Private Eye Four-Pack, page 55
“Release him,” said Bedford, his face taut. “Now!”
Chick made a show of patting his pockets. “Darn. How do you like that?” He smiled at Bedford. “Forgot the key. Besides, you forgot to say, ‘Mother may I?’ ”
“Who are these guys?” asked Bedford.
“A couple of low-rent pests with an attitude problem,” answered Winston.
“Pests? Maybe,” Chick said. “But low-rent? Never. Mr. Campbell, as you call him, is a bail jumper. Real name is Prescott. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” He directed the question at Roberts, who shrugged and put a cigar between his teeth. Unperturbed. Something was wrong here, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“You’re crazy,” said Campbell. “You’ve confused me with somebody else.”
Chick sipped his whiskey but watched Sultan Cugat over the rim of the glass. “I’ll let the state of Colorado decide that.”
“Do you have a warrant or extradition papers in your possession?” asked Winston, remembering he was a lawyer.
“No. Only a resolute heart and pure thoughts. Also, Vance’s blackjack.”
“And yet, you are only one man,” said Winston.
“Two,” I said, correcting him.
“Which, in this case,” Chick said, as he scanned the room, “I think, will be sufficient.” Cugat’s face clouded and his mustache worked.
“Long way back to Colorado,” said Roberts.
“But we know the way by heart,” I said. “Like you know the way to New Orleans.” Roberts’s face twitched like the blink of an eye, then quickly composed itself. He was a cool one, no doubt about that. Roberts made a show of lighting his cigar, rolling it between his fingers and touching the flame of a silver-cased lighter to its tip. He looked at Cugat.
“Cugie, have Easton release our friend Mr. Campbell.”
The huge man stepped from behind his boss and moved toward Chick. “Okay, partner,” he said, in a rich baritone. “Let him go or I’ll have to bend you a little.”
“No,” said Chick. “I found him fair and square, and I think I’ll have to ask you to back up.” Cugat continued to advance, and Chick whipped the .380 Colt from his jacket and pointed it at the big man’s forehead. “Unless you want me to drill for brains.”
Cugat stopped. “You won’t shoot.”
“Oh, yes,” said Roberts. “He will, you betcha. In fact, after he shoots you, he’ll shoot every one of us. Without a moment’s hesitation, I’d say. Without batting an eye. Isn’t that right, Easton?”
Chick nodded. “Everybody but Storme,” he said, his eyes and gun rock-solid on Sultan Cugat. “Without batting an eye. I’ll even enjoy it a little.” His voice, devoid of humor or emotion, sent a chill down my neck. He meant every word.
“Why would he do that?” asked Bedford, the smugness gone from his voice.
Roberts answered. “Because that’s what he’s good at. Ain’t that right, you?”
Chick didn’t speak.
Roberts kept talking. “Heard you was the best. Had the gooks scared shitless. They say you killed over twenty VC. Some of ’em big shots past the DMZ. Deep in Ho Chi Minh’s pasture.”
Chick ignored Roberts. “Back up, baldy,” Chick said to Cugat. “You’ve got three seconds before we find out if you’re made of snails and puppy dog tails.”
Cugat’s eyebrows knitted. Slowly, he stepped back and said, “Maybe we’ll have us a rematch someday. Without the gun.”
“Don’t wish for things that’re bad for you, ugly. These things aren’t choreographed in real life. I won’t take a fall, and you won’t be able to tag out.”
“I’ll break you.”
“Now, don’t take Easton too lightly,” said Willie Boy. “He used to be something special. That is, before he lost his nerve.” Chick’s face didn’t change expression. “Started thinking about it too much, maybe. Got himself a conscience. Or maybe he just turned coward? Bad thing in a professional.”
“Where’s Tempestt?” I asked.
Willie Boy drew on his cigar before answering. “Miss Finestra? Believe she quit this morning. All of a sudden. Can’t understand it. Treated her well, yes I did. No loyalty anymore. Have no idea where she got off to. That what this shit’s all about?”
“Some of it, Max,” I said, using his real name. His mouth twitched when I used it. “And while we’re talking about past lives, have you told your buddies here about the disposal service you used to run in New Orleans?”
His face lost its amused look. “You’re starting to bore me, Storme. Not good to do that.”
“You’ve made too many mistakes, Max. Not good for a pro like you. Too many bush leaguers, like Winston here, involved, and you keep leaving bodies around. The sheriff’s killing was stupid. Called attention to you. And you on the verge of a big score.”
“This is a litigious monologue,” Winston said. “You cannot slander a community leader like Mr. Roberts in front of witnesses.”
“See what I mean, Beauchamps? Winston doesn’t know what it is when he sees it happening. How about it? You going to sue? Stand up in court and defend yourself and the honor of your good name, or at least your present one? There might even be some publicity. Good for business.” Roberts said nothing. I said to Winston, “No, counselor, I don’t think Willie Boy, or Max, or whatever he wants to be called, is interested in a civil suit. I’m sure he avoids the courtroom whenever possible. Bad memories.”
“What’s your point, Storme?” Roberts said, his eyes were slitted in his big face. He jammed the cigar out in a large crystal ashtray.
“Where’s Tempestt? I want to see her, and I want to know she is safe.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a liar.”
He didn’t like that. For the first time he was showing emotion. And it was anger. Malevolent anger. “You’re starting to piss me off, Storme,” he said. “Bad things happen to people that do that.”
“Such as?”
“You could end up dead.”
“Maybe I won’t die.” Our eyes locked.
“How does he know these things?” asked Gary Bedford, reacting as if he’d just stuck his finger in an electric socket. “This was supposed to be kept quiet.”
“Shut up, Gary,” said Winston. “Quit whining. They can’t do anything. They have no official capacity. Storme is blowing smoke. Well, Storme. What is your next brilliant move? You taking us to jail on the basis of your wet-dream fantasies?”
“Which one of you did the sheriff?”
“My God!” said Bedford, jamming his fingers into his styled hair.
“We are all shocked and grieved at the loss of our fine county sheriff,” said Winston.
“He hated your guts and threatened to whip you,” I said. Winston’s face colored. “So save it for court. One of you or all of you are directly or indirectly involved in his death. Somebody’s going to pay for that. I don’t care who. But somebody will.”
“Storme’s sense of justice is offended,” said Roberts. “Having such high morals is an expensive luxury. And you’re right, killing the sheriff was stupid. And I’m not stupid. Gar-on-tee. What do you think, you, that one of us killed him because he found a marijuana field? You are simpleminded. If I wanted the sheriff dead, you would never have been able to trace it to me.”
“Why was your dog at the field?”
“I sold him to that fool, Killian. A nobody drug dealer. I owe you no explanation.” Then why give me one? I wondered. Something was out of sync. Something just beyond my awareness. Suddenly, Roberts began to laugh, his shoulders jumping up and down. “Quite an imagination you have, you,” he said, slipping back into the phony Cajun accent. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand while he held on to his side with his right hand. Instantly, Chick swiveled the gun to point at Roberts’s chest.
“Put your hands on the desk,” commanded Chick. “Where I can see them. Right now. Do it.” Roberts complied. “That’s the boy. Now, back away until your weight is on your hands.” Cugat tried to take advantage of the moment and stepped forward. Without moving the gun from Roberts, Chick said to Cugat, “Tell you what, fatso. I’ll bet I can kneecap your boss and then you with only two shots and do it before you can take another step. To make things sporting, I’ll even shoot Roberts first. That’ll give you a chance to get at me before I do it. Tough to pick up the ladies when you can’t dance. And, it’ll hurt like a bitch.”
“Get back, Cugie,” Roberts said. The giant did so.
“Check Roberts, Wyatt. Back of his belt, under his jacket.” I moved behind Roberts, felt along the heat of his back and found it. A .25 Beretta.
“Now why would an honest businessman like yourself need a nasty old gun?” I asked. I hefted the gun.
“Y’all shittin’ in your nest,” said Roberts, ice in his voice.
“Where’s Tempestt?” I said. He didn’t say anything, so I clubbed him in the kidneys with the butt of the Beretta. His knees sagged and he coughed. Cugat started to move, but Chick shook his head at him.
“Kill you for that,” hissed Roberts.
I moved around in front of him. “One more time,” I said. “Where is she?”
He stood up. “Maybe I’ll trade her for Campbell over there,” he said, as if we were discussing baseball cards. “Besides, she was Sultan’s girl last I knew. How was she, Cugie?”
The bald giant smiled, showing capped teeth. “She was just fine, boss. But she wore out after about the third or fourth time. Hard to find a woman with stamina anymore.”
The gun became hot in my hand. I swung it up into Roberts’s face and snapped back the hammer. “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll kill you both.” My teeth were tight, and I had to smother the tremble in my hand.
“Believe you just might want to,” said Roberts calmly. “But it’s hard to kill an unarmed man when he’s looking at you. Don’t think you can do that, you. Takes a special kind of man to do that. And you’re not the type.”
“But I am,” said Chick, lazily tracing Roberts with his Colt. “So talk.”
“Campbell for the girl,” said Roberts. “That’s the deal. If not, go ahead and shoot.”
“You can’t give—” began Winston.
“Shut up, counselor,” said Roberts, his face twisted into a mask of anger and annoyance.
I looked at Chick. It was his call. Campbell was his ticket. He nodded his head. “Okay,” I said. “It’s a deal.”
“Much better,” said Roberts. “Cugie. Give these boys the key.”
Cugat reached into the pocket of his jeans and produced a key with a motel tag attached to it. He placed the metal key between his teeth and bent it. He showed us the bowed key and then placed it between his teeth again and bent it back to its original shape.
“That’s nice, ugly,” Chick said. “Know any card tricks?”
Cugat tossed the key at my feet. “You can have what’s left, superstar,” he said, then laughed. I picked up the key. The tag said Rancho Deluxe Motel and had the number 23 on it. Chick uncuffed Campbell and we backed out of the room.
“By the way,” Roberts said, “your little darlin’ picked up some bad habits since you saw her. Damned shame, too.”
Bad habits? What was he talking about? But beyond that, something else was wrong. I could feel it more than I knew it. Roberts and Cugat looked too smug. Bedford looked scared, Winston annoyed.
Something besides Tempestt’s plight was bothering me. But what?
We left.
TWENTY-SIX
The Rancho Deluxe was a low-slung motor hotel with crumbling pavement and window-unit air-conditioning. COME STAY WITH US. $19.95 PER NITE, announced the sign in front of the office. Room 23 was the last unit on the west block of rooms. Click slid the Colt from its holster and held it down alongside his leg as I inserted the key into the lock.
We are never really prepared for the shocks of life: The day we catch our boss locked in his office with the girl from the secretarial pool spread-eagled, nylons dangling. When Uncle Bob, the Korean War vet, who used to do tricks with quarters, gets cancer. When the class clown from high school, the guy with the wit and ready smile, sticks a gun in his mouth, ending the fun. For all of us.
So when I opened the wear-scarred metal door to room 23 of the Rancho Deluxe, I wasn’t ready for what I saw.
Lying on the bed in a smear of her own excrement, her eyes dark-ringed and her hair tangled, was one of the most beautiful women I had ever known. The John Wayne heroine, crashed and smoldering in the ashes of her marred beauty, in the tossed, seedy comfort of the Rancho Deluxe Motel. Her face had a look of unnatural ecstasy, remote and vacant, as if dreaming with her eyes open. The room smelled of feminine neglect and bowel failure. The television, an old black-and-white portable, was jammed on a neutral channel, tuned into nothing—a blurring, hissing zone of emptiness.
She was naked. Her body, even in tragedy, was lush and beautiful. One handcuff held a bloodless arm to a bedpost. Her free hand reaching toward me and a slow shudder of breast indicated life. I tried to imagine her as I remembered her, vital and exquisite.
I ran to the bed, gripped the bedpost and wrenched it. The cheap wood snapped with a popping, tearing sound, and the handcuffed arm dropped to the side of the bed, the metal jangling. Her hand trembled as the blood returned to it. The effort, or the anxiety, left me panting. I fought off a whimper of anguish, which lay trembling at the back of my throat. Her head lolled and she mumbled something unintelligible. I sat on the side of the bed and hugged her to me. Rocked her in my arms and rubbed her shoulders and back briskly. She was unresponsive. Her skin was cold and rubbery to the touch. I gathered the bedspread about her to cover her nakedness. Chick said nothing. Tempestt said nothing. The room echoed with the sound of it.
I went into the bathroom and ran water into the tub. When the water gushed from the spout, a cockroach scurried from the drain and tried to scramble up the slick porcelain. I killed him and dropped him in the wastebasket.
Returning to the bedroom, I lifted Tempestt from the bed and carried her to the bathroom, placing her into the tub. Some of the excrement got on me when I did. I heard Chick talking on the phone, heard him give the name of the motel.
I washed her with warm, soapy water, then dried her. She couldn’t help. I was aware that I was probably washing away rape evidence, but I didn’t care. No one needed to see her like that. She had suffered enough indignity, and justice was a cowboy on a fast horse.
I washed her off myself. There were no clothes in the motel room. They had intended for her to stay there. Using an extra towel, I fashioned a crude sarong around her waist, pinning it in place by jamming wire shower curtain hooks through the towel. That done I kneaded her limp body into my jacket. I kissed her. Her breath was sour on my face. I carried her into the bedroom and sat her gently in an easy chair, her arms hanging useless at her sides. I straightened, and rubbed my eyes with the backs of my hands.
“They drugged her,” Chick said, his voice low. “Did you see the tracks on her arm? Pinned her up with heroin or morphine, then fed her some barbs or maybe some of the dreamsicle. There’s a powdery residue on the nightstand. Even if she came out of it, who would she call? No clothes, and drugs in her system.”
“She’s been raped,” I said, croaking it. “These guys are diseased.”
Chick nodded. “Yeah.”
It was then it popped into my head, the thing that had been bothering me. “Roberts gave her up too easy,” I said. “If she could hurt him, she’d be dead. She probably never saw them, and she was flying when Cugat…” I couldn’t say it. “They just wanted her out of the way. Winston was worried about it, but Roberts acted like he could care less. He gets Prescott and we get…this.” I felt weak inside. Sick. “Least she’s alive.”
“They’re fucking animals. You knew that, or should have. They’re cancerous. Only one way to treat cancer, man. You gotta cut it out.”
“Gotta call Browne.”
“And tell him what? That we squeezed some street punk by flashing false FBI credentials? That we threatened some of the leading citizens of Paradise at gunpoint? Can’t waltz to a rock and roll beat. No way. We gotta smoke their asses.”
I looked at Tempestt. “Not yet,” I said.
“When, dammit? Your way is too slow and might not work. What do you need? These guys are vampires. You gotta drive a stake through their hearts.” His eyes were keen, hard-edged. The eyes behind the mask. “No more Hardy Boys crimebusters crap. It ain’t gettin’ it done. We have to go after them. And we go after them hard.”
“No,” I said. “She’ll pull out of this. The feds are closing in on them.”
“What if she doesn’t? What if she dies? What if she’s never right again?”
I looked at her. Touched her hair. “Then,” I said, “we go after them. No rules.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
The ambulance took Tempestt to Citizens Memorial Hospital, where she was admitted as a Jane Doe. We followed in the Bronco. I hoped they would treat her as an overdose victim and not ask too many questions. I knew the marks on her forearm might raise eyebrows and bring the heat, but I didn’t care. Just wanted her to be all right. Nothing else mattered.
Maybe Sam Browne was right. Maybe I was in over my head. I hadn’t figured on a female agent inside Starr Industries, and now I had put her life in jeopardy because I had no head for intrigue. It was sobering to find out I didn’t know everything. And more so to find out I knew almost nothing. Chick was right; you couldn’t line up against people like Roberts and expect a fair shuffle. Tempestt was my fault; she’d blown her cover to save me from a bad beating. She’d taken a risk for me, a risk that might still cost her her life. Why? And what could I give in exchange?
I used the pay phone in the hospital waiting room to call Sam Browne. The phone and the room smelled of stale cigarette smoke and failed hope. He didn’t answer. I considered calling Agent Morrison for about a millisecond, but I didn’t want to hear about missions and sacrifices and procedures. I walked to the floor desk and asked if I could see her yet. Her doctor was at the desk and denied the request.
