“I don’t know—don’t hit me, okay? No more. Please. But I don’t know. Some old beef, him and Littmann…”
He closed his eyes, let his head hang as he shuddered against some sudden pain. Chalky moved in to check on him but with a glance Rags held him back.
“Beef as in what—he buy a fake painting?”
Giordano, unable to lift his head. “I don’t know—honest, please. Enough—”
From the large black trash bag, BBK produced the pair of socks they’d stripped off the man, lodged one in Giordano’s mouth and tied the other around his head to secure the first in place.
Rags said, “Lemme get back to you on that. Meantime, hang tight.”
CHAPTER 24
The noontime lunch crowd began trickling from the nearby government buildings and bank tower. Lisa cleared her throat. “Mr. Wingfield—”
“It’s okay.” He was leaning forward thoughtfully, elbows on knees, hands tented. “Call me Elan.”
“Elan.” She winced from a sudden glare of sunlight lancing through the shade trees. “I appreciate your telling me about what you’ve learned. And seen. It’s really shocking and awful and terrifying, and I get, I think, what you’re trying to tell me. But I’m really only after a packet of letters. I wish I could help you in some way but…”
His gaze hardened ever so slightly. “You think I’m asking for help?”
“Please don’t take offense. I didn’t—”
“I’m trying to give you an idea of who and what you’re up against.”
“You’re saying these men, the ones who drove off the women from your tribe, the ones who lynched the three immigrants—assuming they’re one and the same—they’re linked to Littmann?”
“To him and his family, his history.”
“What does that mean?”
“Give me a moment,” he said. “I’ll explain.”
Once again, the ceremony of the cigarette—tugging the pack from his pocket, probing for his smoke, tapping it hard against the back of his hand. Lisa snuck a glance at her watch. She’d wanted to spend the afternoon in the law library, doing additional research.
“There’s a tradition down here,” he said, “going back to when the whites first showed up. Freebooters, vigilantes, most with full support of the government. ‘War to the knife and knife to the hilt’—that’s how the territory charter reads.”
Lisa wondered if there was any part of the region’s history that wasn’t depressing.
“A man named King Woolsey is notorious for lynching Apaches or luring them into phony parleys so his men can open fire. If that doesn’t work, he poisons them by adding strychnine to pinole, corn meal mixed with mesquite beans, and giving it out as a peace offering. He calls it the Pinole Treaty.”
“And this Woolsey, he’s an ancestor of Littmann’s?”
“Not directly,” Elan said. “Ideologically, let’s say. Littmann’s bloodline—on one side anyway, or so he claims—goes back to a man named Judge Mike Gray, who helps organize and finance the Tombstone Rangers, a pack of amateur scalp hunters that, at one point, tries to wipe out the entire San Carlos Reservation. Ironically, from your viewpoint anyway, that particular contingent is led by a man named Milt Joyce, who’s better known as the sworn enemy of your friend Doc Holliday.”
So that’s the connection with Littmann, Lisa thought. Part of it anyway. Maybe.
“On the other side of the family,” Elan continued, “you’ve got a man named Gus Littmann. He shows up sometime during the First World War, helps form the Citizens’ Protective League to counter the mining strikes. Ever hear of the Bisbee Deportation?”
Lisa shook her head.
“Thirteen hundred miners, most with odd last names, you know? Get packed at gunpoint into cattle cars and shipped two hundred miles—sixteen hours through the desert in July, no water, no food—and dropped off in Tres Hermanas, New Mexico.”
“I’m guessing that’s the middle of nowhere.”
“Pretty much. Anyway, like I said, that’s the tradition. And with the hatred so strong around here for Washington these days, you know—not just them, any outsiders—the militia idea has come back strong.”
“You’re saying Judge Littmann is in charge of this group you’ve been describing, the ones you came across in the Dragoons.”
“He’s not that blatant. Word is he channels money to them and uses some of the members as security on his ranch. He’s also written a couple articles and editorials that suggest he thinks they’re not just legitimate, there’s Constitutional justification.”
Good God, Lisa thought, I should have seen this coming. Article One, Section Eight. “Letters of marque and reprisal.”
Elan smiled appreciatively. “Give the young lady a prize.”
They were designed to give the government the right to use privateers—pirates, basically—to plunder enemy ships. “Libertarians have been arguing they should be brought back to fund private armies—contractors, mercenaries—in the War on Terror.”
“Or patrol the Mexican border. Even conduct raids onto Indian reservations, where, you know, they say smugglers operate freely. Like we’re to blame.”
“They’re attacking you, too?”
“Not yet. But they don’t just operate in the Dragoons. Around twenty bodies have been found so far, most down in the Peloncillos and Chiricahuas, closer to the border, but sometimes it’s hard to know who killed who. Point is, they’re a menace, a pack of weekend patriots armed to the teeth. Even if you get everything you want in court, and Littmann’s ordered to hand back what he stole—who’s going to make him comply? You think U.S. Marshals want to risk a bloodbath over a bunch of letters that, for all they know, might be fake?”
They’re not fake, she thought, they’re genuine. I’ve seen them, read them, touched them. And yet for some reason, at that particular moment, she couldn’t bring herself to say that out loud.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Elan said, “what possesses a nice young lady like you to get wrapped up with this kind of character in the first place?”
***
Rags and the other marines, Rayella in tow, filed out of the garage where they left Giordano hanging. The forger, Tuck, was waiting for them in what once had served as the living room. He was standing over a map he’d spread out on the bare slab floor, nothing else in the room except a litter box and scratch pad for a long-departed cat.
“While you all have been out there entertaining our guest,” Tuck said, “I’ve been thinking about the best way onto the Littmann property.”
“Have you now.” Rags crouched down for a closer look at the map. His squaddies followed suit. Rayella drifted back toward the wall, chewing on a thumbnail.
“I grew up just over the ridge in Harshaw,” Tuck said. “Used to hike and ride horseback all the time as a kid in the mountains around here.” Pointing at the map with the tip of his cane. “Your best bet is go down Ironwood Road behind the Dragoons, head for the Cochise Stronghold but don’t go all the way in. May be campers there—birders, hikers, it’s a popular spot.” He glanced man to man, as though to make sure they took his meaning. “Instead, take this turn on the forest road and head for Blacktail Hill, right here. There’s an unmarked road beyond that. Drive uphill to about five thousand feet—there’s a flat area near a stock tank where you can park. From there you’ll hike up and over Rockfellow Dome. Keep Mount Glenn to your right, Council Rocks to your left. Won’t be easy, especially at night, even with the moon waxing full.”
“We’ve got NVGs,” Rags said. Night Vision Goggles.
“Yeah, well, there’s mesquite and scrub oak thickets so dense they might as well be walls, not to mention open mine shafts you can fall into. Plus all the cactus, the rattlers.”
“We’re not new to the desert.” Chalky the one interrupting this time. “Besides, still early in the year to worry about rattlesnakes, even at night.”
“All right then.” Tuck seemed to sense the tension but merely point
ed again with the tip of his cane. “Once you get over the summit you’ll hit a trailhead here, at the end of Stronghold Canyon West. Follow it down to this airstrip—really just a patch of dirt, but the slope from the top is easier, better to get planes in and out. Beats having to rappel down sheer rock. From there it’s a short hike to the back end of the ranch.” Tuck checked his watch. “You better get going if you want a good start before sundown.”
Rags collected the map, folded it back into pocket shape, and put it away, nodding toward the garage. “Fat man says there’s security. Four-man team, twenty-four-seven, but there’s plenty more at the beck and call of this judge. All he has to do is send out word, they’ll come running. Part of some kind of home reserve down here. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
All eyes turned toward Tuck. He shrugged, leaned on his cane. “Should I?”
“You tell me.”
“Look, I realize there might be—”
“You’re the one found this bent judge, am I right? Found the lame lawyer, too, one who just sat there and let Rayella get pounded and robbed.”
“Lisa Ball-o-sorrow,” Wander said.
“Seems to me,” Rags said, “we got any cause to fault someone for making a bad call, it’s you.”
“I can understand,” Tuck said, “why you’d think that, but if you’ll just—”
“Now we learn there won’t be any quick in-and-out, not with that much manpower in the neighborhood. Somebody’s sure to get hurt.”
A bellowing groan came from the garage. Nobody bothered to turn.
“On top of which, you find this house here lickety-split this morning, like it’s at your fingertips, ya know? But that’s not the punch line. Wanna hear the punch line?”
Tuck met his eye with an easy calm. Had to give the man credit for that, Rags thought, especially after dealing with Fatso.
“Mr. Giordano in there says this whole thing has nothing to do with Rayella or those letters. All comes down to bad blood between you and Littmann. Goes back years. Got anything to say on that?”
“Yeah,” Tuck said. His gaze held steady. “It’s a lie.”
“Do tell,” Chalky said.
“I don’t know anything about the man. I found his name on a list of collectors at the auction house where I do some consulting. That’s it.”
Rags said, “You’re sure about that.”
“When I made my plea agreement, I had to list every known owner of one of my paintings. He wasn’t on it. Maybe he was dumb enough to get suckered into buying one after my arrest, thinking it was genuine, and holds a grudge. I’ve got no clue.”
“You’re saying the bad blood’s all on his side.”
“Far as I know. Point is, I didn’t see this coming. And yeah, I feel bad about that. It’s why I’m trying to lend a hand here, make up for the mistakes.”
From her spot near the wall, Rayella murmured, “The least you could do.”
“And don’t call Lisa lame,” Tuck said. “She’s working her tail end off to make up for what happened.”
“Like it’ll do any good.” Wander again.
“Don’t sell that girl short. She’s a fighter, believe me. Now I agree with you all, even if she gets the court to lean her way, given what we know already about these people, it’s unlikely they’ll hand anything back.”
“Not without more incentive than a piece of paper,” Chalky said.
“Which is why,” Tuck said, “I also agree that the best idea is just go on in, take the letters back, settle this like men. Truth be told, though, you couldn’t ask for a better diversion than Lisa. She’s the reason you don’t need to worry about being outnumbered. Given the holy hell she’s gonna raise in court, nobody’ll expect to see you coming over that range. Nobody. You can bank on that.”
He looked face to face as though to see how his words landed. Rags, momentarily lost in thought, rose from his crouch. In for a penny, he thought. Fortune favors the brave.
“Mr. Mercer, I’d like you to drive Rayella back to the hotel. Wait for our call.”
“No,” Rayella said, stepping forward. “I’m coming along. I’ve played my part so far. I’ve got a right. Those letters are mine.”
“You let me take care of the letters,” Rags said. “Even with surprise on our side, there’s no telling what might happen at that house. Besides, we’ve got some business here to wrap up.”
He didn’t elaborate, just met her gaze. Her eyes grew large as his point sank in.
“No need for you to be part of that,” he said.
***
“There are two other names you have listed here I should tell you about.” Elan gestured with his cigarette to the caption on her complaint. “The lawyer, Rankin. He and Littmann get together when the judge sits on the criminal bench in Cochise County. Rankin’s a defense lawyer, drug cases mostly, and a total smokehound.”
Lisa felt her cheeks warm. Been there, done that.
“He gets pulled over for a DUI, they toss his car, claim they got his permission first. You know how that goes.”
Yes, Lisa thought. Unfortunately, I do.
“Guess what they find,” he said.
Nothing, she thought, if he was lucky like me and already wolfed it all. “I’m guessing it’s not so much a question of what as how much.”
“Ten grams. There’s no personal use allowance under Arizona law, not for crack, and the threshold for possession for sale is seven hundred fifty milligrams. So Rankin’s way over the line. That’s a Class Two felony, mandatory minimum three years in prison, max of ten. Throw in getting disbarred.”
“I think I know where this is going.”
“He wants a deal.”
“Of course he does.”
“Who does a defense lawyer have to hand up?”
She let out a dispirited sigh. “His clients.”
“A lot of folks down here just shrug. Or cheer. Only the innocent deserve a right to counsel, way they see it. Even federal judges, if they criticize what’s going on, seldom toss the evidence. Anyway, a beautiful friendship is formed, and Littmann, with Rankin as his snitch, gets a rep as tough on crime.”
“What about the other guy, the clown, Giordano?”
Elan put out his cigarette, crushing it with his boot, but this time walked it over to the trash bin, collected the first butt as well, dropped both in. He came back spanking his hands clean, sat down, then said with a smile, “You must mean Robert Jordan.”
Lisa barked out a helpless laugh. “I knew it.”
“Born in Youngstown, Ohio. Comes out to Las Vegas about ten years ago. Wants to be connected so bad he changes his name. Joke that goes around about him? Only guy in the history of Vegas who ever added a vowel to the end of his name.”
“How’d he end up here?”
“Nobody who’s for real wants anything to do with him in Nevada, so he wanders down here, gets popped moving stolen traveler’s checks, somehow connects with Rankin, and they put their heads together, work up a scheme. Rankin uses his connection to Littmann to sell it to the County Attorney. Giordano gets out of his jam by fronting up a sting, impersonates a made guy from back east looking for willing partners to launder his cash.”
“You mean somebody actually fell for that act?”
“There’s a lot of yokels down here, by which I mean prosecutors and politicians and people who want to move in on the action, who claim there’s mob money or cartel money flowing through the Indian casinos. So they buy into Giordano’s routine like he’s Joe Pesci. Waltzes in to Cliff Castle, which is on our land, and Mazatzal, run by the Tonto Apache, says he wants to put an offer on the table, wink wink. Gets the bum’s rush both places—we may be ignorant savages, but nobody’s that dumb. Anyway, even when there’s nothing to show for it, Rankin falls in love with Giordano’s mustard. Littmann, too. And so Robert Jordan of Youngstown, Ohio, gets to keep on playing Willy Wiseguy.”
CHAPTER 25
Giordano’s eyes swelled,
focusing on the ugly, ragged burn that covered half of Rags’s face.
“Ever seen the backblast on a Russian Vampir RPG?” Rags lifted his hand, his thumb and index finger an inch apart. “I have. About this close.”
He unclipped the scabbard on his belt, pulled out the KA-BAR knife—seven-inch double- edged blade, combat spec.
“Know what I said earlier, about a chance to walk away clean?” He tapped the flat of the blade against his palm. “I lied.”
Giordano screamed through his gag as Rags pulled his head back, exposing the throat.
“Be honest. You brought this on yourself. Only one way you can make up for what you did—you’ve no idea how much I care about that girl. Now hold still. I’ll make this quick.”
But he didn’t. Again, he lied, though not of his own accord.
Before Rags could put the blade to skin, BBK eased up behind Giordano and slipped the man’s belt around his throat, pulled tight, tighter, crushing the gagged man’s windpipe while Chalky ducked in and spread out another garbage bag beneath the man’s feet to catch the inevitable discharge.
Rags took two steps back, surprised, as Chalky, looking up from where he crouched, said, “You’re not alone in this, okay?”
Once the former corpsman confirmed no pulse remained, no sign of breathing, they unshackled the body from the overhead pipe and set him down on the soiled black bag—at which point they just stood there, staring, for what felt like an eternity.
Combat prepared you for many things. Ironically, cold-blooded murder wasn’t one of them.
Wander was the first to say something. He used his own voice. “Okay then. Let’s make this knucklehead disappear.”
***
They drove out to an even more remote spot in the open desert, dragged the body to a low knoll, where BBK took a hammer to the teeth, decimating the jaw for good measure, after which Wander doused the body with gasoline, focusing on the hands and feet.
They curled the body fetal-style around a dropkicked claymore mine that BBK once bargained off a grunt he knew from his previous life in the hood. The brother made his living now selling stolen ordinance to the Spook Town Compton Crips.
The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday Page 12