The Repairman- The Complete Box Set Page 6

  My Vegas unit is on a major thoroughfare, Tropicana, right on the edge of the action. These days most modern ministorage facilities have sophisticated computer entrance monitors which record your entrance-exit, and consequently are not a place to hide out or even spend the night, unless you're adept at scaling the eight foot fences. Even then some are monitored with alarms and video surveillance. The Tropicana is such a facility, so I never bunk there. Besides, the van has a fold down cot and tiny sink and port-a-potty, all the conveniences of home. And almost every truck-stop or highway rest-stop will do for a free overnight…not that I'm too cheap to pay, but paying means registering, and registering means leaving tracks, even if with phony identification.

  You can't stay under the radar if you leave tracks.

  One of my old high-school buddies works in Hollywood for a company that does special effects, One of his minor specialties is make-up, and I don't mean lipstick and eye shadow. He can make you age fifty years or, in my instance, change the shape of your features so facial recognition doesn't place the reconfigured face with your actual appearance.

  I load my pockets with some of his creations, especially created for making my ugly mug even uglier, check my Armoire hidden weapon walls and ammo inventory to make sure I haven't been burgled and my stash of dry foods, first aid, and survival gear. Then, satisfied that Tropicana is up to speed, speed out to meet up with Pax at his office.

  One of the reasons for the Tropicana location for my storage room is the fact that Pax is only four blocks away. His home office is a two story simple affair with a storefront facing a parking lot. The former beauty shop in the storefront has had the windows whitewashed with only the glass door remaining clear, and the small gold lettered sign announces Weatherwax Internet Services. He has six employees on site, and another dozen consultants in India and the Philippians who do contract work for him. His personal office is the size of a two-car garage and located second story rear, with a great view of the strip in the distance were he ever to open the drapes on his wide window. They normally remain closed as the room sports at least a dozen monitors, one of which spreads at least fifty inches. The server room is next to his office, and in air-conditioned splendor are a dozen boxes as tall as myself, black as a foot up a bull's butt, and constantly humming and flashing in their mysterious way.

  And Pax puts them to good use. Keeping me under the radar is a very small part of the work he does for businesses across the west.

  His receptionist is one of my favorite people, light on her feet for a girl who must top two hundred with double chins that vibrate under rosy cheeks and a constant smile. Rosie was properly named.

  "Hey, beautiful," I announce myself. Startled, she quickly stuffs the romantic suspense novel she's reading into her top desk drawer.

  "Mike, you toad, how can you be so quiet?"

  "I could have come in on a freight train as it seems you were lost in some hot and bothered clinch in that novel. But I won't squeal on you. Croak me into the inner sanctum," I say, without pausing, and head for the stairs. "How's my favorite girl?" I ask, over my shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time.

  "I don’t croak, and I don't know, how is she?" she replies.

  "That's you, and you know it." She laughs, a lilting giggle that always tickles me, and makes me want to laugh as well.

  "Lonely, big boy," I hear her say, which I know is followed by a bat of her overly made up Cleopatra eyes. We've traded this b.s. many times before.

  Pax is at his desk, sockless feet in red tennis shoes propped up on his very messy desktop, leaning back in his three grand desk chair reading a Wired magazine. He peers over the top.

  "Coffee's on, as promised. And there's another few pages for you on the coffee table. I'm in the middle of something, so read while I finish up."

  "You got a Playboy hidden inside that Wired?"

  "It's not something that important, but hold on."

  He continues reading while I head to his little bar and pour myself a cup of coffee, then to the couch and table and read. It seems my now deceased employer has a sister who lives right here in Vegas, and we have an address for her home and her place of employment, which happens to be a beauty salon on East Harmon Avenue, just a few blocks north of us. The report contains that, and information, including maps and layouts of the State of Nevada Department of Public Safety Division III fire marshal's office, manned by Officer Henry O'Malley, and is where the meeting is being held between him and the Zamudio brothers. I walk over to one of the five computers Pax has spread around his spacious office, and get Google driving directions from here, to the beauty shop, then on to East Bonanza and the state fire marshal's office. It's only seven miles total, so I decide to make a stop and meet the sister on the way, as I still have an hour and a half before their scheduled meeting. But I want to be a little early to scope the place out.

  "Got to go," I announce to Pax, who's still got his face buried in the magazine.

  "Lunch?" he asks, without looking up.

  "Doubt it, I don't know what's coming down with the Zamudios. I'll call before noon if I want to mooch lunch."

  "Who said I was buying?"

  "I thought you just invited me."

  "Creative thinking," he says, then finally looks up. "You need back-up?"

  "Nope. I'm just extending the hand of friendship before I decide if I want to slap the shit out of them."

  "Drive careful," he mumbles, his face back in the mag.

  "I always do."

  "Don't get your dumb ass shot again," he says.

  "I always try not to."

  I leave the van in one of the private parking spots marked Weatherwax Internet Services, and roll the Harley out. With the traffic of Las Vegas, if I have to beat a hasty exit from trying to get next to the Zamudio brothers, the bike will be a definite advantage. And if offers a smaller target if things get really rough.

  And I won't be surprised if they do.

  7

  It's only five blocks to the place of employment of Crystal Janson, Carol's sister. It's two story, like Pax's office, only this one is totally glass in front, a full two story box of smoked glass surrounded by LED lights that make it look almost like a giant mirror. Even the mullions holding the various panels of glass are glass wrapped. Beauty by Crystal has an imposing façade, and an equally imposing LED sign the width of the building.

  Now, I'm wondering if Crystal is as imposing as her sister.

  I find a parking place a quarter block away, stroll back to the glass door, and push my way inside. A desk and counter block my entry, but the twenty-plus station salon is stark, modern, and impressive, and full of patrons and beauticians, hard at work. A circular stairway of Plexiglas treads and rods suspending them from the ceiling winds to a second story, with a "SPA" sign beckoning me to ascend.

  The receptionist is flaxen haired, with green eye shadow to match her large eyes. Four inches of flat stomach show under her cut-off tightly fitting knit top, from which two hard objects the size of the end of my little finger protrude from much larger orbs. I hope they do so because she likes me. She blinks the greens at me, and my eyes can't help but drift to the generous and beautifully tanned cleavage above the narrow knit straining to contain those bulging beauties.

  "Hi, not much hair left there to style, but we'll give it a try," she says.

  "I'm looking for Crystal. Just a moment of her time?"

  "Sorry, Crystal is in California. A death in the family. She'll be back tomorrow or the next day."

  "Yeah, I'm very sorry. Tell her Mike Reardon stopped by…a friend of her sister's."

  "Oh." She noticeably pales. Then adds, "Did you know…know what happened?"

  "I did. A truly terrible thing. I'll stop back in a couple of days."

  And I'm gone. Now I should have plenty of time to check out the fire marshal's office, but first I stop in a service station and use the men's room to become someone else. In case things get totally out of hand with the Zamudio boys,
and there are video cameras around, which seems to be the norm these days, I don't want facial recognition software to do its magic.

  My bill cap has clear plastic ear pieces that fit behind my ears and flares them giving me a bit of a Dumbo look; inserts in my nostrils change the shape of my nose—just slightly, but enough. Some nice paste on eyebrows gives me a surprised look. And finally, soft foam rubber inserts in my mouth under my cheeks change my facial shape. I have contacts in a variety of shades to change my eye color, but they slightly impair my vision and I don't want that when I'm going into a potentially dangerous situation.

  I'm no prettier, but I am different. And with seven billion people on earth, you don't have to be a lot different to fool facial recognition software.

  Just in case I want to listen in on a conversation, I clip a small receiver on my ear and shove a matchbox size transmitter into my pocket, along with a couple of mike configurations: one with a two inch hyperbolic receiver for distance, one with a suction cup for applying to doors or windows. The little AAA battery transmitter is only good for a hundred yards, but that should be enough. The earpiece is patterned after a Bluetooth phone earpiece, so it attracts little attention.

  The Department of Public Safety State Fire Marshal's is in a state office building on the southeast corner of E. Bonanza Road and North Veteran's Memorial Drive, north of the strip but pretty centrally located, just north of old Vegas. The modern building enjoys a glass curtain wall near the entrance. A fairly massive four story concrete structure behind contains offices of the fire marshal and other state organizations, such as Parole and Probation, with the convenience of a two-story parking garage to its west. Beyond the garage is a six-bay City of Las Vegas fire station. Behind that is additional parking, a conventional street level lot.

  To the south of both facilities is the Las Vegas Municipal Pool, with lots of public parking. That's where I land the Harley, only a couple of hundred yards from the front entrance of the building housing the marshal's office, yet out of its sight. And there's a freeway onramp only a block farther on; Freeway 93 has lots of open space and lots of ramps to dump off onto other surface streets.

  It looks to me, at first perusal, that the parking garage is the obvious place to separate the Zamudio brothers from their entourage in order to have a little private conversation. It's the only place where a door leads from one public area to another. I don't expect this to be easy…the good news, they've never laid eyes on me…the bad, they've never laid eyes on me and will be suspicious of any stranger if the bodyguards—and I know there will be at least a couple—are worth a damn.

  It's a public building, so my first move is to recon all four floors, finding the fire marshal's office on the third, which turns out to be a small facility, no more than three or four offices. Nearby is a conference room, with glass facing the hallway, so if they use it, I can make a pass by and get a peek at what's going on, and maybe a listen. However, I'm sure it's pretty much a rote part of the investigator's routine, to question the property owners. And the fire marshals office complies with safety codes, as there are panic hardware crash doors onto a stairway at the end of each hall.

  It's ten forty-five in the morning when I position myself just inside the entry door to the office building from the parking garage. There's a bank of five visitor parking places, at least two of them empty, just outside the door, and I presume that's where they'll park. I want to eyeball them on the way in and have my little talk with them as they leave the meeting.

  A door near the entry from the parking lot proves to be a maintenance closet, with a sink, a floor polisher and a rack of brooms and mops flanking a bay of shelves full of liquids and waxes.

  The brothers are prompt. At three minutes to ten they pull into the parking lot; they won't park the stretch limo in the places just outside the door, as it's the size of a small yacht. I do get a look at the driver, a Hispanic no-neck who probably is tough, but is no real pro. He looks like he graduated from some security job at a local club. He stops near the door, which I have open about a half inch, and lets the boys out. Leading the two of them is another blonde Germanic no-neck who probably can't scratch his head, as his biceps won't allow him to bend his arm that far—just another gym rat who's built far more for show than for go. Neither of the bodyguards looks like they'd last two minutes in a cage fight with a truly tough long-muscled alley fighter.

  The Zamudios match the pictures Pax has provided. Rico, the smaller of the two is about my height, but fat and probably three forty; his brother, Al, is more than butcher hog fat, two inches shorter than Rico, but sixty pounds heavier at four hundred if he's an ounce. Both have cigars stuffed in bulbous lips, but to their credit obey the sign on the door and douse them in a sand-filled container before they're within ten yards of the entrance.

  I fade away down the first floor hallway and turn into a men's room long before they make the doorway.

  And of course, one of the Zamudio brothers, the oldest and sloppiest, which I'm sure, is Al, comes into the can behind me. Before he can give me more than a glance, I hit a stall and drop my pants, a vulnerable situation I don't particularly enjoy. The no-neck has followed him in, made a pass, and gone back outside. I recline patiently as the fat bastard relieves himself in the urinal, breaking wind like a steam train letting off pressure in the station, then he's gone.

  Giving them time to get out of sight, I finally listen at the door. Hearing nothing, I re-enter the hall. Rather than take the elevator, I go to the end of the hallway and take the stairs up to the third floor, two at a time. Opening the door slightly, I see that the no-neck has not followed them into the office, but is just at the doorway, and I hear him ask, "Can I go back to the lot, boss? I need a smoke." The door closes and he heads for the elevator. Camels and bad habits are working in my favor.

  As soon as the elevator doors shut, I start out, then have to retreat as they are coming back into the hall. Again with the door slightly ajar, I see the brothers and two others head for the conference room.

  As soon as they are inside, I move down the hall, attaching the suction cup mike to the little transmitter and turning it on as I go. In the very bottom corner of the plate glass window between hall and conference room, I attach the suction cup mike, without ever presenting myself in front of the window, and return back to the crash door into the hallway. I adjust the earpiece receiver so the volume is right and listen as the fire marshal introduces himself to a recording device.

  "I'm Officer Henry O'Malley, state fire marshal, division three. Also attending is Lieutenant Andre Bollinger from the Las Vegas PD. Interviewed are Mr. Alfonzo Zamudio and Mr. Enrico Zamudio, CEO and CFO, respectively, from the subject property, Z's Casino, Henderson, Nevada."

  The meeting carries on for forty minutes and, as I suspected, the fire marshal or LVPD gets little from the Zamudio brothers.

  As they begin to wind up, I slip back down the hall and recover my transmitter—a good thing as the bodyguard who’d gone out to smoke returns and waits in the hallway seeing only my back as I disappear into the stairwell—then, I take the stairs down to the ground floor three at a time. No one is in the downstairs hallway, so I'm able to slip out into the parking lot. The limo is nowhere in sight. He must have had to park it outside. I have to presume the Zamudios have called him, so I suppose I'll have to deal with him as well as the no-neck.

  I step back inside and before they reach the ground floor in the elevator, pull a mop and a push broom from the closet and lean them in the corner near the exit door. When I hear the elevator doors open, I step outside into the parking garage again. I guess they’ve made a call, as the limo is again turning into the structure.

  The door opens and the big blonde Germanic dude leads the way. I let him get just outside the door. He eyes me as I crowd toward the doorway, then glances over at the approaching limo. This guy is big enough to floss his teeth with a chain saw, so I need to be decisive and convincing. When he glances back, I have my mace loaded faux-
ink-pen two feet from his big baby blues, and give him a shot. He grunts like I’ve kicked him in the gut, then does a little dance, the rabbit hop…rather unbecoming for a guy who'd go over two hundred fifty pounds. When he’s in the air, I kick both legs out from under him with a sweep, and he hits hard. I'm surprised the concrete doesn't crack.

  The fattest of the two Zamudios, Alonzo, is filling the doorway, and I give him a straight shot with first joint of stiff fingers to his Adam's apple, and with the bulging eyes of a fat lizard he reels back into his brother, both of them tangling enough that I can shove inside and get the door jerked shut—which is amazing as together they must go seven hundred pounds. I grab up a broom and shove the handle through the panic hardware, having to bow it a little to wedge it from doorjamb to doorjamb. Not only does it now keep the door hardware from functioning, but also the latch can’t be worked easily from the outside. It’s temporary at best, but will give me a few moments.

  To big Al’s credit, he’s coming back at me, so he gets a shot of mace to add to the fact he can’t get his breath through his bruised and throbbing Adam's apple. This time he screams like he’s been hit with a red-hot poker, but it comes out like he's swallowed a Jew's harp. It's all I can do not to laugh.

  Rico’s not to be outdone; he’s trying his best to get around his choking red-faced brother to get at me. I discourage him by pulling the Glock from under my shirt at the small of my back and zeroing it in between his angry eyes, as Al sinks to his knees.