Cool Heat (9 page)

But right from the start, from her attitude, her whole deal, and the way she was somehow so different, he felt a little overwhelmed. Something about her was like a magnet to his inner deal. And now he saw really serious trouble ahead and the escape hatch getting smaller and smaller. He wanted the hell out of this before it grabbed him. And he didn’t want to get any too close to her precisely because the not-so-bright part of him wanted just that.

With that unpleasant threat looming, he did, in spite of himself, eventually slip off into a ragged sleep that, as was common, was filled with plenty of equally unpleasant activities related to combat, conflict, and incarceration.

19

Leon, suffering jet lag from flying in from New York, lay on the small, circular bed in the Celebrity Cabin Monday afternoon. The cabin sat below the pool and on the edge of the lake. As he waited for the client to come, he chatted with one of the loves of his life, Marilyn Monroe. He asked her who did the deed—who’d murdered her—and was thinking about what her answer might be when he heard the client coming through the tunnel.

First thing the client says—coming out of the closet, out of the secret tunnel that Sinatra had built so he could go to and from the kitchen of the Cal-Neva and Marilyn’s room in secret—was, “How are you?”

Leon was amused. Guy breaks all protocol just coming here. Acting like a big shot. Right away, Leon knew what he was dealing with. He nodded.

The guy strutted to the window, looked out, then came back acting like he was some kind of mafia boss. Like he was Brando. Thing is, he didn’t have the look, the voice, or the mannerisms.

“I’m glad you could get here on short notice,” the client said. “We have a big problem out there and we need it resolved fast.”

Leon sat back against the pillows on the circular bed beneath a picture of Marilyn Monroe and stared at his client. Unbelievable. The man was breaking all the rules.

What he knew about this guy from his Vegas connection was that this Thorp’s great-great-great-grandfather had cleared the Sierras of Indians, hung gold mine thieves, and brought in Chinese for the rail line to Silver City. So Leon was interested in the guy’s history. At least he was until he met the asshole. The guy didn’t live up to expectations.

Great generations aren’t followed by even greater generations,
Leon thought. And this guy was proof of that. So, somehow, this guy manages to get the tunnel opened up and comes up through it like the old days, like he’s a chip off the JFK, Sinatra, and Giancana block.
Yeah, right.

Leon never met clients, but this guy had insisted. What, maybe they would be friends? Leon didn’t do small talk, so he just looked at the guy. Listened to his rant. All the people he wanted dead. The guy was tall, thin, tense, everything on his frame top of the line.

Listening to him jabber, Leon reclined on the bed propped up by pillows, his amusement turning a little sour. The cabins had porches and views of the lake. They were small. Not all that great, but this one had history, and Leon liked history. But then the guy started this whining song and dance about the big screwup he wanted cleaned up and how it had to be done and done fast and how he’d make sure Leon was very well compensated above and beyond his normal fees…and on and on the guy ranted.

Leon waited.

Finally, he got to specifics. Mentioned a guy named Cillo. The uncle of some lowlife who had the girl they wanted dead.

“He’s the key. You get him to talk to you, he probably knows where his nephew is holed up. You find the nephew, you find the girl. He’s got her somewhere. I got a feeling they’re not all that far away. Then get rid of Cillo.”

Leon said nothing, just listened. Multiple kills weren’t normal, but money for these guys was apparently no object.

The guy rambled on about the woman, and then about the guy she’d brought, some kind of ex-con. Then about his crazy cousin. Finally, the client sat down, one leg up over the other. In the silence, on the lake, Leon could hear the drone of a boat’s engine…still closer, the cry of some loud bird.

All the information the guy was giving him, Leon already had. The lawyer had provided the details, and now he had to listen to numbnuts repeat everything.

Then he started again. On and on this guy went about this woman, the blogs, how she was hurting his family’s reputation, single-handedly trying to stop Tahoe from becoming what it was meant to be. Then the maniac said he’s got this old lion. Bought it from a place in Texas where they take in retired circus animals. Said he wanted to get the bitch alive if that’s possible and put her in the cage with his lion that he said is named George. Then he wanted to know, by any chance, did Leon play golf?

Leon had been asked many things but never before had he been asked about golf. He shook his head. Never had he run into a stranger cat than this guy. He was nervous. That was it, Leon concluded. He’s nervous and excited at the same time. Like a kid on a first date.

But instead of that being the end of it, the guy went off on handicaps and how he met somebody on the Nullabar Links in Melbourne who may have been in Leon’s profession. Guy hit the ball like a pro.

“It’s the damnedest golf course on the planet. Takes, like, four days. You cross two time zones. All along this highway through the deserts and kangaroo country, you have to drive your car from tee to tee. It’s eight hundred forty-eight miles long. And nobody is sober after the first two holes, and that’s when the guy told me about some of his wet work.”

He waited as if this was where Leon should jump in and join the conversation. Leon wasn’t in the mood, so he just continued to stare at the guy.

“I want constant updates,” the client said, a little bit exasperated. Like Leon had disappointed him in some way. “You have my lawyer’s throwaways. You let him know what’s going on every step of the way. You need men, hookers, whatever, you name it. On the smartphone in the package he left for you are the pictures and addresses. Everything you need. Keys to the car. If you need men for casing or whatever, he’ll make sure you’re provided with what you want.”

Finally, thankfully, the client finished, got it all off his chest. He thought the guy’d be there till midnight yapping.

Leon hadn’t said a word until now. “You can leave now. Have them seal the tunnel. Anybody comes through there, I’ll kill them.”

“Yeah, yeah. I understand,” the client said, vigorously nodding his head. And then he left.

Leon bent his head back and looked up at Marilyn. “You believe what you just witnessed? Because I don’t.”

He considered for a moment refusing the job. The client was exactly the type he’d rather kill than work for. Still, all in all, Tahoe might be fun. He’d never been to Tahoe before, and he appreciated the beauty of the lake and how big it was. You couldn’t even see the south shore from the deck of the cabin, it was so far away.

He said to Marilyn, “The bastards murdered you. I’m sorry I wasn’t around then. I’d have taken care of all them. But at least you aren’t around to deal with this crew.” He laughed and imagined her chuckling. He loved the woman.

Leon had never actually had a woman since he was nine and his mother’s boyfriend made him and the girl next door try and fuck so the bastard could jack off watching. That guy turned out a few years later to be his first kill, his first suicide creation. He forced the guy at gunpoint to call the suicide hotline, confess his sins, and apologize.

Then he died in a fiery self-emulation. Died with lots and lots of pain and regret. The suicide, much like those monks in Vietnam, got lots of attention. Leon thoroughly enjoyed it and never regretted it for a moment. Killing, he’d discovered, wasn’t just easy, it had a certain joy. He became a philosopher of the hunt and the kill.

20

Sydney and Marco left after nine Monday night for Markleeville. He had on a jungle-type hat, she a baseball cap. Very minimal attempts at disguises in case somebody got a look in the car under a streetlight.

He told her she looked cute in her safari outfit. “Women can disguise up easy enough—change of hair, hats—but for men, it’s different.”

“Not many people have seen you in seven years. You probably don’t have to disguise up much.” He’d gotten a bag of safari-look items from Bernie Shaw’s closet—big jungle hat and wide sunglasses. “You look like a gold prospector from the old days.”

They laughed. She was doing much better after the sleep. It also helped that the entire Tahoe Valley was packed with tourists, and the drive down Highway 89 and up into the mountains avoided all the towns around the lake. Bikers, motor homes, and cars jammed the 89 and 50 intersections. It took them nearly an hour to get out of Tahoe and up into the mountains.

“Maybe we’ll be sleeping in the car,” he told her.

“Tell me about you and Gary Gatts,” she said.

“I remember he was always into some con or another. One of those guys who look at the world as something you’re always trying to hustle.”

“Sounds like him.”

In the scheme of things, Markleeville, in the mountains southeast of Tahoe, was nothing much, a half-horse town in the mountains south of Tahoe. Quaint. Old.

“I used to like this hotel,” he said, pointing out the window.

By the looks of it, the hotel, the Creekside Lodge, wasn’t a hotel anymore. One-block town, that was about the sum of it. The sign said the population was 165. It was on the Indian Creek Reservation, not far from a small airport, Alpine County Court, Monitor Creek, and the East Carson River. The road led over the pass, down to 395. Would be a great ride on a motorcycle.

“You have some good times up here?” she asked.

He smiled. “You won’t tell, neither will I.”

She figured March had seen plenty of good times all around the lake. This particular mountain town was an unpolished gem that lay at the merge of the Monitor and Wolf Creeks on 89. Popular with bikers and people coming over the pass, they had a courthouse, sheriff’s office, and a general store.

“The Cutthroat Bar,” Marco said, looking toward a shabby building. “I can’t believe myself sometimes. I never connected it to the fish. I always thought it was some pirate thing.”

“You didn’t—really?”

“Really.”

Sydney said, “When the shooter came in, that’s what I was holding in my hand. A Cutthroat fingerling.”

“Then this is appropriate.” He pointed again and said, “There’s a sign that says rooms. I’ll check it out.”

He went in through the back entrance to see if any rooms were actually available. He learned there were, located in the building next to the bar in a motel-like building. He paid cash for a room back off the street.

He let her in, then went on a coffee run to the bar.

Back in the room, when he sipped his coffee, he winced and swore. “Damn!”

“It’s that hot?”

“Not really, but I have sensitive tissues in my mouth.”

“What from?”

He sat on one of the beds, a small table separating the two twins. She was lying with her arms slung across her stomach.

He said, “My mouth never fully recovered from
la tehuacan
.”

“Which is some kind of hot Mexican sauce?”

“Well, yes and no. You won’t find it in a restaurant. During my time in that Mexican prison, when they wanted better conversation, they introduced you to
la tehuacan
. Carbonated mineral water laced with the juice of chili peppers.”

“Sounds nasty.”

“Then, when your mouth was burned out, they stuck it up your nose while your mouth was gagged. That happens, you tend to become very cooperative.”

“Sounds really nasty. What did they want from you?”

“Whatever it was, they didn’t get it. I wouldn’t have made it, but I had some outside powers interested in me. I ended up in
apando
, a punishment cell, but under the protection of the most powerful man in the prison, the
Tio Mafia,
the prison godfather. Something was in the works. About a week after that, I’m walked out by this
federale
, thinking they might just drive me up in the hills and kill me.”

“Our boys?”

“I was met by the guy who put me there. They had work for me in a very deep task force.”

“An offer you couldn’t refuse?”

“Yeah. When I walked out, I’m standing there blinded by the sun, one of those hard glare days. I’d been in the hole for a long time. No light. I’m not believing anything he says. I’m thinking,
That’s it for me.
The air stinks like a welding shop, and this guy’s smiling at me and the
federale
who escorted me out says, ‘You go home, my friend.’ I remember his gold tooth flashed at me like a strobe. He said, ‘No more trouble for us, no more trouble for you.
Tomelo facil, amigo.’
”

“You have a habit of getting in and out of bad situations.”

“So far. So, this gringo gets me out of there. Had Federal or Homeland agent written all over him. He was one of a kind. A real trip. I finally get my vision back. He’s standing there like the prison warden in
Cool Hand Luke
.

“So this guy thinks he’s funny. He starts talking to me in this phony Southern accent as we walk to a waiting car. ‘Let’s get you the hell outta town, boy. A town without pity.’ At that moment, this
autobus de la prision
passes, kicking up a dust storm, and I’m choking on the dust. He says, ‘You need to learn to stay off the bus, Cruz, and we’re gonna give you the opportunity to do just that.’“

“What did he want?”

“A job. Turned out to be a few others after that.”

He told her about the guy in prison who’d protected him. He was a great mural painter. “They let him paint murals all over the prison. A real genius. This one, the biggest of them and the most brilliant—I wished I’d had the means to take a picture of it.”

“Describe it.”

“Well, in the center, you had peasants searching among grotesque bodies sprawled on splotched orange terracotta tiles looking for those they could save. On one side, this Mexican Indian woman wept over an open casket, and around her men were laughing and dancing and firing rifles into the air, many dressed like the paramilitary
Guardias Blancas
. Overhead in the fire-red sky, small hawks with boomerang-shaped silver wings—drawn more like knife blades—tacked in the breeze, swinging this way and that, some down in the fields, some riding the thermals he had a genius way of painting. It was like the whole thing was alive. You could see so many things when you studied it.”