Lethal Wind

Lethal Wind Bob McElwain

Foremost Press Cedarburg, Wisconsin

Bob McElwain Mariposa, California Copyright © 2005 Bob McElwain. All rights reserved. Reproduction of any part of this publication in any way requires written permission from the author.

Published by Foremost Press ISBN 0-9748921-3-0 This is a work of fiction. Any similarity of characters or events to real persons or actual events is coincidental.

To the reader: I hope you enjoy reading this tale as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Setting: This tale was originally written in the late seventies. There have been lots of changes since. In the air charter business for one. And especially in rules about wandering about airports and harbors. But what is described here, was true back then.

Lethal Wind–1

CHAPTER 1 We were near twenty miles out of Marina Del Rey when I spotted an unnatural bulge breaking the crest of a calm Pacific swell. The way I grabbed the binoculars caught Denty’s attention. “What is it?” he demanded, tightening his grip on the wheel. “Something’s floating up ahead,” I replied, focusing the glasses. “Let’s have a look,” he said sharply, reaching one hand back over his shoulder. I handed him the glasses, watching the small freighter that had crossed our course, heading north. Rust and corrosion were winning out against flaking paint. “We’ll check it out,” Denty said crisply, handing the glasses back. When I saw it again, it had settled further into the sea. I glanced again at the freighter, about a mile north of us now, and was suddenly, inexplicably uneasy. I stepped up onto the bench for a better view. “I can’t see it,” Denty said. “Give it a couple of degrees left.” “Port, you mean.” “Yeah.” As we closed, I could make out the sea-green tarp. It covered a cargo carried by a barge or raft. It had been towed here by the freighter; that seemed certain. Then it had been cut loose or had broken loose on its own. My money was on cutting. Either way, it didn’t figure. Why would a freighter be towing anything? “Denty?” “What?” “We best let this go.” He snorted. “Leave it to the Coast Guard.” “Hell, Scott. Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, it’s a rule. The dammed thing is at least a hazard.”

2–Bob McElwain

Maybe it was only the slight change in course that brought Edi, Denty’s wife, up from the lounge. She must have sensed tension, for she looked anxiously at Denty, then at me. “Can I see?” she asked. I handed her the glasses as she climbed up beside me on the bench. The kids, Patsy, and little Joey, came next, followed soon by Bill and Sally Larson. Everyone had a look and each had an opinion as to what they’d seen. None agreed with mine. The sense of excitement grew as we closed. Tony Haggen was propped casually against the forward deck rail, eyes watchful. Coarse blonde hair, swept back at the sides, accented the clean lines of Nordic features. Gail, his girlfriend, seemed undecided about remaining beside him or appeasing her curiosity by joining the others in the cockpit. I made my way to the prow and stripped down to my boxer shorts. A hundred feet from the green tarp, Denty slowed and began a turn to bring us alongside. Twenty feet from the raft, I dove. It took only moments to find the tow line, but it had settled deeply. Without tanks, I didn’t have the staying power to lift it. By the time I surfaced, Denty had stopped the boat and dropped the ladder over the side. Grabbing at chunks of air, I climbed aboard. “Need some rope,” I said. “This is a ship,” Denty commented, eyeing the tarp. “We only have line.” “If you’re going Navy, it’s a boat. But I’ll settle for some line.” Denty rummaged about in the storage compartment. “What do you think it is?” he asked. “A raft, maybe twelve feet square,” I replied, “loaded with trouble.” I wrapped the rope around my waist, climbed to the top of the cockpit for more height, and then dove. I found the tow line again and secured the rope. As I struggled upward, unwinding the rope was tricky. I broke the surface and continued twisting free, gulping for air. With the end, I swam for the transom. I handed it up to Denty and said, “Go easy and you can raise the tow line.”

Lethal Wind–3

Still sucking up air, I climbed back aboard. I’d already guessed what the cargo was, but I wanted to be sure. I fished the Buck knife out of my pants, opened it, and dove again. I didn’t want to cut the tarp; trapped air could be keeping it afloat. I pulled my way toward the bottom of the raft. By feel, I found an uncovered plastic bag and slashed with the knife. I grabbed a handful of rapidly dissolving powder and brought my tongue down to it. Even the salty water couldn’t hide the taste. When I broke the surface, Tony was leaning over the rail, the face empty of lightness and smiles, the blue eyes black holes against the high sky. “Coke?” he asked softly. “Yeah,” I said, grabbing at air. “There’s a fair sized boat headed this way.” “We best talk to Denty.” Tony nodded and started aft. I closed the knife and swam for the ladder. Denty and Bill finished securing the tow line as I climbed aboard. I grabbed Denty’s arm and turned him toward Tony. By the look on his face, I must have grabbed harder than I’d intended. “It’s coke. A ton at least. And there’s a boat headed this way.” Denty scooped up the glasses and turned toward the oncoming boat. “Cut it loose,” I said. “Then get clear. Fast.” “Christ. What’s with you?” he demanded, lowering the glasses. “We’re taking this in. We’ll be heroes.” “Pass, Denty,” Tony said grimly. “Some lowlife paid ten mil for this. He’ll be pissed at losing it.” “Have you guys lost it? What the hell can go wrong? This is Marina Del Rey, not some hot LZ.” “There’s not another boat in sight, except the one coming at us,” I said. Tony pulled the .25 automatic from the ankle holster. “This is the arsenal, if they want that raft.” He tucked the little pistol behind his waistband.

4–Bob McElwain

“To hell with you guys.” When I turned away, disgusted, Tony said, “At least call the Coast Guard. Then get me a phone link. There’s a cop I’ve got to talk to.” “Well, that’s reasonable.” Denty turned to the radio and began twisting dials. As he reported what we’d found, I watched the approaching boat, worried more than a fellow should be. When the voice on the radio announced a chopper was airborne, the boat veered west, out to sea. Maybe that had been their plan all along. But I would have bet against it. I made my way forward and slipped into my clothes. The soggy shorts clung uncomfortably and the shirt stuck to my back. I headed for the galley, reassured by the pounding, throbbing roar of the chopper passing overhead. I grabbed a beer from the fridge, then settled into a seat, more than a little angry at Earlin Tiberon Denton. Few have heard this name. “Call me Denty,” he’d say. With those three words and a smile brightening intense brown eyes, strangers called him friend. Today had been set aside for the formal launching of Denty’s Dream, a Gulfstar 54. A motor sailor with twin masts, glistening with new whiteness, sharply trimmed in bright coral. Denty had claimed it would be a dismal affair without me. I hadn’t agreed. But I’ve always had trouble saying no to Denty. So I’d paid the twenty bucks to park the car without a whimper, then tried to pretend the half-hour walk to the boat didn’t matter either. I’d gotten the whole tour, before we shoved off. And I’d found myself enjoying what I’d thought would be only the fulfillment of a social obligation. It’s tough to find four men who survived the happenings in Nam, and who still hang together. Maybe that was it. The quiet renewing of strong ties, forged in the crucible of war. But good feelings had vanished. I wished to hell I was someplace else. Or that Denty had never bought the damned boat. Or that it would sink. Now.

Lethal Wind–5

The others drifted in, talking excitedly. The conversation quickly evolved into an intense, earnest debate that included all the tiresome, dreary arguments used about anything folks want that’s illegal. It bored me nearly to the point of pain. I slipped outside, hoping not to be missed. But Gail followed me up to the cockpit. The chopper now trailing us, showed no weapons. But they might be mounted out of sight so as not to disturb happy boaters. It didn’t matter; its mere presence was comforting. And another boat was following. “Wonder what they’re up to?” Denty asked, nodding back toward the boat behind him. I reached for the glasses. “It’s a Coast Guard cutter.” “Everybody wants in on the act.” “Seems that way.” Seamen scanned the ocean. The gun covers were off. I laid the glasses down and made my way forward. Gail followed. She leaned over the rail beside me, watching the cutter close. “You don’t approve of the talk down below, do you?” she asked. Her long, sandy-toned hair had to be naturally wavy, for the damp, salty air hadn’t seemed to affect it. Bright brown eyes were locked onto mine. “You must think I’m a terrible snoop,” she said finally. “Are you?” “Curious, mostly. You’re a man easy to like, but you don’t give much. What’s going on under that black wavy mop of hair, behind those slate gray eyes that let nothing show you don’t want seen? How did you get all those lovely muscles you use so well? How do you keep so trim?” I realized I was blushing and hoped it was hidden by the sun behind me. “Weren’t we talking about coke?” “We were. What’s your body fat?” “I’ve no idea. What’s yours?” “This is crazy, isn’t it?” “Expect you’re just curious, like you said.”

6–Bob McElwain

“But you’re not going to help much with that, are you?” “It’s not likely.” “At least tell me what you think about coke. Don’t you see a problem?” “Yeah. Tony said someone paid ten mil for what’s on that raft. It could be worth ten times that on the street. With that many bucks at stake, people will get hurt. Some will die.” “There’s a look in your eyes as if you know about such things. It’s scary.” I glanced back at the raft. “It is that,” I said. At the entrance to the channel, the cutter pulled up alongside and herded us down the north edge, fending off the other boats. Denty held the mike in one hand while clutching the wheel with the other. Near the end of the channel, I could see the Coast Guard office. The cutter that had been docked there on our way out, had settled across the marina entrance, blocking outbound traffic. Everyone in the channel was being warned off with the blaring bullhorn on the cutter next to us. Heading for the Coast Guard dock, Denty opened the throttles wide. As if rehearsed, he swung the boat north at the last instant, and Bill cut the tow line. The raft floated toward shore. Denty slowed the boat to a stop, then began backing in after it. There were too many officials on shore to suit me. And too many others had “press” stamped on their features. I slipped through our people gathered on the fantail, and made my way down to the galley. I grabbed another beer and sat down in the far corner behind the table, watching the two cutters anchor across our prow. The whole of it was chaos, so confused and disorganized it would have been laughable, if it weren’t so pathetic. Representatives from the Drug Enforcement Administration struggled with those from the Coast Guard and the County Sheriff ’s department to gain the upper hand, and thus credit for the confiscated cargo. Tony sat beside me, along with Gail. We answered virtually the same set of questions for several reps from each department. Only

Lethal Wind–7

Denty and Bill, up on the dock, enjoyed it. They were in the limelight, on a kind of personal high I’ve never been able to understand. Neither had ever passed on a chance to grab center stage. About the nineteenth time someone asked me how I happened to spot the raft, I wanted to hit him. “Can’t say,” I said. “I just looked up and there it was.” I knew it was only a matter of time. They’d tire of asking questions and scribbling in little notebooks. But when? “That’s the guy I called,” Tony said, nodding. “Hap Skyler, the best narcotics has got.” Vainly I searched for a clue to support Tony’s obvious respect. Hap was for Happy, Tony had said earlier, harsh contradiction to the grim, uncaring look of him. The too-large black leather jacket was worn and scuffed. With the scraggly moustache and greasy hair brushed back, he was a caricature of the fifties street type. Still, he was the only one not carrying a tape recorder or a notepad. And he was listening, not talking. When he approached us, the eyelids drooped over expressionless eyes. “Thanks for the call, Tony,” he mumbled, the words oddly unconnected. “You doin’ any good?” Hap shrugged. “There’s one dude here from the Sheriff ’s office. I might get somethin’.” “Luck,” Tony said. “Looks like you’ll need it.” “For sure,” Hap said, plainly discouraged. He drifted off into the crowd. “Why did you call him in?” I asked “When these headline hunters quit, it’ll be guys like Hap who do the real work. He needs all the info he can get, especially the stuff that doesn’t get written into files.” I tried to picture Hap doing anything, but soon gave it up. Whatever Tony saw in the man was lost to me. “I’ve been wondering,” I said, “why they dumped that raft in such a public place.” “Could be they thought nobody would suspect it. The boaters make good cover. And we were far enough out to be well away from the rest.”

8–Bob McElwain

I nodded, thinking again of the reporters outside. “Is there a way to slip out of here? I don’t need my picture in the papers.” Tony nodded, rising. “Let’s see if my badge is worth anythin’.” Gail let Tony out, then sat back down. “Okay,” she said, “I’m snoopy. Why don’t you want your picture in the papers?” Denty, up on shore, was posing for another photographer. “I’m not looking for fame or glory.” “There’s got to be more to it than that.” “Yeah. You are snoopy.” “Sort of nice, though, don’t you think?” “That’s so.” I paused and scratched my chin. “Sometimes a friend needs a little help. When I can, I lend a hand.” “And sometimes things get rough?” “Sometimes.” “There’s that look in your eyes again. I think I’ve run out of questions.” “Good.” “I haven’t, really. It’s only that one of your answers brings up a dozen more questions. I can’t seem to deal with them all.” “That’s even better.” She jammed her elbow into my ribs, but settled into silence. When Tony returned, he said, “Got us a ride.” Most of the crowd was on shore now. We followed Tony down the ladder to the pier. As we climbed the rocky bank, I kept my back to anything that looked like a camera. At the top, Tony opened the back door of a squad car and we slipped inside. Hap Skyler slid behind the wheel and began to work the car free of the crowd and parked vehicles. In the thirty minutes it took to circle the marina, not a word was spoken. It suited me fine. Hap stopped in front of the entrance to the parking lot. As I opened the door, I asked, “What next?” Hap shrugged. “Trouble,” Tony said grimly. “What are you talking about?” Gail demanded.

Lethal Wind–9

Tony answered. “That lowlife who just lost ten million? There’s no tellin’ how he’ll react.” He turned to me. “Where’s your Colt?” “In the trunk of the car.” “I’d keep it closer.” “Sleep with it,” Hap mumbled. I nodded, then said to Tony, “Will you take care of this lovely, snoopy lady?” Gail’s smile was warm, but the eyes still brimmed with curiosity. “For sure, buddy. For sure.” I closed the door and hunted up my car. I opened the trunk, unwrapped the Colt Python .357 from the oily towel, checked the load, then tucked it inside my waistband. I dropped the speed-loaders into a pocket in my pants. The car’s a ’66 Dodge, worn and bruised by time, but the 426 Hemi mellowed down to a comforting rumble within seconds of firing the ignition. I didn’t waste much time clearing the parking lot, but I spent a whole bunch, making sure I wasn’t followed.

CHAPTER 2 It was one of those glorious spring days that defy description. Gentle breezes embraced all with crisp desert air. The mulberries surrounding the house were capped with brilliant green leaves, dangling, dancing mirrors dumping sunlight in random patterns. I hardly noticed. I found myself remembering man is the only mammal that routinely kills its own kind. Where had that come from? I didn’t know of anybody who had died recently. Pondering the source of grim thoughts, I removed accumulated tools and debris from the Chevy Blazer. When I’d finished, I swept out the floor. After tucking the broom away, I paused to look up at the mountains. The dog returned from foraging to stand beside me, panting happily. A few nights up there might put an end to the willies.

10–Bob McElwain

I scratched the black Doberman and asked out loud, “Duchess? How’s a walk sound?” She looked up, eyes bright. She’d disappear up the draw if I made a move toward my pack. The feel of the Colt against my gut abruptly ended that train of thought. When I started up the knoll, Duchess followed reluctantly. The house is essentially one large room, forty feet on a side. Glass spans the walls, drawing the hills and trees inside. Bookcases and cabinets are tucked under the windows. Furniture is scattered without pattern; all shows lots of wood. I’d built the place. I liked it. I’ve always been comfortable inside. Right up until now. In the shower, I took only time to get wet, then dry. And to scrape off black whiskers that grow faster than seems right. As I popped open the beer, a car rattled over the cattle-guard down by the road. I moved to the windows. Uneasiness was suddenly upgraded to a feeling akin to fear. It was Tony Haggen’s cherry red Porsche. He habitually drives as if on the last lap at Le Mans. Now the car hardly disturbed the dust in the drive. I grabbed a beer for Tony and stepped outside. The colts in the pasture eyed his progress warily, poised to flee. As he drove over the second cattle-guard and started up the steeper part of the hill, I stepped off the porch and took a sip of beer. It tasted bitter. Tony slowed to a stop, then killed the engine, his mouth a grim slash across taut features. Clear of the car, his shoulders slumped. Only the coarse blonde hair was unmarred by his rage and the strain of subduing it. The black-blue eyes overflowed with that hollow, vacant look. Someone was in trouble, whether they knew it or not. He looked past me, not at me, and asked, “Any beer?” I tossed him the can. As he picked it out of the air, the breeze brushed his coat aside, revealing the 9 mm Beretta. He looked as if he wanted to use it. He ignored his favorite, the captain’s chair, and sat on the edge of the porch. I sat down beside him and took another sip. It still tasted bitter. Duchess lay down between us, her head on her paws, watching Tony. He’s always good for a scratch or two. She was puzzled at

Lethal Wind–11

being ignored. I looked up at the mountains I knew so well, the best trails to the small groves of pines and oaks, and to the springs. It’s always pleasant speculation. It wasn’t now. When Tony finished the beer, he crumpled the can. He flattened it as neatly as I’ve ever seen it done. The intensity he brought to the task was nearly tangible. He set it on the porch between us and said, “The Dentons?” My heart thudded against my ribs. “Murdered early this mornin’.” The voice was dull, scratchy, its rich warmth buried. “Massacred says it better. They used MAC10s. Dumped some ten rounds into each body. The kids, too.” He pointed to the mashed beer can. “They all looked sort of like that.” The cold knot in my gut spread icy tentacles throughout the body. I’d guessed there’d be trouble, but not this. Nothing like this. Tony looked up from the crumpled can. “That freighter?” I nodded, the head strangely heavy. “It’s got a real fancy name for such a junker. La Conquistadoras. It belongs to Harry Boggs. But we can’t prove that barnacled bucket towed that raft. So we’ll never tie anything to that God damned son of a bitch!” Rage had enveloped me too swiftly, too completely. What was desperately needed was cautious accurate thought, not emotional response. I concentrated on breathing deeply. I rubbed harshly at the broad scar in my palm to remind myself of what uncontrolled anger can lead to. When the mountains at last lost the reddish glow, when I could again hear birds arguing in the mulberries and smell the blooming sage, I asked, “Are the Larsons covered?” “Sure. Two top guys with .38s and shotguns. Against machine guns. What a fuckin’ joke. Cops, you see, got rules and such. The assholes comin’ at us must laugh a lot.” “And Gail?” “I moved her out of town with a witness procedure.” “Did our names make the news?” I asked. “No. But Boggs can find us.”

12–Bob McElwain

“We’ve got to stop him.” “I’ll get right on it.” “We’ve got to.” “Shit.” When I stood, I was surprised to find the task so difficult. I returned with two more beers and sat back down, sighing deeply. “I wish to God I’d stopped Denty,” I said, with an intensity that startled me. “Nobody ever kept him from doin’ whatever.” Idly I scratched the dog’s back. The way Patsy and little Joey had rushed to hug me replayed itself on the good memory track. And the way Edi had tweaked Denty’s nose before showing me the master stateroom. That was there. Gone now, as though it had never been. The image of the Springfield M1A in the gun rack over the door burst upon the mental screen. I glanced toward the road. The distance hadn’t changed. It was still near six hundred yards. So why the look? At this range, with the nail-driving ART IV scope, a head shot’s a cinch. “You’re thinkin’ about that rifle.” Tony’s good at that, getting in close alongside my mind. “You can’t do it,” he said bluntly. “Do what?” “Waste that fuckin’ roach.” “Why not?” “You wouldn’t be you any more.” “Who would I be?” “A killer.” “We’ve killed before.” “It’s not that simple, damnit.” “It used to be, with the night and jungle for cover. And that rifle wasn’t near what this one is.” “That was another time, another place. Don’t mix the two.” “How in hell do you keep them apart?” “You’re askin’ the wrong guy.” He propped his chin on his palms and stared at the ground. “Besides, his place is a fort, crawlin’ with

Lethal Wind–13

soldiers. It’d be suicide. And there’s cops and feds watchin’. More are ready to move in with choppers. You’re good, buddy, the best I’ve seen, but you’d get burned.” My gaze drifted about the hundred acres of sand, rock, brush, and lizards I could call home so long as I paid the annual tribute most call taxes. Or until Harry Boggs decided I wasn’t to live anywhere. “I was only thinking about someone coming at me,” I said finally. “Bullshit. You want to waste him, same as me.” “Yeah,” I said softly. “But I want a bunch more.” “Ninety-nine years in a cell?” “That might do,” I replied, not really sold on the notion. My head overflowed with overlapping memories of the Dentons and questions without answers. When I stopped scratching, Duchess draped a paw over my thigh, asking for more. I obliged. “You must have some ideas,” I said. “Sure. That’s why I’m sittin’ here.” He shook his head, slowly, deliberately. Few would see what lay behind it. Frustration is there; the badge can be burdensome. Deeper yet, there’s staggering futility and gut wrenching rage, the consequence of following rules that lead to empty, impotent gestures, instead of solutions. “Tell me about Boggs,” I said. “He started pushin’ as a kid and moved up. When the boss turned his back, Boggs slashed his throat, cleaned out the safe, and made two tries with stolen Beech Barons. The white hats got the planes and goods, but not Boggs. The last trip busted him.” “Where’d he get the bread for another try?” “What’s it matter? The point is, he did. Now he’s got a lock on the Valley. Has had since he showed. Nobody’s ever bothered him. Lately the Colombians have been tryin’ to move in, like with everybody.” “He just wandered in and staked out a claim? Nobody objected?” “Funny thing, that. Somebody handed narcotics all they needed to bust the roach that was runnin’ the show. From nowhere, Boggs is there, like without losin’ a customer.”

14–Bob McElwain

“Maybe it was Boggs, making himself some room.” “No way. That case was laid out without a glitch. The judge laid down good time. There wasn’t even an appeal. Boggs isn’t smart enough to put together a package like that.” “Then who did?” “We never found out.” “How big is Boggs’ action now?” “He brings in three or four tons a year. He’s movin’ money into El Viento, a Panamanian company, hard to track, the way things are down there. It’s freighters and a commuter airline.” “Who runs his coke business?” “A lowlife named Ed Jacobson deals. Karl Ulster is Boggs’ key man. If there’s bad trouble, Boggs’ll burn Ulster and be clear.” “What’s he worth?” “The wizards downtown, usin’ Ouija boards and such, say maybe two hundred million.” “And he risks it all by blowing away the Dentons? That’s pure stupidity.” “He’s not bright, just weasel clever.” “What’s ten mil to Boggs,” I said, shaking my head, “compared to the heat this will bring down? Hell. Even other dealers may decide he’s got to go.” “No chance. The guy’s crazy enough to take them all on. And he’s got the soldiers to do it.” “It just doesn’t figure,” I insisted. “Maybe not, but this wasn’t a first. A few weeks back, an unlucky citizen broad-sided the van carryin’ Boggs’ last shipment. It all went up in smoke. They found the citizen in bed the next mornin’, with a twenty-two slug in the temple.” “Why in hell didn’t you tell Denty?” Tony looked up, the eyes filled with misery. “Hap only made the connection this mornin’.” I pounded my fist into my thigh. One lousy day late. Damn. Carefully I reviewed what Tony had said, trying to pull it together into a meaningful pattern. If one existed, it eluded me.

Lethal Wind–15

“Tony,” I said, “follow me a minute. Drug types pound on each other. They waste those who cross them. But Denty was no threat.” “Neither was the citizen who clobbered Boggs’ van. Wholesalers don’t gun down bystanders. But Hap says this roach is flat paranoid. He’s certain somebody’s feedin’ info to the Colombians, that they’re settin’ up to move against him. So when he lost the raft, he decided he’d send a more dramatic message. He let the Song Birds deliver it.” “Who in hell are they?” “Jamaicans. Posses, they call themselves. They’re real big in Miami and busy diggin’ into most good sized cities. Crack is their game. You can buy a rock for five bucks and there’re plenty of buyers in ghettos and school yards. “But there’s nothing they won’t do for a buck. They run in packs. And they love to use those MAC-10s. When they do somebody, they don’t much care who else goes down. No witness has made it to a courtroom.” “I’ve heard of bloody shootouts in Miami, and in a couple other places. But never in Los Angeles.” “We’ve got the Song Birds now.” “Has anyone ever used them like this before?” “Not here. But they could get real popular. They work cheap and get it done.” “If Boggs thought Denty was connected to the Colombians, I could maybe understand his being killed. But the whole family? In such an ugly, bloody way? He took out the fellow who hit the van without attracting much attention. “But this? Hell. It’ll be on the six o’clock news, coast to coast. From every angle, it was a dumb play.” “Boggs must think different, that this was the best way to warn off any opposition. That’s how Hap sees it. And he’s right more often than wrong.” Slowly I rose and went inside. I dumped instant coffee into the mug and poured hot water from the coffee pot. Tony grabbed another beer and sat down at the kitchen table.

16–Bob McElwain

For uncounted minutes I stared out the window. “Tony,” I said, “what we’ve done and seen? It puts a distance between us and others somehow. Most wouldn’t understand. Denty did. And I loved those kids like they were mine. We’ve got to find a way to stop this bastard.” “How do you beat two hundred million bucks?” “Nobody’s invulnerable. Give me a weak spot.” “He can buy his way past anything we could find.” “We’ve got to do something. Now.” “Like what?” “Anything.” “Boggs is at a community meetin’ at Selter Park in Santa Monica. We could see a killer close up.” “It’s better than sitting here.” “Shit.” I gave Duchess a goodbye scratch, then followed Tony to the car. He was feeling better. He was hitting forty down the dirt drive before I could find the seatbelt. *** In light freeway traffic, the speedometer needle nudged eighty. I tried not to notice. “What’s this meeting for?” I asked, cringing as Tony darted right to pass the slower car in front of us. “Boggs bought Varnac Hulls two years back. They make shells for several boat companies. Now he’s pulled off a zonin’ change on the land next to the plant. Hap says it cost him a chunk under the table, but it could bring him a legit thirty million. He plans to expand the plant, put in a shoppin’ center, some condos and apartments. “He’s buyin’ the houses next to the plant. About a third of the owners have agreed to sell. The rest want to stop him. This meetin’ is their first try. Hap doesn’t think they can.” “You said Boggs isn’t too bright. How’d he figure this?” “He hired the talent.”

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“Then what’s he doing at the meeting?” Tony shrugged. “It’s a point. He can’t even say how his team is doin’. But he loves the social scene. It’s probably only an excuse to show his fancy feathers.” “Does he do this kind of thing often?” “Every chance. Why society types want a killer on the guest list beats me. But Boggs gets some classy invitations.” Minutes after whipping off the freeway, Tony slid the Porsche to a halt in a red zone in front of a fire hydrant. Once out of the car, I could see quite a crowd had gathered. The homeowners must have invited friends. Then again, it was May and close to the primaries. The politicians up front could be the main draw. The formalities had not yet begun. A lot of smiling and handshaking was taking place near the temporary stage. Inside the park, Tony said, “Wait here. I’ll find Boggs.” Looking at the crowd, I decided the older folks, already seated, were the threatened homeowners. Most had a grim worried set to their features. I studied the houses next to the park. They were older, smaller homes, with redwood siding. Most had been neatly kept. Only a few needed paint. In its day, this had been an elegant neighborhood. It still looked good. If Boggs had his way, all would be bulldozed. Idly I watched the silver-gray stretch limo slow and stop at the edge of the park. No one was visible behind the smoked-glass windows. A well-dressed man backed out of the rear door, still talking to someone inside. He turned to glance at the stage revealing rugged, dependable features and hair with an incorrigible wave. I caught a glimpse of the woman as she leaned forward, gripped, then slowly stroked the man’s arm. The latent sexuality of the simple gesture grabbed at me. The woman pulled the door closed and the limo eased away from the curb. The man strode determinedly toward the stage. I’d have bet he was a politician. He had that look, the warm gracious smile locked

18–Bob McElwain

in as if painted on the face. I knew I was right when the crowd at the stage surrounded him and people began settling into seats on stage. Tony yanked my sleeve and I followed him down to the third row of seats. “The dude fannin’ himself with the wine-colored hat,” he said grimly. “That’s Boggs, prince of fuckin’ roaches. Step on him, if you get the chance.” He was in his early forties. Because he was sitting, estimates of height and weight were crude. Six feet? One-seventy? The lustrous, brown hair was tinged with red. The rough cut was too neat, too casual, as if he’d walked from the barber’s chair to the park. The moustache under the broad nose was full, molded down past the corners of the wide mouth. All of the face joined in the smile, accenting creases in ruddy features. Vague, wispy signals suddenly united, bringing focus. To hell with proof. Here he sits. He presented the stereotype image of a country-western singer. The beige silk shirt had initials embroidered on the tips of the collars and more boldly on the cuffs. The light wine suit was thinly striped with black. But all was fabrication. Light-hearted? Fun-loving? No way. Yet for reasons I couldn’t define, my conviction was being crowded aside by uncertainty. Had I grabbed at him merely because he was handy? Sounds from the stage and crowd faded as I focused totally. I’d lost whatever I’d sensed. I was left with no feeling of the man. Nothing. I’m good at this. It’s crucial to winning at poker. But I couldn’t pick up anything. Was he a role-playing sociopath? Was there nothing real about him? Was anger messing with my mind? Distorting judgment? Whatever, Tony’s seldom wrong. And the destruction of the Dentons was real. Tony believed the force that had turned four beautiful people into bloody bits and pieces had been unleashed by words from this smiling mouth. My hand brushed the Colt at my waist. I pushed my way through the crowd. I wanted to know who and what this man was, all that made him tick. And I wanted to know right damned now.

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“Are you going to kill him?” The words had come from behind me, intended for my ears only. They startled me, stunning the senses. I turned. It’s not often a fellow six-two finds himself facing a woman whose eyes are near level with his. She was close. I could only glimpse the high-heeled shoes and long legs above them. She smelled of soap, with no hint of added scent. Age showed only in faint lines that come from smiles. She wasn’t smiling now. “Me?” I asked, wondering how best to deal with the brittle challenge in the light brown eyes. “You have a gun. You appear to be capable.” “Can’t. I’ve got my limit for the season.” “You have a frail sense of humor.” It was no real blow; she was right. “Why not do it yourself?” She clenched the purse with strong hands and long fingers. “I may do precisely that.” Suddenly the senses were working fine. The bulge in the purse was a pistol. She was serious. Deadly serious. I tried to get a better picture of her. She was so near, I could catch little except her size. The shoulders were squared, accented by the long, tan jacket. Dangling, brass bracelets contrasted with the male styling of the wrist watch. The new breed. The female executive on the way up. The aura of self-confidence was nearly hidden under waves of surging hatred. She surely could, and possibly would, shoot Boggs deader than hell. I couldn’t guess what Tony had noticed that led him to step up and discretely show his badge. “Sgt. Haggen. Could I have a word?” he asked politely with that quiet demand cops seem to have been born with. “What have I done?” The demand was equal, but politeness was absent. “Just routine.” Her fine, unruly hair, near shoulder-length, covered her ears and hid much of her forehead. The lines of her frown weren’t hidden, nor was the flashing anger in her eyes.

20–Bob McElwain

“It’ll only take a sec.” She wheeled and moved swiftly through the crowd. When she turned, Tony was there. “What is the difficulty, Sergeant?” “It’s the pistol. The one in your purse.” “I have a permit.” “Can I see it?” She produced a laminated card. He glanced at it and asked, “Have you any other identification?” She handed him her drivers license. “From the permit, I see you’re a pilot.” “I own Katlan Air.” “This permit’s only good when flyin’. Why are you carryin’ now?” Tony might have noticed the bulge in her purse. Had he seen the way she’d looked at Boggs? She ought to be away from here. But she might not like the options, if Tony reached the same conclusion. I stepped closer and read her name from the drivers license. “Gwendolyn, let’s get out of here. Maybe grab a drink.” “It’s Ms. Katlan,” she snapped. “You didn’t answer my question,” Tony reminded her. She glared at him. “Somehow you don’t make it as a law officer. Either of you.” “I’m not,” I said quickly. “But he is. He takes it seriously.” “Are you threatening me?” “I’m only trying to ease things. You’re pushing the wrong fellow.” “He’s right, Ms. Katlan,” Tony said. “Take his offer. Now.” “What are you two up to?” All traces of emotion vanished from Tony’s face. “If you try for Boggs, you might miss. A citizen could get hurt. And Boggs never travels without his little army, so you’d probably end up dead. Even if you survived, you wouldn’t like jail.” It was the windy Nordic chill wrapped about each word that jolted her, not what he had said. She breathed deeply, struggling for

Lethal Wind–21

control. When Tony handed back the permit and license, she turned to glare at me. “And your name is?” “Scott Macklen. Why?” “I have questions, Mr. Macklen.” She whirled and strode off angrily. I followed, puzzled at doing so. She didn’t seem much interested in a drink. She moved well. The hips were narrow for her height. I liked them. And the long legs. I wondered if I could span her trim waist with my hands. I thought about it. Seriously. It beat wondering what I’d gotten myself into. *** “Why are you and the Sergeant interested in Harry Boggs?” she demanded, before I’d settled into the seat. Long, slender fingers firmly gripped the glass of iced tea. I sipped my beer, then turned away from the demanding set to her features, the fierce anger in her eyes. I watched the cars whisk by. She’d picked a small sidewalk cafe, featuring fast service, good food, and comfortable seating outside, covered with a multi-colored awning. It was a nice place. I liked it. “Well?” she snapped. “Have you a name without Ms. tied to it?” “Use Wendy, if you must. Why are you interested?” “What could it matter to you?” I asked, uncomfortable with her speculative examination. Her driving energy pushed at me. I wanted to move the chair further back from the table. “I have my reasons,” she replied. “You do seem to hate him pretty good.” “You don’t?” “I just want to stop him.” “From doing what?” “Killing me.” “Be serious.”

22–Bob McElwain

“Did you hear about a load of coke recovered near Marina Del Rey?” “There was something on television,” she said, frowning. “The boat that brought it in was called Denty’s Dream, wasn’t it?” “Yeah. All Denty wanted was the freedom to go where he pleased. What he’ll get is a four casket ceremony day after tomorrow at Green Hills Cemetery. He and his family were murdered this morning. Four wonderful people shredded into bloody fragments on the say of Mr. Boggs.” “I gather he was a good friend.” “A bit more. In Nam, we broke out of a prison camp together. He carried me most of the last five klicks.” “What’s that got to do with you and Sgt. Haggen?” I took a deep swallow. One hard boiled woman. I couldn’t get past that. She didn’t seem to give a damn about anything or anyone except Boggs. “Tony and I were on board. I was the one who spotted the raft.” “You believe Boggs will kill you for that?” “All Denty did was tow it in.” “How will you stop him?” “Can’t say.” “Why not kill him?” Her eyes were bright, filled with the thought of it. “It’s not that simple.” “You’re the type who could manage it.” “What type’s that?” She shrugged, dropping her glance. “I’m not certain,” she said. “As a soldier you must have learned to kill. I suppose that’s all I meant.” “Killing’s easy. Living with it is tougher.” “Yes. It would be.” “Why do you want him dead?” “My grandmother lives in one of the homes that animal wants to take. It would destroy her to move.” Anger brought a rippling

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shudder across the shoulders. Her eyes remained fixed on the glass, gripped with both hands. “Even if you’re some whacked out weirdo, that’s not much of a reason.” “Harry Boggs isn’t human. He’s evil, incarnated.” She looked up, her face pale and strained, the eyes filled with bitter hatred. “He killed my father.” “How?” “Father built Katlan Air. After he met Harry Boggs, it all went wrong. As his habit grew, the business came apart. It killed my mother, a little at a time. The day I received my MBA, he died of an overdose. “My brother and I took over what was left. We could use the small fortune he wasted on coke. And what he lost in drug-clouded fantasy. But what we miss most is his experience and support. “I want Boggs dead, preferable with a silver stake driven through whatever blackness serves as his heart.” I took another sip, my back itchy from the icy hate enshrouding each word. The speculative look in her eyes still bothered me. “Boggs didn’t kill your mom,” I said, watching her intently. “Or your dad. And booze would have done as well as coke.” “Coke is far more dangerous than booze.” “Some would agree.” “You don’t?” “Not really.” “Perhaps you don’t fully understand. Boggs brings in a ton at a time. If he died, lives would be saved.” “Hit Boggs and his people will take over within hours. Or others will.” The defensive shields had weakened. A better sense of her tugged at me. “I can’t put my feelings aside. I don’t think I want to.” “You best give it a try.” “Why?” “Maybe Tony said it. You wouldn’t like jail.”

24–Bob McElwain

“No. I wouldn’t.” As if suddenly remembering where she was, she glanced at her watch. Her shoulders squared as her chin lifted. “I’m running late. If you’ll excuse me, I must pick up a client in Dallas at six.” “Good luck,” I commented, guessing it was close to three. She stood, permitting herself half a smile at ignorance. “I am a pilot, you may recall. I’ll be taking a Lear.” “Have a good trip,” I managed. She turned and was out of sight within a few long determined strides. All the signs had shouted of ruthless executive, upward bound, with more than a pinch of pure bitch binding the whole. Yet I was intrigued. What was it? This hardy specimen wasn’t beautiful in any classic sense. Still, the whole of her had grabbed at me. I felt inexplicably alone, despite those crowding the tables about me. I finished the beer and hurried back to the park, earnestly hoping Tony was still there. I’ve never seen a cab in Los Angeles when I needed one.

CHAPTER 3 It had been another long day, when I pulled behind the house and parked. The sun had dropped below the hills, leaving all in the shadows of evening. I climbed out of the car and squatted on my heel to give Duchess the scratch of welcome she expected. I was beat. A day of digging up info at the UCLA library can be as exhausting, in its own way, as one spent with a shovel. No one had followed me. There’d been no sign of anyone down by the road or on the open hillsides. I broke off scratching the dog and went inside. At the windows, I examined all I could see. If Boggs came for me, how in hell could I stop him? The question had driven me from bed this morning, and to UCLA. El Viento is Boggs’ legitimate front. El Viento. The Wind.

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A lethal wind in this case, whipping up stormy clouds of white powder. Was there a way at the man through his assets? I know little about ships or planes, and nothing at all about dollars counted in millions. The day of study hadn’t helped much. With topics of such scope, I’d accomplished little more than learn where answers might be found, if I could come up with the right questions. I had data. I knew a Dutch Coaster was a small freighter carrying from three to fifteen hundred tons at eight to ten knots, that a number of ancient DC-3s were still flying. Hundreds of facts had been crammed into the memory banks. Leading where? The size of a ship is incomprehensible. I remembered pieces of the description of the passenger liner, La France. Eight three-story boilers. Turbines rated at 175,000 horsepower. Four prop shafts near two feet across, each weighing fifty-eight tons, rotating a fiftysix thousand pound prop close to three revs a second. Mind bending facts. A Dutch Coaster is a tugboat, compared to a passenger liner. But to a fellow like me, who thinks the 426 Hemi in my ancient Dodge is power, even the small Coasters are monstrous. Size alone protects Boggs’ assets. Then there are the natural barriers. The acreage of an airport shrinks a man. That of a harbor, infinitely more. I sighed, turning back toward the kitchen. I needed time to pull it all together. I doubted Boggs was planning to let me have it. The futile search for a way to duck Denty’s funeral tomorrow, turned the meal of leftovers into tasteless paste. I was tucking away clean dishes when the phone rang. I picked up and said, “Macklen here.” “This is Wendy Katlan. I’d like to offer you a drink.” The enunciation was precise, the voice pitched low. She sounded as if she was ordering a typewriter and expecting immediate delivery. “Why?” I asked. “I’d like to know more of your plans for dealing with Harry Boggs.”

26–Bob McElwain

“I haven’t a clue.” “Then perhaps I can help.” I didn’t see how. Hatred makes for poor strategy. On the other hand, I had none at all. “When?” “Would this evening be convenient?” “Sure.” “About nine? The bar at The Barn?” “On Roscoe?” “Yes.” She hung up. The abruptness startled me. I had half a mind to call back and tell her to go jump. But I had nothing better to do. *** The Barn features bright red, cotton table clothes over picnic tables, surrounded by wooden benches. The specialty is spare ribs and the long salad bar heaped with all manner of goodies at prices that bring in families. The noisy din was fading at this hour. Earlier guests had already left with youngsters needing to be tucked into bed. The bar carries the same motif. Wendy was seated near the center of the room. Her neutral expression clashed with the bursts of boisterous laughter that frequently erupted throughout the room. There was no hint of anger; that was a plus. The charcoal gray blazer softened the squared set to her shoulders. She greeted me with a polite smile, saying, “I’m glad you could make it.” “Me, too,” I replied as I sat down opposite her. I wasn’t sure either of us had meant what we’d said. The waitress set a vodka gimlet in front of her. “What would you like, sir?” she asked. “Jack Daniels on the rocks.” When the waitress nodded and turned away, I asked, “How was your flight to Dallas?” “Routine, but profitable.” She sipped her drink, studying me with a subdued version of the speculation I’d seen before. When the waitress served my drink, I took a healthy swallow. I wanted Wendy to quit looking at me that way.

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Seeing her comfortably ensconced behind the facade of the executive, it didn’t seem possible she would have used her gun at the park. But it had yesterday. Maybe nothing had changed except the image she was projecting. I tried to picture the narrow waist, hidden below the table. She was effectively suppressing all hints of sexuality. I was fascinated. If she sensed my thoughts, she avoided acknowledging even that. When she decided she’d had enough of my examination, she said, “You’re something of a puzzle.” “How’s that?” “I ran a credit check. You don’t exist financially.” “I like it that way.” She mulled it over, then said, “It surprised me. In the air charter business, we need fast accurate profiles of new clients. The firm we use has never failed us.” How much should I tell? I’ve worked hard to build the barriers. “What I have is in Nelder, Inc., a Nevada corporation,” I said. “My name doesn’t come up much.” Briefly she inspected my worn plaid shirt and denims. “You’re doing well then?” “Depends on your definition. I buy houses that need fixing, then sell or rent them. And I win more than I lose at poker.” “Poker? That’s difficult to believe.” “There’s a sure way to find out.” “No thanks. Katlan Air is on the pass line every single day. Poker would be an unnecessary risk.” “Too bad. You’d be good.” “What made you say that?” I shrugged. “You’re obviously bright. I’ve a hunch you read people well. And, like now, you’re able to hide your thoughts.” “That didn’t sound like a compliment.” “It wasn’t.” I finished my drink and motioned for another. “What else do you want to know about me?” “Whatever you’re willing to share.” “Why?”

28–Bob McElwain

“I’m not sure. I suppose I’m only interested in how you’ll stop Boggs.” “What makes you think I can?” “I am a fair judge of people, as you suggested. I pointed out yesterday you seem capable.” “There must be more.” “My brother, Floyd, flew in Nam. He has contacts. Your war record is unusual.” “Records don’t tell it all.” “That’s true. Floyd says yours are incomplete.” “In what way?” “You were the leader of an elite team, yet the group designation is not given. Apparently you were frequently sent into places we weren’t supposed to be. Those ventures aren’t mentioned either.” “How’d Floyd pick up all that?” “Through Tim Jackson. I understand he was with you for a time.” “One of the very best, until a mine blew his legs off.” “Floyd didn’t mention that.” “Folks generally don’t. Mention that part of war, I mean.” The words came out with unintended harshness. I took a goodly swallow and waited for the bite. I told my tongue to lighten up and said, “You’ve gone to some trouble. What was the point?” “If Boggs attacks, you’ll fight back. I wanted to be able to judge your chances.” “How do you see them?” “Slim to none. But there is a way.” “Expect I know what you’re thinking.” “I’m sure you do. Kill him before he kills you. It’s the only reasonable solution.” The words were spoken softly, but harshness made them sound particularly ugly. “I don’t think you ought to, Wendy. And I’m not planning to.” Bitterness flared in the bright brown eyes. “Would money help?” she asked bluntly. I’d been right about what lay behind her speculations. With my

Lethal Wind–29

hands under the table, I clinched my fists. Sometimes it helps me soften the words. “Don’t take that further, Wendy.” I lowered my voice. “I’m no damned mercenary. Frankly your obsession makes me wonder if you’re entirely sane. Whatever, look somewhere else for your hired killer.” Her anger surged. I watched intently as she fought for control. I knew how deeply she hated the man, that it went far beyond reasonable bounds. So I was surprised at how quickly she was able to restore the calm business-like exterior. “You misunderstood. I only want to help.” The timber of her voice had dulled. The crisp enunciation was lacking. “Leave it there. I misunderstood.” Looking for a way to close down the subject, I said, “I had an idea about Varnac Hulls.” “And that is?” she asked, clearly uninterested. “A class action suit against the company. Make a case the plant is unsafe. They use resin in boat hulls. It burns easy, hot, and fast.” “It’s a thought. But even if we succeeded, it would only inconvenience Boggs.” “Tony says there’s a legit thirty mil profit in the deal. Snag that chance away and he’d be stung real good. Then there’s your grandmother.” “Yes. It would mean a great deal to her.” Hesitantly she considered the idea. The speculative glances that had bothered me were softer, more subdued now. I seemed to be less an object, more flesh and blood. She took charge, steering the discussion into innocuous, untroubled waters. It took time, but she finally agreed Shelly Mann had a way with drums and that it was proper to call jazz, music. Behind it all, I was sure her mind was racing, that she hadn’t shifted focus from Boggs. I worked at keeping the casual dialog alive. I was able to demonstrate I’d read a book. I also displayed a distinct unawareness of current events. I don’t read newspapers nor watch TV. That brought a lovely smile and the claim that such failure was traitorous to the American way.

30–Bob McElwain

When I suggested I might need a plane and pilot, she looked at me sharply, then began asking questions. Yes. I was thinking of a jet, one with inter-continental range. For two to three weeks. When my jaw dropped at the quoted figures, she launched into a crisp explanation of how a charter business operates. She straightened in her seat when she began talking of her hopes for Katlan Air. She and Floyd had reached a plateau that provided adequate income. Now it was time to launch a pattern of growth. Each word and graceful gesture offered clues to what lay behind the business facade. Those impressions I could catch, pleased me. She glanced at her watch. As if some internal rheostat were being adjusted downward, vitality faded. Staring down at the table, she said, “You’re right, you know.” “How’s that?” “There is no rational justification for my hatred of that man.” She glanced again at her watch, then said, “I should be going.” “Think I’ll finish my drink,” I said, watching her closely. When she looked up at me, her eyes reflected inner confusion. “I am sorry,” she said softly. “I had no right to ask such a thing of you.” “That’s so.” She held my glance while she stood. When she turned and walked away, her stride was much shorter than I remembered. *** It was near midnight when I got home. I was glad to see Duchess, but the house seemed empty. I should have invited Wendy up. She certainly would fill any emptiness. But I wasn’t even sure I liked her. Fascinated, yes. Who wouldn’t be? I poured coffee and settled into the rocker on the porch, scratching Duchess’ head. When I quit, she lay down. As the moon inched up over the mountains, it was Wendy I thought of, not Boggs. When the moon lifted clear of the peaks, I went back inside and rinsed the cup. The phone rang. It was Tony.

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“Watch your ass,” he said hoarsely. “Two cops and the Larsons were wasted an hour back. Those damned Song Birds again.” An intense tremble rippled down my back. My mind dashed down a dozen trails, simultaneously. When I came out of it, I was looking up at the M1A. Fear was back, bowing the mental shoulders. I glanced down at Duchess. Her face held that worried-doggie look. “Damn,” was all I could manage to say into the extended silence. “Yeah,” Tony agreed. “Any chance of making a case?” “Hap and I are at it. With two cops down, we’ll have help. We could get lucky.” “If that’s a plan, how would you rate it?” “It’s not worth shit.” He slammed the receiver down. I hung up slowly. The palms were damp with sweat and the small of my back was oddly chilled. I realized my eyes had been searching the trees near the road and examining breaks in the hillside that could be cover for a gun. It was unlikely Boggs knew where I was, but there was no point to gambling. I’d be safer in the hills. I reached up toward the gun rack, then paused, leaving the arm to its own devices. Could I do it? Without shredding the patiently rebuilt patchwork quilt of my soul? Was there another option? Angrily I snatched the rifle, checked the action, rammed home a clip, and armed the piece. Bitter memories abounded as I slung the belt of clips over my shoulder, then the rifle. The night held an unnatural reddish glow, invisible to others. With the Starlight scope and blankets, I started down the draw without sound, in a manner that should have been long forgotten. Even the dog seemed to join in the search for quiet. They wouldn’t come up the open hillside. They’d use the cover of Ned’s place, and take him out as they came. Wonderful news to bring your neighbor. At the edge of the porch, I called out, “Ned?” When the door opened, he started out. Not much more than the brim of the worn Stetson was showing when he stopped at sight of the rifle. He disappeared. When he stepped onto the porch, the

32–Bob McElwain

Winchester carbine was cradled in the crook of his arm. “Mite a trouble, son?” he asked, is his soft slow way. “Maybe more than we can handle.” “Thet so?” His ancient eyes scanned the trees down to the road. I told him about the Dentons and Larsons and what might come, ending with, “We best sleep out.” He nodded slowly, light through the open door reflecting off silvery white hair under the hat brim. The worn Levi shirt and pants clung to the slim, wiry frame as if tailored. “I’ll be about a hundred feet above my place,” I said. “About the same distance this side of the old oak.” He nodded. “Thet draw.” He pointed with the Winchester. “There’s a little bitty cave, mebbe eighty feet up.” “Got it.” He turned back inside for what he’d need. Then, with that crab -like, horseman’s gait, he started up the hillside, agility contradicting his age. I watched the drive to the road until he was out of sight, then turned back toward my place. On the hillside, I mounted the Starlight. I had an unobstructed view of the house and the hillside below, clear to the road. With the M1A, I could hit anything I could see. If I cared to. Did I? What I wanted was to become lost in a pair of light brown eyes, perched above squared shoulders, last seen draped with a charcoal gray blazer. I began a scan with the scope. Duchess, lying beside me, fearfully awaited the crashing thunder of exploding rounds. She couldn’t know this was anything more than target practice. It was just as well.

CHAPTER 4 The rising sun and rocky ground brought me awake much earlier than is healthful. I made the mistake of opening one eye. Duchess snatched the chance. I let her wet tongue have its scratchy way with my face. At the sound of the horse in the draw, I struggled up. Only

Lethal Wind–33

half awake, I made my way down the hillside as Ned came up on the black stallion. “Mornin’,” he drawled, stretching the word into three syllables. “Glad you left off good.” “It’s been light fer a couple a hours,” he chided. “I’m not much into early, Ned.” He chuckled. “Fer a fact.” Cuddling the Winchester, he dug out a cigarette. He struck a match and smoke drifted up under the hat brim shadowing his eyes. “Ya leavin’?” I nodded. “Denty’s funeral is at ten.” “I’ll mebbe do some ridin’,” he drawled. “I ain’t seen ’nough a these hills of late.” His eyes turned toward the road, even though we couldn’t see it from here. “Ya still got them fancy radios?” “Yeah. I’ll leave one on the porch and call before coming up.” He nodded. “I reckon we’ll make out.” I dug deeply for words, but good ones eluded me. “Thanks, Ned. The help’s appreciated.” “What’s neighbors fer?” “Mostly they don’t expect to duck machine gun fire.” He grinned. “It mebbe goes with ya livin’ so close.” The grin faded. “Besides, bein’ shot at livens things up, it does.” He touched heels to the black stallion and rode off. The hasty shower did nothing for the morning grumps. Nor did slipping into my best coat, slacks, and shoes. I locked up and bent to give Duchess a goodbye scratch. At the car, I tucked the rifle into the trunk. The Dodge has size. It has mass. They used a lot of steel in 1966. Today I’d have felt better in a tank. *** I’d picked up Lencho Cabral at 9:30. He’d been with our team in Nam. We’re friends and have been since we’d met. But there’s an off-beat facet. I’m Jefe, the boss. To be argued with, cajoled, even snookered, but never thwarted.

34–Bob McElwain

In counter balance, orders were not issued to Private Cabral, even though the paired silver bars gave me the right. Orders were meaningless to a six-four, two-hundred-fifty pound giant who was likely the best I’d known in a jungle. Suggestions were made, considered, amended, then acted upon. Decisively. Ruthlessly. When we got to the cemetery, the service had begun. We joined Tony at the edge of the crowd gathered around the four ugly gaping wounds in the earth. Tony’s tie was snugged up, the blonde hair neatly groomed. He was deep within himself, blue eyes empty of thought or emotion. Lencho stood close to attention, full lips stretched grimly across the broad face. Deep, broad pock marks were accented by the bright May sun. The hair had been trimmed for the occasion, but there was still a wealth of it, thick and black, combed back on top, down on the sides, flowing into the full beard, punctuated by the bristling moustache. At the whisper of feet on grass, I whirled, my hand moving toward the Colt. Lencho had a fix on his .44 magnum. Tony’s turn was more casual, but he was ready. It was Wendy. She hesitated, startled, then came on, her expression appropriately solemn, unreadable. She was wearing black, a jacket, skirt, and pumps. She stopped beside me as we turned back to face the shiny oak caskets. Why was she here? She hadn’t known Denty. Our last parting had been markedly less than cordial. Was she still hoping to help me point the Colt? Maybe it was only her Boggs trip, a gathering of evidence for the trial in which she’d be judge and executioner. Oddly content she was here, I let it go. We were far enough back I didn’t have to listen to the words. I hoped the ceremony was helping some of those present. It was meaningless to Denty, Edi, Patsy, and little Joey. And to me. I’m not into funerals. I don’t need reminding of my own mortality. At the first stirring of the crowd, the four of us turned slowly and started down the grassy slope.

Lethal Wind–35

Hard, flat, staccato auto-fire shredded the solemn quiet. I crashed into Wendy, driving her to the ground, rolling with her off the curb into cover between parked cars. Rounds screamed past. Others ripped into cars beside us. Lencho, crouched behind a large, granite tombstone, was pulling the magnum free. Tony, crumpled on the grass, clutched his stomach. The sky and all about me turned misty red. I didn’t remember having pulled the Colt. My left hand rested on Wendy’s lower calf, above the bloody gash. I tossed her my handkerchief, then glanced behind me. Mourners ran wildly to the points of the compass. Some stood or wandered in dazed confusion. A few lay flat, urging others to follow suit. I didn’t look at Tony again. Watching the trees and shrubs to the front, I called out, “I make it three, Lencho.” “Si,” he growled. “Cover me.” The magnum roared, answered by bursts of auto-fire. Bullets notching asphalt added quickness to my dash across the street. Rounds ripped and tore at metal as I dove behind a pickup, gulping for air. Sweat poured down over the ribs. On hands and feet, I scrambled awkwardly alongside the parked cars, keeping my butt below window levels. The magnum exploded again. Lencho carries few extra rounds. Time was short. The angle to the trees and shrubs increased as I moved across gaps between cars, adding to the risk of being seen. Having pressed luck, I dove to the grass, dug out the speed-loaders, and rolled off the curb under a car. Auto-fire was spotty as if the gunmen weren’t sure what to do. One man was using a giant yellow pine for cover against Lencho. It was a clear, open shot of seventy feet for me. The second was further to my right, behind a decorative fountain that provided equal protection from me. The third was even further right, out of sight. I laid down the speed-loaders, locked my left hand to my right wrist, pulled down on the gunman behind the pine, and squeezed off the round in textbook fashion. Incoming fire ripped into the car above me as I watched the body tumble toward the ground.

36–Bob McElwain

The gunman behind the fountain rose slightly, turning toward the crumpling figure. Lencho punched two rounds into his chest. They exploded out his back like red shotgun wadding. Rushing feet announced the third man was doing what all three should have done earlier. He was running. I grabbed the speed-loaders, struggled free of the car, and lunged up. I’ve too much size for Olympic speed, but the legs move the body along. When I broke through the oleanders, he was two hundred feet ahead. Three more strides and I knew I would catch him. Would he talk? A leg shot would stop him. I could only hope. I drove harder. He must have realized he was losing. He swerved, then whirled to fire. At the range there was no choice against his machine-pistol. The chance for talk had vanished. It would have to be a body shot and a good one. I dove, waited for impact, then steadied the pistol. Rounds chewed up sod to my right as the Colt fired. Reflex held the gunman’s finger on the trigger. He emptied the clip into scattered chunks of sky. The body crumpled to the ground, a twisted, shrunken caricature of human form, unmoving. There was no point in getting up. Tony was dead or near to it. This gunman couldn’t tell me anything. The mental screen overflowed with kaleidoscopic visions of ships, planes, coke, and death. When the image of Boggs’ smiling face emerged more clearly, I was able to stand. The eyes searched each shadow as the hands reloaded. Lencho disappeared into the cemetery offices. He’d be checking on an ambulance. I trudged down the hill toward Tony. The crowd had separated into groups. Terror drifted about the slope. Kneeling figures, huddled, told me at least two mourners were down. These facts were noted peripherally. Beyond a glance at Wendy’s pale face, attention was riveted on the still figure that was, or had been, Tony Haggen. The crimson stains on his shirt and hands told me nothing of internal damage.

Lethal Wind–37

I squatted on my heels and gently placed fingers on his neck. Blood pulsed. As strongly as it should? I couldn’t tell. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until, involuntarily, I found myself gulping air. Towering above me, Lencho demanded, “He is alive, no?” “Yeah.” There wasn’t anything to add. Lencho knew as well as I that Tony’s life hung by a thread and no one could know if or when it might snap. The big man backed away to lean against a car. He folded burly arms across his chest, the .44 magnum dwarfed by the huge fist. Watchful eyes guarded all. I slid off my heels onto my butt, the Colt clutched in my fist. The head was heavy. It fell to my knees. No doubts remained. If Boggs will hit a cop in front of this many witnesses, I’d be easy. Anywhere. Anytime. I had to move. Build a plan. Fast. Then execute it precisely. But I couldn’t get beyond the soft labored gasps from the man beside me nor thoughts of his tenuous claim to life. Wetness spreading across the legs and crotch informed me I was crying. Vaguely I was aware of a familiar, soapy scent, that Wendy was kneeling beside me. She placed her hand on mine. It should have helped. It didn’t. Sirens brought me out of it. I rubbed my eyes with the torn, greasy sleeve of the jacket and looked at her. She might be cold rolled steel, but now her eyes showed only sadness and sympathy for me and a man she’d only met. “How’s the leg?” I asked hoarsely. The bloodied handkerchief was tied tightly at mid-calf. “It’s not serious.” “Anything else?” “No. But I’m terrified. And awed. I’ve never seen anyone move so quickly.” “It comes from being shot at. You learn or die.” I tucked the Colt away and looked down at Tony. Nothing changes. Not even the sick, sour, sense of relief that it’s not your precious blood pooling on the ground. The only warning had been the whistling zip of rounds. Tony may not have heard even that. He might never hear anything again.

38–Bob McElwain

CHAPTER 5 Each minute inside Foothill Division seemed an hour, seated at the long, white, Formica table under bright, blinding fluorescents. Tension mounted with only the concrete walls to constrain it. Another cop was down. These men desperately needed to act. I understood, but it didn’t make it easier to handle. Sweat dripped from the armpits, despite the air-conditioned chill. After the statements, came the questions. It’s a cop thing. They sound just plain dumb, repeating themselves, as if they’d not heard the original response. It must work. They all do it. It’s not boring. Hap Skyler shuffled in and leaned against the wall. The scuffed and scarred motorcycle boots showed little of the original black finish. An occasional listless glance toward us was the only sign he wasn’t dozing. He perked up at the mention of our gun permits. Mine’s federal, a gift of appreciation. They nosed around it, not wanting much. Feds do weird things cops stay away from. It was enough some computer coughed up verification. Lencho holds his permit courtesy of the mission town of San Fernando. It also grants the license for El Oso, Lencho’s bar and restaurant, where poker is played behind doors never opened for inspection. These were LA cops. They knew of the poker and that Lencho makes law as needed. They didn’t like what they knew or the jurisdiction of San Fernando. When the third repetition of the drill began, Lencho announced he’d had enough by leaning back in his chair and smiling expansively. Cops frown on folks shooting one another; we had enough trouble. But if Lencho had his way, there’d be more. I wanted to kick him under the table, but I was too far away. A cop named Norris took his turn. Anger poured forth from the eyes. The face had an unnatural reddish tint. “Okay,” he said to Lencho, “There were three men. Right?”

Lethal Wind–39

“You asked that before,” Lencho replied. The broadening smile did not soften stern, fierce features. “So I’m asking again. What’s funny?” Lencho shrugged. It’s a gesture that defies description. It begins at the back of the neck, ripples across the massive shoulders and ends with a near unnoticeable shake of the head. It shouts of scoffing scorn. “So maybe there were four,” he said. “What?” Norris cried, his eyes bulging. “It is something with the hearing, perhaps. I said maybe there were four.” “What’s this crap?” Norris demanded. “I sometimes don’t see so good.” “You lousy bastard. You’re putting me on.” “It’s not hard to do, I think.” Norris seemed about to burst. All it would take was the wrong word. Bastard rolls off Lencho’s back like water. But no matter how good these men might be, if wetback, or the like, slipped out, the result would be havoc. I had to get Norris’ attention. “So he’s putting you on,” I said. “Haven’t we all had enough?” Norris leaned toward me. “Who asked you?” he demanded, pushing rage at me. I had his attention. I didn’t want it. Nor the surge of my own anger that brought unplanned words. “Expect you figure you look mean as hell. You don’t, you know.” “How do I look, mister.” “Just ugly.” Into the brittle silence, Hap spoke for the first time. “Norris?” Cop faces tilted toward the floor. Norris was beside himself, too far out on the limb to turn back toward the trunk. “I sorta think we forgot somethin’,” Hap continued. “What?” Norris snarled, backing away from the table as Hap moved up beside him. “These dudes were targets, man. Not shooters.” “But hell, Hap,” Norris said, shaking his head in confusion. “Let’s move ’em out and get on with our gig.”

40–Bob McElwain

Norris glared at us, then stormed from the room. Two others followed him. Copies of our statements were brought in for signature and our pistols were returned. Within minutes, we were alone with Hap. “Want a lift?” he asked. “It’d help,” I said. “What’s the latest on Tony?” Hap shrugged. “They were still cuttin’, last I heard.” We followed the shambling figure to his battered Ford and climbed in. It was a wreck, inside and out. The engine sounded solid. All I really knew of this man was that Tony respected him. But he’d eased us out of the station. And I remembered him on Denty’s boat, listening. Could it be the man matched the car? Power buried? Passing Paxton on Foothill, Hap said sleepily, “We’re bein’ followed. You wanta lose ’em?” The heart slammed into the ribs. I needed one of them, close, but not with a cop around. Lencho’d been dozing in the back seat. The eyelids didn’t move as he pulled the.44 and settled it in his lap. “Any chance it’s your team, looking for more than a statement?” I asked. “Nah.” Hap glanced again at the rearview mirror. “I can bust ’em, if you want.” I tried to picture this raggedy, shabby cop arresting anyone, but couldn’t get it done. “No,” I said. “Let them be.” He turned to look at me. “You sure?” I could see it now. The look was that of a prehistoric reptile, watching potential prey, weighing the merit of attack against the effort required. A suitable explanation was expected immediately. “I’m the last one,” I said. “The sooner they come, the sooner I’ll get some sleep.” “It could be that last long one. You dig?” “Yeah.” The reptilian look faded. “I oughta bust ’em,” he said, adding a shrug.

Lethal Wind–41

The indifference was genuine. I was Tony’s friend, not his. He ignored the car behind, waited for a break in traffic, then turned left toward the cemetery. He stopped behind the Porsche. With his hand on the radio mike, he asked, “Want me to deal with Tony’s wheels?” “Can you wire it, Lencho?” The deep chuckling base rumbled through the car. “Why insult me, Jefe?” “We’ll handle it,” I said. Hap shrugged and reached into the back seat. He handed me a file folder. “Tony was goin’ to give you a copy. If you get right to it, you might have time to scoop up on a couple of things.” “My time’s that short?” “Absolute, man.” “Harold Boggs” was printed boldly across the tab. It had a good weight. “Somebody’s been working,” I commented. “Lots of somebodies.” My glance lingered on the tan sedan parked below us. I could need a cop’s help. With Tony gone . . . . No. Damn it. Not gone. Only unavailable. Mentally I took a deep breath. Hap Skyler paled in comparison to Tony. Still he did want Boggs. “But what’s here,” I said, hefting the folder, “doesn’t help much.” “No way, man.” The eyes had more luster. “They don’t give me promotion type gigs. They dumped on me with this ’cause they don’t want no cherished ass kicked. Nobody’s gonna make a case outa that.” “What if I can add something?” I asked, tapping the folder. Hap shook his head in mock sadness. “So you hit good with a pistol? What else you got?” “Nothing that’s for sure.” I eased out of the car, arms heavy, tired in that bone-weary way. Lencho pulled himself out after me and turned toward the road and sedan. “Keep in touch, Hap. I might get lucky.” He tossed me a mocking, disparaging look, then drove off.

42–Bob McElwain

“Strange, that little man,” Lencho commented. “It would be easy to low rate him, I think.” “I hope you’re right. We may need him.” “Si,” the big man replied, grinning broadly. “You said we. I am invited, no?” I nodded. “First, the cabrons in that car?” “No. They’ll keep.” I explained how I wanted to get home. Before I reached the Dodge, the Porsche engine roared. I followed, the Colt in my lap, my attention on the rearview mirror. The sedan trailed. There were only two men, both black. I tried to convince myself they were Song Birds, that they’d make no move without greater numbers. Lencho slowed as he passed Ned’s drive. Slowing even further, I examined each rock, tree, and culvert. Only the left hand was on the wheel; the Colt filled the right fist. It had never seemed so far from Ned’s drive to mine. Lencho stopped just beyond the cattle guard. I pulled up behind him and grabbed the radio. To my call, Ned responded with, “Jest me an’ the dog.” I hadn’t realized I’d been so worried, until I heard that drawl. Ned was safe and they were only behind, not up front as well. “Watch the tan sedan behind us,” I said. “Got ya,” Ned replied. Feeling dangerously exposed, I motioned to Lencho and powered up the rutted drive behind him. In the rearview mirror, I watched the sedan pass. Lencho drove on around to the garage. I stopped near the porch in plain view of the road. Duchess was puzzled because I generally park in back, but her greeting was typically enthusiastic. A shiver coursed its way down my spine as I scanned the road and scratched the dog. The car was an announcement I was home, an invitation to the worst kind of visitors. Lencho lumbered around from behind the house, keeping his back to the road as if unaware of the sedan. When Ned came up on the black stallion, I asked, “Did they stop around the bend?”

Lethal Wind–43

“They did fer a fact. Ya can’t see from here, but one’s on thet outcrop, watchin’.” “Good,” I said, then told him why I thought so. When I told him about Tony, his response was predictable. “Might do to amble down thet way. There’re plenty a holes in these hills. We wouldn’t have to do no diggin’.” “They’ll be along, Ned. We’ll deal with it then.” The old man looked away and fished for a cigarette. Lencho scowled, shaking his massive head. It was going to be a tough sell. “If you’re going to let them come, good men must back you,” Lencho said, challenging me to an argument won. I shook my head. “You’re rubbing up side enough law now. Let me deal with this.” He’d flood the place with marksmen, if I didn’t convince him. “They’ll come in through Ned’s place,” he said, “up that wash.” “And where it flattens out, there’s no cover.” “They’ll have those MAC-10s.” He turned. “Could you have stopped those three today without my gun?” “I doubt it.” “Jefe. You need good men beside you.” Smoke curled up under Ned’s hat. There were no words because he never bothers to state the obvious. I walked to the back of the car with Lencho trailing. I opened the trunk and pointed. The sleek, trim lines of the rifle were blurred in shadow. “With this, nothing can move out there I can’t hit from up in those rocks.” I nodded toward where I’d spent the night. “I’ve men you’d never see,” Lencho retorted. He was right. Capable men would find cover on the sloping hillside. If they were patient and kept up a good fire pattern, they’d overpower the lone rifle. I was gambling those who came would not be that good, or that patient. “Are you forgetting that scope? I can punch out an ear at six hundred yards.” The scowl deepened. “They’ll come at night.” “There’s the Starlight.”

44–Bob McElwain

He wasn’t convinced. I closed the trunk and we moved back to the front of the car. “Ned is right,” Lencho said, his head jutting forward. “We should take those cabrons in that car, then hit Boggs.” He jammed the hamsized fists into his waist and leaned closer. “Denty? The Larsons? Now Tony? The worm must be fed to fishes.” “Good people would die in the doing of it.” “They’re not dying now?” “Look, Lencho, I drove past Boggs’ place yesterday. I didn’t dawdle because Tony said cops and feds were watching. But believe me. He’s ready. It’s a fortress, perched on a knoll, with an army inside.” “Cops, even feds, they are of little concern,” Lencho said scornfully. “And this little army? It is always the same. We take them one at a time.” “We have to do this my way or there’ll be questions we can’t answer.” “Jefe, I am confused. I do not understand you, perhaps.” Ned snorted. “I’m a mite puzzled myself. If ’n ya stop ’em, Boggs’ll send more. It’s him ya gotta git.” “No one has proved Boggs is behind all this.” Ned turned away. Lencho sighed, then leaned even closer, pushing the bristling beard to within inches of my chin. “You would wait until the gun is in the ear? What is this proof you require?” “Not what’s needed in court. But I have to know. If I can take one alive, he’ll talk.” “Alive?” “Yeah.” “Here.” Lencho snagged out the .44 and shoved it at me butt first. “Why wait? Suck on the barrel and pull the little lever. Then Ned and I will do what must be done. No?” “I need your help. Both of you. But we’ll do it my way or I go alone.” Lencho turned and glared up at Ned. “I ask you, are these the words of a man of intelligence? A leader of men?” “It don’t seem so.”

Lethal Wind–45

“Make up your minds. Now.” They were right and I knew it. I might well need more backup than even Lencho could provide. And trying to take one alive increased the risks ten fold. Lencho sighed, then shrugged, defeated by the ultimatum. “Si, Jefe. But I will talk to some people. We must make arrangements for your funeral.” “I’m not planning to die,” I said. “Who the hell does?” “It’s got to be my way.” “It will be so. But you’re full of shit, I think.” The old man made no comment, but he agreed. He’d only have put it differently. “Ned,” I said, “we’ll put Tony’s car in the garage, then go check on him. Expect those fellows will follow, but we’ll lose them. They might send someone up to wait for me. If they do, stay out of it. I’ll call from the road, but it could be late.” “I see why they upped ya to captain. Them’s right nice orders.” “Call them suggestions.” “I’ll git ’em done, whatever ya call ’em.” He reined the big black away and rode off. After blocking up the Porsche and hooking the battery to the trickle charger, I went inside and swapped the ruined coat and slacks for a clean shirt and denims. With Lencho beside me, I drove down the drive. On the canyon road, I held thirty until sure our company had come along. Starting into the tight hairpin curve, I slowed further. The instant the sedan disappeared from view, I gunned it. The 426 Hemi took charge. Minutes later, I powered onto the 210 Freeway, westbound, and let the engine wind. I whipped off at Hubbard and ran two sets of lights with appropriate caution, turning left under the overpass. Seconds later I was back on the freeway, parked at the side, eastbound. I gave it a good twenty minutes. There was no sign of the tan sedan or of anyone else interested in us.

46–Bob McElwain

*** At St. Mary’s Hospital, we were told Tony was still in surgery and directed to the waiting room. As we entered, we passed two men. They were cops. The other occupant wasn’t. It was Wendy and the pulse rate quickened. She didn’t know Tony well enough to hang around for two hours. Lencho nodded to her, then stretched out on the couch. I sat down and said, “I’m surprised you’re still here.” “I wanted to see if Tony would be all right.” I didn’t want to believe her. “How’s the leg?” I asked, looking at the tight neat bandage. “As I guessed, it’s not serious.” She’d been half-watching the television. Now she looked at me. “You saved my life this morning,” she said, working to hide an intense tremor. “Mostly you were between me and where I wanted to go.” “No doubt. But I’d have stood there until a bullet knocked me down. I had no idea what was happening.” “Except for Tony and two on the hillside, we were lucky.” We lapsed into silence that lengthened without strain, a quiet time that didn’t need filling. All that spoiled it was worries about Tony. “Do you know Herbert Yarnell?” Wendy asked, nodding toward the TV. “No,” I said, still thinking of Tony. But I’d seen the rugged, smiling face before. It was the man who’d gotten out of the limo at Selter Park. “He’s our State Attorney General. He’s running for the U.S. Senate. The woman in white behind him is his wife. Isn’t she lovely?” “She is that,” I replied, remembering the woman in the back seat of the limo. “His family has known mine for years. When I heard about the meeting at the park, I asked him to help. He didn’t hesitate. He’s of a new breed, completely committed to people.”

Lethal Wind–47

I didn’t want to discuss Yarnell’s commitments. I’ve never heard of a senator who died broke. The camera shifted to the spectators. I pointed. “The blonde woman up front, in the dark blue suit. Do you know her?” “It’s Madeline Osterlund. She’s extremely wealthy, by all accounts. Why do you ask?” “Just curious.” It was the woman who’d grabbed and stroked Yarnell’s arm so seductively. I looked again at the man’s beautiful wife and mentally shook my head. “I wonder if Osterlund is backing Yarnell?” “I really don’t know. I’m a society-page freak who picks up on names. She could contribute millions and not miss them.” “What would a fellow have to do to pick up a mil from her?” “Come on. You’re not suggesting he’s paying off in bed, are you?” “Expect it happens,” I answered, looking again at the man’s wife. “Why I . . . .” “Excuse me,” I interrupted. The doctor was talking to the cops. Lencho had caught it and followed me across the room. The doctor left the two men staring at the floor. “How’s Tony?” I asked. “Who wants to know?” the taller cop demanded. “I’m Scott Macklen. This is Lencho Cabral.” Wendy stepped up beside me. “And Wendy Katlan.” The shorter cop leaned toward his lanky partner. “Harvey, these are the guys who nailed those shooters at the cemetery.” Harvey glanced at each of us in turn, as if to verify what his partner had said. “It’s not good,” he said gruffly. “The holes have been plugged and they’ve loaded him with antibiotics.” “Are the big pieces okay?” He nodded slowly. “There’s a nicked kidney, but infection is the problem. There’re just too damned many holes.” “Any chance of seeing him?” “He’s closer to a casket than conversation.” He wandered off as if we weren’t even there. His partner nodded apology and followed him.

48–Bob McElwain

“Is he covered?” I called after them. “They might try again.” Harvey whirled, face drawn. “I sure the hell hope so. There’s a SWAT team here asking Christ Himself to bring them on in.” He turned, shoulders slumping, and continued down the hall. Lencho broke the silence. “It is not so good.” “But he is alive,” Wendy added. “And he’s tougher than most,” I contributed. None of us had found cheering words. Lencho shook his head, then looked up at me. When he looked at Wendy, I knew I was in trouble. “Why not give the lady a ride home?” His face brightened, his thoughts revealed in his eyes. “The day need not be a total loss.” “It appears your friends think alike,” Wendy commented. “Here is another, thrusting you upon me.” I felt my face turning red. Words fled. “What about my car?” Wendy asked Lencho. “It’s still at the cemetery.” “Leave the keys. It will be delivered to your door.” She hesitated, then fished keys from the purse and extended them. Lencho reached for the hand and kissed it. “And should this puny specimen bore you, dear lady, please call on me.” “Lencho, you must open up. Let your real self shine through. Your restraint hides too much.” He laughed hugely, then left with long plunging strides. “Is he that way with all women?” “With those he likes.” “Damnedably chauvinistic. That’s what it is. But he is interesting, don’t you think?” “He must be, judging from the look in your eyes.” “Jealousy? That could be a sign.” Whether good or bad, there wasn’t a clue I could read. ***

Lethal Wind–49

It wasn’t far to Wendy’s apartment, but it seemed that way. Neither of us spoke. I’d been careful leaving the parking lot. No one followed. I kept checking anyway. My mind overflowed with clashing thoughts and jumbled feelings. “There,” Wendy said, pointing, interrupting futile, mental meanderings. I pulled to the curb. “Would you like to come up?” she asked. It surprised me. What was she thinking now? “Sure,” I said, cutting the engine. I followed her up one flight, my gaze locked onto long, strong legs and trim hips sheathed in black. It distracted me, leading me a great distance from the ugliness with which I’d been preoccupied. Inside, she asked, “Would you like something to drink?” “Beer?” She turned into the kitchen, leaving me to gawk at the wonderfully feminine living room. The love seat was striped in white and pale pink. The white wicker chair held the pink theme in its cushions. There was no hint of the executive here. Could the taste evidenced by this warmth coexist in a mind space bent on hiring a killer? The false beam ceiling and one wall were done in knotty pine, the finish satiny smooth to my touch. When she’d snapped on the switch, several lamps had come on, all small and lovely, positioned to highlight some feature. The whole of it was showroom beautiful, yet a living place. Newspapers lay scattered on the floor near the chair. Guessing she preferred that spot, I settled into the love seat. Her return created a minor flap. For me, there’s always the male thing in the female place, with tantalizing suppositions and sexual overtones in the higher octaves. What if she also chose the love seat? Was I ready for that? She handed me a glass of beer, then erased uncertainty by sitting in the chair. She took a sip of white wine, then set the glass on the coaster on the end table.

50–Bob McElwain

With her toes, she slipped off her pumps, then reached up and undid the top three buttons of her blouse. She propped her heels on the coffee table and wiggled toes happy to be free of constraint. I had the feeling she knew precisely the impact she was having on me. On the other hand, maybe it was only that she was home. She’d rid herself of her shoes and accomplished the male equivalent to loosening the tie. If so, I’d never seen it done as seductively. Speaking softly, her voice pitched low, she shattered the mood. “You know who’s behind this slaughter.” “Everyone seems to, but it could as well be your friend Yarnell.” “That is utterly ridiculous.” “There’s no more proof against Boggs than Yarnell.” She took another sip of wine, her forehead furrowed in a thoughtful frown. “I watched you today. It was an awesome display of deadly skills. If anyone can get it done, you can.” “Kill Boggs, you mean?” “How else can you stop him?” “Is this a step forward? I’m to kill to save my hide? Not to fulfill some kinky fantasy of yours?” Confusion reigned. I liked what showed through. She shifted position in the chair, reaching for stability. The round, full cheeks were faintly flushed. She tossed her hair back with a flick of the head, then said, quietly, “That was the most terrible thought I’ve ever had.” “Hiring me to waste Boggs?” “Yes. I didn’t realize how far I’d taken it until you challenged me.” She shook her head, as if still not quite believing it. “I hired an attorney to file a class action suit, as you suggested.” She looked down at the floor, her face pensive. “If it’s successful, it will mean a lot to my grandmother, but little to me.” She raised her head and fixed her eyes on mine. “I want that vicious animal stopped.” “And you want me to do the stopping.” “It would seem you must.” She flicked her hair back again, watching me. “I saw your tears today. Sgt. Haggen is special to you. You won’t forget what’s happened. You’ll do something. I want to help.”

Lethal Wind–51

“How?” “Since I’ve no idea what you’re planning, I don’t know.” “I haven’t any plans.” “I can’t believe that.” She leaned forward. “Even if it’s true, you will, and soon. I want to be part of it. I’m resourceful. I do manage, even in off-the-wall situations. Surely there’s some way I can contribute.” Deepening shadows throughout the room reminded me of the hour, and Ned alone in the hills. I set down the empty glass and stood. “There’s no need to leave yet,” she said quietly. It was as close to a direct invitation as a fellow gets, an intriguing, exciting invitation. Blood coursed more swiftly. “Wendy, you’ve a beautiful place. I like it. And I’m pretty much gone on you too.” She watched me, eyes unblinking. “But I’ve got to go.” “Will you call?” “It’d likely be the boy-girl thing.” “As long as Boggs lives, any relationship would be short lived, don’t you think?” “You do hold a thought, don’t you?” “Yes. And I hope you call, whatever the reason.” Outside, tensions continued to mount. I’d thought distance would ease them. Damn. There was Ned to think about. And seduction is an oft used weapon. There were a host of valid reasons for leaving. I should have stayed.

CHAPTER 6 To fake out anyone waiting, I came in the long way, up Kagel Canyon. Mountains blocked the sun, shadowing the road. I was sure it was too early for company, but I stopped where the sedan had parked and picked up the radio. “You there, Ned?” “Yep. I ain’t seen nobody.” “I’ll be right up.”

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I dug the rifle from the trunk, tossed it on the seat, then accelerated around the curve and up the drive. Again I parked in the open. As I climbed out of the car, I couldn’t put aside the sense of unseen hands making slight adjustments to scopes, centering the cross hairs. Feeling a bit foolish, I ignored Duchess and moved quickly around behind the house, then knelt to say hello to her. For several moments I was overwhelmed with the absurdity of waiting in a fixed position for an unknown number of men with machine guns. I hadn’t noticed I was trembling until it began to fade. When Ned rode up, I abandoned scratching the dog, and futile thoughts. “I want to look this over,” I said, showing the folder. “It’s the police file on Boggs.” “I don’t see all thet good, if ’n it’s dark.” “I’ll be out before then.” The old man nodded and turned the stallion back toward the draw. Duchess stayed inches from my knee as I headed for the house. Even though she has her own doggie door, she waited excitedly beside me on the porch. She rushed inside, then stopped, ears and eyes searching for danger. This was her domain. I dropped the folder on the kitchen table and stacked my gear beside it. After tossing the hamburger steak into the skillet and adjusting the flame, I built a cup of coffee. Thumbing through the file, I grabbed at bits of it. I’ve a knack for remembering what’s been read and where. It helps. I can skip around and dig in where it’s needed. I poured off juice from a can of kidney beans, let them scorch along side the steak, then carried the skillet to the table. A lot was known about Boggs, but there were vast gaping holes. He personally prefers quiet kills with the knife. Then why did he call in the Song Birds for bloody, public butchery? The file gave no clue. Four pages detailed his twin-engine Beech Baron, parked at Burbank Airport. He can make Nassau with one stop. Or haul four

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hundred kilos from Mexico. Apart from photos and descriptions of Ed Jacobson and Karl Ulster, there was little mention of his coke dealings. I cleaned the skillet, poured more coffee, then found myself at the windows, scanning the hillside below. Last night’s sleep had been limited to short dozes. I’m not worth a damn without a full eight hours. I forced the shoulders back, breathing deeply. This is why one climbs the mountain with the seventy-pound pack of rocks. And runs or swims for miles. For endurance. There’s no way to prepare the soul. Reluctantly I turned back to the folder on the table. El Viento is ships, planes, and Varnac Hulls. The planes fly commuter routes within Southern California. The ships tramp the coasts of the Americas under Liberian registry with Greek crews. Liberia has no ship-certification requirements. The Greek captain answers only to the ship’s owner. With substandard vessels and illegal cargos, Boggs needed Liberian registry and Greek captains. Two hundred mil, Tony had said. The financials were indecipherable. With pencil and paper I collected scattered details and came up with a legal net worth of twenty-five mil and an annual income near five. But I knew millions were hidden here. Twenty-five mil accounted for. A hundred and seventy-five, whereabouts unknown. Maybe another thirty under the table in El Viento. Seventy-five in Nassau banks. The rest in coke and cash. Pure guesswork. La Cassadas disturbed me. The cascades, a lovely word, suggesting delicate, green ferns bordering a mountain stream. There was nothing lovely about it in this context. La Cassadas, based in the Netherlands Antilles, owned forty-nine percent of El Viento. The rattle of the cattle guard brought a dash to the windows, the rifle ready. It was Hap Skyler. I laid the rifle down and went outside to meet him. Duchess watched him intently as he climbed out of the car, accepting the new presence because I did. His stumbling, erratic gait

54–Bob McElwain

was out of sync, here on the hillside with the backdrop of mountains. Nor did the greasy hair or dingy, worn clothes fit in. “Coffee?” I asked. “Might as well.” Inside, I mixed two cups as he examined the rifle. His glance slid over the belt of clips to the steel box that protects the Starlight scope. He sat down, melting into the chair. “What brought you up here?” I asked. “When I got back to my desk, I scooped up on your sheet. The words are pretty, man. But it’s the words missin’ that sorta turned me on.” “How’s that?” “Little things.” He looked away. “Like if you bury it, it’s buried deep. Whether it’s a gun permit or a body.” His glance jumped back to mine. “Know what I mean?” It’s not easy to meet that cop stare without giving ground, shifting restlessly, adding to suspicions firmly lodged. “I think so.” He must have liked the answer. The harsh demanding look faded. “What’s the latest on Tony?” I asked. I wanted to know, but I also wanted to change the subject. “He’s alive,” Hap said listlessly. “They ain’t saying’ he’ll stay that way.” His glance flicked restlessly about the room. He focused on me for a moment. It made the skin feel scratchy. He waved at the notes on the table and asked, “Get any good from that?” “Some. Tell me more about how the money moves.” “Did you pick up on that Miami bank?” “City Savings?” He nodded, flashing an appraising look that might have held a touch of approval. “And La Cassadas?” “It looks like Boggs’ washing machine. Dirty money comes out clean at the other end.” Hap straightened in the chair. “It goes like this. Boggs takes only cashier’s checks. Then some scumbag carts a suitcase full to Miami. Banks are supposed to report deposits over ten grand. City

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Savings don’t bother. La Cassadas owns it, even if it don’t say so in that folder.” His look dared me to contradict him. When I didn’t, he continued. “From there, some’s got to end up with a Colombian processor. Most is salted away in Nassau in a brass plate bank. The clerk wouldn’t remember you any better’n a fire hydrant remembers the last mutt that lifted his hind leg.” He leaned back, interest sagging with the body. “How do I stop him, Hap?” “He’s got the money machine, man. There’s nothing can even slow it down.” “You must have something.” “There’s a car down the road with five scumbags workin’ on a flat. They’ve been at it about an hour.” The tremble started at the base of the skull. Waves rippled down the spine. The hands held steady. Hap watched, curiously intent. “I can bring in SWAT.” “No. Leave this to me.” “I thought you’d say that, but I can’t scoop up on the why.” “If they spot a cop, they’ll pick another place. I’m better off here.” “What’s the rest?” I hadn’t wanted to say more, but I couldn’t get past the eyes. “I need to talk to one of them.” “Like in those old westerns, you’re only goin’ to wing ’em. Shit. Your ass’ll be suckin’ up lead.” “I’ve got to know who sent them.” “You’re mental, man. Boggs sent ’em.” “So everyone says. But I need to know.” “Who cares what you need?” “I was hoping you did.” “Me?” He shook his head. “A bummer, man. A real downer. The civie’s plannin’ to commit suicide and askin’ me to let him be. It’s gigs like this that keep my name off the promotion list.” “It’ll be a good bust.”

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“Yeh. Better, even, if they chop you up good. With you so high on righteous, it could easy happen.” “So go for it.” He stood, shoulders slumped, the reptilian look back in the eyes. “You get an hour after the shootin’ starts. If I don’t get a call by then, there’s this dude I know, carves marble good.” He turned and fumbled his way out the door. Not among my strongest supporters. But he had left it to me. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted it this way. Lencho had offered riflemen. Hap had offered SWAT. Part of me wanted even more. I grabbed the gear, doused the lights and headed for the hillside. There’d be no sleep tonight, unless it was the long one Hap had mentioned. *** Ned sat beside me, propped against a granite slab. I envied the calm detached way he held the Winchester. I wasn’t calm. Or detached. Maybe he wasn’t either. Duchess interrupted her dozing, every few moments, to look at each of us worriedly. Seconds dragged into minutes, which converted to hours at the pace of a lagging snail. The shirt was damp, the ribs and back chilled by night breezes. Each scan with the Starlight was made with greater care. I urged the near full moon to hurry on its way across the heavens. They’d not come in its bright glare. I dug deeply for patience. The moon would set in about an hour, as physical law, not I, decreed. “I can’t see fer a darn,” Ned said softly. “Peek through thet fancy toy at them trees by my corral.” I did. They were there. Surely they’d wait for the moon to set. “You see fine, Ned.” “How many?” “Five,” I replied. And they weren’t waiting for anything. Moonlight isn’t enough for the ART IV scope and when it’s this bright,

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the Starlight’s no help over open ground. I’d lost the edge I’d counted on, being able to pick out targets, while invisible in darkness. I’d have to use open sights. It meant getting close. Too close. I hadn’t even considered this twist. Dampness turned to running sweat as the shadowy figures worked their way around the corral. “I’ve got to move, Ned.” “Take ’em from here like ya said.” “With this moon, both scopes are out. With open sights, I can’t hit accurately at this range. I’ve got to get closer.” “Ya’ll likely git dead.” “Then you shoot. Otherwise, hold off. I want only one kind of bullet found.” “Ya do like them orders.” Grimly he levered in a round. “It galls some, but I’ll do like ya say.” I waited to be sure they were advancing, then gripped the dog’s choke collar. We crossed the hillside in the cover of brush. The dog hadn’t picked up the scent. I didn’t want to be near her when she did. Blending the need for quiet and speed, I scrambled down the draw past the oak, then cut up to the back of the house. At the doggie door, Duchess whimpered unhappily when I locked her inside. Back in the draw, the moon helped in one way. I was able to duck loose rock. Any sound could prove fatal. Those MAC-10s in the open would overpower any rifle. I rushed down the broad wash, working hard to help suck in extra oxygen. A hundred yards below the house, I inched my head up over the shallow bank. It was about a hundred yards to where the attackers would be forced into the open. Nothing moved. The moon cast dark, deep shadows in far too many places. Crickets disturbed, resumed their riotous chatter. The screeching cry of the bat overhead didn’t cheer me. I bent down the tall, field grass in front of me. Where in hell were they? Faint shadows grew more distinct. In the brightness of the moonlight, outlines of men emerged. The one in front wore a floppy,

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broad-brimmed hat. He stopped, crouching low. On a gesture, those behind fell prone. He was white, the man in charge, Boggs’ man. Those behind were black. They’d be Song Birds, come to sing their fatal lyrics. The leader didn’t like what he saw. There was no physical cover between himself and the house, only shadows. When he motioned, the others came up. A figure moved cautiously toward me, bent low at the waist. Had I been spotted? No. The head was turned toward the house above. A second figure followed. They were fanning out across the hillside to approach the house, widely dispersed. It was a strategy that might work, if I were inside. Hell. It might work anyway. The first two men were already near enough to do fatal damage. The MAC-10 hasn’t much range, but it pumps rounds. Fast. The leader adjusted his skirmish line with gestures. Now the nearest man was less than thirty yards from the draw, fifty yards above me. The second was about sixty yards further from the draw. The leader was still too far away for an accurate shot. As they closed on the house, I brought the rifle up. When the man nearest me cocked his arm characteristically, I cringed. A grenade. He lobbed the black orb toward the house. He yanked the pin on another as the first one exploded. Glass shattered. His arm was back again when I punched a round into his cheek. The smell of cordite obliterated that of wild oats. Rounds screamed overhead, but they’d had only the one thump of the rifle to guide them. Too many slugs slammed into the opposite bank of the wash. More thudded into ground close by. The man I’d hit crumpled in the blinding flash of the grenade he still held. I angled the rifle to the right and drove two fast rounds above and to the right of the cone of brightness flaring from the barrel of the nearest gun. I heard rattling gasps as I dove behind the slight cover the bank of the wash provided.

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Bullets screamed off rock, deflected randomly. I scrambled downhill, putting distance between myself and the deadly little guns. A grenade exploded close to where I’d been. Firing ended abruptly. Did they believe the work was done? I wiped sweat from my face and eyes with shirt sleeves, and scrubbed the palms on the denims. The rifle still felt slippery. I inched up to the lip of the wash. Weaving field grass gave the positions of three men, crawling toward where I’d last fired. Desperately I searched for a target. The closest man showed an arm when he bent down the grass in front of him. The M1A fired as if it had a will of its own. The awesome scream assured me of a hit. I scrambled further down the wash, but no fire was returned. Hastily I worked back up to ground level. The remaining two men were running for the cover of the house. I chased them with two rounds, wide. I couldn’t risk trying to hit at this range. I had to check. More than one has died at the hands of a “dead” man. On my belly, I crawled through the grass toward my second target. When close, I pulled the Colt. It was wasted effort. The two rounds had hit inches apart, ripping into the heart. There was no need to check the first target. The head had been blown into bloody pulp by the exploding grenade. I scrambled on elbows and knees along the slope until a shallow break in the hillside hid me. Crouching low, I dashed to a point in line with the third man, then approached with even greater caution. Sobbing gasps announced he was alive. I inched closer. The MAC10 lay in the thick grass, forgotten. I slammed the Colt against his head and moved on across the hillside, all senses directed toward the house. Duchess was furious. Piercing barks and guttural growls mixed confusingly, continuously. I tried not to think of what she might be breaking up inside. I moved further right as I crawled up the hill until I had a clear view along the front of the house. Moonlight flooded all not shaded by the mulberries. I closed to within fifty yards of the house.

60–Bob McElwain

It was waiting time. Until someone showed around a corner, I’d have to hold this position. If all else failed, Ned could deal with both men so long as I remained where I was. The dog’s dashes were wilder, from one side of the house to the other. It was unlikely either man would attempt to get inside, within reach of the raging dog, but I listened for the sound of glass breaking. I was about to call Ned on the radio when the floppy hat-brim showed around the front corner. I wanted the thigh bone or an inch above. Anything higher could kill. Lower would mean stalking an angry, frightened, wounded man across openness bathed in moonlight. He was crouched low, making the shot doubly difficult. With infinite care, I aimed, took a deep breath, froze, then squeezed, ever so gently. The round drove the figure back. The sound of a thigh bone cracking is one remembered. I heard it now. The way he dropped the weapon and grabbed his thigh was a good sign. Maybe. Just maybe. Over the radio, Ned said calmly, “The other’s headed fer thet ol’ oak.” I ran, driving hard. There wasn’t time for a hunt in the mountains. Beyond the house, gasping for breath, I at last saw the deeply shadowed figure stumble, twenty feet below the oak. The rifle bucked. The round hit low. The man crashed face down, then was still. I approached swiftly, the rifle steadied on the broad back. The bullet had nailed him below the knee. A sizable chunk of rock had halted his fall abruptly. He might never come to. I grabbed the radio. “It’s clear, Ned.” “Comin’.” I took the time to let Duchess out to spare whatever remained of things inside. Then I ran for the corner of the house. Anguished cries seemed to emanate from the whole of the writhing figure. The hands grasped the shattered thigh. Thoughts of the MAC-10 lying on the gravel had been set aside. With the rifle on his chest, I approached cautiously, the dog at my knee. I heaved the machine gun down the hill.

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This is what I’d wanted, what I’d risked my life for. Bile surged upward. Angrily I shook off a touch of dizzies, propped the rifle against the house, and knelt by the tormented, gasping man. As Ned came up, Duchess lay down beside me, her head on her paws, considering the curious spectacle before her. The hat had fallen free. The hair was thinning over the top of the head. Longer strands on the side whipped about with each spasmodic jerk. “Did you call an ambulance?” he cried out, hope and despair intertwined. “I’ve been busy,” I said, in my mildest, friendliest tone. “Folks have been trying to kill me.” “You gota call.” “I might do that. First, who sent you?” “Fuck off. I got rights.” “Not many.” “What the hell’s that mean?” “You can live or lie there and hurt some, while you bleed to death.” “Fuck off, asshole.” There was determination in the words. I let ice show. “Watch the mouth, punk. And tell me who sent you.” “I can’t do that,” he cried plaintively, shivering. “He’d kill me.” I shrugged. “Looks like he won’t have to bother.” Ned knelt down beside me, shoving his hat back. “Ya could mebbe probe fer thet bullet. A course thet knife ain’t exactly sterile and it’d hurt a mite.” “Who’s this fucking old fart?” “A friend with good ideas.” “You’re both crazy.” “Keep that in mind.” He glared at me, but made no further comment. Ned scratched the hair over his ear and said, “Ya ’member that ol’ Indian trick? Ya cut on the eyelids. They go blind, they do. Seein’ as how this boy’s so tough, mebbe ya need somethin’ like that. No need a rushin’ things.”

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“That might do, Ned.” I dug out the Buck knife and pried open the blade. Moonlight reflected wickedly off the honed steel, adding to the sense of size and deadly purpose. “I’ll try probing first. I might even save the bastard’s life.” “Ya might at thet.” I leaned forward, wiping the blade on my sleeve, trying to ignore the terror-filled eyes. Transfixed by the blade, he never noticed the Colt until the barrel was rammed up under his nose. “Who sent you?” The blade was still an inch from his thigh when he screamed, then fainted. I looked up at Ned in time to catch the slow shake of his head. “He’s a tough one, ain’t he now.” I nodded. “Hap only gave me an hour.” A match flared and smoke curled up under the brim of Ned’s hat. “Let’s be a talkin’ when he comes ’round.” “I’m not up to it right now.” Ned began a tale of troubles back in Wyoming. I didn’t listen. I watched the man lying on the gravel. Ned’s words rolled over me, as I tugged deeply for resolve within. I had to know what this man knew. When the man grabbed at his hip, a stifled moan escaped his lips. Ned’s voice flowed on. Into a pause, I said, “I bet that fellow didn’t faint.” Eyelids flickered. “Nope. He hollered some when we cut off his balls. He had trouble breathin’ when we fed ’em to him. But faint? They grow men in thet country.” Wild fear-filled eyes tossed frantic glances at all except Ned and me. “Look, Ned. He’s come to. Wasn’t out for even half an hour.” “Mebbe ya oughta ask again.” “Who sent you,” I asked, forcing mildness. I jammed the barrel of the Colt up hard under the chin. When the dully gleaming blade moved downward, the man shouted, “Karl Ulster, God damn it. Now put that fucking blade away and call an ambulance.” But it was the gun I tucked away. I leaned back on my heels and went to cleaning my nails with the knife. Moonlight flickered off the blade. “Who’s Karl Ulster? Why’s he want me dead?”

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“It’s Boggs, asshole. He gave the orders. Ulster’s his main man. Everybody knows that. Ulster don’t take a crap without Boggs’ say.” I put the knife away, wondering how fast a sharp shyster would cut this man loose, ready to butcher uncounted others on the say of a man called Boggs. “Come inside, Ned,” I said. “You’ve a good story. You couldn’t sleep with all this racket.” He nodded, handed me my rifle and walked beside me toward the porch. Duchess lingered, still curious about the man on the ground. When she loped up beside me, she looked up, trying to tell me she was confused about what had happened. I couldn’t help her any more than I could help myself. They were killers. But was I less? I’d let them enter the chute, then clubbed them down like steers. I crumpled against the wall, letting the chilling shakes have their way. When I looked up, an understanding sadness filled Ned’s eyes. “Ya did good, son,” he said gently. Angrily I lunged away from the wall and strode toward the porch. *** The rifle and cleaning gear littered the table. Ned nursed a cup of coffee. Floodlights illuminated the hillside. The second ambulance left as Hap Skyler punched the recorder off. He tucked the tape of my statement into his shirt pocket and said, “Eight rounds. Five down. You’re good with a rifle too.” He was watching me as if certain I was guilty of something. “You satisfied?” “I got what I needed.” “It’s not worth shit to me. There’ll be lawyers crowdin’ round when I talk to him.” “It ought to be a solid bust. Five men with machine guns, trying to murder an honest, tax-paying citizen. It’s lucky I saw them coming.” “Could be you pay taxes. But honest? Lucky?” The eyelids lifted. “Jam that jive up some other hole. I was watchin’ with the night glasses. You had them set up like bottles on fence posts, until you came down off the hill. Why’d you make a dumb move like that?”

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“With the moon out, I couldn’t use either scope. I had to get closer.” “You got close, man.” There was no expression in the lusterless eyes. He looked away, out the windows. “So you’re good with guns. What else you got?” “Not much. I’ve been thinking about what you told Tony, that Boggs is paranoid.” “So?” “Pressure in the right places might shove him into a mistake.” “You are mental, man. One dude against all those bucks and guns?” I sighed, then shrugged to ease tiredness and tension across the shoulders. “Is there a way to reach you fast? In case I come up with something?” Hap snorted, shaking his head. “It’s risky dealin’ with your sorta trouble.” He turned toward the windows again. “When you look out at those lights, what do you see?” “I don’t follow.” “I see civies, man. Just civies. Like a war. It’s me and my pards against those civies out there.” “There are lots of good folks using those lights.” “I don’t see much of the type.” “So where do I fit?” “Nowhere. I came this far on account of Tony. He says you give off good vibes.” “But not for you?” “The big zero, man.” He turned. “You’re one hard nosed sonofabitch. That’s who you are. Livin’ off poker’s no high rec. And Lencho’s a total bad ass. Anybody close to that mother brings on hives. Then there’re the killin’s. It don’t seem to bother none that you burned two more out there and cripped another.” “It bothers.” “I hear that. You’re shakin’ and tremblin’ so bad I can’t see it.” “I could use a phone number.”

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“Aw, shit.” The eyes held a blend of lonely need and the fear of coming too close. “Call Captain Greer and ask for me. Leave a number.” “Thanks, Hap.” “Screw that until maybe never,” he snapped. “We’ll need that rifle for ballistics.” I tossed it. He scooped it out of the air, turned and left. To Ned, I said, “I’ll sleep better on the hill. Someone might show with a good rifle.” “Mind company?” “Not yours.” I grabbed the side-eject Model 94 Winchester with the topmounted scope. It’s no match in range for the M1A, but it’s a good piece in rough terrain, working in close. At the thought of close, the trembles began again.

CHAPTER 7 The battle for sleep had been lost when three mosquitoes attacked in formation. Sitting on the edge of the porch, I couldn’t remember what I’d eaten or the number of times the coffee cup had been emptied. Duchess, lying by my side, was content. The noisy birds in the mulberries sounded quarrelsomely happy. I wasn’t. The side of the house was badly scarred from the blast of the grenade. A sheet of plywood covered the shattered window. Only one squad car remained, parked at the bottom of the drive. Except for tracks in the tall grass and the small scorched crater, the hillside showed no sign of human folly. Grass bent, but not broken, was beginning to straighten. Seeds would germinate in the ashes of the crater. The sun and hillside tended their chores. So must I. Reluctantly I rose and went inside. I showered and shaved, then put on my last decent outfit and the freshly polished shoes. At the safe behind the cabinet in the bathroom, I tucked bills into the money belt. There was no need

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for counting. There’d been thirty thou when I’d put it away and money doesn’t grow in a safe. Even with what I would pick up at the bank, the total would be a piddling amount to Boggs. If it was to be a war of dollars, I’d already lost. I brushed the thought aside, and those crouched behind it, all thoughts of losing. Tony speaks of Geoffery Robarris with respect. His specialty is thwarting efforts to rip off industrial secrets. His high-tech approach is an outgrowth of years with the CIA, based in England. According to Tony, he’s an intense man, a perfectionist, the best there is at what he does. Robarris had heard about Tony and hesitantly agreed to fit me into his “rather tight schedule,” pronouncing it, “shed-du-al”. I hung up, puzzled about the reluctance in the invitation. I started to dial, then paused. I needed a pilot. But Wendy? Did I have the right? Wouldn’t I be using her hatred as much as her skills? Her Lear 34 had inter-continental range. Determinedly I dialed. The secretary handed me over to Wendy. “Good morning, Scott,” she said. Thoughts of long legs blocked words. “How are things?” I finally managed. “Fine,” she said, then was silent. “That’s not quite true. The phone is only ringing to remind us of bills past due and the number of clients we can’t serve.” “I might help with the bills.” “Not unless you need a plane and pilot we’ve got.” “I just might. Can you meet me for lunch? About two at the Hyatt House near LAX?” “I wasn’t sure you’d call,” she said. “But I was sure it wouldn’t be to charter a plane. There’s an unpredictability about you I find disconcerting.” I sensed uncertainty in the lengthening silence, but found no words to help. “Does this relate to Boggs?” she asked finally.

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“It does.” “Then meeting is a waste of time. Tell me what you need.” “We best meet. You may decide you want no part.” “Two will be fine,” she said, clipping the end off each word. She hung up abruptly. I dialed again. When Lencho picked up, he said, “I have heard of last night.” He sighed. “You needed help like I need hemorrhoids.” “I need it now.” “Si?” I could picture him straightening in his seat, pulling the shoulders back. “Get a couple of fellows to keep Ned covered. I’m leaving. Boggs might send in another team.” “That is a simple matter, except for one little thing.” “Yeah?” “Ned won’t like it.” “Pick the right people and convince him.” “That will be difficult, I think.” He sighed again. “What else is needed?” “Lots. But it’s strictly pay as we go. Understood?” “You always talk of money. And so foolishly. You ask me to help Ned, who is your friend, and therefore mine. What has money to do with it?” “Lencho?” “Si?” “I pay or I’m not even going to ask.” “Let us wait. Perhaps it will be appropriate at some point. We will see.” It was the best I’d get. Lencho is in the brokerage business. His stock is favors owed that stem from those granted. Being allowed to pay even costs is a seldom thing. “Yeah,” I said. “We’ll see. I’ll be by later.” “Bueno.” I could picture his broad victory smile as he hung up. I hurried outside, locking the door behind me. At the car, I invited Duchess into the front seat, feeling guilty about fooling her. She would go only as far as Ned’s.

68–Bob McElwain

At the bottom of the hill, I stopped and told the two cops in the squad car I was headed for my neighbor’s place, then to the station to sign the statement. They waved me on. As I pulled onto the road, a dark brown caddy rounded the curve from the north. It was too soon for Boggs’ people to be back, but the car made me edgy. I watched in the mirrors as I turned into Ned’s place. Neither the driver nor passenger glanced my way as they drifted on down the road. For a long while I’d have to live with it, the fear of every person seen. Thinking about those unseen, would be even tougher. In front of Ned’s porch, Duchess exited through the window as content as if we’d driven a hundred miles. Ned opened the door, then disappeared, leaving it ajar. When I stepped inside, he was carrying two heavy scarred mugs filled with coffee to the plankedpine table. I sat opposite him and laid down the extra set of keys. His eyes narrowed, tightening the weathered lines surrounding them. “Reckon you’ll be gone a spell,” he drawled. “Yeah. Could you check on the dog?” He nodded and looked out toward the mountains. “It’ll take Boggs time to find out I’ve left. I asked Lencho to get some men to watch your back.” He turned, eyes tinged with prideful anger. “I can manage.” “What’s wrong with getting a little sleep?” “I don’t like folks under foot.” “Lencho won’t send jerks.” “I’ll think on it.” He turned away and looked back at the mountains. “Ya fixin’ to whittle some on this Boggs fella?” “Until he’s about toothpick size.” He nodded, still looking at the mountains. “It’s easier to say than do,” I said. “It might work, the way ya go at things, one at a time.” “It’s all I can think of.” “I’m kinda used to ya bein’ ’round,” he said softly. “I’d take it right poorly, if ’n ya didn’t make it back.”

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Was there a mistiness in his eyes? There was in mine. “I wouldn’t move if I wasn’t sure I’d make it.” His head whipped around, eyes flashing, lips pursed tightly. “Ya don’t lie worth a damn, son.” He reached out and gripped my hand, reluctant to let go. He’d never done that before. *** A mile below Ned’s place, I pulled the Colt from the holster and tucked it between the thighs. Dampness surged under the armpits. The same brown caddy was behind me. Cops don’t drive caddies. I hadn’t had much of a look at the two men as they’d passed Ned’s drive, but they weren’t black. They weren’t Song Birds. So who in hell were they? Something deep within told me these men would not be easily dealt with. Maybe it was only the hint of casual confidence I’d briefly noted. Or the way they stayed well back, out of sight. Whatever, there were things to be done; I had to lose them. I didn’t want to try the freeway bit again. They were likely tied to Boggs. They might be expecting a repeat performance. I concentrated on holding a steady speed, hoping I looked free of caring. The mind raced. How? Where? Once out of the canyon, I drove toward San Fernando. As the traffic thickened, the caddy closed the gap between us, but remained well back. If I hadn’t noticed them in the canyon, I doubt I’d have picked them up now. They knew their job. On Hubbard, I headed south. I needed an unexpected move and room for the Hemi to work. At Rinaldi, I turned right. The broad avenue curves west, past Holy Cross Hospital. The lanes are wide. Traffic moves briskly. The caddy let the gap between us increase. Coming up on Sepulveda, I waited until the last moment, then drifted across two lanes into the left turn lane. The caddy followed, but I had what I wanted. Four cars now separated us. On-coming drivers always push the red at this intersection, leaving time for only a couple of cars to make the turn before traffic on

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Sepulveda takes over. The only chance they’d have would be to try to make it through the busy Standard Station on the corner. As I made my left, so did they, into the gas station. With open road in front of me, I hit it. Watching in the side mirror, I saw the caddy whip around back of the station, but they were stalled at the driveway by northbound traffic. They were still stuck when I turned right. Moments later, I was on the San Diego Freeway. I’d lost them. In time the breathing returned to normal and the hands gripping the wheel relaxed. But I left the Colt between my thighs and watched in the mirrors.

CHAPTER 8 In Encino, the ninth floor lobby in the Wellington Towers was the reception room for Geoffery Robarris, Inc., Industrial Consultants. The offices occupied the entire floor. One glance drastically reduced the significance of the bucks strapped to my waist. Plush carpets and ten-foot walnut panels shouted out prices beyond my reach. The furnishings looked equally expensive. Potted cherry trees were positioned in a pleasing pattern around the room. “Scott Macklen,” I said to the woman seated at the receptionist’s desk. She nodded, standing, a professional business-like smile pasted to thin lips. “Will you follow me?” She ushered me into an even larger room. “Mr. Macklen, sir,” she said crisply to the figure outlined by light from the window. Robarris rose and moved around the huge desk. “Thank you, Ms. Dawson,” he said, the natural tenor pitched low. He extended his hand as the door closed silently behind me. The grasp was firm, but brief. “Please do have a seat, Mr. Macklen.” The words were studiously articulated, the wave toward the three chairs facing the desk, graceful. Without waiting for response, he turned back to the desk.

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The light blue wool suit was thinly pinstriped in dark red. The tie was double knotted. It bulged away from the neck, secured with a broad gold clip. The hair and Van Dyke looked professionally groomed. As he sat back down, I chose the chair on the right, hoping to see more of the stern features, shadowed by light from the window. The smile wasn’t worth notice. The essence of the man was reflected in the eyes. They were bright, cold, and alert. “A pity about Tony, don’t you think?” he asked. “A bit more than that,” I said, laying a copy of Boggs’ file on the desk. “It’s what the police have on the man responsible.” “Indeed.” With obvious reluctance, he reached for the folder. Pages were turned, some skipped, and a few were scanned. I had the feeling he could quote everything read. When he finished, he closed the folder, straightened a stack of papers that didn’t need it, then propped his elbows on the arms of the chair. Caressing the graying beard with forefingers, he said, “I do not wish to appear rude, my boy. But I fail to see how we could assist you.” He didn’t give one damn whether I thought he was rude or not. “Tony said you are the best.” “Quite. But this seems a grubby little task, more suited to any of a number of private investigators. We secure the most valuable of corporate assets: information. We do not muck about in police matters.” “Tony is a police matter to you?” “Rather more than that, I should say. But since you called, inquiries have been made. Your methods tend to be primitive. I hardly think the reputation of this firm should be placed in hands so calloused, my boy.” I wanted to ‘my boy’ him right through the plate glass window. “I’m short of pedigree. But I generally get where I’m headed.” “Precisely where are you headed now?” “Can’t say.” “Humph.” He leaned forward. “I’ve had quite enough of convoluted, clandestine missions for which reasons are unavailable either before or after the match.”

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“I flat don’t know what can be done.” “But you do plan to confront Boggs in some fashion. I find this overly ambitious and excessively reckless.” “I’m not interested in your opinions, except about Boggs.” “Is this some pathetic little adventure to you? A pitiable search for revenge?” “You call it. I’m going to stop him.” “Indeed.” He straightened the tie that didn’t need it. “I’m afraid this simply won’t do. Amateurs are bothersome, particularly those who tend toward rashness. We do not accept such persons as clients.” I stood and mashed my knuckles into the desk. It keeps the hands from thinking of other things to do. “I don’t know when or where, Robarris, but you’ve lost your goddamned balls. Tony wasted effort saving your prissy ass.” “My dear chap,” he began. But he was talking to my back. I heard him stand as my hand touched the door knob. “See here, Mr. Macklen. Suppose I were willing to participate in a limited fashion, precisely what would be required?” I turned back to face him, making no effort to stifle anger. The man was a ghostly silhouette in front of the window. “Info on La Cassadas. And what Boggs does, every second of the day. I want details, down to the pitch and duration of each fart.” “How vulgar.” “Yeah.” “The fees are exorbitant.” I walked back to the desk and dropped the wad of bills I’d counted out in the elevator. “That’s twenty thou. Yell when it’s gone.” He sat back down, appraising me over steepled fingers. “With a subject such as Boggs, it will be difficult. And the acquisition of useful information about La Cassadas is unlikely.” “Tony says you make the impossible look easy.” “Indeed.” He leaned back in the chair. “You implied that you would be interested in my opinions about Boggs. Can you be more explicit?”

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“Ever play poker?” “Gamble? Never.” I believed him. “Winning can come down to hunches. Feelings and intuitions about those you face.” “Then you want an evaluation of the man’s emotional state?” “More a continuing profile. I’ve no sense of him. I need that. I need to know what winds him up, keeps him there and shuts him down.” “A novel request, I should say.” He placed his hands flat on the desk, watching me closely. “And what shall I do when you spill the soup, my boy?” “If the pain in your delicate derriere gets to bothering you, hand what you’ve got to the cops and deal me out.” “You appear certain I’m lacking in fortitude.” “Can’t say.” “I believe you already have.” He stood and faced the window. He sounded almost human as he continued. “Tony once stepped into a nasty little business on the docks. I was to be killed, you see. And four determined chaps were at hand to see to it. No one could have managed better than Tony. He’s a remarkable man.” He turned to face me. “I will proceed as possible. As for fees, only actual costs will be considered and a portion of those will be absorbed if matters work out satisfactorily between us. Do you find these terms agreeable?” “Depends how you do.” “Quite.” He sighed. “There is one unarguable stipulation.” “Yeah?” “You must never mention my involvement, particularly to authorities.” “Ass protection?” “Not at all, my boy. Anonymity is one of our greatest assets.” “I sure in hell hope you’ve got others.” I turned and left. ***

74–Bob McElwain

El Oso is on San Fernando Road, near Hubbard. Lencho’s dad built the place. Its name, “The Bear”, describes the builder, as well as Lencho. There are bold swirls in the thick stucco and an abundance of wrought iron and ceramic tiles. In the great room behind the main building, cock fights have given way to circles of green felt. But the kitchen has always been the key. A master chef directs the preparation of authentic Mexican delights, served as if to kings and queens. Once inside, the bar beckons. Most regulars will hear nothing of food until having the specialty, a margarita. The restaurant surrounds the massive bar in a great horseshoe. Scattered about the walls and alcoves are original oils of Mexican heroes, or bandits, depending upon one’s point of view. The fierce scowling features add a sense of history, part of what guests take home along with well-filled stomachs. I ordered beer. When Lencho lumbered in, he nodded toward a booth. I followed, sat down, and laid a copy of Boggs’ file to the side. “It’s what the cops know about Boggs,” I said. “There’s not much there.” He nodded and said, “Three good men are at Ned’s place by now. One knows horses. Perhaps he can talk with the old man, no?” “If he can’t, you’ll have to try something else.” “Tie him to a chair and gag him, I think.” “Give some thought to yourself. Anyone near me could become a target. And you did nail one at the cemetery.” The rumbling shrug ended with a grim smile under expressionless eyes. “I would welcome such interest.” He leaned out over the table, “Tell me of this help you need.” “Can you get someone into El Viento? I need to track Boggs’ ships. And I need a man on night duty at Burbank Airport.” “Will you need their help in what you do?” “No, but it’d be best to use false IDs.” “Si,” he said thoughtfully. “I expect to pay costs.”

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“Mon Dios. These matters are not arranged with money. It is only favors granted for those received.” “I may need a hell of a lot more than favors. If so, I will pay.” “If it becomes necessary, we will talk of it.” “Yeah. We will.” I plunged ahead. “I need press credentials and whatever it takes to look as if I’m doing a photo layout on airports and harbors.” “See Sam Carswell at the Daily News.” “I’ll need a passport that won’t be reported stolen for two months.” “But that is so simple. What is the cost of this?” “I’ll need two drivers licenses,” I continued, pretending I hadn’t heard. “One will be in the name of Milton Fremont, the other, Jason Saxton.” “Melody is the best. The fee is modest. That you can pay. But for my call to him?” “And I need a VISA card with two hundred thou backing each name.” That did it. His breathing deepened and slowed. I wasn’t sure he could even raise that much. “A bullet placed in the ear of your choice, it does not cost so much,” he said finally. “Too many would die, Lencho.” “My life? It is yours, Jefe. But four hundred thousand bucks? That is more than my life is worth.” “I need those cards.” “Si.” He sighed. “Manuel Martinez at the Santa Rosa Bank. He will arrange it.” “And there’s no charge?” “It is for a friend, no?” He shook his head and sighed again. “If you can stay alive to pay the bills, that would be a fine thing, I think.” “I plan to.” “You have said that.”

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I finished the beer, stood, and dropped the sealed envelope on the table. “And what is this?” he asked suspiciously, eyeing the envelope with distaste. “Not money.” “Then I do not understand.” “You know the bit. In the event of my death and like that.” I turned away from the frosty, chilly look in his eyes. At the entrance, I glanced back at the table. Broad shoulders hunched forward on massive elbows as the bear-like figure stared at the envelope. *** From Sam Carswell, I picked up press credentials, along with a contract for a photo layout on ships and planes. At the Santa Rosa Bank, Martinez, with shaky hands, carefully noted the required information. Until headed for the Los Angeles International Airport, I’d been able to keep thoughts of Wendy from intruding. With the stop-go progress over Sepulveda Pass, they crowded in. Again I tried to justify involving her. Lencho knows the risks. He’d welcome the chance for direct action. Sam Carswell is covered. He can lose all records of me within minutes of finding he must. And Lencho will see that Martinez is protected. But what of Wendy? As tough as she may be, she’s an innocent in this kind of play. No matter what she claims to seek, it’s only fantasy. The reality into which she must go can make hell seem a cozy, comfy spot for a picnic. Sure. Things will be fine, if I can keep her on the edge of it. But the slightest error or touch of bad luck will suck her into the roaring caldron of brutal savagery that destroys the soul, if not life itself. Damn. I needed a jet. I needed a pilot. Wendy offered both. Where was the harm in talking?

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I pulled into a long term parking area near LAX, the first step in the disappearance act. Anyone who found the Dodge would check the airlines and car rental agencies. It would take time I’d need. Inside the Hyatt House, I left the file on Boggs at the desk in Wendy’s name, then found a seat at the back of the restaurant. The lunch crowd had thinned. We’d have privacy. When Wendy strode in, she picked me out immediately. All thought of Boggs faded as I watched her walk briskly to the table. She sat down as though to discuss a million dollar contract, her smile friendly, but guarded. The white jacket and matching skirt gave no hint to her mood. This bra added a delightful uplift. The breasts were distracting, outlined by the loose-knit blueness of the blouse. The vibes were neutral. No aggression. “This is pointless,” she said. “Could be. But let’s order.” We settled on #5, the breaded veal. The first bite reminded me it was truly a McDonald’s world. On a scale of one to nine, with a Big Mac at one, I’d rate the veal at three. Wendy didn’t seem to notice. Picking at her salad, she said, “Now tell me what you’ve planned and what you’ll need of me.” I hesitated, toying with the coffee cup. I’d hoped to come at it more obliquely. But it needed getting to. “Are you aware of the conspiracy laws?” “What in the world are you getting at?” “If you steal a purse from a department store, it’s shoplifting, a misdemeanor for which you probably wouldn’t even be prosecuted. But if you and I plot to steal that purse, it’s conspiracy, a felony, punishable with lots of hard time behind cold, steel bars.” “For a purse?” “Probably not, but the idea’s the same.” “That’s why you don’t want to tell me of your plans?” “Part of it.” “What’s the rest?” “I don’t have much yet.”

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“Then how do you know you need a plane?” I shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “Can’t say.” “How can I proceed without knowing as much as you do?” “I’m uncomfortable with the idea of you being involved at all.” “For heaven’s sake. Why?” “Maybe I’m using you, taking advantage of your hatred.” “Feel free,” she snapped. “If Boggs connects you to me, your name will be added to the list.” “I’ll take the chance.” “I don’t think you should.” “Listen. I want that man stopped, preferably dead. I know my preoccupation borders on mental aberration, but I want to help, as perverted as the need may be. Part of me feels you’ve the best chance of anyone on this planet to stop him.” “What’s the other part feel?” “That you’re an irresponsible fool, dangerous to be near. There’s a wilderness look in those slate gray eyes at times that’s truly frightening.” “Before this ends, you may find that second part is what matters.” I leaned out over the table. “Once it begins, Boggs won’t be the only one after us. There’ll be official questions and some won’t have reasonable answers. We could end up in tiny little cells for which the keys have been lost. I can’t let your hatred suck you in.” “That’s my problem.” “Mine, too.” “If I’m prepared to risk my life and freedom, what more is needed?” she demanded. “Someone with the head screwed on right. Judgment clouded with hatred can be worthless, even fatal.” “Your confidence in me is underwhelming.” “It’s not that.” “Then what is it?” “You’re being hasty. Your conception of what you’re jumping into isn’t accurate. It’s war. A guerrilla war. All compressed in time

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so that risks are enormously increased. Every face will be that of the enemy. Either or both of us can go down as easily as Tony did. “Beyond that, violence doesn’t come close to describing what will be unleashed. The consequences are unknowable, except there’s bound to be more dying. How much of that do you really want?” Her face had paled. The surface of the forgotten coffee rippled, amplifying the unseen tremor in her hand. “Suppose your confidence in me could be restored, what would you need?” “You and the Lear 34 for three weeks, beginning about two weeks from now.” “I’m to know nothing of your plans. If questions are asked, I’m to claim you’re merely a client. Is that it?” “Right.” “Suppose I say that’s not enough?” “I’ll find another pilot.” Her grim drawn features gave no clue to her thoughts. Had I lost her? “While you’re thinking about it, I could use another kind of help.” “What might that be?” she asked, not really listening. “I could use a room in your name. And some advice picking out clothes, if you’re good at that kind of thing.” She looked down at the half-finished meal. The seconds dragged on. When she looked up, her face was still drawn. There was greater tightness around the eyes. Loveliness had fled. She rose slowly, turned without a word, and walked away. She’d made the right choice. There was no question about it. Why, then, did I feel as if the bottom had dropped out of my world? I looked down at the table, not wanting to track her receding figure. It didn’t help. The long legs, agile fingers, and graceful gestures were locked in. I’d surely have liked to know her better. But at least she’d be safe. It was something. I reached for the check. A pilot and a long-range jet headed the list of needs. As the woman at the register handed me change, I caught the scent of soap and turned.

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Wendy slipped the room key into my pocket. Fear lurked close behind the smile and the uncertainty in the eyes. She tucked her arm in mine and guided me through the entrance, hiding her face. “I want it all,” she said grimly. “How in hell can you be so sure?” “It’s something I must do.” “Your brother won’t like it.” “He’ll go along, after annoying complaint.” “What will this cost me?” “Does it matter?” “Not much.” “You need me badly, don’t you?” “Yeah. I do.” “Let’s say it will bruise, but I won’t cheat. Will that do?” “It’ll have to.” In the car, she asked, “What clothes do you need?” The proexecutive facade was back, in need of emergency propping in places. I’d spelled out the risks. She’d accepted them. And I needed her. Why, then, did I hesitate in even this first modest step? She turned to look at me. “I am sure, Scott.” I took a deep breath and began. “Your client will be Milton Fremont. The hair will be prematurely gray due to prolonged illness following an injury to the right leg. A cane will be required. He’ll need three changes of clothes, a hat, a briefcase and anything else you can think of to make him look older, with the presence of a corporate decision-maker. “You’ll also meet Jason Saxton, a rough, brawling sort. All he’ll need is a quality hair piece that thickens the hair on top and falls full to the shoulders. Both will need blue eyes. Cosmetic contact lens should do.” She started the engine and drove out of the parking lot, gathering herself together, beefing up the barricades in greatest need. As she tugged bits and pieces back into place, it looked as though some did not quite fit.

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CHAPTER 9 Wendy supervised my first barber shop haircut in recent memory. The object was to thin the matted unruly mass, particularly in front, to suggest greater age. She had an intriguing way of raising the eyebrows that amounted to the snap of fingers that brings rapid eager response. On Rodeo Drive, the exclusive shops she chose had a bar. I wondered if snookered customers buy more. Maybe the need was to calm anxious husbands, to prepare them for the bill. Wendy selected a pale gray suit because, she claimed, it gave my tanned features an unhealthy pallor. Whatever the tailor thought of the holstered Colt, he kept to himself. When he’d finished measuring and marking, he said the suit would be ready in two days. Wendy declared she wanted three and would pick them up in two hours. He turned away as if he hadn’t heard. I was betting he had. She demanded my neck size, then picked out a dozen shirts and four ties. Next she selected a dark gray hat that squashed what little was left of my hair tightly to my head. She said it gave my face a pinched look. I assumed that meant unhealthy. I didn’t like the shoes she picked. They had long, pointed toes, a mix of black and gray Swede. My only contribution was to pay. Wendy tossed me a penetrating glance when I said we’d both need a dozen pairs of thin dress gloves. The word fingerprints seemed to be on the tip of her tongue, but she left it unspoken. I let her pick the label on the suitcase, but I had other needs beyond image. Flexible sides were the key, with leather liners, softly adhered. The blue contact lenses were a perfect fit, according to the doctor. They smarted, scratching at the eyeballs. I didn’t like them any better than the shoes. Wendy passed on Max Factor, famous for their hair pieces, because, she said, names of clients seemed to make the news. She selected La Noire, a smaller shop. I described what I wanted, claiming a

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spot in an upcoming film was at stake. Two thoughtful women turned full attention to the task. I did like the hairpiece. It added better than an inch to my height, broadened the head, and the hair flowed nearly to the shoulders. As I’d guessed, the suits were ready when we returned. Next was Westwood, the House of Canes. Wendy selected an ebony stick with an ivory handle, the join covered with engraved gold. When it had been cut to fit, the old man showed me how to use it. It was nothing at all like I’d seen in the movies, where someone staggers about with the cane thrust before them or waggling at the side. If it’s the right leg that’s to be protected, the cane is held in the left hand, against the thigh. To walk, the cane is flicked forward with the fingers so as to touch down along with the right heel. The left arm, muscling down on the cane, takes weight off the bad leg. We made a quick stop for a pair of thick soled high-top work boots. While Wendy visited the drug store, I went into the shoe shop next door and asked for another inch on each heel. With the extra hair and heels, I hoped to look to be virtually a giant to anyone giving a description. Wendy joined me at the car with a bag filled with cans of water soluble gray hair spray, the kind used for costume parties. The drive back was strangely quiet. The take-charge executive role faded with each passing mile. I couldn’t identify what was replacing it. Again, because I wanted no trace of my name, Wendy rented the needed car near LAX. I was exhausted by the expedition. It must have cost Wendy, too. But she seemed ready to do it all over again. She insisted we go back to the hotel and see if our purchases were sufficient. I agreed. I wasn’t anxious to get rid of her, even if I was beat down around the edges. I stopped at the desk to pick up the file on Boggs. On the vaguest hope, I ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels and the makings for vodka gimlets. In the elevator, Wendy said, “I hope all this works.” The aggressiveness of the wild shopping spree was gone. Except for

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tension around the eyes, fears were hidden. “I’m particularly worried about the shoes.” “Yeah?” “Do you think they’re a little much?” she asked, as the elevator door opened. “Definitely. But they’ll do.” The room was right in front of us. I followed her inside and dropped bags on the nearest chunk of carpet. The sitting room had a decent size. The heavy drapes were open, giving a dramatic view of planes gliding into LAX. Wendy lay what she carried on the couch. “Food?” I asked. “I’d like that,” she said, trying to picture the items hidden by the bags. I handed her the file on Boggs. “I’d like to clean up and change. Would you order? Steak and potatoes for me?” She nodded, grimness settling into her features as she noted the name on the tab. I grabbed a pair of denims and a shirt, and headed for the shower. When I returned, Wendy was sitting at the table by the window, studying the file. She had mixed a drink from the array of goodies on the serving cart. I poured bourbon over ice and joined her. “Anything interesting?” I asked. “I don’t know what to look for. All this about one man.” She nodded toward the file. “It’s spooky.” “Some say too many know too much about all of us.” “Looking at this, I tend to agree.” “Here,” I said, reaching over and thumbing through pages. “It’s a list of his planes. Any reaction?” She studied the page, frowning in concentration. “They seem to be undervalued. I don’t see anything else.” “How much under?” “Perhaps twenty percent.” “I felt the same about the ships. It’s likely illegal cash has been slipped under the table.” “It could be simply the way assets are reported. There are several legitimate methods.”

84–Bob McElwain

Room service interrupted with dinner. The file was laid aside and Wendy freshened our drinks. She had ordered a chicken dish with rice and salad. I went to work on the steak. “When are planes most vulnerable?” I asked between mouthfuls. “On take off. You’ve fuel for the flight which increases weight and the risk of fire in a forced landing. For each aircraft and payload, there’s a minimum altitude required for safety. “Any engine failure short of this threshold is generally fatal because you’ve not enough elevation to make it back to the airport. Crashes on landings usually mean only a damaged plane and passengers with bruises or broken bones that will heal.” “What else?” She thought about it, sipping her drink. “One of the more dramatic disasters is to lose a landing gear on takeoff. It’s called a stop. Usually no one is seriously hurt, but it’ll scare the devil away. I lost our twin engine Mooney that way, about a year ago. Repair is more expensive than in a crash landing.” “Seems like there’d be more damage in a crash.” “There is. But it’s usually only structural damage. It’s like a car. It doesn’t cost much more to replace a fender and hood than to replace only the fender. But when a spinning prop hits the ground, the engine must be rebuilt and recertified. It cost over two hundred thousand for the Mooney.” “How could that kind of damage be done to a parked plane?” “I’ve no idea.” She laid down her fork and picked up her drink. “I thought you didn’t want me to know what you’re planning.” “I don’t. But I wish you had a better handle on what you’re buying into.” “If what I just told you is of help, I’m clever enough to know damage is at least one goal, if not destruction. Isn’t that sufficient?” “Put it this way. If I could, and if it would do the job, I’d blow every plane and ship Boggs owns. Are you really ready for that? Can you picture the investigation that would follow? Can you see how thin your cover would be?” “I will have merely provided the plane.”

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“You wouldn’t knowingly lease to a smuggler.” “No. But this is different.” “Yeah. This can be fatal.” “Haven’t we exhausted this subject? Your desire to protect me might be poetically charming to some. To me, it’s chauvinistic crap. You wouldn’t give it a thought if I were a man.” “That’s not even close. There is a problem, but gender isn’t part of it. The pilot I need has dollar signs etched on the eyeballs and thinks people are expendable. You’ll end up with scars, tough to live with.” “I think,” she said, setting the glass down, “it’s time to try on the clothes.” “You won’t reconsider?” “I already have.” It occurred to me once more that women are the hardiest half of the species. Behind hints of fear in the eyes and tension tightening facial muscles, there was quiet determination. I handed her a slip of paper. “What is this?” “You can reach Lencho at that first number, day or night. If you do as he says, he may be able to keep you alive. The second will get you Steven Weinberg, the best attorney I know. If there’s a legal solution, he’ll find it.” “You have finally managed to frighten me silly.” “Stay that way.” “I’m to use these numbers if you’re unavailable. Correct?” “Unavailable probably translates to dead. Boggs has an army and two hundred mil to feed it. Take a good look at the odds.” “I have. I’d still like to see those clothes.” One hell of a lot of woman. I swallowed the rest of the bourbon. “Yeah,” I said, “Let’s do it.” She moved to the couch with her drink and kicked off her pumps, then undid the top three buttons of her blouse. I began dumping bags, wondering if she ever undid more than three.

86–Bob McElwain

We went through it, including spraying my hair and eyebrows with gray gunk. Damp tissue cleared away the overspray. In the pale gray suit, crowned with the hat, my reflection in the mirror did look sickly. “I like it,” Wendy said. “The shoes really make it.” I disagreed about the shoes. “It’ll do,” I said. I picked up the cane and was in trouble before my second trip across the room. The closer I got to the feel of it, the more normal my pace became. That’s the point of a cane. Anyone in reasonably good health, with the aid of the cane and arm strength as a third leg, can walk with the head up and shoulders back. It defeated my purpose. I needed to look crippled or ill or both. People instinctively look away. I wanted every glance to be averted. I held the cane out from the body, adding wobble to the gait. Wendy laughed. “That won’t work. With those clothes, Mr. Fremont’s no fool. He’d know how to use a cane.” “That’s so.” I brought the cane closer, still searching for awkwardness, but I kept drifting into correct usage. I slowed my breathing, as though laboring, and paused to wipe nonexistent sweat from my brow. “Better,” Wendy said. “Wiping the forehead is a nice touch. Try swinging your foot out.” I did. It looked and felt closer, an oddity people would shy away from. I couldn’t hold a steady gait. I folded paper and tucked a halfinch wad under the heel inside the shoe. The body lurched into the cane, then settled, waiting for the forward stride that launched another cycle. The paper reminded me to swing the foot, toed out. It wasn’t medically sound, but I could maintain it. “It just might do.” “It looks natural enough,” Wendy commented thoughtfully. In the shower, the gray washed away easily. I slipped back into the denims and went hunting for the hairpiece. Bare-chested, sitting in front of the mirror, I struggled with the monster. It had its

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own wishes. The trick was to secure it so the bobby pins didn’t show. On the first shake of my head, it fell to the floor. Wendy’s chuckle didn’t help. She picked it up and said, “Let me try.” I could feel the body heat as she leaned against me. And as she worked around to the front, bending. It reminded me there were lots of things more important than Boggs. It was tough to pay attention to what she was doing. What was happening inadvertently was far more intriguing. Skin on my back relished the soft textures rubbed against it. “Now try it,” she said, standing back. I shook my head, hard. It held. I walked across the room and dashed toward the mirror. It looked like my own hair grown longer, but straighter. Through two rolling tumbles and a hard dive to the floor, it held. I sat back down and slowly took it off, studying the way it had been secured. “I don’t think many would recognize you,” Wendy commented. “It’d be best if nobody does.” The skin still felt warm where she’d brushed against me. Now was that special time. Where were the goddamned words? Hey. Lady. Wanna test the bed? Nothing remained to be tried on, but she’d shown no sign of leaving. She stood near the entry to the bedroom, her head cocked slightly, a speculative look about her that added to inner confusion. “Can I get you another drink?” I finally managed, the words stumbling over one another on the way past the tongue. “I don’t need one right now.” She reached out and pushed the light switch down. As if planned, a stream of brightness from the bathroom slashed a path into the darkened room, highlighting the spot on which she stood. She undid the next button on her blouse. Then the next. In time, the skirt fell to the floor, folding delicately upon itself, encircling her feet. Pale blue, laced panties matched the trim of the bra. “Is that all you can manage? To sit there and gawk?” I stood and walked toward her, stifling urgent demands for haste. Each step enhanced the overpowering whole of her. The blouse

88–Bob McElwain

dropped to the floor. I bent to kiss her. Long strong arms reached under mine, pulling me closer, deeper. The bra catch was only a minor obstacle. My hands drifted across the silky-smooth skin of her back and shoulders. Without bidding, they found long, strong thighs and stroked them. There was no cause for hurry now. All I needed was here, within my grasp. Her arms pulled me closer still.

CHAPTER 10 Late morning sun filtered through the heavy drapes. I stretched luxuriously, noting muscles complaining of unaccustomed use. There was a bruise on the upper arm where Wendy had laughingly punched me. Sleep had come in brief snatches, but I felt completely rested, as if by mystic spell. I caught the beginnings of a fatuous grin, and squelched it. Sure. She’d been well loved. But so had I. By an inexhaustible, romping hoyden. What had been the best of it? When she’d awakened me near dawn, with nails stroking my chest? Utter nonsense. Which of wondrous events can be claimed the best? Reluctant to leave the lingering warmth and scents of her, I struggled up and into the shower. When first thoughts of the day’s tasks emerged, the brisk exhilarating jets began to smart. Shaving, the whole of the face turned grim. I tried for a smile. It was if I’d lost the knack. I grabbed the phone and dialed Foothill Division. I asked for Hap and left my number. When the phone rang, I picked up. “That statement’s been ready since yesterday,” Hap commented in his sleepy way. “And the dudes up at your place think they’re wastin’ time.” “They are. How’s Tony?” “Still critical. But now they’re sayin’ he’s got a chance.” The relief that flowed over me was short lived. “You wastin’ my time, too?” I could picture the reptilian look and dug for words to erase it. “It’s not part of the plan.”

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“What plan, man?” “All I can figure is to push at Boggs and hope he blunders.” “That’s what we’re doin’. My team’s stumblin’ over feds and we all lost him.” The words hit hard, slamming low into the gut. “Any idea where he’s at?” “I left the good crystal ball in the car.” “He buys in Colombia. He needs to replace what was on that raft.” “How come I didn’t think of that?” “If that’s where he went, how long will he be?” “A couple of days. In three weeks, he’ll have a ton of new snow in his closet.” “With the feds and all, maybe you can grab that shipment.” “Come by sometime. I’ll show you how I fly. It’s a real trick thing with the elbows.” “At least you’ve an idea when to expect it.” “Have you ever looked at the California coastline? All that water?” “Damn it. You’re going to try, aren’t you?” “Gota. It’ll be Mudville, man. Bottom of the ninth. Two gone. And I’m fuckin’ Casey.” He hung up. He’d about covered it. There are hundreds of miles of coastline to be approached from any of a thousand square miles of ocean. He’d try, despite his skepticism. But there wasn’t much chance he’d connect. I dialed again. The secretary put me through. “Geoffery Robarris speaking.” “Macklen here.” “I do hope this will not be a daily event, my boy. Phoning, I mean. We have a rather heavy schedule at the moment.” I grit my teeth, taking slow even breaths. “Boggs is gone. Most likely to Colombia for another buy.” “That is hardly news.” “While he’s gone, you could check on Jacobson and Ulster. Follow them, maybe.”

90–Bob McElwain

“Follow them? Dear Lord. How plebian. We do not follow anyone. Twelve highly-trained professionals accompany our subjects, supported by four vehicles, with a helicopter on standby. “Each of the team may choose from six identities and change from one to the other in moments. The art is far too complex to be described briefly. Do you seriously wish to expend your limited resources in such fashion, without a specific objective?” “Boggs has assets besides ships and planes. Find some.” “My dear boy . . .” “Damn it! Show me I haven’t already blown twenty thou.” “This is highly irregular, my . . .” I hung up. A cynical, sleepy cop and a punctilious, pompous fop. I had a team behind me now. So far behind they’d miss not only the battle, they’d miss the whole damned war. *** The Black Cat on 79th Street is not a family bar. Not a place to be unless one wants to test back alley skills. But I needed Skimpy and this was home to him. He knows those dark, sad, dreary corners of the earth where weapons of destruction are closeted. He was sitting alone at a table in back, nursing a beer. The name fits. The face is pinched, the body, beanpole thin. When approached directly, Skimpy jumps about in an irritating manner. I waited for him to spot me, then stepped back outside into clean air and bright sunlight. When he appeared in the doorway, I started down the street. He trotted up beside me and asked, the voice high, tight, and squeaky, “What ja need?” “Expect you heard Tony’s in bad shape.” “Yeah, man. Terrible thing.” “To me it is. Keep that right up front.” “Got ja.” I didn’t believe him. Skimpy had ripped a stash of automatic shotguns. Tony knew the fellow still looking for them. I didn’t. It

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left me short of clout. I stopped. When Skimpy turned to face me, I leaned down. “You’ve heard I play poker?” “I heard. Some sorta message in that?” “I don’t ask how a man makes his money. I just want to see it on the table.” “I dig that. So connect it.” “At the stakes I play for, they’re all heavyweights. Some are bad boys. I could tell a story around about a runt who steals shotguns.” His pasty face paled further. He swallowed hard. “Got ja.” This time I believed him. I continued walking. “I need a small caliber revolver with a good silencer. I’ll be working close so noise is my only concern.” “Not no problem.” As I read down the mental list, Skimpy responded to each with the same three words. The eyes grew bright and shiny, adding up anticipated dollars. “Get me two dozen thermit charges, about a third of what’s packed in a military canister. They’ll need to be rigged with four hour timers and packaged small, about the size of a D-battery.” “Jeez, man. I never even heard a nothin’ like that.” “Then get someone to build them.” “I don’t know nobody what . . .” “Then you best get started.” He ripped off the black, stocking cap and scratched fiercely at the black, scraggly hair. When he pulled the cap back down to his ears, the hair puffed almost straight out at the sides. “This ain’t like last time, is it?” he asked anxiously. “I mean, I gota have time.” “You’ve got two weeks.” “Shit.” *** It was too soon for Boggs to have found the Dodge. It seemed best to proceed as if he had, as if an army of unseen gunmen was at

92–Bob McElwain

hand. There was more than my own neck at stake; the car had been rented in Wendy’s name. I decided a traffic cop was a modest risk and removed the plates on the rental. I made two trips past the lot in which the Dodge was parked, nosed into the sidewalk. I wondered again if my wetsuit, tanks, climbing gear, and other odds and ends, were worth the risk. But all looked normal. The pedestrian traffic was largely folks with luggage. A group was gathered at the corner, waiting for shuttle transport to the terminal. No one lurked in any doorway or parked vehicle I could see. Uneasy, I drove into the lot. There was an empty spot beside the Dodge. I pulled into it, grateful for the luck. Transferring gear to the rental, I kept a watchful eye on all about me. If anyone was paying any attention, I missed it. When I’d finished, I wasted no time getting back behind the wheel. I fished out what I’d need to get past the parking attendant and began backing out. To my left, a black sedan turned down the aisle. I decided I’d let it pass; the driver was taking his half out of the middle. When I glanced to my right, I froze. It was the brown caddy that had followed me from Ned’s place. It, too, was moving slowly down the center of the aisle. My hands gripped the wheel as if to bend it into the dash. There were two men in each car. Four on one is no kind of odds for a shootout. There was a break in traffic on the street to my front. I floored the accelerator. The car bounced heavily over the parking bumper. Before the jouncing had more than slowed, the front end dropped off the street curb. I yanked a left, fervently hoping the crunching screeches did not mean the car’s suspension was being destroyed. Behind me, tires screamed. A glance showed the cars had passed each other, accelerating toward exits. Ignoring horns blaring at my intrusion, I held the pedal to the floor. The light at Sepulveda turned red as I powered into the intersection. The black sedan had cleared the parking lot and was forcing its way into traffic. I took the first

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right, desperately hoping that since I couldn’t see either car, they couldn’t see me. I took every turn I could, pushing the speed limit, until well into Inglewood. I pulled into a large parking lot, buried the car in the most crowded part of it, then cut the engine. For the longest time, I couldn’t move. When I looked at my hands, they were trembling, knuckles whitened by my grip on the wheel. Weasel clever, Tony had said of Boggs. But he’d been bright enough to hire the talent to produce a thirty mil profit out of the land next to Varnac Hulls. And he’d been bright enough to find someone who’d located the Dodge within days, when I’d been counting on weeks. Someone was seriously underestimating Boggs. That seemed damned sure. How could the same man order a violent, bloody, public execution the Song Birds were so ready to provide? It was a total contradiction, one I’d have to resolve. Quickly.

CHAPTER 11 After a night spent in the parking lot of an all-night shopping center, I stopped for gas. In the john, I scraped off most of the whiskers, along with numerous chunks of skin. In the 7-11 next to the station, I picked up a tan baseball cap and sun glasses. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but the glasses erased the dark gray of the eyes. The cap nearly hid the newly thinned hair. I planned nothing more memorable than snapping pictures. Still, the cap and glasses might make a difference, if descriptions were asked for later. Back in the car, I flipped a mental coin. It came up harbor. I decided on Long Beach. The maps hadn’t projected the true essence of size. Nor had my study at the library. Huge doesn’t make it. And the ships stand tall out of the water. It all tends to dwarf a man.

94–Bob McElwain

With a pleasant smile, the guard at the gate explained my press pass had to be cleared by the Port Authority. I thanked him and drove off. I didn’t need this. There was to be no record of my visit. But when I left the harbor office, there was one; my name was stored in a computer, to be regurgitated upon request. Down the street, I saw El Viento listed, one of many firms represented by Abe Steinberg. Abe tried to sell me every company except El Viento. In the end, he reluctantly handed me what literature he had. As I began my slip-by-slip inspection of the harbor, the initial impression of size was heavily underlined. Crossing a pier, particularly if I had to move around stacked cargo, would take time. Swimming the narrowest channel, unnoticed, could take even more. Rainbows of oil slick shifted randomly over quiet slabs of water. I couldn’t see but a few feet below the surface. Neither the murky water nor stringent odors bothered the gulls, screeching at each other overhead. With the camera, I tried to pick up as many slips as possible in each frame. The object was to record the essence of this harbor with the hope others I could not take time to visit, would be similar. Whenever I found a ship of a type Boggs owned, I took extra shots. I grabbed one frame of four land-based cranes on the pier across from where I stood. Moving on what amounts to railroad tracks, each hefts tons of containerized cargo at a time, an essential role in the latest revolution in the transportation of goods. Across the expanse of open water, they looked like erector set creations of some giant child, sci-fi monsters, with haughty, beamy necks lifted high against the gray, harbor sky. *** As dusk settled in, I felt defeated. Less than a third of the harbor had been covered. I’d talked to those who were willing and been invited aboard several ships. I’d have to cut down on conversation and visits, if I ever hoped to finish.

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Back in the city I found a restaurant that looked as if someone in the kitchen might know the difference between cardboard and hamburger. I got lucky; the hamburger tasted like hamburger. Finished, I sipped coffee, examining the El Viento brochures. The only close up photo was of Boggs’ most recent acquisition, the Boknfjord, out of Norway originally. It was over four hundred feet of stout capability, powered by a Nordberg diesel. And it was the most expensive ship Boggs owns. In the Boknfjord and the Wattshorne, a postwar modification of a Liberty ship, lay his only claim to a modern, viable fleet, although both were over thirty years old. The other ships were small, worn, weathered coasters, incapable of venturing far from land. The literature was a solid, professional, promotional piece, praising the flexibility inherent in non-scheduled shipping. It was filled with obliquely rendered promises that couldn’t be kept. A statement from the president, printed on company stationery, invited all to examine each ship in search of fault. I’d have bet that anyone who did, would hastily pick another company. I stretched another stop for coffee into two hours, then nursed a drink in a quiet bar until closing time. Thinking of the brown caddy I’d seen twice, made it easy to decide to find a different shopping center for the night. *** It took two more days to finish at Long Beach and two more miserable nights on the back seat of the car. At the Burbank Airport the next day, only my name was written down in the office. Somehow written records seem less threatening than those stored in a computer. Outside on the tarmac, planes towered over me. El Viento shares only a small part of the facilities. I moved only close enough to satisfy the needs of the 210 side of the Nikon’s zoom lens. There wasn’t much to see. One DC-3 was loading. Three Beech King Airs were parked beside it. I was able to make a partial circle of the airport for a few shots from distance.

96–Bob McElwain

I stopped at a pay phone. Robarris was one I should call. At the thought of hearing, “My boy,” I passed and dialed El Oso. I left my name and number. Lencho always assumes his phone is tapped. If what he has to say is something to be kept from others, he uses a pay phone. When the phone rang, I picked up and asked, “How’s Tony?” “Sitting up. But there is much pain.” “Still, that’s great news.” “Si. But he’s too quiet. The face is thin, strained from more than the wounds.” “He’s thinking of Boggs.” “I would not like him ever to think of me that way. And he feels left out, I think.” “Yeah. He would.” “So do I.” “How’s that?” “What is in that damned envelope, Jefe?” “Forget it. Have you got anyone at El Viento yet?” “Si.” The sigh rumbled over the line, loaded with irritation. “Have you paper and pen?” “Go,” I said. He read off a list of companies, each followed by a last name and title. He ended with a phone number. “Ask for Mike. Those companies ship with El Viento. The names make the deals. Use them. Mike will be safe, even if others listen.” “Got it.” “I’ve a man who will start at Burbank Airport, day after tomorrow.” “Sounds good.” “This isn’t,” Lencho said grimly. “Boggs is back. He’s put a price on you. Ten thou for pointing, twenty-five for the big burn.” It took my breath away. There are a lot of junkies out there. Some would kill for a jolt. And cokeheads abound across the economic spectrum. No place would be safe if Boggs could spread the word far enough. “This could be tough to deal with.”

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“Si. But there is more, I think.” “What?” “Two men were in last night. They’re looking, too, but it is different.” “How’s that?” “The clothes fit. They wear ties. The coats, they hide the pistols pretty good. The skin, it itches when you get close to them.” “Some kind of cops?” “Maybe feds.” “I haven’t broken any laws, federal or otherwise. Nobody but Boggs should be looking for me.” “Si, Jefe. But they do not work for Boggs, I think.” “Who else is there?” I asked. “I have good men looking for that answer.” “Go slow, Lencho. I’ve a feeling about those fellows.” I told him of being followed from Ned’s place and how neatly I’d been boxed at LAX. I ended with, “They were wearing coats and ties.” “Ties,” he said thoughtfully. “It is not the way of Boggs’ punks. I will think on it.” When Lencho hung up, I dialed again and asked for Mike. He gave me the status of each of Boggs’ ships. When he hung up, I reread the notes. The item that caught my attention was the departure of the Santa Maria from Barranquilla the day before. No other of Boggs’ ships was near Colombia. Could the coke be aboard? On a knoll overlooking the ocean, I plotted ship locations on the map, projecting future positions. Thoughts of the Santa Maria occupied empty thinking room as I drove south toward San Pedro. And I thought of men in suits and ties. But there was space for Wendy. And for crisp images of the long legs I now knew were as strong and sturdy as they appeared to be.

98–Bob McElwain

CHAPTER 12 Reconnaissance can have many objectives. But apart from gutripping fears of death or worse, like watching precious, essential gobs of one’s anatomy violently separated from others, it is dull, boring. I felt reasonably confident I was lost to those in the brown caddy and the rest of their team. If so, I faced only the threat from whatever junkies Boggs might have reached. Apart from remaining alert, I was left with the tedious task of considering everything seen at the harbor in San Pedro because I didn’t know what I was looking for. Only certainty that the single factor overlooked may be the one that kills, prodded lagging interest. But there was far too much to grasp, far too many factors. Through it all, I was never far from Wendy. I tried to take pride in the self-discipline demonstrated in not calling her, while battering away at the desire to do so. I’d checked the Long Beach harbor with care. San Pedro is right next door, and all seemed like a rerun. When I knew I’d barf at sight of even one more pier, I suspended all talk and collapsed a day and a half into one long afternoon. Plots made from Mike’s latest input showed I’d have to wait. And there was a better chance of ducking Boggs’ hunters if I stayed clear of his turf, the San Fernando Valley. And Wendy. Waiting is tougher than recon. Frustrating tedium is heaped atop boredom. Dullness clamps down in force. Over breakfast, looking at the maps, I asked myself again, was the Santa Maria carrying Boggs’ coke? Two ships had left Colombian ports this morning. But Boggs wouldn’t have waited so long. Once he’d laid down the money, he’d want the coke aboard a ship, and fast. A ten million dollar cargo that can be loaded into the back of a pickup truck is a tempting target. It had to be on the Santa Maria. Where would the cargo be landed? The question occupied the moment.

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There was no way to know how long Boggs had been using the raft bit, but if there’d been previous success, he’d use it again. Every creature on the planet is into patterns. Even minor deviations bring discomfort, at least a pinch of psychic pain. Boggs is more primitive than most. He’s solidly locked into his patterns. His recent loss would be considered bad luck, not a flawed plan. He’d stick with the raft. Landing it carried minimum risk over any approach I’d heard of or read about. I only vaguely remembered the boat I’d seen from the deck of Denty’s Dream. It had been brightly white under the blazing sun. Had it been trimmed in blue? I’d wondered then if the boat’s presence and course had been coincidental. Whatever, some boat would have tuned in to the transmitter found under the green tarp and taken the raft in tow. Where would it have docked? Certainly not within the bustle of Marina Del Rey. Then where? With nothing better to do, I studied the map of the coast, lingering over coffee. If possible sites could be identified, it could improve Hap’s chances. That experts were also looking was no deterrent. I could get lucky. It wouldn’t be the first time a novice whipped the experts precisely because the novice made a rewarding move in ignorance pros wouldn’t make. As a starting point, I scratched the harbors at Long Beach and San Pedro. The presence of the Coast Guard, Customs, and Harbor Patrol is constant, continuing. Any routine repeated would be noted. Next I crossed off the many small boat harbors to the south. Distance from where the barge had been cut loose was sufficient to rule them out. What, then, to the north, could have been the raft’s destination? It’s been years since I’ve been on the Palos Verdes peninsula, not since Marineland had been built. It’s bounded by the port of San Pedro and public beaches to the north. I remembered the drive along the sea. There had been isolated stretches of rugged terrain. Possible? ***

100–Bob McElwain

It was dark when I drove out of Palos Verdes. The drive had been long and there’d been only a few remaining open stretches, but none fit the bill. From even the most isolated private dock, it was a long hike to the top of tall, rocky cliffs. Men lugging a ton of plastic bags up the hill would be noticed. The scene would beg reporting. A nice idea, the peninsula. So much for novice thinking. Public beaches curve inland to the north. Nothing could be landed upon them. Even the nights welcome a few visitors. And four-wheeled vehicles patrol, ablaze with lights. They’re broad beaches. One can see for miles along them. I should have been content. I’d occupied the day in a reasonably pleasant, if unrewarding, fashion. I wasn’t. Grimly, I went hunting for another parking lot. Maybe tonight I could find a small measure of quiet, under a light that had burned out. Memories of the lumps and bumps in the back seat of the car did not cheer me. *** It was while yanking off whiskers with the dull blade in yet another scummy bathroom in yet another pay-before-pumping gas station that the last of resolve faded. What could she say worse than no? And I did have a half-way plausible reason for driving up the coast, away from Boggs’ turf. I called and immediately regretted it when Floyd answered gruffly. “Katlan Air.” He wanted to hit someone. Politeness was called for. “May I speak with Ms. Katlan, please?” “That you, Macklen?” he growled. So much for politeness. “Yeah.” “What the hell are you sucking Sis into? She’s not talking so you better get started.” “She hasn’t much to tell. She only agreed to charter the Lear. If I could talk with her, she’d know more.” “You’d better buzz off. Somehow you’re into her Boggs trip. It’s bitching up her life as it is. She doesn’t need more of that shit.”

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“How old’s your sister?” I asked softly. “What the hell does . . .” He was cut off, the line locked on hold. “I’m here,” Wendy snapped. Heavy breathing told of her time with Floyd in taking control of the phone. “I don’t think I’ll ask how it’s going.” “I wouldn’t.” “Fact is, this might not be the time to mention what I had in mind.” “Don’t let a little battle to the death upset you. The death I speak of will occur at this end of the line, as soon as you’ve finished.” “I’d best call later.” “Men! What-do-you-want?” “Well, it’s just that I’ve got some time to kill. If you aren’t too busy, we could do something.” “You called because you have time to kill?” I cringed. “There must be a better way to put it.” “You’re damn well right about that.” “Let me try later.” “If I stay here, I’ll face a murder charge. I desperately need to be somewhere else. Put a name to it. Now!” “The lobby of the Lyle Hotel in Santa Monica?” I asked hesitantly. “A hotel?” “Yeah. I’m in Manhattan Beach. We ought to get there at about the same time.” “And then?” “We’ll drive up the coast. It’s real nice out.” “I hadn’t noticed.” I waited, afraid to let go of the tigerish tail and equally afraid to hang on. “The lobby, you said?” “Yeah.” “I’ll be the one with smoke streaming out of the ears.”

102–Bob McElwain

She hung up. There’s not much of a slam from these new electronic phones. Maybe the disconnect comes before the hit. I hung up my end gently, then petted the phone, whether in thanks or relief, I couldn’t decide. *** She was gazing out the window, when I walked in. There was an overnight case on the floor beside her. The thump of the heart increased markedly. I hadn’t thought to suggest a bag. That she had, filled the day with enchanting promise. The snug, brown slacks accented legs and thighs. The sleeveless blouse was low-cut, enticing. Folded arms nudged the breasts upward. Delightful. I slowed the approach, wondering if anger had dissipated. There was no hint of it in the calm thoughtful set to her features. “Hi,” I said cautiously. She must have seen I was ready to duck for she said, “It’s safe. Really, it is.” The corners of her lips tilted upward at that teasing, tempting angle I’d first seen at the Hyatt House. “Sounds like your brother’s upset.” “That’s an appalling understatement. He still believes I’m fifteen. I’m not certain I needed protecting even then.” This wasn’t the time to tell her I agreed with Floyd, that the Boggs trip was a bad one. But it grabbed at me. Hard. I should be hunting up another plane and pilot instead of standing here fantasizing about how best to uncover the uncountable mysteries she yet held secret. The light brown eyes were calm on the surface, fears deeply buried. “It will be all right, Scott. It will.” “God, I hope so.” I scooped up her bag. As we turned toward the door, she said, “It’s been over a week. I thought you’d call long before now.” “It’s not time to move.” “I wasn’t thinking of the plane.”

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“I know.” “Men,” she said softly. *** We’d picked the finest of days. It was comfortably warm, not hot. Spray drifted up from the pounding surf. Her hair was brushed back by the breeze through the window. Some might say her ears were too small. They looked great to me, delicate, begging to be nibbled. She had a way of shifting position in the seat that stressed the slacks across the thighs. It filled the senses with remembered silky-smooth skin, tautly binding wonderfully muscled legs. When she turned to meet my glance, the corners of her mouth were tilted up again. How could she know me so well in so short a time? She knew exactly the impact she was having and was literally basking in it. And she knew both the highway and beaches were too crowded for me to do more than plot and scheme. She reached out and scratched my forearm. The nails carved minute canyons in the skin, leaving soothing warmth that settled to the bone. My gaze followed the fingers back to her lap, then raised in time to catch her grin. “It’ll keep,” she said, turning to look back out the windshield. “Maybe.” “There’s a dock,” she said, pointing. “But it also seems too public.” I nodded. I’d told her of my quest and, for a time, took it seriously. As the miles had slipped pleasantly by, the old argument had returned. We were much too far north. It would be as easy to tow the raft further north and cut it free here, as off shore of Marina Del Rey. My thoughts were far from coke and Harry Boggs. The soft, soapy scent of her had been enhanced by that of salty sea air. Heady stuff. The sun beating through the windshield had raised faint beads of perspiration on the brow and lips, reminding me of musky fragrances from damp sheets.

104–Bob McElwain

The Pantry offers a degree of isolation. And distance from Boggs. It’s as close as one can get to Ventura and still be in Los Angeles County. It’s far enough off the highway that a room in back is soundproofed to traffic by surging Pacific waters. The place had been put together years back when Danish modern was the vogue. Weather off the salty water had battered at the too-cute edges. It looks better now than when shiny and new. It was near three when I pulled in and parked below the main buildings. Since we’d picked up cheeseburgers only an hour back, it was unlikely Wendy thought this stop was also for food. That crazy grin again. It added urgency to my stride on the way to the office and back. When I parked in front of our room, Wendy didn’t get out of the car exactly. It was more an unfolding, a sensual revelation of the body through a provocative series of flowing moves. It didn’t take long to grab her bag and a few things for myself. Inside, the drapes were open. The pounding of the surf enfolded us. I thought to close out the brilliant afternoon sun, then lost the notion when long, strong arms curled around my neck. It required rigid self-control to leave my arms dangling at the sides. “It’ll keep,” I said. “For whom?” she asked, then kissed me. My arms did what needed doing. *** There’d been no rushing explosions, no blinding displays of rockets bursting. It had been more a melding of two into one. I ordered Jack Daniels and the makings for gimlets, not from need for stimulation, but to mellow out demands growing too quickly. It drifted into a lazy-dazy, surrealistic timelessness of fondling and eloquent expressions of feelings for which words were insufficient. A time of huskiness in the throat, delicious sighs, and breathy voices. Of nerves tingling. Intensities and whispers. Of musky, earthy scents.

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*** Sometime after midnight there was a barefoot walk at the edge of the surf, the chill in the moon-bright air unnoticed, the idle words oddly reassuring, then the surging need to return to the room, slowed by the curious need to linger with the cool surf embracing ankles, the toes digging deeply into wet sand. *** We had spent a delightful afternoon on the beach. Only growing rumbles in our stomachs brought us back inside for food. I’d called Mike after ordering. When empty plates had been removed, I spread the maps on the table. Wendy slid her chair closer, curious. As I made fresh notes, she watched. She knew maps. It didn’t take her long to figure what I was doing. The mood changed abruptly. The sensual glow remained, but vastly subdued to hushed awareness, temptations displaced forward in time. It wasn’t her fault. I should have left the damned maps in the car. “Insurance will pay for any damage you do,” she said quietly. “From what I’ve read, it’s like cars. There are deductible amounts and items not covered. Reimbursement is generally less than costs.” “But to Boggs, those costs will be incidental expenses, almost pocket money.” “Anyone can come up short. For the plumber, it could mean falling behind on payments for a travel trailer he’ll lose in a couple of years. To the wealthy man, it could be a company he shouldn’t have bought. I’m gambling there’s a point at which Boggs will have to hustle to cover, that he’ll break under pressure.” She shook her head. “I still don’t see how damage could amount to any significant sum. Boggs can raise extra millions by bringing in another ton of coke.” I looked out the window at the ocean, relentlessly pounding against the patient land as it had for eons, without thought of night

106–Bob McElwain

falling above it. It looked different now, than while we’d eaten, before I’d unfolded the maps. “It can mount up,” I said finally. “If a drydock is needed, the bill grows fast. Even a couple of days can come to several hundred thou, more if critical parts are required. Fifty thou’s a modest bill for a days’ tow. Then there’s the five to ten thou a day lost in income. And maybe a spoiling cargo that has to be transferred to another ship. “As for bringing in more coke, wholesalers defend their territories. How could Boggs expand without running up against violent opposition? Even if most dealers are more subtle than he is, they won’t roll over so he can make a few extra millions. No. Part of the repair costs will come from Boggs.” “It’s not enough.” Into silence, lengthening, she said, “It doesn’t seem important now, but Mr. Marshall is certain he’ll succeed.” “Marshall?” “The attorney who filed the class action suit against Varnac Hulls.” “Got it.” It was tough to pull the brain waves onto the new track. “He believes he’ll be able to obtain a reversal of the zoning change and halt Boggs’ construction plans. He’s found evidence that rules were broken. And he’s accumulated details on two fires that nearly got out of control. “But it’s been two years since the last one and there have been extensive alterations to the alarm and sprinkler systems. So he doesn’t think we can force Varnac to move.” A way to show the inadequacy of the sprinkler system occurred to me, but I let it slide. She wouldn’t be interested so long as she thought a few millions, in uninsured repair costs, would be meaningless to Boggs. She looked out at the ocean, her hair glistening in the soft light. “I’d like to get back to the city,” she said, so softly I hardly heard. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. “Why? If it’s this Boggs bit, it’s not too late to back away.”

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“It’s not that. In fact, Boggs is of little importance at the moment.” “I don’t get it.” “It’s you. And me. And being together. It’s too much. I had this image of myself. The female executive. Competent. Objective. Unstoppable. Somehow I’d forgotten I’m also a woman.” “You are that,” I said. “And there’s still a day or two of waiting. We’ve found good ways to occupy time.” “Yes. We have, haven’t we?” “Then where’s the problem?” “It’s me. I hadn’t planned to become so deeply involved.” “But you are. So am I. Leave it be.” “I need time. And distance. I need to do some hard thinking. Where does the career effort end and the woman begin? Is it even possible to mix the two?” “Let time decide.” “That may be all I can manage, but I need to believe I’ve thought it through. I can’t simply let a choice hunk erase all else that’s real because he takes my breath away when he looks at me. Or because he tips me into a fantasy of carnal delights with the touch of a hand.” “Thinking destroys some neat things.” “I won’t let that happen.” “Do you want to leave now?” “No,” she said. “In the morning.” There was a violence about it that saddened both of us, while adding indescribably to every aching scaling toward new heights. It was as if the mortars had dropped the bracketing rounds and stood poised for deadly assault, as if we knew we’d not see the morning sun.

108–Bob McElwain

CHAPTER 13 It was a quiet ride back to the city, a beautiful day, ignored. I dropped Wendy off in front of the Lyle Hotel. Her goodbye smile didn’t make it. I watched until she disappeared inside, inner emptiness expanding with each step she took. The sensual sway of haunch and leg stressing dark brown slacks didn’t help one bit. When she disappeared from view, I found myself looking out the windshield at nothing at all. What if she opts for her career and shuts me out? Damn. I hadn’t the right to run her life, now or later. Besides, I hadn’t done so well with my own that I qualified to muck about with someone else’s. I’d have to wait, as I’d suggested she do. With more effort than is usually required, I sought to tuck my thoughts of her away. I picked a cozy compartment up front, where I could easily peek in to see how matters stood. Then I tried to renew interest in the raft. But I’d run out of ideas, amateur or otherwise. It was crazy, bordering on certifiable madness. But the thought launched itself so completely into focus, it could not be ignored. The raft’s destination had been the marina! That it simply couldn’t be, made it the ideal choice. How does one unload a ton of coke in front of hundreds of visitors, boaters, and sightseers, and the Coast Guard? Answer? One doesn’t. Period. But teasing interest lingered, enough to justify starting the engine. That some boat lovers use coke was cause for caution, but not rejection of the notion.

*** As a youngster, I’d spent many a summer day in Playa Del Rey. Weathered, two-story homes huddle next to the Pacific, crouching along alley-wide streets. Further back, land developers, true to the spirit of Los Angeles, drained miles of marsh, dredged for channels and harbor, and created an uncountable number of building sites.

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Marina Del Rey is a paradise for boaters, where people crowd the walkways in an unending, unavoidable flow. Slippage rents upwards of ten bucks a foot and, with luck, a one room apartment can be had for a thou a month. Overhead, the noisy gulls seemed content. I wasn’t. Harbor water smells of staleness and fuel. I had liked it better as a reed-filled marsh, with scattered, grassy dunes of sand to be explored. Even the women were different. I enjoy watching female forms in scanty beach wear. But these were too uniformly glamorous, with fine figures, groomed hair, and studied, sensuous movements. There was something different about their eyes. The offer of a hotdog and beer wouldn’t make it. They paled in comparison to real goods. Wendy came first to mind. To the baseball cap and colored glasses, I’d added a racing form, tucked into the back pocket. The camera dangled from the shoulder. The binoculars were draped around the neck. Beyond hiking up the collar of the tan windbreaker, I couldn’t think of more to do to hide myself. In the shadows of the gazebo, I studied all I could see with the glasses. I ignored the armada of docked boats and the empty slip where Denty’s Dream had been moored. There were too many people about, any day or night, to unload, tied up to the narrow floating docks. Looking out over the gas pumps, the rocky sloping bank across the channel glittered in sunlight. To the right were the offices of the Sheriff and Coast Guard, side by side, facing out to sea. There was no need to check the main channel. I remembered it from the trip out with Denty. Sailboats tack against the onshore breeze, seeking the open sea. Those sailing into the channel must take care not to let the wind carry them too hard. And motorized vessels, busily ducking sailboats, must be concerned about not hitting the boat in front or being clobbered from the rear. It had been a special kind of madness. And there was no place to unload a ton of anything.

110–Bob McElwain

North of the Coast Guard station, scattered walls of glass enclose apartments and condos. All are set well back from the water. The skyline behind is broken by rectangular up thrusts of multistoried office complexes. A walk might reveal more than the glasses. If not, it would ease restlessness. I went back to the car and steered a circuitous route that took me almost to the Coast Guard station before finding a place to park. *** The long walk offered only mild exercise, no revelations. Apartments. Condos. Yachting clubs. I’d been right about the distance from the water, the openness, impossible to cross without notice. Except that the concentration of structures was greater, including more and taller walls of glass, the northern end of the marina was no different than the southern end. Strike two for the amateur versus the pro. This crowded, bustling beehive of activity was not a place to secretly unload a ton of anything. Reluctantly I turned and headed back to the car. Passing the Marine Supply Center, I watched folks in the service area hovering over mechanics who were trying to appear equally concerned. From the look of it, boats are no kinder to their owners than are cars. I paused, watching the sturdy crane pluck a sixteen-foot power boat from the harbor water, then neatly tuck it into the third bank of a storage rack. Handy, parking boats eight high. And probably profitable. Most of the slots in the twelve racks were filled. The crane brought to mind the monsters I’d seen at the harbors. The power of the lever coupled with that of the wheel. The improvement in security here, over harbor fencing, was the coiled razor wire atop the chain-link fence. This particular ploy to slow midnight requisition leaves me cold. The motivations may be well founded, but it’s not friendly.

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*** In Van Nuys, Melody was patient, helping me become Fremont, then Saxton. He didn’t quit until he’d examined proofs that satisfied him. The passport and licenses would be ready tomorrow. Still dressed as Saxton, I picked up a newspaper in Van Nuys. Five bucks in quarters cut the list of rooms for rent to half a dozen by eliminating those too small or too near bunches of people. In each of the first three visits I met a nice woman who wanted to know everything about me. At the fourth stop, the landlady was half lit. She teetered in the doorway, spilling wine from her glass. The bleached blonde hair didn’t make her more attractive. The wide screen TV blared from across the darkened, cavernous room. “Sixty ah week,” she mumbled, handing me the key. “In advance,” she said, closing the door in my face. The outside stairway was shielded from the neighboring house by trees grown past all hope of pruning. The attic had been converted to one large room by tucking four-foot sheets of plywood up against the roof rafters, then wallboard up to the ridge line. Windows had been crudely installed at each end. A toilet and sink were partitioned off, without a door. The furniture would have been rejected by all but trash collectors. It was exactly what I needed. Even though the bed had needed a new mattress for over ten years, it looked like the finest duck down, compared to the back seat of the car. Downstairs, I knocked again. I placed a fifty and a ten in the extended palm that didn’t seem to care whether it was money or the key being returned. Yes, indeedy. My kind of landlady. *** It was after ten the next morning when I finally put the body close to food. I hadn’t shaved. The beard isn’t thick, but it’s a fast grower. Already I looked almost as mean as I felt.

112–Bob McElwain

I let the fingers walk through the yellow pages. It took the remaining quarters to find what I needed, and an hour to get to the shop in Canoga Park. The buzzer brought a sandy-haired, young man to the cluttered counter. When I told him what I needed, he hesitated. Twenty 36-exposure rolls results in a hefty stack of eight by ten prints. The extra hundred turned the trick. It’s not much money any more, but there’s something about Ben Franklin’s picture. The sandy-haired man scooped up the bill and the bag of film, then disappeared into the back. Los Angeles is a sprawling megalopolis. One’s reminded of this when running errands. Driving left too much empty time, filled with unwanted thoughts of Boggs and nonproductive ones of Wendy. At Melody’s a wad of bills was exchanged for the two drivers licenses and the passport. Mr. Martinez was pale and shaky at meeting Jason Saxton. But he managed to hand me the two essential pieces of plastic. At the Burbank Airport I tested Saxton’s license and credit card by renting a tan Buick, the biggest car they had. The trunk was nearly filled with the spare tire. Even with the back seat, there was little room for what’s required to support a guerrilla war. I packed my things with care, planning space for what Skimpy would deliver. I wasn’t up to it, but I called Robarris. When he came on the line, he said, “I don’t fancy working with chaps who disappear for days on end, my boy.” “Can we get to something worth my time?” “Quite.” His sigh shouted of exasperation. “We should discuss certain matters in detail. Shall we say tomorrow at one?” “Your office won’t do. There are folks looking for me.” “My dear chap. Has it occurred to you our relationship is in grave jeopardy for precisely that reason?” “Expected it to be in jeopardy some way.” “Indeed.” I could picture him straightening his tie. “To ease your fears, drive to the rear of the underground garage. There will

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be a man to escort you up in the private elevator. Who can say? You may find the trip rewarding. Good day, my boy.” The line went dead. I doubted there’d be much reward, but even a lousy hand can win a pot. There was nothing for it but to go. I dialed and left my number. When Lencho called back, he told me Tony was doing fine and was expecting to be released soon. Next he gave me the name and number of the man working nights for El Viento Air. “I need a merchant seaman,” I said, “one who knows the guts of ships.” “I know such a man.” “I’ve rented a dump in Van Nuys. 13122 Cedar. Can you bring him by in the morning? Say ten?” “We will be there, Jefe.” He paused. The silence puzzled me. “Boggs has raised the price,” he said, as if shaking his massive head. “Twenty-five for pointing and a round hundred for the big burn.” “Damn,” I muttered. What defense was possible against such a threat? What coke user would turn down that kind of bread? And others of a more professional bent might begin looking. “There is more, Jefe.” “Yeah?” “Boggs’ punks, they no longer hang around. It proved a painful experience for too many. But those with ties, they are different.” “How?” I asked, knowing I didn’t want to hear it. “After what you said of them, I sent four men. My best. One is in the hospital, shot.” “Hell, Lencho. I’m sorry. What happened?” “I decided we should talk with these men, as we have with Boggs’ punks. There were two, Jefe. They were not punks. One died, almost at once. The other lasted a long time and never gave even his name.” I was awed. Nobody holds out against Lencho’s requests for info. “It might be best to let it slide. I’m buried pretty good.” “I must know more.” “Take care, then.”

114–Bob McElwain

“My men walk with one hand on the gun, three of them together.” I hung up, more worried than I’d let Lencho know. My call to the Black Cat brought a holler, then the tight squeaky voice. “Skimpy talkin’ at ja.” “Macklen here. You ready?” There was a moment of silence I couldn’t interpret, then he said, “Ya, man. Call it.” “Make it now.” Skimpy began giving precise directions, talking more quickly than usual, the voice pitched higher than I recalled it being. Remembering the raise in price Boggs had laid on me, it didn’t take long to decide Skimpy shouldn’t see Jason Saxon. I shed the hairpiece, contacts, and boots. The vacant building was located in an industrial tract in East Los Angeles. A part of the city noted for people dedicated to minding their own business. I parked in front of the designated door, the car beyond sight of anyone not actually on the grounds. The unlocked window was where it was supposed to be. Once inside, I cranked open the corrugated door, then drove into the dusty, darkened building. Free of the car, I waited in deep shadows, the Colt in my fist. Skimpy drove the beat, bedraggled, Volkswagen van inside, made a U-turn, then brought it to a shuddering stop beside the Buick. I tucked the Colt away and showed myself. Skimpy dashed for the overhead door and closed it hastily. Neither of us needed urging. Deadly cargo was transferred quickly from the van to the car. Throughout, Skimpy rushed the process, never really looking at me. When he handed me the box of thermit charges, I set it down and examined one. It was the size of a D-type battery. The weight was right. The timer had a four hour max. “You test one of these?” “Two, man. They’re good.” Skimpy’s a devoted liar, but not about his product. Stretching the truth was as far as he’d go.

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When he handed me the .22, I broke it open, tested the cylinder rotation and alignment, then pulled the trigger twice. Like new, and the silencer had a good weight. I dropped it into the trunk and reached for the next carton, radio controlled detonators for the C4 we’d already loaded. “Where’s the transmitter?” I asked. Skimpy rummaged about inside the van and produced a rectangular device, the size of an electric garage door opener. “What’s the range?” I asked. “Supposed ta be a hunnard yards.” I didn’t like the uncertainty. I grabbed two detonators and turned toward the back of the deserted building. “What ja doin’?” Skimpy wailed. “We gota get out a here.” “I’m going to make sure.” “Kee-rist, man. Not here. Not now.” But he followed. At the back of the building, I examined the littered lot through the dusty window. Beyond the weed-covered yard, a machine shop faced the next street north. Behind the building, flats of extrusion and assorted metals were stacked neatly in rows, with wide aisles between them. Someone had fudged a bit. A wide gate had been left open and flats had been stored on this side of the fence. I cranked open the twenty-foot door, ignoring its lack of cooperation. Skimpy was trembling with nervousness, anxious to be gone. Outside I paced off a hundred yards, then twenty more. No one noticed, so far as I could tell. I set a detonator on the ground and another, twenty feet to the right, then rushed back inside. I pressed the button on the small transmitter. Both detonators ignited, raising small clouds of dust. Skimpy hurried ahead, back to the car. He worked with even greater urgency than before. When we’d finished, he asked, “Thirty G’s?” I handed him a wad of bills. “Twenty would be better.” “That ain’t nothin’, man.” He yanked off his cap, then suddenly pulled it back on. “Ya. Sure.” He reached for the money.

116–Bob McElwain

Skimpy doesn’t take the short count without complaint. Something was definitely wrong. Tires screamed outside, as two cars skidded to a stop. “Kee-rist,” Skimpy cried. He scampered to the door and frantically began cranking it open. I ran for the nearest window. A glance was enough. Half a dozen Song Birds, MAC-10s ready, were fanning out across the front of the building. There would be others, out of sight to the right. Skimpy dashed to his van. Seconds later, it was roaring toward the door. I didn’t like the odds he’d chosen. The back? Could I get through the open gate to the machine shop? There was no better choice. I ran for the car and started the engine, hoping the sound was hidden by the clatter of Skimpy’s van. I eased the car forward, fearing the squeal of tires on the concrete floor. The twenty-foot rear door I’d left open grew slowly larger. I freed the Colt, desperately hoping I wouldn’t need it. I glanced again at the rearview mirror. As Skimpy cleared the building, the van was pounded with rounds. The roar of a half-dozen autos blended, slamming echoes off the inside walls of the building. Out of control, the van swerved left. Over the roar of gun fire, I heard it slam into a concrete wall. Skimpy’s game had ended. So would mine, without distance from those deadly little guns. I hit it. Tires screamed. As the car cleared the door, I began a sliding turn toward the open gate. As I slipped through it, auto-fire broke out behind me, but I heard no hits. Clear of the storage yard, I slid onto the main drive and rushed toward the street ahead. I made a hard right without further sign of the Song Birds.

CHAPTER 14 It was much later, after the last of the trembles faded, that the stomach’s demand for food became urgent. It could no longer be comfortably ignored. But there was no reason to eat alone. Except

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for the Song Birds. And the fellows in suits and ties. I reviewed the whole of it. There was simply no way I could yet have been tied to Jason Saxton. Skimpy had gone for the bucks; I hadn’t been discovered by anyone looking. Earnestly hoping I was right, I stopped at a phone and dialed. Only the secretary was available at Katlan Air. Wendy wasn’t in or at home. She hadn’t known I’d call. Even if she had, she might have begged off. I felt silly, a grown man lashed by surging emotions appropriate to a love-sick teenager. As Jason Saxon once again, I picked up the four hefty packages of color prints and parked in front of the first restaurant I came across. Dinner was a tasteless, boring affair. On the way back to the attic room, I stopped for straight pins and other essentials. Still feeling juvenile, I dialed Wendy’s apartment. She picked up on the third ring. “Yes?” “Macklen here.” My typical response had never sounded formal, until now. “I’ve some photos I want you to see,” I said in a rush. The silence on the other end of the line eased discomfort. Something of her essence reached out to assure me she understood more than had been said. “I’ll be glad to look at them. Would you like to stop by here?” “No. I can’t see how anyone could have connected us, but I don’t want to give them the chance. I’ve rented a dump in Van Nuys. I’m battling a battalion of cockroaches for the right to stay, but could you come by?” “The address?” “13122 Cedar. There are stairs on the back side. Just come on up.” “In about an hour,” she said, then hung up. However the evening went, it would be different. I couldn’t say how. But she was coming. That’s what mattered. I parked under the stairway. When I opened the car door, the landlady’s TV resonated through windows and walls. Inside, I shed the contacts, boots, and hairpiece, filled the new coffee pot, and plugged it in.

118–Bob McElwain

The Formica surface of the kitchen table was chipped and marred in an uncountable number of places. It rocked ominously when touched, but it didn’t collapse under the weight of my purchases. I stacked the photos on the battered coffee table, sat down on the couch, moved to duck a broken spring, and began. I arranged the prints in the order shot, then began pinning them to the wall. By referring to the maps I was able to identify most of the slip numbers and noted them on the prints with the black felt marker. I was interrupted by a knock on the door. I was sure it was Wendy, but the hand felt more comfortable, tucked under the shirt, near the Colt. When I opened the door, she nodded a greeting, then stepped inside, her eyes brimming with curiosity. She didn’t seem different. Her attention turned to the photos on the wall and she moved toward them. I’d never seen her in a casual dress before. This one was soft shades of blue on a field of off-white. A sash of the same material, tied at the side, accented her waist. I decided she should wear dresses more often. She turned abruptly and asked, “Long Beach?” I nodded and headed for the coffee pot to cover confusions. What had her thinking produced? I poured coffee. “Want some?” I asked. “Yes.” She set her bag on the coffee table and sat down opposite me, apparently as comfortable here as in a grand palatial residence. I shoved a cup toward her, laced mine with bourbon, and asked, “You seem subdued, some way. Second thoughts about Boggs?” “About a number of things. But not about him.” One of those inexplicable silences built, made uncomfortable for me by unanswered questions and uncertainties. “You’ve become fond of me,” she said. “Isn’t that true?” “Yeah. I have.” “But you were fond of your men in Nam, weren’t you?” “We were there. We had no choice. You do.” “I’ve already made it.” “You know what happened at the cemetery. There’ve been four other tries. Now Boggs has put a price on my head. A hundred

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thou. A lot of folks will be interested.” I told her how Skimpy had set me up. And died. Continuing, I said, “And there’s someone else looking.” “Who?” “I don’t know, but they’re good. The first time I noticed them, they were following me. Next, they were waiting for me at LAX when I switched my gear to the car you rented.” “How did they find your car so quickly?” “Luck, maybe. But I think they’re just plain good.” Frowning, she mixed more coffee. Then she reached for the bottle and added a dash of bourbon. I leaned closer, and said, “There’s no telling how those looking to kill me will consider you. But if you’re standing close, my bet is you’ll go down too.” “Earlier you mentioned an even greater danger,” she said. “Officialdom. Once you begin, they’ll be your worst enemy, an army, unknowingly working in Boggs’ interests.” “That’s so.” “We may not make it. But if I could afford to, I’d throw in the Lear and my services for free. That’s how much I want to help. Now do you suppose we could cut the crap and get on with it?” I toyed with the cup, searching for the right words. As usual, they eluded me. I mixed more coffee and added bourbon, stalling. “Maybe that’s all of it. I am fond of you. And I sure don’t want you hurt.” “I’m fond of you and I don’t want you hurt. What’s left? An idyllic deserted island in the South Pacific? I said let’s cut the crap. I meant it.” I held her steady glance for a long while. I wanted her out of it. Period. I would tell her so. But something went wrong when I signaled the tongue to speak. “What I’d like to do is start some action on that lumpy bed over there.” I felt my face turning red. “I’m sure you would,” she said softly. She breathed deeply, relaxing the combative stance. “About the plane, I’ve discussed it with Floyd. We’ll need two thousand a week. You’ll pay for fuel.” “Now who’s talking crap. Two thou for a plane worth three mil?”

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“We bought it used. Even with what we’ve done to it, two thousand’s enough.” “I checked. The going rate’s three to four times that, even without risks.” I reached under the shirt, emptied three compartments on the thinning money belt, and tossed the bills on the table. “That’s eighteen thou, six a week. You talked yourself into this. Now take it or no deal.” “I’d rather you paid by the week,” she said quietly. What she was really saying was if I didn’t make it, she wouldn’t need the full amount. But neither would I. “Be nice,” I said. “Put it in your purse.” She looked at the money, frowning. Slowly she reached for it and tucked it away. “You know,” she said, forcing brightness, “This combination of coffee and bourbon isn’t half bad.” “More?” “Yes. Please.” She stood and walked over to the wall to study the pictures. When I handed her the cup she grinned in that remembered way and asked, “What was this help you claimed you needed?” “These are still a bunch of pictures to hang.” She positioned prints, holding each while I anchored it with pins. When we’d finished, most of the wall surface was covered. I made two complete passes, examining an occasional shot with care, seeking to remember the feelings and impressions I’d had when the shutter had clicked. When I joined her at the table, she’d removed her jacket and done something to the tie strings at the top of the dress. More of her breasts were revealed. “Was that just talk?” she asked quietly. “About the bed, I mean?” It didn’t take long to get the lights out. There was only one switch. It wasn’t as sensually demanding, and urgency had vanished. I still had no clue to her thoughts, but it was different. Each was intent on pleasing the other. That it enhanced our own response was a pleasant unsought deliciousness.

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Later, when she lay quietly beside me, I sifted the feel of her through mental fingers. Lightly stroking my arm, she said, “I’ve been thinking.” “About what?” I asked, holding my breath. This could be the needed clue, the one that foretold what lay ahead. “I wonder if any woman ever got eighteen thousand dollars for this?” I whacked her on the rear and it started all over again.

CHAPTER 15 I awakened at first light, uneasy, with that distinctive tension that proclaims waiting time is short. Wendy lay on her chest, long fingers curled against the pillow. The naked back and shoulders beckoned above the sheet drawn up to her waist. Reluctantly I crawled from the bed. With coffee, I began another scan of the photos, already filed in memory. I cleaned up at the sink, dressed, installed the blue contacts, took extra time with the hairpiece and laced the heavy boots. Wendy never stirred. I tipped the coffee pot and rolled in half a dozen eggs, then returned to the photos. I finished another pass as Wendy awoke. When she finally got her eyelids open, she propped her chin on cupped palms. “Who are you?” she asked, sleepily. “You don’t look like the man I was with last night.” “It’d be best if I don’t,” I replied. “Any idea of the time?” “It doesn’t seem important at the moment.” The voice was husky, throaty. I pretended not to notice. “It’s near ten. Company’s due. You might feel better inside some clothes.” “Are you sure you have your priorities right?” She cuddled a breast, examining a non-existent blemish. “Probably not.” I turned away from distracting enticement to the photos that didn’t need more study. Rustlings from the bed told me she was

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moving. When I turned back, she’d disappeared behind the partition. I fished a boiled egg from the coffee pot and peeled it. I’d forgotten salt. It tasted awful. I ate it anyway. When Wendy reappeared she looked as fresh as she had last night. “You look great,” I said. “Inside, I’m not,” she said, mixing coffee. “Some of the bruises are an inch deep. That bed is an awful combination of springs and lumps.” “That’s for sure.” I pulled another egg from the pot. “Want one?” I asked. “What a disgusting offer.” Determinedly I peeled and ate it. And another. At the knock on the door, I wiped my hands on the denims and pulled the Colt, trying to ignore the look of concern on Wendy’s face. It was Lencho, towering over the short, stout man beside him. “His name is Wes,” Lencho rumbled, studying my outfit. He nodded approval and followed the man inside. “He knows of ships.” “That’s me, mate. Chief Engineer on the Duntermoor, I am. Top of the line in container ships. But I’ve sailed every type of lady that’s afloat.” He scanned the photos pinned to the wall. The denims and boots were worn. The black wool cap shadowed dark brown eyes. “You covered ground, mate.” He walked to the wall, shoving the cap back, revealing gray in the bushy, brown thatch of hair. “So what do you need?” “I want to seriously damage some ships. I need ideas.” Lencho greeted Wendy with a broad smile, sat down at the table, then turned back to listen. “Why not sink ’em?” Wes asked. “Limpet mines here,” he pointed to one photo, “would blow the fuel.” “Won’t do. Insurance would pay. Besides, I might kill someone.” “True enough, mate. Mines aren’t too selective.” He walked along the wall, looking at each photo. “Sorta different, what you’re asking. I’ve spent my life keeping these bitches running. Never gave no thought on how to stop ’em.”

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“What I need is damage that takes time to fix, expensive damage, something that requires dry-docking.” “Fire might do,” he said thoughtfully. He pointed at a coaster of about 900 tons. “On an older ship like this, the alarms aren’t good. Depending on the cargo, fire plays hell.” “What kinds of cargo?” “Coal can get away from you, even when the hold is flooded. Hemp’s worse. It doesn’t really burn, just smolders. And the fire travels. You knock it down in one spot and it pops up in three others. And grains, they go fast.” “But would it really hurt the ship?” “Pour water on grain and what it does, it swells. It’ll buckle the bulkheads. To repair it, you’ve got to have parts. It takes time to get them and costs plenty. On a junker like this,” he pointed again at the coaster, “it might be too late when the alarm sounded.” “How about inside the engine room?” I pointed to several interior shots. “Take that oiler. If something like Carborundum got through, the shaft bearings would go, wouldn’t they?” “They would. But there are filters inside that stop anything but oil.” “Then come up with something else.” He poked at another photo. “This here’s the gear box. Blow it and the prop shaft will slip right out the stern. And here’s an idea, mate. The governor. Disconnect this lever here, feed a little extra fuel and you’ve got yourself a runaway. Dumb fool engine won’t quit until it comes apart.” “But that’d have to happen while the engine was running, wouldn’t it?” “Sure.” “I need something that can be done in port, when no one’s around.” “Even on smaller ships, there are men aboard. One of the black gang at least.” “Who’s that?” “My crew. They call us that ’cause we’re all the time greasy.” “Someone’s always in the engine room?”

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“Always. Even if there’s nothing to fix, somebody’s got to keep things running. The same’s true for fire. There’s somebody on deck watch. You’d have to crack a hatch. It takes time.” “Underwater, could you blow the prop shaft or the prop?” “Maybe the prop. But that’s no big thing. Lots of times we carry an extra wheel. Either way, it don’t take long to get one on. As for the shaft? Forget it. Put enough charge to it and you’ll sink the ship without nicking that shaft. “From the sea, I’d hit the rudder. Take out the pentel arm and you’re talking towing, a good bill for parts and at least a week in dry-dock.” “Which is the pentel arm? Top or bottom?” “Top,” he said, pointing, “where it anchors into the hull.” On the ship pictured, it was nearly twenty feet above the water. “Can you think of anything else?” I asked. “Only that you’d better plan on nights. During the day, the whole crew works the good eight. Nights, only a couple got to be on watch.” “Would it change your thinking to know the ships I’m after are sailing under Liberian registry with Greek captains?” “Christ. You’re talking a different world.” “How’s that?” “First off, what I said about the black gang and deck watch, it don’t mean much. These Greek types, they hire cousins a lot. They usually hang around the captain’s cabin, scarfing up olives and screaming at one another, generally half soused. They do that, drink I mean. “So likely the deck watch will be curled up out of the wind with a bottle. The guy in the control room, he’ll be taking a nap. But you can’t count on it. If they decide it’s dull, you could have the whole damned crew dancing on deck. “And the ship’ll be substandard. Your notion of damage don’t sound too good. A ship like that, it don’t go to dry-dock. It gets accidental sunk for the insurance.” “I don’t follow.”

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“To clear for sea after repairs, there are like a hundred different inspections. Take a ship like this,” he said, pointing at a picture. “In decent shape, you could pick one up for four million. But those Greeks, they buy junk for two, insure it and don’t fix anything. If she breaks down too bad, they sink it. “Nobody ever proves anything. They pick a spot where it’s a long way down to Davy’s Locker and open the sea cocks. The crew goes too, with their throats cut. Somehow that captain, and his damned cousins, always get clear. Lucky, they are.” “I’ve got the picture,” I said, reaching for his hand. “It seems you’ve covered it. Thanks.” “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.” He turned back at the door. “If it was me, mate, I’d hit the fuel. From the water it’s easy to get at and there’s one mother bang. And them Greeks? They’ll sink her anyway, if you do any serious damage.” He touched his cap and was gone. I turned back to the photos. Every laboriously constructed notion had apparently been tossed aside by the crusty seaman. I mixed more coffee and joined Wendy and Lencho. Lencho tipped the black, hairy, head toward Wendy. “She is to hear what’s said?” Lencho loves his ladies, but they aren’t invited to a council of war. That I felt differently didn’t bother him. He was simply checking. The wry set to Wendy’s lips matched the bright sparks in her eyes. “Yeah,” I said. “She’s bent on getting her head blown off. She might as well hear how it’s going to go down.” Her eyes brightened further, with traces of smoke around the edges. “Wendy has no experience in these matters. She can be excused, perhaps. But you, Jefe, can not. Who will you blame when your gray cells are spilled upon the earth?” “Forget it, Lencho. I’m going to hit as hard and fast as I can. I’ve got to confuse him. Scare hell out of him. Get him thinking his whole empire is coming apart. And keep at it until he blunders.”

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“Caray! He wasted the Dentons and Larsons. And he should have got Tony, I think. Boggs is much on Tony’s mind. What blunder could be greater? Yet he makes fools of the police.” “I know.” “Then hit the sonofabitch. I have seen his little fort. I’ve people who can make the house disappear before those bastards get off a round. “What about the cops and feds? They’re watching.” “Si,” he sighed. “It is not good to hit cops. But we watch. I will find a way.” “Not until I have my shot.” “What shot? I opened that damned envelope.” “I figured you would.” “That you leave me your little houses is a bad sign, I think. This time you have grand doubts, no?” “I’ve doubts.” “Then do it my way.” “I can’t, Lencho.” “Then let me. I don’t want those houses.” “Use what’s there to cover Martinez, and the rest as you please.” “You see? You have no confidence.” “No one attacks a machine gun expecting to die. But there’s doubt and you damned well know it.” He shrugged, reluctantly agreeing. “Since I am to finish what you begin, there is much to do, I think.” “Maybe so. But pull your people back for now. Let’s not have anyone else hurt. Take it slow and don’t make any mistakes.” “Me? I do not make mistakes.” “You signed for a second tour in Nam.” “But I was so young.” “Now you’re a friendly old man filled with wisdom.” “I can be friendly,” he said solemnly. “And I think more clearly. There is hope, no?” “Some. If you don’t get your ass shot off, which Boggs would happily arrange.”

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“That does worry me. It is such a beautiful ass.” He laughed and reached for Wendy’s hand, clasping it firmly in both of his. “A remarkable lady.” He devoured her with his eyes. “Never have I known a woman who listens without questions.” Watching him intently, she said calmly, “I have several questions. And a comment or two.” Lencho’s smile broadened. “You should visit with me. I would be happy to hear these comments and delighted to answer all those burdensome questions.” “And you’d like to show me some things, I imagine.” “Madra mia. There is much I would like to show such a fine lady.” He lumbered to his feet, laughing heartily, and strode to the door. It closed behind him without sound. “Does he try to make every woman he meets?” Wendy asked. “No. He’s very selective.” “I suppose I should feel flattered.” “Don’t get carried away. I like having you around.” “I’ve known that for some time. You’re the one who’s been slow to see it.” Feeling blood rush to my cheeks, I plunged ahead. “Have you any ideas about what I could hit on the planes?” “Not really.” “How about a few rounds into the avionics?” “The gear is expensive, but not difficult to replace.” “I thought of gelatin or something in the fuel tanks, but it’d take time.” “Again, replacing fuel tanks is relatively easy. I think you’ll have to stick to engines. Costs are high and it takes from three to six months for repair and recertification.” “But an explosion on a prop shaft could ignite the fuel.” She nodded. “And blowing the gear on the DC-3s might not work. It won’t work on the King Airs; they’re turbo props. The shaft isn’t intricately linked as it is in a piston engine.” “Given time to empty the tanks and run nitro, the engines would freeze.”

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“That would work,” she said. “But again, only with piston engines. Most of Boggs’ planes are King Aires.” “We’re short of ideas,” I said, standing. I scooped up the El Viento brochures from the coffee table and sat back down. “I’ve got to see a fellow who’s been checking on Boggs. He might have something.” “That would help. Wes put a crimp in your notion of damage. And leaving your property to Lencho does indicate less than complete confidence.” “I only did that to slow him some. He arranged a credit line behind both Fremont and Saxton. It might break him to cover. This way, the pressure’s off. I’m hoping it will keep him from taking on Boggs.” “He seems able.” “He is. But he goes straight at things. Too many would die.” I fished through the brochures. “Are you any kind of typist?” “Strictly a hacker. What do you need?” I handed her the letter on El Viento stationery. “I’d like authorization for Mr. Milton Fremont, special representative of the president, to board and inspect any ship. Let’s draft one. I’ll leave you to hunt up a secretarial service and run it through an instant print shop. I can forge the signature well enough to get by.” “Why not a copy shop?” “We need to lay your letter on top of this one so stationery shows around it. Copy machines often leave a line where one sheet lays over another. A printer won’t.” Half an hour later we had a fine sounding letter. It was Wendy’s idea to leave a space in which to print the ship’s name, thus justifying the use of the form letter. She added another nice touch. Mr. Fremont was to find out if requests made were being responded to properly. I left her with the task of adding final niceties and the caution that if things went well, I’d be late. She nodded, leaning over her notes. She’d done her share of waiting. But she’d had little preparation for handling gnawing, growing fears of the unknown ahead of us.

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As I closed the door behind me, I squelched a twinge of the guilties. She had the dirty end of this stick.

CHAPTER 16 I parked at the back of the underground garage. The somber man who opened the door to the private elevator disapproved of me. In a glance, he saw beyond the boots, hairpiece, and contacts. I tried to console myself with the thought he’d been expecting me. Our exit on the ninth floor brought us into a brightly lit maze of corridors. I was ushered into a small room without windows. The only furniture was the walnut conference table, faced by eight chairs. A single bulb glowed in the lamp at one end of the table, near the tape recorder. Robarris entered as if toying with a walking stick. “I am delighted you could make it, my boy.” He didn’t sound delighted. Nor was he impressed with Saxton’s outfit. He took the chair facing me, next to the lamp. By moving his head, he could hide or reveal his eyes. I hoped he’d keep them hidden. “Exactly what have you been up to, all this time?” he demanded. “Nothing you need to know about.” “Quite,” he said, in his clipped precise way. Even with the eyes shadowed, I could feel the weight of the penetrating gaze. Finally he inserted a cassette into the recorder and started the machine. As leader slipped past the head, he said, “These are only abstractions. Still, they are representative. Except for what little was picked up over the phone, the dialog was obtained with laser techniques. You’ll note noise occasionally obliterates the pickup.” Despite glitches, the tape made me feel as if I was inside the house, crouching behind a couch. All had been filtered and enhanced by a pro. I was impressed. Enough had been left of the partying and women, lots of women, to show what Boggs was into, that he lived high. He also used some

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of his own goods. Many references were vague and clearly coded. At one point, Boggs said over the phone, “We could do good business in a couple of weeks.” The Santa Maria was seven days south. I reached out and pressed the pause button. “When did you pick that up?” Robarris held the file of reports under the lamp. “10:30 a.m. on the thirteenth.” Nine days back. “I’d bet a shipment is due in seven days.” “Precisely. It is on the Santa Maria, I should say.” A fop? Maybe. But a quick thinker with good info, whatever else he might be. “Boggs sounds content enough. Are there time’s he’s not?” “Many, my boy. There is instant rage on the slightest cause, imagined or otherwise.” “What mellows him out?” “Women appear to help. The man’s inexhaustible. And there is the cocaine.” “How deep is he into it?” “Moderately, I should say, if that word can be applied to using cocaine.” “Anything else?” “He was elated to find your car last week at the airport. He seemed as satisfied to have driven you away as he would have been to see you dead.” The sudden chill that encompassed me did not come from air conditioning. Those who’d found me at LAX did not work for Boggs or he’d know I hadn’t left. Who in hell were they? Robarris leaned forward and started the tape again. “This is Lynn. May I speak to Mr. Boggs?” The female voice was precise, cultured and business-like. Boggs picked up quickly, straining for respect from the first word. “What can I do for you, Lynn?” “Mr. Baracelli asked me to call. He still feels recent performance has been unusually poor, that La Cassadas is not earning an adequate return.”

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“Like I told you, we’ll more than make up for it this month.” “I told him what you’ve said. Still he worries. He feels you may not be devoting sufficient time to business. He’s heard rumors of other interests.” “Hey, Lynn. There’re always broads. Help me out, will you?” There was more. Lynn asked questions and Boggs claimed improvements were on the way. If she knew he was killing people, and planned to continue doing so, she didn’t show it. When Boggs hung up, he screamed, “That kinky bitch is getting her rocks off on my case. I’d like to slit her throat. How come she never lets me talk to Baracelli? I could set him straight.” Robarris stopped the tape. “Interesting, that.” “La Cassadas is a partner, not a laundry for Boggs’ money.” “Precisely.” “Are they also into the coke deals?” “I should think not. But since La Cassadas owns forty-nine percent of El Viento, any harm to Boggs affects La Cassadas as well. Further, Baracelli may be connected to organized crime. He could be a dangerous foe.” “Can you find out?” I asked. The words, “organized crime,” blocked rational thought. “Inquiries are being made. It may be that Boggs is not a major factor in Baracelli’s plans. Even so, he could prove a threat in a less direct fashion.” “Like?” “I should think funds would be available in the event of short term difficulties at El Viento.” For a moment, I felt as though he’d been reading my mind. Robarris continued, speaking with a curious intensity. “That is what you plan, my boy. Is it not? To attack Boggs, obliquely, through his assets?” “I keep things to myself.” “Exception must be made in this instance, if you hope to hear more.” “Why?”

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“I find your inclination for crude, violent response objectionable. Information we uncover is presented to responsible management or legal officials. Providing information to a person such as yourself, without full knowledge of how it is to be used, is a risk I’m unwilling to take.” “Robarris, you’re an obnoxious son of a bitch. You don’t wear well.” “That may be accurate, my boy. However, the point remains.” “ ‘My boy’ me one more time and I just might chuck this recorder right through the door. And you along with it.” “I’m dreadfully sorry, old chap. I had no idea you were the sensitive type.” “Old chap doesn’t make it either. Try Scott.” “Scott, then.” I could tell it didn’t feel right to his tongue. “The point remains.” “Info you’ve gathered has never resulted in violence? Nobody has ever died?” “Not in any way that made headlines, I assure you.” “What about the companies your data has buried? What happened to the employees? How many never found another decent job? How many gave up, sucked on a gun barrel and blew out the back of their heads? You’ve built yourself a sick set of rationalizations. A little dying is fine, if it doesn’t make the papers.” “That is a point, my . . . .” He straightened his tie. “Sorry. Scott.” He leaned forward into the light, revealing the cold calculating mind behind the eyes. “Still, I must know what you are planning.” He had something I needed. But what words would move him, soften his reservations? I leaned toward the wintry eyes and said, “Boggs will kill me, if he can. Tony too. Short of killing him first, pressure’s the key. If Boggs gets to believing his competition is trying to take him down, he’ll panic and bungle it. There’ll be a cop waiting.” “Who might that be?” “Hap Skyler, one of Tony’s buddies.” “Indeed.” He stroked the beard with his forefingers. “I believe I know of the man.”

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“You’ve taken chances. It’s time to take another. Now.” He took a deep breath and held it, as if deciding what to do with it. “Quite,” he said finally, handing me a sheet of paper. On it were the names and addresses of two banks. When I looked up, puzzled, he said, “They came from accompanying Karl Ulster. There is a safety deposit box in each of those banks, not mentioned in the police file.” “I can pass it to Hap, but what can he do with it?” “Officer Skyler may find it useful, given another choice morsel.” He started the tape again. “Run it down,” Boggs said. A new voice spoke. “We’ve enough resin for the month and we’ve got it spread around, in case of fire and such.” “If you’re wrong you could be dead. Got that?” Boggs demanded. “No sweat.” Robarris stopped the tape and asked, “Have you any notion what that might allude to?” “Resin is used in boat hulls, but that wasn’t talk of boats.” He handed me another sheet of paper. Four addresses were listed. When I looked up, Robarris had leaned back in the chair. He smiled briefly, then said, “Ed Jacobson visited each address. Substitute coke for resin. You have there, ah, Scott, a list of Boggs’ coke depots.” The nerves tingled throughout the body. The hands trembled. The sheet of paper felt suddenly too hot to hold, as if it were about to burst into flames. “Robarris, I am impressed. How’d you get this?” “Quite simply, really. Police files describe locations at which Ulster or Jacobson were lost by surveillance. When either approached such a site, we sent in teams ahead of them.” I willed the body to relax. Kaleidoscopic images collided on overcrowded brain circuits. “But we can’t hunt up a judge with this. Right?” “I’m afraid not. Which means you will have to deal with it in your own inimitable manner. Frankly, that frightens me.” “You’ll survive,” I said, rereading the addresses already etched in memory. “Anything else?” I asked, still staring at the list.

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“One item, a most regrettable incident. Ulster managed to slip our team. I believe it’s unlikely to be significant.” “Tell me about it.” “There is a large shopping plaza on Culver Boulevard in Culver City. Apparently there was a car waiting in the rear. By the time the chaps circled round, he’d vanished. He was returned to his van three hours later. A lady friend, I should think.” I rose, saying “Do you need more money?” He stared up at me, eyes hidden by lamplight. “Not at the moment, ah, Scott. Unless you have more auspicious demands than watching Boggs.” “Nothing. Just don’t lose him.” “I hardly need be reminded of that.” Two strides from the room I was joined by the solemn man who’d brought me up. I hardly noticed. Possibilities bruised one another, tumbling madly through mental channels. Once in the car I gripped the wheel with both hands, watching the knuckles whiten. This could be the best break I’d get. For openers I considered what was in the car. C4 for the doors, then inside. But with what? Could I pick up an UZI fast? Not good. There’s only one soldier in this army. I couldn’t chew up four of Boggs’ teams without taking a hit. Lencho could raise a dozen men in as many minutes. That might work. Hit each site simultaneously. Blow the doors and lob in a couple grenades? Possible. But there’d be dying. And questions impossible to answer. Is there a better way? One with a chance to tie it all to Boggs? Tie it up legal with a prison term for a bow? There is Hap. But once he knew, I’d have to leave it with him. Cops have their own ways. There was no real choice. It had to be Hap. I’d have to make him see it my way. I dialed Mike at El Viento and took notes. It’d be close. I could spare another day, but that was all. I called Foothill Division and left the number, wondering if I was blowing the best shot I’d have. I scooped up the phone before the first ring completed. “Macklen here.”

Lethal Wind–135

“The name sounds familiar. What did you get sent up for?” “I’d have called if I had anything.” “You’d have called if you wanted somethin’. What you want now, man?” “To see you.” “What you got?” He was cop curious even though he sounded half asleep. The only chance was to build on that curiosity. “When I see you.” “Now. Or bug off.” “How about a chance at Boggs?” “That’s a laugher.” “Nothing’s for sure, but there are possibilities.” “You oughta be writin’ for some comic.” He paused. I held my breath. “The Pussy Willow on Oxnard, off Laurel Canyon. Thirty minutes.” I hung up and dashed to the car. I had to believe in Tony’s trust. If Hap blew it, this chance to hit Boggs hard, to force him into hasty action, would vanish as if it had never existed. There might never be a better one. *** The Pussy Willow is a bad bar, the kind one walks out of if they’ve brains enough to know the direction water moves on a slope. I took a stool near the end of the bar and ordered a beer. The crowd was integrated. Every ethnic group was represented. Many didn’t fit any known classification. The feel of the Colt was less comforting than usual. I could count only on the mirror for warning of someone connecting Saxton to the price Boggs had posted. As I took the first sip, Hap Skyler slipped inside, giving a clue to his merit to the vice squad. He fit. He seemed not to notice anyone or anything as he drifted in my direction. Nor did anyone more than glance at him. He looked to be in bad need of whatever he used, about to tumble to the floor. His sleepy glance caught mine

136–Bob McElwain

for an instant, then he shuffled toward the empty booth behind me. I picked up the beer and followed. “I see you let the hair grow,” Hap commented dryly. “And I don’t remember the eyes bein’ blue.” “It didn’t and they’re not.” “If it helps, most wouldn’t make you.” “I hope you’re right.” “Yeh. A hundred thou even gives me ideas.” A beer I hadn’t seen him order was settled in front of him. He reached for it and said, “What do you know about a scumbag they used to call Skimpy?” The voice was flat, flint hard. My heart missed a beat. Had someone noted a plate number? “Don’t know him,” I said evenly, trying to ignore the cold, reptilian eyes. “Should I?” “It was Song Birds took him out. The only contract they got has your name on it.” Mentally I breathed a sigh of relief. Hap was guessing. “That connection is a bit thin.” I worked at holding his unblinking stare. The look faltered. His glance slid away, as if uncaring. “You could be tough at a poker table,” he said to the floor. Then his eyes locked again with mine. “But this ain’t no game, man. Why’d you get me down here?” “I need help.” “I had this notion you never needed anythin’ like that.” “Everyone does, more often than not.” The eyes were filled with doubt. He’d been had before. “So what you need?” “You and the IRS, or someone with clout.” “That’s different, at least. What for?” I handed him the sheet with the names of the two banks. “There’s a box at each address that belongs to Boggs. They weren’t mentioned in the police file.” “Where’d you get this?” “Friend of a friend.”

Lethal Wind–137

I’d got his attention. The ears seemed to point under the greasy hair. “I can watch. No judge’d help. The IRS, the DEA, they’d chuckle some and toss me out.” “You’ve got to move, Hap. Get those boxes drilled.” “What’s the hurry?” “Things could happen. Boggs might need cash.” “What things?” he demanded suspiciously. Could I trust him with any of it? Did I dare? Poker’s a hell of a lot easier. “Nothing’s for sure.” “Quit jackin’ me around. I can feel it. You’re movin’ out. Give.” “I’m going to turn his water off, a little at a time. If I get the valve cranked down tight enough, he’ll blow.” Hap snorted. “You rate yourself pretty high, man.” “If I can get it done, you could nail him.” “No chance. Hell. I’d get a promotion and all. I’m not ready for that.” The slight smile on his lips made lies of the words. Reluctantly I handed him the second list. “Four addresses?” “It’s Boggs’ stash.” “You sure?” All hint of sleepiness had vanished. “Yeah.” “Where are you gettin’ this stuff?” “Here and there.” “Talkative, ain’t you?” “Not usually.” Hap looked at the list again, stroking it fondly with both thumbs. “I still can’t take it to no judge,” he said, thinking out loud. “Can’t say there’s coke behind these doors on account of one half-salty civie.” He scratched behind his ear. “We can set up stakeouts and take them when they’re movin’ goods.” “Too slow.” “What is the freakin’ hurry, man?” “If you lock up his safe boxes and take his stash, he’ll be pinched, facing impatient customers. He might make some dumb play.”

138–Bob McElwain

“I’ve been off and on this scumbag for years. And I ain’t got nothin’. Where is all this good data comin’ from?” “Just for you?” He nodded, watching me intently. “I hired one of Tony’s buddies. He works with high-tech gear and top people. What you’ve got there cost me a good piece of twenty thou.” “Damn,” he muttered. “Cops is always ten years behind and there’re never enough of us.” His fingers gently fondled the paper. “How do you see this goin’ down?” “If a door was blown, you’d have the right to investigate.” “Unless the stuff was in plain sight, we couldn’t bust nobody. Most of it would go down the john.” “What’s the difference, so long as Boggs doesn’t have it?” “I might never find my asshole again.” “Captain Greer backs his men.” “I should check with him.” “Why ask when the answer might be no?” “This ain’t no great job, but I’d sorta like to keep it.” “Sucking up to a rule book? Is that the way? Give this a try. With creative innuendos, you or Greer might be able to get Boggs to believe it was another tip from the Colombians. It might move him.” “That could be interestin’.” He finished the beer, tucked the two sheets of paper away, then stood. “I’ll think on it,” he said sleepily. “God damn it. Didn’t you hear anything I said?” “Call me at five.” “In the morning?” “Yeh.” Then he was gone, as unobtrusively as he’d entered. I looked down at the table. One by one, I reached for the good words. I flashed every indecent utterance I could remember, full upon the mental screen. Not one was sufficient. Nor did any combination come close. “Damn,” I said out loud, drawing glances from those near me.

Lethal Wind–139

I headed for the door. There was one thing I could do. It might mean nothing, a gnat attacking an elephant. But I could do it. And I sure in hell had to do something. *** It was full dark when I pulled to the curb, half a block from Varnac Hulls. Fog off the ocean cut visibility to a few hundred feet. And it was thickening. It suited me fine. I strode down the street toward the office. Near the entrance, I slid into shadow, looking for sign I’d been observed. There was a power transformer on the pole across the street. The windows were taped with lead foil and there might be other components to the alarm setup. But all required electricity. Unless there was battery back up, cutting power would kill the system. How long could I risk being inside? I studied the quiet empty street. Fog and darkness would confuse identification. I settled on a max of ten minutes, half that, if the alarm system was triggered. The hard part is the first move. The moment I remembered, I drew the .357 and fired twice. The transformer across the street erupted, plunging all into sudden blackness, except for the burst of glittering, snapping sparks. The front door was ajar, the lock blown away. The luck held. No alarms sounded. Hoping the blast of the two rounds would go unnoticed in the explosion of the transformer, I plunged inside. Guided by the flash, I found the stack of barrels almost immediately. Resin. I only needed solvent. My nose led me to six five gallon cans that smelled like lacquer thinner. Whatever it was, it would burn. I lugged the cans back to the resin barrels, two at a time, stumbling in the dark. The mental clock told me I’d already used more than four minutes. Light from the flash reflected off a heavy pry bar. I grabbed it, tucked the flash under the armpit and began tumbling stacked barrels. With time rushing past, I opened a dozen by knocking the lids off with the bar.

140–Bob McElwain

The scent of pines and fir overpowered all others. Pushing luck, I smacked the top off ten more. I opened the cans of solvent and tossed them on top of the resin, oozing out across the concrete floor. My time was up. I grabbed the book of matches as I backed away. I lit one, then the whole book, and tossed it. The roaring blast slammed me to the floor. Dazed, I crawled, the flash lost. Flames expanded faster than I moved, scorching heat, faster still. Smoke-filled air confused my sense of direction. It was the water system that brought me out of it. When the fire sprinklers let go, heavy spray knocked down heat and smoke. It jolted me, clearing fuddled thinking. I lunged up and tottered toward the front. Each step was steadier, stronger. At the door, I glanced back at the roaring inferno. The sprinklers had helped me. They were losing to the growing growl and spreading flames that had already scorched the roof and now licked at it, searching out more food. Outside, it was a totally different world. Fog and the absence of light made the street an eerie, black tunnel, ending in the blur of headlights on the busy avenue at the end of the long block. I stepped to the sidewalk and turned toward the car. Someone spotted flames bursting through the roof and cried, “Fire!” The building was bounded to the north by a large, boat-storage area, then a used car lot. Behind it was another darkened factory, well clear. The danger was to people living south of the plant. I could make out the gap between the concrete wall and the nearest house. It seemed wide enough. A middle aged woman came down the steps, supporting an older man. I stepped up on the lawn and asked, “Anyone else inside?” “No, thank God.” Neighbors joined them and I slipped back into the darkness of the tree-lined sidewalk. The top of the factory was a sheet of flame. The breeze from the south pushed glowing embers away from the houses. They’d be safe.

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Sounds of sirens approaching assured me. And urged me to move. I walked to the car and drove off. I felt used, without any trace of satisfaction. Even if I had added to the illusion Boggs was being hit from all sides, it meant little. An ant had bitten where deadly cobras were needed. It was nothing compared to Boggs’ stash and safe boxes, the disposition of which lay in the hands of a skeptical cop, bound by a book of rules. *** Back inside the attic loft, I mixed coffee in the dark. Boggs hadn’t known I was still around, until Skimpy had set me up. Yet I’d been almost nailed at LAX. Suits and ties. I was convinced they didn’t work for Boggs. And I couldn’t believe they were any kind of feds. Officialdom shows credentials; answers are forthcoming. Involuntarily, I shuddered. One thing was certain. I didn’t want to run into any of those fellows again. Wendy lay diagonally across the bed, all nakedy loveliness. I tried to sneak under the covers without disturbing her. It didn’t work. Not half awake, she began fondlings that led to that satisfying exhaustion unlike any other.

CHAPTER 17 Without looking, I knew the sky was bloody red. Drowning in it, I plunged ahead, sluggishly. Hap was escaping on the tricycle, peddling madly. Robarris was behind me, directing an army of club bearing midgets. Feeling an odd pressure against the thigh, I changed course. It was Wendy’s foot, shoving determinedly. “It’s 4:30,” she mumbled. It was too dark to tell. Why did I have to get up in the middle of the night? I struggled to my feet, swaying. Last night there’d been a moment for business. She was to gather up the photos, wipe away fingerprints and leave. I almost had it, but it slipped away.

142–Bob McElwain

In darkness, I filled the sink with cold water. During the second dunk, I remembered why Wendy had set her wristwatch alarm. Hap Skyler. On a tricycle? Given all the really good material, how had the unconscious put that together? The man’s not Tony Haggen, that was certain. Was he running scared? Afraid for his scummy job? Even if so, it wouldn’t explain where all those midgets came from. I wanted to kick a leg from beneath the rickety table and slam the door so as to rip the hinges loose. I closed it softly behind me, trying not to envy Wendy’s snores. Four goddamned thirty in the morning? I knew the sun wouldn’t make it up today. And I knew I had wasted the quarter I had dropped into the pay phone. I dialed anyway. “Officer Skyler.” He didn’t sound sleepy. He always had. “Macklen,” I grunted unhappily. “What you know about a fire last night at Varnac Hulls?” “Never heard of the place.” “It’s in the file, man.” “Must of missed it.” “Shit.” “I got up for this?” “Salty’s. Van Owen and Sepulveda. Twenty minutes.” He hung up. There wasn’t anything better to do. I drove across the darkened city on Van Owen. Salty’s has a focus: no nonsense food. Each heaping plate I saw looked better than the last and those empty were nearly clean enough to use again. I parked on a stool and ordered eggs with ham. I would have felt safe here, even without the Saxton trimmings. There wouldn’t be many cokeheads among these hurried, early risers. As the steaming plate was placed on the counter, Hap collapsed onto the stool beside me, tucking the black briefcase against the counter. One glance at the face abruptly revised the mind set. It was gaunt and strained. He’d been hard at it, throughout the night.

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“Same as him,” he said to the waitress, waving at my plate. Moments later the food was in front of him. Between hurried mouthfuls, he said, “Foul this up and I’ll give serious thought to that bread Boggs wants to give away. I’m thinkin’ along the lines of a chain saw. You got that?” “I don’t much like threats.” “It’s a promise, man. I don’t trust civies. I like to be with pros. Cool all the way. I know you from nothin’, except you’re good at killin’ people.” The familiar reptilian look filled the eyes. “You best get on with it,” I said. “First, you don’t see me ’cause I ain’t here.” “Go on.” “Do your little trick on the doors in the order them addresses were listed, exactly sixty minutes apart.” “I don’t have a watch.” Hap stuffed the chunk of ham into his mouth, slipped his watch off and laid it on the counter. “Don’t be off more than thirty seconds. And leave that damned cannon in your belt. I’ll deal with any shootin’ that needs doin’.” He shoved the briefcase in front of my feet. “Stun grenades. Put them inside. Don’t leave them lyin’ around the hall.” I reached for the watch. “When do I start?” “Six. You’re already late.” *** The palms on the wheel were damp with sweat when I pulled up short of the dilapidated building on Third Street. I had to fight down expectations as I got out of the car. Hopes too high remain unfulfilled. Still, they thrust upward through tension. There was no sign of Hap’s people. I decided that was good. There shouldn’t be. Two of the five grubby stores on the first floor were vacant. Through one shattered display window I saw a clutter of trash, several years thick. The three in use looked to be little more than collections of cubbyholes for desks and phones.

144–Bob McElwain

Four cubes of C4 were nestled in one pocket of the tan windbreaker. The stun grenade weighted down the other. With the detonators and transmitter in hand, I started up the stairs. In the empty morning stillness, I moved cautiously, setting the rubber soled boots soundlessly on each concrete step. Once in the hall, I hugged the wall, walking flatfooted for minimum sound on the asphalt-tiled floor. At the door, the hands went automatically to their chore, molding C4 around the detonators. I pressed an ear to the wood and heard nothing. Gently I mashed a charge over each hinge. I backed to the stairs as silently as I’d come, then looked at the watch. I tried to hurry the second hand through the last minute and a half. It didn’t work. Cheating by only ten seconds, I pulled the pin on the grenade and pressed the button on the transmitter. The roar was awesome, trapped in the narrow hallway. Peering through smoke, I dropped the transmitter into the jacket pocket and pulled the Colt. Hap or not, I don’t like machine guns. Hap hadn’t gambled much. His men must have been somewhere on the floor below, for I heard the rush of feet toward the stairs as echoes of the blasts faded. Still I waited for smoke to clear. I caught a glimpse of the splintered door, the blown edge tossed into the room at an angle to the frame. I lobbed the grenade, covering the door with the Colt. On the sullen pounding thur-rump surging into the hall, I whirled and rushed down the stairs, the Colt tucked back under the shirt. Hap led. Three grimly determined men followed. None seemed to notice me, flattened against the wall. As I moved through the front door, two squad cars, lights flashing, screeched to a halt at the curb. Four uniformed cops rushed inside. Hap wasn’t fooling around. Number two and three went down with the same deadly precision. The faces of the men passed were similarly grim, but they were different faces. Except for one. Hap led each team. By the time I parked at the last address, I was beat. It seemed like days since I’d taken a breath without sucking up fear along with it. I hadn’t heard the pounding of a MAC-10. I didn’t want to.

Lethal Wind–145

This apartment was on the top floor of the dilapidated four story building. It was close to nine. There were sounds of stirring that hadn’t been there in the earlier hours of the previous hits. It tended to add to jumpiness. And someone might have been able to get word out. This site would be unknown to those at others, but not to someone ready to act on an urgent message. The thought added tension to muscles already taut. It’s risky, carrying armed explosives, but so is spending time exposed. I paused on the third-floor landing, ears alert for hints of anyone approaching, and inserted the detonators. I checked the watch again. It was time. With the transmitter in the jacket pocket, I cuddled the four charges in my left hand and locked the Colt in my right, cocked, pointed at the door at the top of the stairs. I slowed the pace, placing the toe on the tread and sliding it to the riser before putting weight on the foot. These were wooden stairs, impossible to climb silently, even though I hugged the wall. I inched across the narrow hallway. I could hear mumblings through the door. At least two were up and about. I pressed the charges against the hinges. From inside, I caught the unmistakable snap of a bolt going home. Had I been heard? Back at the stairwell, I gave myself five steps of protection, stooped below floor level and triggered the charges, grabbing for the last grenade. With echoes of the blast pounding at me, I willed the smoke to clear quickly. The door had exploded into the room. A figure stumbled past, a MAC-10 dangling from the hands. Another MAC-10 was scooped up by the man to the right. Both were easy shots. I should take them for the sake of those already rushing toward the stairs. Remembering the look in Hap’s eyes, I lobbed the grenade and eased down the steps. Someone was quick. The grenade exploded in the hall. When Hap rushed onto the stairs, I blocked his path. “They tossed the grenade back. There are at least two MAC-10s.”

146–Bob McElwain

He brushed past me as if he’d not heard. Police issue .38s against machine guns. Hap had a radio out as the four men dropped to the stairs. “Police,” he yelled. In response, rounds ripped deep gashes in the walls, the roar of each burst slamming thunder down the stairwell. I couldn’t get below the second-floor landing. The pistol fire was buried under withering auto-fire. To hell with Hap. They needed help. I still had the makings for five charges. Heavy boots pounded upwards. Black figures swarmed up the stairs. Each wore combat belts studded with assorted grenades and clips for the M-16s they carried with casual familiarity. SWAT. I quickly tucked the Colt away and stepped clear. When they’d passed, I hurried down the stairs. The pounding of M-16s dwarfed the snap of MAC-10s. Now it was Boggs’ punks who were outgunned and overmatched. The street was alive with squad cars and cops. Two were detouring traffic. They didn’t seem to notice as I turned right. It couldn’t have been handled more effectively. If all moves could end as well, I had a chance. Euphoric hopes became wispy fog, dissipating, as reaction settled in. There were too many moves ahead. All could not work out as smoothly.

CHAPTER 18 I rolled right, onto the floor, and awoke. Hap’s watch showed it was past five. Wendy was late. I’d used her apartment key, stripped Saxton’s outfit and showered. I’d passed on the canopied bed with the pale blue satiny spread. It was cushions from the love seat, settled to the floor, that I’d rolled off of. Where was she? Was there a problem? I stuffed the cushions back into place and went into the kitchen in search of beer. I had one foot back in the living room when I heard the key in the lock. The palm slapped against the butt of the Colt. It was Wendy. “Hi,” I said. “I was worried.”

Lethal Wind–147

“I’m sure. Here.” She thrust the newspaper at me. There was the same lack of warmth in her eyes there’d been in her greeting. I could feel her gaze as I tipped my head to look at the paper. It was good photography, flames and men with ladders and hoses. A smaller shot captured scorched, concrete walls rising starkly against the gray, morning sky. The windows and roof were gone. “This might help the case against Varnac Hulls.” “Perhaps.” “It says arson is suspected. They’ll take a hard look at Boggs. It might be tough to get a permit to expand.” “It wasn’t worth your time.” “You think I’m responsible?” “I smelled the smoke last night. Are you determined to cling to some spooky need-to-know nonsense? Like this morning? You didn’t mention what you planned and I haven’t heard about it yet.” “Expect you won’t.” “You’re exasperating. If that fire is the best you can do, we’re both wasting time.” “We might be.” I took a sip of beer, watching her. Beyond the set to her jaw, there was ample indication she didn’t like my answers. “Fremont needs to get to Panama City at dusk tomorrow night. He’ll need a car and driver.” “And the car is for?” “A tour of the harbor.” “Crap.” I followed her into the kitchen. Moments later I’d been abandoned, left to study the top of her head, tilted down to flight charts spread across the table. She had the right to know every detail. So long as she was better off not knowing, I didn’t want to share. It would bother hell out of both of us. “I’ve got to make a couple of calls. There’ll be one call back.” She nodded, without looking up. Back in the living room, I dialed and left a message. It was several minutes before the phone rang.

148–Bob McElwain

“For a civie, you did good,” Hap said, weariness adding fuzzy fringes to his voice. “Words of praise?” I asked. “Hard to believe, coming from you.” “Then don’t.” “How’d it turn out?” I asked, half holding my breath. “It’s total freaked out here. But we got a dozen solid busts. The others’ll get cut loose some way.” “You’re not satisfied?” “Nobody ever heard of Boggs. How I hate them fuckin’ lawyers.” “Did you get to his pocketbook?” “We snatched somethin’ over four mil in coke.” “Hell, Hap. You should be cheering.” “Maybe when the judge lays down the time.” “Yeah,” I said, understanding. Arrests have little meaning for a cop, until a judge agrees. “Anyone hurt?” “One SWAT cop got nicked good. Two of Boggs’ punks were wasted and three more were tore up pretty good.” “How’s Captain Greer handling it?” “He’s locked up with the DA, tryin’ to say we got it all from routine stakeout.” “Can he make it stick?” “He says so.” “How’s he going to explain the blown doors?” “Word’s on the street some scumbag, cozy with them Colombians, is pissed at Boggs. We just missed him some way.” “How about the safety deposit boxes?” “Greer said he’d get at them if the feds don’t.” “Then you’ll have a chance when he moves for money.” “It ain’t much,” Hap said tiredly. “It’s a chance.” “Fuckin’ slim, man.” “What the hell does it take to make it for you, Hap?” “Boggs behind bars, maybe. Better yet, chillin’ out in the fridge downstairs.” He sighed. “Now what else you plannin’?” “I’ll be gone a few days.”

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“That bothers me more than the rest of this shit.” When he hung up, I ran through the numbers. It was stretching it to call it a mil, but say it’d cost that to get Varnac Hulls open again. Another four mil in coke lost. There’d be something in the safe boxes, but I couldn’t guess how much. But five mil is gone. From two hundred? It wasn’t more than a start, even counting the ten lost when Denty towed in the raft. And another ten when the previous shipment burned. I dialed again, wondering how Robarris would react, and wondering if I cared. When he picked up, I reported what Hap had told me. “Interesting,” Robarris said, with a total absence of reaction. I guessed he was stroking his beard. “What did you tell the police of me, ah, Scott?” “Nothing.” “I had not realized you carried such weight with local authorities.” “Hap took the gamble. He thinks my name won’t come up.” “And if it should?” “I’ll protect your cherished reputation.” “Indeed.” Now I was sure he was stroking the beard. “Blowing up private property seems rather crude.” “Was I supposed to throw eggs?” “Two men were killed.” “Punks. It’s not the same.” “What was the point to that shabby little exercise at Varnac Hulls?” “Can’t say. I only saw it in the papers.” He laughed without humor. I hadn’t fooled anyone so far. “How’s Boggs taking it?” I asked. “He is, of course, in total rage. He sees the fire as evidence society has amassed to destroy him. And he’s enraged about the class action suit filed against him. He believes it was the Colombians who informed the police about his depots. And he’s convinced the information came from within his own organization.”

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“Any contact from La Cassadas.” “Lynn called, again on behalf of Baracelli. Apparently she is accustomed to the man’s fury. She made no demands, merely tried to soothe the savage beast, so to speak.” “Did she pick up on the why of it?” “He raved and ranted only of the fire.” “So you still don’t figure La Cassadas is into the coke action?” “I should think Lynn knows of his dealing. She’d have details on any partner. But, no. There’s nothing to suggest La Cassadas is part of that side of his venture.” Could I count on this man’s conclusion? A hint of a shiver made its way down my spine. I desperately needed to know precisely how Baracelli was involved. Who else could be financing the slick types that seemed to be either following or waiting up ahead? “Boggs doesn’t know about the safe boxes yet,” I said finally. “He’ll have to scramble for cash and to replace his stash. I wouldn’t want to miss a move.” “I hardly think you need remind me of that.” “Just thinking out loud.” “Kindly do not be so obvious while doing so.” “You did miss Ulster.” “I suspect you are not noted for your tact.” “Muffs don’t count for much.” “Indeed. And what will you do next, ah, Scott?” “Can’t say.” “That means I will not approve, I should think.” “It means I’m not saying and you won’t like it one damn bit.” “Quite.” He beat me hanging up. I thought about calling Hap back to let him know Boggs was raging, maybe to the point of rashness. But he’d know that. Instead I dialed Mike at El Viento, then updated the maps spread out on the coffee table. There were no unexpected changes. I had the best start I’d get. I refused to think of the ending, far too far ahead. I folded the maps, the mind filled with tasks to be completed, while searching for anything overlooked.

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At the firm knock on the door, I stood, the Colt in my fist, pointed at the ceiling. Wendy glanced scornfully at the pistol, then opened the door. “Come in, Floyd,” she said curtly. There was barely time to tuck the Colt away before the tall, broad-shouldered figure strode into the room. He glared at me. He didn’t look to be a brawler, but he’d happily beat on me. Except for more rugged features and wavy hair, he was a larger, male version of his sister. Well built, sturdy hips, and powerful legs. When he dragged his attention back to Wendy, I moved to lean against the wall, working to loosen tension. There was the heavy, Swedish-glass bud-vase on the small shelf near my shoulder. And the hefty Colt. It’s the way to win. Hit first, and hard. That this angry man was Wendy’s brother complicated things. “Sis,” he said, towering over her. “This has got to stop. It’s turning you inside out.” “I suppose it is,” she said, not giving a psychic inch. “You’re making the worst mistake of your life.” “It is my life.” “But this gets at me, too,” he cried. “And I don’t just mean Katlan Air. Hell. You’re my sister.” “Some of your mistakes have hurt me.” “Bull.” “How conveniently short your memory can be. Have you forgotten Janice? My closest, dearest friend? The one who was always there when I needed her? She won’t take my calls since you knocked her up and walked away.” “That’s hitting below the belt, Sis.” “How much did you spend for that chopper that was going to make us rich? What’s it cost to keep that toy running?” “So I made a bad call. It’s nothing compared to what you’re planning.” “At least Scott is paying his way.” “The bastard’s a killer. How many innocent women and kids did he blow away in Nam? How many will go away on this trip? Hell. He’ll get you killed too.”

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He whirled toward me. Wendy ducked to avoid arms and elbows. I eased away from the wall, balancing my weight on the balls of my feet. I could see the bud-vase out of the corner of my eye and feel the Colt against my belly. But if he came at me I couldn’t use either. It’d be the replay of a scene from some dumb western movie, ending in busted knuckles and furniture. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing, bozo. I ought to dump your ass through that window.” “Go for it,” I said softly. “You’re tough. Right?” “You call it.” He took two steps toward me, arms at his sides, thinking about how to use them. “So tough you need company on your way to hell?” He took another step. I tensed. “You’re nothing but a killer. I’m going to . . .” “Floyd.” The whip-crack demand would have halted the advance of a platoon. He turned toward her, his face flushed with anger. “That’s quite enough ballsy demonstration,” she snapped, the syllables clipped short. “This is my apartment. My life. Butt out. As fast and gracefully as you can.” “But Sis, I . . .” “Now!” Slowly he turned back to me. “One tiny hair on her head gets bruised and your ass is mine, you bastard. You hear me?” I did. So did the neighbors. He turned and stalked toward the door. It closed firmly, but quietly, behind him. The sudden silence was filled with our awkwardness. “He’s right, you know,” I said. “You should bail out.” “You’re both right.” She took a deep breath. “But there’s no hope of living with myself until I’ve done what I can to stop that man. Don’t you see that yet?” “Some of it, I think.” “What Floyd said hurt you, didn’t it?” “You get used to it.” I never had, but there was no point to admitting it.

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“He didn’t really mean what he said about you being a killer.” “He meant it. And he’s partly right.” “Men,” she said softly. “Yeah.” There didn’t seem much else to say. “Will anyone be around your hangar tonight?” She frowned, mentally reviewing the schedule. “No. Not until five in the morning.” “I need directions and a key.” “I’ve food in the refrigerator,” she said. “Expect I’ll have to pass.” She gazed at me, her eyes full of questions I couldn’t read, questions I knew I couldn’t answer. “Have you ever made love on silk sheets?” I stepped closer, tilted her chin up and kissed her. “No. But that and a bunch of neat things will have to wait.”

CHAPTER 19 Milton Fremont was helped from the cab by the driver, then made his way toward the Lear, watching faint rainbows in the heat from idling engines. A mechanic looked up, noting awkward progress. One of the two girls in the office glanced at me. To all, I was only an expected client. The cane felt comfortable, and the lurching, lunging gait, the throw of the foot to the side. For practice I paused and wiped imaginary sweat from my brow with the white linen handkerchief. Wendy helped me up the steps as formally as if we’d only met. She had buried her discontent at being left out of the night’s work, except in the firm set to the chin. Upon her demand through the speaker, I reached for the seatbelt. Before I could secure it, she was moving. Taxiing at good speed, she rolled the jet onto the runway, then opened the throttles wide. Acceleration slammed my gut into my backbone. I doubted she was

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this rough with others, even if max throttle is essential for safe takeoff. She was telling me something about how she felt. The seat was designed to fold into another to create a bunk. For most of the trip I tried to sleep. The result was little more than ragged dozes that left me feeling more tired upon each awakening. Hazy dreams were filled with raging customs officers stripping the linings from the suitcase, drinking the three inches of 7-Up in the top of red-capped Thermos bottles, of cashew nuts being dumped to the floor. Awake, I sought solace for the umpteenth time in the hope that Latin American countries are not overly concerned with what’s brought across their borders, and that even an eager customs type would not find what I carried because he wouldn’t be looking for it. On the ground in Acapulco, Mr. Fremont paid for fuel with his credit card. When I looked at the amount, I was stunned. One could drive a car a long way for this tab. No matter. Boggs would pay the bill, providing I got the opportunity to present it. The takeoff was glassy smooth, the acceleration enjoyable. Wendy was telling me she knew how to fly when she cared to. What she’d managed to say with the two takeoffs was the only serious communication we had during the entire trip. When she announced over the speaker we were approaching Panama City, I came to quickly, ready. The sun was setting. Great rifts of wispy, washboard clouds surrounded us, oranges and yellows blended on the bright, blue background. I hardly noticed, intent on reviewing who I was to be and what must be done. I glanced at Fremont’s shiny new Cartier watch. Was seven in the evening a good time to tackle customs with what I was carrying? Nuts. There was no such time. The touchdown was feather light. After topping off the tanks for a possible long, fast run from angry authority, we taxied toward the squat, drab, nondescript building that was customs. After shutting down, she joined me. Her face showed the strain of the flight in the pinched wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and in the careful

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way she moved. “Are you ready?” she asked quietly. In the absence of the roar of the engine, her voice filled the cabin. “Mostly.” “Can I wish you luck?” “It wouldn’t hurt.” “Then I do.” I wanted to hug her, to nibble at her sturdy neck, to tell her all would be well. I couldn’t. With the cane, I followed her to the cabin door. I waited, as befitted the character of Fremont, as she set the bags on the ground. I took one step at a time, letting Wendy steady me. It felt right. I hoped it looked that way. I followed her into the brightly-lit building, reminding myself that in countries south of the United States, police and soldiers tend to shoot first and talk later. The policy decreases the need for formal dialog. Since Colombian dealers had bought a goodly share of government and military clout in Panama to protect their coke transactions, here there is even less talk. There was only one guard. He was enough. The rifle slung tautly over his shoulder was an AK-47. He looked capable. The uniform was neatly pressed. Only starch could have kept it unwrinkled in the damp, humid, heavy air. I felt the absence of the Colt as that of a critical appendage. Wendy walked briskly ahead of me, accenting my hesitant gait. She placed my things on the other end of the counter in front of the customs agent. I offered the passport, thinking mostly of the suitcase. “Business or pleasure?” the passport official asked. “Business,” I said. He stamped the passport and shoved it toward me, without looking up. I tucked it away, then moved along the counter, leaning on it. Apart from the role, I appreciated the support just now. Trying to appear unconcerned about the pawing through my things, I wasn’t at all sure I’d taken sufficient care. A corner of the suitcase lining

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covering the spine was bent back, revealing a pliable grainy surface that wasn’t stiffener. What would that mistake cost? When the lid of the briefcase was opened, the look I received held suspicion. With considerable care, the ratchet wrench and sockets were examined, piece by piece. The man carefully thumbed through the stack of empty Zip-Lock bags. The shrug that followed dismissed all Norta Americanos as crazy. One at a time he unscrewed red caps from Thermos bottles and tasted 7-Up with his finger. When he looked up, puzzled, I said, “For the stomach.” He sighed, capped them and tucked them away. He peeked into the camera case, zipped it closed, then helped himself to a cashew from the bag tucked into the side pocket. When the agent nodded, Wendy picked up the bags and strode toward the exit. I followed, mentally urging calmness, eager to be free of the power vested in those behind the barren counter, and the soldier with the dully gleaming rifle. Another customs officer stepped out of the plane as we approached and walked off toward the far end of the building we’d just left. I’d been tempted, but in the end, could not add to Wendy’s risk. I’d stashed nothing on the plane except four more Thermos bottles in the small fridge, each with Fremont’s name taped to it. It seemed the smartest decision I’d made so far. “The plane’s been cleared,” Wendy said. “We’ll taxi to the parking area.” I collapsed into the seat, sweat drenching the silk shirt. It seemed only seconds later when she killed the engines again. I stood, surprisingly shaky, as she entered the cabin. “Was that the worst of it?” she asked. “I think so.” The voice sounded scratchy. “If I can’t find something easy, I’ll pass.” She nodded, trying to believe me. “How long will you be?” “I don’t know the city so I can’t be sure. From the maps, I’d guess seven or eight hours. I expect to be back by three.” I hesitated, watching her. She caught it. Tension mounted. “What is it?” Fear surrounded her words.

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“If I’m not back by five, take off.” “Without you?” “If I can’t get back by then, I’ll be in trouble.” “I don’t understand.” “Given anything like cop questions, I may never get loose. The only way to help would be through channels. You couldn’t do much, dumped into a cell beside mine.” “But you may only be delayed.” “I can get out on a commercial flight. If everything collapses, I’ve my own passport. The red tape would be a pain, but the U.S. Embassy would help.” “I can’t do it.” “You’ve got to.” I bent forward and kissed her neck, managing to catch her by surprise. “I liked that,” she said. “So did I. But war is maybe like love some ways. There’s luck and a ton of unwritten rules. We’ve got to follow the ones we know.” “Leaving you behind, that would be hard.” “But you will?” “Yes.” She sighed, running long fingers through her hair. “Pound on the cabin door when you get back. I doubt it, but I might be sleeping.” Outside, she helped me down the steps. I followed her to the older Mercedes, brilliant black in the growing darkness. The driver wore a uniform-styled, linen suit and cap, the color of rich cream. He stood smartly, proudly, beside the meticulously-waxed car. As we approached, he bowed, then opened the rear door with a charming flourish. “This is Signor Jose Montego, Mr. Fremont,” Wendy said. “I’m told he knows the city, particularly the harbor area.” “Si, Signor. I know it good.” The smile showed yellowed teeth, speckled with gold. The gray in the hair added to my confidence. He helped me inside with a firm grip on my elbow as I watched Wendy make her way back to the Lear. As Jose slipped behind the

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wheel, I said, “I need to board La Santa Rosa and La Ventaja. They’ll pass through the canal tomorrow.” “At the harbor office, they will know where these ships are.” “Good. While you check, could you leave me at a quiet beach? The trip has been tiring. The sand and sea are restful.” “Si. I know such a fine place.” He started the engine. It settled into the healthy hum for which Mercedes is famous. “There is one other thing,” I said. “Si?” “I would like a small gift for those I’ll meet. Good whisky, perhaps?” “That is simple, Signor.” “I’d like two cases. Something expensive, worthy of important men.” He nodded and put the car in gear. In moments I was hopelessly lost. So much for the study of maps. There were a few structures that would be shown proudly to tourists, but most of the narrow streets through which we passed were bordered by buildings that had never been deemed elegant. Rancid odors of decay spoiled fragrances flooding the damp tropical air. Jose stopped midway between two beach hotels. He helped me out and started with me down the steps. “That won’t be necessary,” I said. “How long will you be?” “An hour. Less. It is difficult to say.” He shrugged, supporting the plea for patience with his smile. “That will be fine,” I said. When the taillights disappeared, I started down. As if the world watched, I took each step cautiously. First the supposed good leg, followed by the cane and right, managing to drag the foot on the edge of each step. By the time I reached the bottom, I knew I was alone. I filled Zip-Lock bags with beach sand. They made incongruous partners to the socket set. I opened the Thermos bottles and poured out 7-Up. I unscrewed the neck of the container and dumped

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what remained of the insert, then slipped out the sealed packets. Moments later I dropped two small thermit charges into each pocket of my coat. I hollowed out a shallow pit, off the path, poked the parts of the Thermos into it, then brushed sand back over the hole. Finished, I decided to wait at the top of the stairs, rather than be delayed by the tedious pace of Fremont with Jose watching. The man knew his town. He was back in less than an hour. Helping me into the car, he said, “La Ventaja, she is close. Is okay?” “Good.” Two cases of Johnny Walker, Red Label, were stacked in the front seat. “So is that,” I said, pointing. “An excellent choice.” “Gracias,” he replied, beaming. He closed the door and slid behind the wheel. Idly I looked out the window, trying to identify differences between here and home, and noting similarities. Poor would describe most of it. Darkness could not disguise the shabbiness of hovels passed nor that of the long rows that looked to be government housing, cracker boxes stacked beside the narrow road. I’ve never been in Panama. I should have been fascinated. I wasn’t. The mind overflowed with uncertainty, overlaid atop nagging, futile fears. When Jose stopped at the entrance to the narrow pier, La Ventaja was tied up to the right. With a capacity of five hundred gross tons, the little ship, looming up in the darkness of this foreign port, looked to be ten times larger. A single flood from the forecastle dimly lit the deck and gangway. Suddenly I wanted desperately to get back to the plane and away. Instead I asked Jose, pointing to the whisky, “Can I have a bottle?” Jose opened the case and handed me a fifth. I tucked it into the briefcase and forced the lid closed. Jose opened the door and helped me out. “How much time, Signor?” he asked. “About an hour,” I replied. It wouldn’t take that long if the letter in my pocket didn’t work. I used the rusted chain that served as a rail to pull myself up the worn, sloping ramp, careful to swing the foot, dragging it on the incline. I paused to wipe my forehead. The sweat was real. A large,

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burly seaman, his black stocking-cap pulled low, blocked the gangway. “Quién eres?” The voice carried authority and made it clear he didn’t want visitors. “Do you speak English?” I asked. “A little.” His glance jumped away from the dragging foot, back to my face. His stance visibly relaxed. Fremont was no threat. “Who are you?” “Milton Fremont. I’m from the home office. I have a letter here.” The swarthy features could be those of any number of nationalities. The accent suggested a Latin origin. As I reached for the letter and handed it to him, I realized I’d made a mistake, one that could mean nothing or everything. What if he couldn’t read it? His forehead furrowed at the effort. The dim light didn’t help. He wore a pale blue windbreaker over the dirty T-shirt. The jeans were worn through at the knees. Suspicion faded as his glance drifted between the name of the ship written in, the El Viento masthead and the signature. “My English, it is not so good.” He stepped back and invited me aboard with a wave. “You can tell me what this says?” “I’m to check to see what you need. The office wants to know what problems have not been solved. This kind of thing.” “In the night, you do these things?” “These are my orders.” He shook his head sadly, as if orders were the source of all human despair. It seemed to turn the trick. We were on the same team, taking direction from never-to-be-seen strangers in the office. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Miguel Santiago, the Second Mate. Where shall we begin, Signor?” “Let me be your guest.” “Si,” he replied, his smile brighter. If there were things he didn’t want me to see he was free to ignore them. He began on deck with the holds. There were two, the hatch covers, heavy planks draped with water proof canvas. “Is the alarm system adequate?” I asked. “Adequate?”

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“Is it good enough?” He shrugged. “One for the heat and the other for smoke. Captain Bartolis, he does not think of these things. But if this ship is mine, there would be more.” I set the briefcase on the hatch cover, slipped a pad from my pocket and jotted a note. “You think they might help with this?” Miguel asked, the lower jaw dangling in incredulous wonder. “They have never cared before.” “That’s what I’m here for, to make them care.” “That would be good, if you can make them do that.” The slight motion of the deck underfoot was an unnecessary reminder of where I was and the object of the visit. The hawser lines groaned as water shifted the ship against the dock. Miguel leaned closer, intent on underlining what was to follow. “What we most need, I think, is air. How do you call it? Blowers?” “Air conditioning?” “Si. Si,” he replied excitedly. “It is very difficult for the sleeping. The bunks are next to the engine room. It is so hot to kill even a strong man like me.” “Show me what is needed.” Eagerly he led the way, mindful of my slower pace, politely guiding me around gear strewn haphazardly about the deck. The captain’s name might be Greek. The appearance of the ship supported the view. If so, Miguel was one of the disposable crew. When he cracked the hatch door, dim light trickled up from below. Graciously he helped me down rusting steel steps and into the small bay stacked with bunks. “The engine room, it is there,” Miguel said, pointing at the steel wall. Great flakes of gray paint had fallen off. “Here.” Miguel thumped the bulkhead. “When the engine is running, we can cook on this.” “How would you install a system?” “Many times we talk of it. Vents here and here,” he said, pointing at the corners of the steel wall, “with something to take in the

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bad air.” He gestured, painting a picture of ducking out to the center of the chamber for return air. “What’s on the other side?” I asked. “I will show you.” At the small desk, short of the bulkhead, another seamen sat, slumped forward, his cheek pressed to the top of the desk, snoring heavily. “It is Alexis,” Miguel said apologetically. “He has had too much of the women and other things, I think.” I nodded understanding. From the ground-in grease on his hands and clothes, he’d be one of the engine room crew. Miguel led me out onto a gallery surrounded above and below by pipes and wires in a bewildering array. As he excitedly described how he would install a unit, I made notes. I spotted the squat container that was one of the main shaft oilers and guessed there would be another, short of the stern bulkhead. A single hex nut secured the top to the cylindrical body. When I realized Miguel had finished and was anxiously awaiting judgment, I said, “It seems possible.” I pointed to the small auxiliary, “That is the engine you would use?” “Si,” Miguel agreed, nodding his head vigorously. The small diesel was cranking out watts. When the low rumble faltered, the lights dimmed. “Can I see it?” “But of course, Signor.” He led me down a longer flight of steps into the cavernous chamber. As we passed the shaft oiler I’d seen, I spotted the other, about where I’d guessed it would be. With targets selected, it was time to hit and be gone. I waited for Miguel to finish his praise of the small engine, then turned aside, settling the briefcase across a double span of pipes. I cracked the lid enough to get at the Johnny Walker, then set it on top of the case. “We will try, Miguel. Could we share a drink to success?” His eyes were focused on the bottle, the grin imperious to huge knuckles rubbed across the lips. “Glasses? Or cups?” “Si.” However unnecessary he felt either to be, he brushed past me and rushed up the stairway.

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I propped the cane, set the bottle on the floor and grabbed the wrench. My first guess at socket size proved correct. Moments later I had the top off the first oiler and three bags of sand dumped inside. Not a grain was spilled. I hadn’t counted on the oil displaced. It flowed over the sides to the deck. I repeated the task with the second oiler, worrying about the spilled oil. Anyone thinking would ask where it came from. Dashing back to the briefcase, I spotted two rags. Was there time? I tossed the wrench and empty bags inside the case, returned the bottle to the top of it, then grabbed the cane and ran for the rags. Hastily I wiped the sides of one oiler, then spread what had spilled so it blended in with other grime. I’d wiped down the second one, when I heard Miguel’s hurried tread on the steps. I dropped the rags, gripped the cane, and scrubbed the pooled oil with my foot, while peering at the engine. When I judged Miguel was too close, I turned toward him and let the swinging foot kick the rags under piping. He headed straight for the bottle. I took time to wipe sweat from my forehead and oil from my hands with the handkerchief, then moved to join him, working to steady ragged breathing. “Salute!” he said, smiling broadly. He extended a cup to me, his own held high. I hunted hard and finally latched onto a smile. “To better sleeping, Miguel,” I said. As he talked of other problems, I make notes, anxious to be gone. When I turned down another drink for a third time, then invited Miguel to keep the bottle, he ushered me politely to the gangway. *** On La Santa Rosa, the seaman on deck was also Latin. Except that the black-gang hand had passed out in a bunk, instead of at a desk, there were few differences. Since it had worked so well with Miguel, I brought up air conditioning and became an instant saint.

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This seaman, too, liked Johnny Walker. Except for spotting rags before beginning, the action was a rerun. Back in the car, I looked at the watch. It was later than I’d hoped. Colón lay at the Pacific side of the canal and La Advantage was there, anchored off shore, carrying close to fifteen hundred tons of hemp. Since the ship was not cleared to carry hemp, fire had a good chance of doing serious damage. “Jose?” He turned his head. “La Advantage is moored at Colón. Can we get there and back before three?” “Si,” he replied, “if you are not too tired.” “I’ll be fine.” Jose nodded and drove off. I paid little heed to what we passed. Lush vegetation in the dark looks much like any other. Each cluster of dwellings differed little from the last one passed. The mind had become a clock, counting seconds. I had to be back before dawn. Was I being foolish? Stupid question. The whole affair was foolishness. In the States, I could hide from the best. Here, there was not even a jungle large enough. The Norta Americano would be noticed. At Colón, Jose found the boat that carried me out to La Advantage. First Mate Jackard never smiled, never dropped the shield of suspicion. Again I sensed a ship rusting, wearing, decaying rapidly into oblivion. I wasn’t invited below deck and air conditioning brought no flicker of interest. Apparently nothing at all was needed, a total contradiction to what I could see of the ship. I was invited to the captain’s cabin when I tendered the bottle of Johnny Walker. Half the bottle’s contents disappeared quickly. The rest was simple. I offered the unopened case on the front seat of the Mercedes, a gift, if the difficulty of the three hundred yard trip to shore and back could be overcome. Jackard hollered at the deck hand who was working on the near corner of the hatch cover. The slim figure scurried to the gangway. Moments later, the whine of the small engine moved away from the ship.

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I wandered out on deck with my cup. When Jackard disappeared toward the head, I set the cup down, pulled a thermit charge, cranked the timer to the four hour max and dropped it into the hold through the gap left when the hatch cover had been lifted for repair. The three other charges followed. I was back at the cabin door when Jackard reappeared, struggling to zip his fly. Once the case of Johnny Walker had been deposited in the cabin, Jackard was not disappointed with my decision to leave. With the car moving, doubts assailed me. Would the charges be sufficient? Would plates buckle? More important, how long would it be before arson was suspected? That could relate intimately to my staying alive. I’d never really doubted the Lear would still be there, but it was instantly easier to breathe when I saw it. I settled with Jose in dollars, then tossed in what remained of the second case of Johnny Walker as a tip. The smile of appreciation ought to have split the skin of his broad lips. Wendy swung the cabin door open on the second knock. She’d never looked so good, even though the circles under her eyes had darkened and thickened considerably. Tension etched the face, aging it. With the door swinging closed, she grabbed me, forcing air from my lungs. “I just knew you weren’t coming back,” she whispered, hugging tightly. “It was the most awful feeling ever.” I bent down and nibbled at the ear that seemed especially to need it. When her grip loosened sufficiently, I kissed her. “How did it go?” “Too easy. A fellow could get careless.” “Don’t,” she commented, with a touch of the familiar snap. “I won’t.” “Good.” She brushed her hair back. “What next?” “I’d planned to stay here and arrive in Costa Rica near nightfall. Now I think I’d rather have a border behind us. Let’s head for San Josè. How’s it sound?”

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“It’s difficult to think just now. But putting a border behind us sounds wonderful.” She turned toward the cockpit. I crumpled to the seat. I didn’t hear the engines start.

CHAPTER 20 On the edge of San Josè, we found a concrete, glass, and plastic hotel that reminded me a bit of home. In the subdued light of the bar, I felt relatively safe. Only the proximity of Panama intruded. More borders behind us would have helped, the one between Mexico and the States, most of all. I felt guilty, thinking of ordering another drink, knowing Wendy, who must fly, would not. She must have sensed it for she said, “Have another. I’m relatively content.” She stirred her American coke. I ordered another bourbon. “What would make you more content?” I asked, as the drink was served. “Waiting was filled with horrors. Uncertainty was the worst of it, not knowing what you were doing.” “We’ve covered that. It’s safer if you don’t know.” “Can’t you tell me some of it? Could we be attacked? If so, how? Rifle fire? An airforce? Can’t you see how such questions can destroy sanity?” “I can. But I don’t know what to expect.” “Then tell me what you’ve done and let me decide for myself.” Maybe it was the plea in her eyes, the tired, gaunt features. Maybe it was the lonelies, only the two of us, exposed, in a land not noted for official friendliness. “I dumped sand in the shaft oilers of two ships in Panama City and dropped four thermit charges into a cargo of hemp in Colón.” “But Wes said the filters were unbeatable, that fire can be contained.” “If the filters grab the sand, they’ll clog and stop the oil. Whether from sand or lack of oil, bearings should go. It’s a gamble, but I think plates will buckle from the fire on La Advantage.”

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“Suppose it works. Won’t the ships be sunk as Wes suggested?” “I don’t think so. There’s not much deep water near the Canal. I’m betting they’ll be forced to dry-dock. It’ll cost to repair them. And a bunch more to bring them up to standard. “Even if they’re sunk, I’m counting on the inbred nature of insurance companies. They’re routinely suspicious. They might buy one sinking. But given two, close together, near a port? They’d think twice before paying. If Boggs goes too far, insurance could be canceled and lenders might foreclose.” “Have you made a guess at costs?” “Those three ships are worth about eleven mil. Boggs’ interest is three on top and a bit more, paid under the table. He stands to lose something like seven mil plus whatever it takes to bring them up to specs.” “That’s an incredible amount to you or me. But will it have the same meaning for a man with two hundred million?” “Dollars aren’t the target, Wendy. It’s Boggs, himself, I’m after. He’s paranoid, to put it mildly. I want to use that against him. Let his fears shove him into a dumb play.” “Damage to three ships won’t do it.” “No. But a combination of things should. Tony Haggen’s got a buddy who is a top type investigator. He came up with the locations of Boggs’ coke stash and two safe deposit boxes the police didn’t know about. “That morning you were worried about, I blew down the doors and a cop, Hap Skyler, slipped in and yanked four mil in coke, right out of Boggs’ pocket. The safe boxes will be drilled. That should mean he’s hustling for money and coke right now.” I leaned out across the table. “From tapes I’ve heard, the fire at Varnac Hulls and the law suit have Boggs thinking the community’s out to get him. He’s sure someone in his organization leaked the coke sites to the Colombians, who passed the info to the cops. When news of what’s happened to his ships filters in, he ought to think he’s being attacked from all sides.” “What sort of mistake do you think he’ll make?”

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“I’ve no idea. He’s crazy enough to start shooting up the Colombians. They’d shoot back.” She toyed with her glass, mulling it over. When she looked up I could see rows of questions standing behind one another. “At least what you’ve said makes sense.” I watched her take charge, stifling the urge to ask more. “There is one other thing,” she said. “I’ve the feeling I don’t need this.” “We’re headed north, now. We won’t travel more than five hundred miles on any given day. Am I right?” I settled for a nod. It seemed the safest course. “We’ve a number of smaller planes that could have made the flight to Panama City, with additional stops for fuel. The cost would have been much less. If speed were required, the Mooney or either of our Lear 25s would have been effective. Why did you want the 34?” I shifted uncomfortably in the softly cushioned chair. “I’m not sure.” “I think that means you’re not saying.” “I’ll tell you what I think.” “What’s that?” she asked quickly. “You know me too well.” *** It was twenty-one kilometers to Punfarenas, a Pacific port, the oldest in Costa Rica. Two hours later, I was headed back to the Lear. With luck, La Accociate, with sand in three main shaft oilers, would soon need a tow. Three hours later, Wendy was requesting landing instructions for Acapulco. La Consocia was close by. North of us lay La Alvarado and the Wattshorne at Manzanillo, and La Mindagar at Mazátlan. The Wattshorne was the prize, an SD-14, the second largest ship in Boggs’ fleet. In early efforts, the C4 could not have been used without bringing immediate and serious attention. But now, whatever happened, I planned to cross into the States before morning.

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Inside the Lear, I stripped the liner from the spine of the suitcase and pulled the inch thick strip of C4 free. I removed the side liners and stripped away two thinner layers. I molded two hefty bricks, then dumped the bag of cashews, fished the timers out, and inserted them. From the remaining Thermos bottles, I recovered the thermit charges. Suitcase and all would go into the nearest trash container. The briefcase bulged when I forced the lid closed. It, with everything not used, would also be dumped before entering the States. As evening settled in, two cases of Jim Bean helped immensely with the captain’s cousin aboard La Consocia, an ancient fifteen hundred ton coaster. Getting them aboard gave me time to loosen a plank on the forward hold filled with wheat, and drop four thermit charges inside. Two hours later, I was grudgingly allowed to board the Wattshorne, under the unrelenting suspicions of First Mate Scarpolli. I was running out of pages in the notepad and the bottle of Jim Bean I’d carried aboard had been nearly emptied before I talked my way into the engine room. An alert Latin seaman awaited me there. He was never more than a step away. I wanted this ship. It was worth more than all those I’d hit, combined. But how? There was no burnable cargo. There wasn’t enough sand left to do serious harm to the shaft. A half hour later I still hadn’t a notion. Scarpolli was near to a stupor. My Latin shadow wasn’t. And I was running out of things to ask. Slowly Scarpolli slipped deeper in the chair and began snoring. The Latin seaman shook him by the shoulders, trying to bring him to. With the fingers of both hands locked, using every ounce of strength, I clubbed the seaman at the base of his skull. He crumpled, head first, to the grimy iron deck. With all thought of finesse discarded, I went to work on the gear box that linked the massive shaft to the towering engine. When only one bolt remained, I rotated the panel open and peered into

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the maze of meshed gears. I set the timer to two hours, tucked a brick of C4 inside, then replaced the cover, using only half the bolts. I checked both men. They’d be out for some time. I dragged them up the stairs onto the deck and stashed them out of casual view. I took precious time to batter on the closed hatch door with a heavy sledge, until convinced it would not be opened without a torch. The driver pulled the dark blue caddy off the pier with about an hour and a half left on the timers. It would be close, but La Alvarado was only minutes away. I’d go for it, then head for the States, ignoring La Mindagar at Mazátlan. The driver let me off on the pier at the gangway to the ship. We’d passed three young soldiers at the entrance to the pier. It raised the hackles. Two others, patrolling the end of the pier, raised them even further. They looked young. I hoped they weren’t looking for experience. I took a firm grip on the conviction none could yet know of my visit to the Wattshorne, opened the car door and started up the gangway. Certainly no one could have yet connected me to Panama or Costa Rica. The man who blocked the gangway, shadowed by dim light from above, reminded me of Miguel, the seaman I’d met on the deck of La Ventaja in Panama City. But there was no suggestion of suspicion. The quick scan of the letter assured me his English was good. “Yes, Mr. Fremont,” he said briskly. “I will be happy to show you the ship. And we have many requests, no?” He turned away, laughing. I followed, lagging behind his full stride. He led me into a small lounge, neat and clean. It fit with the deck scene. Everything had been carefully stowed. The man in charge here had a different concept of ship-shape than did Boggs’ other captains. It could make my task more difficult. “Please,” my host said, gesturing toward the table. “Sit down.” Something in his manner grated. Mental alarms jangled. Was it only nerves? Aggravated by weariness? A picture of men circling green felt flashed before me. All had folded except this man and

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me. He’d just raised and I knew he was bluffing. I wanted to shake my head to loosen debris. We weren’t playing cards. He was pouring coffee. What was there to bluff? True, he’d made no effort to assist me, as Miguel had done. But some had been unconcerned about a tired, crippled man. He hadn’t given his name, but what could that matter? Where were these bad vibes coming from? Could it be simply the presence of five young soldiers on the pier? As I sat down, he said, “We must do this quickly.” He set coffee in front of me. “We sail in two hours.” “That will give us time,” I responded, trying to cover disappointment. The entire crew would be aboard, those in the engine room already at work. Was there even a possibility? Vague uncertainties about my host blocked useful thought. He’d poured his coffee as he’d poured mine. Why hadn’t he brought his cup to the table? What was he reaching for in the cabinet to the right? The cream and sugar were on the counter. I rose and moved toward his back, watching the arm disappearing into the cabinet. I could see tension in the shoulders. His head partially blocked the exit of the hand from the cabinet, but I saw enough. The fingers were wrapped tightly around the butt of a pistol. When he whirled toward where I’d been seated, I grabbed the cylinder so it couldn’t rotate, then swung upward with the ivory handle of the cane. It whacked solidly into the bony part of the wrist. The .38 was mine. I slammed my forearm into his neck. His head smacked back against the cabinet. He staggered, dazed. I cocked the pistol and centered the barrel on the broad chest. He shook his head, then grabbed it with both hands, shaking harder. When his hand reached down to massage the bruised wrist, the eyes cleared and focused on the gun. “I do not think you will shoot. Someone would hear.” His shrug was almost an apology. “The captain, he is the one who asked for the soldiers. So I think you must learn fast how to swim. Or you must die.” “Want to tell me about it?” I asked, stalling.

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“A simple matter. The office radioed to watch for you, Mr. Fremont, if that is your name. You do not work for El Viento. There are those who would much like to know what you do.” I hadn’t thought of this possibility and I should have. Boggs owns the company, but that doesn’t mean management is stupid. I couldn’t afford mistakes like this. They’re tough to live through. What needed to be dealt with stood before me. All else must wait. I began looking through cabinets, searching for an idea as much as anything. Old magazines seemed the principal cargo, apart from dozens of cans of coffee. I pulled the first aid kit down and hefted it in my hand. Why not? The crew was busy. I only needed time to get to the car and a couple minutes more to be clear of the pier. “Turn and put your arms behind your back,” I ordered. “And if I do not?” “You’ll have one hell of a headache . . . if you come to.” He thought it over, then turned. I taped his arms at the elbows and wrists, then slapped a broad strip across his mouth. “On the floor,” I said. “Wrap your legs around the table leg.” He did so, the eyes laughing at me. I taped his knees and ankles securely, straddling the table leg, bolted to the floor. I had all the time it would take for someone to find him. I wiped my prints from the pistol, tossed it under the table and rushed for the door. It took maximum restraint to hold the role of Fremont as I struggled down the gangway. It was no trouble at all to sweat profusely. I paused at the bottom to open the briefcase and dig out a new handkerchief. A glance was all I had time for, but it looked clear. Seconds later, the case splashed into the harbor. At the car, the driver helped me inside. We moved sedately down the pier toward the three young soldiers. I sat sideways in the seat, watching the ship slip further behind, fervently hoping I’d not see men rushing onto the deck. I turned to face forward as we passed the soldiers, but couldn’t begin to relax until the driver turned right and they were left well behind. I was relatively safe. It was less than twenty minutes to the

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airport. Any search would focus on the public terminals. At least that’s what I hoped. Wendy was startled to see me back so soon. With the cabin door locked behind me, I said, “I damn near got nailed.” “What do you mean?” “Someone with El Viento gave orders to hold Fremont. We’ve got to get back to the States. Soonest.” “Should I forget the rules?” “They know that Fremont’s not for real, but not what he’s been doing.” I was thinking of the inexperienced soldiers back on the pier. The Mexican Airforce might also do with practice. “Let’s keep it legal. I didn’t get any hint there’d been official complaint.” “Then I’ll file for San Diego.” “Maybe opting for a Lear wasn’t a bad idea.” “I’d prefer an SST at the moment,” she replied, scrambling forward. *** We were going to make it. I’d joined Wendy in the cockpit and watched the miles slip by, measured by pinpoints of light scattered randomly far below us. The only possible problem now was the phony passport. But it was appropriately stamped and the tired ailing Mr. Fremont was a sympathetic figure. An hour short of San Diego, a military jet crept into view on my side. The moon made it easy to see the insignia of the Mexican Airforce, a bright green triangle within a larger one of white, bordered in red. When I looked left, another fighter was visible beyond Wendy’s head. “Trouble,” she snapped, beginning to fiddle with the dial on the radio. I thought her statement completely inadequate. All we could hope for was that these pilots were not young and not looking for experience. “Tango Charlie Six Niner. Do you read me?” The English was accented, but precise.

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“I read you,” Wendy said into her headset, the words enunciated with equal precision and a calmness I knew she could not feel. “Verify, please. You are en route to San Diego with one passenger, Signor Milton Fremont.” “Roger,” she replied. “Your government wishes you to land in El Paso. Do you copy?” “I copy. My client may wish to know why. Over.” “I was not advised of that. Have you sufficient fuel?” “Affirmative.” “Bueno. Contact El Paso. Over and out.” The breathing was ragged, the vision blurred. What in living hell? She raised El Paso as the Lear veered to the east. She adjusted course as directed. The Mexican jets had fallen back and away, but they were hanging close. I didn’t need a trigger pulled to be certain the guns were armed. Missiles were clutched under each wing. I watched the fuel gauge drop and the second hand on the watch. It beat getting a crick in my neck, peering back at the trailing fighters. After minutes, each seeming more like a day, Wendy said, “The border.” As she requested landing instructions, I looked back in time to see the Mexican fighters wheel away to the south. There wasn’t much comfort in it. They were replaced by U.S. Airforce fighters that looked even more formidable. Someone intended us to land at El Paso, or not at all. I watched the altimeter spin, not the heavily armed fighters. Wendy made minor adjustments to speed, trim, and direction as requested. From the montage to the front, a streak of light grew in length and breadth into a runway. When the gear clanked down, I said, “Keep it simple, Wendy. I’m just a client who paid cash.” She nodded, features grim. “No lies. We’ve been where we’ve been. Period. I’ve rented cars and we’ve had dinner together. That’s it. You know nothing of my business.” She nodded again. Seconds later the wheels settled. She applied the breaks, slowing, listening to directions from ground control.

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The taxiways we followed led away from the main terminal buildings, past the area in which private planes were parked, to a point at which she wheeled the Lear to face a concrete building identified only with the number 17. Giant floods provided noon-day brightness, creating deep, forbidding shadows beyond their range. There were two office doors. There were no windows. A corrugated steel door covered an entry large enough for the Lear to move through. She stopped as directed by a man dressed in a brown suit and tie. She shut down the engines, then slipped by me to open the cabin door. At the foot of the steps, the man in brown was joined by another who said, “Will you follow me, please?” He hadn’t said please as if he meant it, but we followed. Melody’s work with the passport had looked good to me. Would it look good here? The number belonged to someone else. The party gray in the hair seemed ridiculously childish just now. A check of Fremont’s drivers license with California DMV would wrap things quickly. We were led into a barren room with a scarred table surrounded by four chairs. A small couch bounded by two end tables was centered against one gray wall. All was fluorescent bright. We were waved to the table, then abandoned behind the door, listening to the bolt slide closed. My mind had been filled with guesses at what to expect. This hadn’t been considered. Concentrate, dummy. What in hell is needed? There’d been a cop feel about the two men who’d led us here. But the military involvement of two governments shouted there was more. Feds? What could they want? It didn’t help to realize they could have anything they liked. Could the room be bugged? Were they waiting to hear what we had to say? “Ms. Katlan,” I said, formally, pitching the voice low. There was no need to accent weariness. “What in merry hell is all this?” A worldly sick man would be beyond yelling and screaming at officialdom, but not complaint. Wendy jumped on it. “I have no idea, Mr. Fremont. I’ve never heard of anything like it. Perhaps they believe we’re smugglers.”

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“Nonsense. How could anyone believe I was smuggling anything except these rather weary bones?” “Mexican and American officials have been cooperating in efforts to halt drug traffic. It’s the only idea I have.” “Even so, there are customs authorities in San Diego. El Paso is three hundred miles east, is it not?” “About that, yes.” I stood and began pacing in Fremont’s way. As we continued the nonsensical conversation, Wendy displayed ever greater ingenuity, and anger at gross mistreatment. I’d run out of things to say when the door was unlocked and slowly opened. The two men in suits followed the elderly man. His shoes needed polish. The slacks and brown tweedy jacket looked to have been slept in. The smile lighted up the entire face. Thinning soft, white hair flowed straight back in waves. Any kid would be glad to call him grandpa, if the cold, icy, brown eyes could be overlooked. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” he said. The soft baritone was rich and full. He sounded sorry. “My name is Bernard Talbert, incidentally. Firearms control. May I see your passports, please?” “Firearms?” I asked, as I handed him Fremont’s passport. He nodded confirmation, thumbing through pages. He handed it back and said, “We had a tip, you see, that you were carrying weapons. We had to check.” “But why here?” Wendy asked, handing him her passport. “Why El Paso? You’ve delayed Mr. Fremont unnecessarily.” “As you can see, Ms. Katlan, I am not in San Diego. I am here.” He handed back the passport, still smiling. “The plain truth is, I hate to travel.” I couldn’t think of anything to say. Wendy was clearly astonished and much too close to anger. “Yes, Ms. Katlan. You’re quite right. It is terribly unfair, and much more I’m sure. I suggest you write letters to the appropriate authorities.” To me, he said, “Do have a good flight, Mr. Fremont.”

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He turned and the three men left, leaving the door open behind them. The look Wendy tossed at me was a declaration of war. We didn’t need that. “Ms. Katlan,” I said, “you must be very tired. But do you suppose we could be going? I am overdue.” The anger faded abruptly. Control locked in place. “Of course, Mr. Fremont.” My first few steps were shaky. A good part of me wanted to run. My solution was to slow the pace. It was quite natural to pause to wipe perspiration from my forehead. There’s a lot of luck in living. In this instance, the luck was in the tip. Bernard Talbert would have ignored wanted terrorists; he’d only been interested in weapons. The source of the tip haunted me. Wendy had done nothing more than land and take off at several airports. Had Fremont triggered interest in others besides those connected with El Viento? Possible. But how? Who? Beyond Boggs and Baracelli, who’d give one thin damned dime?

CHAPTER 21 The flight back had been a run from the coming dawn, a search for lostness and sanctuary. On the ground at Van Nuys, we’d abandoned the plane hastily. Although I’d wanted to move on, boneweariness had blocked all thoughts beyond those of Wendy’s apartment; it contained the closest bed. As the morning sun touched the windows, we’d settled on it. I’d been asleep before noticing the sheets were silk. Later, I found they were, that silk adds delicious textures to those of bodies intertwined. But all was elemental, ending too quickly, a brief celebration of temporary lull. We fell asleep again, cuddled, spoon fashion. It was after noon when I padded into the kitchen dressed only in shorts. Wendy had made it as far as panties and a bra. There was

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nothing sensual about it. We had joined for a purpose, food. Vast quantities disappeared from shelves in cabinets and the fridge. The calories seemed to help more than the few hours of rest. Exhaustion lurked close by, but the hands trembled less. The skin had lost the itchy, scratchy feel. Wendy shivered, trembles lingering in the fingers holding the coffee cup. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her skin. The apartment was close, stuffy. “You tried to tell me,” she said softly. “I just didn’t understand.” “It’s tough to describe.” “I can see that, now.” She shook her head, as if to reorder thought patterns. “When it’s over, will there be anything left between us?” “Depends, I guess.” “On what?” “Who you are. Who I am. What we add to each other.” She looked down at her coffee, cradled now in both hands. “We can’t quit, can we?” “No. We’ve got to stop Boggs. Without him, no one will be much interested in what went down.” “You’re assuming officials like Bernard Talbert act only when it’s in their interest or when pressed by others.” “It’s the only chance we have.” She shivered again, more intensely. Coffee spilled. “If you had understood,” I said, “would you still have gone for it?” “I’d like to think so.” She looked up, her face still strained with weariness. “There’s more, isn’t there?” “Yeah.” “Couldn’t you lie a little?” “You wouldn’t believe me.” “No. I’d worry even more.” “Let me make some calls. Maybe I can get a better picture.” She nodded, watching the ripples in the coffee. In the living room, I dialed. When Lencho called back, I asked, “Any word on when Tony might get out?”

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“The doctor, he says the same each day. Soon.” “Has anyone else come at your people?” “There was one small matter. Two of Boggs’ punks are in the hospital.” “How about those fellows with coats and ties?” “They have not been seen since two of them died. But they are near, I think.” “You’re not taking any chances, are you?” His laugh lacked humor. “Any who come take the chances. But what of you, Jefe? Mike, he says many are looking for Fremont. Each ship he visited has become sick, no?” “Tell me about it. I haven’t heard a thing.” “On the Wattshorne, there was an explosion. The drive shaft is lying on the harbor floor and the hold of bananas is spoiling. There are fires in Colón and Acapulco. Mike says more water will burst the sides. Two ships are being towed to drydock. La Ventaja sank, Jefe. Four men are missing.” “Damn.” “But it is as Wes said, no? Only the Greek captain and chief engineer survived.” “I didn’t want any dying.” “We should do it my way, Jefe. I know now how it can be done.” “I don’t want to hear it. Not yet, at least.” “Before you die, that would be best, I think.” I hung up, assailed with doubts. I wasn’t at all sure that part of my soul demanding Lencho be restrained was worth saving. I thought of the four missing seaman and let sadness flow. Courteous, smiling Miguel who liked Johnny Walker, who wanted nothing more for the rusty tub he sailed than air blowers for the comfort of he and his fellow seamen. I called Mike, verified previous projections, thanked him for his help and told him to drop out of sight at the end of the work day. He hastily agreed. The Boknfjord would be in San Pedro tonight, as would La Conquistadoras, that flotsam that was part of the beginning. The Boknfjord was Boggs’ most expensive ship, a target

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worth best effort. The remainder of his fleet was at sea. All of it together was worth far less than what I’d already hit. Next I called the number of Lencho’s man at El Viento Air. The picture came into focus quickly. I struggled to keep frustration from converting to anger. All flights had been canceled. The planes had been collected at the service hangar at Burbank Airport. How could Boggs have put it together so fast? For a not so bright fellow, he seemed to be doing fine. Reluctantly I told him what I’d told Mike. Disappear and be certain there was not even a fingerprint left behind. He agreed to leave his uniform coveralls in a passenger storage locker, and the key at the Western Airlines desk. I hadn’t a single idea, but hope dies hard. Hap called back in minutes. “Any luck with Boggs?” I asked anxiously. “Yeh. All bad. The scumbag shook my guys. And the feds. We didn’t get on him again until he landed at LAX on a commercial flight from Frisco.” “So he’s back dealing?” “Yeh. Like without messin’ that fancy hairdo. Jacobson’s trackin’ alone, but he ain’t foolin’ nobody. He’s dealin’.” “What do you mean he’s alone?” “Usually there’re a couple guns behind and out front on account of the bucks. Guess he thinks bein’ without them, he’ll fool us some.” “Does that give you a better chance at him?” “Naw. Every pay phone’s an office. In every building, there are a hundred civies and he talks to several. The trick’s in tellin’ who’s for real. He only collects the check, man. The pickup’s someplace else.” “I had this picture of bucks exchanged for coke.” “With Boggs, the bread’s up front. The goods come later. It sells ’cause there’s never been a cross and it’s safe.” “It looks like we wasted time with those hits.” “A day you take Boggs for four mil and some of his punks, it ain’t all that bad. The IRS picked up another six from those safe boxes.” “What in hell does it take to make Boggs mad enough to blow it?”

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“Who knows? Hittin’ his ships, that ain’t goin’ to make it.” There didn’t seem much that escaped Hap’s sleepy notice. “Come up with something better,” I said. “Yeh. Sure.” He hung up, his pessimism lingering, settling deeply. On a near total downer, I dialed Robarris. He was furious. “You are mad, Mr. Macklen. Utterly mad.” “How’s that?” “Your terrorist tactics have cost four lives.” “I fouled two oilers on La Ventaja with sand. The captain, not sand, sank that ship, on Boggs’ orders.” “Would those four men have died if you had not interfered? I think not.” “You’re a pompous, sanctimonious ass, Robarris. Is that how you built your precious reputation, covering your butt with a steel pot?” “I have used one in that way.” “You’re not under fire in a chopper, now. You’re sitting in a leather chair in a walnut-paneled room on the ninth floor of a steel-reinforced, class-A, concrete building. There’s a difference.” “Quite. I should like to maintain that difference.” “So maintain. For myself, I’d like to sit on my porch with a beer and look at the hills. To scratch my dog and feel her rough tongue on my cheek. See friends and neighbors again. Hunt up a good poker game. First, I’ve got to stay alive.” He sighed. The silence lengthened as if he was trying to straighten his tie and not making much progress. “What is it you wish of me?” he asked finally. “Boggs has rounded up money and coke. Where? How?” He sighed again. “I’ll spare you the details, but we lost him.” “And you’re the best?” “These things do happen.” “Yeah. What has Lynn had to say?” “It is she, of course, who first advised him the ships were in danger. Armed men now patrol each vessel and also his planes at Burbank Airport.”

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“Feds stopped me coming home. They had a tip I was carrying weapons. Boggs isn’t quick enough to figure it out so soon. Could it have been Lynn?” “There is nothing to suggest that.” “Besides Boggs’ punks, the Song Birds and all the junkies in town, some heavyweight pros have nearly nailed me twice. They’re too good to be working for Boggs. Could Lynn have turned them loose?” “There is nothing to indicate she has taken any direct action.” “What have you found out about Angelo Baracelli?” “Very little substance, I’m afraid. He has been here and there, but seldom seen. His financial holdings are rumored to be enormous, but none have yet been identified, beyond La Cassadas.” “Do you have anything on Lynn?” “Pitifully little, I’m afraid. Dedicated, knowledgeable, I should say. An asset to any fiscal operation. She knows her way about the darker corners of the business world and handles herself quite well. Somewhat a snob, of course. But with justification. Early forties, well educated and totally committed to what she is doing.” “But Boggs doesn’t like her one bit.” “To be fair, she does not appear to be a likable person. However, her thinking and advice seem rather good.” “And Boggs takes her advice.” “At least for the moment.” “Is Boggs anywhere close to doing something really stupid?” “It would seem he has been rather stupid all along. However, I gather you are looking for something more than the obvious.” He paused, as if stroking his beard. “He is counting heavily on the shipment due in three days. Despite his inclinations, I hardly think he will do anything rash until he has safely landed that cargo. “His lads are busy scurrying about the city, beating upon people, searching for evidence it is the Colombians who are attacking him.” “That doesn’t tell me how close he is to blowing wide open.” “I should have thought he would have done so before now.” “Expect I’ll just have to keep at it until we nail him.”

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“We, my boy.” “Me, then, my boy.” “There is little need to be petty.” “Tony thinks you’re good. But you lost that bastard. And you lost Ulster. I’ve about run out of options. Lose him again and you probably won’t need to worry about me. I’ll be cold dead meat.” “Indeed. Somehow that holds promise, my boy.” “Screw you, Robarris. Get on his ass and stay there.” I slammed the phone down. How close Boggs was to blowing was unknowable. There was no choice. I had to believe he would. But if Robarris and Skyler missed it, I’d be out of the game. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and slumped tiredly in the chair facing Wendy. “Skyler and Robarris both missed Boggs’ run for more cash and coke,” I said tiredly. “The ships I hit are in bad shape, but it hasn’t bothered Boggs enough to bring hard action. Now his planes are grounded, under guard at Burbank Airport. There’s nothing significant left to hit. “I was sure he’d have blown it before now, that he’d have made some dumb play Hap could have dealt with. Or started shooting up the Colombians. I was betting he’d have already run for cover.” “That’s the real reason for wanting the Lear 34, isn’t it?” “Yeah. I wanted to be able to catch up with him, any place in the world. But the money’s about gone. There’s hardly enough to follow a first move.” “I have what you paid for the plane,” Wendy said quietly. “Thanks, but we need pressure. For that, we need targets, not money.” “Then what will we do?” “I’m not sure.” It’s tough to lie to bright, piercing eyes. I switched to something I didn’t have to lie about. “It looks like Boggs will hold on here until his new shipment is safely home. After that, he may make a mistake that would force him to run. That would mean Nassau. We need to be ready for that, even though it seems a far out chance at the moment.

184–Bob McElwain

“I’d like you to do whatever needs doing, top off the tanks for a non-stop flight, and be ready. There are a couple of things I’d like to check on this afternoon. Maybe later we can think of something to do to finish out the waiting.” I took my best shot at a lecherous leer. “You are a terrible liar, Scott. Frankly, I’d give it up.” Before I could reply, she halted my efforts with lifted palms. “No. Whatever it is, don’t say it. Just tell me what you’re planning. Tell me now.” “I can deal with it. Why involve you or anyone else?” “Listen to me. Please?” I nodded, wishing I was someplace else. “I’m frightened. Really frightened. I’ve never known what terror was until these last few days. Especially that detour to El Paso. Do you understand that?” I nodded again. There was nothing to argue. “If we don’t end this quickly, we’re in more trouble than can be managed. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to worry you. But at every airport at which we landed, there’s a record of the Lear. Someone will make the connection, given time. Do I have a better chance than you against men like Talbert? Or Boggs? I have as much at stake as you. I will be part of what needs to be done.” “Do you send people you love against machine guns?” “Yes, if the option is to ask them to wait to be blown apart by MAC-10s.” I reached for the last card, the hard, heavy one, and leaned out on the table. “There’ll be two of Boggs’ ships in San Pedro tonight. I’m going to blow them to hell. Then I’ll try for his planes. There’ll be some dying. An innocent sailor, a working stiff or two. And I’ll likely get my head shot off. How much of that do you want?” “All of it,” she snapped. “Pass on the killings if you can, but please do make sure neither of us does the dying.” ***

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She’d been silent, driving south toward the harbor. I was grateful; there’d been enough words. We were at the top of Sepulveda Pass before I could fully deal with it. I couldn’t keep her out. So how could I use her talent with minimal risk? “Can you handle a small boat?” I asked. “Yes. Father owned a thirty foot Bertram. He sold it when he ran out of money for coke.” Her voice was emotionless. “Then I know how we’ll deal with San Pedro.” “Good,” was all she said. Before we’d left her place, she’d gone to the drug store. Her damp hair was blonde. It was obviously bleached, but it enhanced the image created by the worn tight jeans, dirty tennis shoes and heavy makeup. I hadn’t suggested more, but the bra was snugged tightly, the white, nylon blouse, a size too small. The light blue windbreaker was forced open by tautly, molded breasts. Wrap-around sun glasses hid the eyes. Few men would look beyond the thrusting chest. I passed a gun shop, turned back, and parked. Inside I said I’d take eight pairs of handcuffs if they were all keyed the same. The look I got was loaded with curiosity, but the slender young man said nothing. It wasn’t good business to probe into the ways customers add kinks to their sex life. Back in the car, Wendy asked, “What in the world are these for?” “Short of hitting or shooting, they’re the fastest way to immobilize a man.” As I drove off, she turned to look out the side window, but not before I noted the grimmer set to her jaw. *** The docks at Keller’s Landing didn’t look up to the task of supporting the weight of more than one person at a time. The boats seemed even less substantial. Maybe fishermen don’t pay much attention to what takes them out, sustains them for the day, then brings them safely home. But the place had that look. Extra cash could get what we needed, if all else failed.

186–Bob McElwain

I studied what could be seen of the harbor with the binoculars. Beyond the piers, half a dozen ships were anchored inside the breakwater. There were others, not visible from where we stood. Distance and the afternoon haze made names unreadable. “We need to get out onto the water. Is it against any rules to run a boat around the harbor?” “You must be either headed to or returning from designated fishing areas. Or in the channel to the sea. Will that do?” “It might. The Boknfjord stopped for fuel and will spend the night. There’s something wrong with the electrical system. If we can’t locate her from the channel, we’ll try from outside the harbor.” The bleached hair had dried, leaving a frizzy bush. It added to the worn tough look of her. I was sure no one would recognize her. Still, I wanted Saxton to remain front and center. “When we get inside,” I said, “stay in the background. Keep your back to others. If you have to face someone, get close. They won’t really see you.” She nodded understanding. “I don’t know much about boats so be ready to help.” She nodded again. At the foot of the rotting steps, we turned and went inside the shed. Wendy drifted left, toward the array of fishing tackle. “What ya need, fella?” asked the beefy red-faced man behind the scarred counter. “A boat. What else?” “Know anything about them? Ya don’t look the type.” “What do I look like?” He shrugged, blood-shot, blue eyes fixed on Wendy. “Not like no sailor. That’s sure.” “Do you rent boats? Or are you just into put-downs?” “I rent a boat, when I decide the guy can get it back in one piece.” “Show me a boat with the range for San Diego and I’ll show you the bucks that’ll ease your mind about my sailing skills.” “How much time ya spent out there?”

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“Okay. Okay. I’m no kind of sailor, but she is. It’s her deal. I’ve just got the green.” “She don’t look like no sailor neither.” Without turning, Wendy snapped, “I can handle anything you’ve got, if the engine doesn’t quit. Most would, this side of the breakwater.” “Is that so?” The watery, blue eyes above the puffy cheeks showed interest. She had him half convinced. She whirled toward him, her face a mask of scorn, then dropped the hammer. “That twenty-foot McLaren?” She continued her turn toward the boat. “If the engine’s up to the hull, she might make it. One way, at least.” “That engine was overhauled only last month. She runs out pretty as a calm sea.” “Get me a key, man, and I’ll tell you how she runs.” “Well, now, that’s a lot a boat. How long would ya be needing it?” “Four days,” I said. “That’d be eight bills. In advance. Plus a deposit.” I tossed the credit card on the counter. “Let her have the key while you do your little trick with that plastic.” He reached under the counter, grabbed a key and handed it to me. “Here, babe,” I said, tossing the key. She scooped it out of the air and was gone. I leaned against the door and watched her deliberate, flashy walk down the dock. Reflected in the dusty window, I saw the bloodshot, blue eyes watching, too. He’d caught only one brief look at her face. Memories would be filled with her thrusting chest and the walk down the dock. She’d made it easy. Only a lot of bucks would have gotten me a boat. When she fired the engine, it sounded solid. “Sign here,” the voice behind me said. I stepped out the door and yelled, “Okay?” She raised her fist, thumb up. I went back inside and signed. “She might want to try it. We could tie up over there,” I said, pointing to the floating dock next to shore. “It’d be easier to haul stuff down from the car.”

188–Bob McElwain

“That’s what it’s for,” he said, still looking at the boat and the woman at the controls. “Hell of a lot a broad there, huh?” “Too much for you, buddy.” I managed a chuckle and a fair to middlen leer. “She’d flat kill you.” I sauntered out and down the dock, trying to look as if I owned it. When I climbed over the transom, the heavy boots hammered the deck. For an instant the guilties surged as I remembered the careful way I’d boarded Denty’s Dream, gently, wearing crepe soled denims. One glance at this scarred deck erased the feelings, but not the memories. “Can you take in those lines?” Wendy asked. Like Denty, another sailor, I thought with a mental sigh. I slipped the ropes loose and hauled them aboard. As she eased out toward the channel, I moved down beside her. Shadowed by the cockpit I checked all I could see with the glasses. My memories of days touring piers were loaded with size. Once into the harbor, all looked larger still. I’d spotted La Conquistadors on the way out, docked on the west side of the main channel. North of her was Ports of Call, the original restaurant that had collected around it a host of tourist traps that formed an effective net for collecting dollars. The ship had looked shabbier up close. The channel buoys were capped with a red beacon and a bell which clanged in syncopated rhythm to the soft roll of the sea. As we passed the third buoy, I spotted the Boknfjord. “Can you hold it here?” She circled the buoy slowly. I studied the underwater compass strapped to my wrist. Close to south-west. Although distance over water always fools me, I took a guess at half a mile. It was within my range, even as tired as I was. “I’ve got what I need,” I said. “Legitimate renters would try her at sea,” she said. “Let’s do it.” ***

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My talk of dying to Wendy had been only that, a scare tactic. There was to be no more of that. I could deal with the ships without hurting anyone. At Burbank Airport, I couldn’t see a way. If killing was out, Boggs’ planes were safe. From the top of the four level parking building I had a clear view across the main terminal of the El Viento service hangar. The three DC-3s were surrounded by King Airs. A lovely target, unreachable. Workmen in coveralls crawled about the planes, as if looking for evidence of sabotage. The two men in dress suits could be management. The function of the other four was certain. They were guards. And they were attentive, evenly distributed around the perimeter of the parked planes. I couldn’t tell the make of their weapons, but the holsters had no flaps and the pistols had size. The shotguns looked first class. “May I see?” Wendy asked. I handed her the glasses, the mental gears spinning. It was impossible. The mechanics might go home come nightfall. And the two men in suits. But not the guards. One against four is hard odds. And there was no way to get in. Or out. It was close to five hundred yards from the building to the nearest fence. “Assuming the interiors are as good as what I can see,” Wendy said, “it would cost over thirty million to replace those planes.” “What I need’s a Huey. Two passes with the fifty caliber would blow the works. Without something from the air, I don’t see a way. A field mouse could be spotted crossing that asphalt.” “If you could get in, what then?” “Round up those guards, spread C4, then blow it.” “That would really sting Boggs. The insurance companies might label it an act of war, or the equivalent, and refuse to pay anything.” “Yeah. But I didn’t mention the fun part. Getting out. There’d be cops swarming over me before I could make any fence.” “There’s Floyd’s chopper,” Wendy said softly. “It’s not armed, of course. But I can get you in and out.”

190–Bob McElwain

“How?” I knew I looked silly with my mouth hanging open. It didn’t prevent me from listening to my new active partner. “Here,” she said, handing me the glasses. “Look at the hangar on the corner, to the right of El Viento.” “Got it,” I said. “Seldon Piermont leases it. He’s the best chopper mechanic in the state. He doesn’t work Thursdays.” Three choppers crouched near the corner of the hangar. All looked deserted. “This is Thursday,” I said, “So go. But give me one glitch, one touch of rough, and we’re scratched.” “Floyd’s chopper is a Jet Ranger, older, but in top condition.” “How big and how fast?” I demanded. “It seats five. With minimum fuel and only the two of us we can make a hundred and twenty knots.” She waited to see if I wanted more. When I nodded, she continued. “We’ll alter the call letters. It will be dark when we leave. I’ll use the legal call to take off for Palmdale. A few miles up the pass, beyond radar, we’ll turn, come back in, and follow Foothill Boulevard along the mountains. I’ll use the phony call when we land at Piermont’s hangar. While you do what you can, I’ll wait.” “The shop is closed. Someone will wonder why you haven’t left the chopper.” “I’ll be waiting for a mechanic who’s already late.” “Who would buy that?” “Seldon can always be reached. For the price, he’ll send someone or come himself. Airport personnel are accustomed to the pattern.” “Would you use the same route going out?” “No. We’ll head straight for the mountains, then Placeritta Canyon. Near Highway 14, I’ll pick up altitude and turn for home, as if coming back in from Palmdale.” “Can you outrun a police chopper? They’re always around.” “No. But we can listen on their radio frequency. I need less than five minutes to be over that first ridge, off any radar screen. Give me a two minute lead and I can lose anyone trying to follow.”

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“Why couldn’t you be traced back to Van Nuys?” “How? All that will be logged is the false call number. Anyone checking will find dozens of choppers were in the air at the time of the attack. How would they single out Katlan Air?” I turned and looked back at the parked planes. She’d convinced me she could hold up her end. As I studied the four guards through the glasses, I wasn’t as confident about holding up mine. But I hadn’t come this far to sit out the hand and I was rapidly running out of leverage against Boggs. “Let’s go,” I said. “We’ve things to do.”

CHAPTER 22 It was after nine when we pulled into the deserted parking lot above Larson’s Landing. There were no lights and that was good. We could hardly see the shed through the fog. That was not good. Well equipped vessels have tools for travel in such soup. The boat we’d rented did not. I might find the Boknfjord with the wrist compass, but I’d never get back to the buoy. “It doesn’t look promising,” Wendy said. “I can’t pass.” “Try what you planned and you’ll end up lost.” “Give me a better idea.” “Guide on the breakwater instead of the buoy. I’ll drop you on the sea side. We should be able to gauge distance well enough to get you in line with the ship.” “I like it. But drop me two hundred yards beyond. Then, if we’re off, I can still find it, swimming back toward the channel.” “How will I pick you up?” “Move back and forth along the breakwater. How close is safe?” “A hundred feet.” “Make it a hundred yards. I’ll hear the engine and signal with the underwater flash.” “How long will you need?”

192–Bob McElwain

“Call it two hours. Then you head back in.” She turned aside from the subdued echoes of the words against the fog, studying the misty outline of the boat below us. “You could be delayed.” “I can be hidden on land before dawn and get out later.” “Would you leave me behind?” “Yeah. I would.” I said without tremble, without hint of lie. She turned back to face me, her eyes unreadable in the darkness. “I don’t believe you.” “You don’t have to. You do have to get to Lencho.” She dug for gloves and tugged them on. “I’ll help you load your things.” The engine that had sounded so smooth this afternoon was more a rough, rumbling roar in the quiet night. I stripped and struggled into the wet suit. Clear of the pier, Wendy turned toward the main channel. When I’d finished loading the waterproof carry-all bag, I could hear the lonely clang of the bell on the first channel marker. Visibility was less than a hundred yards. The glow to the north would be Ports of Call and the village of shops. Mentally I studied the harbor map. La Conquistadoras was docked little more than four hundred yards behind us. I could easily do without this grand adventure. I’d rather take out that decaying old tub and call it a night. I moved forward and stood beside Wendy, searching the empty darkness ahead for the next buoy. The sound of the clanging bell came to us before sight of the beacon trailing a red arc against the fog. Wendy eased the throttles forward, apparently confident of the course now. The increased roar ahead announced we were approaching the open sea. Clear of the breakwater, four foot swells exaggerated motion in the damp, dreary darkness. Wendy killed the running lights and turned parallel to the breakwater, adding more throttle. She studied her watch and the red beacons slipping past. “If you were driving a car,” she said, “what would you guess was your speed?” “About seven miles an hour.”

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“If that’s right, we’ve six minutes to go.” I tugged on the fins, then slung the bag around my neck and tied it to my chest. When I settled the twin tanks, the extra weight and rolling sea staggered me. I perched on the side of the boat, pulled down the mask and waited. “Now,” she said. I rolled backwards into the water. When I surfaced the boat had disappeared, trailing a diminishing rumble of engine. I felt lonely, deserted and scorned by the sea. The rebuttal to all such unwanted thoughts has been well learned. Move. With driving strokes I made for the breakwater. *** Fog and darkness hide much and distort more. But the body can’t be fooled. The stroke became tougher to hold, the breathing more labored. There was an annoying temptation to roll over and float, to doze, comforted by the calm harbor water. I knew I’d missed it. Then again, I knew I hadn’t. We’d brought the boat too far east was all. With the stroke faltering, I was about to make for the sea wall to be sure of my bearing, when I saw a faint lightness ahead. Four other ships had been close by this afternoon. I had to check. Conserving strength, I swam toward growing brightness. When the stern loomed up before me, I settled the mask, gripped the mouthpiece, dove, then swam. I flipped up the mask and surfaced slowly. The forecastle was flooded with light. The name was easy to read, Boknfjord. It was also easy to see the man with the M-16, leaning against the rail. I pulled the mask down and sank back into the sea, working deeper. What I found first was a blade of the prop. I shivered, trying to console myself with the thought the ship would not sail before dawn. If captured by the cranking prop, the tanks on my back might survive, but what was left of me would be food for tiny little fishes.

194–Bob McElwain

I swam to the nearest anchor chain and tied off the tanks, fins and mask. I was exposed as I worked. It would get worse before getting better. If spotted, the only chance would be to beat bullets to the water and hope the lungs held until the tanks could be recovered. I grabbed the anchor chain and began to climb, watching the deck above. Although it was a different set of muscles being used, they lacked necessary support. They quickly tired of the inchworm crawl and the task of supporting the body, dangling from the chain. Four feet of stern bulged over top of me when I reached the cavern through which the anchor is lifted. I freed one padded grappling hook and dropped two prongs through a link of chain. I eased my weight to the rope and worked my way down until level with the top of the rudder, fifteen feet away. I locked my feet in the rope and freed the second hook. I set it swinging, letting rope slip through my hand. Sweat flowed under the wet suit. The padded hook landed softly on top of the rudder. Cautiously I pulled myself in under the stern toward the pentel arm, disappearing into the hull above. With feet wrapped in both ropes, balanced precariously, I tugged the heavy charge of C4 free. I cranked the timer to four hours, then wedged the pliable block between the pentel arm and hull. The charge looked too small, not up to its assigned task. But on this night, only the ship and sea seemed large. Convinced that even the throbbing engine would not dislodge it, the task changed abruptly. Get away. Quickly. Without sound. I eased down a few inches, found purchase for a foot and hand, then loosened the hook over top of the rudder. I wrapped it around my neck, let go, and began climbing the swinging rope. When I again had a solid grip on the anchor chain, I recovered the first hook. It wasn’t a whole lot easier climbing down than up, but at last I slid back into the sea. I let the hooks drag the ropes from about my neck toward the harbor bottom. I struggled into the tanks, fins, and mask, then swam, staying down until one hand pounded into the rocky face of the sea

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wall. I scrambled awkwardly across it. A hundred yards out, I tread water, listening and watching. The sound of the engine grew. When the hull came into fuzzy silhouette, I snapped the flashlight on and off, twice. Immediately the prow turned toward me and the engine throttled back. Wendy eased the boat up beside me, left the wheel to grab my wrist, and put enough behind the pull for me to grab the deck rail with my free hand. By the time I’d tumbled into the boat she’d shoved the throttles forward. I dumped the tanks, shed the fins, and moved to join her. She let go of the wheel and grabbed me, hugging tightly. She didn’t seem about to let go, so I reached for the wheel when the boat began slanting toward the rocks. “How did it go?” she asked, her breath warm to my neck. “There’ll be a hell of a bang in about four hours. And there’s no way to sink that ship here.” She hugged me once more, then again took control of the wheel. As she turned into the main channel, she flicked on the running lights. “Can you ease down the left side of the channel and drift over toward Ports of Call? If you could pull up near the Coast Guard station, it’d be only a short swim to slip seventy-one.” “This is ridiculous. La Conquistadoras is a worthless relic. It’s not worth the risk.” As she drifted left, I tried to find the right words. “This one is special. She dropped that damned raft. Now I’m going to drop her.” “You’re going to blow her up?” “It might give Boggs the extra nudge he needs.” “I’m not going to change your mind, am I?” “I don’t see how. There are good people dead and that tub’s part of their dying.” “There’s more mysticism than logic in that.” “I just didn’t say it right. You can let me off. I can swim back to the landing.” “Yes. You could.”

196–Bob McElwain

Light from the cluster of little shops grew brighter. At first sight of the pier through the gloomy fog, she turned. In deep shadow she killed the engine and lights. We drifted into the end of the pier and tied up. The tanks felt heavier than they should as I struggled into the harness. Four limpet mines were tucked into the carry-all bag. I made room for the Colt and speed loaders, sealed in a separate waterproof pouch. I added handcuffs and rope, staggering from the weight, even though the swell was barely noticeable. “It’s a boring question,” she said, “but how long will this take?” “Less than an hour. If you hear shots, don’t wait a second.” “Shots?” “A man at the rail on the Boknfjord had an automatic rifle.” “I don’t like this one damn bit.” “Neither do I.” I rolled backwards into the sea once again. I’d covered less than two hundred yards, slanting across the channel, when I saw the deck lights, dimmed by fog. There was little doubt, but I swam out away from her to be sure. The C was rusted away from Conquistadoras. The memory of Wes pointing to the fuel tanks on a ship much like this one was sharp, crisply focused. I dove and approached cautiously. When I placed the first mine, I misjudged the magnetic force. The sound as it snapped against the hull was clear, pronounced. I placed the remaining three with considerably more care. I swam around the stern to the edge of the pier. Halfway to the top of the concrete face was an iron tee. I tossed a rope over it and tied off the tanks and fins. I was just able to lunge from below the water and grab the tee with my right hand. It was close, muscles strained to their limits, but my left grabbed the slack line from the ship. Seconds later I lay flat on the pier, searching for any hint I’d been noticed. I couldn’t see much. Anyone watching would face the same obstacle. Two hawsers were looped around the bollard I lay behind. The one I’d grabbed had a rat guard in place. The other was taut,

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easier to climb. And there was no rat guard. Trusting the cover of foggy darkness, I scrambled up the rope. Peering over the deck rail, I watched for motion. Here again, the answer to discovery was the water. I freed the Colt and slipped over the rail. At least one armed sailor would be on board. However many there were, they had to be taken off. A few feet beyond the forecastle, motion caused me to drop full length to the deck in the shadow of a stack of crates. The movements proved to be those of a man, strolling in my direction. He carried an M-16, but he wasn’t near ready to use it. It was slung over his shoulder. I cuddled against the crates, urging the sailor to come ahead. I didn’t want to stalk him with uncounted others about. Someone might even have a weapon ready. He obliged by walking past, three feet from my head. He heard me lunge to my feet and whirled, grabbing for the rifle. He froze at sight of the Colt. “What the hell is this, man?” He had size. “How many are aboard?” I demanded. “Why do you care?” “This tub’s going to blow.” “Blow?” “Like in explode. The timers are running. Do you want to chat or get you and your people someplace else?” “Someplace else sounds real good. There are two, sleeping.” “You’ve too much size,” I said, reaching for a pair of handcuffs. “Lay the piece down and snap these on.” “I don’t much like those things.” “How do you feel about dying?” Without further comment, he laid the rifle on the deck and secured the cuffs. “Now the others,” I said. He hurried forward, then turned down a narrow flight of corroding, metal stairs. From the dimly lit companionway, he stepped into a small cabin stacked with bunks. “Hey!” he shouted. “Chuck! Willis!” “Whassa matter?” one of the men mumbled.

198–Bob McElwain

I stepped inside and centered the Colt midway between the two men. “He’s the matter, man. Now get your butts outa there. This ship is gonna blow, with or without us on it. You dig?” They struggled quickly free of the blankets. I tossed each a pair of handcuffs. They wasted no time locking them securely. “Let’s get out onto the pier,” I said. I linked each man to a huge deck crane that would provide ample cover. They were close enough to the ship to prevent anyone from boarding. All it would take would be a yell for help. I tossed a key to the handcuffs to the dock, ten feet in front of the big man. “What’s that for?” he asked. “Makes it easier to get loose when someone shows.” “You’re a whole new breed of bomber, man.” “Probably. Along that same line, try not to let anyone get cute with the charges I set. Touch one and it’ll blow.” It was a lie, but I couldn’t see anyone testing it to save this tub. “I hear you,” the big man said. Seconds later I hit the murky harbor water. I freed the fins and tanks, then struggled into them, sinking lower. I worked around to the mines and set each timer for three hours. I dropped the tanks and swam, putting every ounce of strength into each stroke. The boat was a welcome sight. When I lunged up over the side and rolled out onto the deck, Wendy cried, “Christ. You’ve scared away seven years of living.” “Sorry. But move. We’ve got less than three hours to hit Burbank.” I yanked the tie lines loose. I guessed she was breaking the speed limit. Certainly she was taking chances. The fog hadn’t lightened. I tugged the wet suit free and struggled into Jason Saxton’s clothes. I gathered all that was left of what we’d brought aboard as she turned toward the dock. “Float her in close. We’ll jump and let her drift.” She killed the engine as she began a hard turn. The side of the boat hit the dock only a bit more roughly than was kindly to the hull. Beside me, she jumped for the dock and we jogged up the rickety steps.

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There was only one road out of the pier area we were on. It was another ten minutes beyond that, to be off the peninsula. “Can you drive a bit faster?” Wendy asked. “I feel a distinct need to be away from here.” “Yeah,” I said, feeding more gas. When I turned onto the San Diego Freeway, we were clear. I pushed the speed limit. As the miles fell behind, tension began to lighten in the gut and across the shoulders. Wendy had collapsed, her head against the window.

CHAPTER 23 In the dim light of the hangar, the white chopper, trimmed in green, waited patiently for whatever might be needed of her. While I hurriedly loaded the tool box and shopping bag with patties of C4, Wendy opened the hangar door and fired the engine. Earlier, she’d used vinyl tape to change a B to a P, a T to an I and a 4 to a 1. It would fool anyone not looking closely. I pulled on the coveralls recovered from the locker at the Burbank Airport. They were snug, but they’d do. It was the bold red lettering spelling out El Viento across the back and on the front pocket that I needed. I tucked the handcuffs inside my waistband on either side of the Colt and pasted strips of duct tape to the inside of the coveralls. I climbed in beside Wendy, refusing to ask the time, knowing it was short. Reports of explosions at San Pedro would be quickly circulated. She hovered a foot off the ground and drifted the chopper out of the hangar, asking for clearance. Minutes later, we had enough height to see the red stream of taillights headed north on Highway 14 toward Palmdale. Approaching headlights brightly streaked the night. Once in the canyon, it was less than a minute before she began a gentle circle that brought us out over Highway 14, headed back the way we’d come. Clear of the pass she turned east.

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It was a beautiful sight. Clusters of lighted housing tracks were interspersed with more widely scattered, individually built homes. The hills were crisply outlined in moonlight. I’d never seen them from this height. I didn’t really see them now. Knowing the driving time to Burbank, I was surprised when she reached for the radio. But the chopper was not hampered by traffic or intersections or signals. When she received clearance to land, we were still thirty minutes away by car. She began her descent in three. Was I ready? There hadn’t been much time for thinking. But there hadn’t been much time for worry, either. More thought wouldn’t help and worry can be fatal. The shortness of the trip was a blessing. She touched down at the north side of Piermont’s hangar. When the water’s cold, a flat hard dive is the easiest way to end uncertainty. I climbed down and headed for the corner of the hangar before she killed the engine. I worked at an easy swaying stride of unconcern. When I tried to whistle, the lips were too dry. I wet them and tried again. At best I’m not much of a whistler. I fell back to shoving air through my teeth, wondering what tune I was murdering. The guard at the back wore his cap at a jaunty angle. He didn’t pump a round into the shotgun. I reasoned there was no need to. One already rested under the cocked hammer. I wasn’t cheered. With easy grace, he took three steps and leaned against the light standard, blocking my way. I worked hard to keep tension in my gut from affecting the casual stride. The only chance was to get close enough so the shotgun would be of no use. I was already too close to run. No one moves faster than double aught buck, which was the load I’d be using in his place. I was twenty feet away when he said, “That’s far enough.” The shotgun was angled across his chest. He had ample time to drop it and fire before I could close. It required determined effort not to break stride. “I’m Billy. They said you knew I was coming.”

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Another step. Nine feet to go. The guard’s gaze flicked to the red lettering over the pocket, then back to my face. He wasn’t buying. “Hold it,” he demanded. The barrel of the shotgun moved down and out. I needed the Colt in my fist. I dropped the bag with its deadly contents and knelt as if to retrieve it, managing a casual, “Damn.” The shotgun was still moving, but I was too close, and too far beneath the barrel. When I cocked the .357, the guard froze, eyes motionless in the shadow of his cap. I stood slowly. “First, the finger comes off that trigger,” I said. “I don’t think so.” “You might get a round off, but you’d be dying.” There was fear, but also cautious alert attention, a patient waiting for opportunity. “It’s planes I want,” I said, “not people.” “What’s to make me buy that?” “I could have brought a silenced piece, instead of this magnum. If I had, you’d already be dead. Look down, if you know what C4 is.” Several slices had tumbled from the bag when it fell. He glanced down. “There’s more in here,” I said, easing the toolbox to the ground, then reaching for the shotgun. There was a moment’s hesitation, then reaction set in. The shoulders slumped. He let me have the gun. I eased it to the ground. He seemed not to notice when I pulled the forty-four revolver from his holster and laid it beside the shotgun. “There are three more boys inside. They can’t all be as dumb as me.” I gestured toward the pole, letting the open handcuffs dangle. He shrugged, then slipped his arms around it. I snapped the cuffs closed. “Give me the names of the three inside.” “Why?” “So I’ll remember to move you before this C4 goes.” “Ralston, Peters, and Halleren.” “Descriptions?” “Dark hair for Ralston and Halleren. Peters is blonde. They’re all about my size.” “Armament?”

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“Same as mine.” “And your name?” “Sandy Pollard.” The strip of duct tape would keep him quiet. Brassy confidence had worked so far. I couldn’t think of a better mode. I took three deep breaths, tucked the Colt away, picked up the bag and toolbox, then strode inside. I wasn’t prepared for the brightly lit hangar. I had trouble holding a casual pace. I gave up on whistling altogether. Two King Airs loomed ahead of me. “Where the hell ya going?” The guttural voice had come from my left. The shotgun was leveled. “Right here. It’s one of these two,” I said. “Could you point that thing somewhere else?” He closed cautiously, the shotgun steady. “What’s with one of these two?” “How do I know? I just got here. All they said was to check the fuel flow. Now how about that gun?” “There ain’t nobody supposed to be working tonight.” “Fine with me. I’ve got a piece back at the pad gets me hard just thinking about her. I’d a hell of a lot rather be there, taking care of things. I didn’t ask for this detail. And I don’t like that damn shotgun.” “You’d have to have a work order.” His concern for my presence had diminished. Maybe he believed what I’d said of leaving good things. “I had one,” I said. “I left it with the fellow out back. Sandy something. If that puckers your buns, climb his tree, not mine.” “Bet your sweet ass I will. Now set that there box down.” I did, trying to look as if I belonged here. I needed a break, badly. And I needed it before we got outside. Most of his attention seemed to be on Sandy, as if rehearsing what needed to be said. As I started to straighten back up, he motioned toward the door with the barrel of the shotgun. I slammed my left palm into it, moving in behind it as I yanked the Colt free with my right. “If you fire, your partners will have to stop me.”

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His eyes bulged, reflecting confusion and uncertainty and rage. He’d been in complete control, then lost it. He was a pro who’d made a mistake, a pro who didn’t like to make mistakes. He could fire and warn the others, but he could do me no harm. And he could die. When he started to speak I interrupted with, “All I want are these planes. Are they worth dying for?” He eased his finger off the trigger. “You Ralston or Halleren?” “Ralston,” he muttered, off balance for the moment. I had to keep him that way. “Head for the front of the hangar with the shotgun dangling.” As if hypnotized he turned slowly and began walking. He’d have to drop the shotgun to get at the pistol. When he worked it out, he wouldn’t try. I stayed a half step behind, using his body to hide the Colt. Thirty feet from the front of the hangar we were visible to anyone who looked our way. Armed men should feel safe approaching us. “Get Halleren and Peters in here,” I said. “Do it right and everybody wins.” “Hey,” he cried out hoarsely. He swallowed and managed a second yell, closer to normal. “Peters. Halleren. Ya gotta see this.” As the two men approached, their curiosity was evident. Too much of it was directed my way. But they weren’t pointing the shotguns. With both men close, I stepped left. They came to an abrupt halt at sight of the Colt. “Peters,” I said bluntly to the blonde, “The shotgun. On the floor.” He did. He had no choice. “Now the pistol, left-handed.” When he straightened, I said, “Same routine, Halleren.” The odds against him were even worse. He didn’t hesitate. When he’d finished, I said, “Your turn, Ralston.” I handcuffed the three to each other, circling a steel post supporting the roof. Duct tape silenced them. Outside, I acknowledged Sandy’s surprised look with a grin and said, “Lucky, I guess.”

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Back inside I added him to the circle. There was nothing left but the planes. It should have been easy. Slap a patty of C4 on a wing near a fuel tank and tuck in a detonator. It wasn’t. The wings were too high off the ground. The ladder was heavy, awkward to move while ducking planes. With each passing moment the risk of discovery increased. Someone might stop by to check. Or a certain phone call might need answering. Or the guards might be due to be relieved. There’d be hell to pay when those limpet mines went. I pressed to the limit. Sweat drenched through the pants and shirt, staining the coveralls. My count had been correct. I ran out of C4 as I placed the last chunk. The heart missed a couple of beats at the raucous sound of the buzzer amplifying the ringing of the office phone. I grabbed the empty toolbox and rushed for the door. No one was in sight. I unlocked one handcuff, the Colt ready. With the guards free of the steel post, I closed the circle again by snapping the cuff to Sandy’s wrist, saying, “Follow as best you can.” Once clear of the door, I sprinted fifty yards from the building and waited until all four were outside. I threw the key another hundred feet beyond as they watched, then ran for the chopper. The four men, stumbling awkwardly, were well away from the building when I rounded the corner. When Wendy saw me she pointed her thumb at the sky and hit the starter. No police chopper was close. At the front of the hangar I pressed the button on the transmitter. The rumbling, moving earth beneath my feet proved the effectiveness of the devastation I had not waited to witness. I staggered, losing half a step, then charged on. As I dove inside, Wendy lifted off without lights, scooting directly toward the mountains. In the glare of the red-orange flames I watched the four guards struggle back to their feet. The hangar roof had disintegrated into a towering cloud of flame and smoke. I slipped on the headset and asked, “Police?” “At least ten minutes away. No calls yet.”

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Well beyond Foothill Boulevard, Wendy said, “There’s the call now.” She drifted the bird right, around a complex of condos. She stayed close to the ground, ducking anything of height and didn’t really begin to climb until the mountains were rushing at us. Once over the crest of the first ridge she turned west, following a shallow canyon, keeping the mountain between us and airport radar. She hit the lights and said, “We’re safe, I think.” I’d spent many months of days in these hills, but nothing looked familiar. After her second turn I was hopelessly lost. I didn’t get my bearings until she wheeled north up Little Tujunga Canyon. A few miles further on, she turned west, down Placeritta Canyon, easing off on power. Twenty minutes later, she floated the chopper into the hangar and killed the engine, leaving the machine to settle as it wished. Tiredly I climbed out and cranked the hangar door down. Wendy turned on lights, dragged the ladder over and began peeling off the vinyl tape. At the workbench, I loaded dumped tools back into the toolbox, hoping the tangled array was close to the way I’d found it. Skyler needed to know of the night’s action. And Robarris. If direct attack didn’t push Boggs over the edge, nothing would. In the darkened office, I hunted for the phone. Suddenly I froze. No light from the hangar managed its way down the hall. I couldn’t be seen from outside. Still I remained completely still. The figure edging toward the building had soft feet. No sound filtered into the office. He was bent slightly at the waist, not hiding, merely ready. His right hand was up under his coat. He was wearing a tie. When he disappeared from view, I was sure he’d settled in at the corner of the hangar. With infinite caution, I inched toward the windows. The man I’d seen was out of sight. But another figure was pressed against the wall between the office door and the hangar entrance. Could they be cops? Or feds? I remembered Bernard Talbert of El Paso with a clarity I could have done without. But cops would come with sirens or at least lights. These men were more likely part

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of that polished team I had not yet identified. Who they were didn’t matter just now. Getting free of them did. I eased back into the darkened hall and out into the dimly-lit hangar. There were no windows, only the skylights high above. I motioned to Wendy and she followed me to the workbench. I snapped off the bench light, leaving her face in shadow. “Is that the only way out the back?” I asked, pointing to the door, centered in the rear of the hangar. “Yes. What is it?” “There are two fellows out front. There’ll be at least one out back.” “Oh, God. Could they be police?” “Where’s the bullhorn? The demands for surrender?” “Could it be Boggs’ men?” “I don’t think so. This smells more like the tip that put Fremont on the ground in El Paso.” I pointed to the ceiling. “Do those skylights open?” “Yes.” “Have you any rope?” She moved further back into the hangar, searching along the wall. She reached and handed me a coil of half inch hemp. “Shouldn’t we call the police?” she asked worriedly. “There’d be too many questions.” I said, measuring off forty feet of rope with my arms. I dug out the Buck knife and cut. “Besides someone might notice the chopper engine was hot. We couldn’t deal with that. “Grab your .38. Stay here in the corner and make some noise as if you’re working. I don’t think they’re cops, but if they come inside, you’ll have to decide. If it was me, I’d shoot. But they look to have settled into waiting.” “God, I hope so.” She shuddered. “I’m going to get out through one of those skylights.” “You can’t take all three.” “I’d better.” I walked away from further debate and began climbing the ladder to the catwalk. The first skylight I lifted creaked ominously. I

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passed it by. The second opened silently. I settled the coiled rope around my neck and muscled my way out through the opening. Outside, I inched my way up the shallow slope to the woodplanked service ramp that led past three evaporative coolers and the grove of radio antennas. On the ramp, bent low, I eased one foot ahead of the other toward the rear of the building. Prone, I peered down at the ground. There was only one man, flattened against the building next to the door, listening through the steel wall. I grabbed one end of the rope and tied it to the brace leveling the service ramp. The overhang was near three feet. I was close to thirty feet from the ground. A cinch. Except this man would also be armed and both my hands would be occupied with the rope. Beginning with the free end, I coiled rope under my shirt, careful to be sure it would pull loose without snagging. The fierce itch against my skin served only to heighten the senses. The first move was the most dangerous. The scrape of a boot would end it. I positioned the hands as far down the rope as I could reach, then inched my weight off the service ramp, letting my pants soften sliding sounds on the planking. Finally I shoved off with my toes and somersaulted down, arms straining, hands smarting. The man didn’t look up. I pulled slack loose and tucked it under the thighs. The descent was inches at a time, the knees swaying dangerously close to the corrugated steel wall. Six feet above the head of black hair, I straightened my legs and dropped, landing squarely on broad shoulders, driving them to the ground. I tumbled to my feet, ready to use the boots, fumbling for the Colt. The man lay still. I dropped the Colt over the back of his head to be sure he stayed that way. I searched pockets hastily. The wallet and credit cards revealed nothing. There was no badge. And cops don’t carry .38s with heavy silencers. I slipped the Colt back behind my waistband. The silenced .38 had a custom grip. It felt good in my fist. At the corner, I peeked toward the front. No one was in sight. Cautiously I moved alongside the building. Someone had tried to grow geraniums here. The

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project didn’t interest me. The tilled soil did. The boots went down silently. At the front corner, I crouched and peered around it. Both men were where I’d expected them to be. Pistols were out, a silencer on each. From the cover of the hangar, I cried, “Freeze!” The dark-haired head was only eight feet from me. He whipped around so quickly, it distracted me. I never saw the foot until it slammed into my wrist, knocking the .38 into the air. I closed before he was able to use his weapon. In a bizarre embrace, he whirled me, putting my back to his partner. I drove hard, continuing the twisting turn. The thud from his partner’s gun was softer than that of the round slamming into the back I embraced. The man crumpled toward me, shoving me off balance. A second round ripped into my right thigh, knocking the leg from beneath me. I fell, holding the dying man close. I’m no kind of shot with my left, but the fallen .38 was only inches away. I lunged, grabbed it, and fired at the charging figure. On the fourth soft thud, the man slowed, then crumpled to the ground. I struggled free of the body on top of me, and with the pistol cocked, approached, staggering. He was dead, two rounds in the chest. The leg smarted nicely, but shock held down pain. At the door, I broke out the glass with the butt of the pistol, unlocked the door, and stumbled inside. “It’s me, Wendy.” She rushed into the office, the .38 leveled. I took a step, but I used the wrong leg. I crashed to the floor. Dizzy, I looked up at the consternation on her face. She hurried to the cabinet over the sink. I pulled myself upright with the help of the desk. I wiped prints off the gun with my shirt and tossed it through the door. I worked my way around the desk and fell back in the chair, reaching for the phone. Wendy bent in front of me and began cutting away the pant leg. A voice answered, sleepily. “Si?” “Macklen here. I need Lencho. Fast.” I gave the number. At three in the morning, he’d be in the back room, watching over the heavy play of those who’d won earlier in the evening.

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I interrupted the first ring. “Macklen here.” “Si, Jefe.” The rumbling base had never sounded so good. “I’m at Katlan Air. There are two bodies out front of the small hangar and a fellow unconscious out back. They’ve got to be found someplace else.” “Who were they?” “Those slick types we’ve seen too much of.” “It will take less than an hour.” “Leave three good men here, and with Wendy’s brother, Floyd. Whoever it is, may decide he can help.” “Si.” By the time I’d hung up, Wendy had knotted the tourniquet tightly. The flow of blood had slowed. “We’re in trouble,” I said. “That’s obvious,” she responded grimly. “You’ve been tied in by someone. You’ve got to get clear. Is there anywhere you can park that Lear under cover?” “At the Palmdale Airport. Burt Walters owes me a favor.” “Then go. Don’t pack. Don’t turn off the lights. Just get in that bird and fly.” “What about you? You need a doctor.” “Doc Tilden’s a friend of mine. He’ll handle it.” “Are you sure?” “I’m not sure of one damned thing. But you’re leaving. Now. I’ll meet you in the PSA lounge in Palmdale. I’ve no idea how long Doc will take or how soon I’ll be up to the drive. If you get nervous, call Lencho. Otherwise, wait.” “This is terrible,” she said softly. “We’re alive, Wendy.”

CHAPTER 24 The sky to the east was growing light when I parked in front of the PSA terminal. The pain pills helped, but blurred things out. Reactions were slower. I wore denim loafers, not Saxton’s boots.

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Fremont’s cane helped. Crutches would have been better, but I couldn’t say when I’d need at least one hand quickly. Wendy was easy to spot. She was the one who looked to have forgotten how to sleep. Her face was drained of energy. The hair was auburn. Red-tinted glasses accented the rinse job. She wore a pale blue dress with a darker blue jacket and high heels. When she saw me, her eyes filled with concern as she stared at the cane. She tucked her arm in mine and we left. At the car, she slid behind the wheel. I didn’t need urging to hand her the key. The leg throbbed relentlessly, despite Doc’s painkillers. “Do you have a friend out this way who’d put you up?” I asked. “It’d be the safest way to disappear.” “Forget it. Worrying would kill me.” “Wendy, I’m not conning you. There’s nothing left to do except hope we get to follow Boggs in the Lear.” “Then we’ll do nothing. But we’ll do it together. How’s the leg?” “Terrific.” “I’m sure. Is anyone official looking for us?” “I don’t think so. Lencho’s people dumped all three in front of a hospital. The one I hit over the head is still unconscious. There’s no word yet on who they were.” “Then we’re only ducking Boggs’ people and whoever these others represent?” “I think so.” “Do you know where Mojave is?” “About thirty miles north. Why?” She started the engine. “It’s thirty miles further from Boggs.” *** It was seven in the evening when we finished eating. We watched the sun beginning to set without real interest. I reached, but couldn’t really find benefit from the day’s fitful sleep. I hadn’t been up to talking to Robarris when we’d checked in. But I’d called and left the

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number. That he hadn’t called back meant even violent direct attack had not budged Boggs. What in hell would it take? I asked for another bourbon and we watched darkness fall over the desert. The eyelids still felt rusty and rubbing them made it worse. The pills helped, but throbbing pain sucks at strength. Wendy’s face seemed even more drawn and pale. The wind blows in Mojave. Sometimes it lessens, like now, but it blows. Fine silt collects everywhere. It’s a good place to live if one likes to dust things. It wouldn’t be my first choice, but with vast deserts surrounding it and the Sierra Nevadas behind, there was room enough for me to make do. But I wouldn’t last long. Here or anyplace else. Not until the lookers gave up on their task. Wendy turned toward me, her eyes filled with doubts. “I was counting the number who’ve died,” she said. “It all tends to make me think less of myself. Even Boggs’ thugs are human.” “The only wounds that heal are those of the body. Soul damage is different. It changes you.” “Does it become easier over time?” “Some.” I thought of those nights that crash upon me too often, when the past breaks through into rambling terror-riddled nightmares that awaken me to the sounds of my own agonized screams. I wouldn’t live long enough to erase a host of memories, unneeded, unwanted, unasked for. “Is there something we can do besides wait?” “I can’t think of a thing.” “It would seem we’ve lost.” “The game’s not over, but we’re behind and short of innings.” “What will we do?” “Stay out of sight. Tony will be up and around soon. I might be able to back his play.” “What if that doesn’t work?” “Split, I guess. Start over with another name in another place.” “That sounds terribly dreary.” “It’s worse than that.”

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*** It took Hap ten minutes to call back. “I came close to passin’ on account of them bodies,” he said sleepily. “What bodies?” “The two that are cold, hotshot. And the one still unconscious.” “What in hell are you talking about?” “One had a picture of you in his pocket.” “So? Boggs has people looking for me. And a hundred thou on my head.” “These guys, they don’t belong to Boggs. It’s some other team.” “Like who?” “I sorta think you know more about that than me.” “Hap, I haven’t a clue.” “I should have passed.” he sighed. “Down at Pedro there’s a ship missin’ a rudder. And a little one that settled some, close to the pier. Makes a nice picture, the deck underwater, just the top part showing. But that hit at Burbank? That’s gettin’ heavy attention. You’re gonna be real famous if you get connected to Saxton.” “Think it’ll happen?” “Them guards gave good descriptions. If you get pulled into a lineup before they lose details, they should make you. You must have rented a boat. If you used a credit card, it can be traced. Same with your wheels. It’d take diggin’, but if somebody wants, they can find out Saxton means Macklen. Some fed types are tryin’.” “I was hoping who the stuff belonged to might mean something.” “It’s a point.” “No one was hurt.” “There’re four sailors gone.” “I didn’t sink that ship.” “Them sailor boys is just as dead.” “Hap, figure something.” “There’s this one fed. He listens some.”

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“It might slow things down.” “Yeh. I guess I could hunt him up.” “What’s the latest on Boggs?” “He hasn’t even hollered much. Sorta looks like your idea’s a bust. There ain’t anythin’ left to hit and he’s still hangin’ in.” “That shipment’s due tomorrow. Is there anything we could do? Anything we overlooked?” “What’s this ‘we’ crap? You’re up to the eyeballs now.” “I’m still breathing. Can you come up with something?” “It’s a cop thing now. Stay close and hope a lot.” “Look,” I said, reaching for half a thought. “You said Jacobson was traveling alone. What if I have a talk with him? Maybe Ulster too. If they were to disappear, Boggs would be in a real sweat getting that shipment in. He might have to step into the open.” “That disappearin’ could bring down heavy shit.” “I didn’t mean like in fatal. But I could lean on them some. I could get lucky.” “Tony says you’ve got ways of leanin’ we ain’t got. It worked with that gunnie up at your place. It might work with Jacobson. Ulster’s mostly rock.” “Rock can be shattered with the right tools.” “Jacobson hasn’t got his bodyguards, but there’re feds fallin’ over one another followin’ him. Ulster too.” “Figure a way to get rid of them.” “Yeh. Sure.” “It’s worth a try.” “Let me think on it.” “Not that crap again.” “Call me at five.” “Be civilized. Make it nine.” “Civies.” He snorted, then hung up. ***

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The combination of throbbing pain and restlessness had me up at first light. Wendy must have felt much the same way for she rushed her shower and didn’t take time to brush her hair. In all, she reflected my own tensions and uncertainties. When she dropped her shoe, then reached for it and missed, she muttered, “God-damn-it!” We switched cars in Palmdale. I decided Saxton had been around too long. The boots and hairpiece went into a trash bin. I tucked the contacts away and felt immensely better. Scratchy eyes seem to irritate the whole body. By nine, we were in Hollywood. I couldn’t muster any enthusiasm, but I called Hap. When he called back, I said, “So how’s it look?” “There’re feds everywhere.” “Tell me about those on Jacobson.” “Two cars. Three in each. One or two hit the street when the mood’s right.” “We’ve got to get rid of them. How about an accident? Like with the feds in their cars and your people yelling a lot?” “I dig that. For a civie, you got good ideas, man.” “Can you do it?” “Hell. Why not? It could be interestin’.” “Where shall I meet you?” “Near the Coliseum there’s a bar called The Stardust, corner of Figueroa and Slauson. Lots a dust and no stars, but the bartender owes me. I’ll leave a radio with him.” When he hung up, I stared at the phone, hating it. I simply wasn’t up to it. I dialed anyway. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find need to call,” Robarris said, enunciating each word with care. “Me, too.” “My clients do not blow up ships and planes.” “Yeah. They’re into bankrupting competition. No matter who gets hurt, it’s only business.” “Indeed.” “How can you believe that crap?”

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“That is hardly the point, my boy.” I noticed he’d forgotten my name again and decided to ignore it. “What is the point?” “You are no longer a client of this agency. You are, therefore, wasting my time.” “You and your prissy reputation both pain my ass. You lost Ulster and then Boggs. You’ve got nothing but rumors about Angelo Baracelli and La Cassadas. That makes you a loser so far. Hang in for a couple more days and maybe we both win. The cards have been dealt. Grab hold of your balls and play the damned hand.” The silence lasted for several moments. Finally he said, almost as if not realizing he was speaking, “I believe I once pointed out you are deficient in tact.” “Yeah. It keeps me awake nights.” He sighed, almost as if loosening his tie, rather than straightening it. “To be fair, this does not seem the proper time to withdraw from the match.” “You’ve got that right.” “Two days, you said?” “If that’s a couple.” “Having survived our relationship to date, I suppose I could manage another forty-eight hours.” “Then get on with it. Is there any news?” “Boggs is more angry and frightened, nothing more.” “Has Lynn called?” “No. I suspect she’s written off all interest in El Viento.” “There’s not much left.” “Indeed.” “I’ll be moving. Myself or Wendy Katlan will call when we can.” “You do realize Boggs may obtain considerable lead between calls.” “I figured that all by myself.” “Yes. I was sure you had.” He paused, then continued with a distinct lack of his customary certainty. “I detest speculations. However, if you wish, I will share one I have not been able to set aside.”

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“Go for it.” “Given, for the moment we are good at what we do, I have a thought about Mr. Baracelli. It’s possible the man does not exist. He may be only Lynn’s protective creation, the tool of a woman in a man’s world.” “Suppose you’re right. What would it mean?” “Perhaps nothing.” “Anything else?” His breathing slowed, as if he were bracing himself. “I believe, ah, Scott, I’m indebted to you.” “For what?” “Your bluntness has been refreshing, actually. These days, I find myself far removed from the actual battle, so to speak. I had forgotten what it is like to wonder, with each breath, if you’ll live to take another. I must thank you for restoring a measure of lost perspective.” I couldn’t think of single word worth saying. “If it helps, Scott, I do hope you win through.” I finally managed, “Thanks,” but he’d already hung up. *** “I’m trailin’ the parade,” Hap said over the radio, “headed east on Western Avenue. We just passed Adams. Get on up ahead and call.” With an objective, Wendy drove more aggressively, ignoring traffic lights not already red. Adams was soon behind us. When I spotted Hap, parked at the curb, I began watching for Jacobson and those following. Nothing. “We must have passed everybody,” I said to Wendy. “Park and I’ll try Hap again.” As she pulled to the curb I picked up the radio. “We’re three blocks ahead of you, Hap. I didn’t see Jacobson or anyone following.” “Jacobson’s comin’ out of a buildin’ behind you,” Hap replied. “My guys, you couldn’t see. The feds wouldn’t like it if you spotted them. Hang on a sec. I think we got somethin’.”

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I tilted the rearview mirror and watched Hap pull from the curb. He parked a short block behind us. He chuckled into the radio, then said, “Seems those feds had an accident. One ran into one of my guys. The other car tail-ended the first one. Lots a talk, looks like.” “Where’s Jacobson?” “He just passed me.” “Any suggestions?” “Wait in front of those shop windows on the corner. Cross the street so you meet him in front of the hardware store. Behind it, on 43rd, there’s a place that’s vacant. An office up front and a shop behind.” “How do I get in?” “There’s a window in the door. You’ll think of somethin’.” I dropped the radio. “Wendy, I’ll be as quick as I can.” She replied with a nod, lips clamped firmly together. I loosened the Colt in my waistband and got out of the car, the leg complaining fiercely. I made my way to the corner, leaning heavily on the cane. Facing the display of lamps and shades, I positioned myself to use the window as a mirror to see across the intersection. Street traffic was heavy, but there were few pedestrians on Western and none at all on 43rd. Tension doubled when I saw Jacobson approaching the corner. I forced casualness to my limping gait across the street, careful not to show interest in the man. He was an inch less than six feet. Heavy circles under the eyes were accented by pudgy cheeks. The tan Levi dress coat had been worn too long. A button on the pale green sport shirt was missing, where the stomach sagged most determinedly. I stepped up on the curb as he neared the corner of the hardware store. I felt his scrutiny, or at least I thought I did. I passed on a frontal approach. Half a step beyond him, I turned as if suddenly remembering something. He paused at the curb and I eased up beside him. I grabbed his coat with fingers across the top of the cane. He yanked his arm away, whirling to face me, scowling fiercely. With no one to see, I showed him the .357. “We need to talk.”

218–Bob McElwain

He wasn’t impressed. “Who says?” “The name’s Macklen.” That rang alarms. The squinty, angry look in his eyes faded quickly. His lower lip trembled. The shoulders sagged as he stepped off down the street. In front of the vacant office I smacked the glass firmly with the butt of the Colt. The sound went unnoticed as far as I could tell. “Inside,” I said. Slowly he reached in and opened the door. I closed it behind me with the cane and nodded toward the door in the opposite wall. He needed no further urging. A step inside the dimly lit shop, I slammed the Colt into the side of his head. He crumpled to the littered floor. Faint light filtered through dirty windows. I found the greasy, snarled pile of rope by stumbling over it. With the help of the Buck knife, Jacobson’s hands were quickly tied securely. I untangled enough rope to reach the ceiling beam. I lashed one end to that binding his wrists, and hoisted him up until the toes were an inch from the floor, then tied it off. Hap had said he’d been seeing people. Had he collected from one or two? He had. There were seven checks in the wallet. I moved into light from the office. They were cashiers checks, made out to bearer. The numbers were impressive. The total jolted. Five hundred and ninty-five thousand dollars. All in seven small bits of paper. The smallest was for eighty thou. Remembering the thinning money belt, I slipped it into my shirt pocket, then returned the others to the wallet. A groan from Jacobson brought my attention back to the task at hand. I replaced the wallet, then fumbled through the semi-darkness looking for anything useful. My foot kicked metal, a length of angleiron with a good heft to it. I found an empty crate, slid it over in front of the dangling man and sat down to wait. He came to in bits and pieces. He lifted himself against the rope, then sagged, as if realizing further effort was futile. When he couldn’t put it off any longer he opened his eyes and stared at me.

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“Sorry about the bread, man,” I said, stressing calmness, seeking pleasantness. “What bread?” “The checks. I’ve got them.” I patted the shirt pocket. “Aw, shit.” “You see, this has cost me a whole bunch more than I figured.” “I shoulda had backup like always.” “What will Boggs do when you show up short?” “Who’s Boggs?” “Ulster, then. What will he do?” “He knows me. All I gota do is say how it went.” “It doesn’t really matter. You won’t be seeing him again.” “What da ya mean?” “You’re leaving town.” I stood slowly, without the cane, gritting the teeth against hurt. I flashed ten hundreds, then tucked them into his jacket pocket. “Traveling money.” “I ain’t going nowhere.” “Sure you are. You might be able to deal with Ulster and Boggs. But what about me?” “There’re a hundred heavies looking to burn you. You’re dead already.” “I’m doing fine.” His eyes widened when I shifted my grip on the angle-iron in my left hand. He should have been watching my right. Ignoring pain, using toes, thighs, hips, and shoulders, I buried my fist in his gut, driving upward. He nearly fainted, but hung on, gasping desperately. I moved in closer, knowing my eyes weren’t pretty to look at. He swung gently forward and back, sucking hungrily for air. “You complete every deal Boggs makes. Right?” The slight movement of his head meant yes. “Good. We’re making progress.” His lower lip trembled. “There’s a shipment due today. When and where is it going to land?” “I don’t know. Honest.” I hefted the chunk of iron. His eyes widened. “Christ, man. I’m not part of that end.”

220–Bob McElwain

“Ulster will handle it?” He nodded eagerly. “Okay. Now what I want is you gone. Then Boggs may have to step into the sunshine. Got that?” “I ain’t going nowhere.” He’d forgotten the angle-iron. It clunked solidly against the right forearm, stressed by his weight. He fainted. He probably didn’t even hear the bone snap. When he came to this time, I was standing close, with the Colt cocked. His eyes locked on the barrel, pointed at his breast bone. “The Dentons? The Larsons? They were friends of mine. The best. Think on it. You probably didn’t give the orders, but you’re too close to the man who did. So if I see you again, you’re dead. When you put it all together you’ll leave.” Casually I uncocked the Colt and tucked it behind my belt. When I reached out, he tried to duck away, wincing at pain in his arm. I cupped the jaw firmly. “You get all that?” “Yeah, man,” he replied faintly. “Cut me down and I’ll split right now.” “No. You’ve things to think over. Like why I didn’t blow a kneecap apart. Or both of them. Or just waste you. When the arm’s in a cast and those gut muscles tighten up, it’ll help you remember how easy it was for me to get to you. It wouldn’t be any tougher another time.” I turned and left, the mouth dry, scratchy. Lots of things need doing, but pounding on a helpless man mars the soul. There was no help in knowing he was dealing coke in the big time nor in idle thoughts of how many deaths he’d caused indirectly. I paused in the office, breathing deeply, letting my eyes adjust to the light of day. Ulster. That’s where the focus had to be. I limped out the front door, leaving it open. Hap was parked halfway to the corner. He laid down the newspaper as I climbed inside. “What’s with the leg?” he asked, cop curious. “Hurt it.”

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“I can see that. How?” “I fell.” “So don’t tell me. What’d you get from Jacobson?” “He admitted he deals for Boggs and that Ulster will handle the shipment. I told him to leave town. But I doubt he will. He’s carrying over half a mil he thinks I’ve got. Can you lock him up so Boggs will think he’s gone?” “He won’t admit the Boggs bit to us or anything about Ulster. But we might do business with those bucks.” “If he gets busy ducking questions about Boggs, he might let something slip about himself.” “A point. Did you loosen him any?” “The right forearm is broken and his gut will hurt for a week. He’s groggy from the Colt slammed against his head.” “That might be loose enough.” Hap fired the engine and drove off, reaching for the mike. The team not tangled with feds was about to “discover” Jacobson. They were to begin with kindness and sympathy, asking him to file charges against his “unknown attacker.” Then would come questions about the checks. Jacobson wouldn’t enjoy it as they shifted moods and people around him. They could get lucky, if he was slow to demand a lawyer. The tiniest scrap of information could do it. Hap called another team. “You on Ulster?” “Was, Hap. We lost him. So did the feds.” “Where?” “Last we saw he was headed north. He took a late left on Sepulveda, under the 405 Freeway.” “Get lucky, damn it.” Hap hung up the mike, his lips mashed together. He pulled up behind Wendy and stopped. Still facing forward, he said, “The best two damn teams ever and they lost him.” I didn’t want to believe it. Jacobson had been small pickings compared to Ulster. Both needed to be gone before Boggs would have to take personal charge. “The fuckin’ best,” Hap muttered.

222–Bob McElwain

“Ulster’s working toward that shipment, don’t you think?” “Bet your sweaty balls on it. That’s why I put those guys out there. I was half-way thinkin’ to bust him for spittin’ on the sidewalk, if only to break up the schedule.” “What will you do now?” “He was drivin’ a dark blue ’88 Ford van. They’ll get a call out. But he’ll probably switch. ’Bout all’s left is to check spots he might show and hope to get lucky.” Back in the rental, I told Wendy that Ulster had slipped his tail, that nothing remained to be done but wait. When she asked about Jacobson, I said, “I got no place. Hap’s going to see what he can do.” From the look she gave me I realized again she knew me better than I wanted to be known. She started the car and drove off without comment.

CHAPTER 25 Without Saxton’s mass of hair, I felt as if every pair of eyes was studying me. Boggs was still out there. So were his punks, an army of junkies, and those who’d punched a hole in my leg. Surely someone would see beyond the cap and glasses. My suggestion of food brought a shrug from Wendy. I wasn’t much interested myself, but she pulled in under a pair of Golden Arches and we ordered. With bags filling the seat between us, we drove to MacArthur Park and found an isolated table. I felt safe here. It was a school day. Most of the midday visitors were moms, herding toddlers. We’d had all we could manage of McDonald’s version of food, when Wendy said, “I have never felt so utterly helpless.” “I know the feeling. Without a break, neither of us is ever going home.” Her shiver evolved into a shudder, unnatural in the warmth of the May sun surrounded by green grass and clamoring romping kids. “I’ll let you know, the next time I need cheering up,” she said.

Lethal Wind–223

“It’s a nice day.” “Is it?” I swallowed the last of the coke-flavored, icy sludge. “Something’s bugging me.” “What?” “I kind of feel we should be at the marina.” “What in the world for?” “The Santa Maria will pass there soon. It’s something to do. There aren’t many visitors near the Coast Guard station. It should be safe enough.” “We ought to stay closer to the plane. Palmdale is more than three hours from the marina.” “Boggs doesn’t fly a jet. What’s three hours matter? He’ll need to stop for fuel. It’ll take him eleven to twelve hours to make Nassau. The Lear can make it, non-stop, in six.” “I thought you decided they couldn’t use the marina.” “I also decided they couldn’t use any place between San Diego and San Francisco.” “You’re not making much sense.” “I know. But Karl Ulster will be where that shipment lands. Robarris lost him in Culver City. This morning, Hap lost him under the 405 Freeway, when he turned off Sepulveda. Neither spot’s more than fifteen minutes from the marina.” “That’s awfully thin.” “It is.” *** In front of the Coast Guard station, white lines marked out twelve, vacant, parking spaces. Signs made it clear we weren’t to use any of them. There were eight spots in front of the apartments facing the station. A twenty to the manager brought permission to stay the afternoon. While Wendy parked, I snapped a few shots without film.

224–Bob McElwain

Straight ahead was the main channel. I remembered the trip back in with Denty and the chopper and cutter that had guarded our passage. With the glasses, I scanned the marina. At the north end, larger rigs were moored. I watched the crane in the boat yard pluck a boat from the rack and set it in the water in front of a foursome. “It is a beautiful day,” Wendy said, stepping up beside me. “Yeah,” I said, lowering the glasses. Neither of us was much interested in the weather. “Any idea what we ought to be looking for? Like size, maybe?” “Anything over twenty feet with sufficient beam could carry a ton. Apart from riding low, I can’t think of any clue.” “If they’re nervous, we might spot a bad move, like a turn from the channel that’s too wide.” “It’s not much, is it?” “That’s so.” I began another scan of the harbor. Shade from the pines kept the sun off and the sea breeze added coolness. Wendy used a lot of quarters, calling Robarris every hour. *** It was near enough to dark the glasses were no help. But then neither of us had expected much from them, or the visit. It had amounted to a quiet afternoon bounded by tensions and uncertainties. When Wendy returned from another fruitless call, I said, “Try Hap, will you? See what he knows about the Santa Maria.” When she returned, she said quietly, “She docked at Santa Barbara about two hours ago, covered all the way from Mexico with sophisticated surveillance gear. There’s no suggestion she dropped a cargo. Frogmen have examined the hull. The ship has been searched with dogs.” “I’d have bet a bundle the coke was on that ship.” “It isn’t now. And there’s no indication it ever was.” “Damn,” I muttered. “What should we do now?”

Lethal Wind–225

“Find a place with a bed and phone, I guess.” “And tomorrow?” “I haven’t a clue.” A larger boat was working down the channel, running lights dim in the dusk. She was bright white with dark blue trim. “Would you call that a yacht?” “I certainly would.” “It’s pretty in this light.” “Yes.” She wasn’t much interested. As the boat made the turn from the channel, I guessed it was over sixty feet long. The runabout at the stern was neatly covered with a tarp. Kingfisher, in bold script, had been painted on the prow of the boat. Newport was printed below it in trim block letters. The chop at the stern showed twin screws were working. I didn’t want to leave. There was no reason to stay, just no place to go. Despite Hap’s report, my gut told me Boggs’ shipment was safely ashore by now, en route to new hidey-holes. I was willing to bet it had been landed right here in the marina. I’d probably seen it done. But how? I watched the crane in the service yard stow the Kingfisher’s runabout in one of the lower storage racks. The yacht backed slowly, then began moving toward us. “Maybe I’m reaching too far, Wendy. But why would a boat from Newport Beach bring a runabout clear up here for repair? There are a dozen places closer.” “Newport is her home port,” Wendy replied. “She could be docked anywhere.” “Let’s take a drive.” She shrugged and climbed behind the wheel. I tried to stifle rushes of excitement. But it’s hunches I live by. They’ve led me astray, but I never ignore them. Wendy cast curious glances my way as she drove. Finally she asked, “What is it you think you know?” “Boggs’ coke is in that runabout.” “How in the world did you deduce that?” “There’s no logic. But it fits. What could be more natural than leaving a runabout for repair? It only takes minutes. And it doesn’t matter to the crane what’s stored under that tarp.”

226–Bob McElwain

“But the ship was monitored. She didn’t drop off a cargo.” “Maybe the raft was weighted so it was towed below water level. Or maybe it was disguised in some way that wasn’t picked up. Whatever, that runabout is loaded with coke. I can feel it.” “I think you’ve losing it.” Fifteen minutes later we drove past the service yard. It was tough not to look to the side. The lights had been on when the runabout was unloaded. Now the building and yard were dark. The shadowy figure by the gate wore a light-weight topcoat, out of sync for this time of year. Only the nose of the van was visible, parked near the crane. It was dark colored. Ulster had been driving a dark blue Ford van when Hap’s people lost him. And the boat that had been headed toward Denty’s Dream, then turned out to sea, had been the Kingfisher. I was sure of it. When the service center disappeared behind us, I said, “Pull over. Find a phone and call Hap. Tell him I’ll bet ten years of his salary against a buck that van back there is Ulster’s. I’m going to check. I’d sure like his company.” “If you’re right, you can’t go in alone.” “I only want to watch.” “What if I can’t reach Hap?” “Call the County Sheriff ’s office. Tell them you heard shots and forget to leave your name. They’ve an office next to the Coast Guard station. It’s only fifteen minutes away.” As I eased out of the car, jolting pain cleared the mind, bringing added caution. I headed back the way we’d come. In the shade of the giant elm, I propped the cane against my thigh, checked the Colt, then shifted the two speed-loaders to the pockets of the windbreaker. With only eighteen rounds it would end quickly if I had to go up against MAC 10s. The sidewalk was too well lit for my needs. Floods on apartments and condos were doing their job, making it impossible to pass unnoticed. I couldn’t hide among the shrubs against the buildings. They were pruned too high. There was nothing for it but to continue down the walk. The pulse rate was up. Adrenalin flowed.

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Suddenly I ran out of buildings. Ahead was the Marine Supply Center and the entrance to the service yard beyond. I turned abruptly down the drive to the garage under the last one. I’d seen no sign of the man at the gate. I didn’t think he’d seen me. But how in hell was I going to get closer? Short of the brightly lit entrance to the garage, I slipped left into the shadowed notch between the building and the fence surrounding part of the storage yard. A glance up was enough. Without tools or padding, there was no way to deal with the razor wire. I peered across the front. The fence extended from where I stood to the building, thirty feet away. Darkened floods were mounted on the corners of the fence and across the store front. There was no cover, only gravel, impossible to cross without sound. At the far side of the building, bounding the entrance, were two twisting junipers, roof high. From the one nearest the corner I might have relative safety and a chance to see what was happening in the yard. With the Colt at my side, I started toward the building, moving slowly, eyes fixed on the far corner. If someone showed, I couldn’t just shoot. I’d have to be certain a weapon was being sighted. Light from the street lamp might not be sufficient. If the first hint of trouble was flame exploding from the barrel of a gun, I wouldn’t have a chance. Since there were no windows, I couldn’t be seen from inside as I moved along the building. The crunch of gravel was unnerving. A car drove by. I concentrated on not breaking pace, caught in the glare of headlights. The leg wasn’t happy. The cane settled unpredictably on the rocky surface. Without its dependable support, I was forced to a flatfooted gait that stressed the wrong muscles. Sweat quickly soaked the shirt. At last I crowded the branches of the first juniper. It was fifteen feet across the walk to the one on the other side. The glass doors in the entrance were recessed. There wasn’t a hint of light from inside. Reluctant to leave relative safety, I moved out. Buried in twisting branches, I felt better. I would see any weapon poked around the corner.

228–Bob McElwain

The girlish laughter came from behind. There was no choice. I had to get between the wall and the juniper where the guard could easily spot me. The man had gray in his hair. His hand caressed the fanny of the petite young woman wearing a bathing suit. The designer had minimized material. Nothing was left to imagination. She’d bowed to the coolness of evening and draped a jacket across her shoulders. She laughed again. As they passed, I heard the crunch of gravel from around the corner. Had the guard heard me or the woman? I lifted the Colt higher. A blow would be best if I had the option. It was the young woman who had caught his attention. I glimpsed big, bright eyes under heavy brows, watching her. As he turned to follow her path, the coat caught in the breeze. Light glinted dully off the weapon. All hints of doubt evaporated. It was a MAC-10. He took another step for a better look. In time with the sway of the cute little fanny, his head danced left and right and back again. A better diversion could not have been staged. When he shrugged regretfully and turned back toward the gate, I lunged off the good leg and dropped the butt of the Colt to the base of his skull. The bad leg collapsed. I tumbled with him to the ground, gritting teeth against the violent urge to cry out. I worked myself free of the guard, stifling hurt. I crawled to the corner and peered down the drive, listening. The boat racks were out of sight to the right. Enough light from the harbor filtered in to catch the color of the van. Dark blue. Almost black in the deep shadows. It was a Ford. But was it Ulster’s? My gut assured me it was. Everything I knew and had seen shouted it was. I’d told Wendy I’d only watch. She wouldn’t approve of what I was thinking now. But if this was Boggs’ shipment, he was counting on it heavily. Losing it might just put him out of business. All the bucks I’d cost him could be recovered in time, if he could keep the shop open. There was really no choice. If the shipment was in that van, it had to be stopped some way. But how?

Lethal Wind–229

It was nearly eighty feet down the drive to the van. There wasn’t any kind of cover. It was bounded by the building wall and the chain-link fence that extended beyond me to the sidewalk. The throbbing hurt in my leg assured me it would be suicide to try to get down the drive to the van. Thoughts beat and pounded against one another. Hap couldn’t be close yet, even if Wendy had reached him and he’d bought the idea. What in hell should I do if they move? Had Wendy had to settle for the Sheriff? I thought back, estimating time. If she had, I’d hear sirens soon. Suddenly a man stepped in front of the van, tucked a thumb and finger into his mouth, and whistled. It was Ulster. He held a MAC-10 loosely in his left hand. Likely he expected a response of some sort from the unconscious guard on the ground behind me. Clearly puzzled, he turned away and moved to the right out of sight. Would men be sent to check? I inched out away from the building until I could hit accurately down the drive with the pistol. Suddenly doors slammed closed and the V-8 engine roared to life. I eased back as the van spun wheels in the gravel without lights. One of the gates hung open a few feet, as the guard had left it. As the van closed, accelerating, the pistol seemed to shrink in my hand. The roar of the V-8 filled the night. I struggled to my feet; I needed all the mobility I could muster. The front end of the van smacked into the gates, ripping them from the gateposts, tossing them into the air. The windows were smoked glass; I couldn’t see a thing. I aimed at the bottom of the driver-side window. I let the barrel of the pistol adjust to the movement of the van, then fired at where I’d expect the driver to be. Then I fired again. The van veered right into the chain-link fence, collapsing a long section of it. With all those windows, I was fully exposed to anybody inside. I crouched lower, then fired twice. Both rear tires collapsed. I punched my last two rounds low into the back panel, hoping to catch the gas tank. There was no indication of a hit as I whirled

230–Bob McElwain

and scrambled awkwardly back toward the entrance to the store. I desperately needed whatever cover might exist in front of the glass doors. Listening for the sound of breaking glass that would tell me someone inside the van was ready to fire, I ejected the spent rounds and slammed home a speed-loader. When I peeked around the corner there was no sign of flame. So much for blowing up the gas tank. I only had twelve rounds left. Suddenly I heard sirens. They were much too close. They must have been near when a fun-loving boater complained about gunshots. The rear doors of the van flew open and two men leapt to the ground, MAC-10s driving a hail of lead at the corner behind which I crouched. I dove away from the building into the cover of the twisting juniper. A groan escaped from between clenched teeth as I landed too heavily on the bad leg. The juniper offered no protection at all. The plan was to see better what I was up against. And hopefully find a reasonable opportunity. Rounds whistling through the branches showed me this had been a bad move. Then I saw it. A faint flicker of flame. I lunged up. Both men had turned to stare at the back of the van. They whirled to the drive and ran. I fired at the nearest man; he crumpled head first into the ground. My next round caught the second man in the thigh. He struggled to turn, to bring the MAC-10 up. It was Ulster. I fired again and caught the other thigh. He dropped the weapon, then fell to the ground. He began inching away from the flames now clearly visible. The sirens were much closer now. Much louder. Was there anybody else left inside the van? I had to get free if I was to have any chance at Boggs. I gambled and stepped out, driving hard with the cane, the Colt leveled at the van. I was half-way to the street when the gas tank exploded, staggering me. I pushed on determinedly, ignoring complaints from the near useless leg. My eyes searched for cover on the other side of the street as I stepped off the curb.

Lethal Wind–231

Flashing red and blue lights closed quickly. Too quickly. The scream of sirens was awesome. One car slammed across my front. The second screeched to a stop three feet short of my very, shaky legs. Doors flew open. The pistols looked like cannons. I laid the Colt on the hood of the car to my right. As two cops headed down the drive, I shouted, “Watch it. They’ve got MAC-10s.” An open palm smacked into my ear. “Talk when you’re asked, mister.” The wrists were secured with cuffs before I realized what was happening. I was dumped into the back of a cruiser, the cane lost in the proceedings. Idly I watched the patch of blood spread down the pant leg. It didn’t seem to matter. Ulster didn’t matter. Boggs would be long gone before I got free of this. Hell. I’d never get free of this. There were too damn many questions I couldn’t answer. Lencho, you son of a bitch. Take care of her, buddy. Take real good care. Tell Stephen Weinberg to find the best of legal miracles. And take down Boggs any damn way you can. Waste that mother. Now!

CHAPTER 26 There seemed little need for most of the official vehicles clogging the street. Curious, gawking, beach dwellers were easy to distinguish from the bored cops. The stench from the floor of the car suggested at least one sick drunk had occupied the back seat as recently as this afternoon. Only the open windows kept down my own involuntary contribution. Two of the fire engines that had knocked down the flame pulled out and people moved in to gawk. The rear of the van was gutted. The front suffered only from its encounter with the fence. The leg had gone mad. I’d tried to get at the pills, but the cuffs had defeated me. Still, the pounding, unrelenting pain had

232–Bob McElwain

merit. It interfered with thoughts about unanswerable questions. I watched blood drip from the pant leg to the loafers, counting, wondering how many drops would be required for overflow to the floor of the car. “Hey, man.” Hap stuck his head through the window. “You’re in real good shit now.” “Who called you?” “Wish I could forget that.” “You’ve got Ulster cold. He’ll hand you Boggs to get loose.” “He might.” Two cops got into the ambulance with Ulster. Inching its way, it finally pulled free. There was no red light, no siren. Ulster would be just fine. Damn. “This should shove Boggs off the edge,” I said. “Got it covered.” “Like last time?” I didn’t like the look he tossed me. But then I didn’t like the handcuffs or the stench of the car. Hap looked down at the blood stained pant leg. “You fell, huh.” I met his look, searching for snappy rebuttal. “Yeah.” “Uh huh,” he grunted, turning away. Hap would try to help, but he didn’t know the whole of it. He didn’t know all the questions. And there were others out there, the likes of Bernard Talbert, currently of El Paso. They could ask even harder questions. They could open a hangar door and arrange for a plane and its passengers to disappear. Permanently. I went back to watching blood drip. The door opened and a medic poked his head inside. A uniformed cop stood behind him, another at the open window to my left. The medic went to work on the pant leg with scissors. “Is the bullet still in there?” he asked cheerfully. “No.” I replied dully, wishing he’d go away and let me watch the blood drip. With neat quick precision he cut cloth away and examined the bandage. With hands incredibly gentle he snipped it loose.

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A ball of cotton magically appeared. He cleaned the oozing wound. “No sweat, man. It’s already closing good. No infection.” Deftly he wrapped fresh gauze snugly. It hurt and it felt good. Strange. “There,” he said, showing lots of white in the grin. “Now they can lynch you without blood showing. Need anything else?” “In the pocket,” I nodded. “Some pills.” He fished them out and tucked one into my mouth. “It’s been a while. Let’s have another.” “This stuff is hot, man.” “So’s the leg.” He shrugged, gave me a second pill, returned the bottle to my pocket, eased back out and closed the door. I swallowed, enjoying the gagging taste of the one that got stuck at the top of my throat. I liked being alone. Maybe they’d put me in a cell by myself. It was worth thinking about and there were no longer any drops of blood to count. Time passed. I wasn’t sure it mattered. When the pills took hold, I knew it didn’t. The milling crowd ebbed and flowed. There was a distinct urge to holler, “Boo,” at every face that peered through the windows. Then to laugh. But I wasn’t up to it, certainly not the laughing part. Then I saw her. Wendy. Slipping through the crowd toward the graveled drive. What in hell is she doing? She should be long gone, cuddled safely under Lencho’s wing. She should be talking to Weinberg. Hell. She couldn’t answer the questions, either. She interrupted two bored cops. One grunted a reply to her question and pointed. Moments later she stepped in front of Hap. Damned fool woman. All sleepiness was gone from Hap’s gait as he strode toward the man in the brown, three-piece suit. He said no more than a dozen words, but they hit hard. The bald head snapped back as if hammered with a good right cross. The man strode quickly toward two uniformed officers, waving for two others to join him. Moments later, he and two of the men

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were rushing toward the entrance to the Marine Supply Center. The two others dashed down the drive toward the rear. When Hap reached the car, he yanked the door open and leaned inside, grabbing the cuffs. “You got it done, man.” The wrists felt wonderfully free when the cuffs fell away. “Boggs blew?” I asked, rubbing my wrists. “Somebody tipped him about the van bein’ stopped. Maybe somebody inside,” he said, nodding toward the building. “Our guys are checkin’ now. “Whatever, he didn’t blow, man. He exploded. He ordered his army out against the Colombians, then blew away two of his own scumbags. Seems he thought he’d been crossed. “One he shot was on the phone and we were tapin’ it. So SWAT has moved in. Them witnesses ain’t goin’ no place.” “Then you’ve got him.” “Yeh. Murder one. And a sweet little drug war the good guys’ll win however it goes. But there’s one little problem.” “Yeah?” “Boggs got clear.” He shook his head as if not believing it. “We missed him good, man.” “It’s getting to be a habit.” “Yeh.” He tossed the Colt into my lap. “And with all this shit goin’ down, I missed the word until your broad told me.” A cop rushed up to the car and politely handed me the cane. Hap helped me out. “She got to the guy you hired. He didn’t lose him. “Boggs is in the air. He never went near his plane at Burbank. He had one we didn’t know about at Van Nuys. He took off about an hour back.” “Can we catch him?” I asked Wendy. “I don’t know.” “I said you could,” Hap snapped. “That’s how come you’re loose. Now I whistled up some company. A couple of cruisers will get you wherever, with sirens and all. So move it, man. Now!” ***

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When Wendy asked the escort to head for Katlan Air, I was sure she was wrong. The escort could have taken us clear to Palmdale, at better then ninety miles an hour. But it was her game now, her hand to play. Besides, I was too damned beat to care. We’d either make it or we wouldn’t. When we screamed to a stop in front of the hangar, I spotted one man fading and guessed he was with Lencho. Still, the Colt felt good in my fist. The cops were out of their cars, weapons up. Wendy rushed inside, grabbed keys, and ran toward the twin engine Mooney. It was the fastest preflight I’d ever seen, probably the fastest she’d ever made. We were moving before ground control responded. The little plane shuddered when she rammed the throttle home. It leapt into the air, climbing rapidly. Throughout, Wendy was busy with the radio. The airspeed indicator touched two-ten. She didn’t need any escort up here. She managed a link to her friend, Burt Walters, in Palmdale, then raised the tower for approach instructions. She slammed the Mooney onto the runway, slowing only at the last moment to whip right onto the taxi strip. Her face was drawn, tired, coldly professional. If she’d made a mistake, I didn’t catch it, although ground-control cautioned her twice on taxi speed. She stopped beside the idling Lear and abandoned me. A lean, angular man spoke with her briefly, then started toward me. Wendy began a studied tour of the jet. I struggled to uncurl from the cramped seat. “Name’s Walters,” the man said, steadying me as I climbed out onto the wing. I sat on the edge and he helped me down. “Thanks,” I said. He nodded, then sauntered toward the open hangar. In the cockpit, Wendy studied gauges. I managed to pull up the steps and latch the cabin door. When she noticed me, she scrambled up and checked my work. Satisfied, she said, “Buckle tight. We are going to move.” I did. I added another cinch when the plane surged forward. Minutes later, we were up. We both had a good stake in this race. Our lives. It ought to be at least interesting.

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*** Thirty minutes later, Mr. Fremont emerged from the john at the back of the plane, immaculately dressed. Wendy had a permit for a pistol; she was carrying the .22. The only questionable item was the silencer in my coat pocket. It was a risk, but I had to have the little gun. There might be no other way to halt Boggs but to shoot. It’d be best if no one heard. As ready as I could get, I limped forward to join Wendy in the cockpit. As I watched her, I realized she was hard at work. There were constant, slight adjustments to the throttle, elevation, and direction, with frequent glances at the air speed indicator. I’d never taken a bigger gamble, never tackled such a heavyweight target, nor broken so many rules along the way. The chances had been slim to none from the start. Now the goal was within reach. I grasped the winning hand in my fist. If Boggs was headed for Nassau. If we beat him there. If we didn’t lose him, didn’t pick the wrong time or place. And didn’t get nailed ourselves. Uncaring time passed slowly. Lights were visible, now and then, far below. Only the half-moon and stars could be seen clearly. They were worth the looking, but my attention wandered off in odd directions. *** The abrupt change in the throttle setting awoke me. The plane was descending. Several of the smaller islands of the Bahamas lay below us like sculptured sandstone in the early morning light. They didn’t seem to be but inches above sea level. As the plane banked I saw the main island, an unnatural green flatness in the middle of the sea. It looked as if any wave of size would sweep across the entire island. The shores were bounded by soft patterns of white foam created by the gentle surf breaking far from shore, then lapping forward onto white beaches.

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The touchdown was feather-light. Clear of the runway and taxiing, Wendy asked for fuel. Apparently she, too, knew we might have to leave in a hurry. At the official point of entry, the atmosphere was different than at others we’d passed through. All was lighthearted with lots of smiles welcoming incoming bucks. We were only required to fill out a form which was then stamped. Back in the plane, I began to relax. We’d made it. But where was Boggs? Had we beat him? Wendy was certain we had. Still, she circled the private-plane parking-area. There were three Beech Barons. None of the call letters matched those of Boggs’ latest purchase. Once parked, Wendy grabbed a pencil and her charts, and went to figuring. I tottered to the rental agency and paid for a Chevy, pale green. Nicks and scars suggested driving was something of an adventure in Nassau. I parked beside the plane and climbed back inside. “I’m sure of it,” Wendy said, looking up from her notes and charts. “There’s simply no way Boggs could have beaten us.” “When should we get nervous?” I asked. “Assuming he’s making best time, that he didn’t tarry over food when he refueled, that he hasn’t been jumping from airport to airport to confuse matters, he should be here in about an hour.” “Assuming he’s actually coming.” “Yes.” She sighed, her breathing shallow, uneven. “There is that, isn’t there?” The hour slipped into two. Wendy began to melt before my eyes. I could see the haunting question in her restless gestures and constant shifting of position in the seat. Could she have been wrong? Every now and then she glanced at the briefcase, then shook her head determinedly. At last, unable to restrain herself, she grabbed the charts and began again, chomping on the pencil, deliberating before each notation made on the clipboard. It was not her calculations I doubted. It was my appraisal of Boggs. He’d blown LA. His cash was here. He’d come for it.

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On the other hand, he could be slipping deeper into the Miami subculture, his place of origin, his home. Or he could be on his way to any damned place in the world.

CHAPTER 27 I lunged forward at the sound of the nasal twang I’d heard on Robarris’ tapes. Boggs. Wendy cranked up the volume. We watched the plane bank for final approach and land. When Boggs switched to ground control, so did Wendy. He, too, wanted fuel. It was only after he’d received parking instructions, that Wendy killed the radio, slipped off the headset, and climbed out of the seat. At the cabin door, she handed me the .22. I checked the load, attached the silencer, then tucked the little killer behind my belt. “There’s no choice, is there?” Wendy asked softly. “Not really.” “It doesn’t matter that he’s wanted by police now?” “He could build a new name or buy his way into another country. We’d never be sure.” “You’re right, but I’d rather let it go.” “We can’t.” “I know.” I tugged down the hat and followed her. She slipped on gloves and climbed behind the wheel of the Chevy. She pulled away from the plane toward the rental office. I watched Boggs park. Wendy stopped with most of the car hidden from Boggs’ view. His exit from the plane was a loose-jointed, stylish dismount. On the ground, the dandified strut reminded me of questing-male birds. He was dressed much as I’d seen him last, in fancy countrywestern wear, all in brown tones. With his face writhed in the practiced smile, carrying only a briefcase, he entered the check point. When he came out, he walked to an ermine white Cadillac limo with windows of smoked glass. When a uniformed man opened the door and climbed out, I could have cried. It hadn’t occurred to me

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Boggs might want company. He’s a loner. He doesn’t trust anyone. It was only a small mistake, the kind that can get a fellow killed. The light beige uniform was loose fitting, but it didn’t hide good size and muscle tone. Nor did it hide the bulge under the left shoulder. Boggs had a driver and a bodyguard. Except that he might not have shown up at all, I couldn’t imagine worse news. The driver scanned the scene about them until Boggs opened the rear door. Both men slipped inside and the car moved off, rapidly gaining speed. I’d had a notion about how I might take Boggs. But how was I going to deal with the bodyguard as well? “Wendy,” I said, “that driver looks pro. Don’t take chances. If we lose them we can grab Boggs back at his plane.” “I hope you’re right. I’ve never tried anything like this before.” My comment had been meant only to take pressure off Wendy. The private-parking area was no place to try to take a man. There were too many people about. It would be impossible, if the bodyguard followed Boggs to the plane. We could not afford to lose him. Under other circumstances the drive would have been pleasant. Ducking an occasional wacky driver added to the interest of being in a foreign state. But the focus was too great, the eyes too strained, the muscles too tight across shoulders and gut. The white limo was the whole of our world. We entered a street, cleaner than most. Small neat two and three story buildings bounded it. When the Caddy pulled to a stop, so did Wendy, well back of the limo. The driver climbed out first, his eyes scanning the street, his hand resting on top of the car, close to the holstered gun. His eyes followed Boggs as he got out and walked toward the building in front of which they’d parked. Boggs wasn’t carrying the briefcase. When he stepped inside, I said, “Drive past, Wendy, and park further down.” There were three small offices on the ground floor and a stairway leading to the second floor. Boggs had entered the center office. He was speaking to an elderly man, the only other person visible through the window. The name by the door was Banco Del Flora.

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“Could this be it?” Wendy asked nervously. “I doubt it. Too small. Just an office, really. He’s picking up money, but checks, not cash. He’s probably spread what he has among several such banks.” “How will we know when he’s got it all?” “The briefcase, I think. Checks can be carried in a wallet. When he picks up that case, it will be for cash.” “That sounds reasonable.” “It will be, too, if I’m right.” When Boggs stepped out of the small office and walked toward the car, the driver began a careful inspection of everyone nearby. Apparently satisfied, he climbed behind the wheel. The car was moving before Boggs latched the back door. It might all come down to what the driver thought of Milton Fremont. With the added attention, I’d have to give my best performance of Fremont’s awkward gait. The throbbing leg assured me there’d be no forgetting. Two hours later Boggs made his sixth stop and uncertainty increased another magnitude. At each one, the bodyguard had gotten out first and followed Boggs with his eyes. Upon Boggs’ return, he’d had the car moving before the rear door was closed. How in hell could I stop them? The Caddy slowed and parked in front of an impressive building that was my idea of what a bank should look like. The name etched boldly in stone across the massive entry was Banco International. I sat forward on the edge of the seat, watching intently. The driver’s alert attention hadn’t changed. There was nothing in his manner to indicate this stop was more important than others. But when Boggs left the car, he was carrying the briefcase. “Do you think this could be his last stop?” Wendy asked. “There’s no way to know. But this place looks as if they’d have cash. Here’s what we’ll do.” I explained what I planned and what I wanted of her. “You’ve lost it,” she snapped. “I’ve got to go for it.”

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“I’ll see you get a decent funeral.” “You won’t have time. You’ll get that Lear up and head for home and Lencho and Weinberg, just as we agreed.” When she nodded reluctantly, I struggled out of the car and limped down the street. The leg throbbed unmercifully. A pain pill would slow me down, but it would help. To hell with it. I took two. When I could see the entrance to the bank, I stopped and turned toward the books displayed in the shop window. Simple plans are best. This had seemed simple when I’d dreamed it up. Now it seemed absurd. Broad daylight, in front of a bank, in a foreign land, setting up to kidnap two dangerous men? The bodyguard had special talents or he wouldn’t be involved. And I mustn’t underestimate Boggs. However foolish he seems to be, there is more. He hadn’t built his empire with luck. The man is quick to kill and skilled in the ways of doing it. Yet it had to happen here. Boggs would feel safer on a public street in front of this bank than at any other time. Even the bodyguard might be less concerned. It would be a matter of timing. If either Wendy or I misjudged a move, it would be my blood spilled on the walkway beside the white Caddy. The car was parked half way between where I stood and the front of the bank. With my faltering stride I wanted to meet Boggs at the rear door. I reviewed both his path and mine. I tugged the hat down tightly, reminding myself to keep the head down, as if weary and tired. It shouldn’t be too tough; I was. Something about the way Boggs slipped through the front doors urged me into motion sooner than planned. I’d guessed right. He was moving more quickly than when entering the bank. His left shoulder slumped from the weight of the briefcase. The right thumb was hooked over his belt. The smile seemed strained. His glance flicked over all before him. Even at my increased pace he seemed not to see me. The crippled, older man was no threat. The bodyguard studied me only long enough to catch the

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foot swing out, before turning his attention to the half a dozen others within view. Cars passed on the street, but no pedestrians were close by. When Boggs reached the walkway, I was near the rear of the limo. He glanced behind him. When he looked back around, I was at the bumper. With his attention focused on the walk behind me, he reached for the car door. The driver slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The Chevy moved sedately past. Boggs slipped inside. As if misjudging the turn, Wendy headed for the curb and the left front fender of the Caddy collapsed. The driver knew his business. He slammed the car into reverse and hit the accelerator. Escape was his only objective. Screeching sounds of tearing metal and screaming tires filled the air. Caught off guard, Boggs lost his grip on the door. I grabbed it and plunged inside, yanking it closed. The Caddy smacked into the car parked behind it. The leg complained fiercely at being slammed against the door frame. Dizziness fuzzed vision, but I managed to slam the silenced pistol into the side of Boggs’ head. He collapsed to the seat, then tumbled to the floor. The driver had only one hand on the wheel when I tucked the silencer against his ear. “Easy with the piece,” I said. “Bring it on out and hand it to me.” He had other plans. He wasn’t about to quit. “No one can see through the windows,” I said. “No one would hear the shot.” I accented the words with the silencer. “Let’s have the piece so you can die some other time.” Slowly the hand continued on its original course. He handed it to me, butt first, over the seat, a Colt .45 automatic. “Tap the horn, twice,” I commanded. He did. Wendy backed up and drove off down the street. A quick glance showed only one person was watching the limo, a woman carrying a shopping bag. She was curious, but not alarmed. I was safe enough from onlookers. With one eye on Boggs’ inert form, I said, “Tilt the rearview mirror up.” When he did, I eased

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the gun away from his ear. “Now,” I said, “with both hands high on the wheel, get us out of town.” He had no choice. That I had not already killed him, suggested I wasn’t planning to. At least that was the way I hoped he’d figure it. The limo pulled away from the curb. When we passed the Chevy, Wendy pulled out and followed. I moved across the seat to be directly behind the driver, making it more difficult for him to know what I was doing. Boggs lay face down on the floor, on top of the briefcase he’d dropped. Looking up every few moments, I searched him. I found the deadly stiletto in the scabbard at the back of his neck, and its cousin inside the left boot. I tumbled him onto his back and relieved him of the gun. It was a snub nosed .38 and it bothered me. It wasn’t enough firepower for a fellow out picking up millions. I searched even more thoroughly, paying particular attention to the thick, leather belt with the ornate, silver buckle. Nothing. Maybe he’d been counting on the knives. I opened the briefcase. I’d been right. Packs of dollars nearly filled it. Several envelopes were stuffed with checks. There was no sign of a weapon. I tossed Boggs’ wallet, billfold, and passport inside, and closed the case. If he had another weapon, I’d missed it. I decided to assume he did. It might just keep me alive. Boggs’ .38 suited me. I wiped my prints from the other weapons, then tucked them behind the seat. As I settled back, I was uncomfortable without knowing why. I had already accomplished the impossible simply by overpowering both men. I had the only gun in the car. Boggs was still out and the driver was following directions. Wendy was right behind us. Still, I felt uneasy. Gaps between structures were broader and more frequent as we left the city behind. I studied the terrain ahead. I needed the hills of home and the secluded canyons. I needed privacy. But heights here could be measured in inches. It’s a small island, not much more

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than an hour is required to drive around it. The turnoff ahead would have to do. “Hit the lights,” I said to the driver. He did, watching Wendy in the side mirror as she pulled off the main road. Suddenly I noticed one thing unneeded. The limo was picking up speed. “Back it down,” I said. “Why?” the driver asked. “The road is clear.” “If I have to shoot, I’ve a better chance at a slower speed.” Maybe he’d been planning something like jamming the peddle to the floor, but any hope of smashing up the car had just been dashed. “Take that turn to the right,” I said. What I’d seen could not be called hills, but we might get far enough from the main road to be out of sight. The road quickly narrowed into little more than a dirt track. The car bounced and jounced about wildly. I pressed the barrel of the .38 to the back of the driver’s neck. He slowed immediately. The rutted track curved abruptly away to the left. When I could no longer see the main road, I began searching for a place to pull off. At the crest of a slight knoll, an open field of grass lay to the right. “Park it,” I said, “headed back toward town.” With professional skill, he handled the occasional wheel spinning loose, the sudden lurch into a chuckhole, and stopped only a few feet off the track, headed back the way we’d come. “Hand me the keys,” I said. He handed them back over his shoulder. “Now what I want,” I said, “is this punk on the ground outside and I don’t want to lose sight of you getting it done.” Carefully he opened his door, keeping his hands in view. I opened the rear door and he reached inside for Boggs. The ease with which he dragged the unconscious man from the car was an unnecessary reminder to take care. “The hands,” I said, “on top of the head.” Without taking my eyes off him, I tossed the briefcase into the front seat, then struggled outside, trying to ignore the complaining leg. Leaning on the car, I made my way to the back and opened the trunk. “Inside,” I said. “I don’t like that idea,” he said.

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“Where do you want one of these slugs?” Slowly he walked to the trunk and climbed in. I slammed the lid, then struggled back and settled into the front seat. Boggs was showing signs of life, but he wasn’t near ready to answer the questions I had. Letting the bad leg dangle eased the throbbing ache. I tucked the other under the steering wheel and turned to the briefcase. I stacked the dollars so there was an even hundred thou in each one, trusting the totals noted on the wrappers. It was while dealing with the cashiers checks that I began losing track. There were too many and the numbers were too large. I came up with a total of over twenty mil. A grand sum. It left me cold. There should have been close to seventy-five. Boggs had not picked up all of it. Wondering what in hell to do about it, I reached for the envelope that had fallen from the case. Below the uncancelled, U.S. stamp, it was addressed simply to Occupant, 444 River Lane, Palos Verdes. It contained seven checks, another six mil. I was still short something close to fifty. Idly I weighed the envelope in my hand, watching Boggs struggle back to consciousness. I removed all but two checks, tossed them into the briefcase, then tucked the envelope into my coat pocket. Boggs lurched up to a sitting position, grabbing for the gun that had been in his belt. When the eyes cleared, they focused on the .38, then lifted to meet mine. When he hunched his shoulders, an odd look flit briefly across his face. I’d left the scabbard, but he’d noticed from the weight the knife was gone. He glanced down at his boot. “I took that one, too,” I said. “This is what counts.” I gestured with the .38. “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, his face flushed. “The fellow who wiped out your ships and planes. The one who cleaned out your stash and grabbed your last shipment.” “You and who else,” he said, eyebrows raised in scornful disbelief. “Mostly just me. Those folks you hit? The Colombians and all? They never made a move on you.”

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“You’re a goddamned liar.” Unrestrained rage suggested he’d never believe me. “The name’s Scott Macklen, if it matters.” “A fucking shame those Jamaicans missed you,” he snarled. “It wasn’t from lack of trying. They did a thorough job on the Dentons and Larsons, if a bit messy. Tony Haggen’s doing fine, if you’re interested.” “Up his. And yours too, asshole.” The vibes were definitely bad. I’d missed something. But what? I had a good sixty pounds and two inches on him. Even with the bum leg he’d need serious help to take me. Why does he seem so confident? Why is he studying my bad leg with such care? I glanced down. Blood had stained through the pants. I must have ripped the wound open, scrambling into the car. Boggs lifted his arms and shrugged his shoulders as if loosening stiff muscles. When he started to stand, I shook my head, steadying the gun. I leaned on the car door, watching his eyes. A man on his butt can’t move faster than a bullet. The certainty of that should have encouraged me. It didn’t. I was beat. And the leg throbbed without mercy. It was the only reasonable explanation. I was close to exhaustion, reading mystic symbols among scattered clouds of the mind. Boggs didn’t have a chance. Period. “We’ve a problem,” I said. “I see mine. I’m being ripped. What’s yours?” “I wasn’t planning to kill you. Now it looks like I’ll have to.” “What changed your mind?” “The briefcase. How much money’s in it?” “Count it yourself, asshole.” I opened the car door wider, locked my left hand to the right wrist and centered the barrel on his head. “How much?” “Twenty-six mil and some change.” “You’re short some.” “Who says?” he asked, anger moderated by puzzlement. “Me.”

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“What the fuck you talking?” “I figured you for closer to seventy-five. Where’s the other fifty?” “That’s every dime I got,” he said, still puzzled. I lowered the gun. Could it be true? There was no hint of lie in his words. How could I have been so far wrong? “Break it down for me. Convince me and live a while. Start with the coke profits. Close to two hundred mil, right?” “Wrong. Closer to three.” “What’s in El Viento that doesn’t show. Thirty?” “More like fifty.” “And you’ve lost three shipments and what you had in El Viento. It doesn’t add up.” “I guess you don’t know about my partner,” he grunted bitterly. “La Cassadas. So?” “What’s forty-nine percent of three hundred million, asshole?” Damn. La Cassadas was part of the coke too, taking their percentage off the top. It fit. It felt right. He was telling the truth. I had all he had left of a hundred and fifty mil. “Any idea who tipped the feds about a flight out of Manzanillo for San Diego?” I asked. “Should I?” he growled, watching me closely. “Does the name Katlan Air mean anything to you?” “Nothing.” “Expect it doesn’t matter.” Sensing another spasm, I lifted the leg and eased it gently back to the ground. “Here’s the plan, punk. Are you listening?” “What the fuck else can I do? Your voice carries.” “I’m going to gamble that without this briefcase, you’re busted. I’m even going to blow your plane. You can’t go back to the States. There are too many kinds of law looking for you. And the Colombians want to give you a special kind of necktie. So you’ll have to make out down here. “Without your credit cards, papers, or passport, it won’t be easy. But you’ll survive. I just want your living to be loaded with misery

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and pain. It’s the closest I can come to skinning you alive a bit at time, and watching red ants eat their fill. “Now get up and walk off down that slope. Make a bad move, and I’ll blow your balls off. If that doesn’t make it, the knee caps will go.” Slowly he struggled to his feet. For an instant, the painful spasm in my leg distracted me. Boggs dove to my right, into the cover of the car door. I lunged up on the bad leg for a shot. But he hadn’t run. His shoulder slammed into the door. My leg was mashed against the frame. All was suddenly a blur. Dazed from pain, I clung desperately to the gun. The car door was yanked open. I saw the swinging boot lift toward me, but the bad leg failed to follow command. The gun flew out of my hand. I grabbed the roof of the car and swung the good leg out from beneath the wheel. Boggs unhooked the heavy, silver, belt-buckle and pulled a short narrow knife free of its scabbard within the buckle and belt. With my back to the car, I moved awkwardly clear of the door, gritting my teeth against agonizing pain. He closed cautiously, with the remembered cocky smile locked in place. I ignored the eyes, watching only the gut for hint of movement. Suddenly he exploded into motion. There was nothing left to focus on, except light glinting off honed steel. A knee slammed into the bad leg; I was falling. My hands, already moving, locked on to the wrist above the knife. My collapsing body pulled him to the ground on top of me. With his free hand, he pounded at the leg. My hands, slippery with sweat, lost their grip momentarily, and the knife plunged downward. Through pain clouded vision I grabbed desperately for the wrist with my left hand, while driving the palm of my right up into his nose. Blood flooded downward. For an instant, the determined, sinewy arm slackened. I put everything I could into the good leg and rolled him off me. I rammed my knee into his groin. With the last of failing strength, using both

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hands, I twisted the faltering fist and drove the blade into his gut, ripping upward. Vaguely I was aware of the terror in his eyes. And that as time passed, all expression faded from them. And that motion beneath me had subsided. It took longer still to realize he was dead. Distinctly out of touch, I managed to crawl to the car, start the engine, and drive off. I took three wrong turns before I found the one Wendy had taken. I slammed the limo into the brush in front of the Chevy and collapsed over the wheel. *** Wendy taxied more slowly than usual, as if fighting to keep the plane on track. Twice she drifted off the center line, before the Lear lifted and soared into the sky. Getting me out of the car and into the plane had proved a chore. She’d cleansed and rebandaged the wound, then helped me into another outfit. Quietly I’d told her how it had ended for Boggs. She’d been at my side throughout the visit to the Banco International. With altitude, she leveled out, made slight adjustments, then collapsed back in her seat, staring vacantly out at the empty sky. She was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted. “Why don’t I feel satisfied?” she asked. “Or something of the sort?” “You never will.” “But I was so sure I wanted Boggs dead. I thought I’d be cheering in some grim way. What I feel is dirty and used.” She turned to look at me, the eyes filled with uncertainty. “What in the world will I do now?” “Get on with living. Build Katlan Air.” I slipped out the envelope and handed her one of the checks, then tucked the envelope away. She looked down at it as if touching it had infected her with a fatal virus. “I can’t take this.”

250–Bob McElwain

“You ought to. Lencho can turn it into cash. Or you can report it as income from Fremont.” “I don’t want any of that monster’s money. I’d never forget how he got it.” “You’ve risked your life and freedom to accomplish something you hope will help. Consider the check your fee. Or a reward.” “How much did you take for yourself?” “I left over twenty-six mil in that Nassau bank.” “You don’t seriously plan to use it.” “I’ve an idea or two. And a check like that one.” I reached over, took the check from slack fingers, folded it, then tucked it into the pocket of her jacket. “Think it over. If you want, burn it. But I wouldn’t. Some tricky banker will be ahead by just that amount, money never claimed.” I couldn’t think of anything more to say. I struggled out of the cockpit and settled into the folded down seat. The questions flooded in. What were you doing at the harbors? The computer records are quite complete. Are you really a reporter? Sam Carswell says he never heard of you. What was the purpose of all those photographs and questions? What can you tell us about two John Doe’s in the city morgue? Can you tell us how a certain Lear carrying a Mr. Fremont, happened to be in each city where an “accident” occurred aboard a ship? Any thoughts about four dead sailors? What do you know of the guerrilla raid at the Burbank Airport? Did you know the composite sketch the guards put together looks remarkably like you? Where do you suppose the chopper came from? Who flew it? You don’t fly, do you, Mr. Macklen? There were plain too many questions. Hap couldn’t deal with them all. Even Stephen Weinberg might fail. I sighed, then sought to breathe deeply. Rest was called for. I forced the eyes closed. It didn’t work well. The questions were extended, expanded and replayed throughout the trip. ***

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On the ground at Van Nuys, getting out of the plane was tough. The muscles seemed to have forgotten their function and the eyelids felt like sandpaper. The leg was no help at all. I saw no sign of Lencho’s men, but they’d be close. Halfway to the office, Wendy turned to look back at the plane. The expression on her face grabbed at me. She had what she’d wanted. Boggs was dead. And it didn’t suit her. I wondered how long it would take for her to set it aside, to tuck it away. Not to be forgotten, but to become merely part of the past. Then I wondered if she could. “How about some food?” I asked, knowing what the answer would be. She turned to face me, her lips struggling to come up with a smile, and failing. “Would you understand if I said no?” I nodded and turned toward the rental, carrying the remains of Mr. Fremont. At LAX, I recovered my own car and switched what was left of deadly cargo. I’d been followed. It could have been Lencho’s people, but it was more likely feds. There’d been an official look to the car. I’d like Weinberg handy, but I’d answer their questions. I’d really try, even if the hope of avoiding a cell was slim. But they could wait. At the first motel showing a vacancy sign, I pulled in. Sleep should have walloped me. It should have crashed upon me, driving me deep into the mattress. But thoughts of the sadness on Wendy’s face and about the odd distance that had crept between us, were tough to set aside. Then came the image of sunlight reflecting off knife steel, a fitful precursor to nightmarish sleep.

CHAPTER 28 It was near noon the next day when I pulled into the hospital parking lot and headed for the entrance. The elevator indicators were all positioned on upper floors. I took the stairs, despite the bad leg.

252–Bob McElwain

I’d forgotten about SWAT. I remembered when I limped through the door to the hall into the barrel of an M-16. The calm eyes in the young face behind the rifle seemed unconcerned about the outcome. I eased out my wallet and showed the drivers license, saying, “I’m a friendly.” He studied the picture, compared it to my face and nodded, lifting the rifle so the barrel rested against his neck. I stepped around him with a slower pace. Another man, similarly armed, watched. When I pushed open the door to the room, Tony was standing with his back to me. He turned with remembered grace, as the door swung closed. “Christ,” he said. “You look terrible, buddy.” The broad smile said I looked good to him. I took the offered hand. I’d been getting the reports. I knew he’d make it. But seeing him like this brought feelings no report could generate. I felt a wetness in my eyes and an urge to rub my nose. Still gripping his hand, I said, “You look terrific for a fellow in a hospital.” He laughed, but the blue eyes were filled with questions. Lencho overflowed the chair in the corner. The third man’s face was expressionless, a cop face. He let the hand that had been under the coat fall to his leg. “Jefe,” Lencho said. “The nurses, they fear to enter and face what this man offers. It is time for him to leave. No?” “Sounds that way.” Tony chuckled and perched on the edge of the bed. “I’m ready. I’m not much into readin’ and how much TV can a guy watch?” “What does the doctor say?” I asked. “He comes in every mornin’, pokes some, asks the same fool questions, and says ‘soon.’ ” I didn’t know how long the doctor had been saying soon, but I’ve seen enough folks in hospitals to feel certain Tony faced only days. It was time to get the battery back into the Porsche and clean it up. I couldn’t tell what my face showed, but I could see grimness inching into Tony’s and Lencho’s. They wanted details. But there was nothing to be said in front of a cop who might not understand.

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Tony said, “Charlie, how about a coffee break?” “Greer’d have my ass, if I left you alone.” He patted the gun through his coat. “He says those guys in the hall are too young.” “We’re not,” I said, lifting the shirt up and tucking it behind the butt of the Colt. Lencho pulled the .44 and laid it in his lap. Tony slipped his Beretta out from under the pillow. “That’s fact,” Charlie said, rising and striding from the room. “How much do you know, Tony?” I asked. “Everything up to Boggs takin’ off. And some pieces you probably haven’t heard. Hap got a lot out of Jacobson and Ulster. Cap Greer is talkin’ promotion. Boggs’ punks are being blown away by the Colombians with lots of good busts comin’ out of the action. It’s only Boggs we need to hear about.” “He’s not coming back.” I told how it had gone down. Lencho stood, then strode across the room and embraced me. He backed away, still gripping my shoulders. “When will I learn not to doubt you, Jefe? You have done well.” “More like great,” Tony commented. I looked back and forth between two of the most important people in my life, again feeling dampness around the eyes. “But,” Lencho said, “there will be questions, no?” “I’m counting on Stephen Weinberg. He’s got Boggs’ plane in Nassau and twenty-six mil to bargain with. If anyone can deal with the DEA, he can. And I’m hoping Hap can handle local problems. Still, it could get ugly before I’m done with it.” “It will,” Tony said. “But you can count on Hap. And Weinberg makes good moves. It’ll work out.” “I surely hope you’re right,” I said. “I should pull my people off Wendy and Floyd, no?” Lencho asked. “Not yet.” Two sets of eyes locked on mine. “Are your people following me, Lencho?” “No.” “It must be feds. I’ve been too many places I shouldn’t have been.”

254–Bob McElwain

“Hap said nothin’ about feds,” Tony commented. “They don’t always keep in touch with locals, do they?” “Not always,” Tony admitted. They weren’t convinced. “No, Lencho. Hold your people where they are. There could still be a loony running loose.” Tony reached for the call button. Lencho turned and stared out the window. Their silence was not an implication they thought I’d lied. It was more a rebuke for not saying all that was on my mind. But I couldn’t. Nothing was clear. It could all be let-down jitters. When the nurse came in, Tony said, “I’d like to see the doctor. I’ve things to do.” “I don’t believe he’s changed his mind since this morning,” the nurse said. “I still want to see him.” She left without further comment. Idly, Tony checked the load in the Beretta, then laid it back on the bed. The questions they asked were easy to answer, but they wanted more. They just didn’t know what to ask. In the process, details were cleared up, events they’d not known of, described. As the questions and answers flowed, an odd edginess crept up on me. I don’t like hospitals. More people enter than leave. But that wasn’t it. Tony would be cut loose in a couple of days. When the doctor came in, I took advantage of the break in attention directed at me, said appropriate words and left, speculating on what was scratching about on the mental stage. Could it be only uncertainty of what lay outside, up ahead, in the days to come? Once in the car I drove off slowly, dissatisfied, frustrated at being so. Feelings must be dealt with. If ignored, they can hurt or maim or kill. So begin. What did I feel? Framing it in words took time. I was scouting for the patrol behind me. I’d seen no threat. There was no one in sight. But something was out there, ready to destroy those who followed, then me. What had I missed? The California State University at Northridge is close to the San Diego Freeway. When I saw the sign, I turned off. The car that had followed me from the hospital, also turned.

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Inside, seated at a table, I opened the first of three books selected. Its title was, What Your Name Means. I discovered that Wendy was a nickname for several others, of which Gwendolyn was only one. It didn’t take long to verify what I’d suspected. When I left the library, I headed for the Hall of Records. It took me only fifteen minutes to prove my guess had been right. At the freeway, I turned north as if for home. The same car was close behind. I had to duck the tail and I had to make it seem natural. I grabbed the map from the glove compartment and laid it on the seat. Afternoon traffic is always heavy, northbound. Holding my speed down, I studied each exit sign, hoping to give the appearance of being lost or confused or both. It meant a lot of lane changes, avoiding turn-offs. The car hung in, right behind me. At the junction of the Simi Valley Freeway, one can turn east or west. I slowed to a stop on the off-ramp, within the white lined triangular divider. With the map held high, I watched the car behind continue, urged by honking horns. It pulled onto the east-bound ramp, then left into the emergency parking lane. I put the map down, waited for a break in traffic and eased up the west-bound ramp. The car that had been following immediately began backing slowly. Once lost to its view, I hit it. A mile ahead, I turned off the freeway at Rinaldi. The leg was giving me fits. I desperately wanted to turn north for home, the dog, Ned, and the hills. Reluctantly I turned south. There was one last hand to play. It might provide a substitute for answers, an end to the threat of ugliness. It might keep Wendy and me alive. *** Unlike Beverly Hills, and other places in which big money buys, Palos Verdes is relatively unknown. Many of the homes are magnificent. And the view of the Pacific from the cliffs defies description. What vacant land remains is sold by the square foot at prices few can pay.

256–Bob McElwain

444 River Lane was an elegant two story home, decreasing to only one across the front. The massive roof of tile sloped toward the street, supported by simple arches of stone. It looked much as any other house on the street. It looked expensive. What it looked like had nothing to do with the problem. I had to get inside. The six foot brick wall and entry gate did not look promising. The sign said, “No Visitors.” The man in the black sedan parked in front, looked as if he meant to be certain there would be none. The back couldn’t be as tough as the front. With a good deal of map reading and several wrong turns, I found a place to park above the public beach, close to the house. Without thinking much about it, I took a pain pill. I was only a few steps down the rocky trail when I paused and took another. There isn’t much sand to lie around on. Tide pools are the principal attraction. Thousands of small sea creatures can be discovered, living in the rocky pools. Sea snails are abundant, as are the crabs that live in abandoned snail-shells. My favorites are the sea anemones, seemingly more like magnificent, underwater flowers, than grasping, greedy flesh. As if searching for beauty in the abundant life beneath my feet, I made my way across the rocks, slippery with water, seaweed, and moss. Both feet were soaked by the time I rounded the corner that led to the cove below the house. I’m not always right, but I’m seldom this wrong. The house was perched high on the cliff. The rocky climb would be impossible with only one good leg. The wall surrounding the back of the house was formidable. It would be covered by every warning device available. And if I could get over it, I’d surely face guns inside. I’d have to go in through the front, fast and hard. I turned and started back, hastily reviewing a plan that might work just fine, if I could stay alive. The familiar tension began building. Skill and fate would determine the outcome. ***

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In dusky darkness, I hunted up a phone and dialed El Oso. When Lencho called back, I told him what I suspected and why I had to hit now. “What you believe,” he said, “it is true, I think. Men with ties are following Wendy. What is needed?” I outlined the roughly sketched plan. “Si,” he said thoughtfully. “It can be done.” “Be sure to pick the right driver. Get something from Doc Tilden that will put him out fast. If he’s conscious, he could let something slip and end up dead.” “I will take care of it,” he said, hanging up. I caught Hap in the squad room. “Macklen here,” I said. “Did you get the word on Boggs?” “Yeh. From Tony. Dead fits good. What you got?” “Just trouble, maybe. Interested?” “What’s left?” “It’s heavy. It could put you under.” “What am I on top of? Fill me in.” I told him what I’d learned for certain, what I guessed and what I would do. When I’d finished, he summed it up neatly. “What you need’s a dumb cop to make like he’s dealin’ with a traffic accident, then find your body if you don’t make it. And if you do, he’s got to pretend you ain’t there and never were.” “Can you handle it?” I realized I was holding my breath. “Yeh. Sure. It could be interestin’.”

CHAPTER 29 It was past midnight when the cement truck turned into the parking lot, the drum rotating. I climbed out of the car and waited. When it stopped beside me, I saw Lencho was driving. “You son of a bitch. They know you. You’ll end up dead.” “Get in, Jefe. You take things too seriously.”

258–Bob McElwain

There was no time to hunt up another driver. Reluctantly I climbed into the passenger seat. “Have you a good load?” “Twelve yards, over twenty-six tons. With speed, nothing can stop us.” He backed out, the transmission shuddering under the load, then started for the exit. “Damn. I wish you’d found another driver.” He shrugged the massive shoulders. “For such a thing, I do not ask another. Comprende?” “You’ve a point.” He took a turn that was only minutes from 444 River Lane. “Is the wall in back covered?” “Si. Six good men with rifles have climbed the hill by now. No one will enter or leave that way.” “And the orders are clear?” “No one will die. These are good men.” “Hap won’t like you being here.” Again the shrug. “Tony is with Hap.” “I’ll be damned. How’d he manage that?” “When you called, I called him. This time, he did not ask the doctor. One of my men picked him up.” As he turned on to River Lane, he tightened the seatbelt. I slid lower in the seat and did the same. He took two hefty swallows of bourbon, then poured most of the bottle down his shirt front. The pungent odor filling the cab would not be overlooked. I cracked open the door so it couldn’t jam, holding tightly. The huge truck weaved down the street, picking up speed, as if controlled by a drunk. The front end tumbled the parked car and its occupant up over the curb, smashing it into the wall. I hardly felt the hit. When we plunged through the corner of the wall and steel gate, the truck shuddered faintly. It slowed rapidly when we crashed through the side of the garage. When it collided with the silvergray limo, bending it nearly in half, it slowed to a stop. In seconds, we were free of the seatbelts. Lencho looked dead, his head and torso collapsed over the wheel.

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Free of the truck, I limped toward the entry from the garage to the house. It wasn’t locked. Inside, I did lock it, then paused to catch my breath, to let the heart slow its pounding. The Colt was up, cocked. The hallway to my front showed that most of the house was part of this longer segment. Through the slider, I could see the pool, lit with floods. Armed men rushed toward the front, down the side of the house. Time pushed at me. I lunged across openness, ignoring the leg, then pressed my back into the cover of the wall, several feet from the hall. A lovely woman in long, satiny whiteness peered around the edge of the drape, calmly examining the chaos out front. She lifted a glass to classically, beautiful lips and sipped as if of nectar gods had provided. She looked virginal and angelic. She was neither. She was Madeline Osterlund. Still I stared, wondering how total evil could be so beautifully concealed. When she turned back to the room, she saw me and paused. If she noticed the Colt leveled at her gut, she gave no hint of it. There was no reaction, no change of expression. It bothered hell out of me. “I suppose you are responsible for the excitement out front,” she said, in the calm precise manner I’d heard before. I nodded, examining the room. An older man was sunk deeply into the corner of the comfortable looking love seat. Long, thinning gray hair hung to his shoulders. There was no expression in the light brown eyes behind the thick bifocals. There was little threat from this quarter. I had to trust my ears to guard against anyone coming at me from the hall. I had control of the front door, the one through which I’d entered and the slider to my right. The room was about thirty feet wide and twice as long. The pistol covered all, pointed at the woman. Why, then, was she seemingly unconcerned? “You’re not an excitable type,” I said. “I’ll give you that.” “And nothing more?” she responded, her mouth forming a society-polite smile. She moved across the room toward the bar. “It appears you fooled my people completely, with the way you lost

260–Bob McElwain

them on the freeway. I am correct, am I not? You are Mr. Macklen, the collective forces which so badly frightened Mr. Boggs?” “That’s so.” “What do you want of me? Your method of entry suggests a certain urgency.” “Things have to be evened out.” “I don’t understand.” “Six good people were massacred by Boggs. And another was damn near killed.” “I told him it was a foolish move. It is particularly bad business to shoot policemen. Apparently his paranoia got the better of him.” “Those fellows in suits and ties? Boggs didn’t send them after me. Or to Katlan Air.” “That was Mr. Baracelli’s orders.” “Bull shit. He doesn’t exist, except as cover for you to hide behind. You’re La Cassadas.” “How perceptive of you.” “Whatever. It’s you who wants to bury us.” “But it didn’t work out. So where’s the harm? In fact, I should be quite angry. Two of my best men are dead because of you. What’s worse, I now have the troublesome task of eliminating the Song Birds and dealing with the Colombians.” “I’ve my own problems.” “I suppose you do.” She paused, sipping wine delicately. “I presume Boggs is dead.” “Very.” “Interesting. Fortunately I have a replacement at hand.” The flashing red and blue lights of squad cars filtered through the drapes. Her gunmen were neutralized. None could enter through the rear. She is obviously a bright woman. She must know she will die if anything goes wrong. Why is she talking so freely? Damn it. I have the gun, but she has control. “To appease my curiosity,” she said, “how did you discover I was La Cassadas?”

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“Boggs had an envelope addressed to occupant at this address. It’s a neat cover. If anyone intercepts the checks, you can plead ignorance. The rest was easy. “The Hall of Records shows you own this place. And a stop at a library helped. Lynn is listed as a nickname for several others. Madeline’s one. It has a number of origins. You were being cute and clever when you named your enterprise. In good old Anglo-Saxon, Lynn means The Cascades, La Cassadas.” She cocked her head, laughing lightly. “I am impressed.” “It doesn’t help.” “Would money? I have a good deal of it. There are many men like Boggs and most have been more successful.” “I’ve twenty-six mil I took from Boggs. I don’t need more.” “My word,” she said softly. For the first time since I’d entered the room, concern showed in the eyes. Her forehead lightly creased into a frown of uncertainty. Is that why she’d been so confident? Did she believe she could buy anyone? “You said others have done better than Boggs. Is that how you’ve done it? Risk a couple mil, then run it into hundreds more?” “It’s billions, actually. More than enough to buy whatever I want.” “Even people. But I’m not Herbert Yarnell or anyone like him.” “You are remarkably well informed.” “Not really. I happened to see Yarnell get out of your limo at Selter Park. From the way you said goodbye, it figures you’re involved in more than his political campaign.” “My affair with Herbert was only a strengthening of the bond between us. Money is important, of course. But it’s the power it buys that really matters.” “How many have died to get what you have?” “Don’t be naive. The accumulation of wealth is always at the expense of others. In the nineteenth century, adults and children alike were crippled or killed in coal mines with monotonous regularity. But fortunes were built that exist today.” How was I to deal with amorality of this magnitude? The notion of blowing her into bloody fragments had its moment, center stage.

262–Bob McElwain

She set her glass down, picked up the bottle and poured more wine. “You seem uncertain about what to do, now that you’re here. Since money doesn’t interest you, if I’m to believe what you said, your presence suggests a mission of vengeance. But against whom? I am hardly a worthy target. That I’ve accumulated a vast fortune is in no way a crime.” “Then why hide what you’re doing in the Netherlands Antilles?” “Taxes, silly. By treaty, U.S. citizens can pay them there. For me, it is an enormous advantage.” She paused to take another sip, all signs of concern erased as if they’d never been. “Now I think you should leave. Unless, that is, you plan to shoot me.” “It occurred to me.” “But you’ve decided against that, have you not?” Without conscious thought, I nodded in response. “Just who in hell are you? The Mafia? Who?” She laughed, a light, tinkling, practiced triviality. “It’s pathetic, really, how little people know of the forces that determine the outcome of their hopes, their dreams, their very lives. “There is no Mafia in this country. It’s a fiction, a press label attached to a few violent, immigrant Sicilians, a dragon created by J. Edgar Hoover. I have power and I deal with only those who do. We have common interests, goals, and needs. We cooperate because in the end, conflict does not bring profits. “It’s a simple workable scheme in which the world has been divided into spheres of influence. It is in all our interests to be sure these spheres remain secure. “Can you see that your efforts are pitiable against such power? A power so great governments can be toppled?” She set the glass down firmly. “Now you really must leave.” She added a touch of sweetness to the smile. “Let me introduce Mr. Lamont, one of my financial elves. He will show you out.” There was no motion from the man seated on the love seat. “You can’t just let me walk out of here,” I said. “Of course I can. La Cassadas is entirely legal. You could embarrass me, but you won’t do even that. Sufficient information has

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been gathered to have you confined to a cell for the rest of your life. I doubt there is even one of your violent actions we’ve failed to document. “If you doubt me, ask yourself who put you into the hands of Bernard Talbert. Imagine what would have happened if you’d not left your deadly cargo behind. “And the woman, Wendy Katlan? Would you risk her freedom? I think not. Besides, those millions you’ve so recently acquired would do you little good in jail. No. You will not harm me in any way.” “I said things had to be evened out. Let’s see what’s in your safe.” It was the first time I’d startled her. “You claimed to have no interest in money.” “Let’s have a look anyway.” I took two steps toward her. It was the only mistake I’d made. It could be my last. “Easy,” the voice behind me said. “The gun?” Someone good at moving had made it down the hall without my hearing a sound. I uncocked the pistol and let it fall to the floor. It ended up half buried in the plush carpet. Hap and Tony were just outside, ostensibly dealing with a traffic accident. They couldn’t barge in without cause. A shot would be cause, but they’d be no help to me, cooling meat, staining the luxurious carpet. It was only a tiny flaw in the plan, but it seemed now it would prove fatal. The gods had been kind through it all. If they’d deserted me now, I’d have to make my own luck or never again have the chance. The look on Lynn’s face was fierce, cold. It stripped her of humanity. How could I ever have thought her lovely? “Take him to the guest house until the ridiculous affair outside is settled. His body is not to be found. And I want that Katlan woman eliminated.” Her voice would send chills down the spine of any who opposed her. I was no exception. “Is that clear?” “Of course,” the man behind me replied casually. He prodded with the gun. “You heard her. Move it.” As I stepped out with deliberate slowness, limping badly, the man prodded again with the pistol. I hadn’t been sure, but the last

264–Bob McElwain

jab convinced me; the gun was silenced. Neither Tony nor Hap would hear a shot. There is something like half a second from the decision to the beginning of the movement decided upon. It’s a slim slice of time; it was all I had left. I hesitated, glancing toward Lynn’s fierce unyielding gaze. This time the barrel was shoved hard into my back, two inches to the right of my spine. It was the best chance I’d have. I took it. In the half second it took him to set his finger in motion and another for the gun to fire, I whirled to the left. My back was sideways to the barrel when the pistol fired, my elbow, accelerating toward his chin. The elbow connected. I followed through by driving my fist deep into his solar plexus, ignoring complaints from the leg and scorched back. The man folded backwards, gasping for air, his gun falling to the carpet. Lynn was still able to function. Killing would not be new to her. I let momentum carry me around, then dove to scoop up the Colt. Concentrating on efficient motion, ignoring the throbbing leg and back, I quickly brought the muzzle around to where she’d been standing. The .38 slug had hit her left breast. Now she sagged against the bar, clutching at the center of the bright, growing stain, brilliant crimson against the satiny whiteness. The look in her eyes was one of incredulous wonder, tinged with puzzlement. The look dimmed, then faded. The eyes rolled upward. She crumpled to the floor. One glance at Lamont was enough. He hadn’t moved nor was he considering doing so. I crawled quickly to the gunman and slammed the Colt into the side of his head. I struggled to my feet, searching for some sense of heroic, of victory, or of triumph, to be sounded loudly with brass horns. I felt only tired and lonely, sad for what had been a lovely creature in glimmering whiteness. I let pain from the powder burns envelop me. It turned aside pointless thought, bringing focus. Lamont. “I don’t much like surprises. Is anyone else inside?” He thought it over, then shook his head.

Lethal Wind–265

“Stand up,” I commanded, closing on him, the pistol ready. The curious half smile molded his lips without altering the vacant, unconcerned look in the eyes. “Why?” he asked, in a deep pleasant base. “I’ve C4 in the car,” I said, hoping it sounded as if I’d parked out front. “There’s enough to blow the safe and the whole damned place. But to get it I’d have to drop this gun across your head. I’m pissed, hurting good, and damned tired. I could easy overdo it. It’d save time, and maybe your life, if you’d open the safe.” Lamont glanced briefly at the dead woman, then at the inert form of the gunman. He stood slowly and shambled off toward the long wing of the house. He continued on into an office and around the desk. “There’s a switch for the alarm,” he said. I nodded. Lamont brushed his hand under the top of the desk, then strolled toward the painting. He swung it away from the wall on its hinges, revealing the door to the safe. When he swung the door open, he stepped back to give me room. “Start thinking,” I said. “You keep the books. Right?” He nodded slowly. “This place will be flooded with cops right quick. You can help or take a grand fall. Got the picture?” “It seems clear.” “Good. Some are out front right now. Bring them on in.” He studied my face for several moments, glanced at the safe, shrugged casually, then started for the door. I hadn’t told him that if he tried to split, Hap and Tony would be waiting. I think he knew that. I turned to the safe. It was well stocked with greenbacks in large denominations. In neat stacks were the big bucks, cashiers checks. I wondered how many millions were there. At the back of the safe was a shelf filled with slim, leather-bound books. As I reached for one, the front door opened, I heard authoritative voices of men moving into the living room.

266–Bob McElwain

Behind the desk I collapsed into the chair and opened the ledger. The name on the flyleaf was Beltran, Inc. Printed neatly below the company name was that of Paul Murdock. It meant nothing. Nor did the pages of numbers. But it had a Boggs-like stench to it. At the sound of footsteps in the hall, I lifted the Colt, strangely heavy. I let it fall back to the desk when Hap slipped inside, followed by Tony. “You were right again, man,” Hap said, tucking his gun away. “This is heavy, heavy shit.” Tony examined me intently, searching for rips, tears and holes. “Did you waste the broad?” he asked. I tossed him my gun. He snagged it out of the air, sniffed at the barrel and handed it to Hap, who tossed it back without looking at it. “Makes things easier,” Tony said. “Was it the guy on the floor out there?” I nodded. “He had a gun in my back, but too close. He was prodding me with it. When he jammed it far enough to the right, I spun to the left. My back hurts like hell from the powder burns, but it’ll pass.” “You got lucky. They didn’t,” he said grimly. “What’s in the safe?” he said, nodding toward it. “More bucks than you’ve ever seen in one place. And about thirty of these. Accounting ledgers, maybe.” I tossed him the book. He turned to the flyleaf, then thumbed through pages. “Murdock doesn’t ring a bell with me,” he said. “Murdock?” Hap grabbed the ledger. His face paled as he slowly turned pages. “Holy Mother of Christ.” He rushed to the safe and grabbed two more ledgers. “Who’s Murdock?” Tony asked. “Take Boggs and multiply by five. More even. He runs a big chunk of Orange County.” As he thumbed through pages in the ledgers he’d grabbed, he shook his head slowly from side to side, as if unable to believe what he was looking at. Almost reverently he fanned the three journals out on the desk top. Then he grabbed the phone and dialed.

Lethal Wind–267

“Skyler,” Hap said in a rush. “Sorry to bother you at home, Captain, but we need clout. Tony’s with me, and some other good dudes. But we’re over our heads. “We’ve got La Cassadas tied up in a bow and ledgers with good stuff on Murdock, Jurgens, and Antracelli. There’s more in the safe. We need you here with dudes you trust, along with the best link you’ve got to the DA’s office. And a good cop from Orange County. A lot of big names will be taken out if it’s handled right.” He listened for a moment, then said, “444 River Lane in Palos Verdes.” When he hung up, he said to me, “You better split, unless you want your picture in the papers.” I stood slowly, feeling as though every muscle in my body had forgotten its task. “There’re lots of questions, man,” Hap said quietly. “I’ve been worryin’ about how to keep the answers from buryin’ you. But after this gig, nobody’s gonna get around to you.” “Hap’s right,” Tony said. “We’ll want everything to build from that ‘accident’ out front. Your name wouldn’t help in that, so it won’t even come up.” I nodded, not as satisfied as I thought I ought to be. I limped out and down the hall. In the living room, Lamont, surrounded by three cops, was speaking into a tape recorder. No one seemed to notice me open the front door. Outside, Lencho was still stretched out on his back on the ground, seemingly unconscious. Two men were approaching him, carrying a stretcher. Squad cars filled the street. Curious neighbors were being kept at a distance. I saw no sign of Lynn’s people. Likely they knew they were suddenly out of work and had faded into the crowd of onlookers. “It’s done, Lencho,” I said. He rose quickly to his feet, ignoring the startled faces turned his way. One of Hap’s men drove us to my car. It didn’t take long to be free of the parking lot, headed north. ***

268–Bob McElwain

Darkness was fading when I started up the canyon road. I turned off at Ned’s place, knowing he’d be up. I knew what had prompted the turn. The need for a friendly face can be overwhelming. Through the window I saw Ned stand at the sound of the car. By the time I got out, his door was open. Inside, a hot mug of coffee beckoned. I nodded my thanks and sat down at the plankedpine table. The hills were magnificent in the early light. As the sun rose and shadows shrank, they’d lose dimension that would return only with shadows cast by the setting sun. Ned struck a match on the scarred surface of the table and lit the cigarette. Smoke drifted up and spread under the brim of his hat. “Reckon the dog missed ya. But she’s a doin’ fine.” I nodded, thinking of the hills and the long walks Duchess had taken with me. The easy silence grew, extending into a second cup of coffee. When I pushed my empty cup toward the center of the table, Ned asked, “More?” “Not now.” He lit another cigarette. “Did ya git it done?” I nodded. After a long studied look at my face, he said softly, spacing out the words, “Well, don’t fret none ya don’t have ta. It needed doin’.” “Expect you’re right.” “Know so, fer fact.” I looked back at the hills, trying to let Ned’s encouragement settle in. Maybe it would in time. I stood, saying, “I’ll catch you later.” I turned, trying to hold the picture of concern overflowing wise, old eyes that saw more than most. As I drove over the first cattle guard, the hills looked better and there were more to be seen than from Ned’s window. At the crest of the knoll, a black streak rushed the car and plunged through the window. Duchess had never done that before. I had to stop the car and scratch hard with both hands, while she washed my face with more vigor than thoroughness.

Lethal Wind–269

At the house, she escaped through the window and dashed around the car to greet me again. She remained only inches from my knee as I unlocked the door, stepped inside, opened two windows and plugged in the coffee pot. I paused at the couch, then decided to lay down for a few minutes. *** It was first light of a brand new day when I awoke. After coffee, breakfast, and a shower, I limped up the draw to the big oak with another mug of coffee. It’s a grand old tree, gnarled and bent, more than holding its own against harsh, summer sun and slashing, winter rains. I sat on the large root extending out into the draw and sipped the coffee. Duchess normally ranged the hills above. Now she lay close to my feet, looking up anxiously every few moments. I’d spent a good deal of energy since I’d last seen Wendy, trying not to think of her at all. The whole bit had been ugly, the last act, no less so. Would she reach a point she could leave it behind? She’d like the hills and the house; I was sure of that. I started down the draw, Duchess at my side. Mentally I rehearsed uncounted versions of what might need saying, while planning appropriate responses that could be required. Inside, I limped determinedly to the phone and dialed. “Hello,” Wendy said politely. Words fled. Where in hell are the goddamned words when a fellow needs them most? “Do you like dogs?” I said in a rush. “From what world did that come?” “There’s one here at my place I’d like you to meet.” “Now?” “Yeah,” I managed finally. “Men,” she murmured.

About Bob McElwain

Bob McElwain, a native of Los Angeles, California, taught mathematics and computer science in secondary schools and colleges there for thirty-two years. Now retired, he lives in Mariposa, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas, ten miles west of Yosemite National Park. Bob has been a fan of fiction since childhood, and is always working on another story. He is the author of Fatal Games (Pageant Press, 1989) and five other novels available from Foremost Press.