize how soon.
When it happened, it happened fast. Gunshots inside the house followed by hysterical screams.
Joe immediately fell to a Marine Corps half crouch, M16 in the firefight position.
I ran towards the sound of the gunfire, fast as I could. Crossing the lawn at a breakneck pace, I had fleeting visions of a crossfire interception that would cut me down before I made the house. I put my nose to the wind and headed for the end zone, knowing sure-footed speed and lots of it was the only thing that was going to see me through this play.
As I reached the poolside conservatory, upside of the house, a commotion raged: more gunshots—the sound of breaking china. My adrenalin amped upwards, as muzzle flash histrionics cut a swathe across the darkened interior. I popped the conservatory door with a well-aimed kick and dived inside.
I surged forward into the darkness, long years of training channeling my churning instincts. Another gunshot. I felt the unchained velocity of a hot bullet zip across the room and ricochet wildly in the darkness. I dived for cover crashing hard into an unseen piece of furniture, a hard impact that kept me down. The floor was cold and final, pressing into the side of my face. I sucked breath, swallowed curses, and snaked forwards on my belly. As I did so, a dark figure charged out of the darkness and tripped over me. A startled shriek cut through the darkness. Then the lights snapped on.
And there she was standing in the doorway gun in hand. Corin Cabrillo. Sprawling on the floor beside me Louanne Varga. Louanne didn’t look like she had been shot—she looked scared and disheveled, like someone who had been given a bad scare at gunpoint.
It is always hard to know what to do for the best when you walk onto the scene of an attempted murder, so I decided to brighten everyone’s day. I gave Corin my cheeriest smile. ‘Hi honey, I’ve been looking for you everywhere…’
Corin Cabrillo wasn’t amused, not even in the slightest, she pointed her gun at my head and said, ‘Now you’ve found me asshole, which is unfortunate—for you.’
I was about to utter the kind of comment that would probably got me shot in the head with a twenty two caliber ladies gun, when Joe opened up with his M16. The noise was something else, like an explosion in a china shop, The windows in the conservatory collapsed inwards, a cascading torrent of shimmering death, we are talking glass and mirror shards everywhere. The lights fizzed and popped, blue sparks dancing crazy. I stayed on the floor with my hands over my head, thinking I liked the top of my head too much to lose it now.
When the roar of gunfire had ceased, I peered into the half-light, saw the dark figure of Corin Cabrillo scuttling for the door. I couldn’t lose her, not after all this, not even with fragments of glass and Venetian vase sticking out of my head. I dived forwards, moving fast and low, making a final play for the end zone. The girl had me at a disadvantage from the off. She moved fast and sure footed. I skated on broken glass and marble. My tackle came in short. She turned and fired, two quick shots ringing out in the gloom. I rolled fast, bullets cutting past like steel stair rods.
I rolled forwards, for a second assault, feeling the sharp crunch of broken glass fragments cutting into my flesh. I sprang to my feet too late, realizing that my move had been mistimed. Corin Cabrillo was fifteen feet ahead of me at least—no way I could connect at that distance. I watched helpless as she raised the gun again. Although this time, she was using a two handed combat grip. She had me cold, and no matter how bad a shot she was—at this distance she would hit me for sure.
THE SEX NET 49
Martino edged the Silverado slowly out of the parking lot on Entrada. He had to get out of town now for sure. Berdoo wouldn’t be far enough. Not this time. Worse, he needed fast cash and lots of it—and that was going to be difficult—real difficult. He figured he acted now he might catch himself some time before the Rothstein clan figured out that he had wasted two of their guys in a boondocks parking lot.
He figured he played things smart, no one would know he had triggered out the yo-yos. He could blame it on the Saint, if he really needed to, right? Wasn’t like Saint was going to mind anyhow, hanging dead in the car like that. Martino’s guts rumbled. Going to the bathroom hadn’t helped him none—not at all. He figured he was getting an ulcer or something, maybe worse. The damn stress was what it was, stress can kill you sure as bullets. He eased the Silverado down the lane. The road was dark and narrow. Trees crowded the hedgerows hanging low over the road. The country gave Martino the creeps. He cursed his luck, swearing once he got out of this mess, it would be nothing but city life and smooth jazz. Martino liked that idea—kicking back down South, with good tucker, fresh out the field. No more greasy American franchise food. Hell no. Treat him self good for a change, sort out his stomach once and for all, with easy living and a diet he deserved. Trouble was he needed money, a little breathing space, to make his life come good. No matter how he played it, turning over the problem in his mind, it all came back to one name: Frank Rothstein. There wasn’t no-way he could ever make it out of LA without a bankroll. And the only cat he knew who had a bankroll worth shit, was Frank Rothstein. Martino narrowed his eyes. He hated that prick Rothstein, with his big money attitude and ugly mouth. The cat thought he was something special. But Martino knew different. Rothstein was a player like everyone else. Difference was he talked up his hand, making believe he was top pony, when really he was nothing but a loud mouthed shyster, with a pocket full of cash. Martino whetted his lips. Boy he could use some of that cash now. Thing was, he wanted it—he was going to have to be bold—real bold.
Martino eased the Silverado slow down Entrada road. The road was steep, falling away in to the snaking road that coiled through Topanga Canyon. They called it the Boulevard, but it wasn’t no damn Boulevard, just a vicious reptilian mountain pass, full of suicide turns and switchback curves. The lights of the truck illuminated ghostly trees and precipitous scree-covered slopes, disappearing into the swirling mist. He made the turns slow. No way he was going to take another dive off the mountainside, not tonight. Martino eased the truck around the hairpin turns. Suddenly he saw lights, emerging out of the swirling darkness. As they closed in, the oncoming headlights cut through the night, he cursed, as the full-beam glare reduced his view of the road. He slowed, pulled onto the verge, so he could pass on the narrow road. But there was no room to pass. The car with the headlights was blocking the road, cutting off his road to freedom.
Martino’s pulsed quickened, but he favor what was happening too late. He cranked the truck into reverse, but by that time, bullets were coming though the windshield rapid fire, from some kind of full-auto machine pistol. Martino ducked behind the steering column. He depressed the gas pedal with the palm of his hand and the truck careered backwards at speed, the motor of the big truck howling in protest. All around he heard the rapid impacts of bullets tearing through the truck body. Had to be the back up car. Of course Rothstein’s crew would have a back up car, they were pro’s for Christ’s sake and now they had him canned in the canyon, like he was a dime store amateur. Martino cursed. The truck careered back into the blind darkness and impacted a tree. Least he figured it must be a tree, the splintering roar as the truck hit was so loud, it broke open the night. The airbags deployed. But that didn’t stop the top of his head impacting the dash, with a dazing blow that made him want to puke. Adrenaline forced him forward. He popped the passenger door and rolled out, a steep fall into sharp pointed shrubbery. Bullets zipped through the darkness, cutting down everything in their path. Was he deaf? No sounds of gunfire…they had to be using suppressors… Martino reached for the snub nosed .45, but it was gone, long gone, must have fallen out in the darkness somewhere. He tried to roll away into the undergrowth, but there was no escaping the scything arc of gunfire coming in from the road. When the first bullet hit, he felt numb. When the second hit, he felt sick. The next bullets hit in quick succession, no time for pain, only blind terror. Martino edged backwards into the forest, hoping that the dark figures emerging through the Xenon glare wouldn’t find him. It was a futile hope. Very soon a powerful searchlight picked him out, panting and bloody on the forest floor.
; ‘What do you know, it’s the prick with the clown car.’
The dark figure stood over him now, silhouetted against the lights. Martino opened his mouth, but the words just wouldn’t come.
‘Where is your stinking buddy Mr. clown car?’
Martino felt weak, delirious, like nothing mattered anymore. He stared blankly at the figure before him, then whispered quietly, ‘Fuck you Rothstein.’ Martino coughed and allowed himself a slow breaking smile. Then watched helpless as the dark figure raised a big-barreled pistol. It was the last thing Juan Carlos Martino ever saw.
THE SEX NET 50
When the front door opened, I wasn’t surprised, more eternally grateful. What did surprise however, was who was there. Not that I stuck around for chitty-chat. I took my chance, melting sideways, into the nearest doorway I could find, before Corin Cabrillo plugged me point-blank, with her .22 caliber ladies gun. Now don’t get me wrong, I have been shot before and it is not an experience I would care to repeat—unless absolutely necessary, but I absolutely refuse to be murdered with anything less than a. 45, or a 9 mil at the very least.
It is of course rude, not to greet guests at the door, but in the screaming stand off that was occurring in the hallway of Frank Rothstein’s Encino super home, I was sure that the guests would understand. I moved quickly through a chintzy ante-room and emerged from a connecting door into the entrance lobby. Corin Cabrillo might have been anticipating many things, but she didn’t anticipate this. I caught her a sharp flat handed crack in the jugular that put her out like a milk fed kitten. I caught her mid swoon, before she impacted the marble floor. Just because you have to karate chop a lady, it doesn’t mean you have to ignore etiquette. To be extra helpful, I eased her compact sized hand gun out of her fingers and snapped on the safety.