by Tom Ellis
She pouted and said, “you know how to ruin a girl’s night.”
“Just consider it the penalty for a pimp following you into my joint.”
Ivalou Vargas smiled seductively at Kroll as she stuck the fifty and the card in her bra. She stuck her tongue out at him and turned to leave with a security escort. Her swaying her hips got Kroll’s attention.
Bradford said, “Thanks for screwing up what might have been a great piece of ass.”
“My name is Ron Kroll. I am a house security supervisor. You may have gotten more than you expected. Working girls are going to be in casinos. We keep an eye on them, and we don’t allow pimps. We don’t want our customers robbed. I’d never seen her before, and we’d gotten notice of Latina chick with a couple of pimps working casinos and mugging their johns. You’re a regular, and we take care of our customers. Your tab tonight is on the house.” Kroll gestured to the bartender.
“Thank you, Mr. Kroll, I’m Ashton Bradford. I would like to buy you a drink sometime. Now if you have the time.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bradford. I’ll take a raincheck on the drink. And if you call that fellow I put down a bodyguard. You can do better. Have a good evening.”
Kroll strolled out of the lounge and onto the casino floor. He couldn’t get how good Ivalou Vargas looked off his mind.
“I ain’t never seen nobody punch like that.” M&M offered his fellow team members. The three sat in the bar of the hotel where they stayed in Tempe Arizona. Far enough away from the Tucson casino not to be made by those they hunted. Still close enough to play the game.
“You can drop the hood dialect M&M we’re good guys again,” chided Desmond Taylor. All three agents dressed casually for the impromptu team debriefing they were holding at a corner table out of earshot of other customers.
Ivalou checked her email when they got back to Tempe and found one from Kroll. It said, ‘You looked good tonight. K.’ She smiled.
The two male agents turned their attention to a couple of ladies who were now sitting at the bar. Vargas got up and looked sharply at Desmond and M&M. “Remember you two studs are only make believe pimps. I don’t need to explain to Havelee how the two of you got arrested for the real thing.”
She high fived both of them, and M&M was treated to her extended middle finger when he said. “You got that right Penelope those two ain’t got nutten you ain’t got dats hotter.”
M&M told Desmond. “That lady can give you the bird quicker than Ron K can knock somebody on their ass.”
“I’d of like to have seen that,” Desmond said. Ron Kroll reminded him of the late Lyle Thigman.
Chapter Seven
The rear seats were folded flat in the Chevy Suburban. So Numb Nuts Nate Norman could ride with a modicum of comfort. Numb Nuts would eventually recover from a cracked sternum. And the bruised kidney would heal, maybe. He would not be taken back to the hospital if he continued to piss blood after a day or two. Numb Nuts would either mend on his own or, if he were lucky, be dropped off near a homeless shelter with a few bucks in his pocket. If his luck failed, an unmarked shallow grave waited for him.
They slipped out of the emergency room when the bored cop watching Numb Nuts dozed off. Bradford wasn’t worried about the weapons charge or the hospital bill. Numb Nuts registered into the Emergency Room under an alias. Normally W. Ashton rode in the rear seats, with Numb Nuts riding shotgun and Pauli Dumas driving. Tonight, Bradford rode up front. He considered the evening's events and Ron Kroll. Kroll was right; Bradford could do better than Norman for a bodyguard. The question was would Kroll cross the line and be happy with bodyguard duties or would he want a larger role? He was quick as hell with his fists. Numb Nuts had no idea of what hit him. But Kroll was smart, and he and Bradford certainly had a common enemy, L. Winston Glover.
Kroll’s assault of L. Winston Glover was factual. It happened. Bradford had other sources besides Adam Hall to confirm it. Those same sources verified Kroll’s termination as being real. Another high recommendation was Hall saying he would trust Kroll to work in one his joints. Hall was security chief for a large casino corporation and was as straight as they come. He also knew that having contacts on the other side was just good business. Kroll was the real deal in Bradford’s mind. And he was going to recruit Kroll with the zeal of an Alabama football coach after a high school standout.
There was no one W. Ashton Bradford hated more than L. Winston Glover. The professional integrity fanatic almost single handed ruined Bradford’s FBI career. Not that Bradford was expecting a long distinguished award-winning run in the bureau. It was more about learning the ropes and where to catch what fell through the cracks. Once as a rebellious teenager his mother asked her first cousin to counsel young Ashton. The cousin was a pipe smoking lieutenant in a suburb police department of Birmingham Alabama, his dear old momma’s hometown. Later in his FBI days, Bradford learned the PD his relative worked was more of a municipal night watchman’s service than a police department. Before policies and state law disallowed deadly street justice on the fleeing felons; the small agency was known for its officers shooting burglars and providing ass beatings for misdemeanants. The state fire marshal condemned the stingy little kingdom’s jail. However, its occupants seldom stayed longer than overnight, if that long.
Bradford vividly remembered the cousin lieutenant’s pipe stunk and, most of all, his advice. If you do something illegal, do it by yourself. That way nobody can rat you out to get their butts out of jail. If you partner up, always make sure the other guy has more to lose that you do. And the one Bradford liked the most, If you stole the church and swallowed it when you got caught and the steeple is sticking out your ass. Never change your story.
All great lessons for a cop or a criminal. For his entire life, Ass Bradford was a more a member of the later occupation than the former. As an IRS auditor, taking bribes was his specialty. During this time, he finished night school for lawyers and passed the bar exam. His having a license to practice law and being a CPA to boot made him a shoo-in for the FBI academy. Luck helped because with creds like his no one bothered to check with some of his IRS supervisors. FBI agents didn’t like the IRS any more than the rest of the citizens. They were only handy when the Fine Bunch of Idiots decided if they couldn’t get you. They dropped a dime on you to the IRS for special harassment.
It was money, big money that led to W. Ashton’s last career change. He was the only one who knew how much. L. Winston Glover’s hubris kept him from really learning the score. Ashton planned to show his occupation as a criminal mastermind on the bogus tax return he would file after his current project paid off in the two-digit millions. He would mail the return at the last mailbox before he crossed the border leaving the country for good.
Bradford’s thoughts were interrupted when Pauli Dumas farted. It was a loud burst with an instant horrendous stench. Dumas guffawed, “Damn, that was a wet one!”
Bradford was fumbling with the window switch on his door. “What the hell did you eat Porn Dude? I’ve smelled better sewers. Roll the fucking windows down! You got the child lock switched on dumb ass!”
“Some nasty tacos at a Mexican joint across from the hospital. Man, they were bad.” Pauli answered.
Bradford put up with the crude Dumas, whose protruding overbite teeth, rectangular face and wide set eyes and slovenly looks; would make him a shoo-in for the lead part should someone produce a Frankenstein porn flick. The only plus side to Pauli Dumas was his IQ. The man was a genius. His computer skills were world class, and he could hack any system. You just couldn’t take him inside a good joint. If there was such an affliction, he was oversexed. The man was always in some state of arousal. Dumas was a sadist; whose table manners were on par with those of a monkey.
“Pauli if you shit your pants. Stop the damn truck get that tarp out of the back and put it on the seat!” Bradford ordered.
“Boss I thought we were gonna wrap Numb Nuts in that tarp if he croaks.”
“If
he’s dead dried shit on the tarp won’t bother him.”
Numb Nuts let out a loud groan from the back of the truck.
When Porn Dude got the tarp on the seat, they started moving again.
“Listen to me Pauli. Nate is going to be out of action for a while. And you are going to have come inside the casinos with me. Tomorrow you go into town and buy some decent clothes in the right size. And you will buy underwear as well. You will not go up to women wearing short skirts and try to hunch their butts. I’m going to get some salt peter for you take before we leave.”
“My mom gave me some that stuff when I was in high school. It gives me the shits worse than bad Mexican food.”
“Damn,” Bradford muttered and breathed in the desert night air as he shook his head.
Five days later Ron Kroll spotted Bradford on his usual stool at the small bar. Kroll walked over and sat on the stool next to him.
“Bounced any hookers lately Kroll?” Bradford asked lifting his glass toward Jack.
“One last night.”
“She look as good as the Mexican chick the other night.”
“No, the one last night was on the high end of the skank scale.”
“Sounds like the usual choices for this place. Now and then a decent looking one shows up. Never one like that woman the other night.”
“Yeah, that one was a real looker. The type I would expect to see in a high-end Vegas joint, not in Tucson Arizona. Her being out of place was the first give away. The pimp showing up was the second.” Kroll said.
“Well her looks blindsided me completely,” Bradford answered truthfully. “I didn’t see the pimp until too late. My brain totally went to the little head.”
“That happens to the best of us. I would have made the same mistake with that chick. A word of advice Mr. Bradford. You don’t need a bodyguard in this house. If you think different, your man needs to leave his gun in the car. FYI the piece he was carrying showed up stolen when the local cops ran it. It’s not my business. And no offense intended, you look like you can afford a higher class thug. A lot of ex-special ops guys out there.”
“You’re an ex-cop aren’t you?” Bradford asked, a knowing smile on his face.”
“What tipped you?”
“Only cops say, ran it.”
“It takes one to know one.”
“You got me there. I was a fed.”
“Which letters or were you a secret?”
Bradford laughed. “Never heard it put that way. I was FBI. And you were?”
“The same, FBI.”
“How did you get along with the rest of them?”
“The Marshals Service was OK. The DEA too fast too loose. The BATF just hangers on trying to justify their jobs. The Secret Service, everything but the protection detail. I couldn’t jump in front of a bullet for the current clown.”
“Me neither, what’d you think about our former outfit?”
“Short form, chicken shit.”
“Is there a long form?”
Kroll shook his head with a disgusted expression. “The FBI needs an enema. And a king size tube needs to be inserted in the office of professional responsibility.” Kroll struck the bar with his fist. “Don’t get me started.”
“I take it you were asked to resign?”
“I didn’t get that courtesy.”
“I did, but I wouldn’t exactly call it courteous. The bastards were trying to indict me.”
“What did you do to rate them trying for an indictment?”
“They claimed I accepted a large sum of cash.”
“I’m not going to ask if you did or not. That’s not my business.” Kroll drummed his fingers on the bar and looked in the back bar mirror as he spoke. “I had the opportunity for three million. But I stomped the rag headed bastard’s ass and hauled him to jail and turned in the money. Now I wish I’d took the cash and said Allah be great or whatever. I wouldn’t be working in this joint worrying about how I’m going to live the rest of my life. Those bastards got my retirement.” He kept his fists clenched on the bar resisting the urge to pound on it again.
Bradford watched Kroll and said. “You look like you need that drink I offered.”
“I do,” Kroll sighed and motioned to the bartender. “Stoli straight up.”
They sipped their drinks quietly for a few minutes. Bradford spoke first.
“I checked you out with some of my old contacts in the Bureau. I’ve got a couple of questions for you.”
“Ask.”
“What did it feel like to knock Skinny Winnie on his ass?”
Kroll laughed out loud. “Great! Jumping in the sack with that Latina hooker from the other night wouldn’t feel any better. You could do that more than once. Skinny Winnie was a once in a lifetime deal.”
It was Bradford’s turn to laugh aloud. He hoisted his glass, “I’ll drink to that!”
They touched glasses. “You said a couple of questions. What’s the second?” Kroll asked.
“I want to why you didn’t kick Skinny in the balls while you had the chance?”
“Skinny Winnie hasn’t got any balls to kick. He took it in the ass so much from AD’s that they probably shrunk back inside.”
“You hate that son of a bitch as much I do.”
“I wouldn’t insult women or dogs by calling him a son of a bitch. There aren’t words bad enough to describe him.” Kroll spit in a nearby waste can.
Both men finished their drinks. Bradford ordered another. Kroll passed, saying he was on the clock. And he didn’t need to be run off for drinking on the job.
As Kroll started to leave, Bradford turned around on his stool and addressed him. It was a slow night they were the only ones in the bar other than the bartender, who was busy at the other end of the bar.
“I can guarantee you five million cash. It could get you killed. You are probably the only person who could get it done and get away clean. I think you hate them enough to do it. Are you interested in coming over to the other side? If you say no, it stops here, and we never had this conversation.”
Kroll stepped back and studied Bradford, searching deep into his eyes.
“I’m your man. You know where to find me.” Kroll said looking straight into Bradford’s eyes. He turned and walked out of the bar into the casino.
A couple of hours later Ivalou Vargas received a text.
Hey Penelope Hope ur Workin Need 2 see U bad.
Chapter Eight
Andy Burns considered the late Charlie Raifield’s fascination with technology and the liberal application of useful gadgets and security cameras that he placed all over his Baldwin County home. Burns, now the owner, figured Charlie would have a ball with the latest stuff. What was there when Andy moved in was now as antiquated as a Brownie camera. Burns would not admit his fascination with the gear was equal to or greater than that of his mentor. There was little in Burns’ square mile of Baldwin County that surveillance equipment did not monitor. He could log on to the internet and see what was going on from anywhere in the world. The gate equipment included sound monitoring. Burns got an idea as he looked over the emailed video and aerial photos Buddy Russell sent him.
Russell knew a rancher in the area with a Piper Super Cub he flew off a dirt strip on his property. The rancher took Buddy and his camera on a tour of the San Rafael Valley, overflying the Rocking H Bar in the process. These photos gave Burns an excellent view of the ranch. The video Russell shot with a hidden dash camera when he paid a visit to the suspect ranch under the pretense of shopping for ranch property listings Russell was politely but firmly turned away by the so called owner. The hard looking Anglos in the background caught Burns attention. He zoomed in on one and looked closely at his face. The ball cap and sunglasses obscured his features. The man’s resemblance to a customer whom Andy had worked on a pistol for was too close for coincidence. Burns cut and pasted the picture into another file.
Andy watched the video camera pan as Russell was turning around and leaving
the property. Burns saw a horseshoe nailed to a fence post. He backed up the video and watched sequence again. The fence post was direct across from the parking area and the front door of the headquarters house. Andy stopped the video and zoomed in on the horseshoe. Once he determined the size of the shoe he fast forwarded to the picture of the ranch thug. One thing was certain, the currently visible crew at Rocking H Bar sure as hell weren’t cowboys. Burns emailed the picture to another retired cop he knew who did computer forensic investigations. At least that was what the man’s business card said. He built and maintained Burns current system; it was as impregnable as one could have. Another video from Russell was downloading. This footage came from a tiny camera mounted in eyeglasses Russell had worn. Burns watched this with interest. Better pictures of the so called new owner and his help. Andy forwarded all this to the retired computer cop.
Burns went back online and began to search for small wireless cameras with solar batteries. He found what he wanted and placed an order with priority overnight shipping.
Jolene Hadfield entered Burns workshop from the main part of the house. She wondered why he was making detailed measurements of a horseshoe.
“I got an email from the lawyer in Nogales Arizona. He sent me copies of Lyon Hamilton’s bank statements. There is a significant amount of money in the bank. It is personal checking and savings, business checking and money market investment accounts. Hamilton is probably a millionaire if you include the ranch’s value. There has been no activity on any of the accounts in over six months except for direct deposit Social Security payments and the regular draft for the power bill.”
“Has the lawyer been in contact with the so-called new owner?”
“The lawyer says he sent certified letters to the ranch address, a PO Box in Patagonia Arizona. Those letters were returned, marked as undeliverable. He drove to the ranch and was told by the so called new owner to leave. This person would not give him his name. The lawyer tried to file a missing person report with the local sheriff’s department. They would not take the report. According to the lawyer, the Sheriff stated one of his deputies went to the ranch and investigated the matter at the request of another complainant. The deputy was satisfied that Lyon Hamilton sold the property and left the country. The sheriff’s department says it is a civil matter, and they will not get involved. The lawyer said he was going to file a subpoena for the sale records.”