1606010948-Palace-of-the-Jaguar-Womack.doc

by Palace of the Jaguar (lit)

  Even so, he was never going to earn the privilege of bullying her out of something she wanted. She reminded him of his minimal power in her decisions.

  “Gun. I’m going to report to the office in St. Louis and get back to work.”

  “I figured you’d say that.” He gestured to the busted-up drapes and glass spread around the small apartment. “Get your suitcase and war paint together. I’m taking you to a hotel. This door won’t keep that prick out if he decides to come back.”

  Ali understood. The situation was serious. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

  She raked her cosmetics off into a small quilted leather pouch and grabbed the few remaining items of clothing from the bedroom closet.

  A tug of sweet memory slowed her as she looked at the bed. They might never sleep in the comfort of the big old mattress again. This had been a haven while it lasted. Okay, move on, lady. You had your time in the sun with him.

  Wearing a soft wool lounge pajama outfit and floor-length black coat, she draped a fringed scarf around her shoulders and then picked up her purse and gloves. He was looking at her with a half-smile and a shrug.

  “Donavon, you can’t regret leaving places. Takes the fun out of moving on.” Gun took the apartment keys and waited for her to walk out into the hall. “What the hell. I’m gonna miss it, too.”

  Ali heard the keys jangle and thump their way down to the safety box below after he dropped them in the return slot. She had told the super they would maintain their residency at the place until their lease was up in six months.

  The walk to the back of the building to get their cars seemed like a dream to her. Gun constantly looked in all the dark corners and behind them while gripping her arm, holding her back until he figured it was safe to move ahead.

  “I have a weapon, too, Gun.” She couldn’t help the smile accompanying her comment.

  “Christ, I know that, lady.” He took her keys and opened her car door. “Get in. Let’s talk a little before we leave.”

  Oh, hell. This was it. The old “Can we be friends?”

  “What’s up? We’re going to miss our deadlines.” Her heart pummeled her ribcage and she wasn’t nearly so calm as she sounded. “Where’d you say you were going?”

  He ignored her question and got in and closed the door, leaning over to pull her across the console and onto his lap. “Just wanted to try this with you. We’ve never made it in a car.”

  She managed to keep a straight face. “Too late to relive your high school days.” She relaxed in his arms and gazed intently at the infuriating, heartbreaking man. Thanks to the security lights, she could see his features briefly each time the trees branches moved in the gusts of wind.

  He pushed the scarf off her hair and gazed into her eyes for a time. “If you need me — for anything, you’d better get in touch with me. Okay?”

  She was afraid a show of emotion would break free to embarrass her. “You’ll be too busy to hear my problems.” Her fingers grazed his cheek. “I’ll probably be buried so far back in some third world country, getting messages out won’t be possible.”

  He took her hand and slid it inside his jacket. “Listen, Donavon. If you’re trying to tell me to fuck off, I’ll be fine with that. But, be sure you mean it.”

  His lips, warm and firm, closed over hers, softening in a declaration of a thousand feelings words couldn’t express. Ali couldn’t protest under his kiss, the kind he always gave her in the heat of passion. She loved the feel of his long fingers in her hair and the crush of his chest against her heart. Before she was ready, he took away the warmth and strength to grin at her.

  “Okay, gator gal.” He set her off his lap and got out of the car. “You’ll hear from me.”

  Chapter 32

  Two weeks later in New York, Gun combined his current assignment of interrogating an informant with a much more important one. He was going to root out Conteguez, or at the very least, one of his flunkies. He had a good address and was ready for the take down. On the sixth floor of the dingy apartment building, he looked around the dank hallway and stepped back from door of apartment 666

  . The metal numerals were gone, leaving only deep scratches in the wood.

  He reached up, twisting the bare bulb over the door until the light went out. The hallway instantly became dark as a tomb and seemed to smell twice as rank. The squeak and shuffling gait of a rat running down the hallway didn’t bother him. His only concern was if the bastard renting that apartment was home and would open the door.

  After he laid three more heavy thumps on it with his fist, the door opened on dry hinges, the grating sound fitting the fleabag tenement building. The guy standing in the doorway stared at him before opening his mouth to share his foul breath, a putrid mix of garlic and last week’s booze.

  “What the fuck you want, man?”

  As he expected, the guy was a prick. Gun forced himself to nod cordially. “I’m looking for an old acquaintance. He used to live in this neighborhood.” The picture of Vicente Conteguez held the guy’s attention.

  He spat to one side in a show of contempt. “I know the cocksucker.” He stabbed the picture with his finger. “Moved into one of those fancy new lofts and ran around in fine cars and with cheap women.”

  Gun dug for information. “Does he still come around?”

  The man’s expression was incredulous. “Hell no! He ambushed some of my friends. We ran his fancy ass out of here. Word is, he got a little nervous after his big brother bought it in Bogotá.” The man’s laugh was evil. “I heard this punk is living in the south somewhere. He left some thugs here to take care of his enemies.”

  “Well, shit. Sounds like half of New York should take cover.” Gun wasn’t worried about New York. He was digesting the words “down south,” which probably meant Charleston. Donavon’s family home. The fucker was dead set on taking her out.

  Obviously tired of jawing, the guy tried to close the door. Gun caught it with his hand. “Care to share where in the south he went?”

  “Fuck you. I didn’t say nuthin’. Get the hell away from my door.”

  “Calm down, friend.” Gun caught a glimpse of a tall, skinny girl, watching them from a doorway inside the apartment. For her sake, he let the conversation drop. “Thanks for your time, buddy.”

  “Beat it, gringo.”

  He took the rickety stairs down to the lobby, where two hookers were in a hell of a fight. He walked by them, holding his hands up, palms out to ward off a hefty punch to his gut.

  “Pardon me, ladies. Don’t want to horn in on your party.”

  The glares he got confirmed his suspicion the women were not interested in him. They immediately resumed their slugfest.

  Outside, he lit a cigarette, trying to relax his shoulders. Which way should he go? South? West? He had to stick with the mission he was assigned to, but since he was in the neighborhood, nothing said he couldn’t ask questions about Conteguez. He saw no harm in keeping an eye on the bastard and keeping him away from Donavon. She still needed him to watch her back, and if that meant taking the guy out, he would.

  Donavon.

  Now there was a situation he’d fought long and often. Getting soft on one woman. Pure insanity for a guy living on the fringes of civilization. Ali thought she could handle the crazy, shit style he catered to. There was no way in hell she could stand him for the long haul.

  She was a gutsy woman with the ability to withstand a lot more than most women, plus she was in the business, but she would eventually want the normal life, and he couldn’t give it.

  The mess with her had to be straightened out the next time they were together, if they were ever together again.

  The wind had gotten colder, and he turned up the collar of his leather jacket. Catching furtive movement near a huge pile of trash, he put his hand inside his jacket to grip his thirty-eight.

  “Hey, mister.” The hissing voice belonged to the girl in the apartment. “You got money?”

  He didn’t want an
y trouble. “Get lost. Your boyfriend’s probably tailing you right now.”

  She sidled up to him like a slug in the grass. “I need crack. You need a guy’s address.” Her head cranked around like an owl’s.

  “What are you scared of, girl?” He figured he knew the answer. Men. “What do you know that’s worth cash?”

  She lit a menthol cigarette and shivered in her short jacket. “He’s staying in a place over on West Fifty-seventh, real expensive, and no whores from the street allowed. He comes down here for what he likes.”

  Gun hoped she wanted that fix bad enough to tell him the truth. She would likely sell her kid for it.

  “Okay.” Seemed the bastard was still in New York. A well of eagerness bubbled in his gut. “Give me a good address.”

  Her hand trembled noticeably while she held it out and recited a short ritzy address on West Fifty-seventh. He didn’t have to write it down. “Thanks. You’d better get out of here now.”

  He stuffed a couple of twenties in her hand and then walked to his car parked at the curb. Surprise. The wheels are still on it.

  With some help from a traffic cop, Gun found the upscale address where Conteguez was supposed to be staying. Like his brother, Conteguez liked his life on the classier but perverted side. Gun intended to send him into more austere and painful surroundings.

  Somehow he would justify this sidetrack to the director if it went sour. He had several hours to kill before his meet with a guy trying to sell very good phony passports. Hell, he had plenty of time to keep Donavon out of trouble. All he had to do was find Conteguez and take him out — problem over. By the time he parked near the address the chick had given him, Gun was not caring if he was in the Department guidelines. Donavon was worth the fall if he got caught.

  No doorman in sight at the moment. That made it simpler to get past the guy polishing the lobby floor. Gun hesitated. What floor should he try first? Damn. He didn’t have time to waste on guessing games. He opted for a time-worn trick on the sleepy-eyed janitor.

  “Hey, fella.” He smiled, trying to appear friendly. “Has Conteguez left yet?” Gun glanced at his watch, pacing a few steps in a show of agitation. “We’re supposed to meet up here. Fucker owes me money.”

  The janitor jerked the dust mop across the marble-tiled floor. “Haven’t seen him leave all day.” He gave Gun a slanted look before adding to his comment. “I’ll call his apartment for you.”

  Always suspicious, especially of weasel-faced pricks, he declined the offer. “No. Won’t be necessary.” He took his cell phone from his belt and punched in a fake number, leaning on the front desk. He shrugged, grinned at the janitor and closed his phone. “Aw, hell, I’ll just run on up there. What was his apartment number again?”

  Gun had seen expressions like the janitor’s before. No emotion. Void of any feeling. “Yeah. Why don’cha?” He nodded toward the elevator. “You know the number already.”

  “Sure. Third floor — apartment…” Gun garbled the numbers, lowering his chin as he answered the guy.

  “316. At the end of the hall.” Propping up the dust mop, the punk reached for the desk phone. “I’ll let him know you’re coming up.”

  Several seconds spun by, the only sound that of a Sopranos re-run on a television in the background.

  “Don’t bother. I’d rather surprise him.”

  The son-of-a-bitch was being too fucking helpful. Probably being paid pretty damned good to keep Conteguez informed on all movement downstairs.

  Gun took the stairs, three at a time, glancing over the handrail as he moved to check out what the janitor was up to in the lobby.

  He stepped up onto the third floor landing and looked down into the empty lobby. The guy had disappeared.

  Damn it. Probably calling Conteguez while he stared like a jerk down at a vacant hole. He moved quickly to the end of the hall to number 316, and listened for a second. Stone silent. His hand went automatically to his weapon as he tapped on the door.

  The door flew open, and the gaze stabbing into Gun flashed through his memory like gunfire. The killer, animal stare — just like his brother. The face of a corpse, a carbon copy of his dead brother Rodreguez Armondez.

  Enough fucking reminiscing. Mentally jerking himself back to the present, Gun moved a half step inside the doorway. Bracing his shoulder against the door jam, he filled the doorway with his formidable frame. He wasn’t surprised when the guy spoke, the same deceptively soft voice.

  “What is it you want?”

  “Like you don’t know.” He grabbed Conteguez’s arm, twisting it up behind his back. “I should blow your fucking brains out right here.”

  He jerked his prisoner’s arm up again, hard enough to hear Conteguez cry out in pain. Funny, the pain was exactly like the one in his head, and he was falling into a sea of exploding copper pin-lights. Wait… wait…he wasn’t about to fall into that sea of fog…was he...oh, hell yes….

  In Gun’s mind, he was still falling when someone kicked him in the ribs, and then it was over.

  * * * *

  He didn’t know who or where he was for most of the past day or two, only that his body protested with every breath he took.

  “Gunnison.”

  Who the hell was bothering him when he couldn’t fucking breathe?

  “Gun! Wake up.”

  Enough! Gun flung his arm out to drive away his tormentor. “I’ll kill you, son-of-a-bitch.”

  He groaned and struggled for life-giving oxygen. Some bastard asking questions didn’t care that his ribs were caved in, and he couldn’t see.

  “You’re lucky, Gunnison.” The voice continued to irritate him. “I’m Detective Spillane. You got anyone you want us to contact? Family? Girlfriend?”

  Gun searched his bleary memory bank, and only one face appeared. Donavon, gazing at him, worry etching her beautiful face. No. He wouldn’t load this on her. She was off to a new start in life and didn’t need him fucking up her chances. “No. No one.”

  His eyes finally opened to more than a miserable slit, and he focused on Detective Spillane. The man was the stereotypical, cigar-chomping, hulk in all the mystery novels. He talked around his stogie, squinting one eye as he talked.

  “We’ve notified the FBI that you’re alive and doing damned well. There’s an agent coming in to question you, to see how you’re doing.”

  “Great.” Gun wanted to tell the dick what he really thought, but held it in. The nicer he was, the sooner the guy would leave.

  “I hear they’re keeping you here a while for observation. You’re such a good patient.” His laugh grated on his nerves. “I’ll get out of your hair.” He stood and reached for Gun’s hand. “Take it easy, man.”

  The urge to scream like a girl hit Gun in the gut as his burly visitor shook his hand, jarring every broken rib and his cracked skull.

  “As soon as I can stand up — I’m going to kick your ass!”

  After the detective left, Gun struggled for lucid moments and fought to stay sane. What was his problem? His head hurt like hell. But, he wouldn’t give in to sleep until he figured out where he had been and who he was supposed to be.

  He put his hand in the tray table placed across the bed and cussed. “Who the fuck took my smokes?”

  His thumb hit the nurse call button and stayed there until a tall, red-haired nurse thundered into his room.

  “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Gunnison?” She glared at her patient who had been dubbed the Bad-Assed Hunk in Room 321.

  He leaned up on his elbow and reeled to one side. “There’ll be plenty going on in here if I don’t get my smokes back.”

  She steadied him, gripping his shoulders and speaking like a top sergeant. “Gunnison, you know that isn’t allowed in the hospital. How about a nice hot, strong cup of tea?”

  Gun closed his eyes, finally reduced to letting her lay him against the pillows. “I don’t like tea. Didn’t Donavon tell you that?”

  “Donavon? Someone special?”

&n
bsp; “Is the sun special?” He tried to get out of bed. “Help me find my clothes.”

  “As soon as you get your medication.”

  He had become used to the constant rounds of sedatives. He didn’t want drugs. He wanted his freedom.

  There was the familiar sting of the needle in his ass and then blissful silence in the room when she stopped talking. Nurse Cruella checked his room for anything pleasurable and threw his second dessert from lunch in the trashcan. Finally, she covered him like he was some damned kid and then left him alone.

  Gun waited a couple minutes before getting out of bed. He took off the thin gown that barely covered his ass and threw it on a chair. He was dizzy and weak, but he found his clothes in a narrow steel closet.

  He took them into the bathroom and closed the door, pulling on his shorts and slacks, fumbling with zippers and buttons. Getting socks and shoes on was the hardest, but he managed to tie the laces into reasonable knots.

  A splash of cold water on his face revived him some. He combed his fingers through his hair and then dragged on his leather jacket. The weight of the coat made his shoulders hurt, and he winced with the new pain.

  His wallet was still in his jacket pocket with all his cash. He checked his shield, feeling foolish having to be reassured of his identity. Yep, he was Jack Gunnison all right. Now, to find his weapon.

  Chapter 33

  Ali put her foot on the longing in her heart, the ache that never eased up. Tonight she planned to go out and mingle with the crowd at Dooley Glen’s Emporium, a local pub for the unattached crowd. She knew some of the patrons, but had never been interested in any of the guys that came on to her. Didn’t matter if they weren’t Gun’s caliber. As of here and now, she was making herself available.

  Why not? She hadn’t heard from him in weeks. The lease on their apartment in D.C. would soon expire. She had a new, one-year lease on a nice townhouse in Atlanta she’d found before going back to St. Louis. Nice and new with no memories of Gun.