Private Eye Four-Pack, page 54
“That was not our fault—”
“Shut up. How you allowed a Mafia hit man to operate with a free rein and take over an entire community. How you sat back while the locals railroaded a homicide investigation. How you kept the highway patrol in the dark while you—”
“All right!” Morrison said, interrupting. “All right. What else have you got?”
“Get her out of there.”
I could hear him breathing, heavily. “I can’t do that.”
“Then I’m on my own. I’ll get her out.”
“Storme. Let me caution you. Do not attempt anything heroic. Agent Taylor will not appreciate your sabotaging this investigation. Then her sacrifice, if it comes to that, will be for naught.”
I wasn’t listening to him. How can you take someone seriously who says things like “for naught.” I had another thought. “Don’t say anything about this to Candless.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t trust him. I’ve got a feeling, nothing more, that he’s leaking information. Everybody is one step ahead of me. Roberts knew who I was. Somebody tipped them about Tempestt. Crisp indicated that Winston may be indirectly involved, and Candless seems to be afraid somebody is going to disturb Winston. And how did he know Chick was checking on Winston? Why would he even care? Ask yourself that.”
“We are cooperating with the DEA in this investigation and they are privy to any—”
“Doggonit, Morrison. Get your head out of the dark, smelly place and think. Anything happens to her and I’m going to look you up.”
“You’ll accomplish nothing threatening me.”
“All I’m asking for is forty-eight hours. Just hold back telling him anything for that period of time. Please.” I was pleading with him now. If begging would save Tempestt’s life, then that’s what I would do. “That’s all. He won’t know that I know. Not yet, anyway. What have you got to lose?”
There was a pause. “All right,” he said. “Forty-eight hours. That’s all you get. But you’ll have to promise to stay out of it.”
“No good. My neck’s already stretched out. So’s hers. I can’t sit still when I know that. If you want to tell Candless, go ahead. But do it knowing you may be killing her. I’m not a sideline guy, I’m a player. No matter what happens, even if I go to jail, I’m still going to try to get her out.”
“You can’t have it all, Storme.”
“I’ll turn the chemist. To you and you alone. If Candless is involved the deal is off.”
“You’re a hardheaded son of a bitch.”
“Scots-Irish. Goes with the heritage.”
“I give up,” he said. “I’ll say nothing to Candless for the agreed upon time. But this conversation never occurred. And, I caution you. You are placing yourself in a highly charged situation. If something goes awry, I may be unable to guarantee immunity if you are prosecuted. I give you my word I will not personally initiate prosecution. You are a damned nuisance. Get me the chemist and I’ll see what I can do. You are dealing with people who are ruthless and without conscience. Some of them are powerful and dangerous beyond your imagination.”
“It’s okay. I’m wearing my lucky socks.”
“This is not a game, Storme.”
“And I’m not playing around,” I said. He hung up.
I hung the phone on the hook and Chick said, “So what’s the drill?”
“He says we’re sticking our noses in where they’ll get cut off. Along with some other things.”
“Whew. For a minute there, I thought we might be in trouble. Well, this looks like a job for Super Chick and his rusty-trusty sidekick, Wyatt, the Boy Wonder. Do we get to wear the white hats this time?”
I called the offices of Alan Winston, attorney-at-law. A female voice, very efficient, very proper, answered on the fourth ring. No hurry. “Mr. Winston is unavailable at the moment. May he return the call?”
“Tell him it’s Wyatt Storme. He’ll want to talk to me.”
“He’s unavailable.”
“I heard you say that. Tell him anyway.”
She started to protest, gave up. Elevator music swelled electronically from the phone. Two minutes passed. The voice returned. “Mr. Winston seems to be unfamiliar with you. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to make an appointment.”
“Okay,” I said. “Make it for four this afternoon.”
“That’s only fifteen minutes from now.”
“Sorry. I can’t make it any sooner.”
“He’s busy all afternoon.”
“Tell him to shake loose.”
“But, I—”
“I know the secret password.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said.
“Dreamsicle. Tell him that.” I hung up.
“Well,” said Chick, “that was easy enough.”
“I have a nice telephone manner.”
“Courtesy is everything.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The law offices of Winston & Bedford, est. 1947, were situated in a brown brick colonial-style building in a trendy business park on the east side of town. Very upscale. There were late-blooming flowers and evergreens growing in a garden that sat in the middle of the common.
“Very soothing,” Chick said. We entered the building. The office was hushed, with golden-brown carpet and a tasteful wallpaper pattern. Walls were hung with expensive prints—Neiman, Picasso, some impressionists. At a desk was a nice-looking brunette wearing a red blazer, dark sweater underneath, and large glasses, which set off her large hazel eyes. Walnut furniture adorned the office. Decorating the door to Winston’s office were two gorillas of the species Thickus moronus. It was Breck and Vance, my favorite muscleheads. Click, again. One more connection between Winston and Roberts. The secretary, Ellen Fontaine, by the nameplate on her desk, was uncomfortable.
Chick spoke to the goons guarding the door. “Look, it’s Heckle and Jeckle.”
“May…may I help you gentlemen?” asked Miss Fontaine. We didn’t look like we required help with a speeding ticket.
“We have an appointment with Mr. Winston,” I said. “I’m the guy who called, Wyatt Storme. This is my associate, Mr. Easton.”
Chick smiled. “Darn,” he said, looking at Breck and Vance. “Forgot to bring our appointment card.”
Ellen Fontaine said, “I’m sorry, but…but there seems to be a…a mistake.”
“Are we early?” I asked, politely. “Clock says four o’clock.”
“Mr. Winston is busy,” said Vance, the darker of the musclemen. He had a black mustache and wiry black hair on thick forearms, which were crossed in front of his chest. He was wearing short sleeves in the middle of autumn so we could see the muscles he’d grown. Probably considered himself menacing. He wasn’t far wrong. “Come back some other time.”
“Shouldn’t you guys be out front?” Chick said. “With a headdress and a handful of cigars?”
“If you’re looking for trouble,” Vance said, “then you’re in the right place.” He measured each syllable in the best B movie tough-guy tradition.
“Clichés,” said Chick. “Real men don’t use ’em.”
“We need to speak with Mr. Winston,” I said. “Just talk, that’s all. We’re not going to rough him up, and we’re not going to kidnap him.”
“Besides, we need legal advice,” said Chick. “We’ve been charged with assault and battery.”
“Oh, yeah?” Vance said, with a sneer, ever the straight man. “Who’d you two lightweights assault? Coupla junior high kids?”
Chick’s smile spread broadly across his face. The apostrophe eyebrow raised. He said, “Couple of guys who mumbled in monosyllables and wouldn’t let us go where we wanted to.”
The blond guy stepped forward. “You can’t see him. He doesn’t want to see you. He gave us a call, told us to keep everyone out, and you two specifically. So that’s what we have to do. Nothing personal. That’s the job.” Formal and courteous. Service with a smile. Vance, on the other hand, looked as if he wanted to bite us. Breck was the guy to watch. He was calm, the kind of calm that came with experience. He wasn’t looking for trouble. Trouble would come.
“I appreciate your position,” I said. “But we’re going in. That’s the way it is. Sorry.” Breck’s eyes had a tired look, as if he had to discipline a precocious child. His partner moved to bar our way.
“No way, all-star,” he said. “It ends right here. You and Mr. Mouth can turn around and blow.”
“ ‘Turn around and blow?’ ” Chick said, his smile wider than before.
“Hard to believe he says things like that, isn’t it?”
“I like it,” Chick said. “You go on in, while I hang around here and see if he comes up with another gem.”
“That right? I think you’re leaving. Soon.” Vance reached into his back pocket, and with a flip of his wrist he produced a leather sap, one of those with the flat piece of lead in the end like the police carry. He began flopping it in his hand. Without warning, Chick snaked out a hand and rapped Vance sharply on the wrist. Vance yelped in surprise, then Chick swept the blackjack from the dark man’s hand, flipped it into the air, and caught it, teasing Vance. The whole action had transpired in seconds. It had been quick, dreamlike. It was as if the sap had materialized in Chick’s hand.
“Will you look at this,” Chick said, brandishing the blackjack. “A horrible weapon of destruction. Good thing I was able to get it before you hurt yourself. Maybe you oughta try one with training wheels first. Course it’s not as exotic as a Japanese throwing star, but it has a certain atavistic appeal.”
The blond guy, Breck, made a funny little move; he loosened his shoulders and shuffled right. Chick relaxed his arms and bent his knees slightly, facing Breck. “Whoa there, blondie. You don’t want none of this.”
“It’s what they pay me for,” Breck said.
“They don’t pay you enough for this. Nothing personal.”
The door to Winston’s office opened suddenly and Alan Winston appeared. He wore a dark blue suit with a faint chalk stripe running through it. Hand-painted tie like the uptown guys in New York wore. Florsheim wing-tipped tasseled loafers in oxblood. Very GQ. His face was drawn tight.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded.
“We’re playing who’s got the blackjack,” said Chick. “And, as so often happens, I’m winning.”
“Call the police, Ellen,” said Winston.
“Sure you want to do that?” I said. “Nothing to me. I’ll be glad to talk to them. Got nothing else to do. You call them, I call the paper. They’ll hear the call on the scanner, anyway. They’ll get a reporter over here quicker than you can say ‘dreamsicle.’ I’ll tell them about a wounded man with a new wonder drug in a plastic container.” Ellen Fontaine was punching numbers on the phone. “I’ll also tell them about a local lawyer trying to extort information from the sheriff’s office to help himself in court.”
“Hang up, Ellen,” Winston said, his eyes hot on me. Miss Fontaine kept the phone to her ear. “I said hang up, dammit!” She jumped, as if stung, and put the phone on the hook.
“Sorry, Mr. Winston,” said Breck. His eyes were still on Chick. “You’re pretty good,” he said to Chick. “Vance is usually pretty hard to take.”
“Too eager,” said Chick. “Too slow, too.”
“Quick enough for most.”
“Not enough once you’ve seen the best.”
“This ain’t over, motherfucker,” said Vance.
“Do you eat with that mouth?” said Chick “There’s a lady present. You have no background at all, do you?”
“I’m gonna kick your—”
“Shut up, Vance,” Winston said. His courtroom voice was a whipcrack. “Breck, get him out of my sight.”
“Yes, sir,” said Breck. “You want these guys to stay out?”
“We’re going in,” I said.
“Mr. Winston?” Breck said.
Winston looked angry but said, “Let them in.” He turned and walked back into the office, ignoring us but leaving the door open.
“Your lucky day,” Breck said.
“Yours, too,” said Chick, as we went in. Two men stood as we entered. The office was thickly carpeted and large, furnished with chrome and glass. The downfall of twentieth-century man. Chrome and glass. Cold and antiseptic. The two men who stood at our entrance were doing so near a low table, papers and folders strewn on top of that. The older of the two men immediately closed one of the folders, which made me want to look at it even more. The other man, late twenties, early thirties, was dressed similarly to Winston, though he was taller and looked athletic. He also looked angry at our barging in. He had a fist on a hip, pushing back his expensive jacket.
Winston introduced us, then sat down behind his desk. He didn’t offer us a chair and nobody shook hands, which was okay since we weren’t there to sell Amway or life insurance. The younger, athletic-looking man’s name was Gary Bedford. He was the junior partner.
“What are these men doing here, Alan?” asked Bedford, as if we weren’t in the room.
“We’re here to spread love and goodwill to people everywhere,” said Chick, looking at the older man, a Mr. Campbell. He was dressed differently from Bedford and Winston. He had on a suit, but it looked rumpled, and his tie was askew. His hair was unruly, as if he’d slept on it.
“This is a private meeting,” said Bedford. “You two will have to leave.”
“We’re not leaving,” I said.
“Maybe you’ll have to,” Bedford said, putting both hands on his hips.
“Maybe that’s already been tried.”
“The noise outside,” Winston said, “was Breck and Vance attempting to deny them entrance. They took a blackjack from Vance. It wasn’t an accident.”
Bedford considered this momentarily. He was a good-sized man. Probably a quarterback or tight end in high school. Maybe even college. His posture was the best in high school locker-room intimidation. Unfortunately, there was never a high school kid around when you needed one.
“I can hold my own with this pair of morons,” he said, glaring at me. Chick continued watching the older man at the table. Alan Winston looked amused.
“Now, Gary,” Winston said, soothingly. “I already know of one man who has suffered a broken nose this week.” He took his index finger and pushed his aquiline nose to one side for emphasis. “And I like your nose the way it is.”
As if on cue a door opened at the rear of the office and a huge form stepped into the room. Sultan Cugat. He wore an aluminum-and-foam-rubber splint splayed across his face like a shiny octopus, making him appear gladiatorial and malevolent. As if he needed that. Willie Boy Roberts stepped from behind him. Winston had probably called him when he heard we were coming. No doubt about the connection now.
“Hello, boys,” said Roberts, with his affected drawl. “Good to see you again, Storme.” Cugat stood behind Roberts, outlining his boss with his huge body, thick forearms folded across his rain-barrel chest. His slick bald head reflected the overhead light.
“Come in,” said Winston, looking at me and smiling confidently. “Sit down, I’ll fix you a drink. We’ll find out what these gentlemen want, and then we will get back to the business at hand. I’m sure they won’t stay long.” He raised a questioning brow at me. “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Storme?”
“No.”
“Mr. Easton?”
“Wild Turkey, straight up,” Chick said, without removing his eyes from the man in the rumpled suit. Roberts took a seat at Winston’s desk. At home. Winston poured bourbon into a square rocks glass from a chiseled crystal decanter that had a chrome spigot on top. The man in the rumpled suit who had been introduced as Mr. Campbell was becoming agitated by Chick’s gaze.
“What are you looking at?” Campbell asked.
“You look familiar,” said Chick. “Ever been to Colorado?”
“What?…No, of course not,” he said, but his quick eyes darted nervously about the room.
“California?”
“You don’t know me and I don’t know you,” he spat, his upper lip curling back to expose his gums. Chick pinned him with his eyes.
“Sure look familiar,” said Chick as he accepted the drink from Winston. “I’m usually pretty good with faces.”
“Well, you’ve made a mistake this time.”
Chick shrugged, took a swallow of his drink. “Possible,” he said. His free hand reached into his jacket. “But I don’t think so.”
Chick’s hand reappeared from beneath his jacket. There was a flash of metal, then a hard click as a handcuff locked on Campbell’s wrist.
TWENTY-FIVE
The handcuffs snapped shut before anyone could react. Too late, Campbell pulled back like a frightened animal.
“Hey!” he cried. “Let go!” He tried to jerk his arm away, but Chick pulled the chain and the struggling man to him, all the while balancing his drink with the other hand. Then he forced the manacled man toward a chrome-and-leather chair and locked the second loop to the chair arm.
Campbell looked at the arm chained to the chair and cursed. “You son of a bitch.”
“Maybe,” said Chick. “But a son of a bitch with a pair of handcuffs. Good whiskey, Alan, but not Wild Turkey.”
“Maker’s Mark, actually,” said the attorney. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“No. I don’t mind.”
“What the hell’s going on?” said Bedford. Campbell was obviously Prescott, the renegade chemist who had jumped bail in Colorado. Had to be. “These two clowns come waltzing in here, cuff one of our clients, and you apologize for the brand of bourbon you’re serving.”
“Clowns?” said Chick, to me.
“It’s your boorish manner,” I said. “Gives you away every time.”
