Grave Consequences (15 page)

The door opened and Gordon stuck his head out. “Why'd you let him escape?”

Charlie laughed, climbed the stairs to the loading dock, and stepped inside. “Let me tell you about it.”

 

Chapter Thirteen

“Okay, we've clearly been made, there's no question about it now,” Gordon said, taking a sip of beer and leaning back in his office chair. They were closed, Jake and Ruth had gone home, and it was just him and Charlie. “That might have taken some pressure off Al—assuming they don't connect you as his brother,” Gordon added.

Charlie shrugged. “There are a lot of Navajos, and, as you pointed out, we don't look related.”

“Are we still going to step up our game?” Gordon asked.

“Of course, and the more attention we get, the less Clarence will be looking at Al—I'm hoping. Either way, we've rattled the cage and hopefully put some nervous heat on Fasthorse and the Night Crew. We need to find out more on how they've reacted,” Charlie replied. “And really watch our backs.”

“Always. But we also need to know where the cops are in this, not just with DuPree's investigation, but also from your brother's undercover team,” Gordon pointed out. “For instance, have they found anything solid that links any particular crime directly to Clarence?”

Charlie didn't know. “Maybe we'll have to give them some time for things to unfold. Details from Al come in when they come in. He's probably being closely watched by Clarence and the rest of his crew.”

“And Clarence is clearly worried about blowback or he wouldn't have sent his muscle to warn us off. He can't exactly rat us out to the cops without putting himself into the spotlight even more. Maybe we should sit tight for a few days,” Gordon suggested.

“We don't sit tight.”

“Then what?”

“I'd been thinking about this earlier. How about we meet up with Nancy and see if we can get anything else on Lola? DuPree hasn't been able to come up with anything, but then again, anyone who sees him coming knows he's a cop.” Charlie stood, dropping his empty beer bottle into the trash.

“I'll check the locks out front and set the alarm. Wanna take my truck or the Charger?”

“Let's swing by your place and leave the pickup behind. That's the last thing those boys at Rex's saw of us, so let's give them a different look. Of course, they may just be fronting for the crew,” Charlie answered.

“You can bet those used-car salesmen described my truck perfectly. Let's keep them guessing. Purple Dodge Charger it is. Who's going to remember something like that?” Gordon said, grinning.

Ten minutes later, they were cruising south across the city, heading toward downtown. Nancy had agreed to meet them for dinner at one of her favorite late-night spots, a sandwich shop near the bus depot.

Charlie's cell phone started to ring. “Put that on speaker, will you?” he asked, since he didn't have his Bluetooth.

“It's Nancy,” Gordon said, pushing the speaker icon as he looked at the display.

“Charlie, sorry, I have to cancel dinner. I just got a call,” Nancy said, all business at the moment.

“Sure. Contact when you're free,” Charlie answered.

“Later,” she answered, ending the connection.

Gordon looked over. “You wanna swing by Lola's apartment again, just in case?”

“No, I've got a more interesting idea. We're already headed in that general direction, how about we have another talk with Mike the Pimp at the Firehouse Tavern?”

“Do they serve anything besides beer, chips, and bouncers? I'm hungry,” Gordon said.

“I recall some of the patrons were eating sandwiches.”

“Good, even cold cuts will hit the spot. I need more than nachos or pretzels. I need to eat my weight every day to stay alive,” Gordon joked.

Charlie nodded, having seen Gordon down an entire large combo pizza in a half hour. He signaled at the next intersection, waiting for a green arrow to make a left-hand turn. The Firehouse was several miles from their current location. “If you're starving, we can stop along the way.”

“Naw.”

Charlie drove down Louisiana Boulevard, knowing it intersected Central Avenue within a half block of the tavern. He checked randomly in the rearview mirror for a tail.

After a while, Gordon spoke. “That Mike Schultz guy—you've kept that burn phone charged so he could call, right?”

Charlie nodded. “Think it was a waste of electricity, asking him to call if he came up with any news on Lola.”

“Well, he's probably still pimping. From what we heard from that waitress, though, at least he protects his women.”

“Kind of a backhanded compliment.”

“That's the most he'll get from me,” Gordon admitted.

They pulled into the tavern's parking lot just as the evening crowd was starting to file in, and were lucky enough to find a slot out of sight from the street. Charlie's car was in great shape again and he was very protective.

After placing their handguns in the glove compartment they entered the tavern, which was rowdy in a good way at that hour. There were two tables occupied by a group of firemen apparently having a just off-shift dinner, Charlie guessed from the uniforms.

Charlie looked around, trying to see if Meg, the redheaded waitress they'd spoken to before, was working. Not seeing her, he caught up with Gordon, who'd found an empty table against the wall, looking out into the room.

“Guess we have to break in a new waitress,” Charlie announced, sitting down.

“Speaking of breaking, there's one of Mike's heavy lifters coming in the door,” Gordon replied, nodding in that direction.

Charlie looked over, saw Fernando, the buzz-cut Latin guy in the guayabera and slacks, followed by Mike Schultz, smartly attired again in a comfortable-looking tan suit, no tie.

“Where's Fred Flintstone?” Gordon whispered, referring to the second bodyguard, the big guy with the small forehead and bushy eyebrows.

Charlie looked up the stairs toward the second-floor private guest locale. “Top of the stairs. He's spotted us. Be polite. Stay cool. Be…”

“Icy,” Gordon whispered as Mike the Pimp and his slightly smaller bodyguard strolled casually toward their table.

Charlie noted that Mike looked a little less confident than before—almost worried.

Not wanting to send the wrong signals, Charlie and Gordon remained seated, both nodding a greeting. Mike seemed to visibly relax. He whispered something to Fernando, who turned and walked away toward the bar.

“Hey, guys. Mind if I join you?” Mike spoke as if they were all friends.

“Go right ahead.” Charlie pushed back the third chair with his foot. “Have a seat, it's your place.”

Mike smiled, sitting down and pulling the chair toward the table, revealing a pistol in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. He looked toward Fernando, who'd taken a seat at the bar, positioned so he could watch the door, before turning back to Charlie and Gordon.

“We're not here to rough up your people or you, Mike,” Charlie said softly.

“Yeah, but you're not the only ones looking for Lola now. Just what the hell did she get herself into? There are some punks from a downtown neighborhood being paid to track her down, and they've already come by here twice asking if I'd seen her. The last visit was about two hours ago, and this time they brought their boss, some fancy-dressing Indian dude—no offense,” he added, looking at Charlie.

Charlie smiled, thinking this slippery pimp in the silk suit, hundred-dollar shirt, and paycheck-busting shoes was calling someone else a fancy dresser. “None taken.”

“His last name wouldn't be Fasthorse, would it?” Gordon suggested.

“You've met the bastard?” Mike asked.

Charlie nodded. “He's bad news, especially for Lola. You tell him anything?”

“Less than I told you. Just that she worked for me a couple of years ago, then said good-bye. Hadn't seen her since, didn't know where she was,” Mike replied.

“But you've seen her since our last meeting?” Charlie asked.

Mike looked away, across the room, and lowered his voice even more. “Yeah, Lola came by around closing last night, asking to borrow some money. She said her old boyfriend Jerry-something had turned on her. I barely recognized Lola, she'd dyed her hair and cut it real short. I gave her what I had in my wallet—five or six hundred. After she split I tried to find that number you gave me and track you down. No luck. I'm hoping you could help her out. I'm not in a position to get involved with the cops.”

“Fasthorse is Jerry Benally's boss. They've got some kind of criminal operation going on. No offense,” Charlie added.

Mike thought about it for a moment, then smiled. “I looked up Fasthorse online—he owns an old family restaurant near Old Town. You talking mini-organized crime?”

Charlie shrugged, not wanting to give out any details that might compromise Al or the undercover operations. “They're just thieves,” he said.

Gordon spoke. “Fasthorse make some threats? Looks like your boys are keeping an eye on everyone who comes inside.”

“The bastard said if I was lying to him or protecting Lola, I'd regret it. He said there was a bounty, though, on Lola, and if I helped him track her down there was a finder's fee,” Mike retorted, contempt clear in his tone. “Arrogant shit.”

“The guy is getting a little desperate, and desperate people are dangerous, Mike. He's been suffering some losses lately and has several wannabe badasses working for him,” Charlie said. “They pack some heavy firepower and won't hesitate to gun you down.”

“Which is why we're packing,” Mike pointed out.

“Did he give you a number to call if you heard from Lola?” Gordon asked.

“Wrote it on a napkin,” Mike said, pulling it from his shirt pocket.

Gordon wrote it down. “Probably a burner, certainly not the Pi
ñ
on Mesa Steakhouse number,” he noted.

Mike looked back and forth between them. “What is your connection to this punk anyway? Just why is he so eager to find Lola?”

Charlie looked over at Gordon, who shrugged. “Lola took something that had come into the possession of Fasthorse, and he wants it back—bad.”

“Bad enough to kill for? What is it, drugs?”

“Nothing like that,” Charlie said.

“You're still not telling me what it was, or how you're involved,” Mike said, then looked up as Fernando came over. The man whispered something to Mike, then walked back to his seat at the bar.

Mike nodded. “You're the guys from the pawnshop shooting. You killed one of the robbers and ran the others off. My man just recognized you from the news,” Mike said, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Damned liberal media,” Gordon said. “Screw privacy.”

“No wonder you kick ass. Special Ops and all that. You the good guys?”

“We'll do until the heroes arrive,” Gordon replied.

“I get it. Lola pawned some stuff she stole from Fasthorse—at your shop,” Mike said.

Charlie shrugged. “Maybe. Either way, we're out to screw the bastard over and he's starting to feel it now.”

“Any way I can help out?”

“If we need something, we know where you work, Mike. Thanks. For now, though, just keep your eyes open and be very careful who you talk to. If Lola contacts you again, text us ASAP. We'll protect her.” Charlie wrote his own cell number on a napkin this time. “Don't throw it away.”

“And watch your ass,” Gordon added.

Mike nodded, sat back, then caught the eye of one of the women waitstaff, waving her over. “Suddenly, my appetite is back. You guys had dinner? I'm buying.”

“Thought you'd never ask,” Gordon said. “You have anything nonalcoholic to wash down a sandwich or two? I need to keep my edge.”

Mike laughed. “Got coffee, ginger ale, mineral water—no milk. But I do keep a case of Mexican Cokes for true connoisseurs.”

“Now you're talking,” Charlie said, looking up as the waitress arrived with two laminated parchment menus.

*   *   *

They left after an hour of good food—oversized green chile cheeseburgers on locally baked buns, fries with the skins on cooked in peanut oil, and ice-cold Mexican Cokes straight from the bottles. Even the sliced tomatoes on the burgers were locally grown, fresh and tasty.

As Charlie drove west toward I-25, they discussed the few additional details Mike Schultz could provide. “We have the image from her driver's license, and with the mug shots Mike provided of Lola from her hooker days, we have a lot more to work with,” Charlie pointed out.

“Yeah, but it would have been a lot easier if she'd have parked her current ride in the Firehouse lot so we could have grabbed an image from his surveillance camera. We'd know what she was driving, and maybe even gotten a look at the plates,” Gordon said.

“She's smart, not wanting anyone, not even her old pimp, to know exactly how she arrived. If she has a car at all right now,” Charlie answered.

“For all we know, she's a bushy redhead riding a motorcycle at the moment. But at least we have various ‘looks' she's chosen in the past to work from.”

“You know what I think?” Charlie asked.

“That the money she borrowed was getting out-of-town cash?” Gordon responded. “If you want to truly get lost, you go someplace you've never been and avoid contacting anyone you've ever been around. You also work at something you've never done, and always pay in cash.”

“But she doesn't have the money to go far, either, so let's come up with some possibilities,” Charlie said.

“Lola won't go among local Navajos, who might have connections with the Night Crew. Maybe she's living near or among another tribe, so she wouldn't stand out to any non-Indians. How's that?”