The Repairman- The Complete Box Set Read online

  "You could have mentioned that when we had our tête-a-tête in the parking garage." They don't bother to respond, so I continue, "And Raoul didn’t hire it done?"

  "Why would he?"

  "Good point. You got my word I won’t be looking for Raoul. Is he going to do time?"

  "Not as much as he should, if he testifies per his agreement."

  "Then the daughter will go where?"

  "Into the system, unless some relative comes forward."

  "She has...had...Carol had a twin sister. Crystal."

  "If she’s a stand up lady, then she has every chance to get custody of the kid." Then he snarls, "You get in the way again, and you’ll cool your heels so deep in the system no one will ever find you."

  I shrug again, and then say, "Sorry about the wrist. If I’d known who you guys—"

  The Greek finally opens his mouth. "You didn’t give us much time—"

  "I guess the fact you were following me for blocks wasn’t enough time."

  His voice lowers an octave. "Next time fucker, I’ll grease your skids and you’ll go over the rail."

  That makes me smile tightly. "May the best man win."

  They head for the door, but I stop them short with, "You know her death is on you and the Marshal’s Service."

  They both turn slowly. "And just how’s that?"

  "You should have known that the assholes he’s testifying against would get his attention by killing anyone and everyone close to him."

  "Our job is protecting our witness," the Greek says, but he says it a little sheepishly.

  "And your witness's ex-wife lost her head, thanks to you two assholes and your ilk."

  This time Patterson replies, "Everyone’s entitled to his own opinion, no matter how misguided."

  "Hope you two sleep well."

  He nods, scratches an earlobe with the center finger of his right hand—I think that's an expression of disdain—and they spin on a heel and leave, slamming the door a little too hard. Before it stops vibrating, Detective Bollinger has it open again, enters, drags out a chair, and sits.

  He eyes me, and shakes his head. "You are sixteen kinds of a fuck-up."

  "Oh, I shouldn’t have shot back at those assholes?"

  "That’s not what the mini-mart video says. Your weapon was spitting fire first."

  "Oh, I should have waited for the Mac 10 or Uzi or whatever that prick had to stitch me from asshole to elbows before I fired? Don’t count on that ever happening. I'm sure you'll find the bones of more than one full automatic in what's left of that Dodge."

  He actually smiles, walks around the table to my back, and unhooks me. While he’s returning to his chair, I’m trying to rub the circulation back into my wrists and hands.

  He sits again. "You want coffee?"

  "Obliged."

  He goes out the door and returns with two steaming paper cups. "It ain’t Starbucks," he says, and sits again.

  "So, a righteous shooting?" I ask.

  "Righteous enough. Two crispy critters in the Dodge, but not so crispy we couldn’t make out the fact both of them had the backs of their heads blown off. You have dum dums in that little nine you were shooting?"

  "Flat with a cross filed in each and every one."

  "Anyway, they are still being identified but if they are who their half-melted wallets say they are, they are very bad boys. We got a decent look at the two who beat a trail before the flames could scorch their butts."

  I nod and he leans back in the chair, takes a sip of his hot coffee, frowns like it is vinegar, then asks, "What the hell did you do to piss these guys off?"

  "Missed the men’s room." I glance up at the ceiling.

  "What?"

  "I missed the men’s room door and walked into their inner-sanctum by mistake. They hang out in a so-called bodega down on North Lamb. I was getting gas and went in to use the head. I guess they don’t like being interrupted while planning their next beheading."

  "Bullshit," he says, "you weren't there to use the head...this is the same bunch you tangled with when you ran some of them down after they shagged the accountant lady into their van."

  "There was that," I say with a tight smile. "They could have taken umbrage that one of their boys was the main course in that barbecue."

  "So, what was your agenda?"

  "I'm interested in the Mexican drug culture in Vegas…thinking about writing a book."

  "More total bullshit. The fact is you may have screwed up a joint task force operation. We've been watching and listening to that bodega for a month."

  "Sorry, but shit happens."

  "Reardon, this is getting to be a habit with you. This kind of bullshit is bad for biz here in Vegas. And I will kick ass if you continue to screw around in my town."

  I laugh. "Good for the undertaking biz," I offer.

  "Undertaking doesn’t pay the bills in a gaming town."

  "Now I get it. I'm interfering with business. I’ll be more careful next time somebody shoots at me. At least it wasn’t on the strip."

  "Why don’t you just take a hike to Havasu or someplace. Get the hell out of town before you piss off the wrong people...worse than you already have."

  This time I guffaw before replying. "You mean the guys in this cartel are the right people."

  He smiles, then sighs deeply. "The fact is there are lots of us who are happy with your score so far, but the big money boys are starting to ask who the hell is shooting up the town." He rises and downs the rest of his coffee and heads for the door...then turns back. "By the way, the Zamudio brothers tried to slip out of town in a chartered 414, but didn’t make it to Needles before the plane blew all to hell."

  18

  So, the Zamudio brothers bought the farm. Great loss.

  But I don't express my lack of sympathy. "The hell you say. Bad luck." Again I manage a shrug. There go my worries about the little girl ending up under the tutelage of her great uncles. That's the good news. The bad is I might have figured a way to get the two hundred thou out of them and still get the child to her aunt, which I'm sure her mother would have wanted.

  But I am sincere when I say "My condolences to the pilot’s family. He was probably the only innocent onboard."

  "Find another town to play in...got it?"

  "I got it. By the way, who were the two guys who turned to ash in the Dodge?"

  "Like I said, we’ll have to have dental records or DNA to make sure—both of them are likely in the system, so we got DNA to match. But one of them was a scumbag named Chaco Chavez, the other was Jose Pasco."

  I nod. One chicken-shit down, three to go. Chavez was one of the guys who flew to Santa Barbara the day Carol Janson lost her head. I hope he felt the horrid pain of the fire bubbling his flesh before he checked out, but suppose the fact one of my shots took the back of his head off got in the way of his suffering like I wish he had. Still, he’s now burning in hell, if there is any justice.

  One down, three to go, unless a few other of the five hundred get in the way.

  "I can go now?" I ask as Bollinger gives me his back.

  "Yeah, and keep going, maybe Australia or South Africa, if you’ve got a brain."

  "You’ve got a couple of my weapons."

  "Yeah, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they get lost in the system after this investigation is complete."

  "Shit happens," I call after him.

  "Wherever the hell you are it just seems to pile up like a Kansas City feed yard," he says over his shoulder and keeps walking. Then he stops and looks back. "Hey, you got off easy twice now. Third time’s the charm."

  Again I shrug, then head for the property desk to retrieve my cellphone, wallet, and money clip. I’m dialing Pax when I exit the building, but hang up when I see his Jag at the curb.

  I climb in and as he roars away, ask, "the ladies await?"

  "Surprisingly, yes. But no Italian tonight."

  "Good. I want a fat steak, not that Piero's serves a bad one."

 
"You’re in luck. They’re meeting us at the infamous Golden Steer."

  "Outstanding. Did you get ahold of Gonzalez? I need wheels."

  "Five hundred didn't impress them. They said say day after tomorrow, if the parts come in and you don't care if the paint isn't dry."

  "And Skip has my Vette."

  The Golden Steer is an old school steak house on West Sahara, a true classic where the food, and the history are much more important than the decor and the ambience—but it ain’t bad. The outside is pure strip mall, but the inside is red leather and dark stained wood; and Natalie Wood, Al Hirt, Nat "King" Cole, Joe DiMaggio, Elvis Presley, Mario Andretti and the rat pack spilled many a drink there, and nobody minded. And I wouldn't be surprised to see Kim Kardashian, Kanye West, or Miley Cyrus in the joint tonight. It's that kind of watering hole.

  And it’s my kind of joint—though not because of the celebs, I hate plastic people—where the salads are tossed and desserts and scallops are flambéed at tableside. Photos of celebs who’ve dined there adorn the walls. Yeah, it’s a hoot to sit in Frank’s or Dean’s or Sammy’s favorite booth, but how can I not love digging into a fat New York and platter of sautéed spinach under the approving gaze of Charles Bronson? Bronson and his series of Death Wish movies were a little before my time, but I cut my teeth on the re-runs, and still can’t turn one off if it pops up on the tube. How can you not love a guy who takes revenge on those who’ve wronged him, or his? I’m pretty sure he’ll smile down on me and hope we can get his booth.

  I’m encouraged by today’s results, but it’s only the tip of the iceberg.

  Now to see what Pax has on his busy little brain. It would be nice if I could finish this without having a carload of barrio bad asses emptying clips my way.

  He can talk and drive at the same time, so I ask, "So, what's the plan to get the dogs out from under the porch?"

  He laughs. "Seems they've been nipping at your ass pretty regular." Then he motions and says, "Under your seat is a manila envelope. Check it out."

  I retrieve his handiwork and pull a sheet of paper and read. It's a print of a newspaper article and accompanying picture, actually the heading says LAS VEGAS REAL ESTATE HAPPENINGS. The article is led TWELVE MILLION DOLLAR PAD SELLS, and goes on to a lengthy story about how local businessman and entrepreneur Beltran Corrado has purchased, for cash, the old Sinatra estate and is now negotiating with contractors for a four million dollar remodel. Included is a great picture of Beltran in a three grand plus suit standing with an architect with a roll of plans in hand in front of a palatial estate.

  I eye my old buddy Pax for a moment, then say, "I knew this dope thing was a money maker, but this is wild—"

  "All total bullshit, old buddy. Not a bad job of creative journalism, right?" He guffaws so loud he almost runs a light.

  "Bullshit?"

  "Right. Total one hundred percent bull. However, what do you think his bosses are going to think when they get a copy of that? The picture took me a half hour to superimpose Beltran's ugly mug on Steve Wynn's body." He laughs again so energetically that I think he's going to lose control of the Jag.

  "So what's the play?" I ask, unable to keep from grinning.

  "Let's keep monitoring their email and see what comes down. They got a dumb ass code but I busted it in a heartbeat. With any kind of luck the boys in Calexico are going to want a meet, and, with luck, they'll come ready for bear."

  "And we'll prime the pump?"

  "If it works out, we can get them playing Sunni Shiite and we can stay out of the line of fire. All we got to do is stay alive until then. I've got two more incriminating articles in process, but the fun one is Beltran dropping a couple of mil at the Bellagio, right out of GAMING JOURNAL, or so it appears." He laughs out loud. He's having way too much fun with this.

  He's whetted my appetite, but then the thought of revenge and retribution always does. "I'm ready for a fat steak at the Steer and to make peace with the luscious Jennifer."

  "If she doesn't plant the steak knife between your ribs. You got some 'splainin' to do, Ricky."

  "Who the fuck is Ricky?" I ask.

  He shakes his head in disgust. "You obviously aren't a Lucy fan."

  "You obviously don't know how to do a Cuban accent."

  It's one of those beautiful desert evenings. Even with the lights of the strip the stars are coming out to play, the air's balmy and warm on this late May day, and I'm loving being alive, with a good buddy, on my way to grab a great steak, and, hopefully, a beautiful woman. Life is good…particularly after you've come so close to losing it.

  And we've got a plan.

  19

  As we park I grab my phone and, feeling a little guilty about having a great meal while my buddy Skip is probably having a home delivery pizza, give him a call. The closer I get to the front door of the Golden Steer, the more worried I get. Eight rings to the answering device and no answer other than the computer. I leave a quick "call me" message, hit the disconnect, and search my contacts for Wally's number. To my great dismay, her phone goes to answer as well.

  Damn the flies.

  As Pax is reaching for the door, I stop him. "Got to borrow your car."

  He eyes me like a bull at a bastard calf. "You haven't had much luck with vehicles lately."

  "You squire the ladies around for a while so I can check on Skip and Rosenlieb. Nobody answers the phone."

  His attitude changes. "Let me give the girls the word, then I'll go with you."

  "No, no sense in you queering your deal with your lady. If I know Skip and Wally, they're rolling in the sheets or splashing in the Jacuzzi and can't hear the damn ring."

  "Call me in thirty minutes or I'm calling out the cavalry."

  "You and I and Skip are the cavalry. Keys please." He hands them over, but the look I get lacks confidence. I grab them and head for the Jag. Then stop short. "Hey, I'm naked. You carrying?"

  "Just my little five shot .22 mag revolver," he says, and digs into his pocket. I step back to grab it, then jog for the Jag.

  "Don't expect that lady to be here when you get back," he yells after me.

  I wave over my shoulder as if I don't give a rat's ass, but the fact is, I've thought about her a lot. My lifestyle is not conducive to lasting relationships…with her a second chance at romance would be lasting. It seems it's not to be.

  The wheels spin as I leave the lot and I spend as much time with eyes glued to the rear view mirror as to the street as I exceed the speed limit by twenty miles an hour all the way to her condo complex entrance. My Vette is parked across the driveway from her place in visitor parking, and is in one piece, I'm happy to say, as it's my last set of operable wheels.

  I swing into Wally's driveway and park in front of her garage door. Taking a moment, I redial Skip, and get no answer; then Wally, and the same. Not good.

  Keeping the little .22 mag palmed, I exit the Jag and move to Wally's front door. I start to ring the bell, then think better of it and try the door. I'm disappointed that I find it unlocked. Not a good sign. Slipping in without knocking, and making very little sound, I'm assailed by an odor which I quickly identity as the pungent smell of mace, maybe pepper spray. Having once been on the receiving end it's an odor I can't forget. I quietly move down the short hallway, past the stairway to the second floor and master and guest bedroom, to the kitchen.

  I take a deep breath when I see the disarray—a couple of pots on the floor, a broken ceramic owl that was probably a cookie jar, and all of it among several spots of blood. Only one small pool about six inches across is of any consequence, but any blood is bad news.

  There's an empty pizza box on the kitchen floor, so my guess as to the night's cuisine wasn't bad…except this box looks as if it was never used. Probably the means of getting someone to come to the door. As mean as any guy is, he can't stand up to a sneaky spray of mace. Hell, it takes the average grizzly out of the fight. I can guess what happened.

  On the refrigerator is one of those w
hite message boards with magnets, the kind with the rub off marker. And the note, in bold red print, is addressed to Reardon, not Mike as either Skip or Wally would have done.

  It reads, "You in the way, asshole. Come find your homeboy. Girl at Enrico's." I have to think for a minute, and then remember that the bodega was named Enrico's Mercado Y Carniceria.

  Do they mean Wally is there?

  I sprint for the car, then realize my Vette is parked nearby, and remembering Pax's worry that I'm hard on vehicles, head for it and gather the hide-a-key from under the rear bumper. As I'm starting it, I'm dialing Pax.

  He answers and before he has a chance to question me, I tell him, "Meet me at the mini-storage. I'm at Wally's condo…Skip and Wally are in trouble."

  "You've got my car," he yells back, and then adds, "I'll take a cab, I'm way closer."

  He's standing at the gate when I arrive. It's just getting dark and the office is closed, but it's twenty four hour access with the code, and he jumps in to ride shotgun as I'm punching the code into the gate controller. In moments we have a pair of Kevlar vests, my second 12 gauge pistol-grip combat Mossberg and a box of buckshot, and my Smith & Wesson M&P 15 assault rifle. I have two sets of 30 shot clips taped together, each straining their springs with 223's. One hundred twenty rounds of 223 and a 25 shell box of double ought buck should be enough for a small war. My Smith & Wesson is not fully automatic, but is equipped with a Slide Fire stock, making it capable of 750 rounds a minute and perfectly legal. I can chatter though a 30 shot clip in under two seconds—I'll keep the stock set to single shot unless I get in real trouble. The Slide Fire is a movable stock, allowing the recoil of the rifle and your set trigger finger to activate the next shot. Not quite as good as a fully automatic rifle, but legal. And lethal. Both of us grab Ruger SR 9 pistols and a pair of 17 round extended clips, adding sixty-eight rounds to the arsenal. I get a smug feeling as I grab a couple of cans of bear spray; turn about is fair play. As a final touch, I pick up a Sightmark Ghost Hunter night vision scope on the way out. Then, as an afterthought, return and grab my .308 Model 70 sniper rifle, equipped with rails to handle the scope. Even if I don't use it on the rifle it'll come in handy as a night vision monocular. Who knows, we may get in a position where accurate fire is more productive than rapid fire or short-range buckshot. Pax can take the eye out of a partridge at two hundred yards with my .308, even in the dark with the Sightmark scope…and that might be just the skill set we need.