Loren D. Estleman - Amos Walker 21 - Infernal Angels (21 page)

No answer. I lifted three boxes in a stack. He lifted two and we finished packing the trunk of the Cutlass in two trips. We left the caretaker in the little office holding two pieces of plastic together waiting for the cement to dry. With his hands the
Mayflower
would take as long to complete as the original.

“You haven’t told me when and where’s the drop,” said Barry as I turned the key in the ignition.

“Doesn’t matter to you. They said only one.”

“So I’ll ride on the floor in the backseat.”

“I might risk it if I weren’t already trying to run a bluff.”

“Well, take along your cell. If they don’t take it off you I can trace the signal to your body.”

“Don’t tell anyone I gave my life for better TV reception.”

“It makes as much sense as risking it for a woman you met only once.”

“We didn’t even get along very well. But I get paid to find things.”

“Me, too. You wouldn’t be trying to protect a gimp, would you?”

“I’m a gimp myself.”

“That leg ought to have healed by now.”

“Talk to the leg.”

He leaned back in the seat and took something out of the slash pocket opposite the one where he carried his gun. It was a little yellow plastic pill box he opened with the snap of a thumbnail. I looked at the Vicodin inside. “You too?”

“Headaches.” He touched the place where his skull was patched. “Take some for later while you’re at it. I’ve got unlimited refills.”

I thanked him, put some tablets in my shirt pocket, and crunched down two. Just knowing they were in my system took the edge off.

“You’re in great shape to take on a kung fu killer,” he said.

“I will be when the pills kick in.”

“When you meet him, look at his eyebrows.”

“Don’t tell me they’re lethal too.”

“Paper Dog assassins shave vertical lines in their eyebrows: five in the right, four in the left.” He stroked his own with a forefinger. “It’s how they recognize each other, and they can grow them out when they’re in hiding. It’s a tribute to the Gang of Nine, captured and beheaded in Nanking in 1925. I told you they’ve got a hard-on for those old warlords.”

“Why do I need to know this?”

“In case he leaves enough of you to provide a deathbed identification.”

*   *   *

Continuing up Woodward I flipped open my cell one-handed, drew the antenna out with my teeth, and thumbed out the number of Felonious Monk, but I didn’t hit SEND. I’d had my best luck with Gale Kreski, aka Bud Lite, dropping in on him without announcement, and anyway I had nothing better to do to burn daylight until I was expected at Tigers Stadium.

It was one of those gift days we sometimes get well into autumn, not precisely Indian summer because there’s no frost preceding them, but balmy enough to consider taking the Jet Ski out one more time before breaking out the mothballs, if you didn’t mind a slight risk of frostbite. It’s not unusual to see the proud owner of a convertible tooling along with the top down and earmuffs on, or someone sunning himself on a porch roof with goosebumps on his tan. The morning’s rain had only dusted that part of town, leaving behind wet patches in the shade of saloons built like Fort Knox and a peppery smell of ozone.

I parked around the corner, on the side where an apartment house had shared a common wall with the extinct hardware store before it had been eaten by a wrecking ball; halfway up the brick, an old connecting door opened onto a straight twenty-foot drop. Above the trade entrance, the delinquent primate on the sign swung its switchblade, either a broad visual pun or a statement of the owner’s contempt for the cluelessness of his customers.

I found him at the counter, with a faded napless towel spread out on top and a dismembered saxophone littering the towel with valves and stops and cork-ringed components, including a gleaming brass bell that looked like an old-fashioned ear trumpet when not connected with the rest. He was using an oily blue rag to polish a piece the size and shape of a pulled tooth.

“Takes me back to boot camp,” I said. “Nighttime guerrilla training.”

“Let me guess. You had to disassemble and put back together a rifle blindfolded.” The resonant voice was in control, like a powerful engine at idle. He went on polishing without looking up.

“No, a carburetor. I tested negative for mechanical aptitude, so they trained me for the motor pool. Then when I got to Southeast Asia they chucked it. I never saw an undercarriage my whole tour. But I can change your oil if you want.”

Today he had his hair tied up in a red bandanna, a piratic effect, with the sleeves cut off a plain sweatshirt and the riot of tattoos spilling up his arms and under the fabric. He set aside the toothy fragment, picked up the mouthpiece, and blew through it, making a razzy sound with the reed. It might have been commentary.

“What’s happening in Guam?”

“My lawyer got another postponement. Those Chamorro bodyguards I told you about? One of ’em landed in jail for possession for sale of hashish.”

“Think he knows anything?”

“When they weren’t on duty, they were bombed out of their minds on pot in Winfield’s garage. Secrets are the first thing to go in that situation. If somebody reached one of them, paid him to look out at the ocean or cap Winfield himself, he knows. It all depends on how scared he is of being convicted of the other thing.” He shook his head. “Wish it was something more than hashish. In the protectorates, that’s like Starbucks.”

“How’s your defense fund?”

“Just now it’s a race between how long that bodyguard holds out and when it gurgles empty. My credit line kind of fell apart when they booked me for murder.”

I took out Eugenia Pappas’ check and spread it out on a clear space on the towel. “I can endorse this over to you right now, or go to my bank and bring you back the cash. Whatever’s more convenient.”

He glanced at the amount, removed the split reed from the mouthpiece, and dropped the reed in a wastebasket on his side. “Is it legal? Right now I can’t get a parking ticket. They’ll revoke my bail.”

“It’s legal. It’s dangerous. Could be fatal.”

“Mister, you know the life expectancy of a mainlander in jail in Guam?”

“One question. You struck a fighting pose the other day. Was that a bluff or what?”

“I trained in martial arts since I was fourteen. It’s all in the third track on my album: ‘Gale Force.’”

“Should be the title track. When you get clear of this, you ought to consider going by your real name. Bud Lite sounds like the opening act at Soaring Island Casino.”

“Bud Lite was that fucking Winfield’s brainstorm. He’d’ve starved if there weren’t always new talent to screw over.” He started putting the saxophone back together. “What’s the competition?”

“Imported Chinese talent. Two dead, that we know of. He doesn’t open for anyone.”

TWENTY-FOUR

I was giving him the particulars when a customer came in and loitered in the guitar-string section. Vintage Alice Cooper was playing on the store’s sound system. He timed his browsing until the song finished, then selected a package, paid for it, and left without a word. He wore black from neck to heels, dyed his hair too dark for his complexion, and applied mascara with a spray gun.

“Can’t be the real deal,” I said, when the door closed behind him. “This day of all days, the true Goths should dress up as insurance salesmen.”

Kreski made a noise in his throat. “Today’s Halloween. I forgot. It was my favorite day of the year until all this shit came down. Put on fangs and a cape and get all that darkness out of your system just in time for the holidays. I could rent a ninja outfit for tonight.”

“Come as you are. If things go as planned all you’ll need is a phone. Got a cell?”

“I held out long as I could, but I can’t afford to miss a call from my lawyer.”

“I’m going to hang on to mine as long as I can, keep the line open. You’ll be outside. When you hear the word, call the cops.”

“What’s the word?”

I thought. “Bud Lite.”

“That’s two words. Hard to work them into the kind of conversation you’ll be having.”

“Not as hard as you think. It’s Tigers Stadium.”

“Shit. You could be anywhere in that old barn.”

“A friend of mine gave me an idea when he said he could trace my cell phone signal to my corpse. They send one even when they’re turned off. Tell that to the cops.”

“What if they take it away from you?”

“The kidnappers? They probably will, but the principle still works unless they heave it across the infield.”

“If they do that, I may have to go in.”

“Call for backup first.”

He picked up the check then. “It looks like you’re working for free. What’s your end?”

“The job started out straightforward, then took a mean slice. Technically, I’m still working it, so this is found money to do what I’ve been doing right along. Considering I’ve got a better than even chance of getting killed, it looks like a sound investment.”

“What about this friend you mentioned?”

“He’s got twice as many guts as I have, but only half the legs.”

“This woman they took; she a friend?”

“Just a casual acquaintance who doesn’t approve of me very much. I get a lot of that. Right now she’s the only connection I’ve got to the end of the job I started. It would be nice if I got her out alive, but it’s not my main concern.”

“You’re a liar. I think you’re the kind of idiot they used to write songs about until people got wise there wasn’t any such thing.”

“You can write one about me if you want.”

He put the check back on the towel and pushed it toward me. “It’s a long time till dark. You should buy yourself a new suit and a four-course meal.”

“You’re turning me down?”

“No way. If we both come out of this, I expect you to be a character witness at my trial.”

*   *   *

I got to Mary Ann Thaler’s office in the MacNamara Federal Building just as she was locking up. “Late lunch?”

“They don’t feed us at this level. I’ve got a meeting with the FBI special agent in charge.” She wore slacks and a loose linen jacket with a shoulder bag half the size of the one she’d used to lug around heroin. “Got something to report?”

“I just wanted to ask when you go home.”

“Planning on asking me out?”

“I don’t date women who can outshoot me. I wanted to know if you’d be available tonight after dark.”

“It still sounds like a date.”

“There may be entertainment involved, but I’m not too crazy about the cover charge. I’d owe you a favor if you hung around town a couple of hours past quitting and kept your cell charged up.”

“What’s the ruckus?”

“That’s classified for now.”

“What favor can I expect in return?”

“Second prize is I won’t ask you any more favors.”

“What’s the first prize?”

“Appointment to full marshal, if the cards fall just right.”

“When do they ever? Would this have anything to do with some misplaced dope?”

“I’m not sure it’s misplaced. But yeah.”

She glanced at a watch with a large face and boldface numerals. Tiny elegant ladies’ watches had no place in law enforcement. “I’d run the riddle out, but I’m late. Sun sets around six. I’ll give you till seven-thirty for your call.”

“I probably won’t be the one making it. If a strange number comes up, don’t leave it for voice mail.”

“It isn’t like you to partner up.”

“I don’t usually go to the government for help, either. It’s the season for breaking precedent.”

“This exclusive to the U.S. Marshals? No locals?”

“What happened to the joint operation?”

“Too many meetings. Like the one I’m late for.”

“If that’s how you want it.”

“That’s how it is.” She left, heels snapping on the linoleum. I let her take the elevator down alone. I didn’t want to take the chance of spilling my guts in a tiny enclosed space.

*   *   *

John Alderdyce wasn’t at his desk. A civilian clerk said the inspector was out on a call. I asked when he was expected back.

“Ten minutes. Tomorrow, maybe. He’s not delivering pizza.”

The clerk was slight, in his twenties, half an inch short of the department minimum for police training. His face had set in an expression of sour resignation. I gave him the weary smile. “Okay, Sunshine. I’ll hang around. Go back and sit by the scanner.”

I sneaked part of a cigarette sitting in a chair outside the office until a woman in a sergeant’s uniform got downwind of it and stuck a glass ashtray under my nose. I put it out and made do with the asbestos in the ceiling.

Alderdyce came along twenty minutes later, whistling. He stopped when I stood up. “I knew this mood was too good to last.”

“Plans tonight?” I asked.