The Repairman- The Complete Box Set Page 24

  "Quite a room," I offer.

  "Bullshit. All that matters is today. How are you doing out there in the world of dope dealers and pimps?"

  I down my whole drink while filing him in or what's happened.

  "I heard about the broken wrist," he says. "Sorry about that."

  "Shit happens," I say and pull up my sleeve to show him my armor plating. "Mama told me to make lemonade when life hands you lemons. I already proved its usefulness on the big Indian I mentioned."

  "You remember the rules?"

  I laugh. "Yeah, most of them."

  "Just in case…have a plan. Have a second plan as the first one will probably go to hell. Always cheat. Always win. The only unfair fight is one you lose. In ten years, no one will remember the tactics, the details, the weaponry. They'll only remember who won or who lost. Be polite. Have a plan to kill everyone you come across. And last, have the biggest weapon. If you don't have the biggest, use the one you have first and fastest."

  I nod, and laugh again. I heard it from him at least a hundred times in Iraq.

  "Let's eat. I've got some paperwork for you. Don't get out of here without it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Fuck that ‘yes sir.’ I had enough of that in the Corps."

  "Semper fi," I say and laugh again.

  15

  When I get back to the camper, there's a party going on in the converted school bus; the trailer and the other Lance camper are dark. I can smell the weed as soon as I step out of my van. Two guys stand outside the bus, both dressed like they came directly from the rig.

  There's a big, dark colored, Ford Expedition parked between my rigs and the bus, and another crew cab pickup, also dark colored, on the other side. New vehicles to the gathering of RV's.

  As I head for the camper, all sounds eclipsed by the heavy metal music thumping from inside the blacked-out windows, one of them yells at me. "Hey, man, we're out of mix. You got any Cokes or shit like that?"

  I just happen to have a six pack under my sink and yell back, "Hold on." It's time I meet my neighbors, if for no other reason than to ascertain if they're only recreational users or part of the real problem.

  I return, hand over the six pack, and stick out a hand. "Toby," I say. I realize that both guys are Hispanic when I get closer.

  The shorter one, with a potbelly and weird green eyes, offers a hand, "Hey, man. You okay. I'm Al." I shake and turn to the other, who's taller and way, way thinner, sallow and sour-faced with sunken cheeks. Cheeks that sport a couple of tear-drop tats under one eye. He's wearing a pinky ring that looks to be over a carat, if it's real.

  "They call me Tamale," he says without a smile and with a single, clammy, pump of the handshake.

  "Okay, guys. Nice to meet the neighbors. Smells like good weed. You got any I can buy?"

  The short one is doing the talking for both. "We ain't your neighbors, man, we just partying with Curly."

  "Curly?" I ask, not pressing the offer to buy.

  "Yeah, Curly's bus. We just dropped by." He walks back to the two-stair entrance to the bus and bangs on the door. He's got to bang hard, as even face to face we're having to yell over the Black Sabbath that's rocking the world. He bangs harder, and the folding doors part.

  "Come out and meet the neighbors," Al yells over the racket.

  "Asshole complaining about the noise?" the guy, whose hair hangs to his waist, asks and eyes me with disdain. He's got tats up his neck all the way to the jawline.

  "No, man, he brought us some mix. Lighten the fuck up."

  He nods demurely at Al, and it's obvious who's the alpha male in this crowd, at least so far. Then he adds, "Too fucking cold outside. Come on in."

  The long-hair waves me over, and I follow the two Hispanics up and into the bus. I don't have to buy any grass to get high. All I have to do is breathe.

  The place is pretty well tricked out, with, of course, all the seats removed and replaced by cheap upholstered pieces and a couple of beat-up coffee tables. The back is partitioned off into what I'd imagine is a bedroom and maybe even a toilet and shower—if so, it doesn't get used much, as the one who I presume is Curly, whose dirty blonde hair is long and straight, looks as if he hasn't had it in the shampoo for a month or more. Along the partition wall on this side is a short counter with sink and refrigerator. A cabinet is overhead.

  The boys aren't the only partygoers. Three girls are flopped on the upholstered pieces. There are enough tats in the bus that a one-color prison artist must have been kept busy for most of his term. Plus some store-bought ones adorn the girls.

  "That's Curly," Al says, as the long-hair returns to a spot in the middle of the three, all of whom would be decent looking if they didn't appear to have been pulled through a wringer backwards. None of them could be over twenty-five, but all have some serious miles on their odometers.

  Curly sort of waves over his shoulder as he flops down.

  "Hey, man," Al says, "Show some hospitality. Get the pendejo a joint or drink or some fucking thing. He did us a solid."

  Curly pokes one of the girls with an elbow, "Do what Big Al says." She jumps up and moves over to where I'm still standing, having to bend my neck a little. Even dead center in the bus, the clearance is not quite adequate.

  She eyes me up and down, through bloodshot watery peeps, like I'm a popsicle, even though I'm in dumpster-diver regalia, and mumbles, "Hey, Mondo man, you want a bomber? I just rolled a fat one." I have to smile as I notice that each of her nails, both fingers and toes, is painted a different color. She adds, "I'm Betty Boop. That there is Angela. And the dipshit in the glasses is Zelda."

  But I don't laugh at the nails, only shrug, nod at the other girls and offer "Don't smoke. You got a beer?"

  "The man is righteous," she says. Then adds, "And probably a real fuckin' bore."

  "You a fucking cop?" Curly addresses me for the first time, and his tone is not friendly.

  I reach over, take a joint out of the fingers of the nearest skank, take a deep draw and hand it back. "Do I look like a pig to you?" I snarl at him, and they all laugh. "Did you notice the Nevada plates on my rigs?"

  It's Curly's turn to shrug.

  The one with the bloodshot eyes walks to the back, fishes a beer out of the little fridge, returns and hands it to me.

  I note that Tamale has an eagle, globe and anchor tat on the back of his hand, so I ask, "Where'd you serve?"

  He eyes me and growls, "Did three in Huntsville and a couple in road camps in Louisiana."

  I can't help but smile, as I meant in the service, but just nod.

  We hang out. I'm into my third beer; the girls are into about their fifth rum and coke. I'm half high from just breathing the atmosphere, when I finally dig my phone out and, acting as if I'm checking my e-mail, manage to get pictures of all of them. Finally, I stand, stretch and yawn. "Hey, thanks for the good-neighbor stuff. If there's anything I can do for y'all, just bang on the camper door." I head for the stairs. So-called Big Al, who's not really so big, is in the last chair near the door, and I stop. He's a little bleary-eyed and talking with a bit of a slur, so I figure it's a good time to ask again, "Hey, Al…or is it Alfredo or …?"

  "I ain't no fuckin' wop. It's Alverado, but nobody…nobody, calls me that but…but my mamacita."

  "Okay, Big Al. You got some weed I can buy?"

  "I got two fuckin' tons, my man. You want to deal…to hustle some real scratch…or just…or just fuck around?"

  "I could probably deal a few o's."

  "Not tonight, Toby. I got to check you out. What's your last name?"

  "Ornot."

  "Or yes, or no, or not," he manages with a slur and a laugh. "Okay. Maybe I come by tomorrow…maybe not, Ornot." He laughs like he's made the joke of the year.

  "Cool," I say, and check out.

  Making a quick round of the parking lot, I note the license numbers and make and model of the Bus, the Expedition, and the GMC crew cab pickup before I climb into the camper.

&
nbsp; I send the pics and all the info I have to Pax before I grab The Sacketts for a chapter or two.

  I hate having scumbags like my neighbors knowing where I sack out, but that's the way it is—at least for a while. You got to pay to play. I hit the sack, check the time and see it's midnight, so I set the alarm for 3:00 a.m.

  I’ve got a little more biz before I'm through messing with my neighbors.

  16

  This tech age of ours is pretty amazing. I can now buy a GPS tracker for twenty-five bucks including the shipping, so I have a half dozen in my bag of tricks.

  At 3:00 a.m., the alarm goes off and I'm up and out—I should have done more than just pull on my Carhartt pants, coat, and phony Uggs. I listened, but didn’t hear any heavy metal music blasting from the bus when I awoke, so I'm sure my neighbors have either passed out or left. If the vehicles are gone, I'm on a fool's mission.

  But they still rest, now covered with a dusting of snow. Since the bus looks as dark and quiet as a tomb, I get about ten steps out of the camper before I'm really sorry I didn't pull on my long johns, but I charge forward.

  The tracker is small enough to fit in a magnetic key-keeper. One goes under the back bumper of the Expedition and one under that of the GMC. I hustle back to the camper, find I've left the damn door ajar, and it's down to about ten degrees inside. But I have one more chore. I e-mail Pax with the code numbers for the trackers and only then hit the sack again. I chatter until the sheets warm up, then have no trouble getting back to sleep.

  I'm normally an early riser, but sleep in, dozing actually, until I hear the doors working on the bus. As I suspected, it's the one who calls himself Al, with two of the three girls behind, who slogs through the snow to the Expedition. The extra-ugly one, who said he's called Tamale, is close behind, but moves to the GMC, fires up and is gone. I hear the Ford grind away and finally fire up, and Al, too, drives away. I guess Zelda with the glasses and Curly are a pair.

  This little town must be dope dealer heaven. I was in town an hour before I got offered meth or coke. My neighbors have a visitor who claims to have two tons of weed. One never knows. It might actually be only two ounces, but he's driving a nice rig and was wearing a pinky ring that looked to be a good quality carat diamond, if it's not a carat of zircon.

  As Vegas is Pacific time and North Dakota mountain time, I'm an hour ahead of Pax, so I head for Gramma Sharon's, which is reputed to have the best breakfast in town. It must be okay. Even at nine fifteen, I have to wait for a spot. I pick up a copy of the Williston Herald on the way in and get halfway through the front page before the waitress gets to me. I finish the above-the-fold stories, including one about a young lady, nicely worded to only infer she was a lady of the night, being murdered in a downtown alley. I'm halfway through my sausage and eggs when I feel my phone vibrate. I fish it out to discover I don't have to phone Pax, as he's calling me.

  "Hoora," I answer.

  "My man, you have stumbled into a den of vipers," he says then chuckles.

  "Snake killin' is what I'm paid for. Specifics, please?"

  "The only one of the girls who I got anything on is the one you said was named Zelda. She's been arrested locally for prostitution and had some grass, but less than an ounce. She was out in a day on her own recognizance. Nothing on the other two, at least not yet. Zelda's an alias, by the way. Her real name is Martha Gatsby, which, I presume, has somehow gained her the nickname of one the Fitzgerald characters in The Great Gatsby."

  "Yeah, yeah," I offer with some sarcasm, "you're literate."

  "Fuck you, Farley."

  "So, the boys. What's with the boys, "Curly, Larry and Moe?"

  "The California license plate was a dead giveaway for Curly, aka Charles or Charley Hotchkiss, from Oakland. Released from Corcoran State a year ago after doing a nickel for sale of a controlled substance. And the super-duper ugly one, Tamale…he's from El Paso. Probably illegal, since he's the only guy I found with the nickname Tamale who looked like this butt-fuck. If you had some more on his tats, I might do better. If he's this Tamale, he did a spell in Huntsville for dealing. And he has a dishonorable from the Corps for dealing while at Pendleton. Real name is Guillermo Soto, if that's him. The prize is Alverado Cenzano, street name Two Cents. The scoop is, he once killed a guy on a bet for two cents. He escaped from Atascadero State Hospital—that's a great place if you’re criminally insane—four years ago. They'd really like to have him back, but since there was no bondsman, there's no bond. No bond; no bounty. He was a bad, bad boy—killed and raped a half-dozen women, including one in her seventies who was a matron at some homeless shelter he was using. He's a scum-suckin' amoral pig. Take his ass down, hard, if you get the chance."

  "My pleasure. If that's it, give me location on sweet Al's Expedition, and I'll wander over and see what he's up to. I ask if I could buy a few bags from him for resale. He's, and I quote, ‘checking out Toby Ornot.’ So put some bad shit up on the Web about old Toby."

  "My pleasure," he parrots me. "Looks like Cenzano is half way across town, heading east on Eleventh. Oops, he turned. Hold on. He pulled up and stopped."

  I go back to my sausage and eggs for a bite, then he adds, "All I get is a couple of private residences."

  "Cool, thanks. Check you later."

  Three more fast bites and I'm done. I head out to see if I can spot his car. I’m going down Eleventh, when I notice a candy apple red Cadillac coming my way. I don't really get a good look at the driver as a furniture van blocks my view about the time he passes. But how many candy apple Cad's can there be in Williston? I let him get a block by, flip a U-turn and follow for several blocks.

  The Mercy Medical Center. He pulls in there and parks close to the emergency room, then ambles in. It's no emergency as far as he's concerned, if his casual walk is an indicator.

  I park a couple of lanes away and follow, but rather than the emergency room door, I head for the Caddy and slip another GPS device, in a key keeper, under the back bumper. Then I head for the main entrance, enter and ask the candy striper the way to emergency. She's a cute little thing, if that can be said of a blue-hair.

  She has a great smile. "You can go back outside, or head over there, pick up the red line, and it will lead you right there."

  So, I do. And the red line leads me via a couple of turns in a hallway wide enough for two gurneys to pass, to a pair of interior swinging doors leading into the emergency room. There's a small glass panel in each door, so I pause and check things out. It's a good thing I do, as I see Speck talking to a nurse who's seated behind a desk.

  She looks very serious, and he nods a couple of times, then heads for the outside door, presses through and is gone.

  I decide to see what I can wheedle out of the nurse and push through. Out of a door leading off the hall, before I'm halfway to the desk nurse, comes a flash from my recent past—a sandy-haired, blue-eyed beauty who nursed me during my stay.

  "Inga," I say, and she looks up from the chart she's reading.

  17

  "Well, if it isn't a former patient of the troublemaker variety," Inga says, but she's smiling.

  "Dick Strong," I say and then have to think if that's the name I used.

  "I think I prefer Richard," she says, smiles and shakes her head.

  "Okay, if you're calling, I'll answer to anything."

  She gets serious. "You're back. Your wrist giving you trouble?"

  I'm not real excited about her seeing my armor, and as she reaches for the arm, I fold it behind my back.

  "Heck no, you were my nurse. It's perfect."

  "So, you just like the smell of an emergency room?"

  It's my turn to laugh, then I add, "No, ma'am, but you might help me."

  "How's that?"

  Let me count the ways, I think but don't say, but rather point to the desk where Speck talked to the nurse. I wave Inga behind me, and she follows.

  A pudgy, little, freckled blonde glances up. "Hi, young lady. You were just talking to a thin
-faced guy with a scar."

  "I was," she says, glancing up, then at Inga, who nods.

  "Can you tell me what he's asking about?"

  She looks doubtful, then turns to Inga. "Miss Johannson?"

  I'm fishing my wallet out as they exchange doubtful looks and flash the brass. Sometimes the bail enforcement badge works, sometime not. Depends upon how close they look, and what they know about the law.

  "Go ahead," Inga says to her.

  "He was asking about a young lady who expired here last night. I guess he hadn't seen the paper and didn't know she didn't make it."

  I did see the paper. "May I see the body?"

  Again, she looks at Inga, who shrugs.

  The nurse offers, "A diener wheeled her out just as I showed up at work at seven."

  "So, where?" I ask, having been around morgues enough to know that a diener is an assistant in that facility.

  "She'd be in the basement. The door says autopsy, but it's also the morgue."

  I turn to Inga. "How about showing me the way."

  She smiles, but shakes her head no. "I'll get a candy striper."

  "I'd rather it be you."

  "I'll walk you back to the waiting room, and the lady at the desk will page one for you."

  "You're a hard case, Miss Johannson. I noticed the girl did say miss, not missus."

  "How do you know we don't all go by miss in the hospital?" Her smile is devastating.

  "So, miss, how would you like to have dinner with me?"

  She laughs again, and we arrive at the waiting room. I'm properly ignored as she asks the lady at the desk to page someone, waves over her shoulder and strides away.

  A skinny young girl, who looks as if she can't be over seventeen, leads me down then stops nervously ten feet from the door. "You don't mind showing yourself in," she says.

  "Not your favorite place?" I ask.