by W L Ripley
“Beauchamps, this is Agent Morrison of the FBI. Give yourself up.” Well, great. Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. Just what the situation needed. “Let the girl go and walk into the living room with your hands behind your head.”
Roberts’s laugh boomed from the next room. “You have it wrong, podna. I’m a friend of the federal government. Protected witness. And I got a friend of yours with me.” Then the friendliness left his voice and the bayou accent went with it. “Both of you get in here—now! You have ten seconds, then we start working on the girl. If you want a war I’ll give you one. Time starting now.”
“You’ll kill her anyway,” I said. “First let her go, then we’ll come in.”
“You come in and I’ll let her go,” he answered. “You have my word.”
“What good is the word of a man without an identity? A cop killer and a poisoner of women? The word of a man without honor?”
I heard mumbled voices and then a familiar voice.
“Ollie, Ollie, in free,” said Chick, from the other room. “C’mon in, Stormey. I got ’em covered.” I stood up and walked around the couch. I heard Chick again. “God. Got ’em covered. That’s great. Always wanted to say that.”
THIRTY-SIX
Chick was waiting for us in a large library that doubled as an office. There were wing-backed chairs and low coffee tables. Decanters of bourbon on a large bar with a giant mirror behind it. The room smelled of pipe tobacco. Besides Roberts, who was seated behind an oversized walnut desk with a leather desk pad, and Chick, who was standing behind Roberts, there were three other men in the room. One was Candless. He was standing to one side of Roberts’s desk, his tan face drained of blood. Cugat stood in the middle of the room with Jill Maxwell in front of him. The wrestler’s big paws were on either side of Jill’s throat. Her hair was disheveled and she had swollen lips and a black eye. Her eyes pleaded with me, like those of a frightened fawn caught in the jaws of a wolf. The third man I didn’t know. He had a beef-and-bourbon face, black mustache, black hair, pockmarked skin, and a large diamond pinkie ring. He wore a suit that cost about what I spent a year on clothes. The other K.C. hitter.
The dawn was growing through the large window wall behind the dark man, washing the room with a rose cast, painting faces bloody where it touched them.
Morrison and I walked in with our guns pointed. I kept the Browning trained on Cugat’s ugly bald head, the shotgun pointed at the belt of the K.C. guy. There were a couple of guns on the floor: one at the feet of the guy with the wardrobe and one near Candless. There were probably more we couldn’t see, but their hands were in plain sight. When I thought about Tempestt I wanted an excuse to shoot Cugat in the middle of his smirking face.
Chick had the long-snouted .22 pointed at Roberts’s back, his .357 pointed at nothing in particular in his right hand. Morrison had Candless covered. The renegade DEA man looked surprised and defeated. Roberts was wearing a cream-colored satin robe over silk pajamas. On the desk in front of him was coffee service on a silver-filigreed tray. He had the appearance and demeanor of a man about to drink coffee with his friends.
“Chicory, Storme?” said Roberts, nodding at the silver coffeepot. “I’ve never gotten over my love of its taste, strong and dark. Reminds me of beignets and mornings in New Orleans, the smell of gulf salt in—”
“Shut up, Roberts,” I said. “For two Cheerios box tops and a Captain Marvel decoder ring I’d empty my gun in you and your pet gorilla’s heads.”
Roberts twisted his head, as if perplexed. “You’re mad about something? Why are you taking this personal?”
“You killed Tempestt.”
He laughed. “First you accuse me of killing the sheriff, and now it’s Miss Finestra. You are wrong both times. I did not—”
I ignored him. “Morrison, take the girl and leave. This doesn’t concern you.”
“If it starts happening,” said Chick, “kill the Sicilian first thing. He’s the most dangerous. Cugat doesn’t have a gun, and Candless just thinks he’s tough. I’ll shoot Roberts immediately.”
“You are all under arrest,” said Morrison. “Kidnapping, conspiracy, and—”
“Forget it, Morrison,” said Chick. “They’re not leaving here with you. They know it and you know it. Take the girl and get outta here.”
Cugat tightened his grip on Jill’s neck. Her body stiffened and she raised up on her toes.
I snapped back the hammer on the Browning. “Don’t do that, Cugat,” I said.
“I’ll break her neck,” he said. Cugat was the wild card in the deck. He had the manic, moon-shaped eyes of a hard-core speed and steroid freak.
“You do, and you’ll never hear the referee count three.”
“Seems we have a stalemate, gentlemen,” said Roberts. “I’m willing to forgive and forget, though.”
I kept my concentration divided between Cugat and the wise guy.
“How you figure?” said Chick. “I’m gonna kill you rig ht off, and all your buddies got their backs to me. Ducks in a pond. Storme’s itching to kill something, and me, I do it for the sport of it. After me, you’re the most dangerous man in the room and you’re already dead. Storme’d rather die than watch you hurt the girl, and that’s straight up. This time,” he said, his eyes glinting with the pain behind them, “this time, nobody hurts the girl. That’s the way it is.” I felt my teeth grinding.
Chick continued.
“Storme’s willing to die for the lady, Morrison’s willing to die for his oath, and I’m willing to die for the hell of it. Who’s willing to die for you, Willie? Cugat? Maybe. Candless? Never. And what about you, pasta-breath? You ready to die for Roberts?”
The hood said nothing, just stared at Chick, dully, with hooded eyes. But I think he objected, on an intellectual level, to pasta-breath.
“What’s it gonna be, Antonio?” asked Chick. “You want to walk out of here straight up, or die for Roberts? You call it.”
“My partner,” he said, in a monotone, his black eyes flat, unemotional. “Dead.”
“Not your fault. Roberts forgot to tell you about another copy of the formula he wants to sell to your people. He didn’t cover you. Roberts’s fault, not yours. Bad business decision to die if you don’t have to. Capisce?”
He nodded.
“Then leave the gun on the floor and walk out. The one in your boot, too. We got no argument with you.”
The dark man reached down, rolled up a pant leg, and removed the small, flat automatic from the ankle holster and laid it on the floor next to the other one. “What about the fed?” he asked.
“Let him go, Morrison,” Chick said. “Just keep an eye on him until he’s off the property. Don’t arrest him, okay?”
Morrison nodded. “He can go.”
“Get the girl and go, Morrison,” I said. Morrison took a step in her direction.
“Don’t let her loose, Cugie,” said Roberts. Cugat’s grip tightened again and Jill squealed. Morrison stopped. Cugat glowered at me.
“Better let her go, Roberts,” said Chick. “Honest to God, you better.”
“I think not,” Roberts said, a smug smile on his face. “I think I will test your—” Chick’s target pistol sneezed and Roberts’s right shoulder shivered.
“Damn,” Chick said. “Never know when this thing’s gonna go off.” He prodded Roberts in the back of the head with the gun. “Need another one?”
“Let her go, Cugie,” Roberts said, his head down.
“No,” said Cugat.
“Dammit!” said Roberts, breathing heavily. “I said let her go!”
Cugat’s face twisted into a mask of hate. He shoved Jill at me. When he did, the Sicilian bent over to pick up his gun. I tripped both barrels of the 12-gauge, cutting him in two. The slap of buckshot against flesh was heavy, obscene. The glass wall behind him shattered with a loud crash. Chick shot Cugat with the .22, but it didn’t stop him. Later, I realized Chick couldn’t use the .357 because the big gun’s bullets could go all the way thr
ough Cugat and hit Jill or me.
Candless ripped at his jacket to free his gun. Morrison hollered at him to hold it, but Candless drew the gun and snapped off a hurried shot that caught Morrison in the hip just as the FBI man shot him high in the chest.
I dropped the shotgun, grabbed Jill by the front of her blouse, threw her behind me, and tried to get the Browning up to shoot Cugat, but it was too late. With a yell of rage and hatred, the huge wrestler backhanded me. The world tumbled around me and I fell over a straight-backed chair. I felt Cugat’s weight on my chest and his hands reaching for my throat. I dug my chin into my chest to keep him from strangling me or snapping my neck. Instead, he lifted me from the floor by the front of my fatigue sweater and threw me against the glass door, which had not been touched by shotgun pellets. My head cracked against the unforgiving glass and I fell to the floor. I tried to clear my head, remembering to hold on to the gun. A reflex. If you’re going to get hit anyway, don’t let go of the ball.
Cugat started to reach for me, but Jill whacked him on the ear with a heavy crystal ashtray. He bellowed and grabbed her by the hair and slapped her hard across the face. He started to turn on me again, when he was shoved sideways by a flying kick from Chick. I raised the gun to shoot the off-balance Cugat, but Chick stopped me.
“No!” he said. His eyes were flinty and he was in a boxer’s stance. “He’s mine.” He hit Cugat once, then again, with left jabs that flicked out then returned to their original position. Morrison was hurt but had his gun on Roberts now. Both Candless and the K.C. slugger lay still, the K.C. guy forever.
Cugat reached for Chick and Chick hit him twice in the solar plexus, then jumped back and to Cugat’s right. Chick backhanded him on the ear and followed that with a roundhouse kick that smacked against the back of Cugat’s neck. Cugat pitched forward, recovered, and threw a big roundhouse. Chick ducked it and uppercut the big man to the ribs. Cugat bellowed in pain but still cuffed Chick on the side of the head with a left hand. Chick staggered, and with surprising quickness Cugat had him in a bear hug, lifting Chick from the floor.
Cugat, his face smeared with blood, squeezed, and Chick’s face turned scarlet. Then Cugat buried his face in Easton’s shoulder and bit down on his neck. Chick made no sound, but his face twisted in agony. Cugat was killing him.
I holstered the gun, stepped up, and punched Cugat in the kidneys as hard as I could, twice. He didn’t flinch on the first one, but the second brought a cry of pain and caused his back to arch. I hit him again, and he dropped Chick and turned on me. I backpedaled. Had to keep his hands off me. He swung and I blocked it with my shoulder, stepping inside and hitting him with uppercuts to the body. It was like hitting a slab of frozen beef and my shoulder felt as if I’d been hit with a hammer, but he was starting to breathe hard. I moved right and under his other hand and gave him another body shot. He brought his elbow back and swung it at me. I tried to get an arm up, but his elbow glanced off my shoulder and caught me on top of the head as I tried to duck. My feet came out from under me as if I were on ice. I fell across a table, knocking a lamp off it. When I hit the floor, I rolled away from him.
I looked up from the floor as Cugat swung a right at Chick and missed, grunting with the effort. Chick shuffled sideways and kicked the giant on the side of the knee. Cugat bellowed, and there was a discernible pop from his knee. He fell to one knee and Chick hit him twice, then danced away as Cugat recovered and swung another haymaker. It was like trying to fight a building by throwing rocks at it.
I stood up to help, when Jill yelled, “Watch out!”
Candless, not dead, had crawled and managed to reach his gun. Morrison stepped on his hand and Candless screamed, but Morrison had taken his eyes off Willie Boy, who yanked open a desk drawer and reached in, producing a small automatic pistol, which he swung out of the drawer with his left hand. I jerked the Browning out of its holster and moved right. Morrison swiveled in Roberts’s direction but was slowed by his wounded hip. Everything was in slow motion. Roberts shot, and I felt a tug at my sweater, then he swung the gun at Morrison. Even wounded and shooting with his weak hand, Roberts was confident he could one-shot both Morrison and myself.
Roberts’s second shot smacked the wall behind Morrison. I fired twice. My first round barked wood from the desk. The second hit him and spun him away from me. Morrison’s gun roared and a puff of leather and lining material exploded from the chair.
Cugat, oblivious to the shoot-out, stalked Chick. He was limping and his breathing was labored. The bloodstain on his back from the .22 bullet looked like a Rorschach inkblot. Chick hit him—two short lefts, a right cross, left uppercut, right uppercut, left jab, overhand right, left, a spinning backhand, follow ed by a front kick. Chick used the momentum of his landing to launch a roundhouse kick, which caught Cugat full on the temple. The big man staggered drunkenly, and his breath made a liquid sound in his chest. His head was bloody. I heard the soft crying of Jill Maxwell on the periphery of my awareness.
Sultan Cugat swayed, put a hand out to steady himself, reaching for support that wasn’t there. Maybe he was looking for the ropes. Then he fell heavily to the floor and lay on his back, blood smearing his mouth and nose. One eye was closed, and his nose cast hung by one piece of bloody tape on his cheek.
The room was quiet, save for the rattle of Cugat’s breathing and Jill’s mewling sobs.
Chick’s chest was heaving, his face slick with sweat and blood, his shirt plastered to his chest. “Stick a fork in this turkey,” he said, standing over Cugat. “I think he’s done.”
Chick’s lower lip was split and bleeding, one eye was swollen and beginning to shut, and there was an angry red welt on the right side of his neck where Cugat had bitten him. He retrieved his .357 and jammed it back in its holster.
Cugat raised up on one elbow and muttered through bloody lips, “We’re not finished yet.” He began to get to his feet.
Chick pulled his gun and pointed it at the giant. “Yes we are,” he said. “TKO. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna go through that again. Sit down.” Cugat did so. Chick handed his gun to Jill. “You know how this works?” She nodded. “Okay. If he moves, shoot him.”
“How about even if he doesn’t?” she said, a fierce gleam in her eyes.
“I think I’m in love,” Chick said, smiling at her. He cuffed Cugat with a pair of Morrison’s no-deposit, no-return handcuffs.
I walked to Roberts’s desk. Willie Boy lay behind his desk with two dark stains on his expensive satin robe and a splinter from the desk lodged in his cheek. He rolled his head to look up at me, blood trickling from the splinter.
“Why?” he asked. “Why’d you get in this?”
“The sheriff,” I said. “And Tempestt. They were good people. They deserved to live, and you took it from them. That, and one of your men poached a deer.”
Roberts laughed until he coughed. Morrison limped over to use the phone. Roberts recovered from his coughing spell and said, “A deer? You are one crazy bastard, that’s for sure.” He coughed again. “You know what’s funny?” he asked. I didn’t say anything.
He said, “I didn’t have anything to do with any of that. The girl, the sheriff, not even the deer. Nothing.”
I looked at him, chewed my lower lip. “You’re lying,” I said. Chick walked over and stood by the desk. Jill was with him. He had his arm around her and she leaned against him. Her face was composed. Tears dry. She was tough.
“Why should I lie now? I think you’ve killed me.” He paused to spit a small glob of blood. “No. I’ve killed my share, me. Crazy that I should die for something I didn’t do. It evens out.” He spat again. Coughed. “Ask Candless about the girl. He’s the one gets hurt by her staying alive. She knew about him. I knew that, so I kept her alive to leverage him. He killed her. Why would I kill her? Could’ve done that anytime.” He rolled his head. “You know, maybe I won’t die, after all. Candless’s greedy. Him and his friend, that lawyer…you were right, I shouldn’t have used amateu
rs.”
“Candless and Winston?” I said. “What’s their connection?”
“Old college buddies. Fraternity or something. Candless found out Winston was involved, and Winston cut him in on the deal. Fucked everything up. Cugat tried to tell me. I didn’t listen. The girl, she found out things about Candless. He tried to cut himself in on the take. I couldn’t whack a fed. Sheriff, either. Too much heat.” He took a breath. “Is Candless dead?”
“Not yet.”
“Good. I want him to live so he can suffer in prison. Cute little blond boy. They love cops inside.”
“What about the sheriff?”
“A stupid thing. You don’t kill the law, I said. You buy them. But that sheriff”—he paused to take a breath—“couldn’t be bought. Or controlled. Those kind you walk around.” He was having trouble now. I reached down and plucked the splinter from his cheek. He winced, then continued.
“Winston and Baxter, they did that. Winston had a thing going with an underage girl. Sheriff found out and was going to blow it up in Winston’s face. Bad blood between the two. Winston had Baxter do the sheriff.” He coughed deep in his chest and spat blood on the carpet. It made a scarlet stain. He cleared his throat, then ground his teeth together in pain. I tried not to admire him.
What he was saying made sense. He could have killed Tempestt instead of pumping her full of narcotics. She found out about Candless’s involvement, so Roberts had Cugat give her the chemicals and hid her out in the motel. Winston must have told Candless she was at the hospital, or Candless had figured that’s where I would take her. He knew she might be there, and Chick’s and my presence at the hospital confirmed it. I remembered they didn’t know what room she was in. We had inadvertently led Candless to her room. He would have no problem circumventing a posted guard. His DEA credentials would gain him access. I had more questions.
“What about the marijuana field?”
“Not mine.”
“Whose, then?”